She darted under a tethered horse’s neck and out into the downpour. “After the wedding, Drake Clark. There’ll be time enough for pinch and tickle once we’re man and wife.”
“Hang on, Shannon!”
“After the wedding!” she repeated. And, ignoring his pleas, she dashed back through the mud to the comparative safety of his mother’s crowded tent.
Flynn O’Shea settled onto the bench on his front porch. “Drake Clark’s a little rough, but he’s a decent man. He’ll give her a good home.”
Oona bent over the cradleboard she was stitching. “Your daughter is like you. She can find water in a rock. She will make a good life wherever she is.”
The hound bitch laid her head on Oona’s foot, and the woman scratched the dog behind her ears.
“It was hard to send her away.”
“Yes.”
“I think she’ll be safe enough in Green Valley. The raiders that hit the settlement weren’t Cherokee at all. One Indian they killed, the one in the turban, was a half-breed Creek. The rest may have been robbers or those runaway slaves we heard about. If there were any Shawnee, they didn’t leave any proof.”
“Good. The Cherokee make bad enemies.”
Flynn rubbed at his right arm. The recurring ache had returned. The long spell of rain had kept him housebound, and for once he didn’t mind. He just didn’t seem to have the energy he usually had. All spring and into the summer he’d been short of breath. He wasn’t sleeping well either, just couldn’t get comfortable.
Worrying about Shannon had made his insomnia worse. She’d been so unhappy. Turning away from her tears had ripped him apart, but he had to think of her. There was no question of her being with a Cherokee, not Storm Dancer, not any of them. It was like mixing saltwater and good Irish whiskey. It could never have worked. Once the fire died back, both would have regretted it. And considering the boy’s mother and what she could do, if she had a mind to, he’d done the only thing any father could. He’d chosen to send her away.
“She’ll make Drake a good wife.” Like you, he almost added. Oona had made him happier than he’d ever thought possible when he’d brought her home. He never noticed her scarred face anymore, just how pretty she was and how graceful she moved.
Had he thought his first wife was beautiful when she carried Shannon? He couldn’t remember. But Oona was beautiful. He loved the swell of her belly and the womanly way her breasts had plumped up. Best of all was the peace she brought with her. Wherever she was, nestled together in their bed, camped beside a wild tumbling stream down some high valley, or helping him in the store, it didn’t matter. When they were together, life got suddenly easier to bear.
Except this thing with Shannon and Storm Dancer….
“Firefly would have sent someone to kill her before she’d let my girl have her son. She’s no more anxious for a white daughter-in-law than I am a red son-in-law.”
Silence from Oona. The only sounds were the panting of the dogs, frogs and insects, and the whistle of a mockingbird. The rain had tapered off, and a red sunset spilled across the western sky.
“You think I did wrong, wife?”
“This woman told him to go and never return.”
“Like I asked ye.”
No answer.
Flynn tapped his pipe against the floor and pushed the burnt tobacco through the crack between the boards with the toe of his moccasin. “That’s the thing about bein’ a father. Sometimes you have to hurt a colleen to do what’s best for her.”
Oona raised her gaze to meet his. “Are you well? I see pain in your eyes. And you’re rubbing that arm again. I’ve made a tea from the inner bark of black ash. If you will take it, it will ease your weariness.”
He tamped Indian tobacco into the pipe bowl. Later, he would light it from the coals on the hearth. For now, he would enjoy the sensation of the stem between his lips. The pipe was nearly worn out, like him. Maybe he’d take some of the seasoned cherry wood hanging in the loft and whittle a new bowl tomorrow.
One of the dogs let out a yip. The bitch growled, low in her throat, and the hackles rose on her neck. Instantly, all three hounds sprang off the porch and ran barking toward the small gate that led to the spring path. Flynn reached for his gun.
Oona’s eyes widened. “What is it?”
“Bear, maybe. Or a stray wolf.”
She looked at him with knowing eyes. No wolf or bear would come within a hundred yards of the post in daylight.
“Go on go inside,” he ordered. “Lock the door. If you hear shots or anything you don’t like, hide.” He was already down the steps and striding toward the barred gate. Then he felt the sensation of a puff of cold air on the nape of his neck.
“Go carefully, husband,” Oona called after him.
He stopped and glanced back. Tiny black sparks peppered the air in front of his eyes. The pain in his chest twisted and he sucked in air. “If the worst happens, and you survive, go to Split Cane’s village. She’ll take you in.”
“If the bad thing happens, I will go where you go.”
“Damned if you will, woman. By all that’s holy, if trouble comes, you look out for our coming babe. You hear me?” The dogs were snarling and throwing themselves at the palisade wall.
Flynn forced himself to turn back toward the commotion. Lifting one leg after another, running, breathing heavy, but running. A mountain lion, he told himself. Maybe a woods’ buffalo. An old bull, rank and musty, horns scarred from age and combat.
In his heart, he knew he was whistling in the dark. In his heart, he knew what was waiting beyond the log fence. And he wasn’t surprised when he heard the first screech of Shawnee war whoops and saw the rain of flaming arrows arc through the gathering twilight.
Shannon was glad to see the last of Drake’s family and neighbors…her family and neighbors, she realized with a start. She was no longer Shannon O’Shea, Flynn’s daughter, but Shannon Clark, Hannah and Nathan’s daughter-in-law. Mrs. Drake Clark. It sounded strange, but maybe she would accustom herself to it in time.
Drake hung his rifle over the hearth. It was a small, neat cabin, one room only, but the floors were plank, the log walls tightly packed to keep out rain and snow. There was a crude table and two benches, a stone fireplace with an iron bar to hang kettles, and a wide hearth to prevent sparks from igniting the floorboards.
“What do you think of the house?” Drake asked. He was pleased, both with being back on his farm and the gifts of food and blankets the settlement had provided. His mother had given them a butter churn, and Nathan promised a pair of piglets as soon as his speckled sow far-rowed. “It’s not big, but once the young’ns start comin’, we can build on.”
“It’s a fine house,” she agreed.
She was tired from the long day, first the brief marriage ceremony, which seemed like no wedding at all to her, and later from the packing and walk back from the fort to the valley. She could have ridden, but she had Betty to lead, and most of the women and children were on foot. It would have seemed presumptuous to ride when older women walked. Instead, she’d put two small children on her pony’s back and trudged along through the mud with the others.
There was no wedding ring on her hand. Drake had promised one when he sold his first horses to the soldiers at Fort Hood and a ring could be ordered from Virginia. She’d had no bridal dress, no wedding feast, and no celebration. Her marriage had been a hasty one, practical, and fitting to her new station in life—wife of a farmer. She tried to tell herself how lucky she was, how much more this was than she had ever expected when she was scrubbing floors at Klank’s tavern. So why didn’t she feel joy? And why wasn’t she looking forward to her wedding night?
“You hungry?” Drake took a jug from the mantel, un-corked it, and took a long swallow.
“No, thank you.” She tried not to look at the wide pallet in one corner. There was no bed yet, just a grass-stuffed mattress and two feed sack pillows.
Tonight, she would allow Drake to take
his husbandly privileges. He would touch and fondle her and pump himself between her legs until his passion was sated. She wondered if she would feel anything but embarrassment and discomfort. If she could allow Drake his rightful mating without feeling anything herself, it would be less painful. But experiencing the same thrill tonight that Storm Dancer had given her would be too terrible to endure.
“Come over here, woman, and pull these off for me.” Drake dragged a bench over to the hearth, sat down, and thrust out one muddy boot. “The leather’s soaked through.” He took another sip of the spirits in the jug and put the cork back in.
She came without protest. If she was going to be a dutiful wife, she needed to learn to obey orders from her husband without putting up a fuss. Drake slapped her playfully on the behind, and she tried not to show her distaste for his touch as she took hold of the sodden boot.
Laughing, Drake caught her between his legs and pulled her in to him. He pawed her breasts and fisted a hand in her hair. When she opened her mouth to protest, he kissed her, deep and searing. The taste of raw whiskey burned her mouth.
“Shy, ain’t ye?” he teased. “No need to be. Not with me. I reckon we’ll set that bed on fire in a little while.” He stroked the rising tumescence at his crotch.
Shannon brushed her mouth where he’d bruised it with his kiss. He’d kissed her so hard that her lip had split. It hurt, but not nearly as much as the thought that she wasn’t ready for what was to come between them.
It was almost funny. She was as jumpy as a virgin. Moths tumbled in the pit of her stomach, and her mouth was as dry as cattail fluff. This was Drake. He wasn’t a stranger. She’d known him for months, and now he was her lawful husband. She’d never been a foolish chit to squeal and take fright at whatever life handed her. She was still Shannon, and she’d made the choice to marry this good man with her eyes wide open. She’d fulfill her part of the bargain, no matter what.
Drake gave her a little shove and raised his foot again. She pulled, but the boot didn’t give. “Damn it, girl. Put some muscle in it.”
She yanked harder and the boot came off with a sucking noise. Instantly, a wave of nausea rose in her throat as a rotten stench filled her nostrils. The sock under the boot was filthy and full of holes.
“When did you last wash your feet?” She flung the nasty boot on the hearth and stripped off the sock. Drake’s foot was hardly any cleaner. His toenails were so long and nasty they resembled untrimmed sheep’s hooves.
“Smells some, don’t it? Last fight we had with the Shawnee, I was wading in blood ankle deep. Guess I could take a little lye soap and water to these puppies before we jump between Ma’s sheets.”
Swallowing her distaste, she reached for the other boot. This one was even harder to get off, but when it did come free, she’d tumbled backward onto the floor with her unwelcome cargo.
Drake guffawed as she slung the second boot into the cold fireplace. “Careful there,” he said. “You’ll damage my trophies.”
As she picked herself up off the floor, she glanced into the fireplace to see what he was talking about. It appeared to be a string of mangy animal hides, ragged and black in color, suspended from a hook set into the mortar.
“Hung ’m in there to smoke,” he said. “Smoke cures’m fast. Do you have any idea how much money they’ll bring back in Virginia?”
“Cures what? What are you talking about?” She stared at the pelts in disbelief. Then realization set in. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she uttered a low cry.
It wasn’t animal pelts, but human scalps. Scalps dangled from the charred rope. And one trophy bore the unmistakable remains of woodpecker feathers tangled in the bloodstained hair.
Chapter 17
The fire beside the great game trail that led north to the Ohio River had burned low. The Cherokee delegation to the meeting with the French and the Shawnee had traveled far and fast. A day earlier, they had left their horses in a secluded valley, under the care of two teenage boys eager to prove their worth, and traveled on foot due to the rough country.
If Storm Dancer had believed that his father and uncle were showing the signs of age, he soon learned differently. Winter Fox and Flint often took the lead, their moccasin-clad feet flying down the twisting path at a dead run with barely stops for water or rest.
The group from Storm Dancer’s village had joined with those of Three Spears Camp, Old Woman Mountain, and Split Cane’s village. Three of the representatives were female, all council members. Firefly had considered becoming part of the expedition, but the clan mothers had decided that with the threat of war imminent, she was needed more at home. Storm Dancer was one of five young men entrusted with the security of the Tsalagi delegation. All were notable warriors, chosen for bravery and skill at arms.
Twenty-one had set out for the parley at Big Pascal’s trading post, and now that the boys had been left behind to protect the horses, there were nineteen, a formidable unit, despite the danger. Today had been an especially tough day of travel because of the constant rain. Even Storm Dancer’s muscles felt the strain of the hours of running over rough ground.
Most of the party had been reluctant to linger talking around the fire, but had rolled in blankets soon after they’d broken their fast. Another day’s journey would take them into enemy territory. After tomorrow, they would travel only by night and double the watch.
Tonight, Storm Dancer and a brave from Split Cane’s village had taken the second shift of guard duty. They circled the camp at a distance of several hundred yards, watching and listening, a difficult task because of the wind gusts and continuing rain. The trees here were young, the underbrush thick, and it was hard to move from place to place without becoming entangled in thickets. After two circuits, Storm Dancer climbed a beech tree and settled back in a crotch of branches.
As long as he kept moving, he could keep Shannon from his mind, but the pain of losing her was too fresh to recede for long. A night like this should be spent in a man’s lodge, his woman in his arms. He remembered the night they had shared in the cave together, how desirable she had been, and how much he’d wanted to leap over the fire and make love to her. If he let himself linger on her memory, he could feel her soft pale skin against his, remember the taste of her mouth and the tiny moans she made, deep in her throat, when he entered her.
Thinking about Shannon was agony. Now, of all times, he needed a clear head. But her spell was powerful. She had tossed him away for another, but she had not broken the bonds that drew him to her. Would he ever be free of wanting her…of listening for her laughter?
A great horned owl swooped overhead, and a rabbit shrieked. Storm Dancer came instantly alert. Motionless, he peered through the rain and strained to hear footsteps in the trees as great drops of water struck his face and ran down through his hair and over his throat.
He heard the first night hawk cry shortly after the spirit owl had warned him. He waited. A second false bird called from the left, closer to the river, along the route of a smaller deer trail—a track so narrow and twisting that a careless eye would miss it. Storm Dancer smiled into the night.
A snap of twigs under the trees drew his attention to the silhouette of a white man in a tricorn hat. As he passed by, Storm Dancer could see the dull gleam of shiny buttons on his coat. He knew the stranger was no Indian by the way he walked, even before the unmistakable odor of wet wool and French soap wafted up to his nostrils.
Like a cat, Storm Dancer sprang from the branch. He landed light as a puma, one arm around the Frenchman’s throat, one knee in the small of the man’s back. He didn’t need his knife. The man’s neck snapped like kindling. He gave one startled gasp and crumbled face-down into the wet briars.
Storm Dancer paused long enough to snatch the heavy silver gorget from the dead man’s neck. He was no thief, but the insignia might identify his enemy later. Only a high-ranking French soldier would wear such an adornment. His mother would want to see it.
As he rose from a crouched
position, he heard the first shots at the campsite. War cries followed, and immediately after, the screams of the injured and dying. Storm Dancer yanked his tomahawk from his belt and plunged forward through the underbrush toward the battle.
Shannon shrank back from the gruesome trophies hanging in the fireplace, and whirled on Drake. “Where did you get those? Do you know what they are?”
His mouth gaped open like a dying fish, and he stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “They’re scalps. I told ye, a dealer back East will pay me—”
“Who did you buy them from?”
“Buy’m, hell,” he sputtered. His face reddened as he rose to his feet. “I took’m fair and square. Shot and skinned them myself.”
She clamped a hand over her mouth, certain she was going to be sick. The little scalp with the feathers could only belong to a child, one child in particular, the adorable little boy she’d met at Split Cane’s camp. “You were there? You killed children?”
“Nits make lice.”
“Murderer!” She grabbed up the nearest thing within reach, the filthy boot she’d just flung down, and threw it at Drake. It struck him full in the chest, splattering mud over his face and into his mouth and nose.
Drake cursed and lunged at her, but she snatched up a two-foot length of firewood and bounced it off his head. He howled and grabbed his bleeding temple, and she darted across the room and seized his skinning knife from the table where he’d dropped it.
“Get out!”
“Are you crazy, bitch? I’m not getting out of my own house!” He lunged at her. Shannon stood her ground and slashed at him with the knife.
“Get out before I cut your pizzle off!” She held the weapon low, the way her father had taught her. She was half his size, but she’d been butchering game animals since she was eight years old.
He hesitated, plainly trying to work up his nerve to disarm her. “You’re my wife, damn it! You can’t pull a knife on me! I’ll beat the crap out of you!”
Cherokee Storm Page 19
