Cherokee Storm Read Online Free PDF Page A

then murder. I’m for going after him,” Drake said. “Who’s with me?”
    A few voices rose in agreement before Nathan’s angry bellow cut them off. “None of you is going into these mountains after a Cherokee. Too dangerous. We got the girl back, and she says she’s not harmed. We got my milk cow back. Time enough to reckon with that Indian.”
    â€œPa,” Damon pleaded. “We can’t let—”
    â€œYou listen to your pa,” Hannah said.
    Drake glared at her. “Ma, stay out of this!”
    â€œYou heard me,” Nathan said. “I’m not about to risk your hair or anybody else’s in this party over some trappers or their stolen horses.”
    A dog began to bark and two more took up the chorus. Men looked to their weapons and scanned the trees anxiously.
    â€œGlad to hear at least one of ye has a lick of sense,” came a hearty voice from beyond the wagon circle. A stocky white man clad all in buckskins stepped into the clearing. “Call off your hounds, Nathan Clark. Be there a decent cup of tea to be had at your fire?”
    The Irish brogue was as thick as pea soup, but Shannon would have known it anywhere. She’d heard it often enough in her dreams. “Da!” she cried, flinging herself at him.
    Nathan laughed. “Lower your rifles, boys. It’s Flynn O’Shea.”
    Suddenly shy, Shannon stopped a few feet from her father and looked up into his face. He was older than she’d remembered, his Gaelic features more lined and weather-beaten, his dark beard heavily sprinkled with gray, but his eyes were as blue and merry as ever. “Oh, Da,” she murmured. “I’ve missed you so.”
    â€œGive us a hug, darlin’.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “Dead or lost to me, I thought ye.”
    She didn’t remember running the last few steps into his arms, but suddenly he was hugging her tight, and she was crying so hard she couldn’t speak. “Da…Da,” was all she could manage.
    Her father produced a wrinkled but clean linen handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “’Tis a sight you are, darlin’.” He handed her the handkerchief, and she saw that it was her mother’s, monogrammed with elegant cursive letters, M. E. B. The handkerchief had been part of her dowry, sewn for her grandmother, Mary Eileen Boyd, who’d been born to the gentry, the Boyds of Shannon Grove in Limerick. Mama had been so careful to pack all that remained of her linens when she’d left Da. This handkerchief must have been left behind by accident.
    â€œBlow that little nose.” Da patted the top of her head. “You’re bigger than when I saw you last, but still no taller than my shoulder. The spitting image of your mother.” He released her and turned his attention to Nathan. “So why are the lot of ye as jumpy as fleas on a griddle? Shawnee on the warpath?”
    â€œNot Shawnee.” Drake pushed through the circle of men. “Cherokee. Shannon was kidnapped and held captive for—”
    â€œI was not kidnapped,” she protested. “I just got turned around in the dark.”
    Nathan’s expression hardened. “More to it than that, Flynn. Held against her will, she was. All night.”
    Drake and Damon took positions on either side of their father, arms folded, feet planted, as alike as a pair of bookends. “Ask her,” Damon said. “Cherokee buck held her prisoner all night in a cave. God knows what would have happened if we hadn’t found her just as he was fixing to ride off with her.”
    â€œIt wasn’t like that,” Shannon said. “I was caught in a thunderstorm and took shelter in the cave. A man was there—a Cherokee brave. It’s true he wouldn’t let me leave until morning, but the lightning was fierce. He didn’t hurt me.”
    Her father looked thoughtful. “A Cherokee, you