The Emerald Series: Volume I

By Kelly Savage

The Karensa Emerald When eighteen-year old Kara returns with her mother to her grandfather’s childhood ranch outside Aspen, Colorado she is full of curiosity about her family’s past. However, for Kara’s mother the past is a black place she buried in the cemetery above Globe, Arizona nearly thirty years ago. Emerald Fire Burning Bright The second book of this generational family saga finds Karensa’s children coming of age in the turbulent ‘60s. In Arizona, two discover truths during a time of political unrest as Native Americans struggle to reclaim their heritage and lands; in Venezuela two grow up as oil interests threaten to overtake traditional native culture and lands. In Volume II (coming soon) Karensa’s children and grandchildren learn about Inuit culture, love, hate and, most importantly, forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483471280

Book preview

THE

EMERALD

SERIES

Volume I

Kelly Savage

Copyright © 2017 Kelly Savage.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

THE EMERALD SERIES VOL. 1

Books One and Two

The Karensa Emerald, Revised Edition

Emerald Fire Burning Bright, Revised Edition

Copyright ©2017 Kelly Savage

The Karensa Emerald and Emerald Fire Burning Bright

previously published by BookTango

Copyright Kelly Savage ©2012

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance

to actual persons, places or events is coincidental

Scripture quotes are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7129-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7128-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909407

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/16/2017

VOL I

Book One

The Karensa Emerald

Book Two

Emerald Fire Burning Bright

Coming soon:

VOL II

Book Three

Emerald Earth, Emerald Ice

Book Four

Emerald Mists

Also by author:

The Pond Dwellers

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank JoEllen Dominguez and Gracie Lowery for the many hours they volunteered proofreading and their suggestions and encouragement as the books went through many revisions over the years.

Also special posthumous thanks to Marianne Wendt for her assistance regarding the WWII Women’s Army Nurse Corps program.

BOOK ONE

The Karensa Emerald

MAIN CHARACTERS

Karensa (Kari) Anne Moorehead

Born on the Cherokee reservation, Oklahoma, 1921.

Illegitimate daughter of (full-blooded Cherokee) Willow

and Edward Moorehead. Wife of John Jean

Cappen; common law wife of Bart Grant.

Bart Grant

Born in Aspen, Colorado. 1920.

Policeman, sheriff.

John Jean Cappen

Born in Louisiana, 1917.

Baptist minister, doctor, missionary in Venezuela.

James Bryce (Moorehead)

(1919) Adopted son of Edward and Julia Moorehead,

Shreveport, Louisiana.

Katrina Grant

Born in Mexico, 1943.

Daughter of Karensa and Bart.

Edward Grant

Born in Mexico, 1943.

Son of Karensa and Bart, kidnapped as a baby.

Aaron Cappen, Abraham Cappen

Born in Venezuela, 1944.

Sons of John Jean and Karensa.

Matthew Luke Cappen

Born in Venezuela, 1945.

Son of John Jean and Karensa.

Lawrence Barrymont

Born in Nova Scotia. 1940.

Husband of Katrina, father of Kara.

Kara Barrymont

Born in Nova Scotia, 1976.

Daughter of Katrina and Lawrence.

Karlton Bryce

(1943)

Neighbor, ranch owner, Aspen, Colorado.

CHAPTER ONE

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What do you do when you open the closet and discover the skeleton?

Our family’s skeleton was that my grandmother was wife to two men at the same time. One she loved with all her heart and the other she married out of a sense of duty.

I speak of this in the darkness of this bedroom while staring into the eyes in the photograph of the grandfather I never knew.

My mother, their love child, could never forgive them for their secret.

But I have read the diaries and I understand.

My grandmother lived with this man in love, not in sin.

Aspen, Colorado, 1994

Hey, Mom! Get a look! Kara whispered, jabbing a bony elbow into her mother’s ribs.

Katrina’s head turned. Behind large, dark sunglasses she looked where her eighteen year old daughter indicated.

It’s him! I know it is! Kara said excitedly as she nervously played with the multiple earrings on her right ear.

Kara, it’s not polite to stare, her mother remarked drily as they identified their baggage and the porter led them out the glass doors to the waiting rental car. The rental agent was leaning on the white Jeep Cherokee while he cleaned his fingernails with a pen knife.

But, Mom that was Tom Cruise! I know it was! insisted the slender young woman as she flung her pink and green Gucci duffel bag into the back of the Jeep.

Katrina graciously accepted the keys and a map from the young rental agent. He stared, wondering if the tall, statuesque woman with the thick French-braided black hair was a movie star. He accepted his tip and waved at Kara as she craned around to try to get another glimpse of Tom.

Please tell me which road I need to take, her mother said as she drove away from the small, yet busy airport in the foothills of the Rockies. It was early August and very hot. Katrina was grateful that the agent had kept the Jeep running for the air conditioning.

You’re no fun! Kara pouted, casually slouching, her feet up on the dashboard. Her Gap khaki shorts rode up to expose long, slender, smoothly tanned legs.

Katrina didn’t waste her breath admonishing Kara. Her daughter– the only child she had– was spoiled. Kara wasn’t a bad person but her mother could only take her in small doses. The long flight from Boston, Massachusetts, preceded by a long drive and ferry trip from Antigonish, Nova Scotia, had thrown them together for a couple of days. Katrina was tired and wanted to enjoy a peaceful afternoon. Kara had other ideas.

Hey, Mom! They’ve got a Starbucks! Can we stop? I’m dying for a double chocolate espresso latte.

Katrina didn’t really want to try to find a parking space on the busy Aspen street. She glanced over at the Victorian building Kara was pointing to and decided she could just slide over and wait until she had traffic behind her.

Make it quick! she said as Kara jumped out before she came to a full stop. As Kara hurried into the store, Katrina watched her lithe body move with a sure grace. She never tired of watching her daughter for her movements were so perfect. She had been watching her, protecting her for a long time. She was not looking forward to September when Kara would leave home for college. They had been each other’s best friend, in a way, since Kara was born. Almost since Katrina could remember, she had worried about someone– her father, then her brother and Lawrence. Her husband was blind so she was always watching for him. It seemed that even before Kara was conceived, Katrina worried about her. Perhaps it was because of the tragic events her parents experienced with two of their sons, she thought.

This was their last real time together as mother and daughter but it hadn’t been going well. She glanced at her diamond-studded gold Rolex watch as traffic appeared down the street.

Come on, Kara, she muttered, anxiously watching the rear-view mirror.

The last moment before she’d have to move, Kara emerged, carefully holding two foam cups of ambrosia. She gracefully slid in and Katrina pulled forward to the light.

Here, Kara said, handing her mother the cup, cover carefully folded back.

Thanks, sweetie, Katrina replied, smiling but looking straight ahead, Now, where do we turn to go out towards the ranch?

Oh, cool! Kara exclaimed, pointing to a mansion, Hard Rock Cafe! This place is neat!

The map, Kara–

Oh yeah– OK, at the next light, you’ve got to take a right. We’ll stay on that road for about ten miles and then it looks like we take another right onto a dirt road.

I can’t believe you hardly ever came out and visited your grandparents here! Kara exclaimed, noisily slurping the last of her coffee. To annoy her elegant mother she made it a point to be uncouth. Her hair was a multi-layered mess of thick black with black-cherry tips; she wore purple granny sunglasses, had four earrings in one ear and five in another and liked to combine chunky designer boots with mini skirts or long gauzy skirts. She wore tight sweaters over her slim torso and topped them with huge, bulky sweaters. But whatever Kara wore, she was beautiful for she inherited large, emerald green eyes from Katrina.

Katrina wore expensive, tailored clothes and went to day spas. Her hair, make-up, nails and jewelry were all immaculate. Her husband couldn’t see her, but he knew she was an elegant woman. He repeatedly told her how much he loved touching her, smelling her expensive perfume, hugging her silk-clad body. She hadn’t started out that way, but over time, Katrina had grown into the role of a wealthy man’s wife. She despaired at her daughter’s sloppiness but also knew that Kara could never be ugly: no matter what she wore, her natural beauty shone through.

Kara pointed out prairie dogs along the way and they both admired the majestic mountains surrounding them as they drove on.

There! Kara shouted, startling Katrina out of her jet-lag sleepy state. She took a right and drove onto a dirt road.

I’m glad this has four-wheel drive, Katrina said as the road became steeper, rockier and narrower.

Kara was busy looking for elk, deer, bear and cougars. She had been in the Maine woods before but this spelled wilderness.

They drove through a small stream, the Jeep Cherokee easily taking them over the smooth stones.

The road continued uphill into a forest of aspen trees. As they went around a curve, it dipped down into a meadow and in the distance they saw an old ranch house with a long front porch. Barns, corrals and outbuildings were arranged tidily around it. Some horses were grazing in a pasture to their right. The front gate was beneath a tall, curved black iron lintel that had a brand of two G’s intertwined.

Waiting for them at the gate was an old pickup truck.

Katrina stopped the vehicle and a tall tanned man, stooped with arthritis, slowly got out of the truck and walked over.

Hi! I’m Katrina, the mother said, and this is Kara.

Jake introduced himself, tipping his stained white cowboy hat. His smile was a leathery crinkle.

Been expectin’ you. Took most of the cattle to auction and all but a few of the horses, he said, slapping his dusty hat against his dusty jeans.

Thank you, Katrina replied. They had been in touch about matters concerning the livestock and ranch through mail and phone since her grandfather passed away two months earlier so they were comfortable with each other.

I’ve got a flatbed for any big stuff yer want hauled out, he continued, his grey eyes slitting against the afternoon sun that sheened his face. Katrina noticed in the side mirror the sun was slipping beneath the treetops.

She drove up the long, dusty road to the house, taking in the miles of fields and hills that now belonged to her. As the only grandchild, she had inherited everything. Her father and his brother had both passed away years ago and her uncle had been childless.

The fields were aglow with colorful wildflowers in tall yellow and green grasses. The small stream they crossed was now wider, running through the meadows.

This is so pretty, she said softly and for once Kara was quiet, too, as she took in the towering blue mountains and thick forests of pines, spruces and aspens.

So Great-grandpa was a real rancher! Kara finally said and then added, I wonder if Jake will let us ride the horses?

Kara– we’re not here to ride the range, her mother replied curtly, we have a lot to do and we only have two weeks to do it in. And besides, I’m sure Jake has a lot to do, too.

She had allowed distance between the vehicles so the pickup’s dust wouldn’t envelop them. As she pulled up in front of the wooden steps, Jake came right over and opened her door.

Can’t get over how much you both look like Bart, he said, shaking his head as he assessed Kara.

A pain, like that of a tooth erupting, bit into Katrina’s heart every time she thought of her father, Bart. It felt good to remember and then, when she stopped, it hurt so bad that she tried not to think of him ever again. She hadn’t wanted to do this– to come here to her father’s childhood home– but Jake and Lawrence had both insisted. Katrina had memories of living in the west, but it had been in a small mining city. This was a working country ranch. Or had been until recently.

The old ranch house was tastefully furnished with a mix of antiques from generations of Grants and good quality newer furniture.

Don’t worry about the cookin’ and all, said Jake as he walked them through to the dining and kitchen area, Anna will come in every day to cook an’ clean.

Jake turned around and faced them. A huge round oak table with pressed oak chairs stood between them in the dining room. A bouquet of wildflowers sat in the middle of the table. The multi-paned windows looked out to a breath-taking mountain view.

Old Angela – you can call her Anna if you want – has been with the family for near on forty years, he said, his voice low as he added, She’s taken old man Grant’s death pretty hard.

Kara gave her mother a look that said, Well, after all, Great-Grandpa was really old!

Katrina mumbled that she was sorry as she tried to figure out what Jake was really saying. Was he hinting at a severance settlement for Anna– or for both of them?

Jake showed them to their bedrooms upstairs– Katrina had the master bedroom and Kara was settled in Bart’s old room.

Katrina felt suddenly exhausted. She lay down on the handmade quilt on the double bed. The brass bed frame creaked and she automatically reached up behind the pillow, her hand finding comfort in the cold, round shape of the brass bed knob.

She closed her green eyes – still clear and beautiful, hardly touched by wrinkles although she was almost fifty – and wondered what tales this bed could tell. Both sons had probably been born in it. A marriage had been consummated and deepened in it and Grants had breathed their last breaths on its deep mattress. She could almost feel these things as she caressed the cold brass knob.

You’re being silly, she admonished herself as she folded her hands over her abdomen. Katrina didn’t like thinking about the past. The past was a black place, a place she had buried in the red clay of the cemetery above Globe, Arizona almost thirty ago.

Down the carpeted hallway, Kara was exploring. She quickly took in the desk, bureau, rocking chair and closet in the wood-paneled bedroom that had belonged to her grandfather. There were some old photos of him as a child and from when he was in high school plus guy stuff sports memorabilia. He had been cute, she guessed, in a big, overgrown boy way. Of course the geeky clothes didn’t help. Like her, he had black hair. He’d had dark brown eyes and had been tall with wide shoulders. Sorta reminded her of an old movie star like Rock Hudson. The later photo of him in a police officer uniform was actually handsome, she admitted.

There were no wedding photos or photos of her grandmother– who she was told she was named after, kinda. Her grandmother had a foreign-sounding name: Karensa. But people had called her Kari.

Kara shrugged and moved closer to a photo of her grandfather holding two tiny babies in his arms. Twins.

That’s odd, Kara said under her breath, Mom’s never mentioned a twin. She thought maybe it had died when they were tiny. She’d have to ask when the moment was right.

She bit the inside of her lip– a habit that drove her mother crazy. It was so hard asking her mother anything about the past. She’d just shut down and become silent whenever Kara asked about her grandparents. It was as if her mother felt her history began at the point where she and her father had married. Nothing Kara could do would make her mother talk about her life prior to that.

Kara narrowed her almond-shaped emerald green eyes, ringed with black feathery lashes. Had this man (who was grinning from ear to ear as he held the two babies swaddled in blankets), been such a horrible person her mother couldn’t stand to talk about him? No, Kara thought as she gazed into his eyes in the black and white photograph: this man looked kind and gentle. And what about her grandmother– all Kara knew about her was that she had Cherokee blood in her and a strange name. All mention of her grandparents was taboo. Kara knew her mother blamed them for something but didn’t know what.

Below the bedroom window she heard a woman speaking in Spanish to Jake. Kara decided to go downstairs and explore. She couldn’t believe her stuck-in-the-mud mother had no interest in such a cool ranch!

CHAPTER TWO

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Kara didn’t help much in the following days. Every time her mother pulled out a box or wanted her to help box up stuff, she disappeared.

Jake had shown her around the stables and she’d chosen a fine quarter horse to ride. The western saddle took a little getting used to as Kara had ridden dressage for many years in Nova Scotia. She had grown up in a privileged home– private school, skiing trips, yachting, tennis and horseback riding. Her only regret was her father’s blindness. However, he often accompanied them and never ceased to amaze people with what he could do despite the lack of sight. The one thing Kara wished she could do, though, was to be able to look into her father’s eyes and have him look back into hers.

Yet the deep brown eyes of her grandfather kept staring into her soul. She’d lie in the old wooden bed and stare at the photos on the walls. He seemed to be always just on the verge of a laugh– and somehow he didn’t look geeky anymore. He had a real nice manly face– strong jaw and a nose that curved up slightly at the end. She imagined he’d had a deep voice, commanding yet compassionate.

When she mentioned the photo of the twins, Katrina refused to discuss it and told Anna to box up all the photos in Kara’s bedroom. Kara had begged Anna not to– it was their secret. Anna was very sad and distracted and Kara could have sworn she’d overheard her ask Jake about the grandson. Maybe the other twin? But why wouldn’t he inherit half the ranch?

Warned by Katrina to be careful of rattlesnakes, black widows, bears and anything her mother could dream of, Kara had ridden off to explore the ranch.

The sheer beauty of the place awed her. She now understood John Denver’s song, Rocky Mountain High and begged her mom to let her borrow the Jeep and drive over to Starwood, his ranch outside of Aspen. Katrina angrily turned her down.

Kara was disappointed. Since arriving at the ranch, they’d been into Aspen only twice– once to a great restaurant in one of the old Victorian houses and the second time to meet with a realtor. Yay. Her mother kept her on a short leash like a dog and it was chafing!

Her only freedom was to mount the wonderfully muscled beast and ride off across the meadows, putting as much distance between herself and her mother as possible. She couldn’t wait until September when she’d be going off to Harvard in the States. It was far away from Antigonish and her mother!

Whoa, Misty! she called, reining the horse back a little as she spotted prairie dog holes ahead. She didn’t want the mare to accidentally step into one and break a leg.

As she sat on the horse soaking up the August sun, a Banana Republic hat hanging down the back of her neck, her eyes closed. She was immersed in the sounds of the mountain meadow. Meadow larks, bees and dragonflies were singing their song to summer.

Kara became aware of the other rider when Misty began to snort. She opened her eyes and saw an older man with a black cowboy hat and dark shirt and jeans riding towards her on a magnificent Arabian stallion. The weird thing was he had on small round sunglasses. Kara almost laughed. A cowboy with shades!

The rider reined his horse as he approached. She noticed he had excellent equine skills.

He smiled and Kara felt an odd shock run through her. Something was so familiar about this guy!

Hi, he said.

Hi, she replied.

New to the ranch? he asked.

Kara tried to study his face without him knowing. Was he a famous actor? Was that why he looked so familiar?

Yeah, kinda. We’re actually just here to sell it, she said, smoothing Misty’s mane.

My name’s Karlton, he said, awkwardly reaching between the horses to shake her hand.

Kara thought furiously. Karlton… Karlton– what actor had that name.

I own the ranch neighboring yours to the north, he said, Sorry to hear about the old man’s death.

Yeah. He was pretty old, I guess, Kara replied and then she smiled, Oh, sorry, I’m Kara. My mom was Mr. Grant’s granddaughter. Her name is Katrina.

She thought she saw him stiffen as she pulled her hat on.

Such a beautiful name, he murmured, staring at her.

I guess, she replied. He was making her nervous, Well, I’d better get back– I’ve got to help my mother.

She turned the mare and started to trot but he called after her,

Wait!

He came alongside and added, Do you mind if I ride with you a ways?

Kara shrugged and prodded the mare to a gallop.

Just short of the hill beyond the ranch house, he pulled his horse to a halt. Kara stopped at his request.

Your grandmother– he said, his voice strained, What was her name?

Karensa, she replied brusquely. He was creeping her out.

I knew it! he said as she gave him a sharp look. He quickly continued, I mean– there’s been talk. Out here there’s not much news so anything that happens gets talked about.

Kara shook her head and waved, galloping down to the ranch, his eyes burning into her back. She felt something– a sadness, a yearning– emanating from him.

The house was a disaster. There were boxes everywhere– all neatly labeled by her mother. Salvation Army, Nursing Home, Schools, etc. as she disposed of the Grant’s possessions. Kara noted there was no box marked, Antigonish.

Hi!

If looks could kill.

Where have you been? I’m overwhelmed here! Katrina said, tendrils of her thick hair falling around her face. She was in jeans and a tee shirt– a new look for her, thought Kara. From Day One, Kara had adopted the tee shirt, jeans, hat and boot look.

Sorry. Been riding, Kara replied, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and crunching into it. She wiped the juice from her chin and added, Met our neighbor to the north.

The phone rang. Katrina answered it and talked for a minute. She then spoke impatiently to Anna and told Kara she had to drive to town, something about the realtor. For once, Kara didn’t want to go. She was hot and sweaty and wanted a nice, long cool shower.

We’re going to start in with the bedroom closets when I get back, Katrina told her as she went out the screen door.

Kara panicked, thinking of the photos.

Mom– I’ll get the stuff in my room taken care of. Clothes in one and anything usable in the other?

Fine, Katrina said, sighing. She missed Lawrence and their cool, shaded gardens. Everything out here was hot, dry and dusty. And full of spiderwebs. She called back from the Jeep,

Be careful of black widows!

Kara rolled her eyes and started up the wooden stairs. She noticed the carpet was worn in spots on the treads. Their carpets at home were only the finest from the best weavers. Her mother was a clean freak and had the carpets shampooed monthly whether they needed it or not. These people – the Grants – seemed cool and Kara wished she had known them, wished she had been invited to spend summers out here. Now it was too late. All of this was no more.

She winked at Bart’s rodeo photo,

Bet you had a fun childhood! she said as she pulled her sweaty clothes off, leaving a trail on the way to the bathroom.

After her shower she took a little nap. A thunderstorm was brewing over the mountains. Cool gusts of fragrant air blew the curtains into the room and Kara anticipated watching a full blown fierce Rocky Mountain thunderstorm hit the ranch. She loved the sheer brute force of thunderstorms. When she told her mother this, Katrina had laughed. She said she (Katrina) was conceived because of a tremendous storm but then would say no more.

As the sky darkened, Kara reluctantly went over to the closet to pull out her grandfather’s geeky clothes. She grabbed some boxes from the hallway and began throwing old suits, pants and shirts into them, hangers and all. Old shoes were so gross! Shriveled up hats and boots went into the garbage box, along with cracked belts and an old lariat.

She cleared the junk out– an old football, an old baseball glove, ball and cracked bat– all the junk that belonged to her jock grandfather. At the back of the closet on the floor was an old metal footlocker.

Oh, great, Kara muttered as she dragged the dusty trunk into the room, What kind of crap’s in here?

The lock was stuck and she had to get a ballpoint pen to force it open.

What? Her mouth fell open.

What’s this all about? she whispered, pulling back the scented tissue paper, Cool.

On top was a photograph of a woman Kara just knew was her grandmother.

Wow! She was really beautiful, Kara whispered, holding up a World War II vintage sepia photograph that had been hand tinted. The Cherokee cheekbones set off the slender face with green eyes almost identical to Kara’s and her mother’s. The rich auburn hair was in a bun at the nape of her neck but enough showed so Kara knew it was thick. The lips were full and smiling. Kara noticed she was wearing a nurse’s uniform beneath a military jacket with padded shoulder pads. Very Bette Davis or Joan Crawford, she thought.

Beneath the portrait there was a photo album. These were black and white snapshots, circa 1950s. Bart was in them and her grandmother was pregnant in more than one. Kara knit her brows. There was a boy a little younger than her mother in some of the photos. She realized it was her uncle, Matt.

Hello, Kara said to the boy with the light brown hair.

Everyone looked happy in the photos. There were desert photos and some had Native Americans in them. At first Kara thought they were Cherokees but one of the photos showed a trading post and she realized they were western tribes of the United States at a powwow.

There were some old baby clothes in the trunk– handmade. Kara kept pulling items out and putting them on the bed. There was a Bible, a silver comb and brush, a nursing diploma in a glass frame, and a WWII Woman’s Army Nurse Corps diploma. Also inside were some woman’s clothes, shoes and purses; old lingerie, girdles, nylons and full slips. Kara thought a vintage clothing store would go nuts over some of the stuff.

Then she saw a small, moth-eaten velvet box that had once held a small pendant and letters tied with ribbons. These were really old and yellowed. The ribbon was falling apart. Kara noticed they were from Russia. She was ecstatic. Here was her past! Here were the missing links her mother had denied her!

At the bottom of the trunk there was a large shoe box. Kara lifted it out. She couldn’t believe her eyes! Diaries! Her grandmother had kept diaries!

She heard the Jeep approaching fast and then the rain tattooed loudly on the metal roof.

Quickly Kara put everything in the trunk– except the precious diaries, letters and photos. She shoved these things under the bed just as her mother came in, toweling off from the downpour.

Kara panicked as she remembered the photos on the walls but her mother’s eyes were riveted on the trunk.

What’s that? she asked, slowly moving closer.

I don’t know– some old woman’s clothes, Kara said calmly. Her heart was thumping wildly as she joked, Maybe Grandpa was a cross dresser!

Katrina casually shuffled through the trunk. The color had returned to her face but Kara thought her hands were shaking.

Just put the whole thing in the hall, she ordered, along with those other boxes.

She turned and started out the door. Then she stopped and faced Kara,

Thank you for your help, said Katrina softly.

Kara forced a smile. Her teeth were sticking to her dry lips.

No problem.

Katrina looked distracted. She noticed the photos on the wall. A shock ran through her and she said shakily, I asked Anna to remove those!

Hey, no problem, Mom, Kara said, removing them and stacking them in an empty box.

Well– we were going to dine in town tonight, her mother said, but the creek that crosses the road is flooded. We won’t be going anywhere for a while, I’m afraid.

It’s okay– we can eat in front of the TV, said Kara, keeping the tone light.

Just then a tremendous crack and flash happened almost simultaneously. The house shook. The room was swallowed in shadows.

Or not.

A second lightning flash made Katrina shriek and jump. Kara began to laugh. And then she thought this would give her a good excuse to go to bed early so she could begin reading the diaries!

CHAPTER THREE

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Katrina had other ideas for the evening. After a supper of sandwiches, they sat in the oil lantern-lit den and listened to tapes of Lawrence on the piano performing a variety of classical pieces. The tape player was battery operated and its speakers didn’t do justice to his talent. Both Kara and Katrina loved to sit in the music room at home and listen by the hour to Lawrence play the baby grand. He was so talented he could adapt string pieces for it. There was something incredibly healing and comforting about his music.

Jake found an old Monopoly game and the three of them played a half-hearted game.

Kara decided to be bold and asked Jake,

Did you work here when my granddad was a kid?

Jake laughed and peered at her across the dim room.

How old do you think I am, girl?

Kara was flustered. She hadn’t meant to offend him.

Jake laughed again and lit up a home-rolled cigarette, exhaling in a messy cloud before he let her off the hook.

Let’s do a little arithmetic, he said, rocking back out of the circle of light over the coffee table. Outside, the sky lit up and boomed. Rain drummed on the roof.

Your grandpa was born in 1920. It’s 1994. He’d a been seventy-four years old. Now how could I have worked here when he was a young un?

Despite herself, Katrina smiled.

I– well– I– Kara stumbled, feeling stupid.

Jake laughed again, leaning forward to flick his ash into the large lead glass ashtray.

Yer granddad and I went to school together, he continued, settling back into the shadows.

Did you come out here to visit him when you were growing up? Kara asked, ignoring Katrina’s stiff disapproval.

Yep. We just about grew up together out there— his outstretched arm threw a shadow illuminated by the lightning outside the window, I helped with every roundup and brandin’ and we rode some rodeo together in our teens.

So grandpa was a real cowboy? Kara asked, not bothering to hide her excitement. Another puzzle piece!

Well, said Jake, rocking with a creak, There’s cowboys and there’s ranchers and there’s country folk. The real cowboys are all gone– been gone long before my time. But we knew every square inch of this ranch and then some! As soon as we could walk we had boots on and butt blisters from ridin’!

Kara, I’m sure Jake doesn’t want to–

Nonsense! snuffed Jake, I don’t mind. Kid’s curious about her grandpa. I tell ya it’s a damn shame you and she never came out here ter visit when the old folks was alive.

Katrina let it slide. She didn’t have to answer to him about how she raised her daughter

Jake continued, No– we weren’t cowboys but we were damn fine ranchers. Well, yer dad was the rancher’s son and me, I was just a ranch hand but we did the same things.

But you stayed and Grandpa didn’t? Kara persisted.

Well, yer grandpa always had this hankering to be a sheriff. He just loved all those Wyatt Earp stories and all. Always playin’ Marshal and Outlaw out in the fields, we were. ‘Course, I always had to be the outlaw! Jake laughed and rocked harder, sipping on his glass of whiskey, He even had him a tin badge that said ‘U.S. Marshal’ on it.

Kara remembered seeing it in the junk in the closet. It was all tarnished and the pin on the back was bent.

So after high school, yer dad went off and joined the sheriff’s department as a deputy.

Kara was dying to ask Is that how he met grandma? but she felt her mother’s eyes boring into her so stayed silent.

He couldn’t get full time, though, so when the fancy police department wanted him in San Diego, California, he went. Got a promotion to Lieutenant and everythin’.

His cigarette was almost out. He stubbed it out and lit another, blowing smoke all over them. His grey mustache was yellow from nicotine– as were his fingertips. With his glass of whiskey, Kara had no trouble picturing him in a cowboy camp in front of the stove.

You see, yer grandpa always knew the ranch would be here, so he felt free to leave. Me– I was afraid if I left I’d never be taken back. He had an older brother– Rex– who took care of things here along with the old man. So Bart would come and go.

Hell, he was gone a couple a years before he came back with your–

That’s enough for tonight! Katrina said, standing up. She looked at Jake, Are you going to round up the rest of the cattle for the auction tomorrow?

Yes’m, replied Jake, chastened by her stern tone, But we’ll have to pen ’em until the creek goes down. Can’t get the truck and trailer through it when it’s high like this.

Come on, Kara, Katrina ordered, We have a lot to do tomorrow; we need to go to bed.

Kara got up slowly and patted Jake on the shoulder as she passed.

See you tomorrow, Jake, she said as she took a lantern and flashlights from the hall table. She knew her mother would make damn sure she never talked to Jake alone again!

But she had the diaries. The thought almost made her heart stop.

She was going upstairs to meet her grandmother for the first time!

It took Kara about an hour to get the diaries in chronological order. The oldest was badly water stained, written in a dark blue composition book. It had a date inside the front cover but Kara could hardly make it out ‘1943’ she thought.

Her grandmother wrote:

This should be the happiest day of my life, but I’m so miserable I want to kill myself.

(The writing was smeared as if by tears.)

It continued:

He just asked me to marry him. Oh, God, I love him and desperately want to but something inside me screams ‘No!’ whenever I think about it. I know it has something to do with God but I can’t imagine that God wants me to bear this child in sin. Bart is confused and angry and I just want to die.

The captain has been very kind and understanding. He gave me this diary, telling me writing about my feelings might make things better.

But where do I begin? My memory only goes back to the accident. Try as I may, I can’t pull out anything from the murky depths of my past.

Bart told me things from before the wreck– things I had told him in San Diego. I don’t even remember where San Diego is! I am so frightened to go home– wherever that is– and to raise a child while living in this horrible fog of confusion about my past.

There are times when I get a flash– like a bolt of lightning– a memory illuminated and then it’s gone. I have told Bart about all of them so he can remember them for me. But they make no sense to either of us. He said when we get back to the States, he’ll get his notes from the hotel. God, I have almost no recollection of that! Also, the shipping line might have some personal information…

The next few days, Kara rode out early every morning, a diary tucked in her backpack.

Her grandmother’s story actually began much earlier than 1943, she realized. It began in Georgia a long time ago…

CHAPTER FOUR

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Kara learned that the story of her grandmother and what her grandfather called the Karensa emerald actually began in a forest in Georgia in the 1830s.

Karensa wrote,

Ilisi told me that many moons ago our people roamed the Eastern woodlands and gentle valleys that the white people now call the Carolinas and Georgia. This was a wonderful, fertile land full of rivers and much game. It was while hunting a deer that my grandfather many generations back found a spirit stone, a special emerald.

Later that night, Kara had a dream (or vision).

In her dream the fawn lay dead in the high grass.

Not caring if he were taken prisoner, Talking Bear knelt next to it, tears of anger, hate and rage running down his face.

The soldiers rode over to him. He rose; pointing to the buck’s carcass sections hanging from their saddles.

He yelled in Cherokee, That’s my deer!

He angrily strode to meet the stinking, hairy pale skinned men.

A half-breed guide, a disgrace to his Native American half, translated with a laugh.

The Englishman used the tongue of the interpreter,

Why are you in the forest? Do you live here?

Talking Bear knew he would be taken prisoner regardless of his reply. He refused to reply to any of the soldier’s questions and, as the leader began to dismount, he dashed into the woods, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst through his chest.

Once in the woods, he became as invisible as the deer, running soundlessly through the sugar maples, beeches and yellow birches until the Englishmen were far behind. Still, aware of the half-Cherokee in pursuit, he ran deeper, towards the base of the mountain. Leaping over a dead log, Talking Bear’s ankle twisted and he stumbled. Before he could stand up, he fell down a ravine, the sounds of the rocks and pebbles falling with him, drowning out his heartbeat as he clawed at the rich, damp soil to stop his fall.

Talking Bear’s skull struck something hard; the impact made him bite his tongue. Warm, salty blood filled his mouth as blackness seeped into his mind.

The pre-dawn cold seeped into his skin and he slowly awoke with the scent of damp, ancient earth in his nostrils. He was stiff and his head throbbed. He opened his lids and sharp pain bit him behind his eyes; he turned his neck painfully and a fierce nausea overtook him, making him vomit into the soil.

A while later, he awoke again. He turned his head away from the vomit, which was now buzzing with flies. The rock that had bruised his skull was on his left– a small boulder in the exposed roots of the maple tree overhead. A light rain began and he shivered, curling into a ball for warmth as it hurt too much to sit up. Again he dozed off.

She was dreaming his dream. He was the deer. His nostrils dilated, blowing the cold morning air in and out of his lungs as he panted, his long, lean brown legs flying through the high grass that still held the pattern of the sleeping herd.

The Cherokee brave raced towards the forest in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains that reminded him of the pipe smoke that Creator loved so much. He was chasing the startled herd into the cool green depths where the meadow met the trees. A low mist still hung on the ground and the deer found refuge in it.

Talking Bear paused as he entered, his soft, flapped moccasins becoming silent as he moved around the tall sugar maples, beeches and yellow birches of the old forest. This skill he had learned when just an a tsu tsa of seven winters during war games played with the other boys of his village. His feet deftly slipped in and around the underbrush without stepping on a dried twig, his torso slid amongst the low red sumac branches that he pushed aside without even disturbing the dew drops on the new leaves.

His ears pricked, listening for the crash of hooves in the twilight. In the distance he heard a snort and cough and knew a buck was near, guarding the does and fawns.

As he crouched and advanced, he drew his bow– made when he was twelve winters old, of ash and sinew strung so tight that his growing muscles had all they could do to hold the string– while he placed an arrow, finely notched with turkey feathers and tipped with one of the chert arrowheads he had chipped during the winter from material gathered in the lowlands during the gogi, or warm season before the birth of his first child.

The memory of that pain when his young wife had died in the birthing hut, the baby stuck inside, made him stumble and the buck snorted, stamping its hooves in the brush.

Talking Bear stood still, regretting his lapse of concentration. He badly needed to kill a deer today. He was wooing a young maiden named Tlv da tsi Di ga do li (Panther Eyes) and had made a circular house for them of split white oak saplings interwoven with cane and plastered with grass and clay.

The deer would be his gift to her so they could live together. She was from a tribe that lived further south along the widest section of the Catawba River so the house he built was there, outside the Qualla Boundary, which was his homeland. Although she would never have that special place in his heart that his first wife had, he loved her tall, straight figure with the mane of black hair that she washed with herbs to make it as shiny as obsidian in the sunlight.

Talking Bear’s people knew about herbs and plants. Creator had given the plant brothers to his people to cure every illness that the animal brothers or evil spirits sent their way. He had often accompanied his maternal grandfather on trips to the fields and forests to gather plants for medicine. Grandfather would explain to him that he had dreamt a certain plant would help cure a villager and the dream would show him where the plant could be found. Although Talking Bear wasn’t a shaman, he was a very religious man and practiced love and respect for Turtle Island and Mother Earth. This was the reason he had purified himself in the sweat lodge near the river, bathed in the river afterwards, fasted and prayed to the Deer Spirit for success in hunting. He had smudged himself with smoke to cover human scent and had journeyed forth the night before.

Unlike the pale men who came from the land of the rising sun who hunted with muskets, Talking Bear hunted in his people’s traditional way, using skill instead of the thunderstick.

He had prayed that brother deer would allow himself to be sacrificed today. Yet now that he had let himself slip from his focus, he wasn’t sure he would succeed.

His stomach grumbled and he willed it to be silent as he listened for the herd, now deeper into the forest, closer to the river. One breath at a time, he once again became the deer until their smell was filling his senses.

Talking Bear squinted; he became still as a yellow birch tree— watching, sighting the buck who would sacrifice itself to the young brave. The wind carried their rich, musky odor through the wet rhododendron leaves as he placed the arrow against the sinew and began to pull so slowly that his movements were imperceptible.

As the arrow flew, its whistle alerted the young buck nearest to Talking Bear. It raised its proud head with its modest rack of antlers but before it could leap away, the arrow had struck through its heart. It jumped and thrashed for a second as the herd panicked and ran off. Talking Bear crept over to the clearing and knelt before the beautiful, dying animal. Its large brown eyes were wet with the knowledge of its death as he took his English steel knife out of its leather scabbard and plunged it into the deer’s heart to end its suffering.

He pulled out the liver and held it up to the Deer Spirit, thanking it for the gift. Then he ate some of the squishy, tender, bloody liver, letting it run down his face onto the ground.

Talking Bear immediately set to work hanging the deer from a tree and gutting it, the entrails a gift to Mother Earth and the animal brothers.

As the sun moved over the smoky blue mountains, he staggered as he hefted his cleaned carcass over a firm, tan shoulder and started towards the river where he would bathe and spend the night, the carcass hung high in a tree to prevent brother bear or cougar from feasting on it.

Dawn rose with the sounds of a mother deer and her newborn fawn crying to each other in the golden meadow beyond the river. Talking Bear rose up on an elbow and watched them– the mother grazing, the baby crying and taking unsteady steps after her. He was filled with love for their beauty and again he thanked brother deer for his sacrifice.

The forest was alive with the sounds of spring: grey and red squirrels moving noisily through the forest floor, yellow-breasted chats calling in the tops of the silver bell trees. A bee buzzed past his head as he emerged from his sunrise dip in the river. He quickly tied the feathers and rawhide thong into his long, wet black ponytail and then ate a handful of parched corn mixed with dried berries.

As he entered the forest to retrieve the deer carcass, his ears picked up the sound of Englishmen on horseback. Talking Bear drew back, for he knew they were roaming the mountainside under orders of the Great White Father Jackson to round up the Cherokees who hadn’t surrendered their lands and agreed to move west to the reservations the white men were re-locating the people on. Already the Creeks, Chickasaws, Choctaws, Seminoles and some Cherokees had been rooted out and forced to march west. The Cherokee in the foothills nearby had legally purchased the Qualla Territory from the white men and had been left alone but the English took prisoner any found outside the boundaries, as Talking Bear was now.

He hid in the brush, his black eyes watching as the filthy white men spotted his deer, galloped over to it with shouts and cut it down with their swords.

A bitter bile rose in Talking Bear’s throat as he watched them laughingly hack it into pieces for themselves.

What arrogance these pale men had! First, they claimed the land that Creator had given to the Principal People, the tsa la gi. And now they claimed the deer who had given its life to Talking Bear.

He fought to stay still, his anger making his blood hot.

Then the white soldiers saw the doe and fawn and raised their thundersticks.

Talking Bear’s heart began to beat faster at the sheer travesty of it! To kill for sport a mother and the next generation: no Cherokee would do this! The Deer Spirit would become angry and they would never have deer again!

He rose, screaming his war cry, flailing his arms as he rushed into the meadow to warn the deer. The thundersticks fired but only the mother had escaped into the brush.

He yelled and charged. His scream awakened him from beneath the tree.

The sun’s setting rays were shining on his face. Talking Bear began chanting softly, praying that Creator would take pity on him and help him to die bravely without crying like a baby.

His eyes glittered as he thought of his wife-to-be and their children who would never be. He shut his eyes tight to stop the tears and when he opened them again a green light to his right caught his attention.

A bright, shining green light amongst the roots.

He slowly raised his head, almost vomiting again as a buzzing like a hive of bees filled his mind. He waited it out and then tried again, this time sitting up as he reached over for the green stone.

Talking Bear had never seen such a crystal, though the old ones spoke of a magic crystal in the Uktena’s dragon crest. To even see such a thing brought death. But this wasn’t attached to a flying serpent’s body.

As he held it up to the setting sun, he marveled at the translucent green fire flaming inside the stone. It transfixed him and he forgot about his pain. The whole forest seemed to be reflected in its greenness– all the plant brothers’ life flamed within.

Talking Bear knew it was a healing stone– a precious gift sent to help him and he stopped shivering. He forced himself to stand, but became so dizzy he sat down hard, jarring his head into deeper pain. He breathed deeply and fumbled in his pouch for the pemmican-like corn and berries. He ate it morsel by morsel, as brother bear would and after a handful, he began to feel a little stronger. He pulled dried leaves and fallen boughs over himself and made a bed so he could sleep through the drizzle that began with the dark.

Several sleeps later, he was strong enough to begin the walk back to his wife’s village. He stopped often and took the stone from his medicine pouch, staring at it, drawing strength from it.

The young boys stationed on raised platforms to guard the young corn plants spotted him first and their shouts brought the others.

His lean, handsome face was swollen down one side, the skin purple and black, matching that around his eyes. He knew the gash that matted the strip of stiff, greased hair running down the middle of his shaved scalp to his ponytail was bleeding anew as the blood trickled down his neck, clotting on the roach of feathers that hung down one side. The scar would be on his head forever, he knew, and realized that if it healed in an ugly pucker he might have to forgo clam shell tweezing to smooth his head bald. To cover its ugliness, he might have to adopt a full head of hair. It would be an embarrassment to look like a maiden, but he’d wear it down in the braided style of the western tribes that he’d seen in the drawings the white men sometimes carried with them.

The village’s sachem, a tall Cherokee named Stone Face, came out of his dwelling and met the group gathered around Talking Bear in the plaza. Talking Bear’s trek had exhausted him so he sat on one of the reed platforms while the sachem’s wife brought him a gourd full of hot raccoon stew. He ate and drank the broth and meat so fast he felt ill so he had to lie down before telling of his encounter with the soldiers. As he recounted the story of the deer meat and then the senseless slaughter of the fawn, the villagers moaned and cried out at the atrocity.

Dancing Turtle, the shaman of the village, said,

"A sad thing has come to our lands. We are out of harmony with the three worlds. First, the long knife men came to Turtle Island bringing many wonderful goods that helped us to hunt fish and fight better. Their cloth was warm and we liked the colorful beads they brought with them. These things we thought were very good. Then we began to hunt our animal brothers just for their skins so we could trade for these things with the pale devils.

"Mother Earth and our brothers became angry and sent even more of these pale men to punish us.

Now they have driven our brothers and sisters of the five civilized tribes to the desert west, away from their homes, across The Father of Waters, away from the mountains where the spirits dwell, never to see the sun set on them again.

He shook his head, ringed with soft duckskin and a tall crown of feathers,

"The Cherokee fought the hardest to stay with the land, but now, only the tribe that paid the English white man’s gold for the land Creator gave us, are allowed to stay.

The land is full of weeping as our people are marched away. Instead of soft flute music filling the night air, we now hear sobs as mothers and grandmothers leave the fields they tended while small children and fathers and uncles look for the last time at the forests that yielded deer and game for their villages.

As his voice faded away, the sadness that crept over the villagers was as deep as the darkening sky above.

Talking Bear’s sorrow swirled up into the stars as he closed his eyes. He knew in his heart that he would never leave this land. He knew the way of the Cherokee was changing and the children he and Panther Eyes had would be born into something different from what his people had known before. Silently, he offered prayers to the beings in the Upper World to guide him and his future family through it.

When Talking Bear walked into the house he had built for them, Panther Eye’s large, almond-shaped yellow fire flecked eyes (courtesy of some wild Scottish blood in her great-grandmother’s past) sheened in the moonlight as she touched the fresh scar on his head. She laid her head on his chest and he could tell from her jagged sobs that the tears had begun before he returned to the village late that night.

What is wrong, wife? he asked, for even though they hadn’t yet lived together a year and had the public ceremony, he considered her to be his wife. When her father heard about how the English took his deer, he had sent word that his obligation was fulfilled, for he had proven his bravery in standing up to the white man’s thundersticks.

She pulled away and smoothed her long black hair, wiping her eyes discretely with the back of her tattooed hand. The shell necklace she wore clinked as she tossed her head and forced a smile.

It is between me and my mother, she said softly, spooning a helping of rabbit stew for him into the carved wooden bowl.

As Talking Bear slurped the aromatic food, she remained silent, seating herself next to him, caressing his legs and arms.

He finished eating and, fully aroused by her smooth fingers, he entered her as a dog would a bitch, her soft doeskins flipped up over her back. When he had finished, her eyes were sparkling– but not from tears. She laughed and they snuggled on the sleeping platform as the moon set behind the mountains.

During the night Talking Bear thought he heard her softly sobbing, but, exhausted from his trek to her village, he rolled over and slept.

Panther Eyes!

Talking Bear winced at the old woman’s shrill yell outside the house.

It was barely light out and he was about to enjoy his wife again.

What does the mother of my wife want? he asked Panther Eyes under his breath.

Panther Eyes! she yelled again and the young woman smiled at her virile brave as she swung her hips off the platform and called,

"I am coming, e tsi!"

Outside the hut, he could hear voices and activity. Horses and children were playing. But it was far too early for so much activity. His curiosity roused, Talking Bear got up and went into the square.

Panther Eyes was arguing with her mother at the far end of the enclosure. She had tears in her beautiful eyes as she shook her head and refused to pick up the bundle her mother ordered her to place on her back. Other women had their bundles, attached by straps across their foreheads. The village was moving– he saw horses and white man’s carts heaped with goods.

He sought out a group of men, mounted and armed as if they were going on a war party. Panther Eyes spotted him and went to his side.

They had the New Year Ceremony the past few days. After much talk in the lodge, it was decided. The Sacred Fire in the main lodge was placed into the Medicine Man’s sacred carriers early this morning. All other fires were extinguished.

He frowned, vaguely understanding what she was saying as she took his well-muscled arm and led him back to their hut.

The Council was meeting while you were away and finally decided to join the others in the West.

What? Talking Bear raised his voice. His eyes narrowed with anger, How can this be? We are proud, we are warriors. How can your village take the path of the rabbit? Aren’t there any who would stay and fight?

Panther Eyes sighed deeply. The whites of her eyes were still pink from crying.

My husband, you are not obligated to go. You have not yet been formally married into my village. You can return to your people without loss of honor.

Talking Bear grabbed her arm, pinching her as the armband she wore dug into her tanned flesh. She did not cry out for stoicism was taught to both sexes from an early age on. He saw her eyes flicker and released her arm, caressing where his fingers had dug in.

I did not mean to hurt you, Panther Eyes. I am angry not with you, but with your village for meekly accepting the white man’s laws. My village found a way to keep their lands– I was hoping yours would, too.

Again