Bouquet for Iris (7 page)

“They are beautiful.” Serious brown eyes looked at her, and Iris’s heart melted. A pull on her skirt made her look down. Erin gazed up at her. Iris reached down and scooped her up, totally captivated by her gap-toothed smile. “I don’t know how you ever get any work done.” She kissed the soft cheek, delighted when Erin’s arms circled her neck.

Camie nodded. “I hated to leave Wayha’s children without a teacher, but you can understand why I had to.”

Lance walked over and put an arm around his wife. “That’s why we’re so glad you could come to Daisy. Knowing that the Spencer girls are being loved and taught by a kind Christian lady is an answer to our prayers.”

Iris dropped another kiss on the top of Erin’s head. “It’s an answer to my prayers as well.”

Adam leaned against the bar and fingered the glass of amber liquid in front of him. He was shaking but not because of the March wind outside the tavern. When had escape become so important to him? And why did it matter? He picked up the glass and studied it. Candlelight gleamed through it, turning it golden.

“No matter how long you look at it, that whiskey is not going to turn back into corn.” Margaret Coleridge, the tavern’s auburn-haired singer, took the seat next to him at the bar. “I’ll take a cup of coffee, Cyrus.”

The bartender nodded. As the man filled a mug and placed it in front of her, Adam tipped his glass against his lips and drank its liquid down in one quick gulp. He grimaced as the bitter taste of the whiskey filled his mouth and burned its way down his throat. He lifted his chin at Cyrus, who pulled a bottle from underneath the counter and refilled his glass. This time Adam didn’t hesitate. He downed the glass without studying it, anxious for the forgetfulness it promised.

“Slow down there, Adam.” Margaret’s green gaze studied him, as mysterious as a cat’s. “You don’t want to be drunk before I start my performance.”

Adam smiled and patted her arm. “I’ve heard you before.”

“Are you criticizing my talent?”

“Not at all. I’ve told you many times that you should go to Washington. You’re too good to stay in this backwater. You’d be in great demand. Even the imperious President Jackson would be impressed.”

A frown appeared on Margaret’s face. “I doubt he would let me into his house when he learned that part of my heritage is Cherokee.”

He tilted his head and considered her words. “Did you know that he adopted an Indian boy who was orphaned in battle?”

“Are you trying to tell me that the man who is almost solely responsible for the removal of the Cherokee Nation has an Indian son?”

Adam couldn’t believe he had put himself into the position of defending the man who had ended all of his dreams. He guessed that was one of the worst things about being a lawyer—no matter which side he argued, he could see the strengths of the other. “Yes, he had an Indian son. Sadly the boy died the year before Jackson became president.”

“Yet he fights against allowing Indians to control their own futures. If not for his utter disregard for the law, the Cherokee would be safe on their land.”

Adam tapped his empty glass and shoved another gold coin across the counter. Cyrus obligingly refilled his drink. He tossed it back, barely feeling the burn. With a gusty sigh, he turned around on his stool and surveyed the room.

He knew most of the men by name, but he wouldn’t consider any of them a friend. He was an outsider and a known Indian sympathizer. Of course, he’d done little to encourage friendliness since his arrival in Daisy. The last man he’d been close to, his business partner, had betrayed him in the worst way. It was far easier to maintain some distance. That way he wouldn’t get hurt … again.

All the regulars were here, some awaiting Margaret’s performance while others played games of chance. It was the same every night. At one time Adam would not have joined them. But lately he felt that he fully understood Solomon’s cynical suggestion to eat, drink, and be merry. No one watched out for the poor and downtrodden. Regardless of what they taught over at Brainerd Mission, he could detect no master plan. He grimaced at the bitter certainty that filled his heart.
Because there was no Master
. All of them were simply living here. Heaven and hell? Who really knew what would happen when this life ended?

Margaret put a hand on his arm. “I hope you defeat the demons chasing you, Adam.” She stood and headed toward the raised stage where she performed nightly.

A couple of years ago pioneers had left a piano behind, likely trading it for supplies to see them through their journey southward. Adam wondered what the family would think if they could see it sitting in this tavern. He shrugged. Given the dangers of the trail, they’d likely died or been killed before they reached their destination. Such was the way of this world.

The men clapped and called out to Margaret, but she walked past them without a glance to the left or right. When she reached the platform, she nodded to the piano player and turned to smile at the audience, her dark gaze piercing him from across the room.

Adam leaned back against the bar and watched her sing, his foggy mind still able to appreciate the talent she displayed. A disturbance at the door drew his attention. “Our fine mayor has decided to join us tonight,” he said to no one in particular.

Richard Pierce ran a thumb down the length of his suspenders and surveyed the room, a sneer evident on his face. Adam raised one eyebrow. If the man disliked the tavern, why didn’t he stay home like the other “righteous citizens” of Daisy? Adam didn’t disturb their Sunday morning church services, so why should they come bother him at his chosen haunt?

“If you’re looking for Nathan”—Adam gestured at the rowdy crowd—”he hasn’t graced us tonight.” Now that he thought of it, it was odd that Nathan was absent. He was usually present to watch Margaret sing, even though he didn’t drink or gamble.

“Actually, I’m looking for you.” The elder Mr. Pierce shook his head at a barmaid headed his way. She shrugged and turned her smiling attention to another customer.

“I’ll have the council’s transcription ready in a day or two,” Adam growled. His job as the town scribe was what paid for his evenings, but he was tired of everyone pushing him to finish his work. It wasn’t as though anything earthshaking had happened at the council meeting. It was always the same—the council discussed ways to attract more settlers, or they complained because the Indians were encroaching in some way on their rights. Ha! Those same men had no trouble trading at Ross’s Landing on the far side of the river, the settlement that had been founded by John Ross, the chieftain of the Cherokee Nation. He wished Ross would come home where he belonged instead of fighting the lost cause in Washington. Then they could spend their time protecting the people who lived here. And Adam wouldn’t have to deal with the likes of the pompous windbag standing next to him.

“No, I need to hire your services.”

What an odd development. Adam straightened the collar of his shirt in an attempt to appear more professional. “What’s the problem?”

“Some thieving Indians have been stealing my livestock.”

Disgust filled him. Adam should have known better than to hope for a real job, a chance to be an advocate. He slouched forward again. “Sounds like you need the sheriff more than an attorney. Or maybe a gunman to teach the rustlers to respect your property.”

The mayor pulled out his watch and glanced at it before answering. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Stuart. I need someone to get a copy of that treaty from Washington. It’s time these Indians understood that this town is going to be run by white men.”

“I can’t help you.” Adam tried to keep his voice neutral, but it was hard. He couldn’t abide the prejudice that had been unleashed since news of the treaty had leaked out. It might be true that the American government was going to remove the Indians from their rightful land and that some of the Cherokee had turned traitor to their own people and signed the treaty, but he didn’t have to support their efforts.

“You mean you
won’t
help me.” The mayor spat at the floor, barely missing Adam’s foot.

Anger burned white-hot in Adam’s chest. His fist clenched. He’d like nothing better than to plant it in the smug countenance of Richard Pierce. Then sanity returned. He was no Arthurian knight with a sacred quest. No, he had more in common with Don Quixote, the poor deluded man who tilted at windmills. Adam knew he was nothing but a broken shell of a man waiting for his life to end. “Whether I cannot or will not doesn’t matter. What matters is that you need to find someone else.”

“You’re a sorry excuse for a man, even by lawyers’ standards.” The man’s voice was soft and venomous. “I must have been crazy to think you’d like to earn a respectable salary. Do you think anyone else is going to hire you? Where do you think you’ll end up if you don’t take this job?”

“I guess I’ll end up dead whether I work or not.” Adam hunched a shoulder. “The same as you.”

Pierce huffed once or twice before leaving him alone.

Adam concentrated on his glass. His head was beginning to ache, a sure sign that the past was trying to resurrect itself in his mind. He took another gulp and waited for his memory to recede.

Margaret had finished singing when he struggled up from his stool. Adam made uneven progress across the tavern floor, pushing through the door and taking a deep breath. He smiled as he thought of the tall woman with flyaway hair who’d been stranded right here a week earlier. She’d looked so lost and abandoned, like a puppy looking for someone to feed and care for it. Some sentimental part of him had surfaced briefly that night, wanting to protect her and make sure nothing destroyed the innocence in her gaze. But she’d accepted Nathan’s offer of help, instead.
Smart girl
. Adam wondered if it was the alcohol that had made her appear so beautiful and pure.
Most likely
.

Adam banished thoughts of her from his mind and concentrated on keeping his gait even, a challenge ever since he’d been attacked and left for dead after the treaty signing in New Echota. Although the pain in his leg didn’t trouble him when he was drinking, his ability to walk suffered greatly. But he didn’t have far to go. His office, one of the few commercial buildings on the main street of Daisy, was only a few feet away.

Opening the door, he shuffled past a large oak desk. A second door took him to his apartment, the room where he slept and ate. Had he locked the front door? He shrugged. He was safe even if the door was standing open. Who would want to disturb a broken-down lawyer with no future and too much past?

With a grunt, he removed his coat, boots, and pistol before falling into bed and embracing oblivion.

“Tell me about the Spencer family.” Iris glanced at Lance, wishing Camie had been able to come with them this morning. But that was selfish on her part. Camie was at home, caring for her daughters. Little Erin had a cough, and Camie had not wanted to risk the croup.

The cold air nipped at her cheeks and made her thankful for the thick fur that covered her legs. This part of Tennessee was so different from home. Instead of gentle hills dotted with farms and streams, the ground rose up and reached for the clouds scuttling across the sky.

Lance guided the wagon down a slope toward the river that bisected the valley and formed a natural barrier between Indian land and American soil. “Well, you already know he’s a Cherokee. He moved to this area before it was Hamilton County and built a home on land granted to him by the state of North Carolina. He had one daughter, who married and had two little girls, June and Anna.” He paused and looked at Iris. “Everything seemed to be going well for the family until Mr. Spencer’s wife, daughter, and son-in-law died.”

She met his gaze, unsurprised by the empathy she saw in it. “What happened?”

“Cholera.”

Iris’s eyes closed briefly. The word brought nightmare images of sickness and death. An outbreak of cholera had swept through Nashville last year, leaving many dead in its wake. Iris’s heart ached for the family. “What a blessing the little girls didn’t die.”

“They stayed home with the house slave while Spencer took the others to the village on Lookout Mountain where they became ill, not knowing that the disease was spreading through the Cherokee tribe. He was the only one who came back.”

“Those poor little girls.” Her eyes filled with tears as Iris considered what it would have been like to lose her ma and pa so suddenly. “How old were they?”

“Anna was just a baby, and her sister was about two.”

“They probably don’t even remember their ma.” She turned to Lance. “It must have been hard on Camie to have to stop caring for them.”

“Yes it was. She was so glad when your parents wrote to us.”

Iris looked about for another topic of conversation. “Does that mountain have a name?”

“That’s Lookout Mountain. It’s the tallest peak in this part of the world.”

It reminded her of a cantankerous old man with hunched shoulders, and the leafless trees scattered across its summit made the peak appear to be his balding head. “How far away is it?”

Lance’s eyes narrowed as he calculated the distance. “It’s probably ten miles.”

“It looks much closer.”

“I suppose so.” He smiled at her. “Since you’re from Nashville, the mountains must be quite different to you.”

Iris leaned against the back of the wagon seat and breathed deeply. “I like it here though.”

This morning, once Lance had loaded her things into the wagon, she and Camie had tearfully hugged each other. As they pulled out onto the road, Iris had been torn by conflicting emotions. Part of her wanted to stay with her childhood friend for a few more days, but another part of her was anxious to begin her new position. Now that she had heard the story of the Spencer children, she was glad she had not tarried longer. The Spencer children needed someone to hold them and love them.

“Camie is so happy to have you living close by. I hope you will be able to visit often.” Lance’s words brought her thoughts back to him.

“It’s wonderful to see her so hap—” The word broke off when her mouth formed an O as they drove through an iron gate onto the Spencer estate. Thick woods had hidden the large home until they turned into the lane. It was more a mansion than a house. She’d never seen such a large home except in some of the fancier neighborhoods of Nashville. It was made of dark red brick and resembled a large box … a very large box.