Forbidden Legacy (Historical Christian Romance)

by Barbara Goss

  "Will we be able to …? I mean, can we t-trust …?" she faltered.

  "All my men are hand selected by me, and I was trusted by your grandfather. Therefore, rest assured that anyone I choose will be above reproach." He turned and headed swiftly toward his men.

  "He's right, dear," comforted Aunt Emily. "And a fine lad! I trust him completely." She chuckled before quoting, "The lion is not as fierce as he is painted."

  "Aunt Emily, you've only known him ten minutes!"

  "Yes, but he reminds me of Finney Horrigan. You wouldn't know Finney," she continued in a reminiscent tone. "He was a special friend back in Uniontown."

  "Were you in love with Finney?" Sarah asked. "I didn't know about anyone special in your life."

  "I'll tell you about Finney someday. He was very special, and Mr. Storm reminds me of Finney, so I know he can be trusted."

  Sarah watched Storm standing by the two canvas-covered wagons, conversing with his men. A large herd of horses pranced energetically within a roped area, and four muscular oxen grazed nearby.

  Storm returned moments later with a short, bowlegged Indian.

  "Miss Clarke, Miss Ruggles, may I present your driver, Hunter," he introduced royally.

  Sarah studied the older man, noting the deep, meaningful lines engraved into his face. Nodding, Hunter lithely jumped onto the driver's bench beside Sarah.

  Storm, noticing Sarah's edging away from touching the Indian, sauntered over to the ladies' side of the wagon. Gazing steadily in Sarah's eyes (which she knew must have resembled a cornered rabbit's, darting apprehensively from Storm to Hunter), he frowned.

  "Trust me, ladies," Storm reassured. "Hunter is my uncle, my mother's brother."

  Sarah glanced at Hunter, who grinned widely at her. She returned the smile hesitantly, which seemed to satisfy Storm.

  Aunt Emily leaned over Sarah. "Any uncle of Storm's is a friend of ours. Welcome, Hunter."

  Storm thanked Aunt Emily, and then addressed both women. "See the man soothing the horses? That's Broken Wing. He broke his arm severely as a child. It's completely useless now. Yet he is an important member of the crew. As an animal lover he has a unique way with them. Often, when spooked by noises, the longhorns become restless, and stampede—the greatest threat to bringing cattle in to be railed. Stampedes are not only destructive but time consuming, for the cattle must all be rounded up again afterward.

  "On the trail, Broken Wing sleeps near the cattle, soothing them when they become fidgety. We haven't had a stampede since he's been with us. He also tames wild horses, and ranchers travel miles to have theirs broken by him."

  "Broken?" Sarah asked.

  "Tamed so they can be saddled and ridden."

  Storm pointed again, "There's Leo. He was a slave back in Alabama but can't speak to you. His white master clipped his tongue for talking back to a white woman who was verbally abusing him publicly.

  "The man beside him is Red Moon, an Indian school graduate and the only crew member, besides Manny, who can read and write.

  "As we travel, I hope you'll become better acquainted with them." Storm looked directly at Sarah. "Perhaps, when you know each individually, you'll realize that despite being different, they're people, just like you."

  Storm returned to his men, and within minutes their small wagon train began its procession southward, toward Texas. Storm had positioned their wagon behind the supply wagon and in front of the animal herd. Later Sarah discovered that the chuck wagon and Storm rode far ahead so that after camping where Storm directed, the food would be ready by the time the rest arrived.

  Though the trail became bumpy and the weather hot, Sarah and Aunt Emily agreed it was an improvement from the crowded, fast-moving stagecoach. The oxen traveled more slowly, enabling them the pleasure of viewing the outdoors and watching the beauty of nature around them.

  They eagerly identified the various birdcalls and became enthralled by the occasional critter scurrying into the bush along the trail.

  Hunter, noticing this, went out of his way to point these things out for them. He'd simply point and grunt, then smile widely at the women's pleasure over the squirrel or raccoon he'd brought to their attention.

  Not long before noon that first day on the trail, Storm rode back to point out a small group of antelope grazing on the open prairie.

  As they watched, Hunter slipped from his seat and carefully stalked them with his bow and arrow. Sarah saw him silently slip from bush to bush. It wasn't until he'd sprung his large bow that the animals knew of his presence. But too late. Hunter's arrow, skillfully launched, plunged deeply into the heart of one large buck. Springing to run, it stopped abruptly before dropping heavily to the ground, while its friends loped off toward a small wooded area.

  "Well, ladies, looks like fresh meat for supper!" Storm announced. "Need I tell you how Hunter got his name?" He added, "We'll stop here for a cold lunch. We only build a fire for the evening meal."

  The meal consisted of biscuits and cheese. They drank a measured amount of water from a large barrel, which Sarah thought the best she'd ever tasted. Thirstier than she could ever recall being but not offered seconds of the water, she approached Storm and demanded to know why they were denied more.

  He gave her a sympathetic look, then sadly glanced down at his own newly poured cup before resolutely handing it to her. She drank it slowly, savoring every drop. When she'd finished, he explained.

  "Our water supply is limited to what's in these two barrels," he said pointing to the supply wagon. "We filled them to the brim in Dodge, from the Arkansas River. There isn't another drop of water until we reach the Cimarron River, which is about sixty miles, or four days away."

  "Oh," was Sarah's only reply. She looked down at his empty cup in her hand. His ration! How foolish she had been. She lowered her eyes shamefully, but her look was misinterpreted.

  "And don't feel sorry for yourself," he said firmly yet kindly, as if to a child. "Though rationed, you'll get your share of water, while these poor animals doing all the work in this heat will not."

  "Not any?" she asked, feeling instantly sorry for the livestock.

  "Not one drop. If we don't reach the Cimarron in four days some will likely die."

  Embarrassingly satisfied, Sarah did not complain again about the rationed water but wondered about the half-Indian man who had given her his share of water after working hard in the hot sun and dust.

  Sarah and Emily stretched their legs, freshened themselves, and took a brisk walk before returning to their seat on the wagon. Now appreciative of their solid walking shoes, cotton dresses, and bonnets, Sarah realized why Storm had insisted on them. They wouldn't have lasted a day in the Chicago finery.

  That first night Sarah managed to further annoy Storm. Sitting around the fire that evening, feasting on roasted venison, Sarah was shocked by the Indians' primitive eating habits. She picked up her plate and slipped away, perching herself on a large rock some distance from the others.

  "What did you expect, Miss Clarke, a tablecloth and silverware?" Storm startled her by speaking close behind her.

  She jumped, then blurted, "Why do they eat with their fingers? It's disgusting!"

  "Those Indians have come a long way since coming to the ranch." Storm, also with plate in hand, squatted beside her. "I'd hate them to think you didn't like or approve of them. Knowing you're the new boss, they are quite anxious to please and concerned about your opinion of them."

  "They are? I never thought of them as being sensitive." Sarah paused, eyeing him carefully. "I notice you're using a fork—couldn't you teach them?"

  "I've taught them a great deal, but still have a long way to go." He laughed. "You're lucky they're wearing clothes!" At her puzzled start, he explained. "When some first came to the ranch they wore only . . . well, very little."

  Sarah blushed at the mention of the barely clad Indians and quickly changed the subject.

  "Tell me about my grandfather's ranch."

  Storm set
down his empty plate, "What do you want to know?"

  "Where is it? How long before we get there?"

  "Arrow C is near the Red River, which separates Oklahoma from Texas. We should reach the river in three weeks to a month's time. From Doan's Crossing it's only a five-hour ride to the ranch."

  Sarah drew lines in the dust with a small stick. "I never knew my grandfather. What was he like?"

  "Wilson Clarke was an extraordinary man." Storm said brusquely.

  "You were good friends?" she asked.

  He said nothing for so long Sarah feared he hadn't heard her. "You might say that," he mumbled finally. Standing, he brushed the dust from his trousers and leaned against the rock she sat upon.

  "You would have liked him."

  She smiled. "Do you live near the ranch?"

  "I thought you knew I live on the ranch and have since before your grandfather died. What I do now, of course, depends on you." He paused. "There's something else you should know. I'm hoping you'll get over your aversion to Indians before we reach Arrow C, because my mother lives there, too. I won't have her feelings hurt, Miss Clarke, by you or anyone." His voice left no doubt that he meant what he said.

  "I didn't know." Sarah whispered softly, as if in reverence to his mother. "How did she come to live there with you?"

  "It's a long story, but I'll condense it. My mother, Red Dawn—called Dawn—came to the ranch as a young girl. Your grandfather hired Indians whenever he could, not only because he liked them, but because they protected his ranch from Indian raids. My mother was hired as housekeeper and has been there ever since.

  "Having always been a favorite of Wilson's, she is treated like family." He glared at her intently. "I hope you will treat her kindly as well."

  The thought of living in the same house with an Indian— male or female—made Sarah uneasy. She said nothing to reassure Storm but soon wished she had, for he turned abruptly and left her alone to ponder the problem.

  That night Sarah slept beneath the stars for the first time. She and Aunt Emily were placed on the opposite side of the fire from the men.

  As usual, Aunt Emily's snores sounded long before Sarah even got comfortable in her bedroll. Sarah tossed and turned. She kept hearing Simon Letchworth's words, “But would you sleep? Indians are nothing but brutal savages who kill people by sneaking up on them- they creep, they sneak, and they capture. “

  Listening to the hooting owls and howling animals, Sarah watched the Indian on guard poke playfully at the fire then realized a full bladder summoned her to the woods, despite her trip there earlier with Aunt Emily. Not knowing what to do, she tried to ignore the uncomfortable pressure. Rather than awaken Aunt Emily, she reluctantly tiptoed into the dark night alone, clutching a light shawl around her shoulders.

  Sarah stumbled blindly into the practically moonless night. An animal howled nearby; she quivered, tightening her shawl about her.

  She'd nearly reached the large clump of bushes when an arm sprung out, grabbing her waist from behind, while a strong hand clamped tightly over her mouth. Eyes wide with fear, Sarah struggled wildly to free herself, but to no avail.

  A deep voice whispered hoarsely but softly in her ear. "Stop fighting me!"

  ~ C H A P T E R 3 ~

  Stop fighting me," the voice repeated. "It's Storm." He slowly removed his hand from her mouth.

  Sarah spun around. "Why did you grab me? You scared me to—"

  "Sh-h-h," he whispered. "You'll wake the whole crew. Why are you wandering around alone at night?" he demanded.

  "I had to . . . nature called." She mumbled, thankful for the darkness that hid her blush.

  "I grabbed you so you wouldn't scream and wake everyone!" he growled. "I can't have you marching around alone in such dangerous territory! If you knew some of the things that could happen, you'd be more frightened than you were just now." As if suddenly conscious of their closeness, he took a step backwards.

  "Next time tell me when nature calls. I, or someone will walk with you. This is no place for modesty. Now go and attend to whatever you must, but if you need me, holler." Storm stretched out on a grassy mound nearby, "I'll wait right here."

  Completing her task, Sarah returned to where he waited and hesitantly sat down beside him.

  "I'm sorry for being such a nuisance. I couldn't sleep."

  "You'll get used to camping." He studied her face in the dim moonlight. "Or is it something else that causes you to lose sleep? Like the company you're keeping?"

  Sarah sat speechless. He was certainly perceptive. Finally she whispered, "Can you assure me Indians are completely harmless?"

  "Certainly not. Some Indians are still dangerous, but so are a good number of white men. Is it sensible to chastise a whole race for the acts of a few? Indians are hurt and confused right now. They've had . . . well, I won't go into that now."

  Storm sighed impatiently. "Would Sam Lewis send a pack of dangerous savages to escort you? And if you can't trust Lewis, surely you can trust your grandfather."

  He stood and reached for her hand. "I'd better walk you back to camp."

  After helping her stand, he dropped her hand as though it were something forbidden.

  Surprisingly, his touch hadn't repulsed her as she had imagined physical contact with an Indian would. She shivered, remembering the crude fondling of the bold Indian from the trail.

  Storm led her back to the fire and ordered her into her bedroll. She obeyed.

  Positioning himself cross-legged on the ground near her feet, he hesitated and studied her face carefully.

  "I-I'm only half Indian."

  Suddenly it became too quiet. Even the crackling of the fire seemed muted. She glanced at him. His sad face glowed from the flickering fire, and his worried eyes danced with orange flames.

  "I guessed that."

  "Does that make you any less afraid of me?"

  “Yes," she grinned, propping herself on one elbow. "You're only half as savage looking as the Indians who chased our stagecoach in Kansas."

  "You were attacked on the trail?" he asked in disbelief.

  "Oh, no. We thought they were attacking, but actually they acted out of curiosity. I must admit though, I was terrified at the time. One savage insisted on touching my hair, calling me 'corn-topped lady'! Some women in Topeka had related tales about Indians that would have frightened anyone! And my father was killed by Indians—"

  "No wonder the sight of me in Dodge shocked you," he sympathized. "Your grandfather never told me how your father died. I'm sorry." He gazed at her tenderly for several moments before whispering, "Lie down, try to relax and sleep. You have nothing to fear Sarah." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "I'll sit here until you're asleep. My own bedroll is nearby."

  Eyes growing heavy from extreme fatigue, Sarah finally relaxed. All the sleepless nights of the past weeks had finally caught up with her. Storm's presence calmed her fears and gave her mind the peace needed to fall deeply asleep. But before yielding up her awareness, she smiled. He had just called her Sarah for the first time. Had she imagined it, or had he murmured, "You're perfectly safe with me, Sarah, I promise. I'd not let anything happen to you. Trust me"?

  For the first time since leaving Chicago Sarah slept soundly, so soundly that she was reluctant to surface, despite someone's constant prodding. She reveled in the cozy depths of slumber where no problems, fears, or anxieties existed. It felt good. Too good. She hated to depart from it.

  Yet someone insisted she leave her secure world of dark serenity.

  I won't respond to the prodding, but why do they persist— shaking me harder?

  "Go away," she mumbled. Her mind quickly attempted to spin back into the dense, dark tunnel of slumber.

  Who is it? Why do you shake me? I'm so happy where I am—let me be.

  Good. They stopped shaking me, I can delve deeper….

  Now what? Someone is.... caressing my hair. The rude Indian? Alarm almost drew her from her cocoon. No, the touch is tender—not the sa
vage. The tenderness of the touch conveys caring. Oh, how I need that!

  But the hair caressing stopped. She missed it.

  Now someone is stroking my cheek, adoringly. The touch is loving, meaningful, and I'm responding strangely. This sensation is better than the pleasurable sleep. Now I want to awaken, to open my eyes and see who is stirring me.

  Purposefully, she opened her bright-blue eyes and met tender smoky-gray ones. Storm. His eyes, while soft, held a sense of urgency or pleading. Was she still asleep? The stroking of her hair and cheek had ceased, yet she still responded. Was she stirred by the tender, vulnerable look on Storm's face?

  Sarah blinked. His soul-stirring expression had vanished.

  Storm sprang to his feet, "We're breaking camp." He spoke with a soft gruffness, and the sudden change made her shiver. "Thought we'd have to leave you here," he continued. "Do you always sleep so soundly?"

  "But it's still dark!" she complained, drawing her blanket over her head.

  "We must leave at the first hint of daylight to make the Cimarron in four days," he said briskly. "This isn't a leisurely pleasure trip. We have limited supplies and many dangers. The more time it takes you to get up, the less time you'll have to prepare for the day. In fact, I'd say you had only about fifteen minutes."

  Sarah sprang up. "But it will take me at least an hour!"

  "We're leaving in fifteen minutes, whether you're ready or not. Of course, if you wish to stay, take your time." He strolled away calmly but too swiftly to hear the words she had aimed at him.

  Sarah never moved so fast! The thought of being left behind spurred her into action. Aunt Emily and her bedroll were missing.

  How can I dress and arrange my hair without Aunt Emily's help? Should I wear this same wrinkled dress another day? Why did I sleep so long? she asked herself as she rolled up her bedding.

  "Sarah, I'm glad you're up!"

  "Oh, Aunt Emily!" Sarah exclaimed in relief, and then began throwing questions. "Where were you? Why didn't you wake me? Will you help me change? Will you do my hair? What have you there?"