Journey of the Heart
Page 1
Journey of the Heart (previously titled Rehoboth) © 1998 by Barbour Publishing Inc.
Song of the Dove © 1997 by Barbour Publishing Inc.
Print ISBN 978-1-63058-628-7
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-717-8
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-735-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Dear Reader,
Journey of the Heart was my first published book, a dream come true. The characters and their journey played out vividly in my mind and refused to let me go. I envisioned a strong young woman thrust into the realities of life. She had the inner courage to accept her walk into maturity and faith in God. I also saw a young soldier who was committed to keeping others safe in wild, untamed west Texas. Together their faith and belief as young Christian pioneers fashioned a hero and heroine typical of those who settled our country.
But if it hadn’t been for my husband who challenged me to write this first book, the story would never have gone beyond my imagination. Here began my passion for creating adventures for my readers.
I hope you enjoy my very first story.
DiAnn Mills
Table of Contents
Journey of the Heart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Song of the Dove
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter One
Katie Colter bathed her father’s feverish body. For the moment, his labored cries had ceased, and he slept. Silence met her, and she held her breath until his chest slowly rose and fell. Putting aside the cloth and cool water, she touched his warm face. Her dear father seemed to grow worse instead of better, no matter how many herbs and liquids she forced through his parched lips. He’d grown so thin since the cough and fever raged through him.
Listening to his labored cries was better than watching him slip away.
With strength she’d not seen in days, he opened his eyes and reached up for her hand. She grasped it and kissed his fingers while tears trickled down her face.
“Soon I’ll be gone,” he said through a ragged breath.
“No, Pa. You’ll get better.”
“I want you to leave the Indian village.” He closed his eyes.
“Why? This is my home.”
“Your home is with the whites, not here among the Comanches. Go to Fort Davis now, before I die. This is not a fittin’ place for a woman. Your Uncle Seth and Aunt Elizabeth will provide a home for you. Take the deed to the land and present it to Colonel Ross. He’ll know what to do with it. Promise me you will do as I say.” He opened his eyes and captured her gaze.
Grief swirled through her, agonizing, terrifying fear for today and tomorrow.
“Katie, promise me.”
“What about Lone Eagle?”
“No, daughter. Leave now. I know the Spirit calls me home. Find your rehoboth at the fort. God does not abandon His children.”
“Which spirit do you mean?” Did he refer to the Great Spirit? Because he seldom mentioned the God of her mother.
“The one true Almighty God, and in Him you should place your trust,” he whispered.
She failed to understand, thinking his words were a result of the fever. “What is rehoboth?”
He squeezed her hand. “Promise me.”
“Yes, of course.” How would she do this thing he asked of her?
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
He parted his lips to speak, but he drifted off into unconsciousness and never uttered another word. His chest no longer rose and fell, and his heart no longer offered the steady beat of life. His suffering was over. The Great Spirit had spoken through the wind rustling among the trees. Jeremiah Colter now lived in the spirit world of the great Comanche Indians.
Her tears dampened his chest. She desperately wanted to remain with her Indian family and friends. Desert Fawn loved her and wanted her to stay. Katie had dreamed of becoming Lone Eagle’s wife, but that must be forgotten. She’d given her word.
Where was this God when her father died? How did Pa’s God expect her to live without a mother or a father? How could his God do this to her? He must surely be a cruel spirit. Comanche gods would not have allowed this to happen. Pa should have called out to them because their medicine was good.
Only strangers lived inside Fort Davis—strangers and white soldiers. She hadn’t seen Uncle Seth and Aunt Elizabeth in seven years. Pa saw no purpose in visiting Fort Davis or his brother and sister-in-law. He had everything he needed at the Indian village and didn’t require any aid from white folks. When her own father refused the white man’s ways, why should she leave her Indian family to live among them?
Whatever Pa wanted her to find at Fort Davis, she didn’t need. But she’d fulfill her promise.
Sergeant Peyton Sinclair scanned the horizon line of the Davis Mountains where the sharp peaks reached above the clouds and appeared to hold up the sky. His eyes trailed downward to the oak, juniper, and piñon pines that covered the high terrain and provided easy coverage for raiding Indians. Apache, Kiowa, and Comanche war parties easily moved about in Limpia Canyon, and too often they were not seen as they climbed the canyon walls enclosing Fort Davis.
From his lookout point, he scrutinized every waving bush and cottonwood for signs of hostile Indians. A deer leaped across a blanket of moss and wildflowers, and quail dressed in mottled black plumage skirted skyward in a rhythm of their own.
He wiped the sweat stinging his eyes and noted something moving across the valley floor. He focused his binoculars on an object heading directly toward the fort.
“Hey, Miles, I believe we have company,” Peyton called to a soldier several feet away. He lifted his cap and raked his fingers through red hair.
“Comanche?” Miles said, spitting tobacco with his question.
“Can
’t tell,” Peyton said. “But it definitely looks like a pair of spotted horses.” He whistled.
“What is it?” Miles said.
“A lone wagon, and the driver is either a blond Indian or a white woman dressed in Indian clothes.” Peyton focused on the wagon.
“I think the heat has finally gotten to you,” Miles said, squinting to take a better look. He hesitated while his eyes studied the object. “You might be right, Sergeant.”
“Of course, I am. It sure looks like a woman…. I wonder what’s in the back of that wagon.”
Miles waved to the soldiers stationed near the gate. “Wagon heading this way, and it’s weighed down with something. Don’t know whether the driver is Indian or white. This might be an attack.”
Peyton and Miles watched the wagon creep forward until they determined two spotted horses pulled a heavily ladened buckboard. A young white woman held tightly to the reins.
“Who goes there?” Peyton called from his stance atop the gate wall. A handful of soldiers dutifully positioned themselves, ready for a confrontation.
The young woman pulled the buckboard to a halt and lifted her tanned face to Peyton Sinclair. She wore a buff-colored Comanche Indian dress decorated with colored beads of royal blue and red. Blond hair, a shade lighter than her dress of fringed deerskin, hung loosely around her shoulders. She looked no older than sixteen or seventeen. A rifle barrel lay sealed in the palm of her right hand, and Peyton took heed of her finger resting near the trigger.
“Katie Colter, sir, Jeremiah Colter’s daughter,” Katie said. “I’ve come to see Colonel Ross and speak with Seth and Elizabeth Colter.”
“What’s in the back of your wagon?” Peyton said.
Katie reached behind her and tugged at an Indian blanket covering a trunk, a few deerskins, and buffalo hides. “All my belongings, sir.”
“Where’s your father?” Peyton said.
“He died a few days ago,” she said.
The soldier who had spoken to her ordered the gate open, and Katie drove the wagon into Fort Davis. All the strain of the past weeks seemed to hit her straight on. She seemed frozen in the moment when she had watched her father die.
She handed the reins to the sandy-haired soldier who first questioned her.
“I’m sorry about your pa.” Sergeant Sinclair stared into her eyes. “Are you all right, Miss Colter?”
“Yes, I believe so. I’d like to see Colonel Ross,” she said. “Can you tell me where to find him?”
“I can take you to him, but first can I get you some water or something to eat? You look real pale,” he said.
“No, thank you, sir. I have to see the colonel.” Katie fought the blackness threatening to overcome her. Maybe the weakness came from not eating or sleeping. She hadn’t been able to tend to either one. Food didn’t sit well in her stomach, and rest escaped her.
The sergeant reached to help her down from the buckboard, but she ignored his gesture and climbed down alone. She followed him past a row of decaying huts and rough, dark stone buildings with grass-thatched roofs to a small log cabin. Waving strips of dirty white cotton cloth served as window coverings that did little to keep out the elements. Her home with the Comanches had been much more suitable.
The sergeant knocked and disappeared inside. She waited, acutely aware of the gnawing discomfort in the pit of her stomach and the exhaustion that weakened her body and mind. Soldiers and civilians stared at her curiously. Some glared. One man spit at her feet. She blinked and turned from their view. Perhaps the conversation with Colonel Ross wouldn’t take too long, and then she could visit with Uncle Seth and Aunt Elizabeth. Surely they would allow her to eat and rest, even if they didn’t want her to permanently stay with them.
The fort’s gate had closed behind her. Final, as though the past couldn’t enter these walls. Familiar surroundings would have offered hope and compassion in her time of grief, but not these strange people living within the perimeters of the fort. Her whole life seemed to have ended. Everything beautiful and purposeful had vanished forever. Would this ache for Pa ever go away?
Now she understood why Comanche women cut themselves when they lost a loved one. If she thought it would lessen her pain, she’d gladly use the knife tucked inside her dress.
The soldier stepped from Colonel Ross’s office and interrupted her thoughts.
“Miss Colter, the colonel will see you now,” he said. “I’ll wait outside until your business is finished. Pardon me for not properly introducing myself. My name is Sergeant Sinclair, Peyton Sinclair.”
She nodded. “Thank you for seeing me to the colonel’s office, Sergeant Sinclair.”
“You’re welcome, miss. Would you like for me to take your rifle?”
She drew in a deep breath. “I best be holding on to it myself, but I’d be obliged if you would keep an eye on my wagon,” she said, capturing a warm gray gaze. Maybe he was trustworthy.
“Miss Colter, I’ll stand right outside the door until you are finished with Colonel Ross. You have my word.”
She paused to consider the sergeant’s request. “All right.” She handed him the rifle and stepped inside the colonel’s small office. It smelled strongly of tobacco, a familiar odor, but it didn’t cause her to feel any more comfortable. A sense of dread encompassed her senses each time she thought about talking to a stranger regarding her father.
A heap of papers was piled high on the colonel’s desk. He sat slightly bent, preoccupied with a matter before him. Coffee-colored hair mixed with strands of silver curled at the temples and matched a bushy yet neatly trimmed beard. A pipe rested in the corner of his mouth, yielding an occasional spiral of smoke, and a military hat perched precariously on the corner of his desk. He wore the royal blue jacket of his uniform, but it was shabby, frayed at the seams, and in need of mending. A map of the territory was nailed to the wall behind him. Her eyes swept over the area she once called home.
“I hate paperwork,” Colonel Ross mumbled, “and this report must go out with a rider in the morning.”
She chose to remain silent until he decided to speak to her. Colonel Ross gathered the shuffled papers into one single stack. He muttered something under his breath and laid them abruptly to one side. Leaning back in his chair, he motioned for her to take a chair in front of his desk.
“Sergeant Sinclair tells me you’re Jeremiah Colter’s daughter.”
“Yes, sir,” Katie said, using much of her strength to sit erect. “He died nearly a week ago.”
The colonel merely nodded, and Katie surmised Sergeant Sinclair had already given him that information.
“And he sent you here—to Seth and Elizabeth Colter.”
“Yes, sir. I came to your office first. Uncle Seth does not know Pa died.”
“I haven’t seen Jeremiah in years, and I dare say I’ve never seen you before. What’s your name again?” The colonel picked up his pen. He pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from inside a desk drawer and meticulously smoothed it out. Dipping the pen into an inkwell, he glanced up for an answer.
“Katherine Grace Colter,” she said slowly while he wrote the words. “Pa died on June 12.”
“How did he die?” The colonel sounded more compassionate than his earlier tone.
She watched him write June 12, 1857. She hesitated a moment, mentally reliving those last few weeks of her father’s life. “Fever and chills, sir. Indian medicine wouldn’t cure him.”
Colonel Ross humphed. “Seldom does.” Once more he dipped his pen into the inkwell and entered Katie’s words.
“I have the paper stating the land belonged to my pa, and now to me.” She produced a legal document from a deerskin bag.
“I’ll take care of the transfer for you, Miss Colter. The last time soldiers rode by your place, it looked deserted. I gather you two have been living with Comanches?”
“Yes, sir.” They’d still be with their Indian friends if not for his untimely death.
“My advice is to keep that bit of infor
mation to yourself. Folks here don’t like hearing about whites preferring to live with Indians. Some of them had family killed and hurt in Indian raids.”
“Yes, sir.” The hatred was on both sides. Had he ever heard how the Comanches felt about white people invading their land?
Colonel Ross eyed her sharply. “I’m surprised Jeremiah didn’t have you stay with them.”
“He said it wasn’t a fittin’ place for a white woman.”
“Smart man. And how do you feel about it?”
Silence penetrated the small office.
“I’ll be keeping my opinions about Comanches and the like to myself, Colonel Ross,” Katie said. “Just like you recommended.” She swallowed her disgust. “Can you direct me to where my aunt and uncle live?”
He rose from his chair, scraping the chair legs over the wooden floor. “I’ll have Sergeant Sinclair escort you.” His voice bellowed out for the sergeant to enter.
“Thank you for your help,” she said. “Will you let me know about my land?”
“Yes, Miss Colter. I’m sure you’ll make a smooth transition into life here at the fort. Your aunt and uncle are fine people and will most assuredly welcome you.”
Sergeant Sinclair still carried her rifle, but at the present she had little use for it. But she knew this soldier’s name and rank if needed. While he spoke to Colonel Ross, she noted his average height and broad shoulders. Without a doubt, she could find him if he decided to keep her rifle.
Chapter Two
Katie followed Sergeant Peyton Sinclair to an area reserved for families. Most of the cabins had grass thatch for roofs, but other less sturdy structures had tarpaulins sheltering them from rain and sun. The sergeant knocked on a wooden door of a cabin that stood in good repair, and one she remembered from years before. Would Uncle Seth and Aunt Elizabeth really want her living with them—or would they reject Pa’s request? If the latter, she’d return to the Indian village first thing in the morning.
Before Katie further contemplated the matter, the door opened and Aunt Elizabeth greeted the sergeant. The woman possessed a wide, genuine smile, just as Katie remembered. Her aunt looked a little plumper, and white frost wove through wavy brown hair.