Bouquet for Iris (3 page)

He took a deep breath and tried to remember what had happened. He’d been going back home. Then he remembered his restive horse and moving shadows. He’d been attacked! His outspokenness at the treaty signing must have caused some in the Ridge party to think he was a liability.

Adam remembered falling under the blows and rolling away from his attackers. They must have left him for dead. Adam realized he was lucky to be alive, but his luck was going to run out if he couldn’t find his way to shelter.

He decided to try rolling over. The pain was excruciating. He clamped his lips against the yell filling his chest. His assailants might still be in the area. He managed to get one elbow under him then the other. The effort had his body slick with sweat even though Adam could feel cold air against his skin.

He pushed against his elbows and managed to get his head and upper torso high enough to look around him. Wilderness was all he saw. He could hear a nearby stream, which made him realize how parched his throat was. He needed to get on his feet, get to water, and then find shelter so he could assess his wounds. He pushed again, but the pain that swept over him made Adam realize he would not be walking anywhere. His leg was either broken or badly sprained.

He lay down again and panted for a while. The world seemed to disappear as he fought the waves of pain. Anguish that was as much mental as physical racked him. Adam didn’t want to die. He would not die.

He got up on his elbows again and dragged his body forward, bracing against the pain caused by moving his injured leg. Slanted ground helped him reach the stream. He ducked his head in the cold, clear water for a moment and came up spluttering. He used his right hand as a scoop and drank deeply. Renewed strength flowed through him with the water.

After slaking the worst of his thirst, Adam grabbed the trunk of a young poplar and pulled himself into a seated position to take stock. His leg was causing the worst of his pain, but his arms and face had been scratched and scraped as he fell down the ravine. He was lucky that his wounds were so minor.

Minor! He laughed at the word. He was in a tight fix, and he knew it. The chance that he would survive seemed very small, but as long as he had strength, he had to try.

He turned his head at the sound of crunching leaves. His attackers? A bear? His heartbeat tripled its thumps in his chest.

Then he saw what was making the noise. A rabbit hopped its way across fallen limbs and approached the stream a few feet away. What Adam wouldn’t give for his rifle. That fat rabbit looked like a mighty fine meal.

The rabbit must have sensed the danger because it reversed course and disappeared back into the woods.

His gaze followed the path of the animal, and then he saw it. A cabin! Shelter! It was only a few yards away from his position, but he’d been so focused on reaching the stream he’d not even seen it.

“Hello the house.” His voice rasped the greeting that would reassure the owner he was not an Indian brave. No one responded, but because his hoarse call might not have been heard, he tried again. “Hello the house!” This time his voice was stronger. Adam waited for any inhabitant to respond, but only the noise of the forest answered him.

Maybe whoever lived there was out setting or checking traps. This far away from the safety of a settlement, the cabin was likely occupied by a trapper. Adam hoped he would at least help him with his leg and feed him so he’d have a chance to get back to civilization.

Whatever the outcome, he knew he could not remain in the open. But before he began dragging himself to the door of the cabin, he would need something to support his leg. A good bit of deadfall lay within reach. He chose a limb that was as big around as his arm. He pulled off his grimy overcoat and turned it inside out, stopping to rest for a few moments after the effort.

Adam reached for his hunting knife, thankful to feel its reassuring hilt under his fingers. With a satisfied grunt, he went to work cutting out the coat’s lining and tearing it into strips. He laid the limb against his leg and bound it with the strips from his coat. Another large limb would serve as a crutch to help him keep his weight off his injured leg.

Using the sapling and the second limb, Adam pulled himself up. The world around him lost some definition, but he managed to get to his feet. With a stilted, shuffling movement, he lurched forward. One step. Rest. Another step. Rest. Thirty-two steps and rests got him to the door of the cabin.

What he saw carved into the rough planks made him groan in despair. Three letters—GTT. Gone to Texas. The cabin was abandoned. He would find no help here.

Adam looked up at the sky.
What now, God? Are You through with me yet? Or do You have other plans in mind?

God didn’t answer, of course. Proving again that He did not exist. Or if He did, He had no concern for mortals.

Adam forced the door open and made his slow way into the cabin. It was a single room with sparse furnishings: a square table, one chair, and a straw sleeping mat. But it represented shelter. He held on to the wall and made his way to the fireplace. It was cold, of course, but a sizable log still lay in it; a few smaller logs were stacked to one side.

Adam spied a chunk of flint on the rough mantelpiece and knew he would soon have warmth. He steeled himself to ignore the pain in his leg as he worked to ensure his survival. A few of the cotton strips from his coat lining made a combustible ball which he placed on the sooty back log. He broke smaller twigs off the firewood and tented them above the cotton. Striking his knife against the flint created molten chips that soon ignited the cotton and twigs. With a satisfied grunt, he added a couple of logs and soon had a blaze going.

A rumbling sound filled the small room. Food was his next problem, as his stomach had reminded him. He forced himself up once more and continued his exploration. Two wooden barrels in one corner revealed dried corn and sprouted potatoes. His stomach rumbled again, and his mouth watered. He picked up a potato. It was soft but still edible.

He also discovered a pair of identical clay jugs. He picked one up, surprised to find it so heavy. He uncorked it and sniffed the contents. Moonshine. A satisfied sound escaped him. The alcohol would come in handy to cleanse his wounds.

The voice of his stern father echoed in Adam’s head.
Alcohol is the devil’s brew. It makes fools of wise men and drowns the morals of saints
. Well, no need to worry about that. He would only use it to cleanse his wounds … and perhaps take a swallow or two to dull the pain in his leg.

Iris tucked a curl under the brim of her riding cap and encouraged her horse, Button, along the road. Brooding white clouds seemed to press down on her shoulders, spewing out fat, lazy flakes that clung to her mittens or melted into her horse’s mane.

She pushed Button to a canter. This morning when she’d volunteered to take supplies to Grandpa and Grandma Taylor, her ma had been doubtful. But Iris had been sure she could make the trip before the roads became treacherous. She shook her head. It was far too late to turn back now.

At least she wasn’t cooped up at home this afternoon. The thought replaced her concern with the exhilaration of freedom. She loved her family, but spending all of her waking hours in close quarters with them had made her as fidgety as a squirrel. It would be fun to sit by the fire and listen to her grandparents talk about the days when Ma was a little girl. And Grandma probably had something really good to eat, too.

She cantered around a curve and saw her grandparents’ house tucked next to their large barn. A relieved sigh escaped her frozen lips. “Whoa, Button.” Iris pulled on the reins as she reached the front yard. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney, drifting upward to mingle with the low-lying clouds. She dismounted and pulled off the heavy saddlebags her parents had packed with a ham, a roast, and some of the sugared peach chips her grandma loved.

Grandpa Taylor stomped out onto the front porch, a wool scarf tucked around his ears. His bald head gleamed in the muted light, its smooth surface reminding her of a hen’s egg. He followed her to the barn and dragged the door open, pointing her toward an empty stall. “Is everything okay at home?”

Iris nodded as she unsaddled her horse and rubbed him down. “I had to get out of there, though. Eli has a cold, and Ma is making her special liniment to rub on his chest.” She wrinkled her nose. “I know it’ll make him feel better, but it sure makes the house smell awful.”

Grandpa waited for her to exit the stall before fastening the door. “It’s a wonder you made it in this weather, but I’m glad you’re here.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’ll never guess who has come over to visit today. Wohali and Noya.”

“Aunt Noya and Uncle Wohali!” Iris named the Cherokee couple who had been her grandparents’ neighbors since before she was born. She grabbed her mittens and followed her grandpa back to the house, thinking of the days when she was younger. She had often played over at their house while Ma and Grandma pieced together quilts. They had a grandniece, Kamama, who was about Iris’s age and who had visited them often. Maybe she could find out what Kamama was doing now that they were all grown-up.

Iris stamped the snow and mud off her boots before entering her grandparents’ home.

Warm air and the scent of cinnamon welcomed her. Grandma and Aunt Noya were sitting in rocking chairs in front of the fireplace, while Uncle Wohali sat nearby in a straight chair, whittling at a small piece of wood. Grandma was rolling yarn into a ball while Aunt Noya held the newly spun wool in her hand to prevent tangling. They were laughing exuberantly as Iris and her grandfather entered.

Grandma leaned her head back as she laughed. Her hair had been knotted into a loose bun, and she wore a lacy shawl around her shoulders to combat any stray drafts.

Aunt Noya’s dark hair had developed a few streaks of gray and reflected the light of the fire she sat in front of.

“What are you two laughing about?” asked Grandpa.

Grandma looked up, dropped her ball of yarn, and clapped her hands together. “It’s so good to see you, Iris.” She pushed herself up slowly and reached for the black walnut cane Grandpa had made for her last year.

Aunt Noya stood and waited until Iris and her grandma had shared a brief hug before stepping forward.
“Osiyo
, my friend.” She used the Cherokee word for hello, her deep voice filled with warmth and welcome.

“Osiyo.” Iris threw her arms around the older lady.

She turned to Uncle Wohali, who was awaiting his turn.

“Osiyo.”

Grandpa grabbed another chair from its peg on the wall and placed it close to the fireplace. “What’s the news from your house?”

Even though Grandma and Grandpa had already heard about the Christmas Eve party, Iris gave them a humorous accounting for Uncle Wohali and Aunt Noya’s benefit. The quizzical looks on their faces as she described apple bobbing made Iris laugh. No matter that they had lived among white people for two decades or more, some of the traditions still seemed odd to the Indian couple.

“And what happens to the apples that were missed?” Aunt Noya wanted to know.

Iris had to admit she’d never considered the question, but she guessed they went into apple pies or sauce. Whatever the purpose, they would not have gone to waste. Fresh fruit was far too precious, even in a city that bustled with traders.

Grandma finished rolling her yarn and drew out a pair of needles to begin knitting.

“What are you making, Grandma?”

Her grandmother glanced up and smiled. “A new pair of socks for your grandpa. The last time I did the mending, I noticed he had several pairs with more holes than threads.”

Grandpa looked a bit sheepish, but he did not contradict her.

Aunt Noya walked to the kitchen area and began collecting dishes with easy familiarity. “Get the blackberry pie and bring it to the table, Iris.”

She spotted the lidded iron pot perched on the far edge of the large fireplace. Her mouth began to water. She loved Grandma’s fruit pies made in a dutch oven. They always had such flaky crusts and intense fruity flavor. “Blackberry pie is my favorite.”

Grandpa removed the coffeepot from its hook on the fireplace while Uncle Wohali tucked his whittling back in his pocket and put his knife in its beaded holster. The reserved Indian stood and picked up an armful of logs, tossing them on the fire to keep it from dying. They all seemed to have their appointed tasks, and they worked together without speaking.

Iris helped move their chairs around the dining table and made sure that a pitcher of fresh cream was placed in the center of the table.

Grandma didn’t move from her rocker until everyone else sat down. Then she put away her chain of stitches and joined them at the table. According to established custom, they all linked hands while Grandpa blessed the food.

Iris was so glad she’d made the trip this afternoon. A relaxing visit was exactly what she had needed to combat the fidgets that had been plaguing her for the last few days.

She poured some milk into her cup of steaming coffee and added a dollop of cream to her dish of pie. “How is Kamama doing?”

A gentle smile crossed Aunt Noya’s face. “Our niece has gone back to the village where she was raised to take the message of salvation to her family.”

Iris forgot all about the food on the table. “How wonderful! The last time I saw her, Kamama was more worried about clothing styles than witnessing. What changed her mind?”

Uncle Wohali, a man Iris could never have accused of being talkative, spoke up. “Her cousin was killed in a fight several months ago. He was not a Christian.” His face was as hard as granite.

Iris thought of how she would feel in his place. “How awful. I know that must have hurt all of you.”

Aunt Noya reached a hand to her husband. “To know that you will never again see a loved one in this life or the next is a very difficult thing.”

Grandpa cleared his throat and leaned forward. “It’s very courageous of Kamama to use the tragedy for good. Before she left, she told Martha and me that her desire is to make sure no other Cherokee has to die without hearing the teaching of Christ.”