Forever by Your Side

by Tracie Peterson

  “I’ve always been a firm believer in letting love find its own way. I prayed plenty when you were younger and so infatuated with Clint, but I feared that if I spoke negatively, it would only drive you into his arms. And then, if it turned out to be a good thing, you’d always remember that I didn’t want you with him.”

  “Did you actually feel that way? You didn’t want us together?”

  Her mother went back to washing the dishes. “I prayed so much about it, but it just never felt right. It still doesn’t. You and Clint are worlds apart.”

  “I’m back now to work with the Indians and don’t have any intention of leaving again—not even after this job is done. I don’t know exactly what God has planned for me, but I know the Indians will be a part of it.”

  “I’m happy to think of you being close by, but I still feel no better about the idea of you and Clint being a couple. Maybe you should talk to your father about it. He always has sound counsel.”

  Just then her father and Tom returned from their tour of the farm.

  “A good number of the Indian houses collapsed in the high winds in January,” Papa was explaining. “They were never well-built. The government sent men to just slap them together. We’ve been trying to get each family at least some place to live, but they deserve so much better.”

  Connie grabbed another plate and dried it quickly. She was still thinking about her mother’s comments. Mama had always been wise. She didn’t jump quickly to any conclusion but gathered the facts and reviewed them with care. Perhaps if Connie were more like Mama, she wouldn’t get into these confusing situations.

  “We’ve saddled the horses, Connie,” her father said, smiling. “I thought you and Tom could go with me on my rounds. This way the people will get to know you both.”

  “I hope many of them remember me.”

  “I’m sure they will.” Her mother bumped her with her hip. “You just go on with your father. I’ll get these dishes finished up, and then I’ll have my sewing class. I’ll be busy until noon.”

  Connie put the dried dish aside and pulled off her apron. “Let me get my hat, and I’ll be ready.”

  “We’ll be waiting for you out front,” Papa replied.

  She joined them in a matter of minutes. Her broad-brimmed straw hat was good for tucking up her hair. She was just tying it on as she came from the house and nearly tripped. Fortunately, Tom was there to keep her upright.

  “You’re going to end up on your face if you aren’t careful.” He helped her mount the horse, folding his hands together for her to step into. Connie grabbed the horn as Tom lifted her upward. She took her seat in the saddle no worse for the wear.

  It looked to be a beautiful day. In the east, the sun hung in a cloudless sky, and already its warmth was spreading across the valley. For several hours they rode leisurely through the reservation. Papa stopped from time to time to introduce Tom and Connie. Most remembered Connie and greeted her fondly.

  Connie explained from time to time what they’d be doing. She spoke in Chinook Wawa, hoping to put the Indians at ease. Even though the government demanded they speak English, Father Croquet allowed this common Indian language that was spoken among the many tribes.

  At one particularly ramshackle home, Papa dismounted as a half-dozen children came running. “Tell us a story!” they squealed. “Tell us about baby Jesus.”

  Connie was barely dismounted when her father sat down in the dirt, and the children followed suit. She smiled as they began to fish in his pockets and produced peppermint sticks.

  “Oh my, how did those get in there?” he said, as if caught by surprise.

  The children giggled and again pressed for a story.

  “You know Jesus didn’t remain a baby. He grew up to be a strong man.”

  Connie joined her father and the children on the ground. The children looked over at her, and she smiled. She greeted them in Chinook Wawa. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

  One little boy, his dark eyes wide, gave her a nod.

  “Children, do you know who this is?” Papa asked.

  Connie knew they wouldn’t. She’d been gone longer than they’d been alive. Tom sat on the ground beside her.

  “This is my daughter, Connie, and her friend Tom,” her father said. The children gave her brief shy smiles and held their peppermint sticks a little closer. Connie might have laughed if not for the very serious way they regarded her. “They have come to learn about you and how your people lived. But first, we’re going to talk about Jesus and how He lived.”

  Connie listened as her father told the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. The children were mesmerized. They questioned her father as to how this could be. They were used to the fish their parents served. There weren’t any fish big enough to feed that many people. Her father explained that Jesus could make the fish big enough that by the time the disciples gave fish and bread to everyone, there were still basketfuls left over.

  When he finished, he prayed and blessed the children. Connie felt tears in her eyes and quickly wiped them away while the children still had their heads bowed. She didn’t want to upset them by crying, but it touched her so much to see her father sitting there, loving them as if they were family. Of course, in so many ways, they were.

  As the noon hour approached, Papa headed them back toward their house. They were all getting hungry, and although several of the Indians had invited them to share their table, her father declined. He told them he would come another time when he could bring something to share, and that Tom and Connie had to attend to important things.

  Connie was impressed how Papa knew just the right things to say to keep from insulting the people willing to share their meager fare. Papa was a great diplomat when it came to working with the Indians. If the government would only pay attention to that, they’d know he could never do anything to harm the people.

  They stopped at the small sutler’s store. Most of the soldiers had been removed from the immediate area, but the store remained and served the reservation. Here the Indian men could get tobacco, and the women purchased sugar. The Indians had developed quite a sweet tooth, and sugar was one of the most-sought-out commodities. Connie remembered how her mother would lay in a supply just before Christmas and make candy for each of the families. It wasn’t an easy feat, but she was determined to bless each home with her offering. After a while, Mama’s sisters learned of this and started sending big packages of their own homemade treats to share. The Indians looked forward to them each year.

  “I’ll wait with the horses,” Connie told her father and Tom. The men nodded and went into the building.

  Connie had seen a group of Indian men gathered beside the store near the well pump. They were speaking quite intently, and she wondered if there were plans afoot. She pretended to water the horses and strained to hear their conversation.

  “They will come tonight. We’ll be there at the bend to meet them.”

  She frowned when another of the men replied. She couldn’t make out any of his words. She drew closer to the corner of the store.

  “Are they bringing whiskey?” one of the other men asked.

  “. . . and the . . . too much now.” The man gave a low laugh. “We will dance.”

  Connie frowned. That made no sense. She sighed and tried to move closer. At the very end of the building, she leaned back against the wall, trying to look nonchalant. If anyone saw her, Connie wanted them to think she was just resting rather than spying.

  “Be there at midnight,” the first man instructed.

  She heard whiskey mentioned again but didn’t know if it had anything to do with their meeting. He might have just been offering to share what he had with his friends, but there was also a possibility they were discussing a contraband shipment. Of course, one of the other men spoke of dancing. She strained to hear more, but the men moved off toward the road.

  Not entirely sure what the men had planned, Connie decided not to say anything to her father or Tom. She
’d slip out that evening and go to the location they had described. With any luck, she’d learn something valuable. Of course, it could just be that the men wanted to gather and do some sort of power dance. The tribes here believed in the powers that certain spirits could give a person. Some claimed the power of the coyote, which made a man mean and deadly, while others claimed the power of being able to talk to the dead. Some powers entailed mimicking animals or insects for varying purposes. Even the Indians who had accepted Jesus as their Savior still respected the powers that people claimed. They had seen too many things over the years and felt it was important to respect the traditions of their ancestors, so Connie knew it was very possible these men could simply be gathering to do a power dance.

  “You ready to head home?” her father asked when they returned with a few things in hand for the house.

  “I am.” Connie smiled. “I was just enjoying the shade and letting the horses get some water.”

  Papa nodded and Tom untied their mounts. Once again, he helped Connie mount. “Today would be perfect for a picnic down by the river,” Tom said with a grin.

  “And a swim,” Papa added. “But I know we’re all too busy for that. Maybe in a few days.”

  A swim sounded quite enjoyable, but for the moment, the men’s meeting at midnight was all Connie could think of. She prayed her spying would further their cause and help her clear her mother and father of wrongdoing. The sooner they could do that, the sooner she could refocus her attention on the job at hand.

  Chapter 10

  Connie waited until she was certain everyone was asleep before sneaking out of the house to head down to the river. There was a full moon out, which would hamper her plans for secrecy, but she remembered numerous secluded spots along the way, places she had used as a child during games of hide-and-seek.

  She knew the reservation like the back of her hand, and years of playing with the Native children had taught her various tricks for sneaking unnoticed through the brush. Connie was quite good at disappearing and staying silent.

  Cloud cover was moving in from the west, and with any luck at all, it might eventually hide the full moon. She contemplated waiting a little longer but knew the men had talked about coming together at midnight. Believing it was best to move on, Connie kept to the darkest shadows and heavy brush.

  As she drew near the river, the brush grew heavier and the ground less even. There was a steep bank to navigate in this particular spot, and Connie contemplated moving farther downriver to where it was lower. If the men were receiving a delivery, however, they wouldn’t be near this steeper bank, and it might give her high ground from which to observe them. She stopped and listened for voices but heard nothing but the river. If the men were there, they were working in silence. She slipped farther down the bank as it narrowed and lowered to meet the water. Hearing voices, she waited in the brush—barely daring to draw breath.

  “Keep low,” she heard someone say from below.

  There were murmurs, and then someone said, “There’s the boat. Signal with the lantern.”

  For just a moment there was light filtering through the bushes. Connie flattened herself against the ground until the light was hidden again.

  “They see us now.”

  There were several hushed replies and the sound of a boat nudging up against the bank. She heard several men exchange greetings and decided to see if she could get closer. She hadn’t gone far, however, when someone grabbed her from behind. A hand closed over her mouth as she tried to scream. She fought, but her captor was too strong.

  “Shh. Be still, Connie. It’s me, Clint.”

  She stopped fighting. Her heart was racing so hard that she thought it might burst from her chest. She’d been so afraid that she’d been caught by whoever was smuggling whiskey onto the reservation, and she’d had no idea what they would do to her.

  Clint dragged her backward, deeper into the brush and farther away from the river. Connie wasn’t sure why he was here, but she went without protest. When they were far enough away, he stopped and turned her to face him. The clouds had moved in to diminish the light, but Connie could just make out his features.

  “What are you doing down here? Did you follow me?” she demanded.

  Clint didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was low and husky. “I did. I was out checking on things, and I saw you leave your folks’ place.”

  “Must have been God’s timing,” she murmured.

  “I agree. Now, what are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t feel comfortable confiding in Clint. “I was planning a midnight swim. I used to sneak off and do that with some of the other girls when I was younger.”

  “It’s not safe to do that anymore.”

  “Because of those men at the river? When I saw them, I hid. What were they doing?” She tried to sound as innocent as possible.

  “I’m not entirely sure, but there’s been a lot of alcohol showing up on the reservation lately, and I was hoping to catch the men red-handed.”

  “Alcohol?” Connie paused, trying to figure out how best to move forward. She decided to feign ignorance. “Grand Ronde Indians have never been drinkers.”

  “You’ve been gone seven years, Connie. That’s a long time for things to change.”

  “I suppose so. How sad. Have they been drinking a lot?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Someone is smuggling it in.”

  “I want to help. I know my father would never allow such things.”

  The sound of someone approaching caused Clint to pull Connie deeper into the undergrowth. He held her close with his finger to her lips until the sound faded. It was an intimate moment, but Connie didn’t find it at all stirring. She contemplated the past, when she had dreamed about being held by Clint Singleton, but even that didn’t stir her heart. Perhaps the danger of the moment made such feelings impossible.

  “It’s not safe for you to be out here, Connie. You could get yourself killed.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea it was dangerous.”

  “I couldn’t forgive myself if I let something happen to you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you to say, but I’m hardly a child who needs to be watched after.” She quickly changed the subject. “Do you know who those men are?”

  “No. Some are obviously Natives.”

  His breath was warm against her ear, and again Connie tried to conjure up some fond feeling. But there was nothing except frustration that she’d been found out—and worry for her parents. Maybe that was blocking her ability to feel love for Clint. Then again, there was always the possibility that she’d been more successful at putting aside her feelings for him than she’d ever thought possible. It would make complete sense to have lost her affection for him over the years. Especially if, as he had once said, her love was nothing more than a childish infatuation.

  The men were talking again, and Connie strained to hear. They were speaking one of the Rogue River dialects. It sounded like the dialect used by the Latgawa people. The man referenced someone named Smith. They were asking where he was. Then someone began to speak in Chinook Jargon again.

  “Come on,” Clint said, moving away from the men.

  “Do you understand what they’re saying?” Connie asked. When she was young, Clint hadn’t cared to learn the languages of the people. He hadn’t even wanted to learn the common language—Chinook Jargon, or Wawa, as it was often called. She knew he understood more of the common language now but didn’t believe he was all that good at it, because her father had said Clint often asked for him to translate at official meetings.

  “No,” he replied. “I never learned that dialect and very little Jargon. Do you know it?”

  Connie wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want to admit she did. “I heard the name Smith, but while the language sounds familiar, I can’t tell you exactly what it is.” She hadn’t really lied. She wasn’t sure which dialect it was. “I’m guessing
some Rogue River language.” Which could be any number of a dozen languages.

  “I’m certain it’s regarding the whiskey.”

  “And someone named Smith. Do you know a man named Smith?”

  “There are many people with the name Smith. Shh.” He pulled her into a crouch and waited several long seconds. “I thought I heard the sound of glass bottles.”

  When her legs started to cramp, Connie tried to stand, but Clint refused to let her go.

  “Stay down, or they might see us.”

  Connie did as he commanded, fearful that if she did otherwise, it might completely backfire on her desire to clear her parents’ names. She wondered how much Clint knew. There must surely be some way to get him to confide in her.

  “You know where it goes,” one of the men said in English.

  They waited a few more minutes as the sounds of the men faded, and then Clint finally released Connie and helped her stand. Once they were on their feet again, she turned to face him.

  “We should follow them and see where they take the crates. We might—”

  But before she could say more, Clint pulled her into his arms and kissed her long and hard. His arms tightened around her. Connie had never experienced anything like this kiss, and for a moment she didn’t know what to do. Why was he doing this? Then her reasoning returned, and she pushed at his well-muscled chest and stopped just short of slapping him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She could only stare at him as though he’d lost his mind.

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve wanted to do that since you came back.”

  “Is that your only excuse?” She was angry and startled, not to mention confused. Her feelings were such a mix of emotions that she wasn’t sure what to say or do. A part of her wanted to slap him. An equal part wanted to better explore what the kiss implied.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, I know. But I keep thinking of all the things you used to say to me—about how much you cared for me, how you loved me. I was selfish and foolish then, and my heart didn’t know what it wanted. Not only that, but you were still very young and . . .”