American Dreams by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online Page A

in our newspaper. The Cherokee Phoenix has been filled with stories of homes being plundered, livestock stolen, crops burned, men flogged and beaten, women assaulted—violated— all with no recourse."
    First published nearly two and a half years before, the national newspaper was a source of pride to the Cherokees. Its stories were printed both in English and the Cherokee syllabary devised nine years earlier by the Cherokee silversmith Sequoya, who sometimes went by his English name, George Guess. Estimates varied widely as to the number of Cherokees able to read and write in their language. Some put the figure as high as ninety percent; others claimed it was closer to fifty percent. But all agreed that anyone who spoke Cherokee could learn to read and write in that language in only days with Sequoya's syllabary.
    Regardless of which number was the true figure, the literacy rate among the Cherokees was still higher than that of the Georgians, who were, at best, only three generations removed from their beginnings as a British penal colony.
    "You have only read of such incidents," The Blade said now. "In my travels, I have witnessed them. I can tell you firsthand that the Georgians take pleasure in subjecting our women to their abusive manner." The surge of anger that The Blade felt when he thought of some coarse Georgian putting his hands on Temple was obvious to her.
    She halted and wheeled about to face him. "Then you should be working with others to stop it."
    "There is little anyone can do."
    "So you do nothing."
    Rankled by the criticism in her voice, The Blade shot back, "What would you have me do?"
    "The same thing our fathers do—meet, discuss, and search for a way to end it. But you cannot be bothered." She turned and started walking again. "When will you leave this time?"
    "Maybe I have decided to stay for a while."
    "Have you?"
    "Do you care?"
    "How typical of you," Temple retorted scornfully. "You avoid commitments and responsibility. You come and go with never a thought for anyone but yourself."
    He caught hold of her wrist, bringing her to a halt. "If I did stay, then what?" He felt the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his fingers and dropped the reins to hook an arm around her waist and draw her closer. "Would the black swan stop hissing at me?"
    "Perhaps." She breathed the word softly.
    The Blade was conscious of the sensation of her firmly rounded breasts against him, and the closeness of her full lips. They parted slightly as her breathing quickened. He was only curious, he told himself when he bent his head to claim them.
    Her lips were softer than he had expected, yet sharp with the taste of green apples. He wanted to tunnel into them and lick away the tart layer to find the sweet. He felt them give beneath his pressure, yet he was the one who felt consumed.
    Â 
    Perched on a half-rotten log, Eliza tugged at her stocking. It stuck to her damp foot, resisting her efforts to pull it on. By the time she won her battle with it, she felt as hot and sticky as she had before she had waded in the cool waters of the brook.
    She pulled on her ankle-high walking shoes. When she bent to tighten their laces, a pin fell out of her hair. She immediately felt the sagging weight of her hair threaten to tumble free from its bun. Hastily, she scooped up the pin and tried to anchor it back in place.
    The rumble of wheels and plodding hooves came from the lane next to the brook. Eliza frowned, certain it was much too early for the slaves to be coming back from the fields. But it wasn't the farm wagon she saw when she looked up; it was a horse and buggy accompanied by two riders.
    One of them was Will Gordon. With a gasp of dismay, Eliza felt of her hair, discovering a hundred strands curling free. Why, oh why, had she ever let the children talk her into coming down to the brook to play with them? She was a mess.
    "Father! Father!" Xandra ran out to greet him. Kipp and the other boys instantly abandoned the turtle