Stolen Heritage (Historical Christian Romance)

by Barbara Goss

  “Why are you so cruel?” she blurted.

  “Cruel? Me? Never.”

  “Insensitive then.” The first word came out a syllable at a time.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, looking away.

  “Because you didn't want the job of helping me?”

  “Don't take it personally.”

  “Then try to understand,” she said, "how difficult this is for me.”

  He looked at her carefully. Shaking his head, he offered, “I didn't mean to offend you. I would have been glad to help if only…. ”

  She cocked her head, making her uncapped hair fall over one shoulder. “If only?”

  He sighed. “If only it weren't now.”

  She noticed the pain in his eyes and wondered if she should ask what caused it.

  “Why did you scream?” he asked.

  “Bad dreams.”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Like some things I experienced while living with the Comanche.”

  “It never occurred to me that you were unhappy with the Indians. After all, you were brought up from infancy with them.”

  She studied him carefully before replying, “You would think so, wouldn't you? Yet you have no idea what I have been through and seen.”

  “But you were one of them,” he protested.

  “Was I?” She asked with one eyebrow raised. Why does this man think he knows me and my life? She wondered.

  “You were just an infant when the Comanche took you. Didn't you think, at first, you were one of them?”

  “Never, because I was never treated like one of them,” she said.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “No!” she snapped. Why would he think she'd confide in him? She could trust no one with her private life.

  He shrugged, then said simply, “If you're all right, I'll let you get back to sleep. If you need me, call.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered to his retreating back.

  As she curled beneath her bedroll Running Brook asked herself how that cold, heartless man could now seem so sensitive and kind. Perhaps it was just an act. She'd watch him. How else could she tell if he could be trusted?

  At least, she reasoned, gazing at the stars, now we're on better terms. It will make this trip more comfortable. She'd make a point to get to know Dusty better, too, she promised herself as she drifted to sleep.

  As they traveled the next day she pondered on why this trip came at a bad time for Captain Grant. Should she have asked why? No, she reasoned. Hadn't she just mentally scolded him for prying into her personal life? It was not her business.

  When they made camp that night, she helped Dusty prepare supper while the captain tended the horses. Dusty had caught several large fish from a stream, and Running Brook had cleaned them. They sat before the fire, inhaling the sweet aroma of the browning fish.

  “Hm-m, sure smells good,” Running Brook remarked casually. “Aren't they done yet?”

  “We don't want to rush them,” Dusty said. “The longer they roast, the better they taste.”

  “Not always,” she remarked. “Remember the first night you made fish? Downright burnt they were.”

  “Burnt! They were perfect.”

  “Were not! They were burnt. Even Captain Grant said they were a touch dark.”

  “Dark, but not black!”

  “Pretty close.”

  “Would you like to cook them, then?” he asked.

  Running Brook smiled. “Then they'd probably be half raw, because you know how anxious I always am to eat.”

  Dusty laughed, then sobered. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You have nightmares and seem so unhappy. Was your life with the Comanche so terrible?”

  She hesitated, reluctant to disclose her life to yet another stranger. How should she answer? How much should she tell?

  "The Indians were crude, and sometimes unkind because I was different. And it was my misfortune to be adopted by a troubled family."

  Dusty nodded sympathetically, inspiring her to continue, despite her vow not to say too much. "Why the bad dreams, then?"

  "There were things I saw, gruesome things that are a part of the Comanche everyday life. They had no idea the effect it would have on me. If only I'd had parents like Singing Bird's."

  "Singing Bird?" he repeated. "Tell me about Singing Bird."

  Thrown off guard by his interest, she told him about her friend.

  "She is beautiful and warmhearted. Singing Bird was close to my age and my dearest, trusted friend. Her parents were wonderful, too. Not like the rest."

  "Unlike yours?" he prompted.

  "I'm sure that fish is done now."

  He smiled. "Okay, so you don't wish to discuss it. I understand. Thank you for sharing so much with me."

  Why had she told him so much? Running Brook felt strangely at home with Dusty. Could it be because he was Indian? Was she more Indian than she thought?

  With a long twig, Running Brook tried to spear one of the fish over the fire. Dusty tried to shield the fish with his arm. “They aren't done!"

  “Mine is,” she said, trying again to spear one.

  “Is not,” Dusty contended, trying to take the stick from her.

  “Is too,” she teased, dodging his efforts.

  Grabbing her hand, he tried to twist the stick from her grasp. Laughing, she tried to wriggle her hand from his.

  A deep voice broke into their fun and brought them both to attention. “I hope I'm not disturbing you two. I could go back to the horses and return later. However, I am hungry.”

  Running Brook blushed, though she knew not why. She'd not done anything wrong. Why was Captain Grant scowling at them? What made her feel ashamed?

  Dusty spoke first. “Don't be silly, Captain. It was only horseplay. Running Brook was trying to steal herself a fish before it was ready. Looks done now. Let's eat.”

  Still frowning, the captain joined them for supper.

  While Running Brook did not fully trust either man, she felt no danger from them, especially Dusty. However, after several days of disapproving glares from Captain Grant, the nightmares resumed.

  The first two nights Dusty ran to her side and comforted her. But the third night the tired Kiowa slept soundly, and Captain Grant knelt over her as she trembled and sobbed.

  He didn't touch her but merely asked softly if she were all right. When she nodded tearfully, he asked, “Were you dreaming of an animal chasing you? Is that the problem?"

  She cocked her head at him in puzzlement. “Animal?”

  “Yes.” He explained, “You called out something about a big bear.”

  “Oh!” she gasped. Smiling slightly, she said simply, “It's not an animal, but an Indian named Big Bear.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I remember. Big Bear was your Indian father, the chief's son.”

  “Yes, my father,” she answered sourly.

  “And you didn't care for him I take it.”

  She shook her head. “I hated him!”

  “Now, now,” he clucked. “Hate is mighty strong. We aren't supposed to hate.”

  Running Brook's eyes widened, and her cheeks grew red. “Not hate someone who burns and beats you whenever no one can see?”

  “Burns? Beats?” Captain Grant repeated. “Is this part of your dream? A fantasy?”

  Running Brook clenched her teeth and searched for the correct words. Failing, she ripped at the button of her shirt cuff and yanked up her sleeve. “Look,” was all she said.

  “Dear God,” he murmured, staring in horror at the large, puckered scars. “Big Bear did this?”

  She nodded, pulling her sleeve down.

  His eyes filled with such compassion that she almost didn't react to his pat on the hand. “You poor…” he began, until she withdrew her hand like a flash. “Sorry. I didn't mean to touch you.” He turned, and then said over his shoulder, “Though you d
on't seem to mind Dusty touching you.”

  The next evening, after supper, Running Brook approached Captain Grant as he sipped coffee beside the fire. “May I have a word with you, sir?” she asked boldly.

  “Of course,” he answered, making room for her beside him on the log he sat on. “How may I be of service?”

  “Mr. Tatum said there were two families I might belong to. I've forgotten the names. Could you tell me anything about them?”

  “My word!” he exclaimed. Setting his cup down, he searched his pockets. “I'd forgotten to look at the names myself. I must know both. I know everyone for miles around Fort Worth.” Discovering the folded envelope in his back pocket, he opened it impatiently. He scanned the paper within and gasped. “McCallister! I don't believe it! Garrison perhaps, but not McCallister!” At the sight of her large, curious eyes, he explained, “Not that they aren't distinguished, well-to-do men, it's just that— ” he broke off, shaking his head. “I'm just shocked that the McCallister family should, after all these years, come into my life in so many ways now.”

  “I don't understand,” she said, recognizing the same inflection on the word now as he had used when speaking of this ill-timed trip.

  “Oh! Sorry.” He spoke as if he'd forgotten she was there.

  “Can you tell me anything about these families?” she asked.

  “Yes, I suppose I can,” he said. “They are both good families. The McCallisters have a son, but I think Mrs. McCallister is Angus's second wife, and I believe the son, Ramsey, is hers from a previous marriage. I'm really not sure. Like I said, our lives hardly ever touched before. I've never been close to either family; I only know who they are.”

  “The Garrisons are Elmer and…,” Captain Grant scratched his head. “Can't recall Mrs. Garrison's first name. Margaret, Martha, or something. They had no children, except the infant who was kidnapped by the Comanche.”

  “Which do you think is my family?”

  “I can only hope it's the Garrisons.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He studied her for several moments before answering.

  “It's nothing against old Angus himself, mind you, but another McCallister family member and I are sure to have problems.”

  Running Brook cocked her head to one side. “I don't understand.”

  Captain Grant stood, brushed off his pant legs and said, “That's all I can tell you, Brook.” Before she could react to her new abbreviated name, he had vanished.

  As she lay under the stars, bundled against the chilly Texas night, she replayed the conversation over and over in her mind. He hadn't revealed much about her family, and his remarks about the McCallisters had her puzzled. But Brook, he'd called her. She liked that. Brook. She smiled and snuggled deeper into her bedroll.

  As she listened to the night wilderness sounds, she shivered, despite lying so close to the fire. The Indian women never seemed to mind the frightful night sounds, but she'd always cringed. Her fear had made her a prime target for scary stories. The boys had always made great fun of coming up behind her at night and making noises or grabbing her to make her scream. Yet she'd never gotten used to it. The dark nights, with eerie animal calls and shadowy forms, still unnerved her. She huddled deeper within her blanket.

  Dusty turned from his bedroll nearby.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  She turned toward him. “Sure. Just cold.”

  He got out of his bed, carelessly searched through his pack, then walked over to her with a woolen cape and placed it over her blanket. “I don't have another blanket, but this poncho will help.”

  “Thank you, Dusty,” she said fondly.

  He started to walk away.

  “Dusty!” she called softly. “Does my horse have a name?”

  “Sure, that’s Jezebel.”

  She smiled. “Now I can call her by name.”

  He smiled and stood.

  “Dusty…”

  He stopped, turned, and knelt down on one knee. “Yeah?”

  “Why are you so good to me?” she asked innocently.

  He smiled. “I like you…,” he hesitated. “And because I feel I must prove to you that all Indians are not like the ones who mistreated you.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good.” He winked, patting her hand.

  She looked up at him, smiling.

  “Excuse me!” A deep voice from the darkness made them both jump. “Aren't you going to get any sleep, Dusty? You'll be plenty tired, come time for your watch.”

  “Yes, Captain. I was just saying good-night.” Dusty waved to Running Brook as he headed back to his own bedroll.

  Captain Grant scowled at Running Brook. “You'd best get some sleep; it'll be another long day tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Captain Grant,” she responded stiffly. Though she turned her back toward him, she could feel his eyes on her for several minutes before she heard him walk away.

  The next morning Brook washed in a creek sprouting from the Trinity River. Gazing into the distance, beyond where Dusty and Captain Grant saddled the horses, she felt anxious to begin. For today they neared their destination; this could be their last full day on the trail.

  Patting her face dry with the long linen cloth Mrs. Tatum had packed for her, she felt something jump at her and attach itself to the cloth. Brook leaped up, screamed as she never had before, and threw the cloth as far from her as she could.

  Numbly, she heard the men running toward her, but she shrieked again as the discarded cloth moved stealthily toward her.

  Chapter 3

  The cloth crept closer to Brook, and her cries grew shriller. Captain Grant, coming up behind her, took the situation in hand. Leaning over, he cautiously removed the linen from the slithering form. Brook gasped, and stared incredibly at the intruder. With unshed tears still glowing in her bright-blue eyes, she smiled and dropped to her knees.

  The captain stood with hands on hips and smirked. “Your attacker.”

  Brook blushed with embarrassment, and called to Dusty. “Look, it's a kitten! Where do you suppose it came from?” She gently picked up the gray bundle of fluff and stroked it lovingly.

  Grant had already begun to search the area nearby, and Brook saw him kneel down and pull something out of the water a few hundred feet upstream. Dusty ran to his side. Brook stood where she'd found her kitten, hugging it to her, when she noticed the two men seemed unusually concerned about what they had found.

  “What's wrong?” she called.

  “Nothing. Stay there,” Captain Grant ordered brusquely.

  Clutching the kitten tightly to her chest, she ran to them. “What is it?” she asked, and then gasped in shock for the second time that morning.

  “Is it alive?” she whispered.

  “Barely,” Grant said.

  Looking down at the bloody larger cat, Brook asked, “What happened to it?”

  “Got caught in a trap,” Dusty said. “I think it's the kitten's mother.”

  Unaware of its mother's peril, the gray kitten purred loudly in Brook's arms. She kissed its head. “Can you save her?”

  “Take your kitten and go back to the horses and stay there,” Captain Grant ordered sternly.

  “B-but— ”

  Captain Grant snapped angrily. “Take her away, Dusty.”

  “Yes, sir. C'mon, Brook. Hurry.”

  They had barely reached the horses when a gunshot thundered through the quiet morning air. The kitten's claws dug into her arm in fright. Brook spun around to face Dusty. “He shot her!”

  He shrugged helplessly.

  “Why did he kill her?”

  “I guess,” Dusty fumbled for the words, “I guess she was wounded too badly to save.”

  “I was right about him. Only a cold, heartless man could kill a helpless mother cat without hesitation.”

  “Listen, Brook—” Dusty began.

  But Captain Grant walked briskly up to them and distracted Dusty from what he was about to say. />
  Strapping his shotgun to his saddle, Grant said without emotion, “Dusty, please bury her while I look around for more kittens.”

  Dusty ran off in the direction of the cat, and Captain Grant began to scour the brush, whisking the growth about, so he could see beneath. As Brook watched him search she wondered if she'd misjudged Captain Grant. Would a cold, heartless man comb the fields for orphaned kittens?

  No more kittens were found, but Brook secretly thought Captain Grant a better man, because he searched diligently for almost an hour.

  They neared Fort Worth the next afternoon. Captain Grant ordered that Dusty and Brook remain at a distance until dark, to protect Running Brook's reputation. Meanwhile he went ahead to announce their arrival to his mother, so she could ready things for their arrival. With Brook's permission, the captain took Smoky, her kitten, with him. He promised the animal would be well cared for until she could join him.

  Running Brook and Dusty walked along a rocky ridge outside Fort Worth. She gazed at the city. “Dusty! It's bigger than I'd imagined. I'll surely get lost wandering about. The buildings all look so similar. How will I learn my way around?”

  “It's easy. You'll learn,” he answered. “Can you read?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Tatum taught me. I've never finished a whole book or anything, but I can read.”

  “That'll help. Do you see, all those look-alike buildings have signs on them? Each is a place of business—except the houses, of course, and they have individual touches that tell them apart.”

  “Oh, but what is that white building with part of the top sticking up high, like a tree?”

  “That's a church. Have you never seen a church?” Dusty asked curiously.

  “No. What's a church?”

  “You mean your Quaker benefactors didn't tell you what a church was?”

  “I’m not sure what a benefactor is, but the Tatums never mentioned a church, unless I wasn't paying attention.”

  “A church is a place people go to worship God and have Christian fellowship.”

  She gave him a knowing look. “You mean a meeting house? Mr. Tatum had one built behind his house.”

  Dusty nodded. “Yes. Our church building serves as a church, school, and meeting house.”