Cherokee Storm. Janelle TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
younger than Runs Alongside Bear. He was short and muscular with a broad face and three dots tattooed down his chin.
“Don’t bet on it,” her father said with a wink. He shook hands with each man in turn and presented them with a small cloth bag of tobacco as a gift. “Next time you come, I’ll try to have that red cloth.”
A few more pleasantries were exchanged in a mixture of English and Cherokee, and then the three Indians mounted and rode off through the woods. Before they vanished into the trees, Gall turned and waved at her, and she returned the wave.
“Best not to mention Storm Dancer to anyone,” Da said quietly. “He’s not in favor with the council according to Ghost Elk.”
“Gall said that this pony belonged to his mother’s friend, a woman named Corn.” She took hold of the animal’s halter. “I feel guilty about keeping him. Gall thought…”
“Don’t put too much stock in what Gall says. He’s half-French. Cherokee are devious, but a half-breed is worse.” Her father shook his head. “Gall is way too talkative for a Cherokee. He pretends to be a harmless fool, but I think he’s far from it.”
“Da.” She stared at him. “It isn’t like you to judge someone by the color of their skin.” She thought with a start that men would label Da’s child with Oona that name—half-breed. She wondered if it was fair to bring an innocent baby into the world where it would never truly belong to white or Cherokee.
“It’s not the Indian half I worry about in Gall,” Da said. “It’s the French half. The boy’s never done me wrong, but I never feel quite easy with him. Oona don’t think much of him, I can tell you.” He turned back toward the house.
Leading the pony, Shannon fell into step beside him. “I gathered that much—that Oona didn’t like Gall.” She kept thinking of the baby, her new brother or sister. Would it look Indian or Irish? She vowed to love it, no matter. A mixed-blood child would face prejudice from all sides and would need all the champions he or she could get.
“Oona’s a pretty good judge of character,” her father mused.
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“Give her time. Oona doesn’t know you. She’s never known any white women. She’s just shy.”
“I hope you’re right.” Shannon didn’t think it was shyness…more like jealousy. “I want to…Oh, I forgot the bucket of water.” She glanced back. The bucket was lying where she’d dropped it near the spring. “Can you take him? I’ll get the water.”
“Come back to the store after you fetch the water, and we’ll get started. I want to give you the prices on our bestselling trade goods. Some things are locked up for safekeeping.” He pulled a rawhide cord from under his shirt and showed her a key. “I do the trading for powder, shot, and steel hatchets.”
She nodded and walked back toward the pool. She was eager to learn all about the business. Buying and selling goods had always interested her, although she’d had little chance to develop her skills at the tavern. She didn’t want to be a burden on her father.
She picked up the bucket and carried it to the spot where clear water rushed and bubbled out of the rock. She rinsed out the container and began to fill it, conscious of the tranquility and beauty of this spot. How many times in the past years she had wished she was here…a child again without worries or fears…an only child who knew how much she was loved by both her parents.
It seemed to her as if the trees were bigger here than in Virginia…their branches more massive…the leaves greener. Even the sky seemed larger…higher…the blue more intense. She closed her eyes and drank in the familiar scents of the warm rock, the lush moss, and wildflowers spilling down the hillside. Maybe her father was right…maybe this was the closest either of them would ever be to heaven.
Sighing, Shannon opened her eyes and held the bucket under the spring until the water reached the rim. Why, she wondered, had her mother never fallen in love with this unspoiled wilderness? Why had she longed for the dark, crowded streets of her native—
A voice tore her from her reverie.
“I have thirst. Will you let me drink from your spring?”
She whirled around on Storm Dancer so fast that water spilled down her dress. He stood only a few feet behind her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“What were you doing with Gall?”
“We were talking. And what business is it of yours?”
“You should stay near your father when he is here. Gall can be dangerous for a woman.”
She glared at him, refusing to be intimidated. “He said the same of you.”
Amusement twinkled in Storm Dancer’s eyes, as if he knew some secret, but wouldn’t explain it to her. That infuriated her. Was it some joke on her?
She clutched the dripping bucket to her chest, making it a solid barrier between them. “It was good of you to let me borrow your pony,” she said, “but you can take it back now. I don’t need him anymore.”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his thin lips…lips that had thrilled her only yesterday. “Why would I take your pony? He does not belong to me. He is yours.”
Had she forgotten how tall he was? How she had to tilt her head to look into his fierce black eyes? How broad his chest? His lean muscular body? He could break her in those strong hands…hands that had touched her so gently. She shivered, despite the warmth of the sunshine. “I don’t want him,” she lied. “He’s…he’s ill-mannered. And his gait is as rough as a mule’s.”
He shrugged. “Then eat him. He is fat.”
“That’s savage. We don’t eat horses.” Her voice sounded high and foolish in her ears. Thoughts tumbled in her head. She had to get away from him. If he didn’t let her pass, she’d shout for her father. He’d come and see that Storm Dancer was here. He would make him go away.
“Horse meat is very sweet.” Storm Dancer reached out and caught a lock of her hair. He rubbed it between his fingers. “So fine.”
She stepped back, yanking her hair free, splashing more water down the front of her dress. “Your cousin said that he knew this pony, that it belonged to a friend of his mother’s.”
“Yes, Corn Woman. I traded a bear for him.”
“You killed a bear?”
His eyes gleamed with amusement, but his words, when he answered, were solemn. “This is not the time for hunting bears. They are thin and sour in summer. When the snow flies, in the Trading Moon that you call November, I will track yona and bring him down. I will take the rich meat and the thick winter bearskin to Corn Woman. It is a good trade.”
“I don’t want you to kill a bear for me, and I don’t want your gifts. I want you to leave me alone.”
His expression hardened. “I would do that, but I cannot.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It is not a good thing, that we should come together. It means trouble.”
“Yes, exactly,” she agreed. “Not a good thing. So go away. Go, and don’t come back.”
She tried not to stare at him. Today, he wore a short open buckskin vest, fringed and decorated with porcupine quills, over a short leather kilt and high moccasins. Six inches of muscular chest gleamed bare between the fringed seams. She fought the urge to caress that copper skin, to move so close that her thighs would press against his naked ones.
He touched her face, lightly grazing her lips and chin with his long fingers. The bucket fell out of her grasp, splashing them both. Her senses reeled, and she shuddered, conscious only of her pounding heart, of the bright sensations running through her veins.
“Please…”