Dance on the Wind

by Brenda Jernigan

  Thunder frowned. “I understand how you feel. But should you condemn my people when you know nothing about them?”

  “We thought they’d killed our daughter,” Ross reminded him. Ross saw defiance in the young man, and also something of Helen. “I will wager you were not happy about making this trip or learning from my people,” Ross said, his eyebrows drawn together.

  Surprise registered in Thunder’s eyes. “You speak with wisdom, Grandfather.”

  Finally, the coldness began to slip from Thunder as he began telling his grandparents about his mother and what had happened to her over the years.

  Though his grandparents had not been happy to see him at first, they changed as the weeks grew into months.

  Thunder had spent the next four years in the best schools, absorbing the culture of Boston, so vastly different from his own. Gone were the open plains, replaced by tall buildings and many houses. How these people could bear the confinement was something he’d never fully understand.

  No longer did he look the savage. He was known as Thomas Bradley. He wore the white man’s clothes, ate their food, and learned their ways. He studied to become a lawyer. And he soon learned to love his new grandparents, something he never dreamed would have happened.

  Expecting to hate everything about his white ancestors, Thunder found he’d been wrong. Yet, he never felt that he belonged.

  The memories of his youth seemed so long ago as far away as Boston, Thunder thought as he opened his eyes to see the sun had started to set. He stood and stretched his legs.

  After he gathered wood, he built a fire to cook his evening meal. How long had it been since he’d had time to sit and think? Breathing in the fresh air, he marveled at the stars that had begun to pop out like tiny specks across the charcoal-gray sky. Where had they been while he lived with his grandparents?

  If felt good to be going home. Returning to his people. Back to the beautiful land that knew no buildings and back to the buffalo, deer, and elk, which ran wild and provided the food he would need. He longed to hear a babbling brook in the early morning and smell the crispness of the mountain air. All the things he’d missed while being away.

  He settled down beside the fire. Using a sharp stick, he skewered the rabbit he’d killed earlier and placed the meat over the flames to cook.

  Watching the fire, his mind swept back over the years, to the white man’s war. . . .

  The War Between the States had changed the once-peaceful community of Boston, and Thunder had become a Union Soldier.

  He had been no stranger to battles, but this war had been different. There never seemed to be an end to the skirmishes. Even the killing had been different. It wasn’t done with bows and arrows, but with guns and cannons that ripped arms and legs from good pony soldiers. The cannons crippled men in seconds, leaving them mangled if they survived at all.

  During his assignment to the 19th Massachusetts under the command of Colonel Devereaux, Thunder had relied on his Indian training to save his hide more than once.

  The Battle of Gettysburg had been the confrontation which had turned his stomach. He would have felt differently if he’d been fighting for his family or his home, but this wasn’t his war. He didn’t care who won. When he’d been left for dead and no one had bothered to come back for him, Thunder had managed to bind his own wound, and he’d not returned to the battle. The Union army had already deserted him.

  Gettysburg still haunted his dreams. The Northern and Southern soldiers collided, and man against man, they struggled until no one could move for the mass of wounded and dead men beneath their feet. Mutilated bodies, black with powder and red with blood, stretched as far as the eye could see.

  It seemed like yesterday.

  Thunder shuddered.

  He blinked several times and finally took a sip of hot coffee. The memories produced the same cold sweat that drenched his body every time his mind drifted back to that time.

  Thunder had learned his lessons, and he’d learned them well. No longer was he the naive brave who had left home. He’d become bitter and withdrawn.

  He wasn’t sure who he was anymore. Red man? White man? Brave? Soldier?

  Perhaps, he didn’t belong anywhere. But maybe, when he returned home, he’d find the peace he sought.

  * * *

  Why did she have to get up this morning?

  Facing five children who expected her to be the adult in charge wasn’t much of a reason. Brandy groaned. Her languid limbs protested any movement, and all she really wanted to do was linger behind the closed door, shutting out the rest of the world and avoiding the decisions that would have to be made.

  Before today, all the decisions had been made by Father Brown. Brandy’s responsibility had been to instruct the children with their lessons and do her few chores.

  When she had come to the parsonage, Father Brown had never intended to take in children, and he hadn’t for a long time, he told her. He had a full staff back then, so he had Brandy concentrate on her studies so that she could be a teacher one day. She could remember how proud he was that she took to learning so quickly. Then the staff seemed to dwindle as the children increased.

  Now it seemed as if the whole world rested on her slender shoulders, and she had a good case of feeling sorry for herself. A stab of guilt lay buried in her breast, which she tried hard to ignore. But the truth was she was scared.

  She tossed and turned, trying to go back to sleep and forget all her new obligations, but they wouldn’t let her rest. With another anguished sigh, she rolled out of bed and began to prepare for the day.

  Looking through her simple wardrobe, she chose a plain black dress to continue her mourning. She didn’t have beautiful clothes like some of the women she’d seen in town, and the ones she did have were plain. Her brightest dress, one of forest green, had been given to her by one of the ladies from town.

  Clothes were not a big concern as long as they lived behind the tall brown walls. Father Brown had always told them that God would provide what they needed.

  After brushing her hair, she swept the sides up with combs and looked at the results in the mirror with a frown. She definitely was plain. Pinching her cheeks, she smiled at the color they turned. Why couldn’t she have been pretty like the other girls she saw in town from time to time?

  She was fair, too tall, and her hair was straight and extremely unmanageable, which was the reason she kept it pulled back with combs. “I give up,” she told her reflection and turned away, disgusted with herself. It was a good thing she didn’t want to get married because no man would want her.

  Funny, her plans had never gone any further than teaching children and helping Father Brown. What could she do now? She stared out the window at the large live oak. Could she stay on and help the new priest? But what if he thought she was too old to stay at the orphanage? What would she do then?

  She had the eerie feeling that nothing would be the same from now on.

  Now, for the next problem, she thought as she turned from the window. Or, should she say, the next four problems? They were probably eating breakfast. The one bright thing left in their life was Rosa, the cook who made every meal a treat.

  Brandy’s stomach rumbled. Speaking of breakfast, she was starved.

  The parsonage was a sprawling complex. The courtyard had a fountain in the middle, and out behind the cookhouse was a small yard where they kept a cow and a few chickens. A large water oak spread its branches and provided shady relief from the hot noonday sun.

  Crossing the courtyard to the back of the com-pound, Brandy could already smell the heavenly aroma of bacon. Her stomach rumbled again, and she realized she’d eaten very little this past week. Most of her time had been spent caring for Father Brown.

  “Something smells wonderful,” Brandy announced as she entered through the door.

  “It’s hotcakes,” Scott said, his mouth full.

  Brandy glanced around. “Where is Rosa?”

  “She went outside for a f
ew minutes ”

  Stacking her plate with several flapjacks and strips of bacon, Brandy poured thick syrup over them, then carried her plate to the table where the children sat. She took her seat at the end and, without hesitation, cut into the hotcakes, savoring the first succulent bite.

  After she’d satisfied her hunger, she placed the fork down on the plate and looked around her. Brandy noticed how each child’s head was bent, eyes downcast. They looked at their plates and completely ignored her as they ate. “Good morning, children,” she said firmly.

  “What’s so good about it?” Billy answered gruffly, shoving his plate away from him.

  “I see we’re our usual charming self this morning,” Brandy answered, undaunted by his rudeness.

  “How would you like it if you were left all alone?” Mary grumbled. Apparently, she decided she hadn’t said enough and pointed her finger at Brandy. “And only had someone like you in charge?”

  Brandy breathed deeply to remain calm. She wouldn’t let the children rile her this morning. After all, she had to show how responsible she could be. She had to set an example. She frowned at the thought.

  Lord, she was beginning to sound like Father Brown already. She could hear him now. Always remain calm, my child, and you can work out any situation. Remember, patience is a virtue.

  “Well, Mary, I was left alone . . . and with me in charge . . . and I can tell you that I don’t like this situation any better than you do,” Brandy answered quickly, then leaned forward and looked at Mary. Waving her fork in Mary’s direction, Brandy said, “But it sure is better than sleeping in the streets which, I’d like to point out, is where we’d all be if not for Father Brown.”

  Rosa chose that moment to enter the kitchen, removing her white apron as she walked across the room. “I’ll be leaving this afternoon, senorita,” she said stiffly, her voice empty of its usual warmth.

  Brandy took her last bite of hotcakes and laid her fork down on her plate. “We’ll see you in the morning, then,” she said.

  “No, senorita.” Rosa shook her head. “I’ll be leaving and not coming back.”

  Brandy didn’t understand. “Where are you going?”

  Rosa hung her apron up beside the door before turning back to Brandy. “I’m afraid that I have taken another job,” she replied in a quiet voice. Something flickered far back in her eyes as she glanced from one child to the next.

  Brandy gasped. The blood drained from her face. Rosa couldn’t desert them. She’d always done the cooking. “You can’t leave us . . . you have always worked here!” Brandy wailed, clutching the edge of the table with a death grip.

  “You are one of us.”

  Shutting her eyes for a moment, Brandy prayed. Father, I need some strength here.

  Rosa had tears in her eyes as she cupped Scott’s face and pressed him to her motherly breast. “I will miss all of you, but I have a family of my own to think of. Yes, I have helped Father Brown for as long as I can remember, but my family cannot eat promises.”

  “I don’t understand,” Brandy whispered, desperation growing at an alarming rate. She wrung her hands under the table as she tried to remain in control.

  Rosa let out a long, tired breath. “Father Brown has not paid me for the last three months. He always told me the money was coming, but it never did. I cannot wait any longer. My family must eat.”

  “I’ll get your wages, Rosa,” Brandy said, her voice revealing none of the panic she felt. “Surely there is some money in Father Brown’s office.”

  “I do not think so, Brandy. If there had been, Father would have paid me. Besides, I have already taken another job.” Rosa took Brandy’s hand. “I am so sorry.”

  “But who will do the cooking?” Ellen asked in a horrified voice.

  Rosa moved toward the door. “You and Brandy will do just fine,” she said as she opened the door.

  “But I can’t cook!” Brandy all but shouted as she lost her composure.

  “Then I suggest you learn.” Rosa’s last words lingered in the air as she shut the door, leaving an open- mouthed Brandy staring after her with horror crawling through her.

  My God, they would all starve!

  3

  Dumbfounded, Brandy could do nothing but stare at the closed door. It seemed like forever before she managed to shut her mouth and sink slowly onto the hard wooden chair.

  How was she going to handle this new problem?

  She didn’t have the slightest idea.

  In the background the children complained about starving to death and demanded to know what Brandy planned to do about their present situation.

  Before she could answer them, Mary reached over and slapped Scott for turning over his milk. In turn, Scott started to scream, and Ellen complained that Mary shouldn’t have hit Scott.

  “Be quiet,” Brandy roared. She stood so fast that the chair scraped across the floor and fell over backwards. Immediate silence ensued as her chin lifted, and her gaze shot sparks at the ragtag family sitting in front of her.

  “You might not like this situation any more than I do, but we have to stick together. All this sniveling and fighting will accomplish nothing.” She tempered her anger and tried to remain calm. “Everyone will have to learn to take on a few more responsibilities around here. And that begins today!” Again she realized she sounded like Father Brown. She would have laughed if she didn’t have four pairs of eyes watching her, wondering what she would do next.

  If only she knew!

  “Until the new bishop gets here, we will have to do the best we can to keep things in order. Mary and Ellen, you are now responsible for cleaning up the kitchen and washing the dishes.”

  “Why do we have to do it?” Mary complained. “Because dishes don’t get done by themselves!”

  “What about the boys?” Ellen asked.

  “They will have to tend the garden, milk the cow, and make repairs around here.”

  “And just what are you going to do?” Mary challenged before turning to the other children. “I’m not about to take orders from Miss High-and-Mighty while she does nothing. It’s not fair.”

  Brandy felt Mary’s resentment now as she always had. According to Mary, Brandy had been Father Brown’s favorite, and he had always jumped to do whatever she wanted. Mary’s jealousy had never let her see that Brandy had been with Father Brown years before the others had arrived. Mary didn’t understand that they’d had only each other until the children arrived.

  Brandy sighed. How many times had she’d heard that “it’s-not-fair” speech? She stared at Mary’s belligerent smirk. How Brandy would like to slap it off the girl’s face! Instead, she counted to ten and took a deep breath.

  Brandy heard Father’s Brown voice.

  Blessed are the patient, for they shall endure.

  She would really like to give Miss Mary a piece of her mind, but she was trying to avoid further arguments and establish some kind of control over the brat. She stopped herself from the uncharitable thought.

  “I’m going to Father Brown’s study and look over his ledgers and see how much money we have to live on. If we’re lucky, we might be able to purchase supplies when we need them. And seeing as the rest of you don’t read that well, there would be little you could do there.”

  “I still don’t see why I have to do the dishes.” Mary stood up and folded her arms.

  “Because I am now in charge, and I’m making the rules! If you don’t do the dishes, you don’t eat. It’s just that simple!” Brandy fixed her unwavering gaze on Mary. “Perhaps you would like to turn the compost heap instead,” Brandy suggested sweetly. Mary did not accept the alternate assignment, but her lower lip was still stuck out.

  Billy rose, too. “I don’t take kindly to being bossed around, either. But in this case, Brandy is right. We have to take care of ourselves.”

  “At least, until the new bishop comes,” Ellen said timidly.

  Brandy could have hugged them, but before she could do so, Scott interrup
ted. “Who’s going to cook?” he wailed, worried about his stomach. He’d always been particularly fond of food.

  “I am,” Brandy replied as she turned to Scott, wondering how she’d ever pull off the job. She’d never cooked a day in her life, but she had watched Rosa at work. Maybe she’d learned something.

  Scott curled his lip, making a terrible face. His stricken expression indicated that he figured he’d surely starve now. Brandy hated to tell the child he might be right.

  She walked over to the door and then turned. “We are all in this together, like it or not. And you had best pray that I find some money.”

  The murmur of grumbling followed Brandy out the door, but at least the children seemed to be doing as she asked.

  This time.

  One battle down and how many more to go? She shook her head as she left the kitchen and hurried to the parsonage office.

  Pushing open the study door, Brandy glanced about the room. It appeared as if Father Brown had merely stepped out for a few minutes and would be back shortly. His old brown desk was still cluttered with papers. His chair was pushed back and his glasses rested in the middle of a letter he’d been writing. She sat down behind the big, mahogany desk. Carefully, she moved his spectacles to the comer of the desk before picking up the letter.

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Jackson,

  It’s possible that I have information on your granddaughter. Could you please give me a description of the child

  * * *

  The letter had never been finished. She looked around the blotter on the desktop, but there wasn’t an address or a letter that he seemed to be answering. Now she wondered if Father Brown could have been talking about one of the girls or maybe herself. Brandy thought for a moment. It had to be one of the other girls. It had been much too long for anyone to be looking for her.