Valerie Hansen - Her Cherokee Groom

It was then that she realized her Heavenly Father already had. She already knew that the boardinghouse the Cherokees had chosen was only a block or so past the cathedral where the family worshipped every Sunday. She knew the way.

Circumventing trouble as best she could, she darted back and forth across the broad streets, dodging coaches and buggies while evading those individuals who might wish to do her harm. She had never ventured out alone at night and the face of the city was quite different than she had expected.

The boardinghouse Annabelle sought was built in the Federalist style with tall, narrow banks of windows facing the street and a small porch that led directly into the parlor. Seeing Plunkett’s finely lettered sign gave her hope and renewed energy.

Before she’d taken two steps up the front stairs, however, Johnny burst out the door and ran past, snatching away what was left of her breath.

She lunged to grab his sleeve.

He struggled, twisting and kicking.

“Johnny! Stop. It’s me.” She pushed back her hood so he could better see her features.

“We have to go.” Johnny pointed. “This way.”

“No. I came to speak to your uncle.”

“That is why we have to go,” the boy insisted. “The man inside said he went to the river.”

“He’ll be back. We can stay here and wait.”

The child tore himself from her grasp. “No! It is not good. We must find him.”

Annabelle was unconvinced. Now that they had both made it to the boardinghouse the most sensible choice was to tarry there.

Unfortunately, Johnny was already running again.

“All right,” she called, quickly recovering. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”

They soon left the open streets for a parklike area and slowed to a walk because there was no artificial light. Patches of fog drifted in front of them as if clouds had sunk to earth, muting even the moon glow.

Johnny abruptly grasped her hand and tugged. “Stop.”

Annabelle’s breath caught. “Why? I thought you were in a hurry.”

Rethinking their possibly tenuous safety, she pushed back the hood of her satin cape once again and bent over him to speak more softly. “What’s wrong?”

“Men. Bad men. Fighting.” He pointed.

She had barely made out shadowy shapes when there was a muffled shout. The boy broke free and raced toward the altercation!

“Johnny, no!” Fisting her skirt she ran after him.

Someone yelled.

Annabelle drew closer. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!”

A well-dressed gentleman was doing hand-to-hand battle with two ruffians and it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand. Now she understood the boy. Charles McDonald was being attacked and although he seemed to be holding his own at the moment, he was definitely outnumbered.

Charles threw a punch that sent one of the thugs reeling out of sight among some saplings, and dove after him. Bushes rustled and shook. A man grunted. Another shouted. The thug left in the open staggered and fell to his knees as if hurt or intoxicated. Perhaps both.

The seconds passed for Annabelle in slow motion. She heard another cry. Was that a splash? Were they that close to the Potomac?

The man she could see struggled to his feet and braced himself, ready for more fight. Charles reappeared and engaged him by circling, arms wide, ready for further attack. They locked arms and began grappling while Johnny beat the back of his uncle’s foe with a broken branch and screeched unintelligibly in his native language.

The men fell together. Charles scrambled up first. His foe moved more slowly yet was far heavier and thus had the advantage of sheer weight when he threw himself back into the melee.

This was a new conundrum for Annabelle. She had never seen grown men fight, so she stood aside, gaping helplessly and standing clear. Her hands were clasped in front of her so tightly they ached.

Then she saw something metal flash in the stranger’s hand and her attitude changed. “A knife! He has a knife.”

Charles crouched and stepped sideways, keeping just out of the assailant’s reach. “Stay back!”

The other man was slow and clumsy, carving harmless arcs in the night air, yet Annabelle knew it was only a matter of time until someone made a fatal misstep. What could she do? How could she possibly help the Cherokees?

Without warning, the attacker changed tactics and lunged for Johnny.

The child was too quick for him.

Charles grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into the other man’s face. “Hey! Over here.”

The ploy worked. The burly man whirled, distracted, wiping at his eyes. But how long would that hold him off?

Annabelle had never in her life felt so powerless. So useless. As long as Charles’s adversary was the only one armed, there was no way she could be certain the Cherokee would prevail. Unless...

Whipping off her cape she twirled it at arm’s length and watched it billow out. The man with the knife was temporarily distracted and Charles darted in to try to disarm him. They wrestled until the attacker whipped one arm to the side and threw Charles to the dirt.

Annabelle could tell he was stunned when he landed. Johnny ran between his uncle and the knife-wielder, shouting and hitting him with the leafy branch.

The man roared and stood tall, facing both Cherokees. He was taller and much bulkier than she was but as long as his attention was so focused on Charles, Annabelle knew she had the element of surprise on her side.

With an unspoken prayer, she circled behind the big man, threw the cape over his head and yanked it down.

Blinded and surrounded, he flailed and slashed at the silky material, cutting portions of it to ribbons and opening gaps that were almost wide enough to let him see his opponents.

Annabelle screamed. Johnny rushed at the confused thug from one side, hitting him with a solid enough blow that he instinctively whirled to redirect his attack.

That gave Charles enough time to get to his feet, knock the other man off balance and disarm him. He threw him to the ground facedown and pinned him there. “Give up and I won’t hurt you more.”

Johnny was not so forgiving. “No! Hit him again!”

Annabelle sympathized with the child, even after the thug stopped struggling, and she had to admire Charles’s self-control. She stood back, hands clenched once more, while he and Johnny tore strips from her ruined cape to truss up the would-be robber like a Christmas goose.

“Keep a sharp lookout,” Charles warned, getting to his feet and taking a defensive stance with the other man’s knife. “There were two of them. I knocked one into the river but he could have climbed out by now.”

“If he has half a wit he’s long gone,” she said. “What in the world were you doing out here all alone?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I followed Johnny,” she replied. “I’d written you a note asking you to visit and talk some sense into him before you left the city. I was on my way to the stables to ask someone to deliver it to you when I saw him running down the street. That changed everything.”

Seeing the doubt reflected in his shadowed expression she said, “Here, I’ll prove it to you.” As she slipped her hand into her skirt pocket her self-assurance turned to chagrin. “Oh, dear, I don’t know what became of my note.”

“How big was the paper?” Charles was scanning the nearby ground.

Annabelle joined him. “Small. I had folded it so it would fit in my pocket. I doubt we’ll find it without a torch.”

“Then forget it.” His brows arched. “I had thought the boy was in good company with you. Looks as though I’ll have to rethink my conclusion.”

“We had both expected to find you at the boardinghouse, sir,” Annabelle countered, spine stiff and eyes blazing from his scolding. “If you had been there, none of this would have happened.”