by Barbara Goss
Dusty changed the subject. “Let’s sit on that rock, yonder. No one can see us at this distance, and we can look at the town while we talk.”
Running Brook sat beside him and gazed at the town in wonder. “I'm fascinated by Fort Worth, yet it frightens me.”
“Captain Grant and I wouldn't let any harm come to you,” he assured her.
“I know you wouldn't, but Captain Grant I'm not so sure of.”
“Why?”
“He didn't want the job of escorting me and hasn't made a secret of it.”
“Perhaps he has good reason.”
“The way he did for shooting Smoky’s mother?”
“Something like that. The cat had to be put out of her misery. She was suffering. Captain Grant did her a favor.” Dusty sighed. “Nevertheless, he'd not let anything happen to you. I can promise you that. Captain Grant is an honorable man.”
Running Brook studied the Indian's face for a clue to his true character. His eyes were small, but his gaze steady. Dusty wore his hair cropped shorter than most Indian men. His high cheekbones gave him a proud look. His thick lips, which almost always smiled, warmed his words. She found it easy to trust him. She'd promised herself never to trust anyone again, especially an Indian man, but Dusty was nothing like Big Bear and some of the others.
“You're close friends with the captain?” she asked.
“Yes, he's been my benefactor.” He smiled and winked kindly. “That means he's been good to me, helped me become what I am today.”
“What is good about Captain Grant?” she asked without malice.
“Let me ask you something first. Did the Tatums teach you about God and heaven?”
Running Brook laughed. “Every day, all day!”
Dusty laughed with her, then asked, “What did you think about it?”
“I believe in God, and I pray as they taught me. I'm white, and the Tatums' God is my God, not the Indian—” her hand flew to her mouth. “I'm sorry!”
But Dusty merely laughed. When he finally stopped, he said, “Don't be sorry. But let me explain something. Your God is for everyone, not just white people.”
“But,” she began excitedly, “the Comanche never prayed to God or believed in Him! They worship the sun, moon, and earth and pray to the Great Spirit.”
“Yes, but didn't Tatum try to teach the reservation Indians about our God?” he asked, still smiling.
“Yes, but few listened. They pretended just to get on his good side for favors.”
“But,” Dusty pointed his finger at her, “why would he bother to teach them about a God who wasn't for them, too?”
Running Brook considered his point. “I guess you're right, but God isn't an Indian.”
Dusty laughed again. “What difference does that make?”
Running Brook was becoming uncomfortable with this subject and Dusty's laughing at her ignorance. “Why all the questions about God anyway? What does this have to do with the good in Captain Grant?”
“Because Captain Grant is an extremely dedicated Christian man. You never have to fear him; he'd not hurt you or anyone,” said Dusty reverently.
“Is he a Quaker, too?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“No. In fact he isn't affiliated with any structured religious group. He just reads his Bible, teaches others, and lives what he believes.”
“Does he go to a church or meeting house?” she asked.
“Yes, whenever he can. He prays and worships at home or on the trail when he cannot.”
“How does his being a Christian man mean that I can trust him?” she asked.
“Because he believes the Bible, God's words, and lives what they tell him. God's Word tells him to be kind and not to hurt anyone.”
“But he isn't kind to me. He scowls, and he's angry because he has to escort me and find my family,” she said pointedly.
“Even Christians aren't perfect. He is still human and has human emotions that God doesn't have. Earthly pressures get in the way for people and cause us to be less than God.”
“So he could harm me?” she asked.
“Never. Trust me. He might get angry and touchy sometimes, but harm anyone? Never.”
She looked up at him and spoke earnestly. “You're the first person, other than the Tatums, I’ve truly trusted in a long time.”
He smiled and took her hand. “I'm glad. Especially since I'm an Indian.” He kissed her hand and winked.
“I hope I'm not intruding.” Grant's voice caused them to jump.
Dusty dropped her hand. “Not at all, Captain. I was just showing Running Brook our town. She's never seen a town or a church before. She's quite awestruck.”
“She surely appears to be struck by something.” He said the words half beneath his breath, yet Dusty and Running Brook clearly heard them and blushed uncomfortably.
Scowling at her, the captain said, “Well, Brook, you'll be pleased to hear my mother is preparing for your arrival. In fact at this moment she is buying you appropriate clothing. I only hope you won't disappoint her.”
Running Brook stood. Anger erupted within her at his words. “Disappoint her? How would I do that?”
Captain Grant walked toward her and fingered his riding crop carefully. “My mother is a kind, generous woman. I just want to be sure you appreciate her and her efforts.” He shrugged. “I hope you are considerate of her and realize all she is doing to make you welcome.”
“Why wouldn't I?” She asked. “Because I grew up with Indians, you think I don't have manners?”
Captain Grant's gaze dropped to the ground in embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”
“I can assure you, Captain Grant, that Mr. and Mrs. Tatum taught me manners, they worked with me the whole time I was with them. Mrs. Tatum said that I was a fast learner. I may not have learned social graces from the Comanche, but even they taught me respect. I was taught to respect family and fellow tribesmen. Rules of behavior were drilled into me by many teachers at a very early age.” She ended her speech, quickly whirled on her heel, and spun away from the men.
By the light of a mere crescent moon, the three slowly trotted through the dark, seemingly forlorn streets of Fort Worth—up one street and down another, first a right turn, and then a left turn. Brook wondered how she could know where she was or where she'd end up. She silently followed.
Captain Grant, and Dusty trod behind her. Whenever she felt distressed, she turned to Dusty for support. His wink or smile of assurance kept her spirits up.
Now Brook noted that the buildings they passed appeared to be mostly homes, which progressively grew farther apart. They no longer marched through the heart of the city. Without warning, a large, rotund woman ran from her post behind a white picket-fenced home. She waved frantically and grinned a warm welcome.
When Brook gazed upon the warm brown eyes and rosy- cheeked, wholesome smile, she knew Mrs. Grant would be her friend—despite her feelings for her son, Captain Jeremy Grant. Flora Grant embraced her son as soon as he leaped from his horse. Then she ran to Brook and helped her dismount, hugging her with true affection.
“Welcome home, my dear,” the plump, smiling woman greeted Running Brook, patting her back lovingly. “My home is your home. You may stay as long as you like.” Pulling from the embrace she studied Brook, then added, “Are you hungry, dear? You're so thin!”
Brook had meant to politely refuse the offer of food, but before she could answer, Flora Grant had taken charge. “But of course you are. I have a hearty supper ready.” She gazed beyond Brook. “Dusty! My dear! How are you? I've made corn bread—your favorite.”
As they walked up the path to the porch, Brook smiled at the candles in each window, which winked a warm welcome. The travelers followed Mrs. Grant into the small, clean home. Snuffing out the candles, Mrs. Grant rambled on about how glad she was to have company and have her son home after such a long time. Flora Grant fairly glowed with delight at having guests.
She led all three from the living room
, through a small dining area, into a large kitchen, where a fireplace roared and succulent smells attacked Brook's senses. Inhaling the aromas made Brook realize she really was hungry.
“Everything is ready,” she beamed. Jeremy Grant seated them at the table in the adjoining dining room while Flora piled food such as Brook had never seen before on plates painted with flowers and ribbons.
Brook loaded her fork with a bit of everything and had it halfway to her mouth when Captain Grant's voice and piercing eyes on her made her freeze. “Let us pray,” he said, frowning at her.
She scolded herself as she bowed her head. She'd only been away from the Tatums a week, and already she'd forgotten the before-meal prayer.
“Dear heavenly Father,” Jeremy Grant began, “we thank You for this food and our good friends with whom we share it. We ask Your blessing upon our meal and our friends. Bless our home and all within, and thank You for our safe journey. In Jesus' name we ask this, amen.”
“Amen,” the others chorused.
Before picking up her fork again, Brook mentally rehearsed every social grace Mrs. Tatum had drilled into her. She almost chuckled as she recalled her first meal with the Tatums. Indians did not eat quite the same way as white men. Anxious to be as much a member of society as she could, she had learned quickly and well. She breathed a silent thank-you to Mrs. Tatum and gracefully brought her fork to her mouth. Chewing slowly, with closed lips and her left hand upon her lap, she knew she'd passed the test when Jeremy Grant winked and smiled his approval.
Chapter 4
A sandpapery, wet touch on her cheek made Brook's eyes fly open. Smoky! She cuddled him to her and kissed his head, rubbing gently behind his ears. “Hi, fellow. Where did you come from?”
The small, gray kitten rubbed his head against her chin and purred so loudly it kept Brook from falling back to sleep. “You sure are noisy. Do you want me awake? Okay, I'll get up.”
Brook stretched and slid her legs over the side of the bed. The kitten slithered beneath the sheets, amusing himself trying to find his way out. Brook played with him momentarily then decided to search for clothes.
Opening the closet door, she stepped inside. Several dresses such as she'd never seen before hung neatly, as if waiting for her. She wasn't sure which was appropriate to wear. As she stood stroking the material of each, someone knocked lightly on her bedroom door.
Brook peeked around the corner of the closet door. Mrs. Grant entered, smiling broadly. “Good morning, Brook. Did you sleep well, my dear?”
When Brook assured her that she had, Mrs. Grant laughed at the moving lump beneath Brook's sheet. “So your critter found you, did he?”
“Yes, thank you. I'm so fond of him.”
“He's as welcome here as you are,” the woman replied. “I never had a daughter, so excuse me if I fuss over you a bit.”
Brook simply smiled politely, not sure how to respond to her kindness.
Mrs. Grant beamed once again. “You found your clothes. Good. What will you wear today?”
“I'm not sure,” Brook replied shyly. “Does it matter?”
“No, they're all daytime dresses. Take your pick. The blue would look lovely; it's the same shade as your eyes.”
Brook took the blue dress and held it up. Then she looked at Mrs. Grant in puzzlement.
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Grant asked.
“I've never worn anything like this. How do you put it on?”
“Here, let me help you.”
As Mrs. Grant dressed her, Brook explained. “When I stayed with the Tatums, they let me wear my buckskin dresses. I've never seen anything such as this in my life.”
“Wait until you see how lovely you will look. It's a mite big. I may have to take a few tucks. Let me get my sewing basket. I wasn’t sure of your size, my son showed me with his hands your size.”
While Mrs. Grant went for her sewing basket, Brook studied herself in the large mirror above the dresser. Is this really me? She asked the image in the mirror, not used to seeing herself in anything but buckskin or ragged shapeless smocks the Tatums had provided.
During the next few days Mrs. Grant helped Brook look and act the perfect lady. Brook liked Mrs. Grant immensely. Never had she felt so comfortable with anyone, except for Dusty, whom she saw every day, for he stayed with the Grants also. Jeremy Grant had made himself scarce the first few days, but now appeared more often. He seemed amused by the strong friendship that developed between the women, yet it was evident that something deeply troubled the captain. Brook yearned to learn what caused the haunted look to cross his face so often.
While she and Mrs. Grant made bread one morning, Mrs. Grant gave Brook the perfect opportunity to find her answers. Kneading the dough with strong, sure hands, Mrs. Grant asked, “You don't like my son, do you, dear?”
“He's all right, I guess,” Brook answered.
“Has he done something to make you feel upset with him?”
Brook welcomed the opportunity to tell her new friend what bothered her. “Yes. As a matter of fact he has.”
“Whatever has he done?” Concern filled Flora's eyes.
“His attitude is rude. He acts as if bringing me here and finding my family is too much trouble for him. He said something about now being a bad time.”
“Oh, dear,” was all Flora Grant said, her ever-present smile erased.
Brook continued, “I don't know what he meant by that, but he must only think of himself. Otherwise why would he be so heartless? Does he think I enjoy this? After all I never asked for his help!”
Mrs. Grant cut in, “Don't judge Jeremy too harshly, my dear. He's always been warm, kind, and considerate. You must overlook his faults for now. Recently something hurtful happened to him, and he is quite distressed.”
Noting that Flora Grant's frustration stemmed from Brook's distrust of Jeremy Grant, Brook used this to gain more information. “He has been truly rude, selfish, and inconsiderate. Why should helping me upset him so badly? What sort of gentleman is upset by having to help a lady in distress? And why is now such a bad time? Should I have waited another eighteen years?”
Mrs. Grant wielded her dough as if her efforts with it would burn up her anxieties; fiercely, she manipulated the dough onto the board. Then she sighed and eased up on her attack.
“Brook, I'm going to confide in you because you are like a daughter to me. Jeremy is suffering because, because….” She pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Jeremy has been jilted.”
"Jilted?” Brook repeated. Pictures of horrid illness or accident ran through the girl's mind. “What is jilted?”
Mrs. Grant slid her girth into a chair and took Brook's hand in hers. “My son was engaged to a girl named Melita Coopersmith. They were supposed to marry this summer. Just two months ago she broke the engagement to be free to marry someone else.”
Brook thought about this for several moments before blurting, “Isn't it a good thing he found out now that her affection was not true?”
The thought seemed to take Flora Grant by surprise. Her amazed look soon turned into a knowing smile. “Why, you're right, Brook. I'm glad it happened, too! In fact, I pray daily for his happiness. Perhaps her jilting him was an answer to prayer. You're smarter than I thought.” She leaned over and kissed Brook on the cheek. “You, my dear, are very special.”
Brook felt momentarily choked up. No one had ever shown her love and compassion. When she had control of her emotions, she braved another question: “How long will it take Jeremy to get over this girl and stop being sad and irritable?”
Mrs. Grant smiled. “I wish I knew, but this business with finding your family has brought things to the front.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the fellow Melita claims to love is Angus McCallister's son, Ram. His errand with you means Jeremy has to call on them, and this sort of rubs salt in his wounds. He's very proud.”
Having never been in love, Brook felt little sympathy for
Jeremy Grant. But she did feel sorry for Mrs. Grant, who seemed to suffer more than her son. Through Mrs. Grant, Brook could see a love she'd never thought possible. Would her real parents love her the way Mrs. Grant loved her son? Even the small tokens of love Mrs. Grant showed her warmed Brook's heart.
Yes, Brook thought, she'd like someone to love her. Was she capable of loving someone, too? She loved Smoky, so she must have the ability to love. When she found her parents, she would love them, and perhaps someday she'd meet someone special.
After Brook had been with the Grants a week, Jeremy approached her at breakfast, regarding her future. “Well, Brook, when and where do you want to start?” He poured them both a second cup of coffee.
Mrs. Grant waddled about the kitchen, clearing empty dishes and replacing them with filled ones. Brook thought if she ate much more of the delicious food, she'd have to remove the tucks in her new dresses.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “What choices do I have?”
“Are you ready to call on the McCallisters and Garrisons? Which would you like to call on first?”
Remembering his difficulty regarding the McCallisters, she answered. “Let's begin today. I think I'd like to call on the Garrisons first.”
Jeremy studied her momentarily before giving her a look of approval. “Very well. We'll leave shortly. I'm not sure how we will handle this matter, but I'm sure we'll think of something.”
Brook sighed. “How will I know which family is mine?”
Jeremy shrugged. “I have a strange feeling— I have since the day you spouted off at me. Remember when I asked you to appreciate all my mother was doing for you? Before you went stomping off, you looked so like—” he stopped short.
“So like who?” she asked. “And why did I look like someone just then?”
He chuckled. “Your hair is usually reddish, and when you're angry it appears to turn bright red. It's probably just the way the light happened to hit it, but—”
“One of the families in question has a redhead?” she almost demanded.
“Many families have redheads. I'm sure it means nothing. I won't plant any ideas in your head. You need an unbiased attitude to judge these families fairly. You'll feel it. You'll know which family is yours. Don't worry.”
