White Heart, Lakota Spirit
Page 19
The leather straps hung across the wagon’s bow, but as Fawn reached for them, the wheels hit a deep rut, and the reins disappeared. Out of reach, they trailed behind the horses.
Her fate rested in the hands of Uncle Pete. She had to revive him. Her condition prevented her from retrieving the reins. Her mind spun. Finally, she swiveled, and trying to retain her balance, slid off the seat and onto the floor next to his unconscious body. She tapped him several times the cheek. “Uncle Pete! Wake up! You have to wake up!”
He didn’t respond. Ghostly white replaced the color that drained from his face, and Fawn trembled with dread. She hunched over her pregnant stomach and listened for any sign of breathing. She heard nothing but slapping hoof beats, and fought to keep balance as the wagon bounced and swayed.
Placing her hand against his chest, she prayed to feel a heart beat but didn’t. Uncle Pete was dead. Such a dear old soul, gone so quickly.
Fawn’s heart raced, and she stifled a scream. If ever she needed to keep her composure, this was the time. “Take a deep breath. You have to be rational. Think! How can you stop the horses?”
The same solution kept popping into her mind, but she couldn’t picture putting herself and her child in jeopardy by hanging from the wagon and stretching to reach the reins. But she’d have to try if she wanted to live.
Fawn gripped the back of the wagon box and pulled herself upright and back onto the seat. She swung her legs around and sat for a moment to balance, grasping the boards until splinters bit into her fingers.
Given their head, the horses had picked up their pace. “Whoa there, whoa fellas.” Fawn tried talking them to a halt.
It didn’t work, nor did tugging on the brake.
She tried to imagine how far down she’d have to lower herself. Eyeing the piece of wood connecting the wagon to the team, she wondered if she could hold onto the wagon box and step out onto the tongue. She shivered at the thought but had no other choice.
The team drifted off the beaten path into the tall grass. The wagon bounced over the rough terrain, hitting ruts and rocks and jarring her teeth. Seeking safety from being tossed off the seat, Fawn slithered onto the floor of the wagon box and cradled her stomach from the jarring ride.
Despite her happiness to be having a child, her swollen belly hampered her. She longed for the agility and balance pregnancy had stolen from her. Lord help her, how could she manage this feat? She grasped her chest to restrain her bouncing breasts and looked to heaven for guidance. Surely, God hadn’t brought her this far to die.
She took another deep breath and pulled herself up onto her knees. Her knuckles whitened against the front of the box as she planned her next move. First, she’d straddle the wagon bow then see if her foot touched the tongue.
Another bump sent her sprawling. Doubt clutched at her.
Her eyes clouded with tears, and she bit her lip. No matter how much she tried to convince herself of her bravery and ability, the thundering hoofs, flying dirt, and jolting ride revealed her as a helpless coward.
Rocks peppered the untraveled terrain. The wagon bumped and jumped across the uneven ground, frightening the team and spurring them into a run. Fawn lay helpless, the rough ride pummeling her body against the warped planks. She stared at the sky. Had her time come to die?
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She curled into a ball and cradled her stomach. “I so wanted to hold you in my arms, little one,” she whispered to her child. “I hope you know how much I love you.”
She closed her eyes and waited for death.
Over the pounding hooves, she heard a rumbling. Thunder? Her body bucked against the wagon floor. She steadied her head with both hands, opened her eyes and peered past the wagon cover at the cloudless sky. In the distance, mingled voices cried out to her. Perhaps the wind played tricks on her. But, she listened intently and truly believed the nearing noises were voices. Could God’s angels already be singing their welcome?
But yelling and whooping grew louder. Could delirium be the cause?
Somehow, Fawn managed to pull up and peer through the dust. The wagon tipped to the side as the wheels hit rocky ground, slamming her lip into rough wood. She tasted blood but held fast and stared into the distance.
Five riders bore down on the wagon. Indians, painted for war and riding hard. Her relief lasted only a moment then turned to gripping panic. What if they weren’t Lakota? If they weren’t from Little Elk’s tribe, they wouldn’t recognize her. They’d only see a pregnant white woman.
Suddenly, death in a wagon accident didn’t seem so bad. Unpleasant visions of what might happen to her at the hands of angry warriors flashed through her mind. She’d heard talk of scalping and torture, and remembered how her family died. Indians had every right to retaliate against the whites, but this couldn’t be the way she would meet her maker. It couldn’t be.
She hugged the pitching floor board and cowered in fear as riders neared. The yelps grew louder, and she strained to hear something familiar—just one word of Lakota. Could she be that lucky?
The team slowed then stopped. How soon before they discovered her? She saw no use in hiding, so with a deep breath, she pushed up from the floor and sat. Blood trickled from her lip, and she lifted her hem to wipe her mouth. Her heart seized. Three painted faces glared at her; none of them familiar.
Her mind swirled with questions. What should she say? How would she convince them Little Elk was her husband? Would they even believe her if they understood? What then? Would her death be swift?
She held up a trembling hand, a show of friendship if she remembered her signing. “Hemaca...” I am... How do I say Dancing Fawn? “Owaci ...” Dancing. Dancing... I can’t remember Fawn. “Hemaca Dancing Fawn. Tawicu...” Wife... “Little Elk... Hemaca Dancing Fawn, Tawicu of Little Elk.” Fear erased the Lakota words she’d learned.
Her shoulders sagged. What if they weren’t even Lakota? They wouldn’t understand anything she said.
The three stared at her as if she were loco. One, in particular, showed such coldness in his eyes. He dismounted and walked toward her.
She took a deep breath and sat taller. Perhaps if she tried being more friendly—asked his name. “Ah...Tku e’iciyapi hwo?”
“Cikala Mato,” He snapped and pounded his chest.
Her mouth gaped. He understood. Mato meant bear. His name was some sort of bear. Maybe he was from another Lakota tribe. Did he know English? “Your name is…”
She waited, but he raised a brow and shrugged.
“Little Bear is his name.” A familiar voice behind her translated. “And he is from Sitting Bull’s tribe.”
Fawn spun around. Her eyes widened. “Little Elk! Is it really you? Tell me I’m not dreaming, and you’re really here.”
He leapt from his horse onto the wagon wheel then stepped inside the box. His outstretched hand reached for hers and pulled her into his arms. “My Dancing Fawn, I have found you,” he whispered against her hair.
Caring little about public displays, she locked her arms around his neck and held him as though he might vanish. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She gazed up at him. “I was so afraid I’d never see you again. Nola helped me escape. Then Uncle Pete died, the reins dropped to the ground, I tried to—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh, there will be time for you to tell me everything.”
Holding her at arm’s length, he caressed her cheek, then her stomach. “My lodge has been empty without your laughter and cold without your love. I thank the Great Spirit for bringing you back to me. Come, let me take you home. It looks like very soon you will give birth to my son.”
“Or your daughter.” She smiled.
Epilogue
Homecoming proved bittersweet. Singing Sparrow now walked the Spirit Trail with her beloved Broken Feather, having died in the very raid in
which the soldiers had taken Fawn captive. Green Eyes and Rain Woman had survived, but many others had needlessly lost their lives.
After a very long and tumultuous delivery, and with the help of the wizened, old medicine woman, Fawn granted Little Elk’s wish and presented him with a healthy son. Born bottom first and not breathing, the baby fought against the odds and won. His father named him Wakanda, one who possesses magical power.
Three weeks before the birth, Little Elk and the others joined forces with other tribesmen to attack the bluecoats. Once again, Fawn was left waiting and praying for her husband, only this time, she was there to greet him upon his triumphant return.
Hundreds of mounted warriors had swooped down on the army near the Little Bighorn River and fought until Yellow Hair’s entire regiment was dead. When Little Elk and the others returned, the tribe rejoiced, for not one brave from Lone Eagle’s party was lost in battle.
The celebration had been short-lived. In retaliation, the never-ending supply of cavalry poured into the Lakota land and forced them to scatter. Lone Eagle’s tribe now traveled north with Chief Sitting Bull’s remaining followers toward a place called Canada.
Fawn prayed for a time that she and her Lakota family could live in peace and harmony. When and how, she didn’t know. Food was scarce, the travel hard, and the tribe moved rapidly to stay one step ahead of the army. Freedom was fleeting for the Indian nations, but hopefully, Sitting Bull would lead them to the happiness they sought.
The tribe camped in the hollow of a secluded valley. Tomorrow, they would begin their journey anew. But for tonight, Fawn snuggled against the warm backside of her loving husband, listened to the sweet sounds of her sleeping son in his nearby cradleboard, and thanked God for helping her find her way back home to the people she had come to love. She had been born Grace Cummings, but she would die as Dancing Fawn, a true Lakota spirit!
About the Author:
Author, Ginger Simpson, lives in Tennessee with her husband, Kelly and continues to write historical romance as her favorite genre. Her two biggest fans are her hubby and her grandson, Spencer, and although she has dreams of someday seeing one of her books in Wal-Mart, she’s slowly realizing that because of all the competition, she may just have to plant one there.
Ginger loves to hear from her fans by email and comments on her blog. http://mizging.blogspot.com or mizging@gmail.com
More of Ginger’s books from Eternal Press:
Prairie Peace
Sparta Rose
Sisters in Time
Sarah’s Journey
Amazing Grace
Chastity’s Charm
Forever Faith
Hope Springs Eternal
Paging Dr. Jones
Virginia’s Miracle
Books coming soon from Ginger Simpson:
Odessa (January 2011)
The Locket (April 2011)
Also from Eternal Press:
Prairie Peace
by Ginger Simpson
eBook ISBN: 9780980413359
Print ISBN: 9781897559420
Romance Western
Novel of 88,745 words
In the 1860’s, Cecile Palmer is the envy of the single girls of Spring City and the object of every young man’s fancy-until she experiences love at first sight. She meets and weds Walt Williams in less than a week. The newlyweds journey to her husband’s newly-purchased ranch and a life for which this naive and pampered only child is ill-equipped. A series of events turns her life upside-down. An injured Indian brave stumbles into her doorway while her husband is away. Destiny changes Cecile’s life in a way she could never have imagined. She discovers she’s pregnant, and when her husband doesn’t return with the winter supplies, Lone Eagle offers to take her to winter with his people. She accepts his offer, knowing her chance of surviving the winter on her own is not good. Then a trader comes to the village with evidence Walt may still be alive. Cecile now faces a difficult decision. Self-sacrifice, betrayal and lasting love lay on the rocky road ahead.
Also from Eternal Press:
Ravenwing
by Carol Mayer
eBook ISBN: 9781770650206
Print ISBN: 9781770650282
Paranormal Western
Novella of 24,120 words
Ravenwing’s voices have always protected her, and when they tell her to use her astral projecting powers to first help an injured cavalry officer, and then the war effort, she ‘travels’ and has a brush with death in the process.