Cherokee Storm. Janelle TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
a thief, all right. Probably got their scalps curing over a fire right now.”
“Ain’t there a bounty on scalps in Penn’s Colony?” Drake asked.
“Injun scalps, not white,” his father answered.
“’Course, with dark hair, it’s hard to tell white from red,” Abe Link pointed out.
“Might be he was planning on ravishing Shannon, then murder. I’m for going after him,” Drake said. “Who’s with me?”
A few voices rose in agreement before Nathan’s angry bellow cut them off. “None of you is going into these mountains after a Cherokee. Too dangerous. We got the girl back, and she says she’s not harmed. We got my milk cow back. Time enough to reckon with that Indian.”
“Pa,” Damon pleaded. “We can’t let—”
“You listen to your pa,” Hannah said.
Drake glared at her. “Ma, stay out of this!”
“You heard me,” Nathan said. “I’m not about to risk your hair or anybody else’s in this party over some trappers or their stolen horses.”
A dog began to bark and two more took up the chorus. Men looked to their weapons and scanned the trees anxiously.
“Glad to hear at least one of ye has a lick of sense,” came a hearty voice from beyond the wagon circle. A stocky white man clad all in buckskins stepped into the clearing. “Call off your hounds, Nathan Clark. Be there a decent cup of tea to be had at your fire?”
The Irish brogue was as thick as pea soup, but Shannon would have known it anywhere. She’d heard it often enough in her dreams. “Da!” she cried, flinging herself at him.
Nathan laughed. “Lower your rifles, boys. It’s Flynn O’Shea.”
Suddenly shy, Shannon stopped a few feet from her father and looked up into his face. He was older than she’d remembered, his Gaelic features more lined and weather-beaten, his dark beard heavily sprinkled with gray, but his eyes were as blue and merry as ever. “Oh, Da,” she murmured. “I’ve missed you so.”
“Give us a hug, darlin’.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “Dead or lost to me, I thought ye.”
She didn’t remember running the last few steps into his arms, but suddenly he was hugging her tight, and she was crying so hard she couldn’t speak. “Da…Da,” was all she could manage.
Her father produced a wrinkled but clean linen handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “’Tis a sight you are, darlin’.” He handed her the handkerchief, and she saw that it was her mother’s, monogrammed with elegant cursive letters, M. E. B. The handkerchief had been part of her dowry, sewn for her grandmother, Mary Eileen Boyd, who’d been born to the gentry, the Boyds of Shannon Grove in Limerick. Mama had been so careful to pack all that remained of her linens when she’d left Da. This handkerchief must have been left behind by accident.
“Blow that little nose.” Da patted the top of her head. “You’re bigger than when I saw you last, but still no taller than my shoulder. The spitting image of your mother.” He released her and turned his attention to Nathan. “So why are the lot of ye as jumpy as fleas on a griddle? Shawnee on the warpath?”
“Not Shawnee.” Drake pushed through the circle of men. “Cherokee. Shannon was kidnapped and held captive for—”
“I was not kidnapped,” she protested. “I just got turned around in the dark.”
Nathan’s expression hardened. “More to it than that, Flynn. Held against her will, she was. All night.”
Drake and Damon took positions on either side of their father, arms folded, feet planted, as alike as a pair of bookends. “Ask her,” Damon said. “Cherokee buck held her prisoner all night in a cave. God knows what would have happened if we hadn’t found her just as he was fixing to ride off with her.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Shannon said. “I was caught in a thunderstorm and took shelter in the cave. A man was there—a Cherokee brave. It’s true he wouldn’t let me leave until morning, but the lightning was fierce. He didn’t hurt me.”
Her father looked thoughtful. “A Cherokee, you say?”
Drake nodded. “A horse thief.”
“He said his name was Storm Dancer.” Shannon balled up the handkerchief and tucked it into her pocket. “He fed me, Da, and he gave me his blanket. He had every chance to do harm to me, but he didn’t.” She glared at Drake. “He has it all wrong. The Cherokee said he knew you. Said his people call you Truth Teller.”
Her father glanced toward the cook fire. “My throat’s as dry as last year’s corn fodder. I’d not say no to a cup of real China tea, if it was offered. I’ve been drinking naught but sassafras tea for a month.”
“You know this Indian?” Nathan asked.
Shannon remembered the war paint that had streaked Storm Dancer’s cheeks, but she didn’t speak of it. There would be time enough to tell her father when they were alone.
“Known him since he was a sprout. Winter Fox’s nephew. Cherokee take big stock in their mother’s kin. Hardly speak of their father’s.” Her father smiled at her. “Remember how I taught you the Cherokee claim the bloodline through the mother’s side?”
Hannah Clark sniffed. “A heathen notion.”
“Uncivilized,” agreed Ada Baker.
“Some do say so, mistress.” Da grinned. “But the upshot is that no babe is born on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak.”
“No bastards, you mean?” Drake asked.
“Hush that talk in front of your mother,” Nathan chastised.
“As if I don’t hear worse from you every day,” his wife retorted. “And it speaks of bastards in the Good Book so it’s no sin for the boy to mention it.”
“No illegitimate children,” her father soothed. “For each babe does know its own mother.”
“What of this Cherokee?” Nathan demanded. “You know him well? My boys saw him with horses that white men was riding just that morning. He’s a horse thief for certain, probably a murderer.”
Her father appeared to consider the question. “Could be he lifted those horses. A wild one is Storm Dancer according to Winter Fox. Got a following among the young men, too. It’s hard for the tribal councils to control their hotheads, what with the French and the English competing for recruits among the Cherokee. Both sides offer bounties to fight for them.”
“So you agree he’s a danger,” Drake said.
“Didn’t say that. Known the boy since he was knee high to a beaver. Never had him steal so much as a stick of candy from my store. But he might have gone hostile. I’d watch my stock if I were you. But don’t take any shots at him or any other Cherokee unless it’s him or you. Cherokee are bad about seeking revenge. You kill one of them, they’ll kill two or three of you in turn. They carry a blood feud worse than the Scots. Best you stay on the right side of the Cherokee if you’re going to live in these mountains.”
“Maybe they’d better live like honest white men,” Nathan said. “Or get out of this territory.”
“Not likely,” her father replied. “Cherokee been here since the days of Noah and the Flood. You’ll not pry them from this land in your lifetime or your grandbabies’.”
Seventeen-year-old Alice Clayton twittered as she offered him a tin cup of hot tea.
“Much obliged.” He cupped the mug in his hands and inhaled the aroma with obvious delight. “Cherokee are honest for the most part.” His eyes narrowed. “But they live by their own code. Twenty-odd years I’ve lived in Cherokee territory, and I’ve called many