Cherokee Storm. Janelle TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
is too high to cross. You should ride.”
“A pony?” she echoed. “You brought me a pony?” She stared at him in utter bewilderment, wondering if she’d heard correctly. “Another stolen horse?” she said, regretting the accusation the instant the words rolled off her tongue.
He scowled. “Tell your father not to be careless. There are Shawnee in these mountains. Tell him that it may not be a place that he can live anymore.” Storm Dancer turned and walked into the forest.
She stared after him. Was he a ghost? One minute he was there—the next, he was gone. She realized that she was standing in bare feet and looked around for her shoes. They were no longer in the leaves where she’d left them. In their place was a pair of butter-soft woman’s moccasins with a design of wild strawberries stitched into the leather. She laced them up and took a few tentative steps.
Why had Storm Dancer followed them if he meant them no harm? Why had he taken her shoes and replaced them with—
The snap of a twig jerked her from her reverie. She heard a snort and the branches parted. A brown pony with a large head, one blue eye and one brown eye stepped into the clearing. The animal’s legs were short and thick, the hindquarters solid and heavily muscled. Except for the size—just under thirteen hands—she guessed, the pony appeared much like a draft horse.
“Storm Dancer? Where are you?”
No answer.
The pony snatched a mouthful of grass. It wore no bridle. Instead, a braided leather rope encircled the animal’s nose and looped loosely over the neck. Red and blue beads were woven into the heavy mane.
“Storm Dancer,” she called again. “Where did you get him? I don’t want a stolen pony. I won’t ride it. I’ll leave it here for the wolves to eat.”
The pony raised his head and stared at her through thick lashes. She put out a hand to it. “I don’t want you,” she said. “This is ridiculous. I can’t accept—”
“Who are you talking to?” Her father moved into the clearing and glanced around. “Where did he come from?”
Shannon noticed that Da was breathing hard and his face was red. Small gray lines tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were heavy with fatigue. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He set the butt of his long rifle on the ground and leaned on the barrel. The pony looked at him and swished his tail. “How did you come by this beast, darlin’?”
She told him. Not everything, not everything by half, but enough. “I told him I didn’t want it. It’s probably stolen, isn’t it? And why is he following us?”
Her father shook his head. “Hard to say. Storm Dancer’s a Cherokee. Long as I’ve known them, ate with them, wintered with them, I don’t know them. They aren’t like whites. Might as well be a different breed of animal. Not less than a white man, you understand, but different—blood and bone different.” He paused. “I’ve seen a Cherokee, Listens to Thunder, by name, decide to die. Why, I can’t tell you…some point of honor, I couldn’t make head nor tail of.”
“Was he an old man?”
“Nope, no older than you and hale and hearty as a spring calf. Listens to Thunder just sits down, wraps himself in a blanket, and starts to sing his death song. He was cold as a landlord’s heart by morning. Just willed his-self to die.”
“That’s crazy,” she said.
“No, that’s a Cherokee. No telling why Storm Dancer brought this animal for you, but it would be an insult to refuse his gift. You’ll be glad enough to ride by the time we reach the post.”
She shook her head. “I’m not a good rider. I haven’t ridden since I went East.”
“Comes right back to you. You’ll see, darlin’. Bad news is, the river’s up. I was afraid it might be. No crossing here, not for a week. And we need to get home.”
“But if the pony is stolen…”
“Not likely. Not when he gave it to you. He wouldn’t be above lifting a horse or two from an enemy. That’s part of their code. But this is a mountain pony, Cherokee bred, most likely. See those short legs. Tough and strong little animals. Too small for most men to ride, but just right for you.”
“I walked from Virginia,” she said stubbornly. “I can walk home.”
“It’s not safe to leave Oona or the post alone too long. We’ll go a lot faster if you just do as I say.”
“Storm Dancer wanted me to give you a message. He said there might be Shawnee in the area.”
Apprehension clouded her father’s eyes. “Then we’d best make tracks.” He glanced down at the moccasins on her feet. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was courting you, girl. You’d best take care not to lead him on. No telling what—”
“I’ve not led him on.” It was unfair. She’d told Storm Dancer…Guilt rose in her chest, and she nodded. “I wouldn’t,” she said. “I know better.”
“Enough said.” Da shouldered his pack. “Hop on, darlin’. And don’t fear this pony will lose his footing and tumble off the mountain. They’re more cat than horse. He’ll carry you safely home.”
Home. She’d been traveling so long to get there. Would it be as wonderful as she remembered? “Is she there? Oona?”
“She is.”
“Will she resent me?”
“Oona?” He smiled. “Not her. A better heart never beat in a woman. You’ll see. She’ll be a second mother to you. And you’ll be a help to her.” He ducked his head, then flushed as he raised his gaze to meet hers. “She’s wanted a child of her own for years. And now, God willing, our prayers will be answered.”
Shannon looked at him in confusion. “You mean…”
“I do, darlin’. She’s with child. You’re going to have a new baby brother or sister. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Reserved and stone-faced, the Indian woman turned her back on Shannon and stooped to turn the flat corn cakes baking on an upturned iron skillet in the fireplace. Embarrassed, Shannon glanced around the snug cabin and then back to her father. He hadn’t seemed to notice the frost in the air when he’d introduced Oona to his only daughter. And he hadn’t mentioned that one side of his companion’s face was horribly scarred.
Oona was younger than Shannon had expected, perhaps thirty. It was difficult for her to tell the age of Indians. Oona’s hair fell to her waist, black, and thick, and glossy. She would have been a beauty if it wasn’t for the disfigurement. Shannon wondered how she had gotten the terrible injury.
“What do you think of my Mary Shannon? Is she as pretty as moonlight on the river?” her father asked the Indian woman.
Oona’s spine stiffened. She dipped hot liquid from a kettle suspended over the coals and brought him a steaming pewter mug of something that Shannon couldn’t identify. It smelled of herbs with an underlying hint of willow bark.
Da settled into a leather-and-wood high-backed chair by the fireplace. “You can see I’ve added on since you last were here,” he said. “Three rooms and the loft now. Oona and I sleep through there in the end room with the second fireplace. When I found out that you were coming home, I built another room just for you. It’s smaller than ours, but snug. You’ll be warm in winter.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. A bedroom of her own was a luxury she’d never imagined. When she was tiny, she’d slept in her parents’ bed, tucked securely between them, and when she was older, Da had traded for a bearskin, and her mother had made a thick pallet for her on the floor between the big bed and the wall.
At the children’s home, she’d slept under the eaves with dozens of other orphans, and