Valerie Hansen - Her Cherokee Groom

Runaway Wedding

On the run from false murder charges, Annabelle Lang can only count on one man, Cherokee diplomat Charles McDonald. The handsome ambassador has already helped her escape Washington City. Now he’s proposing marriage to protect her honor. Though she’s losing her heart to Charles, Annabelle’s certain his offer comes from duty, not love.

Charles’s feelings for the flaxen-haired beauty go beyond mere companionship, but he’s doubtful a lady like Annabelle would ever consider him under normal circumstances. And with his family expecting him to wed a Cherokee bride, he wouldn’t have asked. If it’s more than convenience that binds Charles and Annabelle, there’s only one way to find out—he’ll have to court his own wife!

“I suggest we travel from here on as a family.”

Charles glanced at the child before turning a steady gaze on her. “He has your eyes and all of my coloring. He could easily be our son.”

“Yes, but...” Annabelle stammered.

“If we have to, we can make it official.”

Annabelle’s jaw gaped. “What?”

“Marry.”

“You should not joke about such things.”

“Believe me, I am not joking,” Charles said flatly. “It would not have to be forever if you didn’t want it to be. That way your reputation would be safe.”

But what about my heart? She let her horse fall back behind the big bay so Charles could not see her if she failed to curtail the tears threatening to roll down her cheeks.

Why weep? she asked herself.

The answer was as clear as if it had been shouted in her ear. Because I will soon be the wife of a man whose heart does not belong to me—and whom I already love.

Dear Reader,

This story takes place before the disastrous Trail of Tears, as the forced removal has come to be known. Instead of being a single event, however, it took place over time, ending with a final push in 1838 to oust those individuals and tribes who had refused to migrate west.

To make matters worse, there were warring factions among the Cherokee that each claimed authority to legally sign treaties and make promises on behalf of all. Both sides resorted to violence. The result was a painful split in the tribe and a loss of credibility in Washington.

I now live in the part of Arkansas that one of the routes, Benge’s Trail, passed through. That’s what caused me to begin this book and travel to visit the Cherokee Museum in North Carolina. I highly recommend it ( Cherokeemuseum.org).

Almost all the characters in this story are actual historical figures, including the boy Johnny and the way he arrived in Washington. I have fictionalized his life, and those of others, while keeping the basic facts as true to the written record as possible.

Blessings from the Ozarks,

VALERIE HANSEN was thirty when she awoke to the presence of the Lord in her life and turned to Jesus. She now lives in a renovated farmhouse in the breathtakingly beautiful Ozark Mountains of Arkansas and is privileged to share her personal faith by telling the stories of her heart for Love Inspired. Life doesn’t get much better than that!

Her Cherokee Groom

Valerie Hansen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

He that delicately bringeth up his servant from a child shall have him become his son at the length.

—Proverbs 29:21

Thanks to my Joe for taking me to North Carolina to see the Cherokee Museum and reenactments of tribal life. And thanks to the Cherokee clans who faithfully labor to keep their history and culture alive.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Washington, DC—1830

“What are you doing out here? Spying?”

Seventeen-year-old Annabelle Lang was so startled by the voice she nearly gasped aloud. Her guardian’s new wife had caught her loitering in the hallway and peeking into the parlor to look at visiting dignitaries. How embarrassing.

Biting her lip, Annabelle shook her head enough to make her flaxen blond side curls swing against her rosy cheeks and replied, “No, ma’am. I just wanted to see the Indians.”

“Well, you’ve seen them. Now stop wasting time, get back to the kitchen and help Lucy finish preparing the lemonade. I want both those new washtubs filled to the brim.” With that, Margaret Eaton swept past, skirts and petticoats belling and swishing, long, dark side curls bobbing, to make a grand entrance into the parlor and join her husband, John.

Annabelle’s heart pounded. Her feet were unwilling to carry her away. She had no clear recollection of her early years, before coming to live with the first Mrs. Eaton, yet the mere sight of the Cherokee delegation stirred her emotions and left her light-headed.

Little wonder! These men were tall and stately, some wearing the kind of tall hats, vests and coats she was familiar with. Others were garbed in turbans and long tunics with elaborately woven sashes at the waist. None was bearded, nor did they seem the downtrodden savages she had overheard Mrs. Eaton railing about. These men were regal looking to the point of inspiring awe.

Before she could turn away, John Eaton spied her peeking from behind the doorjamb.

He gestured. “Annabelle. Come here and take these gentlemen’s hats and capes. We must make our guests comfortable.”

Trembling and wondering if she was going to be able to walk steadily enough to do as instructed, she started forward. Everyone glanced at her except Margaret, an advantageous snub Annabelle prayed would continue.

Not all of these Indians had swarthy complexions and ebony eyes, she noted. Some were grayed with age, particularly the largest, most impressive old gentleman. His clothing was not only embellished with lace and gilding like that of nobility, his bearing befit royalty and inspired respect.

Several of the younger members of his party had the fairer hair and the blue or light-brown eyes of folks she saw every day. Perhaps that was because these men were the offspring of mixed marriages. She’d been told that was the way of many Cherokee, including prominent tribal leaders. They also spoke and read at least two languages, English and their own, a feat for which Annabelle admired them greatly.

One particularly stalwart young man whom she guessed to be in his twenties caught her eye. She chanced a surreptitious glance at him as she approached and found that he was studying her, too. It was as if she were a captive of his startling blue gaze, unable to break away, unable to consider anything or anyone but him.

His dark hair was fairly long, thick and slicked straight back, and he had his top hat in hand, having politely removed it when he’d entered the parlor. As Annabelle received it from him in passing she saw a tiny smile twitch one corner of his mouth. That simple acknowledgment made her insides quaver like dry leaves in a Potomac storm.