Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ on a minute,” he protested. “I got plenty to do. Fertilizing. Weeding. Shaping the trees.”

      She ignored him and pushed up another finger, making a V. “Two—as gadugi leader, you know The People, especially those old-timers in the hollows who can be . . .” Irene gave a delicate cough, “. . . difficult if the notion strikes them. A united front, Cherokee and Appalachian, you and the PR lady. Not to mention it’s your civic and tribal duty,” she threw in for good measure.

      He groaned.

      “Three,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Your uncle Ross, since he returned home, is overseeing the arrangements for the Western Band Oklahoma delegation to retrace the Trail and coordinate the historic reunion from this end. I figured you’d want to spend all the time you could with Uncle Ross, since you two don’t get to see so much of each other these days.”

      He frowned. That struck below the belt. Dangling his

       favorite—okay, his only great-uncle—like a carrot in front of his nose.

      “You know what I think of this reunification scheme. It’s a bad idea to stir up those long ago resentments between the Cherokee and the Appalachians.” He made a face. “The ones waiting in the wings to seize our land—our farms—as soon as the soldiers dragged us away during the Removal.”

      She folded her arms. “A lot of those settlers helped the Eastern Band hide out in these mountains till the soldiers left.”

      Walker reached for the sneakers and gym bag he’d left at the fence before practice. “You mark my words, no good’s going to come from reliving that pain, misery, and racial prejudice. Case in point what happened at the Center this week.”

      “A lot you know, Walker Crowe, holed up from life on that mountain farm of yours. Everybody’s coming together to make this festival a success. Families, Cherokee and non-Indian alike, are excited about the Western Band coming home to the ancestral place.”

      She flipped her stick-straight hair over her shoulder. “Sorta figured with all you’ve been through, you’d have a certain understanding of that. That longing to come home.”

      On a nearby bench, Walker stuffed his feet into his Nikes. “Even after 180 years?”

      “Home is home, John Walker.”

      Walker tugged the shoelaces tighter. “No matter how far you’ve roamed?”

      “The farther you’ve traveled, the sweeter comes the end of the journey,” she countered. “Besides, no fair the Qualla Boundary up the road gets all the tourist trade with their outdoor drama and recreated Village.”

      He cocked an appraising eye her way. “Festival won’t hurt your quilt shop either, will it, Ma?”

      “Festival won’t hurt anyone’s business, Cherokee or white, in this economy, son.”

      He chuckled. “Leave it to the Almighty Dollar to bring white and red together at last.”

      She slid beside him on the bench and tucked the folds of her wraparound skirt under her bare legs. Late April at four thousand feet still packed a chill despite the midafternoon sun. “Seeing as money divided us in the first place . . .”

      He’d deflected—for the time being—her ambitions for him as well as her less-than-subtle hints to be fruitful and multiply. The festival was a battle he reckoned—in light of the others—that might be the better part of valor to concede.

      “In everybody’s financial interests, you say?”

      She nodded. A smile played across her lips. “Won’t hurt that agribusiness of yours, either. Because when you’re dealing with the tourists—”

      “The only color that matters is green.” He gave a huge sigh. “What time, Mother?”

      “Four o’clock. At Miss Marvela’s. Uncle Ross said he’d liked to ride shotgun with you.”

      “Good ole Uncle Ross,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “At least he’s always got my back.”

      Irene sniffed the air like a bird dog. Scrunching her nose, she waved a hand in front of her face. “Phew, John Walker. Those boys were right. You stink. Make sure you go home first and hit the shower yourself.”

      Chapter 2

      2

      Late December 1837

      Sarah Jane pierced her finger with the sharp edge of the needle. Stifling a cry, she laid the quilt square in her lap and sucked the tiny, red dot of blood from her forefinger.

      “No blood on the quilt.” Leila smirked from across the drawing room.

      Glancing over to the mantel clock, Sarah Jane smothered an inward groan. Papa had promised he’d return from Charleston with his new apprentice this afternoon. But still no sign of Papa’s carriage.

      “Maybe a snowstorm hindered their return home,” Leila speculated.

      Sarah sent a prayer heavenward the apprentice doctor had the wherewithal and good manners to do most of the driving on the long, country roads between the bustling port city of Charleston and the backcountry trails in this isolated corner of the Cherokee Nation.

      “Your father’s getting slow in his old age.” Leila flashed even, ivory white teeth at Sarah.

      Sarah Jane silently concurred, not that she’d give Leila the satisfaction of knowing they agreed upon anything. Papa wasn’t getting any younger, although like a good plow horse he’d rather die in the harness than admit it.

      “Do you think Dr. Hopkins remembered to buy the blue silk for me?”

      Sarah Jane withdrew her finger from her mouth and studied it for any further evidence of blood before picking up the Carolina Lily square again.

      “I’m sure he did. Papa wrote it in his little notebook, and you know how careful he is about such things.”

      Papa wouldn’t be pleased to learn that, less than a day after his departure, Leila’s own father had been called away to yet another Cherokee council meeting.

      Her face clouded. And when Papa returned to find her alone with Leila and old Kweti? An inappropriate chaperone, he’d say, not thinking too highly of Leila’s tradition-bound Cherokee nurse with her chants and potions.

      Leila poked her aristocratic nose in the air. “I’m going to add this quilt to my hope chest.” Her eyes narrowed at Sarah’s paltry quilting effort.

      Those enormous, lively dark eyes the boys—Cherokee and white—found so bewitching.

      “Hard to believe you and I both took two years of needlework together at Salem Academy.”

      Sarah Jane decided it was best to let that remark lie.

      Leila fluttered her lashes, failing in her first attempt to rile Sarah and alleviate her boredom. “My father brought me a green trunk the last time the delegation went to Washington to plead our cause with the President. You do have a hope chest, don’t you, Sarah СКАЧАТЬ