Cherokee Storm. Janelle TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
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