Her Cherokee Groom

Once more she spoke, this time calmly. “No. Not now.”

And this time he gave a brief nod in response.

Heartened, she stood tall and descended until she stopped in the midst of the cadre of soldiers and civilians. The best thing, truly the only good thing, was that Charles McDonald had not rushed into the fray and joined her in chains.

As soon as Johnny explained to his kinsmen and they understood her dilemma, she would somehow assure them she would not testify against any of them. After all, they were innocent, as was she. This was Washington City, where the law of the land stood strong. She would be fine. This was a mere glitch brought on by a mob. People who were not guilty did not end up staying in prison.

* * *

Charles considered going back to the boardinghouse but could not make himself give that order to the cabbie. Instead, they slowly followed the group walking alongside the wagon carrying Annabelle to the closest jail.

He had to clench his fists and grit his teeth to keep from jumping out again and rushing to her rescue. He huffed, disgusted with himself. She had been right to stop him. Such a rash act would have been too stupid to be heroic. And it would have accomplished nothing worthwhile.

Instead, he disembarked near the jail, paid the cabbie and sent him away while he infiltrated the milling crowd to listen to rumors. Clearly, a Cherokee presence at the river altercation was known and he was thankful his clothing fit city life. The only way he’d be identified was if somebody besides Annabelle happened to recognize him.

Knowing she was held inside those barred doors made him want to pound on them with both fists. The more irrational claims he overheard about her character, the harder it was to control his temper, so he slipped away and circled the stone building, hoping to calm down enough to think clearly.

Shadows absorbed him the way a placid lake smoothly covers her sunken secrets, and he easily reverted to instinctive oneness with nature.

His shiny black boots sank in mud and fetid odors assailed his nostrils. He ignored everything. Barred windows set high in the walls permitted sound to escape while denying direct sight. Since all the noise was concentrated at the front of the building where the soldiers were busy congratulating themselves, Charles took a chance and softly called, “Annabelle?”

All he heard was street chatter. He moved on to another window. Then another. Wait! Was that sobbing? “Annabelle?”

The weeping stopped.

Charles came closer. “Annabelle?”

“Y-yes.”

“It’s me.”

She sniffled. “Go away.”

“I can’t. I have to help you somehow.”

“That is the worst thing you can do. Secretary Eaton has promised to hire an attorney and have me released as soon as possible.”

“Why didn’t he stop them from taking you in the first place?”

Although her voice kept breaking, he heard her explain about the victim’s relationship with the president’s regiment and her suspicion that Margaret’s wishes had also prevailed.

“Then I will stay here until you are free.”

“And be caught? I would weep forever.”

“But you saved my life.” As he spoke he was casting around for something to climb up on. A wooden barrel provided a prop.

“I had to act for the sake of the child. He was counting on both of us,” she said.

Charles assumed that was her way of covering her revealing admission that she would weep if anything bad happened to him. So, she felt their emotional attachment, too. That was heartening—and worrisome.

One booted foot on the barrel, he pulled himself up until he could reach through the barred window. He still could not see her but perhaps he could take her hand and convey moral support.

Hearing her gasp he said, “You see my hand?”

“Yes. But I can’t reach it.” She paused. “Wait!”

The sound of metal scraping against stone echoed and Charles thanked God for background noise to cover it.

First he felt her touch his hand. He closed his fingers around hers. Willed her to draw strength from him. And then her damp cheek and wisps of her beautiful hair brushed the back of his wrist. Their connection was tenuous yet deeply moving as she held tight to the lifeline of his presence.

The words that came to him were in Cherokee and he whispered them tenderly, knowing she would not understand yet needing to express affection. Perhaps no translation was necessary, he mused, because when he spoke, Annabelle’s grasp tightened and her cheek pressed more firmly.

Then, suddenly, she broke away and was gone. Metal clanked and someone shouted, “Get away from that window.”

Charles jumped off the barrel.

His hand felt cool and he glanced down. It was glistening with Annabelle’s tears.

* * *

Annabelle did not even try to sleep. The cot she had moved under the window was so dingy she couldn’t bear to lie upon it, let alone unfold the blanket. Her eyes often drifted back to the tiny window Charles had reached through and she gave thanks he had escaped unseen. That he had tried to comfort her at all was a conundrum. After all, they hardly knew each other and any involvement with her while she was incarcerated was taking a terrible chance.

She sighed and leaned back against the cold wall, crossing her arms. The authorities had her note. Therefore, they also had his name. Although it didn’t sound Cherokee it might nevertheless lead back to him, partly because the whole delegation had attracted so much attention when visiting her father. Perhaps that was why soldiers had been sent to Plunkett’s so quickly.

Although she didn’t know how much time had passed, she had watched the movement of the sun across the sky. What was taking her foster father so long to come for her? Surely he would act. At least she hoped so. Given Margaret’s animosity and obvious bias against her, she was beginning to wonder if John was going to help her, after all.

It was late the next day when Annabelle heard the approach of footsteps. Her spirits rose the instant she recognized John Eaton’s voice. The sight of him brought her to tears again and she fought to stay stoic as the jailer unlocked the cell door.

The deepest urge was to shout, “Father!” but she refrained. There was nothing about his somber countenance that was encouraging. When he merely nodded to her and turned away from the open door, she wasn’t sure if she was free to follow. The jailer guffawed and gestured, “Well, go, girlie, or do you like it here?”

That lit a fire under Annabelle’s feet and she hurried after John Eaton. He had a carriage waiting. For a moment she thought he might climb in ahead of her as if she were unworthy of gallantry but he did pause and allow her to board first. He even offered a hand, which reminded Annabelle of the much more tender touch of another man through the bars of her window.

“Thank you,” she ventured as the carriage started off.

Eaton made a guttural noise that sounded like a growl. “There is only so much I can do when the president is set against you. You do realize that?”

“Yes, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That is not what the evidence shows. There is a very good chance that you will be arrested again and tried for murder. If I could stop it, I would.”

“Can’t Margaret... I mean, she and President Jackson are friends. Isn’t there something she can do?”

“Ha! You will be fortunate to get her to tolerate you at home, let alone expect her to speak on your behalf. My wife can be headstrong, as you well know.”

“Even if you plead my case?”

The expression on her foster father’s face was stern and seemed almost wily. When he answered, Annabelle understood why.