Only Love by Elizabeth Lowell Read Free Book Online

someone unannounced stood a good chance of getting shot. Even Cherokee’s reputation as a shaman wouldn’t keep the likes of the Culpeppers at bay.
    Shannon didn’t step forward until a friendly invitation came from the cabin.
    “Come on in, gal,” Cherokee yelled. “Too durn cold out there for standing around.”
    “Okay, Prettyface,” Shannon said.
    The dog bounded forward. Just as he reached the cabin, the door opened completely. A tall, lean figure stood in the doorway.
    A single glance at the way Cherokee was standing told Shannon that something was wrong with the old woman’s right foot.
    “Howdy, gal,” Cherokee said. “Fine day, ain’t it?”
    “Indeed it is,” Shannon said. “Prettyface, get out of the way. If you’re hungry, go rustle your own breakfast.”
    The cabin door closed, leaving Prettyface on the outside. In truth, there was barely room for twopeople in Cherokee’s tiny cabin, much less two people and a big dog.
    “Hear you went into Holler Creek for supplies,” Cherokee said.
    “How did you hear that?”
    “Injuns, how else? Wounded Bear’s nephew was trading gold for whiskey in Holler Creek. He heard tell how them Culpeppers finally got their come-uppance.”
    “Did they?”
    “Bet your sweet smile they did. Where was you when the dust settled? They was fighting over you, after all.”
    “When that bullwhip cracked, I grabbed the flour and the salt and took out of there like my heels were on fire,” Shannon said dryly.
    Cherokee’s husky, chuckling laughter filled the tiny cabin. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in two thick braids, Indian style. Her seamed, dark face, combined with shapeless trousers, wool shirt, and worn moccasins, created the appearance of an old half-breed who had chosen to live alone rather than endure the insults of being not white and not Indian. Only the amulet bag hanging around her neck hinted at the wisdom lying behind her calm, dark eyes.
    If anyone other than Shannon knew that Cherokee was an old woman rather than an old man, no one had spoken publicly about it. Her gifts with herbs and healing had earned her the title of shaman among Indians and whites alike.
    “Light and set,” Cherokee invited.
    Shannon settled onto the stool that was pulled close to the ancient wood stove. Cherokee limped slowly over to sit on her bunk. The cabin was sosmall that their knees nearly knocked together as they sat.
    “What did you do to your foot?” Shannon asked.
    Cherokee turned and began stuffing something noxious into a stone pipe. She struck a match and puffed the mixture of tobacco and herbs into life.
    “It was a hard winter,” Cherokee said, “but Wounded Bear’s band only lost one old squaw and a stillborn baby. The rest of them are as frisky as your durn dog.”
    Shannon wanted to pursue the subject of the other woman’s injury, but didn’t. Cherokee talked about what interested her and ignored the rest.
    “If they weren’t frisky, one of your spring tonics would put them right,” Shannon said, grimacing.
    Cherokee’s tonics tasted awful, though she swore that was part of their virtue.
    “That’s the God’s truth,” Cherokee said.
    Discreetly Shannon looked around the cabin. Normally there was a full bucket of water beside the stove, wood stacked nearby, and something edible simmering. Sometimes there were even fresh biscuits.
    But today there was only a nearly empty bucket, the scraped remains of stew in the bottom of a pot, and nothing edible in sight. Nor was there any wood bigger than kindling.
    “Walking here made me thirsty,” Shannon said, reaching for the empty bucket. “Mind if I fetch some water?”
    Cherokee hesitated, then shrugged.
    “The creek is cold enough to freeze hell itself,” the old woman muttered. “Makes my teeth ache all the way to my elbows to drink the durned water.”
    “Then I’ll just fetch some wood and warm the water a bit.”
    Again Cherokee hesitated. Then she sighed.
    “I thank you kindly,