Only Love (6 page)

“I always felt that way, myself. Except I come here older than you, and alone, and I come as a man. My pa was a Mexican and my ma was a rawboned
Tennessee whore, strong as a mule and durn near as stupid. I been hired out to do men’s work since I was ten, been paid like a gal, and treated like trash. After Ma died, I just took out and never looked back.”

“Nor did you look for a man to marry,” Shannon pointed out.

Cherokee shrugged. “Like I said, I was full tired of being some man’s slave.”

“Yet you want
me
to go looking for a man.”

“That’s different.”

“Yes,” Shannon said dryly. “It’s my slavery, not yours.”

Cherokee swore and smiled at the same time. “You’re always too quick for me. But then, anybody is, these days. I’m getting old. This blasted ankle ain’t healing worth a handful of spit. I’ll be lucky to hunt for myself this summer, much less for you.”

“Then I’ll hunt for both of us.”

“Gal, you’ve got sand enough for three men, but you’re mighty thin beer when it comes to hunting.”

“I’ll get a lot better before the end of summer.”

For a long moment Cherokee’s dark eyes searched Shannon’s face. Then Cherokee sighed and said no more on the subject of men and marriage and survival. She simply shook her head. There wasn’t enough time between now and winter’s famine for Shannon to learn how to hunt well enough to feed two people.

But Shannon would have to discover that for herself, because she wasn’t listening to the older woman’s advice.

Cherokee could only pray that Shannon wouldn’t learn too late, after the high pass over
Whiskey Creek was closed by snow. Then every living thing left in Echo Basin would be locked in until the pass opened, or they died of starvation.

Whichever came first.

I
T
was sunset by the time Shannon wearily dragged herself to the top of the steep, rocky rise that overlooked her cabin. From where she stood the cabin was nearly invisible, shielded from the clearing by tall firs and half buried in the mountainside itself.

Rarely had to clearing looked so good to Shannon. The hours since she had left Cherokee’s cabin had been spent hunting food. All Shannon had to show for her work was a tired body and a stomach that was growling loudly enough to draw curious looks from Prettyface.

“Take it easy,” Shannon muttered. “I’m not going to catch you and skin you out for supper.”

Prettyface waved his tail and licked his chops.

“Don’t look at me,” she said tiredly, rubbing the dog’s head. “If you’re hungry, go catch something. And this time, make it big enough for both of us to eat, okay?”

Because Shannon was alone, she made no attempt to hide her hunger and fatigue. Her posture and her tone of voice showed just how worn out she felt.

Other than a few scraps of jerky just after she
had gotten up, there had been nothing to put in her stomach all day long. The jerky she had stuffed in her pocket that morning had ended up in Cherokee’s soup, along with whatever tender greens Shannon had found growing near the old woman’s cabin.

It was a better dinner than Shannon would have for herself. She had been hunting ever since she left Cherokee’s cabin. But no matter how hard Shannon had tried, no matter how stealthily she had followed tracks, the deer always fled before she was close enough to risk shooting one of her few precious shells.

Glumly Shannon started picking her way down the rise where the back wall of the cabin was the mountainside itself. Somewhere beneath her feet was the cave where a hot spring breathed warmth and moisture into the darkness, but no sign of that showed on the surface. Off to the left was a pile of jumbled rocks where Silent John had dug out a second, hidden exit to the cabin. Nothing of that showed on the surface, either.

Prettyface trotted ahead of Shannon, sniffing the wind that swirled through the clearing. Suddenly the hound froze. His ears flattened to his skull and his lips lifted in a soundless snarl.

Instantly Shannon put her back to a tree, raised the shotgun, and began searching the area ahead, her weariness forgotten.

Prettyface reacted like that only in the presence of men.

Someone was near her cabin. Perhaps even inside it, hiding, waiting for her to walk in unawares.

Trying to make no noise, Shannon angled down the rocky, wooded rise. When the ground flattened,
she began circling the cabin without ever leaving the forest.

Prettyface showed no interest in any of the scents he found along the way. Only the cabin held his attention.

When Shannon finally circled to the far side of the clearing, she found out the reason for the dog’s reaction. A freshly killed, fully dressed-out buck was hanging from the crossed logs at one corner of the cabin.

Silent John had used the same logs to hang game on while he sliced it up to be dried.

“Silent John?” Shannon whispered.

Suddenly Prettyface whipped around and looked back up the steep rise that they had just descended. His ruff stood on end.

Shannon turned and looked, too. There, silhouetted against the crimson and orange of sunset, was a man on horseback. The breadth of his shoulders was unmistakable to Shannon, as was the shape coiled around his right shoulder.

Whip.

He tipped his hat to her, then reined his big gray horse around. Moments later he vanished down the far side of the rise.

Though Shannon waited for a long time, breath held, Whip didn’t reappear.

Finally Prettyface yawned, prodded Shannon with his nose and looked longingly toward the cabin.

“All right, boy. Guess Whip knows better than to come back now that we’re onto him.”

As she spoke the words, Shannon told herself that she wasn’t disappointed that Whip had gone.

But she knew that she was lying.

Shannon also told herself that she would leave Whip’s gift to rot where it hung.

But she knew that was also a lie. She was too hungry, and the little bit of flour she had brought back from Holler Creek would be gone all too soon.

Half grateful, half angry, thoroughly unsettled, Shannon went to the cabin. She pulled Cherokee’s gift from her jacket pocket. The chemise gleamed through an opening in the tissue.

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.

A curious, tingling sensation went through Shannon at the thought of wearing the chemise, feeling its cool softness against her breasts.

“Would I look pretty enough to hold him?” Shannon whispered. “And would he be gentle with me?”

There was no answer but the echoing silence of the cabin. Quickly Shannon put away the gift and went about dealing with another gift—Whip’s buck.

Soon the first real meal Shannon had sat down to in months was steaming in front of her. Despite her hunger, she ate carefully, savoring every delicious bite.

The deer was only the beginning of Whip’s gifts.

When Shannon woke up the next morning, she found two burlap bags hanging from a tree limb near the creek. The first bag was full of dried apples, sugar, cinnamon, and lard. The second bag held the supplies she had left behind in Holler Creek, and more besides.

Shannon resisted the temptation for several hours. Then she decided that she could make better use of the supplies than whatever varmint managed
to climb the tree and get the bags for itself.

Decision made, Shannon wasted no time in getting an apple pie baking. And biscuits. And bread.

When Shannon went to Cherokee’s cabin to share Whip’s bounty, she sensed that she was being followed. It was like a prickling just under the nape of her neck, a shivery animal awareness that she wasn’t alone.

Yet every time Shannon whirled around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Whip, there was nothing behind her but rocks and trees and a wild highmountain sky.

Nor did Prettyface ever scent Whip the entire way to Cherokee’s cabin.

“Come in, gal,” Cherokee said, opening the door.

“Thank you.”

Shannon wriggled out of the awkward backpack she had made from strips of leather and an ancient saddlebag.

“How is your ankle?”

“Fine as frog’s hair.”

Shannon looked at Cherokee and knew her ankle wasn’t fine.

“That’s good,” Shannon said. “Here, I brought you some food to pay back what you gave me this winter.”

“Now lookee here. It weren’t no loan, so it don’t need no repaying.”

“I’ll hang the venison back in the corner,” Shannon said, ignoring the old woman’s protests. “The rest I’ll put where it belongs in your dry goods cupboard.”

Dumbfounded, Cherokee watched while Shannon suited actions to words.

“That’s fresh venison,” Cherokee said finally.

“Yes.”

“Well I’ll be go-to-hell. You got yourself a deer!”

Shannon said nothing.

“Now, you just take back them bags of flour and sugar,” Cherokee said quickly. “I got plenty to last me till I scratch out more gold or trade some herbs down to Holler Creek.”

Shannon ignored her.

“Apples!” Cherokee said reverently. “Do I smell apples?”

“You sure do. I put half of an apple pie on the back of your stove to warm.”

“Bread. Pie. I
will
be go-to-hell! You done went back and claimed all your supplies!”

Shannon made a sound that could have meant anything.

“That was a damn fool thing to do,” Cherokee said. “Two of them Culpeppers didn’t have no more than their pride hurt in the fight with Whip. They could have caught you.”

“They didn’t.”

“Still, they—”

“I didn’t go back to Holler Creek,” Shannon interrupted.

Cherokee was silent. Abruptly her seamed face split into a wide, gap-toothed grin.

“It was Whip, by God,” she crowed. “He’s courting you!”

Shannon started to deny it, then decided not to. Cherokee wouldn’t refuse to share in the unexpected bounty of courting gifts from Whip.

But Cherokee might refuse to share in the spoils of attempted seduction.

“Maybe,” Shannon said. “Maybe not.”

“’Course he is. Where’s your mind, gal? He’s got an eye for you. Or did you wear that frippery for him already?”

“I’m married, remember? That’s what everyone is supposed to think, and don’t you forget it.”

“Huh. Wearing a ring didn’t make no marriage. Anyways, you’re widowed.”

“Get off your ankle,” was all Shannon said. “I’ll bring in enough water and wood for several days, because I might not be able to get back beforethen.”

“Going somewheres?”

“Hunting,” Shannon said succinctly.

Cherokee looked puzzled. Then she laughed her husky, chuckling laugh.

“You gonna run him a right smart chase, ain’t you, gal?”

Shannon’s smile was as hard as the blade of the hunting knife she had sheathed at her waist.

“I’m going to run that old boy’s tail right into the ground,” she drawled, imitating Cherokee’s accent.

Cherokee’s laughter redoubled until she was breathless.

“You just keep on thinking that,” Cherokee said finally. “You just go ahead, right up to the moment Whip grabs you and drags you in front of a preacher.”

Shannon’s smile slipped. Whip didn’t have marriage in mind, and she knew it very well.

But Cherokee didn’t need to know. She looked so delighted that Shannon’s future was solved.

“You stay off that ankle, now,” Shannon cautioned. “If I catch you up and around, I’ll make you do your own chores.”

Still chuckling, Cherokee limped to the rumpled bed and stretched out.

As soon as Shannon stepped out of the cabin, she knew that Whip was somewhere close by, watching
her. Yet Prettyface gave no sign. He lay at ease in the sun in front of the cabin, letting the wind ruffle his thick salt-and-pepper fur.

While Shannon drew water and carried wood, she kept glancing downwind, the one place where Whip could hide from Prettyface’s keen senses.

She never spotted Whip.

But she heard something that could have been the wind keening through distant rocks…or the sound of a man making the mountain silence tremble with the soft wailing of panpipes.

After she left Cherokee, through the long, futile hours of hunting, Shannon looked for Whip. She knew he was there, for the prickling at her nape told her that she was being watched. If that weren’t enough, the cry of the primitive flute came to her at odd times, a mere echo of sound that made Prettyface cock his head and listen, but not snarl. The disembodied music carried no threat for the dog.

Yet for all Shannon’s watchfulness and Prettyface’s acute senses, she never caught a glimpse of the man whose presence haunted her as surely as his music haunted the mountain silence.

The next day she followed a game trail, walked between two boulders—and found three grouse neatly dressed out and tied by their feet, dangling from a tree branch.

Frantically Shannon spun around, looking everywhere at once. There was nothing to see but trees and rock, sunshine and pure white clouds. She looked at the ground, but saw no tracks, no disturbance of twigs or leaves or dirt.

Nor had she heard any shots. Yet there the birds were, obviously freshly killed.

He got them with that bullwhip. Lord, that man is fast!

Prettyface circled the ground beneath the grouse, growling almost silently.

“Well, I’m glad you can smell Whip,” Shannon whispered. “I was beginning to think he was a ghost.”

She hesitated, then took down the grouse and stuffed them into her makeshift backpack.

“No point leaving good food for varmints,” she numbled.

Prettyface sniffed the wind several times before he lost interest. His ruff settled and he looked at Shannon, waiting for a signal.

Shannon looked at her hands and realized they were trembling. The knowledge that Whip might be our there just beyond the reach of Prettyface’s senses was unnerving.

At least he’s keeping his distance. He won’t come closer so long as I have Prettyface and a loaded shotgun.

Squaring her shoulders, Shannon set off across the mountainside once more. As she looked for game, she gathered fresh greens and stuffed them into the backpack with the grouse.

When Shannon returned to her cabin, she found a side of bacon hanging from the crossed logs where the buck had been until she had taken it down, sliced off strips and set them to drying.

She looked around quickly.

No one was there. Nor did the nape of her neck prickle with primal awareness of another’s presence.

Yet hours later, as the moon rose to send a rush of silver glory over the land, the husky music of panpipes was breathed through the night.

Shannon sat up with her heart pounding and Prettyface’s throaty growl vibrating just beyond the bed. Then the growling subsided.

Slowly Shannon realized that the keening sound was Whip’s flute talking to the night. She went to the window, opened the shutters a crack, and looked out. She saw nothing but moon shadows and silver light and the massive ebony shawl of the forest flung over the sleeping mountainside.

Prettyface grumbled quietly and flopped down in the corner again. His action told Shannon what she already knew. She was in no danger from the husky, keening notes.

She went back to bed and listened to the sound of loneliness distilled by a man’s breath blowing through a primitive flute.

The next day was much the same for Shannon, the prickling of her nape and the sweet haunting of the flute while she hunted game that eluded her. The only difference was in the gift Whip left waiting for her—three fine trout, still cold from the stream.

That night the flute woke Shannon again, but her heart raced less this time. Prettyface growled, prowled the cabin several times, then curled up and went back to sleep.

Shannon lay awake, listening to the husky lamentations of the flute, yearning toward the unspeakable beauty of something she couldn’t name.