Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ breaths in and out,” she advised.

      A wrenching cry from the woman.

      Pierce looked up, his eyes shining. “It’s done. We—God—did it.” Rivulets of perspiration and blood stained the front of his white, starched shirt.

      “Na-s-gi-ya ga-lv-la-di tsi-ni-ga-li-s-di-ha,” she exhaled. “The same as in heaven is done. God be praised.”

      The woman slumped in momentary relief. Sarah Jane reclined her against the flat pillow.

      Mr. Jameson gripped his wife’s hand. “Baby?” he murmured. “Usdi?”

      Sarah handed Pierce a clean cloth.

      Pierce straightened and wiped his hands. He clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Oos-dee. Baby soon.”

      The man huddled over his wife with words of encouragement.

      Sarah Jane moved to a side table to fill a tin cup with water for the patient. “He must love her a great deal.” Returning, she filled another and handed it to Pierce.

      “Why’s that?” He gulped the liquid.

      “Cherokee men consider it beneath their dignity to attend the births of their children.”

      Pierce smoothed a tangled strand of hair from her face. “Love? Or just scared to death like me?” He gifted her with a wry, one-sided smile.

      Her skin burned from the feel of his hand, strong and warm. “You did fine. As I knew you would.”

      Pierce took another long swig of water. “We’re not done yet, Sarah Jane. We’ve only begun, in fact.”

      She darted a look to make sure the patient still rested comfortably.

      Pierce downed the rest of the water in a single swallow, tossing back his head. A thrill of sheer pleasure at the sight of his tight, yellow curls shot through Sarah.

      Thrusting the cup into her hands, he winked. “But we do make a right fine team, don’t you think?”

      She grinned, feeling the closest she’d ever come to being as pretty as one of the red lilies that grew on the mountain. “Mighty fine indeed, Doctor.”

      And three hours later, all was truly fine as the patient delivered without further complication her third son into the Cherokee Nation.

      It was late afternoon by the time they approached the Hopkins dwelling and surgery located down the road from the mission meetinghouse.

      “Papa may still be at the Corn Tassel’s. I’ll fix us a quick, if cold, supper.”

      He eyed the jouncing chicken he’d tied to his saddle-pack. “Just so long as you promise tomorrow you’ll redeem Mr. Jameson’s payment for our house call with some fried chicken . . .” He smacked his lips together. “Some potatoes . . .”

      A swirl of anticipation melted her insides. “Is that all you’re wanting?”

      Lord-a mercy, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

      What had come over her suddenly bold tongue? That sounded like something Leila Hummingbird would say.

      But Pierce, for all his proper poses, apparently thought nothing untoward about it. “Well, now you mention it, some cobbler—apple from your orchard—would hit the spot right nice.”

      She laughed. The clipped, nasal Yankee speech of his was slowly but surely giving way to a gentler drawl. “You stay here long enough, and we’ll have you sounding like a real Snowbird Mountain boy.”

      Her high, good humor plummeted once she sighted who awaited them on a bench beneath the redbud tree. Sarah’s lips tightened.

      Leila, in a red velvet overcoat, sprang to her feet. In a matching bonnet trimmed with a sprig of holly berries, Leila waved a small lace handkerchief in their direction.

      As if anyone with eyes in their head could avoid seeing Leila Hummingbird decked out in her plumage.

      Sarah Jane felt, as well as heard, Pierce’s short explosive breath when he caught sight of the exquisite Cherokee maiden. His boots hit the hard-packed earth with a thud. She swung her leg over the horse’s back and allowed herself to slide slowly toward the ground.

      His hat clasped against his chest, he advanced across the lawn. Leila met him halfway, skirts rustling. Her big eyes beckoned and perused the young doctor. Sarah Jane did a halting stutter step until she reached Pierce’s side. She crossed her arms over her worn overcoat.

      Leila twisted her face toward Sarah, her features sharp as a vulture. Her dark eyes glinted at Sarah and slid away to Pierce. “Why, Sarah Jane, how dare you keep this handsome young man to yourself?”

      She’d tried to avoid this moment for weeks.

      Leila fluttered the handkerchief in the scant space between her body and his. A whiff of the expensive musky scent Leila’s father shipped from Charleston permeated the air.

      Sarah Jane cut her eyes at Pierce. His eyes transfixed, he breathed in and out with rapid, shallow breaths.

      Her heart began an undulating, death spiral to the region of her toes.

      “Well,” Leila stamped her foot. Prettily, of course. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” She leaned toward him, swaying willowlike in the wind.

      Pierce quivered like the string on a tightly strung bow.

      Leila brushed her shoulder against his black suit coat. “Or, will I be forced to fling convention to the side and perform the introductions myself?”

      As Leila lifted her hand, Pierce pressed his lips against her fingers.

      Leila cast a predatory gleam of triumph at Sarah Jane. Sarah’s fists curled into a ball as a sick feeling welled.

      And Sarah Jane—this afternoon a one-time lily—faded to drab Sarah once again.

      Chapter 7

      7

      2018—Cartridge Cove

      Linden steered her Toyota compact into the graveled parking lot of the white clapboard church. “What’s going on with you and Ross Wachacha, Gram?”

      Marvela fingered one of the pearl buttons lining her pink cashmere twinset, her best attempt—after five discarded tries—to replicate the casual, outdoorsy wear preferred in the mountain community. She yanked down the visor and peered into the mirror. “You sure I look okay?”

      “When don’t you look more than okay, Gram? And stop trying to change the subject.”

      Marvela snapped the visor closed. “There’s nothing ‘going on,’ as you so decorously phrased it, between Ross and me.”

      Linden aimed the car into an empty slot between a Ford Focus, and a mud-splattered, gun-toting, wide-body pickup that’d seen better days. A two-flag sporting pickup—reflecting СКАЧАТЬ