Dancing Fawn

by Ginger Simpson

  Dancing Fawn

  by

  Ginger Simpson

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 9781771457200

  Kindle 9781771457217

  WEB/PDF 9781771457224

  Copyright 2015 by Ginger Simpson

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or my any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

  * * *

  Dedication:

  To my fellow BWL authors for being a supportive family

  Chapter One

  Grace trudged along behind the wagon, struggling to keep up with her mother. Though the prairie grass grew knee-high in some places, the wheels found the dust hidden below and spiraled the powdery dirt into the air, covering Grace’s hair and skin. Her muscles quivered with fatigue.

  The day stretched on but rather than rest, father kept the family moving in search of the perfect place to stop. The more exhausted she became, the more her thoughts turned to bitterness. Why did they have to leave their home? Was it this stupid thing called gold fever? She didn’t want to live in a wagon. She wanted her own soft bed back… in their own cozy house.

  She smacked her dry lips and cursed the day her father announced the beginning of this horrible journey. He’d walked into the house, slapped his hat against his knee, and displayed his usual heartwarming smile. “Pack up the wagon,” he’d said. “I’ve got a plan that’ll make us rich.”

  The anger she experienced at his proclamation gripped her again. Grace had just gotten used to being in one place for any length of time. She’d actually made friends her own age and enjoyed their company. Now, surrounded by endless prairie, and glancing at only her family, she realized how much she missed the fun times with those with whom she went to school. Tears clouded her eyes.

  The creaking wagon wheels, plodding hooves, and rustling grasses made the only sounds on the lonely trail. Pa headed toward the distant mountains—the Black Hills, where precious ore supposedly ran in golden veins so thick the brightness rivaled the sunrise. Funny, from where she stood, the raised land looked like any other mountains. Nothing more than granite peaks jutting from a sea of grass and dotted with trees and scrub brush.

  Mama marched through the weeds ahead, her head held high and her shoulders squared against the growing wind. Where did she get her stamina? She seemed to be faring better than Grace. Mama’s admirable tenacity and devotion to Papa went without saying. Even when he uprooted the family, her mother never complained. If given the same opportunity, would Grace be such a follower, she wondered? Would she ever get a chance to find out? Suitable husbands didn’t pop up in the middle of nowhere. At sixteen, she was definitely marriageable, but being an old maid seemed her fate in life if the family never put down roots.

  Her father drove the wagon while her older brother, Kevin, prodded their single cow along and kept her from straying. Grace smiled, thinking of Kev’s silly jokes. He always seemed to find humor in everything, and even when times got tough, he made her laugh. Recalling a few nights back when he’d donned Mama’s bonnet and danced a jig around the campfire to Papa’s fiddling raised Grace’s gritty lips in a smile. At twenty, Kevin should have a wife and be making his own plans, but with all the shuffling from place to place, he hadn’t found a woman to share his life. Did being single bother him? If so, he didn’t complain.

  Lost in thought, Grace almost slammed into the back of the wagon. She swerved out of the way, missing by mere inches. She walked around front and stood next to her pa, watching him check the harnesses. “Papa, when are we going to stop for the night? My legs are tired.” Her words came out in a whine followed by a loud sigh.

  He glanced at the surrounding terrain. “We’ve come a far piece today. Don’t reckon’ we’ll find any place much better than right here. Go gather up some kindlin’ for the fire.” The gaze in his eyes turned dreamy. “Just think, in a couple more days, we’ll stop for a good spell.”

  * * *

  Living here, in the shadow of the mountains, two weeks had passed. The loneliness and desolation weighed on Grace, and made the time she’d lived in the wagon seem more like a lifetime. She’d seen no other families, just solitary miners occasionally passing by and working the hillsides, all too busy to share even a howdy-do. Greed for the precious ore provided great motivation, but left little room for making friends. The sounds of hammering on stone filled the days—a steady cadence that already grew tiresome.

  She stared out at the miles of drying grass they’d traversed and sighed. Surely this wasn’t to be her home until Papa struck it rich. Finding gold might take forever. The current accommodations paled in comparison to living in a real house. A makeshift canvas tent, hooked to the side of the wagon, served as a bedroom for her father and brother, while she and Mama shared the wagon. No outhouse…no privacy.

  Every evening, Papa and Kevin worked during the last glimmer of sunlight on a temporary shelter built from spare planks and pieces of wood found in and around the mining area. The lopsided building didn’t appear to provide much more protection from the elements than the wagon.

  * * *

  She gazed at the hills where sunburned and smelly men searched every day for the elusive gold. Rumors had exaggerated its abundance, but gossip didn’t dampen Papa’s spirit; he was determined to find the mother lode.

  The sea of browning grass around her whipped in the breeze, stirred her loneliness, and turned her insides hollow. Her eyes misted. How long did Papa expect her and Mama to sit idle all day? A person could only do so many chores while conserving water in this…this purgatory. Grace raised her gaze skyward. “Please God, let Papa find gold soon, so we can get back to civilization.”

  “Grace, dear!” The sweet sound of Mama’s voice interrupted her prayer. “Please get the flour and salt out of the wagon. We’ll be needin’ some biscuits to go with the beans for dinner. Papa and Kevin will be hungry when they come down from the mountain.”

  Great! Beans again. What Grace wouldn’t give for some variety. She shook her head. How could Mama consider this place a home? After climbing over wagon tailgate, Grace searched through the food bin and found what she needed.

  “Got ‘em, Mama,” Grace called as she hopped back to the ground. “If you want, I’ll make the biscuits.” At least helping with dinner gave her something to do.

  A shelf bolted to the wagon bed served as a work area. Grace made space for her bowl and mixed together a floury concoction to bake in a Dutch oven. How she longed for the luxury of the cook stove in their last home, despite not being there long enough to truly enjoy it. Papa had traded a team of horses for the old iron giant, and Mama had claimed she’d died and gone to heaven when he and Kevin toted it inside.

  Grace stopped stirring and sighed, staring blankly at the white expanse of wagon bonnet in front of her. The family had had more homes than she could count. Mama always told her they moved so much because Papa was born under a wandering star. Sometimes Grace wished it would fall to earth like other shooting stars and put an end to his restlessness.

  * * *

  Brightness invaded the wagon’s interior and woke Grace. She crawled to the opening at the back of the canvas and peered out. The rising sun crept over the mountain and spread fingers of light to dry the dew left by the cool evening air. She stretched and yawned, dreading yet another boring day ahead.

  The aroma of sizzling bacon filled the air. Grace glanced over at her mother’s empty pallet and sensed a pang of guilt. Mama had a
lways been an early riser, and a darn good cook. The smell of breakfast wafting just outside made Grace’s mouth water despite bearing remorse for being no help at all.

  She dressed in a hurry, and preferring the sensation of bare feet on the springy prairie grass, pushed her uncomfortable boots aside. She wore shoes only out of necessity despite Mama’s objection that ladies didn’t go unshod. Reaching behind, she tied the bow on her dress, and winced when craning her arm so far back sent a painful jolt through her shoulder. She shook off the ache and hoisted herself over the tailgate to the ground. Her mother hunkered next to the campfire, turning the sizzling pieces of pork.

  Grace walked up behind her. “Mornin’ Mama.”

  Her mother’s head jerked around with eyes wide as a frightened pony. “Lordy, girl, you just took ten years off my life. You scared me to death walking up on those silent feet of yorn.”

  Grace dug her toes into the powdery dirt and chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t try to.”

  “I guess I was just too engrossed in my cookin’ to hear you, but if you wore shoes like everyone else, a body’d hear ya comin’. You’re not a child anymore, Grace. You’re nigh on to seventeen, and you best act it.”

  “Gracious, that bacon sure does smell good.” She changed the subject. If she involved Mama in the task at hand, Grace wouldn’t have to hear the shoe sermon she knew by heart. The tin pot still sitting on the wagon sideboard gave her a new direction. “Mama, want me to get the coffee ready for brewing?”

  “That would be nice. Afterwards, please go and roust the men folk.”

  Grace filled the pot with water from their precious supply, dumped fresh grounds in the basket, and carried it to her mother. At the tent where Papa and Kevin slept, she pushed aside the blanket that served as a door and peered inside. An overwhelming odor of perspiration and dirty feet leaked out; she wrinkled her nose, but reasoned that hard work and little water didn’t equal clean bodies. “Hey, you two!” She winced and breathed to the side. “You gonna sleep all day? Mama says it’s time to get up. Breakfast is cookin’.”

  * * *

  Kevin coughed and caused his cover to drop to his waist. His well-developed chest caught Grace’s attention. When had he sprouted that manly mat of hair? Smells forgotten, she couldn’t help staring. He hadn’t been shirtless in front of her for a long time, and evidently she had paid scant attention to how much Kevin had developed in the past couple of years.

  He raised on his elbows and stared at her. “If you don’t want an eyeful, you’d better leave. I sleep in my birthday suit.” His threat yanked her to the moment; she averted her stare and took two steps back, dropping the blanket to its original place. Warmth crept up her neck into her face, although she couldn’t figure why. For goodness sake, it wasn’t like they weren’t related..

  Kevin came out of the tent buckling his pants and laughing. “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  “No!” She sneered. “I just didn’t want to see your ugly butt.”

  Her mother glared in their direction. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk out of you, young lady, and Kevin, you’ll put on a shirt, or you’ll get no breakfast.”

  As he crawled back inside his makeshift bedroom, Papa ducked out, his boots not laced and his hair flattened from sleep. He tweaked Grace’s cheek as he passed. “Mornin’, Sassy.”

  Sassy. Papa had a pet name for everyone, and she loved hers. She was sassy, and quite frequently the trait got her into trouble. Mama claimed she talked back and asked a lot of questions, but Grace considered herself inquisitive. Knowing was a good thing.

  Moving to the fire, she sat on the damp grass. Papa pulled up an empty bucket, turned it over, and sat, waiting for the coffee to finish perking. He laced and tied his boots then plopped his over-sized hat onto his head.

  Beneath the dust-covered brim, Grace studied his sun-tanned face, drooping moustache, and then gazed at his big hands. Their size made her feel safe and protected. Tall and muscular, Papa was a fortress of a man. How any times had she hid behind him for safety when she and Kev were young? Her father might be gruff and bullheaded, but he had a soft and caring side when it came to his “Sassy.”

  * * *

  Papa scraped the last speck of egg from his plate and set it aside. “I s’pect Frisky (his nickname for Kevin) and me’ll find gold any day now. People are discoverin’ it all around us. When we make our strike, we can find some land and build a real house. Findin’ gold is sure to happen soon… afore summer is past and the weather turns cold, I’d say. In fact, Sassy, you and yer ma might want to start gatherin’ fair-sized stones and rocks for our fireplace.”

  He pointed to the lean-to, still in progress. “In the meantime, Frisky and I will finish our temporary shelter, so we can spread out a bit.”

  No more climbing in and out of a wagon to sleep. Grace clapped. “Oh, Papa, a real home sounds so good, but we aren’t going to live way out here are we?”

  She flashed the look that always won him over…the half-pout, wistful gaze. “How do you expect me to be courted out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I’m not so sure I want you to be cour—” He jerked around and looked over his shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Kevin asked.

  “I hear it, Papa,” Grace chimed in. “Sounds like yelling.”

  Her father stood and scanned the horizon. He pointed. “Look. There!”

  A group of riders emerged from a dust cloud in the distance. The yelling grew louder as they came closer.

  The furrows in her father’s brow frightened Grace. “What is it, Papa?”

  He darted for the wagon. “Injuns! Hurry! You two women get inside and keep low. Kevin, get yer rifle!”

  * * *

  Grace’s heartbeat quickened and fear clutched her chest, making breathing a chore. She’d heard about savages, but never saw one up close. She didn’t care to.

  Her mother stood frozen in place. Grace grabbed her hand and yanked. “C’mon, Mama, we’d better do as Papa says.”

  They ran around to the back of the wagon, and her mother boosted her up and over the closed tailgate. Grace dove inside, her mind filled with horrible thoughts. Would she get scalped or worse…were they all going to die? All the while, piercing yells sliced the air while thundering hooves pounded the ground.

  Realizing her mother hadn’t followed, Grace rose on her knees and peeked outside. A pack of whooping Indians rode round and round the wagon, their voices creating a din of eerie screams while bullets exploded. The hair on Grace’s arms stood on end. She covered her ears, crouched against the sidewall and prayed the savages would go away.

  Shots rang out from beneath the wagon when Papa and Kevin returned fire. Fretting over her mother, Grace peeked out again. Mama shrieked and grabbed for the tailgate, but a mounted marauder pumped a bullet into her Silenced for a moment, she fell. A red stain spread across the shoulder of her dress while she tried to struggle to her feet. The Indian shot her again, sending her face down into the dirt.

  Grace’s screams echoed in her own head. “No! Oh God, Mama,” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “Mamaaaa...”

  Overpowered by hopelessness, Grace looked on as the painted rider reined his horse next to Mama’s fallen body and emptied yet another round into her. A stream of blood trickled through the dry dirt, and her beloved mother remained motionless.

  Bile rose in Grace’s throat. She collapsed into a cowering heap, silenced her sobs with her hands and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. God hadn’t intervened so maybe the ordeal was all a bad dream and Mama wasn’t really dead. Still, the shooting and whooping continued. Pounding hooves sent dust seeping into the wagon, and Grace sputtered. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t awaken from the terror.

  The gunfire ceased. She listened for the awful yelping but heard nothing but stony silence. Terror brought her breathing in ragged gasps. Were her brother and father still alive? And was Mama really dead?

  Grace wanted to
look out, but feared what she’d see. Were the Indians gone? Summoning courage, she forced her eyes open and lifted her gaze even with the edge of the tailgate. Her heart seized when she found herself nose to nose with a scarred face covered with paint. Hate-filled eyes glared at her, and in his hand, a wooden club with dangling feathers loomed directly over her head. In fear for her life, she recoiled and covered her mouth to stop the scream rising in her throat.

  A second face, not as old or menacing, peered in at her. The younger Indian grabbed the arm of the other and said something indistinguishable. They both stared at her.

  Tears stung her eyes then drizzled down her cheeks. “Please, don’t kill me, please.”

  The angry one grabbed her arm and dragged her over the splintered tailgate. A piece of wood pierced her side. She grimaced, scrunched her eyes closed, then hit the ground with a painful thud. Was this the end for her?

  The painted savage stood over her, burning her with his hateful glare. Why? She didn’t know, although she’d heard stories about the Indians’ anger over the miners being in the Black Hills. But to kill over gold? That couldn’t be why. It just couldn’t.

  * * *

  Looking past him, she noticed others still mounted; beyond them the body of her mother. Through blurred eyes, she glanced back to the younger man then scanned beneath the wagon, searching for her papa and brother. Their lifeless bodies lay sprawled next to one another. Her heart ached at the needless loss. She no longer had a family.