Astrid came back to the present and tucked the blue ribbon into her Bible. She raised her arms for her friends to ease her dress over her arms and down to swirl around her. It was made of ice-blue washed silk, with a heart-shaped neckline and a fitted waist that flowed into a skirt and fell straight down to the tops of her toes. A two-layered pleat in the back would make walking easier. Not a train but a hint of one.
“You look positively regal,” Grace said, her eyes shining.
“Just think, two more weeks and you will be the one getting dressed in this room.”
Sophie settled an ice-blue hat with a half veil onto Astrid’s head, securing it with a hatpin into the figure eight of golden hair. Wisps of hair framed Astrid’s face, the blue of the dress making her eyes look even more like bits of a North Dakota summer sky.
Haakan tapped on the door and then opened it a crack. “The buggy is here.”
Astrid looked once more in the full-length mirror. The white leather Bible now held a blue ribbon marker; the golden daffodils lay like a sheaf on the cover.
“Are we all ready?”
Ingeborg kissed her cheek. “You are so beautiful, both inside and out.”
Astrid blinked again. “I love you, Mor.”
Sophie and Grace wore matching yellow dresses and carried three golden trumpet daffodils each.
Haakan crossed the room and held out his arm to his daughter, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Are you ready?”
“I am.”
He helped her into the buggy, and then the two cousins, Ingeborg, and himself. The drive to the church took only minutes. They could hear the organ from the hitching rail. He helped each one down, and they lifted their skirts to keep them out of the dust, then mounted the stairs and stepped into the vestibule.
Elizabeth had been practicing ever since the organ was installed a month earlier, so the music surrounded them, rich and glorious.
“They are ready.” Lars smiled at Astrid, and she nodded. He opened the door and Sophie stepped in the doorway. The music swelled and first Sophie, then Grace walked down the aisle to the front, where Pastor Solberg waited with Daniel, Thorliff, and Trygve.
Astrid and Haakan paused in the doorway. The church was full with extra chairs set up in the back and along the sides. The music changed again, and they began the walk. Astrid kept her gaze on the man waiting for her. If you cry, I will cry, so please . . . His smile bore his love toward her like the fragrance of roses on a summer breeze. It wrapped around her and made her quivering lips settle into a smile that never dimmed throughout the ceremony.
They spoke their vows without hesitation, their eyes looking deep into each other’s, pledging more than words could utter. Then Pastor Solberg said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” He raised his hands and spoke the benediction as though it had been written just for them. “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. . . .”
Thank you, Lord. She missed a few words, caught in her own thoughts and the look in Daniel’s eyes. “And give thee His peace. Amen. You may kiss your bride.”
When his lips claimed hers, Astrid lost herself in pure sensation. His smile at the end promised a lifetime.
They walked down the aisle, arm in arm, greeting friends and family.
“Hey, My Doc.” Benny reached for her from his father’s arms. He held her hand to his cheek and stared right at Daniel. “You take good care of My Doc.”
“Oh, Benny, you needn’t worry. I will.”
The organ burst into music that followed them out the door and into the welcome arms of a May day of golden sun and greening fields, all promises of life renewing and rejoicing in the growing town of Blessing, North Dakota.
Valley of Dreams
WILD WEST WIND #1
AVAILABLE NOVEMBER 2011
1
FALL 1906
DICKINSON, NORTH DAKOTA
Something was wrong – but what?
Sensing something ominous in the wind, Cassie Lockwood studied the performers of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show as they lined up for the opening parade around the arena. The United States flag snapped in the breeze above the uniformed riders waiting for the big wooden gates to be swung open. The snorts of horses, the jingle of harnesses, the laughter from another performer, and the musicians tuning their instruments were all normal sounds. She glanced down at the scruffy dog sitting placidly by her pinto, Wind Dancer. If Othello wasn’t picking up on it, then surely the feeling was only in her head.
Ignore it, her mind commanded. Concentrate on the parade and getting through this performance.
The drums crashed, the trumpets blared, the gates swung open, and the Saturday afternoon performers of the internationally known company burst into the arena, led by horse-mounted flag bearers. Jason Talbot, owner of the traveling show, decked out in cutaway frock coat and wide-brimmed hat, enthusiastically welcomed the crowd that filled not only the wooden bleachers but overflowed to line the far fences. This final performance in Dickinson, North Dakota, was off to a sparkling start, the crisp fall breeze finally breaking the heat spell that had locked the area in cloying humidity.
As the mounted Indians nudged their horses into a gallop, Wind Dancer waited for Cassie’s signal to join the parade. Behind them were the chuck wagons, the horses tugging at their bits, the excitement as contagious to the animals as to the human performers.
The applause swelled when Cassie passed through the gates. She was called the Shooting Princess and the greatest sharpshooter since Annie Oakley, and people flocked to watch her perform. Between trick riding and sharpshooting, she always managed to fulfill their high expectations. She circled the arena now, waved to the crowds, and then exited the arena behind the Indians. It wasn’t her time to perform. The western scenes of Indians, marching soldiers, and pioneers were on first.
Knowing it would be about an hour before her turn in the ring, Cassie dismounted in front of her tent and tied her horse to the hitching post. A good brushing would soothe both of them, so she pulled off Wind Dancer’s saddle and chest collar, setting them on the other end of the rail, and went for a brush and currycomb. Othello flopped down in the shade of the tent after scratching one ear with a long hind leg. He was not the most handsome dog around, but he more than made up for his looks in the brain department. He often knew what Cassie was going to do before she did. Between Wind Dancer and Othello, she knew she had the most stalwart and faithful friends anyone could ask for.
After the brushing and a wipe-down with a cloth, she checked her guns and ammunition. When she heard the applause after the attack on the settlers’ cabin, she replaced her tack and mounted to head back to the arena.
“You have everything?” Micah, who’d never given his last name, asked as he picked up the leather satchels that contained her guns. Micah spent most of his time caring for the animals, but he made it a point to check Cassie’s gear and make sure it was where it was supposed to be at showtime.
“Thanks, Micah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He nodded, never one to waste words. He’d come to the Wild West Show as a gangling moon-faced young man with the thicktongued speech and less-than-normal coordination of one born with Mongolism. Cassie saw behind these differences, taking on anyone she caught making fun of him, even threatening to maim a pair of now former members of the troupe when they had teased him and called him Cassie’s trained pet. Word got around after that, and no one had harassed him for a long time.
As a matter of habit, she let her gaze rove over the performers and backstage hands as they went about their assigned duties. Everything seemed perfectly normal, but something didn’t feel right. If only her father were there to talk this over with, but he had died five years earlier after an attack of pneumonia in England, almost to the day her mother had died four years earlier. He’d often said he didn’t see how he could live without the woman who made his life complete, so his passing hadn’t really been a su
rprise after he took sick. Cassie had stayed with the Lockwood and Talbot Show because she knew no other life, and “Uncle” Jason had pleaded with her to continue and promised he would always watch out for her, just as he’d promised her father.
The exit gate swung open, and the performers poured out.
“Easy, boy.” Cassie tightened the reins as she and Wind Dancer waited for their signal. Never sure who was more impatient, she or her mount, she swallowed again, counting the beats of the fife and drum so they would enter at exactly the right moment. “Six, five, four, three, two, one. Go!”
Wind Dancer leaped forward and hit his stride as they breezed through their mounted shooting act. She drew her revolvers and nailed the targets as they galloped by. Coming around the far side of the arena, she swung down to the side and shot from under the pinto’s neck to set a line of bells ringing. They slid to a stop in the center of the ring and, sliding her pistols back into the holsters, she waved to the crowd, turned, and did the same again. As the horse kept his hindquarters in one spot and spun around with his front legs, she pulled the shotgun from the scabbard at her left knee and downed each of the clay pigeons shot into the air, nudged Wind Dancer into a lope, and blew the heads off three puppets as they popped up from behind a wooden wall. Had her hidden assistant been off even a whisker, she’d have failed. Cassie hated failure worse than anything, and would’ve been fighting anger if she’d missed a shot.
Known officially as the Shooting Princess – her mother had been a member of the Norwegian royal family, thus the princess tag – Cassie absolutely forbade any trickery in her act. There was no one ringing the bells if she missed or breaking the glass balls if her shots were off. She had a reputation to uphold, much like her hero, Annie Oakley.
Cassie had started trick riding at age six on the back of her pony, with her trick-riding father and mother as her coaches. The three of them had been billed as the Fancy Riding Lockwoods since they introduced her into their act when she was seven. By then she’d been riding for four years. Growing up in the world-renowned Wild West Show gave Cassie a different kind of education from most young people.
Wind Dancer again slid to a stop in the center of the arena, both of them bowing after she dismounted. She gave him a pat on the shoulder and waved him toward the exit, through which he galloped with applause following. Cassie continued her act by using her rifle to shoot an apple off her dog’s head – an act used often by Annie Oakley – wowing the crowds. Othello had learned to sit perfectly still as her shot split the apple. The audience always laughed when he ate half and brought the other half to her.
She then shot the ashes off a cigarette smoked by her current assistant, Joe Bingham. After reloading her six-shooters, she split plates and performed a variety of other shooting stunts before her black-and-white pinto tore back into the arena. Catching the saddle horn and swinging aboard, she executed several more riding tricks while galloping around the arena and waving her hat. Then she stopped in the center, bowed from her horse, and rode out to thunderous applause.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our final act for today.”
Three chuck wagons burst into the arena.
“Pardon me. Those cowboys insist on a chuck-wagon race, so hang on to your hats, folks.”
Cassie barely heard the announcer’s voice, but she well knew what he was saying. She dismounted by her tent and let Wind Dancer rub his forehead against her shoulder, all the while telling him what a good horse he was.
“Wonderful, as always.” Joe slapped his hat against his thigh.
“Working with you has made me a real believer in not smoking.”
“I saw you flinch – not much but enough to see.”
“Just can’t get used to a bullet flying by that close to my nose. The urge to duck and run . . . it’s all I can do to stand there.”
“No one else would know that.” After unbuckling the chest collar, she uncinched her saddle and pulled it from the horse’s back. Joe took it and carried it into her tent to set it on the stand built for it. Cassie removed the silver-studded bridle and buckled a halter in place instead. Brushing Wind Dancer helped her relax after the high tension of her act. Her father had always told her to take care of her own horse and equipment, not to give the job to someone whose life did not depend on top performance of everything associated with her act.
She’d never gone a day without thinking about him, now more than most other times, as she replayed her act in her mind to see if there was anything that needed tightening or if there was something new she could add. While she enjoyed the competition of shooting matches in the States and in Europe, the show took another kind of preparation and practice. When she was shooting in a match, it was just her and her guns. And her competitor, of course. But a successful show took into consideration everything and everyone around her.
Father, if you could give me an inkling of what I’m sensing, I’ d sure appreciate it. Moments like this she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her dead pa or to her living heavenly Father, whom she’d met early on at her mother’s knee.
“You going to the meeting?” Joe asked.
“What meeting?”
“In the food tent. A sign was posted at breakfast.”
“What’s the meeting for?”
“I have no idea. Didn’t you read the sign?”
“Didn’t go to breakfast. Who called the meeting?”
“Jason, I’m sure. Who else?”
The little worm of concern popped its head up again. “Receipts were good, weren’t they?”
“A crowd like we had should help make up for the last couple of shows.” People hadn’t come out as much in the rain like they had in Bismarck the week before.
Why did the idea of a called meeting bother her? Perhaps because so often Uncle Jason used a meeting as a place to announce bad news. Jason Talbot wasn’t really her uncle, but since he and her parents had been good friends, as well as business partners, she’d always called him that. Besides, he was the one who promised to see to her welfare after her father passed on.
Prescient, her mother had often called her. Days like today prescience was not a comfortable trait to have.
“You need some help, or should I go check on the others?”
She knew Joe had a sweet spot for April, one of the women who played in several of the western scenes. Joe played the part of the wagon master on the trail and was a soldier in another scene. Most of the actors played various parts. The more parts they played, the better their chances of staying on with the show for more than one season.
“You go on. I’m going to clean my guns before supper.”
“Okay.”
She watched him walk away, the slight limp he’d earned from being stomped by a bucking bronco more obvious when he was tired or upset. As they’d added more rodeo-type events to the program, several of the men bore the scars of a flying fall. Calf roping and steer dogging weren’t quite as dangerous.
After Micah had taken Wind Dancer back to the rope strung between several trees where the horses were tied and fed, she brought out her cleaning supplies and, using the top of her trunk for a table, set to cleaning her guns, starting with the pistols and finishing with the twenty-gauge shotgun. Her favorite was her Marlin lever-action rifle, with the etching of a valley on the brass plate on the stock. Her father’s valley of dreams had become her own. Someday she would find that valley and make his dreams of breeding horses, particularly the Indian Appaloosas, and raising cattle come true.
When the gunpowder and lead residue were cleaned out and her guns lubricated, she wrapped them in soft cotton and laid them in the leather satchels, ready for the next performance. The ringing of the supper bell brought Othello to his feet. He stretched and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she got the point.
“I’m coming.” She set the satchels inside the tent and, making sure nothing was out of place, set off for the dull gray tent that had once been white. As she walked to the meal tent,
she glanced at the painted wagon her father and mother used to live in. Uncle Jason had appropriated it after the funeral, sending Cassie to live with an aging pair of performers who had since left the show. The gilt was in need of polishing, and some of the paint could use freshening up too, but everyone still referred to it as the Gypsy Wagon, the name her father had christened it many years ago. The words that arched over a charging buffalo, Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show, still stood for quality and fair treatment for all the members of the troupe.
Lately, however, she’d heard some grumbling, especially from the show Indians who were hired on a seasonal basis. The exceptions were those who had become permanent members, like Chief, who drove the boss’s wagon in the opening parade.
Why did these thoughts keep plaguing her? “Come on, Othello. Let’s get our food and go eat.” She broke into a dogtrot and laughed when he gamboled beside her. “We need to go hunting one of these days. You think Micah would like to go along?”
“Go along where?” Joe fell into step beside her.
“Hunting. Othello said he wants to go hunting. For birds, most likely.”
Joe rolled his eyes and shook his head. “How come no one understands that dog but you?”
“Friends are like that. He doesn’t flinch when I shoot the apple off his head.”
“I told you – ”
She raised a hand to stop him. “I was just teasing.”
“Oh.” Joe glanced down to see Othello staring up at him. “I didn’t yell at her, so don’t go glaring at me.” He muttered more under his breath but stopped when Othello bumped his leg with a sturdy nose.
“You know his hearing is far stronger than ours.”
“And his nose and – ”
“What set you off?” A grin broke across her face. “April didn’t want any help – is that it?”
He stepped back and motioned for her to enter the tent before him.
A Heart for Home Page 30
