Only Love, Page 4

  To Shannon it seemed like a week before Whip finally turned around and began loading supplies back onto his skinny black packhorse.

  Lightning split the rainy twilight, turning the world to burning silver. Thunder followed instantly, loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Rain came down harder and then harder still, a torrent fit to put out the fires of hell.

  Though Whip was only twelve feet away, Shannon had to strain to see him. She blinked her eyes fiercely, knowing she must see through tears and rain alike.

  When lightning came again, the clearing was empty.

  Whip was gone.

  Shannon bit her lip against the urge to scream Whip’s name into the teeth of the storm, calling him back, offering him whatever he wanted in return for food and safety.

  And she knew exactly what he wanted.

  The Culpeppers had made what men wanted savagely clear to Shannon on more than one occasion. What men wanted was to bend her over a chair and rut on her until she begged and bled and begged some more.

  The thought of it made her stomach clench, sending bile into her throat.

  Maybe Whip wouldn’t ask that of me. Maybe he did just want to help and wouldn’t have asked for anything more than thanks and a home-cooked meal.

  Then Shannon remembered Whip’s words and the heat in his silver glance. She gave up trying to fool herself.

  Whip wants me, all right. Just like the Culpeppers want me.

  Shannon shuddered and felt cold all the way to her soul. Nothing in her experience had led her to believe that women did more than endure men’s brutal rutting in exchange for shelter and food and safety.

  And children. Sweet-faced little bits of humanity to sing to and cuddle and love.

  Prettyface whined and set his teeth gently around Shannon’s hand, reminding her of his presence. It also reminded Shannon that she was standing in the icy evening rain, feeling as empty as the clearing had become when Whip rode out.

  Stop dreaming, Shannon told herself savagely. Mother dreamed, and what did she get? A no-account traveling man who left her flat.

  And she got me. I loved her, but all she loved was laudanum.

  Cherokee is right. Love is a fairy tale spun to keep women from setting off on their own and leaving men to take care of themselves.

  Slowly Shannon turned and went into the cabin that was little warmer than the rain itself.

  3

  WHEN Shannon awoke before dawn, the storm had spent itself. Night was slowly draining from the sky, leaving it a transparent silver that reminded her all too much of Whip’s hungry eyes.

  Prettyface made a low sound in his throat and nudged Shannon’s cheek again.

  “Brrrrrr,” she muttered. “Your nose is as cold as the floor will be.”

  But Shannon ruffled Prettyface’s fur anyway. He was the only living thing that had ever returned her love. If it hadn’t been for Prettyface, she didn’t know what she would have done when Silent John disappeared in the winter of ’65.

  Not that her great-uncle had ever been much company. He had fully earned the nickname “Silent John.” But Shannon was grateful to him just the same. No matter how remote, no matter how lonely, no matter how hard life was in Echo Basin, she much preferred it to the life she had left behind in Virginia.

  In the Colorado Territory, Shannon was free.

  In Virginia, she had been little more than a slave.

  “Good morning, my beautiful monster,” Shannon said to the dog, stretching. “Do you think summer will ever truly come? Sometimes I feel so cold even the hot spring can’t warm me.”

  At the words “hot spring,” Prettyface’s ears came up. He cocked his head, whined, and looked toward the back of the cabin, where a cupboard door opened onto a narrow tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a cave with a hot spring that was sweet rather than sulfurous.

  Silent John had used the healing waters when his arthritis bothered him too much. Shannon simply liked the steamy warmth of the hidden cave. It saved having to chop wood to heat water in order to wash clothes—and herself. The hot spring meant that the secondhand clothes she wore were clean, as was the skin beneath them. In such a remote place, where the soft comforts of civilization were almost entirely lacking, the hot spring was a delicious luxury.

  And during Shannon’s first winters alone, when she had neither the strength nor the skill to bring down trees big enough to heat the cabin, the hot spring had saved her life. She was better with ax and maul and saw, now, yet far from good. There was barely a few days’ worth of stove wood stacked outside the cabin right now.

  Thank the Lord for the hot spring. Otherwise I might get as dirty as Murphy or those Culpeppers.

  Seeing the direction of his mistress’s glance, Prettyface whined hopefully. For all his rough appearance, the dog enjoyed chasing shadows in the warm creek that flowed out from the hot spring’s pool before disappearing into a crack in the bedrock.

  “Not this morning,” Shannon said to Prettyface. “We have to return the salt we borrowed from Cherokee. She—blast it, he – will need it.”

  Shannon frowned at Prettyface, who waved his tail gently.

  “It’s a good thing no one else is ever around,” Shannon said unhappily. “I got used to being called Silent John’s wife, but I have an awful time speaking of Cherokee as a he when I know full well now that she isn’t.”

  Memories of the Culpeppers’ coarse comments tightened Shannon’s mouth for a moment.

  “Not that I blame Cherokee for the charade. The longer Silent John is gone, the more I know why she decided to dress like a man, let herself be called a shaman, and live way up on the north fork of Avalanche Creek.”

  With a determined sweep of her arm, Shannon pushed off the bearskin cover that kept the worst of the chill at bay during the night. There was no dressing to do, for she had quickly learned the habit of bathing before bed and sleeping in clean clothes for their warmth.

  There weren’t many chores to do around the cabin in the morning. Since Shannon wasn’t going to stay inside, there was no point in building a fire. Just as there was no point in lighting a lantern and wasting precious oil when the sun would be up pretty soon.

  Shannon poured a cup of water from the small silver pitcher that had been her mother’s. The water was so cold it made her teeth ache, but even so, the water made scraps of venison jerky easier to chew.

  She was still chewing when she pulled on Silent John’s second-best jacket and went to the front door. As she walked, she stuffed a few more strips of dried venison into her pocket.

  That’s the last of the jerky, she thought unhappily. Thank God the deer are coming back to the high country.

  Before Shannon unbarred the cabin door, she lifted the shotgun from its pegs over the doorway. As she had done the previous night, she broke open the weapon, pulled out the two precious shells, picked up a soft buckskin cloth, and went to work on the gun.

  Even when Shannon had been barely fifteen, Silent John had been merciless in his demands that Shannon learn to use and care for his weapons. She had never been much good with the heavy .50-caliber buffalo gun that he preferred, but she could shoot the lighter guns well enough to defend herself.

  Putting food on the table was another matter entirely. There was no money to spare on extra ammunition to hone her shooting skills, so she had to get very close to the quarry before she could risk a shot. As a result, she nearly always gave away her presence before she felt confident enough to shoot.

  “But I’m getting better,” Shannon assured herself. “By this winter, Cherokee won’t have to hunt for two.”

  With quick, efficient motions Shannon wiped down the shotgun, making certain that no moisture had condensed overnight inside the firing chambers. When she was satisfied that everything was clean and dry, she put a shell in each chamber and closed the gun firmly. She put four more shells in her pocket, leaving only three shells in the box.

  Like the venison jerky, Shannon’s supply of ammunition was nearly
gone.

  “When I go into Holler Creek again, I’ll have to buy ammunition. And next time I go, you’re coming with me, Prettyface. I know you don’t like settlements and strangers, but that’s too bad. I need you to guard my back.”

  Prettyface stood with barely restrained eagerness, watching the door and his mistress by turns.

  “But before I can buy anything in Holler Creek, I’ll have to wring a bit of gold from one of Silent John’s claims,” Shannon continued, thinking aloud as had become her habit. “Mother’s wedding band was the last thing of any value I owned, except the small poke of gold I’m saving for winter supplies in case the hunting is real bad.”

  Silently Shannon hoped that she wouldn’t have to use that tiny anthill of Silent John’s gold. It was all that stood between her and the kind of destitution that forced women to sell their bodies to strangers.

  “If only you could teach me how to track and stalk better,” Shannon said to Prettyface. “Then I could get close enough to the blasted deer to turn them into venison.”

  Prettyface watched Shannon with dark, adoring eyes, but was of no other help. When he hunted with his mistress, the dog chased whatever he scented at a pace that left Shannon far behind. Sometimes Prettyface ran a deer down and shared with his mistress. Often he settled for less tasty game.

  Silent John had taught Shannon the basics of shooting and dressing out the kill, but there never had been enough time for her to learn the kind of skill that would allow her to stockpile game for winter. When the hunting had been good, Silent John hunted, and he hunted alone.

  The rest of the time he grubbed gold from the hard rock of the mountains. That, too, was a survival skill he hadn’t taught the young grandniece he had brought back from Virginia to live in his home.

  “But I’m learning,” Shannon said firmly. “I brought down one deer and some foolish grouse last fall. If the weather holds now, I’ll hunt some more, until I have enough food to go up the east fork of Avalanche Creek and dig for gold, and then I’ll hunt for more food and jerk the meat and take the gold and buy supplies for winter and…”

  Shannon’s voice died. Summer wasn’t very long for all that had to be done. At nearly eight thousand feet, summer came and went as quick as a mayfly.

  “The wood!” Shannon said, remembering. “Oh, lord. How could I forget sawing and chopping and splitting and stacking and curing the wood? I’ll need a lot of fuel, even with the hot spring for washing clothes and such, and I’ll need to get it all before the first heavy snows close the passes and cover the downed trees and send the game to lower elevations.”

  Shannon drew in a deep breath, trying to calm the fear that sometimes took her unawares since Silent John had ridden away from the cabin and never come back.

  I’m scared, Prettyface. I’m really scared.

  But those were words Shannon would never speak aloud. She had learned when she was thirteen that giving way to fear only made things worse. It told people you were ripe for the taking.

  “Sufficient unto the day are the troubles thereof,” Shannon said grimly. “I’ll have plenty of time to do everything if I stop standing around wringing my hands!”

  With quick, light steps, Shannon went to the leather-hinged box that held dry goods. Except for the salt and flour she had bought yesterday, the cupboard was empty. Last night she had divided the salt into two portions. The smaller one was hers. The larger one was destined to repay Cherokee for her loan at Christmas.

  “I should have told Whip to leave the supplies that I paid for,” Shannon muttered.

  The memory of the Culpeppers made Shannon’s mouth tighten in fear and distaste.

  But the memory of a big man riding toward her out of the storm made her breath unravel with an excitement she had never known.

  “Come on, Prettyface. It’s time to see Cherokee. She’ll talk some sense into me.”

  Prettyface bounded out the door ahead of Shannon. She watched him carefully, knowing that the dog’s senses were much more acute than hers. If anyone was prowling around, Prettyface would discover the intruder long before she did.

  The dog lifted his muzzle into the cold, clear wind and sampled the air with all of his senses. Then he bounded forward, telling Shannon that there was no danger on the wind.

  Even so, Shannon was cautious. She stepped outside and looked around carefully. There were no tracks in the frost-stiffened grass around the cabin. She sighed with relief even as she took another look just to be certain.

  The shotgun was in the crook of her arm and her hand was never far from the trigger. The wind tugged at her hat, but she had tied it on securely with a faded silk scarf, one of the few luxuries that had survived from her Virginia childhood.

  Pulling the door shut firmly behind her, Shannon set out toward Cherokee’s cabin. She could have ridden Razorback, but he was still tired from the trip into Holler Creek. She left the old mule on a picket rope, cropping tender young grass.

  It was less than two miles to Cherokee’s cabin. As Shannon set out, dawn was coming up all around in glorious shades of rose and gold and deepest pink. The beauty of the day lifted her spirits. Humming very softly under her breath, she pulled the colors of dawn around her like a glorious cloak and hurried along the trail.

  When Shannon reached the cleared area around Cherokee’s cabin, she stood at the edge and called out. Since the Culpeppers’ arrival at Echo Basin, folks had been less welcoming to visitors. People who walked up on someone unannounced stood a good chance of getting shot. Even Cherokee’s reputation as a shaman wouldn’t keep the likes of the Culpeppers at bay.

  Shannon didn’t step forward until a friendly invitation came from the cabin.

  “Come on in, gal,” Cherokee yelled. “Too durn cold out there for standing around.”

  “Okay, Prettyface,” Shannon said.

  The dog bounded forward. Just as he reached the cabin, the door opened completely. A tall, lean figure stood in the doorway.

  A single glance at the way Cherokee was standing told Shannon that something was wrong with the old woman’s right foot.

  “Howdy, gal,” Cherokee said. “Fine day, ain’t it?”

  “Indeed it is,” Shannon said. “Prettyface, get out of the way. If you’re hungry, go rustle your own breakfast.”

  The cabin door closed, leaving Prettyface on the outside. In truth, there was barely room for two people in Cherokee’s tiny cabin, much less two people and a big dog.

  “Hear you went into Holler Creek for supplies,” Cherokee said.

  “How did you hear that?”

  “Injuns, how else? Wounded Bear’s nephew was trading gold for whiskey in Holler Creek. He heard tell how them Culpeppers finally got their come-uppance.”

  “Did they?”

  “Bet your sweet smile they did. Where was you when the dust settled? They was fighting over you, after all.”

  “When that bullwhip cracked, I grabbed the flour and the salt and took out of there like my heels were on fire,” Shannon said dryly.

  Cherokee’s husky, chuckling laughter filled the tiny cabin. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in two thick braids, Indian style. Her seamed, dark face, combined with shapeless trousers, wool shirt, and worn moccasins, created the appearance of an old half-breed who had chosen to live alone rather than endure the insults of being not white and not Indian. Only the amulet bag hanging around her neck hinted at the wisdom lying behind her calm, dark eyes.

  If anyone other than Shannon knew that Cherokee was an old woman rather than an old man, no one had spoken publicly about it. Her gifts with herbs and healing had earned her the title of shaman among Indians and whites alike.

  “Light and set,” Cherokee invited.

  Shannon settled onto the stool that was pulled close to the ancient wood stove. Cherokee limped slowly over to sit on her bunk. The cabin was so small that their knees nearly knocked together as they sat.

  “What did you do to your foot?” Shannon asked.

  Cherokee tu
rned and began stuffing something noxious into a stone pipe. She struck a match and puffed the mixture of tobacco and herbs into life.

  “It was a hard winter,” Cherokee said, “but Wounded Bear’s band only lost one old squaw and a stillborn baby. The rest of them are as frisky as your durn dog.”

  Shannon wanted to pursue the subject of the other woman’s injury, but didn’t. Cherokee talked about what interested her and ignored the rest.

  “If they weren’t frisky, one of your spring tonics would put them right,” Shannon said, grimacing.

  Cherokee’s tonics tasted awful, though she swore that was part of their virtue.

  “That’s the God’s truth,” Cherokee said.

  Discreetly Shannon looked around the cabin. Normally there was a full bucket of water beside the stove, wood stacked nearby, and something edible simmering. Sometimes there were even fresh biscuits.

  But today there was only a nearly empty bucket, the scraped remains of stew in the bottom of a pot, and nothing edible in sight. Nor was there any wood bigger than kindling.

  “Walking here made me thirsty,” Shannon said, reaching for the empty bucket. “Mind if I fetch some water?”

  Cherokee hesitated, then shrugged.

  “The creek is cold enough to freeze hell itself,” the old woman muttered. “Makes my teeth ache all the way to my elbows to drink the durned water.”

  “Then I’ll just fetch some wood and warm the water a bit.”

  Again Cherokee hesitated. Then she sighed.

  “I thank you kindly, Shannon. I’m feeling a mite puny today.”

  Quickly Shannon performed the necessary chores of drawing water and bringing wood in from the woodpile. When she was finished stacking the wood between the bunk and the stove, Shannon stole a sideways look at the other woman. Cherokee looked pale and worn.

  “While I’m at it,” Shannon said cheerfully, “I’ll just scrub out this old pot and make a little soup. There’s nothing like soup to take the gloom out of a day.”