Only Love (5 page)

“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.”

This time Cherokee didn’t even hesitate. She simply lay back on her bunk with a muffled curse.

“I slipped whilst I was bringing in water about six days ago,” Cherokee said. “Bunged up my ankle. The poultice helped, but the durned thing still bothers me.”

“Then stay off it,” Shannon said, scrubbing the pot. “Give it time to heal.”

Cherokee smiled slightly. “That’s the same advice I gave to Silent John when old Razorback stepped on his foot.”

“I hope you take it better than he did.”

“Still no sign of him.”

It wasn’t a question. Cherokee sounded quite certain. But Shannon acted as though it was a question.

“No,” she said. “Not a trace.”

“You got to face it, gal. You’re a widow.”

Shannon said nothing.

“Even those no-account Culpeppers have figured it out,” Cherokee said, “and nobody would accuse them of being overly bright.”

“Then I’ll just have to put on Silent John’s riding
coat and take Razorback over the pass again.”

Cherokee grunted. “Don’t think that will fool them again.”

Shannon shrugged. “No help for it.”

“What about that man called Whip?” Cherokee asked. “Small Bear said he followed your tracks out of Holler Creek.”

“Small Bear is as big a gossip as his uncle Wounded Bear.”

Cherokee waited for Shannon to tell her about Whip.

Instead, Shannon made soup as though her life depended on it.

“Well?” prodded Cherokee finally.

“Well, what?”

“Whip, that’s what. Did he find you?”

“Yes.”

“Blast it, gal. You done hung around Silent John too long! What happened ’tween you and Whip?”

“I sent him packing.”

“How?”

“Prettyface and a loaded shotgun.”

“Huh,” Cherokee grunted, unimpressed. “If that Whip fellow left, it’s because decided to, not because you had him buffaloed. What did he want?”

“Same thing the Culpeppers wanted,” Shannon retorted.

“Doubt it. He don’t have no reputation for beating gals bloody to get his satisfaction.”

Shannon looked up from her work, surprised that Cherokee had a good word to say about any male of the species.

“Do you know Whip?” Shannon asked.

“Not directly, but Wounded Bear and Wolfe
Lonetree are thick, and Lonetree is real thick with Reno and Reno is Whip’s brother.”

“Reno? The gunfighter?” Shannon asked, for she hadn’t wanted to ask Whip.

“Yep, but only when he’s pushed to it. What Reno is really good at is hunting gold. Durn near makes you believe in spirits talking to men when you watch Reno and his wife Eve quarter the land for gold. Leastwise, that’s what Lonetree told Wounded Bear, and Wounded Bear told Small Bear, and—”

“—Small Bear told you,” Shannon finished. “I swear, you beat that fancy Denver telegraph when it comes to passing on news.”

Cherokee chuckled.

“Not much else to do but talk, when you get to my age,” Cherokee said. “Besides, men is the worst gossips there is, and that’s God’s own truth. Except for Silent John, of course. Talking to him was like talking to a tombstone. Don’t know how you ever stood it. The man durn near drove me to drink.”

“I didn’t know you ever were around Silent John long enough to be bothered.”

Cherokee bent down and fussed over her ankle before she spoke again.

“Don’t take long for that kind of silence to wear on me,” she muttered.

“I don’t mind silence. John loved to read, and he taught me to love it, too. Though I admit I prefer poetry to Plato.”

Cherokee snorted. “I seen that trunk o’ yours stuffed with books. Waste of time, all of them, ’less they talk about herbs and such.”

“In winter there’s lots of time to spare.”

“It ain’t natural not to talk to folks.”

“Oh, I talk all the time to myself and Prettyface,” Shannon said.

“Sensible. Leastwise you get a smart answer from one of you. Ain’t saying which one, though.”

Smiling, Shannon checked the water she had put on the stove. It was heating nicely.

“How about some willow-bark tea?” Shannon asked.

Cherokee grimaced. “Blasted stuff. Tastes like the bottom of hell’s own slops bucket.”

“It would make your ankle feel better.”

“Slops.”

Ignoring Cherokee’s muttering, Shannon went to a battered wooden chest and lifted the lid. A complex, herbal aroma drifted up to her nose. The willow bark was easy to identify and not hard to administer. Other herbs were more chancy to use.

A few were frankly deadly. Shannon knew which they were. She avoided even touching them.

While Shannon made the tea, Cherokee reached under the bed and dragged out a battered canvas bag. She reached inside and pulled out a small, tissue-wrapped parcel. Saying nothing, she sat back on the bed. Her gnarled, scarred hand rested lightly on the parcel, as though it was a beloved pet.

When Shannon brought the medicinal tea to Cherokee, the old woman ignored the battered metal mug and looked Shannon straight in the eye.

“We got to talk,” Cherokee said bluntly. “No two ways about it. You’re a widow.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

“The hell I can’t. I prayed over his grave.”

Shannon’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Autumn, it were. Night sky like God watching me, and that poor old mule all bloodied and worn
from running down the creek.”

Shannon’s breath froze in her lungs. Cherokee had never talked about how she found Razorback. She had just brought the mule to Silent John’s cabin, told Shannon that like as not Silent John would be late coming off his claims that year, and she better start rustling grub for herself.

Then Cherokee had said that her true name was Teresa, so Shannon didn’t need to fear asking her for help if she needed it.

“You never told me,” Shannon whispered.

Cherokee didn’t even pause. “I patched up the mule and set out at dawn to backtrack. Trail ended in hell’s own landslide. I assumed it was Silent John’s grave.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No point,” she said tersely. “If I’m wrong, Silent John turns up in the fall. If I’m right, and word gets out, every man in Echo Basin goes to howling around your cabin. No good to come of that. A man with a stiff pecker ain’t no more trustworthy than a rabid skunk.”

Shannon tried to speak. No words came.

“An’ what good would telling you do?” Cherokee asked. “The passes was already closed, so you couldn’t leave nohow. Your cupboards was full. You was safer up here than anywheres, long as no one knew Silent John was dead. So I just shut my mouth and kept it shut.”

When Shannon tried to speak, only an odd sound came out.

Red appeared on Cherokee’s weathered cheek-bones.

“I shoulda told you ’fore now,” the old woman muttered, “but I get…lonesome. It ain’t like you had a family all pining and sighing for your company
. Towns and such just ride roughshod over pretty young things like you. You was better off here, but if you knew Silent John was dead, I feared you’d up and leave.”

“This is my home. I won’t leave it.”

“But I was wrong to keep you here,” Cherokee said, ignoring Shannon’s words. “Purely selfish. My conscience stings me real good when I thing on it. I was going to tell you real soon and give you money to—”

“No,” Shannon cut in.

Cherokee muttered under her breath. Then she straightened her shoulders.

“Things is changed, now,” the old woman said flatly. “You got to leave.”

“Why? Just because I know what I’ve suspected for the last two years, that Silent John is dead?”

“You got to git out of Echo Basin, and Whip is—”

“Why should I leave the basin?” Shannon interrupted. “It’s the only home I have.”

“You can’t survive alone in that cabin, that’s why.”

“I’ve done it so far.”

Cherokee grunted. “Silent John had enough food to feet three with some left over. You ate the leftovers the second winter and bought more. But not enough more. Look at you. Skin and bones and hair, that’s all.”

“I’m winter lean. I’ll fatten come summer, just like all the other creatures.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I will.”

“Blast it, gal. You’re too bullheaded by half.”

“That’s why I’ll survive,” Shannon said. “Sheer stubbornness. Here. Drink your tea.”

Cherokee waved off the cup. “I helped you the last two winters, but—”

“I know,” Shannon interrupted. “I’m grateful. I brought your salt and as soon as the deer come back, I’ll repay the—”

“Damnation, that ain’t what I meant!” Cherokee blazed. “Now you listen to me, gal!”

Cherokee’s anger was unexpected. Shannon closed her mouth and listened.

“Some men is better than others,” Cherokee conceded reluctantly. “Lots better. Leastwise, that’s what Betsy and Clementine say when they come to get their childbane potion from me.”

Shannon closed her eyes. She knew the prostitutes sometimes came to “the half-breed shaman” for medicines; Shannon just hadn’t known what kind of medicines, until now.

“I see,” Shannon said weakly.

“Doubt it,” Cherokee retorted, “but we’re sneaking right up on it. Now, what we got to do is find you a man what wouldn’t shame a rabid skunk. This here Whip feller fills the bill.”

Shannon started to object.

“Shut your mouth, gal,” Cherokee interrupted, holding out the parcel. “This here piece of frippery was given to my mother by some fool man. She gave it to me. I’m giving it to you.”

Before Shannon could say anything, Cherokee was unwrapping the tissue with reverent hands. The paper was worn nearly to transparency with age and gentle handling.

But even the tissue wasn’t as delicate as the creamy silk and lace inside. Shannon’s breath came in with a rushing sound of surprise and pleasure as she saw the subtle sheen of satin.

Cherokee smiled gently.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Cherokee said. “First time I saw you, I thought of this here chemise.”

“I can’t take it.”

“You ain’t taking it. I’m giving it to you.”

“But—”

“Hell, it don’t fit me,” Cherokee interrupted impatiently. “Never has. I’m too big. Never fit Ma, neither. Never been worn by no one.”

Hesitantly Shannon touched the chemise. The cloth was as soft as a cloud. Even the deep lace that edged the garment was silky and supple.

“Go on, take it,” Cherokee said.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

Cherokee wrapped the chemise once more and held it out to Shannon.

“You just put it in that deep front pocket of Silent John’s old jacket,” Cherokee said. “It will ride safe till you get home.”

“But—”

“Gal, I ain’t drinking so much as a drop of that there tea unless you take this.”

Slowly Shannon took the package in her free hand.

“Go on, now,” Cherokee said, taking the cup of medicinal tea. “Put it away.”

Not until Shannon had eased the package into the pocket of her jacket did Cherokee drink the tea.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Shannon said hesitantly.

“No need. I’ll feel better knowing you have it. High time it was put to its real use.”

Shannon flushed.

“No, not as a whore’s decoration,” Cherokee said, laughing. “As a satin snare for a man. Whip, for instance. There’s a man worth—”

“No.”

“Yes,” Cherokee retorted. “He gets one look at you in that little bit of satin and lace and he’ll forget all about hitting the trail alone. You’ll be married before you can say aye, yes, or maybe—”

“No,” Shannon interrupted.

Cherokee sighed. “Gal, you don’t—”

“No,” Shannon said again, cutting across the old woman’s words. “It’s your turn to listen. My mother and I lived on the kindness of my uncle until I was thirteen and Mama died of lung fever. My uncle died shortly after. Then his wife worked me like a slave.”

Cherokee nodded without surprise.

“I was indentured to a tailor,” Shannon said. “I couldn’t leave the shop, ever. I worked there, ate there, and slept there. When the tailor got drunk, which was about twice a month, I fought him off with the shears I kept beneath my pillow.”

Again Cherokee nodded, unsurprised.

“One day my mother’s uncle came to town,” Shannon continued in a flat voice. “A letter I wrote to him when Mama was dying had finally reached him and he came to fetch me. He got Mama’s silk scarf and gold wedding ring back from my aunt. He put the ring on my finger. After that, I was Mrs. Smith.”

“That’s about how I had it figured,” Cherokee said matter-of-factly. “No gal like you takes up with a man like Silent John unless she’s desperate.”

Shannon’s smile was bittersweet. “Compared to what I came from, Silent John and Echo Basin looked like paradise.”