Cherokee Storm Read online

  There, with trees for walls, sky for a roof, and thick moss for their bed, Storm Dancer would sprawl on his back and she would fling herself on top of him. They would kiss and fondle, tease and play until desire would not be denied. Then, wet and eager for his love, she would spread her legs for him and he would enter her.

  She had never known a man, yet in her dreams she was wanton. In her dreams she cried out with passion and urged him to plunge deeper ever deeper inside her. In her dreams, she not only touched his sex but fondled…even kissed it as it swelled and lengthened. It was her shame and her glory, and she had to accept her bold nature or believe herself to be a wicked and sinful creature.

  Did other decent women have such dreams? Never had she longed so much for her friend Anna from the orphanage. She could have asked Anna anything, told her any secret, knowing that Anna would never judge her, never mock or reproach her. But Anna, dearer than any sister, was lost to her, and she was alone. There was no one to ask, least of all her father’s disapproving woman.

  Oona might not have told Shannon’s father about seeing Storm Dancer with her at the spring, but that was her only kindness. No matter how Shannon tried to fit in, the woman remained as distant and disapproving as she had been the first night they’d met. She rarely spoke, rarely smiled, and almost never sat still. Even after supper, when Flynn would stretch out in his chair before the fire and smoke his pipe, Oona sewed or ground corn kernels into flour, or worked on her baskets.

  Shannon had never seen a woman work so hard. After a full day of cleaning, cooking, washing, and tanning hides or smoking meat or fish, Oona would weave intricate reed baskets to sell at the store. The dyes she brewed herself from forest plants and minerals, and she decorated the containers with beautiful geometric designs, beads, and feathers. So tightly woven were the seams of Oona’s baskets, that some would hold water. Shannon had offered to help one evening and been firmly rebuffed.

  Oona’s eyes had widened in shock at the suggestion. “Never. Two people cannot make a basket,” she said, making a hand sign that Shannon had come to understand would ward off evil. “Each basket has a spirit,” Oona whispered. “If two women try to weave the same one, the basket spirit will wither and die.”

  “I could learn,” Shannon suggested. “You could teach me, and I could weave my own basket.”

  “You are too old,” the Indian woman dismissed. “My mother taught me when I was a child.”

  “I’m hardly in my dotage. Two of us could make twice as many baskets, and—”

  Flynn stood up, frowned first at her and then at Oona, and walked out of the cabin without saying a word. All three dogs trailed after him. Oona uttered a sound of amusement and bent over the basket in her lap.

  Shannon threw down her book, followed her father outside, and found him leaning against a porch post, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. “Da, I mean Flynn, I—”

  “Settle it between you. I won’t take sides between my womenfolk.”

  “She hates me!”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “I’m not welcome here.”

  “I don’t believe that.” He drew on the pipe until the tobacco glowed red. “Oona’s got her funny ways, certain. She won’t even let me touch her baskets until they’re done. Superstitious as a Galway Bay sailor.”

  “I just want to be of help.”

  “Aren’t you putting my accounts to right? And didn’t you find those playing cards I’ve been missing for over a year? I’ve had three customers wanting a deck, and couldn’t find them.”

  “Cherokee play cards?” One of the hounds nosed her ankle, but she paid the bitch no heed.

  He chuckled. “No, not them. Great gamblers are the Cherokee, but they prefer their own games of chance. I’m meanin’ His Majesty’s finest from Fort Hood. Only three days away by horseback. I get soldiers every couple months, pockets heavy with shillings. And they’ll pay dearly for fresh cards.”

  “Da, when I was young,” she replied, “I remember you saying that a trader had to be fair, and he had to be friendly. But most of all, he had to be a good businessman. If you give away your profits to the Indians, the sale of ten decks of playing cards won’t save you.”

  He sat down on the porch, let the dog curl around his ankles, and dug a piece of smoked meat from his pocket. He fed the treat to the hound and stroked the animal’s head. “Maybe I did say that,” he agreed. “I thought that way then, but after you and your mother left, I realized there was more to life than turning a coin. Family, and conscience, and friendship matter more to me now. Knowing I might be a better father to the babe comin’ than I was to you, that’s important.”

  “You could end up old and poor, Flynn.” She sat down beside him.

  “I’ve been poor before, and there’s worse things.”

  “Worse than going to bed hungry? Worse than seeing your mother go into a pauper’s grave because there’s no money for a church funeral?”

  “That too?” He sighed. “I didn’t know that useless uncle of yours denied her a proper burial. I’m sorry.”

  “She wasn’t buried in holy ground, just a weedy field near the river.”

  “Oh, child. How did you bear it and you only a little lass of nine?”

  Shannon’s throat constricted. “She had a priest, Da. I ran to the church and brought one back when she was dying. Uncle whipped me for it later. Said I cost him money to pay the Father, but it eased her, I think—to have the last rites.”

  Flynn stroked her hair with a rough hand. “She was a lady, your mother. She married me because…”

  “Go on,” she urged, certain he would say they fell in love despite their differences.

  “It’s no tale for you, darlin’. They were hard times.”

  Not harder than the orphanage, she thought, but couldn’t say so. Better for her father not to know that she’d awakened one morning when she was eleven to find the girl next to her dead, her body frozen stiff and eyes staring. Better that no one knew that a rat had chewed her friend’s fingers to the bone.

  “Your mother never went without food or a place to lay her head, after we married,” her father continued, unaware of her own dark memories. “You see, darlin’, the man she’d wanted had died before they could be wed and she thought she was with child.”

  “My mother?” Shannon was shocked. How could that be true? No more modest woman ever lived. Could she have been intimate with a man out of wedlock? A man other than her father?

  “It didn’t matter to me.”

  “You mean…” Shannon’s breath caught in her throat. Was he going to tell her that he wasn’t her father? “What happened to the baby?”

  He knocked out the remaining tobacco in his pipe and rubbed out the coals with the heel of one moccasin. “She got her courses the week after we were wed. She hadn’t been in the family way after all.”

  Relief made her knees feel weak. “So there was no child?”

  “No, and none for us for years. It was a mistake between us,” he said. “She never forgave me for not being him—the man she’d loved and lost.”

  “She never loved you?”

  “I like to think she did, after a fashion, after we wore smooth the burrs. She loved you, though. Never think for a minute she didn’t.”

  “She shouldn’t have taken me away from you.”

  “Ah, no, you can say that. But how can you tell a mother not to cling to her only chick? We made a mess of things, but you’re the best of us both.”

  “And you care for Oona, don’t you?”

  “God help me, I do. It’s been my fortune to have two women both better than me.”

  She leaned close and hugged him. “I’ll try harder to get along with her.”

  “Good girl. She’ll need you with the wee one comin’. She’s like a walnut, my Oona. Hard on the outside, sweet and soft on the in.”

  It was on the tip of Shannon’s tongue to say what a good job the Indian woman did of hiding her sweeter side, but she didn’t
. She sat there beside him and watched as the moon rose higher and the stars blinked on, one after another until the sky was adorned with glittering diamonds and most of her resentment at Oona had drained away.

  That night, the three of them stayed up longer than usual. Da was cleaning his rifle, and Oona’s head was bent low over a tiny pair of moccasins she was sewing for the baby. When Shannon finally went to bed, the hands on the mantel clock showed quarter past ten. And when she went to her window to close and lock the shutters, she found a life-sized wooden bird lying on the wide sill.

  “Storm Dancer? Are you out there?” she called softly. The little bird was beautiful, each feather and curve perfect. It was a wren, carved of cedar and sweet smelling. It was so lifelike, she almost expected it to take wing and fly out of her hands. “Storm Dancer?” she called again as she peered into the darkness.

  From somewhere she could just make out the faint melody of a flute. She shivered. She knew that sound from childhood, remembered her father telling her that it was a courting song. She drew in a deep breath. Oona was right; they were playing with fire.

  He was out there—she knew it. She cradled the little wren in her hands as memories of another gift enveloped her. She hid the wooden wren under her pillow and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The fire had died to coals, but she didn’t need light. One stone on the hearth was always loose.

  Shannon knelt and eased the stone free of its rocky bed. Beneath, wrapped in oiled cloth, she’d kept her treasures when she was a child: a blue stone that she’d been certain had been magic, a crumbling bit of red silk ribbon, a silver penny, and a carved cedar wolf so small it could fit into the palm of her hand.

  Moisture blurred her vision. She raised the wolf to her nose and sniffed. Could she still smell the cedar? She was certain she could. So long ago…She’d been seven, and it was her birthday. Her mother had promised her a cake and new ribbons for her hair for her Saint’s name day, but when the day had finally arrived, there had been important guests, a British officer and so many soldiers that they’d filled the compound. Her parents were busy, and when she’d tried to remind her mother that it was her special day, Mam had scolded her. Instead of presents, her mother had told her that she was too old for such nonsense. Couldn’t she see that the water pail needed refilling?

  Shannon had told herself she wouldn’t cry, not then, not now. She’d taken the bucket and trudged, barefoot as she was now, down the path to the spring, her heart so heavy with self-pity that it was a wonder it didn’t burst through her chest. Her special day that she’d waited for had come, but no one had time for her, and no one cared.

  No one but her friend Otter.

  He was waiting for her at the spring, sitting on his spotted pony and smiling that slow, sweet smile of his. He’d remembered her birthday, and he’d carved the little wolf for her. She held up Otter’s gift and her throat constricted. It was a boy’s gift, crudely made. The animal’s head was too big for the body, the tail too short, and the eyes too large, but she loved it all the same. He’d made it for her, and she cherished it.

  Storm Dancer hadn’t forgotten her. Today wasn’t her birthday, but she’d been feeling low…struggling to rebuild a bond with her father…trying to fit in to his new family. Storm Dancer had remembered the wolf he carved for her and he’d made the little wren to lift her spirits. He might not be the sweet boy she’d known years ago, but he would never harm her. For the rest of it, the way she dreamed of the man Otter had become or her own wanton feelings…she had no answer. She had only herself to blame.

  She only knew she wanted to see him now…to press her body to his, and feel his warm breath on her face. No, not wanted. Wanted was wrong. She had to touch him, had to know that he was real and not just something she had conjured out of the depths of her being.

  She wrapped her precious treasures and put them back in their secret spot. She settled the stone in place and scattered ashes over the top so no one would notice that the stone had been removed. Then, she crossed the worn board floor and slipped out into the cool night.

  She had to still this restless yearning that swelled inside of her. And if it meant her downfall…her shame…nothing mattered but pressing her mouth to his, breathing in his breath, and feeling the throb of his heart against hers.

  Chapter 7

  How had Storm Dancer gotten inside the locked trading post compound to leave the wren? And how, Shannon wondered, had he gotten out again without alarming the dogs? The little carved bird was real—not a figment of her dream. He’d been here, and she had to find him.

  She didn’t go to the main gate, the one that stood open in the daytime and was barred tonight. She chose the narrow door that opened behind the cabins, wide enough only for a single person to go through, only if they were small in stature or ducked low.

  Flynn called it the postern gate, and this too was barred with three heavy wooden crosspieces set into iron brackets. In case of an attack by hostiles, the small gate provided almost as formidable a barrier as the front entranceway. The hinges to the postern were mounted on the inside and the door disguised, so only someone familiar with the passageway would know that it wasn’t part of the stockade fence.

  Moonlight illuminated the meadow, but no matter how hard Shannon stared, she could make out no silhouette of a man. She had been certain that the flute music had come from this side of the compound. Now, the flute was silent and she no longer could be certain of the direction. Which way to go?

  “Storm Dancer,” she ventured. Her voice rang loud above the chirp of insects. A great horned owl hooted, but no copper-skinned warrior strode through the knee-high grass.

  Thoughts of the great gray wolves that ranged these mountains made her shiver. As a child, she’d often heard them howling on winter nights. Less seen but even more deadly was the lone puma. The big cat could strike without a sound, slash her mortally with razor-sharp claws, and devour her before she could cry out. She’d never seen a living mountain lion, but Cherokee had come to trade for their hides, and she’d seen one hunter whose face and arms had been scarred by the claws.

  Shannon knew she had no business outside the wall at night. What if a French patrol or a Shawnee war party chanced by? She should go back inside before it was too late, but she couldn’t….

  Storm Dancer had been at her window. He had brought the carved bird. He must have known that she’d come out to him. What game was he playing? Did he realize what his presence had done to her? Could he be so cruel?

  She turned around and then around again. She called his name and waited, straining to hear the bone flute again. Another owl on a far hillside answered the first; rabbits and small creatures rustled in the grass, but no tall man strode from the forest to meet her.

  She waited. Gradually, her anticipation became disappointment and she turned back toward the compound. If the wren wasn’t there, under her pillow where she’d hidden it, she’d know that she was dreaming again. But when she had slipped through the doorway, rebarred the gate, and entered the cabin, she found Storm Dancer’s gift where she’d hidden it in her bed.

  It hadn’t been her imagination. He had come and left her the wren.

  Dreamless, she slept that night with the wooden bird locked in her fingers. It was still there when she woke, and she tucked it into her traveling case, beneath her undergarments, before going to the keeping room to start breakfast. She was first up for once, and by the time Oona entered the kitchen, journey cake was browning on the baking stone and the oat porridge was bubbling.

  The Indian woman went to the fireplace, peered into the kettle of porridge, stirred the bread batter to check the consistency, and lifted the lid of the teapot to smell the brew. Only then did she glance at Shannon and nod. “Good,” Oona said. And, “You have added willow bark to the China tea leaves.”

  Shannon smiled. “Yes. I thought it would make the tea last longer. And willow bark will ease your morning stomach.” She had heard Oona being sick in the morning and guessed
that her pregnancy was a difficult one.

  Oona nodded her approval once more. “There will be little difference in the taste. You know about willow?”

  “And wintergreen. When I was little, Da used to brew them for my bellyaches.”

  “Truth Teller is wise. Most whites do not want Indian medicine.” Oona took three mugs from the shelf and poured tea. “They would rather suffer than believe that a savage might know something about healing they don’t.”

  Shannon used a flat wooden tool to turn the bread. “Ignorance makes people afraid. A woman at the tavern where I was indentured burned her arm and legs making soap. It was so bad that they called a doctor for her. He bled her and smeared the burns with tallow.”

  Oona’s dark eyes flickered with interest. “Did she die, this woman?”

  Shannon swallowed against the constriction in her throat. Mable had screamed for four days until her voice gave out. The stench was so bad that the mistress had her carried to the barn. “The burns sickened and fever took her.” But not soon enough….

  “Snakeroot is good for burns.” She touched the scar on her cheek. “Both a tea and a poultice for the burns.”

  Shannon nodded. It was strange how she rarely noticed Oona’s burn anymore. “Once, when I was small,” she said, “I burned my finger on a nail I pulled from the fire. Da crushed violet leaves into a paste, and it took away the hurt.”

  “Violet is good.”

  “Yes, and so is cattail root. I wish I knew more about healing.”

  “There are other plants my mother taught me,” Oona admitted. “She was a powerful medicine woman. Many sick and injured came to her door.”

  Shannon nodded, and Oona went on. “Gold thread makes a fine yellow dye, and the roots of squaw flower are good for a woman in labor. If you want, I will show you when to gather them and how they are to be used.”

  “I’d like that,” Shannon said. If she knew about Indian medicine, she might prevent the death of someone, perhaps even someone she loved, like her dear friend Anna.