Bouquet for Iris Read online

  “Or be attacked by marauding Indians or the Mexican army.” Her grandma shuddered. “Just because a town has a pretty name does not mean it’s a desirable destination.”

  Ma patted Iris’s hand. “I know you want to teach youngsters, but there are lots of opportunities to do so right here in Nashville.”

  “Quite right.” Grandma smoothed the front of her blue-and-white-striped skirt. “Why would you want to leave your loved ones?”

  Iris wanted to argue with them, but she knew better. The look in Ma’s eyes was the same one she got when she had to chase a fox away from the chicken coop—determined. Iris sighed and turned to watch the young men who were taking turns trying to bite into one of the apples floating in the tub. Some of the young ladies had drifted in that direction to cheer for their favorite participants.

  Eugene had come back in, and he was standing next to Melissa Baker, a young lady who was several inches shorter than he. It looked like she was trying to convince him to compete in the apple bobbing. But from the way he was shaking his head, Iris had the feeling he had no desire to accede to her wishes. Poor Eugene. It seemed that things were going from bad to worse for him this evening.

  Pa walked over to them and put an arm around Ma’s waist.

  Ma looked up at him. “Aren’t you going to bob for apples this year?”

  Pa laughed. “I think it’s time for me to retire and leave the horseplay to the younger generation.”

  The others talked about past Christmases, but Iris’s thoughts turned down a different avenue. She wished her expectations had not been met this evening. It would have been nice if some tall, handsome stranger had appeared and whisked her onto the dance floor.

  She could almost see him—dark and handsome and, oh, so tall. He would have a mustache and hair that fell just so across his forehead. He would whisper sweet compliments into her ear and make her feel graceful and beautiful. Then he would bring her back to her parents and spend time talking intelligently with them of current events and his passion to serve the Lord. After the evening was over, her parents would be equally impressed by him. Then, of course, he would ride out to the farm to see her every day this winter, regardless of the cold and snow. And then he would propose in the springtime—

  “Iris?” Ma’s voice intruded on her sweet imaginings. “Are you ready to leave, dear?”

  Iris refocused her attention on her parents, surprised to see that Grandma Landon was no longer standing with them. The advanced hour seemed to hit her all at once. She covered a yawn with her hand.

  Pa smiled at her. “It looks as if our daughter is more than ready. If we don’t whisk her away soon, I’m concerned she will fall asleep standing in the foyer.” He led them to the doorway where Aunt Dolly and Uncle Mac stood.

  After hugs and best wishes were exchanged, Iris collected her cloak and followed her parents to the waiting carriage. Cold night air made her nose tingle, but the warm bricks at her feet kept her from shivering. She drifted in and out of sleep as her parents talked quietly of the evening. She heard her pa mention something about a meeting of the Cherokee leaders, but the words wove themselves into her dreams. Tomorrow she would remember to ask him about it.

  two

  New Echota, Georgia December 29, 1835

  Adam Stuart balled up his left fist and shook it at the dark sky, even though he cringed inwardly at the bleak hatred consuming his heart. But how could a caring God allow such a thing to happen?

  Up until this day, he’d hoped he was wrong, but today he’d been proven absolutely correct in his pessimistic predictions. He spat at the ground. The treaty had been signed in New Echota this afternoon, a few days after Christmas. This should be a season of rejoicing and celebrating the human birth of God, not a time of fear and perfidy.

  Today Adam had been an appalled witness to the worst kind of travesty. A small group of Cherokee leaders had sold their people’s extensive landholdings in Georgia, Tennessee, North Carolina, and Alabama to officials of the United States. They had willingly agreed to abandon their homes, move their families hundreds of miles away to a wild and unforgiving wilderness, and start all over again.

  Couldn’t they see this would not be the end? They had been conceding tracts of their land to white men for more than two decades. And still they were asked to move—again and again and again. If this pattern continued, the Cherokee would soon be nothing more than a memory, a footnote in the history of the United States. Why had God created these people if He was willing to let them be destroyed? And why had God given Adam this desire to protect them?

  Adam looked up once more at the sky. Hadn’t he given up everything to pursue his mission? And for what? The bitter taste of absolute defeat.

  A harsh laugh escaped his chapped lips. Loss and defeat were his only companions anymore. What would he say to those who were depending on him back in Ross’s Landing? What would John Ross, the real leader of the Cherokee Nation, say? How could he justify what had happened? Would things look better tomorrow? Or worse?

  Could he have done anything to change the treaty signing? His mind saw again the hard faces of the Cherokee and the gleeful expressions of the white officers. Both sides had already made up their minds and were not willing to listen to anything he said. He’d tried everything, hadn’t he? No matter what arguments he put forth, no one wanted to admit the possibility of making a terrible mistake. In the absence of Chief Ross, why hadn’t he been able to make John Ridge and his followers see that their actions would affect the Cherokee people for generations to come? Betrayed by these chieftains who actually represented only a small number of the tribe, what would they do?

  The night seemed to grow even darker as Adam tried to make himself face the inevitable. The God he had always worshipped was apparently a white God who cared nothing for the plight of Indians, whether they worshipped Him or not. The Bible spoke of a God who loved and protected the helpless and innocent, but Adam had learned to disregard such fanciful stories.

  His horse whinnied. Adam leaned forward, feeling a little guilty to have forced his faithful mount back onto the path they’d traveled that very afternoon. “Careful, Samson. I know you’re cold, but you have great strength in these—”

  Samson reared up, and Adam fought to keep his seat. What was wrong with his horse?

  A moment later he realized that the shadows to his right were moving. It was the only warning he had. Suddenly he was surrounded by a silent, deadly group. He fought to reach his rifle, but it was hopeless.

  A noiseless adversary threw himself toward the saddle.

  Adam clung to the pommel with dogged determination, but a blow to his head made him see stars. He was jerked off Samson. He crashed to the ground and tasted the cold, wet soil of the path he’d been traveling. Still fighting, Adam turned over in time to see the edge of a tomahawk sweeping toward him. A mighty roll sent him off the path and into dense brush. Thorns caught at his clothing and tore at his skin.

  Grunts and stomps followed him into the forest.

  With no time to get to his feet, he kept rolling. And then he was free of the brambles, hurtling downward to what would likely be his last resting place.

  Something tickled Adam’s nose. A leaf? He reached up to bat it away and groaned. His arm hurt. He squinted to focus his vision, surprised to see dappled sunlight sparkling on dew-laced grass. Where was he? The woods? That was odd. He tried to sit up, but pain pushed him back against the cold ground.

  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 ex
cruciating. 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.

  three

  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.