She gave him the directions.
When he approached the house, he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen – she was so beautiful he actually stopped walking for a moment – wearing trousers and a shirt with her legs crossed and a glass of lemonade in her hand. She sat on a chair which looked like it belonged in an office, out of place on a porch: an almost throne-like chair. Beside her sat the man who must have been Solomon Crawford. He was a hulking, scarred fellow, but he had a wide smile on his face, and he, too, held a glass of lemonade.
Beside the house, a mare explored the earth with her hoof.
As Jack got closer, he saw a young girl who must have been their servant emerge from the door with another jug of lemonade. “Would you like some more, miss, sir?” the girl said.
“Howdy, there!” Jack called, as he approached the porch. He took off his hat and held it to his chest. He looked into both Solomon’s and Alma’s eyes. It was clear to him they were equal partners, and he had to impress them both. “I am in the Mojave looking for work, and I have heard that you two are the kindest, shrewdest businesspeople this far west . . .”
THE END
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Love is Blind
A Native Romance
Dolores Drake
Love is Blind
Copyright 2016 by Dolores Drake
First electronic publication: January 2017
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Love is Blind
Prologue
It hadn’t taken long for Uncle Levi to offer Bridget a job. All of one hour in fact. The moment he received word that she’d achieved her teaching certificate, he arrived at her family’s home and told her that a position was available and that she could begin at the beginning of the month.
There was no question in Bridget Moore’s mind about whether or not she’d accept the post. Of course she would. Her father had always said, “If you want something, you’ll need to take it, my girl.” She supported her family’s belief that it took force and determination to settle an untamed land. It made sense for her father’s brother to secure a place for her at the Vermilion Lake Indian School. It was an institution moving full force toward civilizing of the savages and he wouldn’t pass up any chance to integrate his niece into the furthering of that cause. Bridget wanted to partner with her family in pursuing the goals so many had for the future of the West. It seemed she’d found a capacity in which she could participate.
“As a superintendent,” Levi had said as Bridget and her family gathered in the front room to hear what he had to say. “It’s my duty to select staff who are capable of furthering the education of the savages. They are uncivilized and it takes those who’ve had a proper education to teach them our ways. I believe Bridget will be an excellent addition. You can handle it, can’t you, Bridget?”
Bridget said that she could indeed. She was a certified teacher—why wouldn’t she be able to handle it? All she needed to do was relay what she knew.
“There, you see, Isaiah,” Levi said, looking to his brother. “She’ll do us proud.”
Bridget was sure she would. There’d be nothing to it.
Chapter 1: A Lesson
From what her uncle relayed about the Indian school, the students wouldn’t much care about Brooke’s appearance, but she wanted to impress the other teachers. Besides, looking professional could do nothing to harm her effectiveness in managing the class. Her mother had always told her that one should dress in a manner that was suitable of her position. Maribel Moore was a homemaker who spent all of her time in the house or the garden, so practical woolen skirts and long, grey aprons were fitting. But, Brooke was a teacher in a proper institution and, therefore, finer dresses would be her choice.
She turned her head to the side, thinking the extra twists she’d added to her dark brown chignon lent a more sophisticated heir to her appearance as did the fine material of her blue dress suit. The dark color of her outfit accentuated her naturally pale skin, distracting from any youthful blush that a brighter or lighter color might have brought to her face. However, the outfit was still becoming, yet professional and at twenty-three years old, she could afford a little added maturity without looking matronly.
“Time to enhance the ambitions for Minnesota and the West in your own area of influence,” Bridget said, voicing her vote of confidence in herself. “You’ve been well schooled in the ambitions of the white man. It’s time to teach them to those of lesser knowledge.”
After drinking of cup of coffee and eating the muffins Maribel had prepared, Bridget gathered the attendance tablet and books the school had provided to her and left the house.
“Have a good day,” Isaiah said as she passed him at the blacksmith’s shop he owned. “Remember what you know.”
“Thanks, Pa. See you after school.”
Once she reached the front of the boarding school, Bridget ascended the front stoop without hesitation, by passing the dormitories and the plaque that read “Vermilion Lake Indian School.”
The moment Bridget entered the front hall, a barrage of sounds assaulted her. The clop of boots on the floor and the ceiling overhead, teachers calling for order and students moving throughout the halls, many talking in far less than civilized tones. Making her way through the mayhem, she finally reached her classroom which was blessedly quiet. It wouldn’t be for long.
Bridget laid her attendance book open on her desk, wrote her name in crisp, white chalk on the black board, and straightened a few desks as the bell rang. Standing behind her desk, she waited as the students began to file in. The usual commotion that typically accompanied the first day of school and resided around young people in general filled the classroom, bouncing off the walls and creating a considerable racket. Still, the students weren’t as disorderly as Bridget had pictured. She supposed that this meant that the school was succeeding in educating the Indians even if there was still resistance from the reservations, objections to the fact that the children were being purged of the ways of their parents.
“School come to order,” Bridget called, rapping on her desk with a ruler. Most of the students complied, but the resentful looks she received from a few of the Indians were not lost on the new teacher. The girls were dressed in sensible dresses with aprons over the top, their gleaming, black hair plaited behind their heads. The boys wore the same kind of breeches the white frontier boys wore along with collared shirts. There was no evidence of the long braids the grown men of their kind sported as every male student’s hair had been cut short.
In spite of the fact that they looked as much like white boarding school students as humanly possible, the prejudice from many students was tangible. Bridget knew better than to be intimidated. This kind of reception was expected under the circumstances.
“My name is Miss Moore. As you’ll see, my name’s written on the blackboard. I won’t accept any disruptions in this class, not of any kind. What I teach may be different than what you’ve learned, but that’s why you’re here, so I won’t tolerate any disobedience.”
Bridget received guarded glares in response. She wasn’t sure that addressing the elephant in the room and touching on a sore spot right off had been the best choice, but it was over and attempting to smooth
it over would only look bad.
Lifting her chin, Bridget sat down, placing a pencil under the first name in her attendance book. “Benjamin Taylor,” she called out. As she read names like Francis Robinson and Emma Howard that these most certainly weren’t the student’s real names. One of the first orders of business when a student was enrolled in the boarding school was to give them an American name.
Each student answered with ‘here’ though some were more reluctant than others, hesitating so long that she had to look up to ensure that they weren’t absent.
When the chore of seeing that most of the students were present and accounted for, Bridget made her way toward the door, intending to shut it. She wouldn’t have any late students interrupting her class. However, just before she could complete the action, a tall young man who looked to be about sixteen years old appeared in the doorway. He surveyed Bridget without reservation and, from his expression, he found her wanting.
“Your name, please,” Bridget demanded, motioning for him to step into the room.
He didn’t obey her beckoning, but leaned obstinately against the doorframe, his eyes scanning the students in the classroom. Bridget knew that their attention was trained on herself and the boy not because she could see them, but because of the silence that had descended upon the room.
“Your name, please,” Bridget repeated.
The young man didn’t immediately respond. When he finally looked back at her, a small spark glinted in his eye even in spite of his outwardly lazy appearance. “My Lakota name or my fake white man-given name?”
The students made noise then and Bridget looked over her should to silence them. “Class, quiet.” She lifted her chin as she turned back to the student. “If by that you mean your American name, yes, that’s the one with which I’ll address you the class and the one I am requesting now.”
Bridget knew even before he spoke that the young man wasn’t going to give her his real name, but the name he did give was still not the one she expected. “Levi Moore.”
The students buzzed again, knowing full well that this was Bridget’s uncle.
The student looked defiantly at her, seemingly amused by the answer’s ability to startle her. “Isn’t he the reason you’re here? Don’t the white men force everyone to believe as they do, their family members included?”
The impertinent question took Bridget off guard and she blinked, dumbfounded for a moment. Thankfully, she found her voice relatively quickly. “I won’t tolerate this kind of disrespect in my classroom. Take your seat.”
The young man wasn’t through. “Who do you think you are?”
“I’m the t-teacher.” Bridget wanted to kick herself incredibly hard for stuttering. She sounded like an incapable schoolgirl.
Control yourself, Bridget. Are you going to let one student get the best of you? And on the first day! No, you’re made of sterner stuff.
It was classic, the obstinate student coming in late for class. Bridget wouldn’t let it ruffle her. The rest of the students had been perfectly manageable thus far and this new teacher intended to keep it that way.
“You mean you’re the unteacher,” the young man went on. “You’re here to unteach us Indian ways, aren’t you? What’s it you all say? ‘Kill the Indian, save the—’”
“That’ll be about enough of that!” A distressed note had worked its way into Bridget’s voice and she hated the way it made her sound out of control. She cleared her throat, taking a deep breath. “I’d appreciate it if you could manage to maintain an appropriate level of respect for the rest of this class period. If you can’t seem to accomplish this, I’ll have no choice but to send you to my superior for punishment.”
Bridget could tell that to the boy, this was no threat at all. “Do as I say,” she ordered, thinking that it would be in vain. She barely held in a sigh of relief when he actually complied, though it was with little pleasure that he did so.
Bridget hoped that the students, especially the disruptive one couldn’t tell that her hands were shaking in anger. Intent on not allowing this episode to destroy her success that day, she marched back up to the front of the class. Things went along so smoothly that Bridget almost forgot completely about the initial distaste of some of the students and dove fully into the lesson plan. She decided not to require much class participation on the first day, wanting things to go as smoothly as possible and avoid any disobedience until she felt she’d gained some ground in her own classroom.
It was only after she’d assigned the students to read silently from their text books that she searched the attendance book for the disruptive one’s name. Thomas. Thomas Mason was his Americanized name.
***
Bridget was pleased when she received completed homework from more than half of her students the following day. She still had to call for order a number of times during the class, but counted herself fortunate when Thomas Mason actually arrived on time for school and only tested her patience a couple of times. By the end of day two, Bridget was once again convinced that this job was nothing she couldn’t handle.
Gathering up her belongings, Bridget made her way from her classroom, intent on making a beeline for her buggy. She was feeling successful, but she still wanted to afford being detained her any longer than necessary. It took only a matter of minutes for the ambition of a quick getaway to be shattered.
Bridget had almost reached the front hall of the school when she heard commotion in a nearby classroom. There was shouting and the sounds of a fistfight rung clear and loud. Bridget turned to make her way in, but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. It was Mr. Jones, one of her fellow teachers.
“It’s not safe for you to go in there. A woman could get easily hurt in one of these Injun fights.”
Bridget complied by stepping aside so that Mr. Jones could enter the room, but she lingered in the doorway and wasn’t at all surprised to see that Thomas Mason was one of the offending parties.
“Stop it,” Mr. Jones ordered, having only to get Thomas under control to end the fight. The other boy was spent and evidently more than ready to be finished with the brawl. “What’s your name?” Mr. Jones asked the other boy who was leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath and cradling a wrist that had evidently received the brunt of the encounter. His face would be black and blue the next day.
“James Moss, sir.”
Thomas made a desperate, angry attempt to pull away from Mr. Jones, but the teacher kept his hold. “And you, boy, what’s your name?”
“Animkii,” Thomas ground out.
“Your American name, boy,” Mr. Jones demanded.
“Animkii,” Thomas repeated, trying to pull away again. When he still couldn’t escape, he cursed in his native tongue.
Mr. Jones ignored the noncompliance, looking from one young man to the other. “I don’t want any more trouble from either of you. If I so much as hear a complaint, I’ll have you placed on probation.”
James nodded, clearly only because he wanted to get out of the room. Thomas didn’t acknowledge the statement in any way.
James scurried from the room and Mr. Jones finally released Thomas. The teacher shook his head, muttering under his breath as he exited the room. Thomas attempted to move quickly past Bridget, but she caught his arm. With a swat that would have given her a black eye of her own if it had hit her face, he pulled from her grip, his onyx eyes lit with anger.
“What happened, Thomas?” Bridget had no idea where the bravery to attempt a one on one conversation with this boy came from, but she hoped that if she could gain some sort of understanding (or at least wrangle a truce out of the Indian), it would lessen the chances of future class disturbances. Furthermore, she didn’t want any pupil of hers causing trouble even if this was a school for Injuns and she didn’t know him.
“Sakima does not know anything,” Thomas spat, his dark irises darting away from Bridget in an angry frenzy.
“You mean James?” Bridget received a glare for that corr
ection so she moved on. “What makes you say that he knows nothing?”
“The Ojibwa stood aside and watched as the Lakota were attacked again and again by the white men—murdered. They did nothing.”
Bridget studied Thomas. “And they should have sacrificed their lives to help your tribe, is that it?”
“How are we going to resist the white man if we do not stand together?”
Bridget raised her eyebrows. The wheel in her head were turning. She had an idea; the was pretty sure she knew what the only way to get through to Thomas was. The Indians relied so heavily on their roots, that she decided that is where she’d need to start if the young man was to be taught reason and integrated into American society.
“You’re as ignorant as the rest of them,” Thomas spat. He didn’t give Bridget the chance to respond further, disappearing down the hall before she could say a word.
Even if she’d been given the chance, Bridget knew there was nothing she could say that would impact the angry Lakota in this moment. But, she was fairly certain she knew who would be able to reach him.
Chapter 2: A Try
Bridget had visited her Uncle in his office as soon as she parted ways with Thomas after his angry encounter with the Ojibwa boy and received doubtful permission to visit Thomas’ father on the reservation. It was obvious that he believed it to be a useless pursuit. Bridget was still smarting from Thomas’ remark about her being ignorant, so she had to admit that her intended visit with his father wasn’t entirely an act of concern and goodwill. She’d learned from her father never to allow anyone to put her down unjustly and she felt that it was her duty to defend herself and the reputation of the Vermilion School teachers. She’d show Thomas’ father that she was anything but ignorant and help him to the benefit of encouraging his son to comply with the school’s expectations. He’d fare far better if he learned not to resist Americanization and who better to convince him of this fact than his father?
Romance: The Campus Player: A College Romance Page 112
