Dance on the Wind

by Brenda Jernigan

  Dance on the Wind

  Brenda Jernigan

  Contents

  Dance on the Wind

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Take a peek

  About the Author

  Also by Brenda Jernigan

  Dance on the Wind

  Brenda Jernigan

  * * *

  Prologue

  Visions of death.

  Father Brown shook his head. He couldn’t get the dream out of his head. Sometimes death was the end ... it could also mean a beginning ... so just what meaning did his dream hold?

  Once again, a loud knock echoed in the hallway of Saint Charles Parsonage, bringing his thoughts back to reality.

  “Patience, my child, patience,” Father Brown mumbled, more or less to himself, because whoever was knocking couldn’t possibly hear him through the eight-inch thick oak doors. The ten-foot doors had provided good protection for those who resided within. If his visitor had not rung the bell first, he might not have heard the knock at all.

  Just as he reached the front, the knocking stopped.

  Had he been mistaken? He frowned, knowing that was impossible, but he opened the peephole anyway to see who stood on the other side.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted. Receiving no response, he rose on tiptoes and looked as far as the small hole would allow. Strange—he couldn’t see anyone. Perhaps his visitor had grown impatient and left He shook his head and started to shut the peephole, when he heard a faint cry. Or was it merely the whisper of the wind?

  “Mama,” a child’s voice wailed.

  Father Brown’s bushy, gray brows drew together in a frown. He could have sworn there was no one there. Unlocking one side of the double, wooden doors, he listened as it creaked and groaned much like his old bones. A small child stood on the porch, clutching a tattered, dirty blanket. She raised huge violet eyes as she sniffed and wiped her tear-streaked cheeks. Her face was framed with the rarest, chestnut-colored hair that hung to her waist. One small hand rested on a huge wooden trunk at her side.

  He lowered himself to one knee and hauled a handkerchief out of his vestments to wipe her face. He smiled, hoping to gain her confidence.

  Shyly, she studied him with haunting eyes. At that very moment, he lost his heart to the child. She could be no more than five years old and she was all alone. Even for one so young, she possessed uncommon beauty like none he’d ever seen before. She appeared lost and forlorn. He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and comfort her.

  “Why do you cry, my child?”

  “Because I’m frightened,” she responded in a quiet voice.

  “Where is your mother?”

  “She’s gone.” The child answered as her gaze shifted to her feet.

  “Why didn’t she take you with her?”

  “Mother said I couldn’t go because it wouldn’t be safe. She told me to stay here with you until she comes back for me. W-will you keep me safe, Father?”

  He smiled at the child in front of him. “Yes, God and I will protect you, my child. But protect you from what?”

  She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “From the men who killed my father.”

  “Killed your father!” Father Brown jerked back, astonished at how matter-of-fact she seemed about her father’s death. The child had to be in shock.

  “Did you see it happen?”

  New tears sprang to her violet eyes. She bobbed her head and lowered the blanket she’d clutched to her chest. For the first time he noticed that splattered blood streaked her once-beautiful silk dress.

  “Oh, my Lord!” What had this youngster been through? What had she witnessed? Unable to help himself, he gathered her in his arms and hugged her to him. Had this been the death that he’d glimpsed in his dream?

  “Everything will be fine now,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “Come inside, my child.” He patted her tiny back and gave her a push through the door before dragging in the heavy chest that had been left on the stoop. He closed the great wooden doors and barred them.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He took her hand and led her across the courtyard. “What’s your name?”

  “Brandy.”

  “What is your last name, Brandy?”

  “I don’t know, Father. I’ve always been called Brandy.”

  “That’s an odd name, child.”

  “Mother said it was because my hair was the color of fine brandy. She said no one else has hair like mine.”

  “Your mother was right.”

  At that very moment, Father Brown made a silent vow that no harm would ever come to this child as long as he kept her behind the parsonage doors.

  She was truly a blessing.

  And he knew that his dream had told of a new beginning for Brandy.

  1

  June 1864, Independence, Missouri

  * * *

  It was over.

  Father Brown was dead.

  Brandy stood at the gravesite and centered her attention on the children now in her charge. Father Brown had never intended to run an orphanage, but somehow the stray children just seemed to find him.

  He had made Brandy promise to take care of them after his death, but how she would manage, she didn’t know.

  She found it easier to concentrate on the children rather than the words Marshal Pete was speaking.

  This day, another in a month-long string of hot, humid days, brought a thin line of moisture to her brow and caused the dark dress to cling to her chest. How she longed to wear something lighter in color, maybe something open and airy, so it wouldn’t be so hot.

  The only relief from the heat came from the spreading arms of the shady live oak tree, which they had picked for Father Brown’s final resting place. She glanced up at the green leaves and thought about how sturdy the tree appeared—much like Father Brown.

  He’d been her pillar of strength over the years, and now he’d left her—as had everyone else in her life.

  Soon the marshal’s words became a hum in her ears as he droned on with the service.

  Tears gathered in Brandy’s eyes at the mention of Father Brown’s name. She forced her attention back on the children—anything to keep from weeping. She had to be strong, so she concentrated on the children and tried to block out the hurt, but the pain in her chest threatened to suffocate her.

  Billy West, the oldest of the children, stood across from her. At fourteen, his stance was defiant, rebellion showing in his chocolate-brown eyes. He held his hat in front of him, his head slightly bowed. However, aside from that gesture of respect, he seemed unaffected by the proceedings. His shoulder-length brown hair was curly and matched his eyes perfectly. Father Brown had taken Billy in when the men he lived with were in a gunfight and fled town, one step ahead of the law, leaving Billy behind.

  He’d been a lackey for the gunslingers, running errands, cooking, and cleaning their guns. But when the men had been liquored up and in need of money, Billy had to take to the streets to beg for them. The townsfolk whispered that he’d been beaten from time to time.

  Brandy could remember when Father Brown first brought Billy home. He’d had a black eye and a split lip, and he was much t
oo thin. She had felt sorry for him, and tried to help clean him up, but he didn’t want her pity, and for the next six months he had been a holy terror, striking out at anyone who tried to be good to him. Her pity soon faded, leaving in its wake a strong dislike. She had even asked Father Brown if they could send Billy away.

  Of course, Father had frowned and told her he would forget she’d said such a thing, and he’d pray God would forgive her, too. It was the same way that their conversations usually ended when they spoke of the children. She saw them as brats, whereas Father Brown had seen them as a challenge.

  So she hadn’t been very nice, but it had been how she’d felt at the time. Now, she and Billy tolerated each other, neither giving an inch. True, he had mellowed a little since then, except the pranks he liked to play. She never found them very funny, especially the time she found a snake in her bed. Yes, Billy would be a handful. She groaned inwardly and looked toward heaven; she would definitely need help.

  Brandy glanced at the girls. Mary Costner, thirteen, and Ellen White, eleven, had come to the parsonage at the same time.

  Mary’s mother had run a house of ill repute, and Mary was the direct result of one of her mother’s good times. Mary hadn’t had life easy, growing up in a brothel, and had spent most of her time staying out of everyone’s way. She had been rescued by some of the good ladies of Kansas City when they’d suspected Mary’s mother was getting ready to put her daughter into the business. At the young age of ten, she’d arrived at Father Brown’s.

  Mary was pretty with long, blond hair curling in ringlets about her shoulders. Her eyes were as blue as the sky, but her rebellious nature was worse than any of the rest of the children. Last year, Mary had taken a pair of scissors and cut up Brandy’s favorite dress. Brandy had prayed for patience, and she’d been rewarded.

  Father Brown had pointed out that Mary’s disregard was her way of protecting herself and that Brandy should remember how it was not to have any parents.

  Indians had killed Ellen’s parents. She had escaped by hiding in the cellar. She wasn’t as pretty as Mary, but she was attractive. Her brown hair just touched her shoulders, but her lackluster hazel eyes always seemed sad.

  Though she and Mary were friends, Ellen didn’t possess the same evil disposition. Instead, she had a sweet nature and always strived to do anything she could to please. She was so fond of children that she had taken charge of Amy, the baby, as soon as she’d arrived, which had been a big help because a three-year-old could be very active. So maybe Ellen wasn’t a brat, Brandy decided, but the girl usually sided with Mary and Billy.

  Then there was Scott, the seven-year-old. He had been energetic from the start. Of all the children, Brandy liked him best. He had black hair cut in a bob and his brownish-green eyes bubbled with personality. The child must have been born talking, because he talked constantly. Even now, he whispered to Ellen and Brandy glanced at him to make him hush. She was surprised he’d been quiet as long as he had during the service.

  Brandy dreaded the next few months until the new priest arrived. She had no idea how she was going to handle this unusual family. A few rules would have to be set down, that much she was sure of. Perhaps she should send a note to the bishop and ask him to please hurry.

  “Ashes to ashes .. . dust to dust,” the marshal said as he motioned for Brandy to come over and throw the first handful of dirt into the grave.

  She couldn’t do this.

  She just couldn’t!

  Her steps faltered. Her vision blurred.

  Grief filled Brandy, choking off her breath as she reluctantly approached the gaping black hole in the ground.

  The finality of death slammed into her, gripping her heart with a deadly fist. Everything was much too quiet. Even the wind had stilled. She stooped and gathered a handful of gray Missouri dirt.

  Staring down at the rough wooden casket, she knew it was finally time to say goodbye. Brandy inhaled deeply, then held her breath and bit her lip so she wouldn’t sob. But doing so didn’t prevent the tears from trickling down her cheeks. No longer could she hold them back. Today, she had lost her very best friend. “I love you, Father,” she whispered as the grains of dirt slipped through her fingers.

  Suddenly, the branches of the tree above them began to creak, rustling the leaves overhead. The slight breeze caressed her face as if a gentle hand had reached out and touched her cheek. Somehow, she felt Father Brown’s spirit all around her while she watched the dry dirt scatter in the wind. Then she heard his words:

  Always remember . . . even though you ’11 not see my body anymore ... I will be with each and every one of you in spirit. Every step you take, I will take with you. When you fall down, I’ll be there to pick you up.

  Turning to the children, she motioned for them to come forward and throw a handful of soil in the hole.

  Many of the nearby townspeople had turned out to say their final farewells. Brandy had seen all of these people at one time or another when they’d come to the parsonage, but she didn’t really know any of them. The baby started to whimper, rubbing her eyes with a tiny fist. Brandy took her from Ellen, and Amy gave up her sleepy fight once Brandy had her.

  All the children formed a straight line while they shook the many hands shoved toward them.

  Finally everyone was gone. Brandy moved back to the gravesite one last time before they went home. Amy had fallen asleep on her shoulder, and Brandy had to switch her to the other arm to ease the weight. “Goodbye, Father,” she whispered, then added, “Promises are sometimes hard to keep, but I’ll try.”

  Before turning to leave, she glanced up at a nearby hill. There, seated on a large horse, sat a powerfully built man. Animal and rider stood perfectly still while long, black hair blew around his square jaw. Brandy couldn’t make out the rest of his features but something about the man impressed her.

  Fascinated, she stared boldly at the stranger. Who was he? And why did he stay in the background instead of coming closer?

  “Come on, Brandy,” Mary called.

  Though Brandy would rather have looked at the stranger just a little longer, she knew it was time to leave.

  Before stepping up onto the buckboard, she turned and looked back toward the hill, but the stranger had disappeared. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

  A wave of disappointment washed over her. She didn’t understand this odd reaction to someone she didn’t know and would probably never meet.

  But for just a moment, she’d felt an odd excitement as if she were dancing on the wind.

  Brandy smiled for the first time in days.

  2

  The jingle of harnesses and the creaking of wagons drew Thunder’s attention. He mounted his Appaloosa and rode to the top of the hill to see what was happening. There, gathered below him, twenty to thirty people dressed in black stood around a grave. He started to leave and give them their privacy, but a young woman holding a small child caught his attention.

  Something about her intrigued him as he watched the sun reflect off her chestnut hair. She stood proud, like a warrior. Yet, he sensed a sadness from her bent head. A breeze blew a wisp of hair around her face.

  Many gathered around her, yet she appeared very much alone and spoke only when spoken to. He watched as she left the crowd to return to the grave. Her sorrow touched his heart, and for some inexplicable reason he longed to comfort her. Quickly, he shook the crazy notion from his head. Had not the beautiful Elaina taught him that he wasn’t good enough for a white woman?

  Unfortunately, his head told him one thing and his heart another as his gaze lingered on the woman below. Finally, she looked in his direction. Her gaze locked with his, and he again felt an unexplainable pull . . . more like an unspoken destiny.

  He’d probably never know who she’d just buried, though he assumed it was a husband since she held a child in her arms. All his instincts told him their paths would one day cross again, but this time he hoped he was wrong.

  Thunder was heading aw
ay from the white man’s world, and he wanted no part of any other white woman . . . They were trouble.

  He wheeled his stallion away and returned to his camp.

  Later that night, Thunder stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles as he rested against his saddle flung under a tree. He had ridden hard trying to put distance between himself and the world he’d lived in for the past few years. Seeing land that started to look like home brought him some comfort, and he decided tomorrow would be soon enough to venture into Independence. He shut his eyes and reflected over the last few years. A small smile touched his lips as he recalled the horror on his grandmother’s face when he’d first arrived in Boston. . . .

  Thunder had been only twenty when he’d arrived in buckskins, stood on his grandparents’ doorstep, and proudly announced that he was the grandson they knew nothing about. His grandmother’s reaction had been immediate—she’d fainted dead away. Thunder’s grandfather had taken control of the situation, motioning for Thunder to help carry her to the couch.

  Ross Bradley waved smelling salts under Judith Bradley’s nose, all the while assuring his wife she wouldn’t be scalped, though he still looked at Thunder doubtfully.

  Evidently his grandmother wasn’t thrilled to have a grandson, Thunder thought. “It was my mother’s wish that I be educated as a white man, so that I might learn about both worlds,” Thunder told them as they stared at him.

  “Then Helen is alive?” Ross Bradley asked. “H-Helen?” Thunder said the strange name. “My mother is well,” he assured him with a nod. “She sends her love and this.” Thunder reached into the waistband of his buckskins and produced a letter his mother had written and handed it to his grandfather.

  Ross Bradley cleared his throat before speaking. “Son, you must realize what a shock this is. We thought our Helen was dead. We were told she’d been killed by the Cheyenne, not taken captive.” Ross rose and stumbled over to the liquor table where he poured himself a drink, took a generous swallow, then turned back to Thunder. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have this kind of news sprung upon us? To learn that Helen is alive, well, and a part of the people we’ve come to hate?”