Vestige of Legacy

by Sara Blackard

  Home. The word rushed into her being so complete and so full she would have buckled if Orlando didn’t have her pressed tight to the tree. She closed her eyes and relished the feeling lost to her for so long.

  Orlando’s thumb brushed across her cheek, a look of concern upon his face. When the tears had begun to flow, she didn’t know, but she smiled at Orlando to show her tears weren’t of sadness. He kissed her softly on the cheek, catching the tear upon his lips.

  “Samara, God knew I needed you when He sent you to me. I think He knew you needed me too,” Orlando whispered, placing his forehead upon hers. “I love you, Samara. Please, stay with me. Be my wife and come home.”

  Joy burst from her heart and radiated through her. Yet as much as joy wanted to fill her life, doubt’s hold proved strong as its black fingers threaded into her veins and clenched her heart. Could she hope for better than she’d had? Would God truly allow her to flourish, to grow old among the majestic mountains and the love that flowed from the man before her like the creek that ran along the cabin? Or would God rip this life from her as well, like a weed deserving only of the compost pile?

  Orlando’s heart beat harder than a bear knocking up rocks for ground squirrels. The air within his lungs became thin. He wanted to suck in hard, relieve his chest of the pain, but worry and doubt kept his lungs constricted. Wouldn’t that prove fateful if he fainted like some greenie their first year in the Colorado mountains?

  He forced himself to breathe slow and even. Forced himself to wait patiently for her answer, even though fear she’d refuse rose thick in his throat. He remembered her kiss, the passion and rightness of it. How it’d sent lightning through him at the same time it cooled his gut of the churning that lingered from seeing her with Running Elk.

  Orlando kissed another tear away as it traced down her cheek, capturing the salty drop upon his lips. He felt her body tremor like a leaf waiting for the wind to rip it away. He wanted to soothe her doubts and fears, even as his own rushed to his brain. What would he do if she refused? How could he help her see that she belonged with him, woven deep into the fabric of his soul while God knit him in the womb?

  “Please.” The plea ripped low and harsh from his throat, his desperation hanging in the air.

  She raised her amber eyes to meet his. They appeared heavy with uncertainty. Yet joy could be seen, shining faintly through like a candle whose wick had been cut too short and struggled to burn strong. He promised God if she agreed to marry him, he’d help cut away the insecurity that was bound to her like wax so the light of God could burn freely through her.

  “All right,” Samara answered, her voice soft and thready. “I’ll marry you.”

  Orlando crashed his lips to hers, no longer wanting to be gentle but needing to show her the urgent necessity for her that had rooted deeper into him with each passing day. He had to get them back, get Trapper Dan to marry them as soon as possible. He pulled away slightly, and she laughed as her lips brushed his. He captured the bubbling happiness with his mouth, kissing more deeply than before.

  A soft clearing of a throat pulled Orlando from the small world of Samara he’d been engulfed in. Sparrow’s voice floated through the curtain of leaves. “Chief Johnson and Trapper Dan sent me to get Samara to prepare for the ceremony. They also wish to talk with you, Orlando.”

  Orlando, his forehead pressed into Samara’s, reached up and loosened Samara’s fingers where they pushed through his hair, throwing the tie that held the tresses back to who knows where. He threaded his fingers through hers, bringing their joined hands up and kissing her knuckles. A smile trembled on her lips.

  “Let’s go get married.” Orlando pulled her from the sanctuary of the willow where Sparrow waited with a knowing smile.

  Chapter 15

  Orlando had led Samara through the village, his head held high and proud while her cheeks burned red with blush. She resented her body’s ridiculous need to prove she’d just been kissed so thoroughly the bottoms of her moccasins shouldn’t still be attached. She’d heard of toe curling, but she’d never imagined whole feet could curl.

  The chaste kiss he’d placed upon her cheek before she followed Sparrow into the tent proved a tease of the passion that lingered in Orlando’s eyes. Her ears had turned hot, and he’d chuckled at her before turning away, sauntering toward the burly man talking jovially with the chief. She muttered to herself at the memory, swearing she’d overcome her body’s reaction and refuse to blush the next time he looked at her.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?” Sparrow questioned from behind where she yanked and pulled Samara’s tangled hair.

  “No, no, just muttering to myself.” Samara tucked her head, embarrassed she’d been caught talking to herself.

  “You will be such a beautiful bride,” Sparrow replied, a smile in her voice.

  Samara looked down at the gorgeous, pale tan, leather dress Sparrow insisted she wear. Beads, bright and delicate, danced across the neckline and twirled down the sleeves. Samara had never seen anything more breathtaking.

  “Only because you’ve been so generous and kind, letting me borrow this dress and taming my hair. If not for you, I’d look like I did earlier, like I’d just traversed the entire mountain, dirty and tired.”

  “Nonsense, I’m simply showing you my love for you, my friend. The dress is yours to keep, my gift to you. You are already beautiful, shown by the fight before. I’m just merely getting the tangles out of your hair.”

  Samara shivered at the memory of Running Elk whispering to her that he wasn’t done with her. “What was his problem, anyway?”

  “Running Elk’s?” Sparrow asked. Samara nodded in answer. “He is used to getting what he wants. He is a strong warrior, but he is also very cruel. Your actions have wounded his pride, and I fear he will not let that go. You would do well not to forget him and keep on guard. I’ll be praying for you. He will not underestimate you again and will not be as easy to defeat next time.”

  Samara wanted to forget, to believe that her marriage to Orlando would be the end of Running Elk’s attention. She also knew how bullies worked, had seen retaliation played out on the streets more than she cared to remember. She rubbed her sweaty hands down the dress and remembered what else Sparrow had said, more than happy to change the subject.

  “I can’t possibly keep this dress. It must’ve taken you hours to create. You need to keep it for your own wedding.” Samara turned to look at Sparrow.

  Sparrow shook her head, smiling. “I didn’t make the dress for me. I didn’t know who I made the dress for until I saw you riding in with Orlando. My Heavenly Father guided me in making the dress, because He knew you’d need it. ‘Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights—’”

  “‘Who does not change like shifting shadows,’” Samara interrupted and finished the verse.

  “Hmmm, like shifting shadows,” Sparrow repeated slowly, a look of speculation on her face. “Yes, I believe that’s much easier to understand. There are no variables to God. He does not shift like the shadows throughout the day.”

  Samara turned away from Sparrow, not knowing what to think about Sparrow’s revelation. Had God truly had this dress made for her? Had he really protected her throughout the darkness of her life? If so, why did He wait fourteen years to show Himself? Samara remembered her dad telling her that God would pursue people to the ends of the world and, it seemed, through time. Yet, she couldn’t trust that pursuit. Couldn’t trust that the darkness of the last fourteen years wouldn’t return, that He wouldn’t forget her again.

  “There. I think you are ready to be married,” Sparrow declared, pulling Samara’s hair behind her shoulders and smoothing it down her back.

  A moan sounded from a pile of blankets and furs placed along the edge of the tepee. Samara startled, not realizing someone slept there. Sparrow ran to the pottery pitcher and poured water into a cup. She then rushed to the pile that had begun to move. A young woma
n with similar beautiful features to Sparrow emerged from the pile, her hair ratted upon her head and her eyes puffy. Her face held a sadness Samara felt akin to. The blankets fell further, revealing a large pregnant belly stretching the deerskin dress tight around her body.

  Sparrow murmured something in Ute to the woman, handing her the mug. The woman’s reply was harsh and biting. Sparrow spoke something else, her tone coaxing and kind. The woman glared at Sparrow and lifted her hand. Thinking the woman would strike Sparrow, Samara moved forward, causing the woman’s gaze to land on her. The young mother’s face turned pale as a sun-bleached cloth as she stared at Samara’s hair.

  “Pike way!” The woman yelled, throwing the mug at Samara. “Pike way! Get out you red-haired devil!”

  Samara dodged the mug easily and backed toward the door as Sparrow rushed to her side. Sparrow grabbed her arm and dragged her from the tepee. Once outside, Sparrow’s shoulders slumped with her heavy sigh.

  Sparrow gazed at Samara, deep sorrow in her eyes. “I’m sorry for my cousin’s outburst. Since her pregnancy became noticeable, she’s been inconsolable, always lying beneath the furs or staring into the flames of the fire. I force her to go outside, and she’ll just sit along the riverbank watching as the water rushes by. This is not her, she is usually so full of joy, flirting with all the young men. I’ve never seen her lash out like she just did with you. I’m sorry, Samara.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Samara assured Sparrow before asking. “What about the baby’s father?”

  “She won’t tell us who it is. She says he has broken her heart by rejecting her, but protects him by not telling. I don’t understand her.” Sparrow sighed.

  “People in love often do odd things.” Samara shook her head. “So what now?”

  “Now, we get you married.” Sparrow smiled, her sorrowful face turning to joy.

  Samara allowed Sparrow to link arms and drag her toward the log building at the end of the village. Nerves tickled her throat so violently she worried she’d toss her cookies all over her gorgeous dress. She hadn’t been this nervous for any performance, including her audition for the Curtis Institute. What made her even more anxious was that she didn’t know where the jitters were coming from. Were they rooted in joy or fear? Was the gorge that pushed up from her stomach and into her throat from panic or anticipation? She swallowed hard, desperately wishing she could play her dulcimer and sooth her soul.

  Orlando fidgeted, his hand tapping upon his leg in a frantic beat as Chief Johnson and Trapper Dan discussed the troubles brewing at the agency. He’d taken some time to splash the trail dust off and had changed into the clean buckskin pants and cotton shirt Chief Johnson’s wife had pushed on him. His nerves frayed like a rope gnawed clean through. What if Samara changed her mind? What if she didn’t want to marry him? The memory of their kisses beneath the willow squelched that thought with her passion equal to his.

  Orlando’s cocky smile turned to a frown, a wrinkle of concern deep between his eyes. What if she never turned back to the Lord? Could Orlando push her further from God by rushing to have her marry him? Orlando closed his eyes and silently prayed for God’s wisdom. The presence of God he knew so well settled over him, calming his frayed soul.

  “If Meeker insists on plowing up the racetrack, he’ll take away our history, our heritage. Will he take our horses next? I have accepted our fate of needing to live a life more like the white man. I’ve let them build me a house. I’ve planted their crops, but I refuse to leave my heritage behind. I won’t allow my people to lose themselves,” Chief Johnson said, passion and determination rich upon his voice.

  A shiver of dread traced down Orlando’s spine like a slow-melting piece of ice. “My friend, I want to caution you against anything drastic. Maybe there’s a way to talk to him, make him see the importance of the fields to your people. There are plenty of open areas around that can be tilled for farming. Maybe if you mention that, show him you want to learn to farm, just not in that racing area, he might see reason.”

  Chief Johnson shook his head. His shoulders shrugged as he answered. “I can try again. Maybe what you suggest would ease the tension. But Captain Jack and Chief Douglas have already stopped working on agency projects. They heard that Governor Pitkin has asked the Indian Bureau to send soldiers to move us to Indian Territory, so they’ve been having meetings in their lodges, stirring up anger for the agency. Meeker himself just came back from a trip to Denver. He was injured on his way back, so he hasn’t talked much to us. He won’t discuss with me what came of his time away. He has moved himself from friend to enemy.”

  Orlando’s heart raced at the implications. The situation proved much worse than he thought. If Chief Johnson, the one who tried hard to accept the force of the white man, went against Meeker and the agency, the soldiers would be sent in for sure. Women and children could die, and his friends would be sent to live on the inhospitable land the government compelled them to.

  “I will talk to Meeker before Samara and I leave. Can you try to calm Captain Jack and Chief Douglas? Help them to see if they push too far, you’ll be removed to the Indian Territory and your horses will be taken away or killed? Even Jack and Douglas must know that living here as farmers would be much more desirable than living in such desolate country.” Orlando prayed Chief Johnson would see the wisdom in compromising.

  “I will talk to Meeker as well,” Trapper Dan promised. “Maybe talking to someone who has lived beside you for years will help him see the need of compromise. But first, I believe we have a wedding to perform.”

  Trapper Dan pointed behind Orlando, causing Orlando to turn. The speed of Orlando’s heart increased from a racing horse to those cheetahs he’d read about in Africa. The joyful screams and laughter of the children muted and the chatter of the women as they weaved baskets disappeared. All sound blended until it became an indistinguishable song that played harmony to his heart beating loudly within his ears.

  Samara strolled through the village, the children racing and dancing around her, playing drums. Her hair shone like copper waves where it flowed over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a buckskin dress, tanned so light it looked almost white, with a pattern of beads that swirled and curled like her beautiful hair. The smile stretched across her face was one of pure joy he’d never seen before, one he hoped to see often throughout the days and years to come. Her amber eyes sparkled when her gaze finally met his, their expression open, sharing her happiness with him.

  Before Orlando realized his feet were moving, he closed the distance between them. They stopped inches from each other, and though the melodious chaos continued around them, the world stilled as he reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers.

  “You’re beautiful,” Orlando whispered, leaning closer so she could hear.

  “You cleaned up nicely yourself,” Samara replied, a cheeky smile on her face.

  “I’m slovenly compared to you. You’re the sunsets that stretch across our valley, shifting as each descent of the sun expresses new depth of beauty and hope.” Orlando brought her fingers to his mouth and placed a kiss.

  “You’re sure full of pretty words today.” Samara lowered her gaze to her toes, her voice raspy with emotion.

  Orlando leaned close, breathing in the sweet scent of her garden that clung to her and whispered in her ear. “I plan to fill your days with not only beautiful words, but the love, joy, and peace that come from knowing that you belong to me, and I belong to you.”

  Samara sucked in a breath and drew back, looking deep into Orlando’s eyes. He hoped those windows into his soul reflected the love he had for her brightly so she would have no confusion. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and slowly trekked down her cheek. He nodded and smiled a small smile of encouragement to her as he gently wiped the tear away.

  “What is the meaning of this?” A voice boomed into the chaos. Orlando turned to see Nathan Meeker with his arm cradled in a sling and a scowl on his face.


  “We’re having a wedding, Mr. Meeker, and everyone is invited. Go grab your family and workers, and let’s celebrate God bringing these two together!” Trapper Dan shouted into the fray, inciting another round of drum banging and wild cheering.

  Meeker huffed and motioned for one of the workers to gather the others. Orlando wasn’t going to worry about Meeker’s apparent disapproval, not when everything he desired was right before him.

  Orlando threaded Samara’s arm tightly through his and led her to an open area along the riverside where he’d told Trapper Dan he’d wanted the ceremony performed. He prayed the rushing river would symbolize the Living Water that would flow abundantly through their marriage.

  Orlando squeezed Samara’s hand as it shook slightly during the ceremony. Before he could contemplate her nerves too much, he and Samara had said “I do,” and Trapper Dan had pronounced them man and wife.

  “‘Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.’ You may kiss the bride!” Trapper Dan proclaimed with equal parts caution and joy.

  Orlando turned Samara toward him, slid his arms around her back, pulled her to him, and kissed her. Cheers shouted out and drums beat wildly as he deepened the kiss. Her hands gripped into his shirt and held him close. Orlando’s heart raced as frantically as the drums as he leaned his forehead on hers, inhaling the joy radiating from her. Right then and there he knew he’d do everything within his power to show Samara the love and acceptance she’d lacked for so long.

  Samara held tightly to Orlando’s hand as he led them through the crowd of well-wishers. Tables had been set up from somewhere and women bustled about piling food upon the tabletops. A fiddler and harmonica player from the agency played alongside a couple of Ute drummers. The joyful music sang within her like no other had. Could she make Meeker see the harmony the whites and Utes could have if they would only work together? She hoped she could. She almost prayed she could but stopped herself.