Journey of the Heart

by Mills, DiAnn; Darty, Peggy;

  Chapter One

  Elisabeth

  Wake up, Elisabeth!” Mary Greenwood called from the living room of a small cabin at Greenwood’s Trading Post. When there was no answer, Mary wandered to the door of her daughter’s bedroom and gazed with pride at the young woman sleeping peacefully in the narrow iron bed.

  Sleek black hair was swept back from an oval face in one long, gleaming braid, which, during her sleep, had wound itself around her slender throat. A high forehead, slim, small nose, and delicate lips were balanced by prominent cheekbones over hollow cheeks.

  Sunken cheeks, Mary thought, shaking her gray head. The girl is much too thin! As she looked at her daughter, she felt a sudden remorse for being unable to provide a better life for Elisabeth, but she’d done the best she could ever since the baby had been left at their wagon. A baby when her womb was barren!

  “Wake up, Elisabeth,” she repeated, speaking with a rare tenderness. Mary was usually too busy herding stray chickens, dogs, errant children, and drunken traders from her doorstep to stop for such affections, but today for some reason she lingered, gazing at her beautiful daughter. “We’re still running this trading post, remember? I’m goin’ on to the kitchen to build a fire. We gotta fix a bigger breakfast today. More riders came in from Taos last night.”

  She paused to seize a strand of steel gray hair that dared escape the fierce bun at her nape. “That Missouri family staying in the last cabin has been prowling since daybreak. The kids are probably hungry. We’ve got dough to knead, hoecakes to mix, and fatback to fry.” Thoughts of hard work sharpened her tone. “Wake up, you hear?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.” The dark head tossed on the feather pillow and one long, slender leg twitched beneath the mound of quilts.

  “I’m goin’,” Mary said, stomping back through the cabin and slamming the front door to underscore her command.

  Mary paused on the doorstep, looking around her.

  Fresh snow covered the dome of Pike’s Peak, blanketed the canyons, and piled up against the fence posts at their trading post. The post contained ten square, one-story buildings of slab pine with a large courtyard in the center.

  Mary thrust calloused hands on her plump hips and squinted up at the sunny sky. Eighteen years of Colorado weather told her that the week’s snow had ended, at least temporarily. She heaved a sigh of relief as her eyes fell to the post, scanning with pride the general store, the blacksmith shop, the guest cabins, and the kitchen–dining hall. She and her husband, Jed, had built every square inch of the place, starting from nothing. Although Jed would never admit it, his general store had drawn trappers and traders from the foothills, but it had been Mary’s good cooking that kept them coming back. Now the post was the center of activity between Pueblo and Colorado City.

  “I don’t want to get up!” Elisabeth’s voice echoed through the empty cabin as her inky lashes parted and dark eyes roamed the dim room. The thought of leaving her warm nest for another work-filled day brought a heavy sigh to her lips, yet she forced herself to toss back the covers. In her own way, she was as conscious of her duties as her mother.

  She was slim and tall, with long, fine-toned legs. She made a swift leap to the small rag rug that offered a patch of warmth to her feet. Shivering into her long flannel gown, she leaned over the chest and plunged her fingers into the cold pan of water. As she splashed her sleepy face, a blur of hungry faces filled her mind. She could easily envision the crowd at breakfast, elbowing each other around the ten-foot table, grabbing food and talking with their mouths full.

  She reached into the chest for her underclothes.

  Fifty-niners. They had been so named for the year they started pouring into the territory. Ever since gold had been discovered at Cherry Creek, they had stampeded into the country, riding on wagons, mules, and horses. Some walked; others rode in sleek prairie schooners. Their clothes were mud crusted, and their faces were covered with beards, but all had that same dazed look in their eyes when they talked about their diggings. “Gold fever,” it was called. She shook her head, mentally scolding herself for complaining. After all, it was the miners’ money that put food on their table and clothes on their backs.

  Her mother’s departure had admitted a gust of cold air into the small drafty cabin, and the cold quickened her movements. She yanked on her camisole and wound her long braid into a thick coil at the nape of her neck. From a peg on the wall, she lifted her gray muslin dress and tugged it over her head. The soft folds of the skirt draped over her feminine form, slid down the tiny waist and gently rounded hips, and then fell to the floor, covering her only decent petticoat.

  Her cold fingers moved stiffly over the buttons of her dress as she glanced down at her shivering body, suddenly recalling those awkward years when she had been all arms and legs, as gangly as the undernourished colts in the crowded corral. Unlike her mother, most Colorado women were as thin as a blade of prairie grass as a result of their long, work-filled days. Elisabeth had finally rounded into curves at breast and hip, yet her five-foot, seven-inch body registered only a dozen or so notches over the hundred mark on the scale at the post, and her mother nagged her constantly to eat more.

  She hurried into the living room, frowning at the disorder that neither she nor her mother had time to straighten. She pulled on her kid leather boots, threw her black woolen cape about her shoulders, and took a deep breath. It would be weeks before the winter broke, but to relieve the monotony, her mind seized images of the columbine that would bloom in the meadows, the crystal streams thick with trout, the golden sunshine glinting over the mountain peaks. Those images were precious treasures to her during the long, harsh winters, and yet she loved Colorado.

  She lifted the door latch and stepped outside, blinking into the morning sunshine. The bright light filled the depths of her dark eyes, and they gleamed like polished onyx in contrast to the pristine snow.

  The creak of the gate drew her attention to the guard who was admitting an early visitor. Her eyes widened. She had always loved horses, though she had never owned one, but now she was looking at the most beautiful horse she had ever seen. It was a black stallion, about sixteen hands high, with a white stocking extending to the left knee. Its dark coat gleamed as though oiled in the morning sunlight. After a few seconds, Elisabeth lifted her eyes from the horse to the rider. When she did, she was even more startled.

  He sat tall in the saddle, wearing a fringed buckskin shirt and patched trousers. A cap of the same buckskin sat on his dark head. His face was clean shaven, and his eyes, as dark as his hair, were turned toward the general store. To her disappointment, he never once looked her way.

  “Elisabeth, Elisabeth!” Tommy Ashbrowner had jumped up from his game of marbles and was racing over the snowy courtyard to her doorstep. “Are you gonna think up some kind of game for us today?”

  A gentle smile touched Elisabeth’s lips as she looked at Tommy, bundled to the chin in his heavy coat yet already missing his fur hat. Pale blond curls toppled over his thin face, a face lit by a pair of twinkling blue eyes. He shifted from one foot to another, eagerly awaiting her answer.

  “If I have time, Tommy.” She reached out and playfully mussed his curls. “I have a busy day and—”

  “You better!” He thrust his small lips into a pout. “There ain’t nothing else to do at this stinking post. Your pa won’t let us have a snowball fight or do anything that’s fun.”

  Elisabeth’s smile faded as she glanced toward the general store where the tall, dark-haired man had dismounted and was quietly observing the argument in progress on the steps of the store.

  Jed Greenwood, Elisabeth’s adoptive father, stood haggling over a team of mules with a small, desperate-looking man. Jed was a skinny, rawboned man with thinning gray hair and an angular face.

  Tommy sidled up to her. “He ain’t really your pa, is he? Momma said he ain’t.”

  The words brought a sharp ache to her heart. She had never ceased to wonder who her parents really were. Kidnapp
ed from one wagon train and left at another by Indians, her mother had always told her. Still, she searched the faces of everyone who came to the post, wondering…always wondering.

  “I’m sorry.” The small, cold hand touched hers.

  Elisabeth looked down into the boy’s sympathetic face, and she sighed. “He raised me, Tommy. He’s the only father I’ve ever known. Listen,”—she forced a smile—“you be a good boy, and I’ll try to think of a fun game for this afternoon.”

  “Yippee!” Tommy shouted, racing back across the courtyard to spread the news.

  Watching him bound off, Elisabeth’s smile faded as she pulled her hood up against the cold. Jed had never wanted her; she had always sensed that. A son would have pleased him, but he considered a girl a luxury he couldn’t afford. He seemed to forget the long hours she worked in the kitchen and the time she spent entertaining the children whose parents were staying at the post until the spring thaw. But her mother always defended her, and it had been her mother’s love that sustained her, providing the comfort and security she needed when she felt confused and bewildered. And she felt that way more and more as she grew older and wondered where her life was heading.

  “Them mules is worth more than you’re offering, Greenwood!” the little man shouted angrily.

  “Take it or leave it,” Jed countered, raking his hand through his tousled gray hair.

  “I’d leave it.” The handsome stranger who had been leaning idly against a post now took a step forward, towering over the other men. “If this man won’t pay you a fair price, Ben Williamson up at Three Mile will.”

  Elisabeth’s breath caught, and she stared in amazement. Few men challenged her father.

  Jed spat a stream of tobacco juice into the snow. “Fella, what business is it of yours?”

  “I’m a missionary from the Denver area, sir. And I take offense when I see people treated unfairly. It isn’t right.”

  “Then maybe you’d better head on back to Denver,” Jed countered, “because your missionary services ain’t needed here.”

  Elisabeth stopped walking and stared at the stranger, wondering what he would do.

  “All right, sir. Good day.” He unhitched his horse and climbed up in the saddle.

  “Reckon I’ll take that missionary’s advice,” the other man said with a sneer, as his eyes followed the stranger riding out of the post on his black stallion.

  Elisabeth stared after the tall dark stranger for just a moment. He seemed so handsome and mysterious as he rode away, tall in the saddle. She would like to meet someone like that someday. A missionary, he had said he was. Now that was interesting. But she never had the chance to meet anyone interesting, and even if she did, Jed’s sharp eyes were always watching her, scorning any man who was halfway friendly to her.

  She turned back to the path and hurried to the one-room kitchen, lost in thought. She hated the tactics Jed used with the traders. She was secretly glad that he had failed this time. If not for the stranger, the missionary, Jed would have bought the man’s mules for half their worth, fattened them cheaply, and then tripled his investment when the next wagon train pulled in.

  Glancing back toward the gate, she saw that the stranger had already disappeared. She sighed, feeling a sadness settle over her as her boots made crunching sounds in the hard-packed snow. The deep, stinging cold brought to her the familiar smells of the post—hay, leather, wood smoke. The smells of home. And yet, a part of her had never accepted the post as home, or the Greenwoods as her family. Of course she knew she was adopted; her mother had told her when she was four years old. Something more basic than that knowledge haunted her, however; it was a sense of not belonging here, or anywhere, for that matter. While she had spent her life in the shadow of Pike’s Peak, she had never felt at home there. And yet she had tried to tell herself any girl would feel the same way, growing up at a rowdy post rather than in a civilized place like Colorado City or Denver.

  The tall stranger had said he was a missionary from the Denver area. What is Denver like? she wondered. And what does a missionary do? The only missionaries she had ever known were a man and woman from Denver who had stayed at the post two years ago.

  Reaching the kitchen door, she scraped her boots on the step and tried to dismiss the man from her thoughts. Considering the way Jed had behaved, she was certain she would never see the man and his beautiful horse again.

  Chapter Two

  It’s about time!” Mary glanced at her.

  “I’ll catch up.” Elisabeth removed her cape and dropped it on a peg by the door. She was never intimidated by her mother’s strong voice. It was just her mother’s way. Elisabeth couldn’t remember her mother ever spanking her, although she had received some harsh scoldings at times.

  “Ma, he was arguing with a man just now, trying to buy his mules too cheap,” Elisabeth said. It was obvious who the he was. “And a stranger was out there.” Elisabeth automatically glanced over her shoulder, although she knew the stranger was gone. “He was a missionary. Ma, what is a missionary?”

  “You remember the Tillotsons who stayed a few days with us. They were missionaries.”

  “I know. I remember them. But what I mean is, exactly what do they do?”

  “Well.” Mary paused from her work, staring thoughtfully into space for a moment. “They’re usually sent by their home church to spread the Word of God, to deliver Bibles, help those in need. That sort of thing.”

  Elisabeth thought about that as she grabbed an apron and whisked it over her head. The man had kind eyes, she remembered; he would be good at his work, she was sure. “Missionaries go to different parts of the country?” she asked.

  “I think they have certain territories they’re responsible for.” She glanced back at her daughter. “You must have been quite taken with the man.”

  Elisabeth nodded slowly. “I was. He seemed like a gentleman,” she said, tying the apron strings as her mind drifted to the normal flow of people at the post. “Ma, I’m tired of all these drifters,” she said impulsively. “They’re rude, they spit tobacco juice on the walk, and they stare and use bad grammar.”

  “That’s why I’m paying that uppity eastern lady to teach you. Lucky for us, her husband got down on his luck and they ended up here instead of Pueblo. She’s been a real blessing.”

  Elisabeth nodded, thinking that Alice Stacker had influenced her life more than anyone she knew. Mrs. Stacker was soft spoken, cultured, and once a beauty, though she was quickly aging here in the West.

  “I want a better life for you,” Mary said, her hand resting on the dough as her eyes stared dreamily into space.

  “Maybe I’ll meet a rich man,” Elisabeth teased, feeling the oppression of the morning pass as she and her mother engaged in one of their dreaming sessions. “That man will fall in love with me and then we’ll—”

  “Indians!”

  The hoarse shouts of warning reverberated over the peaceful posts, bringing Mary and Elisabeth to the door.

  A dozen Indians were galloping into the courtyard, scattering snow, dogs, and children in a wave of panic. They wore fringed buckskin and beaded headbands. One man, obviously the leader, wore a headdress of white feathers.

  “They threatened to attack if they can’t trade!” the guard at the gate was yelling.

  The leader edged his white horse ahead of his braves as his eyes, black as midnight, scanned every building. There was something about him that commanded attention. He held his head high and proud, and his face bore a stony expression. It was an arresting face—lean, taunt skin over rigid bones, a prominent nose, and piercing black eyes. He drew up before the hitching rail of the general store as his braves fanned out around him.

  Jed Greenwood threw open the door and scrambled onto the boardwalk, gaping at the startling sight before him. The cold black eyes that swept Greenwood flashed contempt as Black Hawk shifted on his horse and coolly surveyed the gawking crowd. A few men took a step closer, curiously inspecting the formidable India
n chief as he motioned to a young brave.

  The brave dropped down from his horse and removed an armload of buffalo hides. Jed’s jaw sagged at the sight of the hides, so hard to come by now. Another brave followed with beadwork, water-jug baskets, and wooden flutes.

  “You want to trade, Chief?” Jed yelled, a wicked gleam rising in his narrow-set eyes.

  Black Hawk sat rigid on his white horse, whose muscles rippled beneath the firm hand of restraint. “The young squaw.” Lone Eagle’s deep voice boomed over the courtyard, quiet as death. “We trade for young squaw.”

  “Squaw?” Jed croaked. “We got no squaw here!” His greedy eyes returned to the buffalo hides and the handmade pieces that would tantalize the miners into parting with their gold dust and coins. But this crazy Indian wanted a squaw!

  “What about some white lightning from Taos, Chief?” Jed asked with a sly grin.

  Black Hawk glared at him. “Trapper John tell us papoose left at your wagon. Papoose belong to Morning Dove.”

  Jed sucked in his breath as his eyes slid to the kitchen where Mary and Elisabeth watched from the open door. Elisabeth! They wanted Elisabeth. Jed clawed at the tight collar of his flannel shirt as he forced a hollow laugh from his tight throat.

  “Chief, you got me confused with someone else. Why, I ain’t been in no wagon train. I been at this post for eighteen years.”

  The muscles in Black Hawk’s face clenched as he ground his teeth together, and a murderous warning leaped into his black eyes.

  “Morning Dove leave a papoose eighteen winters ago,” he countered. “Morning Dove dying. She want squaw.”

  Shocked whispers flew over the crowd. Heads turned, eyes shot to the kitchen door, which suddenly closed. The oldtimers had heard how the Greenwoods’ daughter had been left at their wagon, wrapped in an Indian blanket.

  “You take,” Black Hawk said, motioning toward their offering placed on the steps of the store. “When the sun rise again, we come for squaw. No squaw,”—he touched the pouch of arrows strapped to his side—“we fight.”