Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) (15 page)

“Not much. It was a long time ago.”

“Do you remember being happy?”

That got him. He had to think hard on that. “Nope,” he finally admitted. “Sorry to say, I don’t.”

She turned to him, frowning. “You don’t remember ever being happy?” He shook his head, shrugging. “So were you
always
angry?”

Huh. That felt like an accusation. He stopped himself before he could say anything that might upset the applecart. If he jumped down her throat for saying something like that, well, then she’d be right, wouldn’t she?

“No, I’m not always angry. Do I seem that way?”

“Mostly. To me, you do.”

“Well, are you always sad?”

That stopped her, and he silently congratulated himself. Then he felt bad, because she didn’t speak for a couple of breaths.

“I wish I could say I’m not. Sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I even laugh. I used to laugh more . . . before. But I was never a really happy, outgoing girl. Not like my sisters.” Her brow creased as she considered his question. “Careful. That’s what I’d call me. Not so much sad, but careful.” She looked up at him. “I was always afraid of what might happen.”

“That’s no way to live.”

“No. But that’s how I am. Can’t change that.”

The crickets were out in full force now, their chorus festive. Almost too much noise for the type of conversation they were having. Jesse squinted into the darkness, wondering if he and Adelaide were on their own or if anyone watched. He didn’t sense anyone, just wondered. Every time he was with Adelaide, the Indians left them alone. He figured it was maybe a let-the-white-people-be-together thing, and he appreciated it.

“I wish I was more like you,” she said quietly.

“What, angry?” he asked, flipping a sarcastic eyebrow she never noticed. She was too busy with the stick, which was now about half its original length. She dropped it with a huff.

“Yeah. Angry. I wish I was angry. I wish I could do what you do. When you get angry, you just jump right back in there and fight for yourself. Not me. I just want to hide.”

Jesse was quiet, watching. The air around her seemed taut, as if her worries held onto it for reassurance. She looked very small. He had no right to do this, to reach out and offer security. He knew the potential of his own rage, knew his bloodline only too well. He knew how Thomas would have handled a delicate flower like this. What if Jesse’s own nature snuck up and forced his hand? But she was looking at him now with such trust, her need for answers shining in those blue, blue eyes.

“You just need to believe in yourself a bit more,” he said gently. She gave a tiny nod and looked back at the fire as if she were thinking about that, but he wondered if it was just something she’d never figure out. “Hey. Don’t worry about it. You ever need someone to fight back for you, Adelaide, I’ll do it.”

A tear appeared like magic at the corner of one eye, a shiny orange reflection of the fire. “Are you ever afraid, Jesse?” She looked up again, and his breath caught when he saw more tears threaten.

“I am. I’m afraid a lot,” he admitted quietly. “But you can’t let folks see that. They’ll take advantage if they see you’re scared. But nobody’s gonna get the best of me. Never. You let ’em get to you, you’ll never win.” He reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You don’t need to be afraid, you know. I’m here.”

CHAPTER
23

A Son’s Lesson to a Father

When Jesse and Ahtlee travelled back to the meeting place for the final decision, Jesse claimed a spot farther from the centre of everything, so he could lean against a tree. Otherwise, his back got sore, sitting so long, not moving. Now here he sat on the hard earth near the Cherokee, staring across at his son-of-a-bitch father. Thomas Black sat off to the side, out of hearing distance, the old man’s hard eyes boring into Jesse like a pair of hot pokers.

The Cherokee in the crowd were from other villages, other representatives chosen to speak for their clans. Jesse had expected to be treated with a certain amount of abuse, but after Ahtlee made all the official introductions, none of the others had looked twice at him—though he did hear a few chuckles when he said the wrong words at the wrong time . . . which he did fairly often, which made it even funnier that he was their translator. Ah well. He was the best they were going to get around here. Ahtlee had told him what to say to the chiefs. He wanted Jesse to relay the information to the white men that his village had decided—despite Jesse’s best attempts to persuade them otherwise—to agree to the terms. In exchange for a nice, neat neutral piece of land they would all share, the white men agreed to increase trade with them. Sort of sharing all the way around. In Jesse’s opinion it sounded good, felt bad.

When Jesse was called to the front to give the vote from his village, he took his time about it. Ahtlee had told him exactly what to say, but the truth was, Jesse had never been good at doing what he was told. He’d figured out what he wanted to say the whole journey there, hoping he was getting it right. Now that it was time, Ahtlee approached the chiefs with him, then stood just behind Jesse’s right shoulder. Jesse couldn’t help but notice the startled looks on the politicians’ faces. Sure, they’d seen him in the crowd, but they clearly hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with a white man, and the expressions surrounding their moustaches made it clear they weren’t altogether pleased to see him there. They looked as if this was supposed to be an easy process, getting the Indians to sign. Jesse represented trouble. Just for the hell of it, Jesse gave the white men a wide grin and a bow. As an afterthought, he turned to Thomas and did the same thing. The politicians smiled stiffly back. Thomas did not.

After formal introductions had been completed, Standing Trees began to chant in his tired, rocky voice, his Cherokee syllables strained by years of fighting, singing, laughing, and general chiefing. Jesse listened closely and barely made out, “Greetings Jesse, son of Ahtlee. We . . . Tsalagi . . . truth . . . future . . . sun . . . Mother Earth . . . gods . . .” then something that sounded like “mountain and fish . . .”

Jesse didn’t want to turn around and ask Ahtlee for a better translation. He figured it was all just fancy starting-up talk anyway, and it was important that he appear as if he knew what he was doing. When it was time, Jesse faced the politicians and proceeded with his own kind of greeting.

“Greetings to our distinguished white friends from the great chiefs Standing Trees, Runs Quickly, One-Foot Bird, Lives in the Woods, and Quill Cheeks,” he said in English, then let out a puff of relief. He had been worried he wouldn’t remember all those names once he got up there, and he figured if he got those wrong, no one would listen to a word he had to say after that, no matter what it was. He returned to his choppy Tsalagi and faced the other audience, saying what Ahtlee had advised. “I am happy to speak for the village of Standing Trees,” he said slowly, careful with every syllable. “We listen to the talk here and make talk in village for three days. White men promise great gift of trade and Tsalagi understand.”

He looked at all the faces, most of them bored, but maybe a little entertained at hearing a white man attempt to speak their language. It was a pretty novel thing, from what Jesse’d seen. He glanced quickly at Ahtlee, then swallowed his nerves and dove in headfirst. “But I, Jesse,” he said, thumping one fist meaningfully against his chest, “know the hearts of these white men. There are good white men, and there are bad white men. There are good ideas and bad ideas. I do not believe this idea is a wise thing for the Tsalagi.”

Ahtlee grunted behind him and punched Jesse’s back. “Say what I told you.”

Jesse closed his eyes and sighed. “I want to say what I know.”

“No. Not your place.”

Jesse shook his head, then opened his eyes and looked around at the questioning Tsalagi. He’d known his opinions would never get heard but had figured it was worth a try. He had nothing upon which he could base his argument, but every nerve in his body screamed that this deal was bad. He knew Ahtlee understood as well, though he couldn’t say anything without proof. He had given Jesse enough room that he’d gotten away with saying that much, but Jesse was at a loss about where to go from there. He glanced at the politicians for inspiration, and his eye was caught by the flutter of paper, weighted under inkwells and stones. The answer clicked into place like a ball in a musket. He had one more opportunity to prove he was right, but he’d have to take a chance. After this, he’d either look the hero or the fool.

After an apologetic glance over his shoulder at Ahtlee, Jesse continued. “The Tsalagi need know all words. I read paper so all is good.” Then he addressed the white men, who were busy chewing lower lips and flexing fingers nervously. “I would like to read the paper to the Cherokee,” he told them, smiling politely.

That was an unexpected request, apparently. He saw a jolt of concern pass through the politicians.

“It has been read many times, sir,” said one.

“Not to the Cherokee,” Jesse argued.

The politicians faced one another, their moustaches moving like fat, hairy caterpillars as they discussed Jesse’s request. Jesse nodded, hiding a smile. He had a good feeling about this.

“Good,” Ahtlee muttered behind him.

This was going to be a pleasure. A chore, definitely, since translating that many words was akin to choosing one particular salmon out of a school of four hundred. But hopefully it was worth it. If he didn’t read, if he simply told the group he believed the deal required more negotiations, he would be silenced. But if he read what was actually written, and the deal included what he thought it might, no one could argue.

The white men had no other option but to acquiesce. Jesse was given the contract with great ceremony, and he accepted it the same way, hiding the nervous tremor in his hands. As he unrolled the paper, he noticed Thomas’s face, twisted in a sardonic grin. The old man thought this was a ploy, because he knew perfectly well his son couldn’t read.

Jesse ran his finger across and down the paper, combing through the artfully written words. What he read was what they already knew: the white men’s plan to have free access to the Keowee Valley, including not only hunting and fishing but eventually establishing homes and towns as well. In exchange, the price on rifles, blankets, and other goods went down, and the trade value of pelts went up. They all knew that. Far from fair, but Jesse knew there was more. Had to be.

He kept looking, reading to the very bottom, which was where he saw it. The words jumped out at him as if they’d been painted in red war paint instead of black ink from a fine quill. Jesse wanted to punch the air, hoot with victory, but that would be inappropriate. Instead, he lifted his gaze from the paper and met Ahtlee’s searching eyes. Jesse nodded slightly, then gave him a quick wink. And Ahtlee smiled.

Jesse looked farther, making sure he had everyone’s attention, enjoying the theatrics he knew the Cherokee admired. Then he spoke in Cherokee as clear as he could manage. “My Cherokee family, I bring you the words of the white man. He talks of the Keowee Valley. They want to share fishing and furs. They want to build houses. We know this, yes? And we understand they need a home.” He glanced around, making sure his words were getting through. The men watched him with sober expressions, nodding.

Jesse held up the paper, holding the corners so they could see the entire sheet, though it was illegible to anyone who couldn’t speak English. He turned slowly, letting everyone see. As he moved past Thomas, he caught the old man’s hostile glare, but also made out the tight, smug smile beneath. He averted his eyes to keep from laughing.
Oh, Thomas, my dear man, you ain’t gonna be smiling in a minute.

“For three days we talk. We know Mother Earth is generous but we must stop and see.” He pointed at the paper. “The white man wants to settle on Keowee’s eastern shore, yes? What they did not say, but what they wrote on this paper, is they also will have the
western
shore. The Cherokee, who have crossed the Keowee River for thousands of years, will not be permitted to cross here anymore. They can only cross twenty miles away. Twenty miles away from the water and the game trail you always hunted.”

The faces before him, some of which had been frowning with impatience, were suddenly uneasy. Men leaned in to speak with other men. It was probably the most satisfying moment Jesse had ever experienced. Not only did he get to see how the Cherokee adjusted their thinking, how they suddenly respected him enough to believe his hard-won words, but he got to enjoy the sight of Thomas suffering the surprise of his life. Thank you, Doc Allen, for all those hours spent teaching him the value of letters and words. Yes, it was a good day.

“Paper say Tsalagi put sign here, say yes to deal,” Jesse finished, then held up the contract again. He brought the paper to Standing Trees and presented it to the old man, who frowned with disbelief and frustration. He had been made to look a fool in front of all these people. Jesse saw his anger and tried to ease it. He spoke quietly so as not to upset anyone else.

“The brave heart of the great Standing Trees does not lie. It does not expect others to lie. These men have lied.”

Standing Trees studied him, the tough old man holding him securely with nothing but a heavily jowled look. His chin trembled slightly with old age, but the gaze didn’t wander. Finally he nodded.

“Tloo-da-tsì speaks clear as mountain water. This lie chills Tsalagi hearts.” He stood abruptly and dropped the paper to the ground. “Standing Trees will not sign.” The other chiefs followed suit after glancing quickly at the paper. And just like that, it was done.

As the Cherokee walked away, Jesse turned back to the panel. “I believe that concludes today’s business, gentlemen.” He nodded smugly at Thomas, whose own expression looked nothing short of murderous, then followed the Cherokee toward their horses.

It was a long ride back to the village, but Jesse felt good for most of the journey. He rode beside an expressionless Ahtlee, who had never been much of a talker to begin with. He spoke even less now, it seemed. Around them rode the others, some still digesting the truth of the day, others celebrating the loss they hadn’t suffered, due to Jesse’s revelation.

About an hour before they reached the village, Ahtlee spoke to him in slow, digestible Cherokee. “This day, Tloo-da-tsì, you grew to a man. You said words against your own people. You said words against my orders. You did something I told you not to do, but you made the better choice. I was proud.”

He was proud? Because Jesse’d disobeyed? Would Jesse ever understand these people? “It was the right thing to do,” he said.

Ahtlee agreed with a short grunt. “And you had courage, going against what I said.”

“I apologize for that,” Jesse muttered, not sure if that was the correct response. He looked straight ahead, between his horse’s ears, waiting for Ahtlee to get to the point. When Ahtlee started a conversation, he had a reason for it.

Ahtlee smiled gently. “Yes, it is brave to follow your heart when you know you are right and the path you are on is the wrong one. But for you that is easy.” He chuckled. It was a low, pleasant sound, like a dog’s playful growl. “This test was not difficult for a man like you, a man who should have my name: Does Not Bend. I thank you, Tloo-da-tsì, for what you did today, and for honouring my village with your loyalty.”

Jesse didn’t know what to say. An apology from Ahtlee
and
a compliment? He followed Ahtlee’s example and made a noncommittal grunt in reply.

“You have been in my village as my son for four changings of the moon. You have made my heart proud, and you have soothed the grieving which tore my soul. I thank you for that as well.”

Jesse didn’t even bother grunting this time. Just waited. Something was coming.

“You have earned my trust, Tloo-da-tsì. The village approves of you as well. When we return, you may decide if you wish to remain with us or return to the white man’s world.”

Jesse blinked. “I can leave?”

Ahtlee looked straight ahead, rocking gently with the horse’s uneven steps as she picked her way down a slope. “If that is your decision, you may go. You will always be a part of our family, no matter where you are.”

“I thought—”

“We hope you will stay.”

“But I thought . . .”

From the expression on Ahtlee’s face, he had no more to say on the subject. Then Jesse was glad his travel partner wasn’t talkative, because all of a sudden he had a lot of thinking to do.