Beloved Hope (Heart of the Frontier Book #2)

by Tracie Peterson

  She was surprised by his comment but had no desire to discuss the matter. Instead, she murmured her thanks and then nodded toward where Grace and Sam were talking by the wagon.

  “You . . . we should rejoin them.”

  On Saturday, when Grace asked Hope and Mercy to join her for a quilting bee in town, Hope wanted to refuse. She had no desire to sit amongst a group of women talking about their lives and gossiping about others. But her promise to Alex echoed in her head, and she knew she couldn’t refuse.

  She packed her spindle and plenty of roving as well as finished yarn she might sell. She could quilt as well as most, but by occupying herself with her wool, she wouldn’t have to sit around the frame with the other women. Other women would bring their knitting and crocheting, so she wouldn’t seem oddly separate.

  Her Aunt Mina was hosting the event, and afterward, Hope and her sisters would eat an early supper with the Marsh family before heading back to the farm. If things got too uncomfortable, Hope knew she could slip away for a time. After all, there would be plenty of family and friends at the house to keep Grace occupied and even comfort her should she grow sad.

  Mina was a consummate hostess. She had set up a side table for refreshments, which some of the women added to as they arrived. There was tea to drink, and Mina had set out her best china cups and saucers.

  The women quickly settled in to work. Mina had been working on a large quilt top for some time and was happy for the help to finish putting it together. She had the frame set up in her sitting room with dining room chairs gathered around. Otherwise the furnishings had been cleared away.

  “I like to never got that top finished,” she told the gathering. “Baby John has kept me quite busy, and without the help of Beth Cranston from time to time, I fear I would accomplish little indeed.”

  Mercy and her best friend, Beth, were even now entertaining the younger children in one of the back rooms of the house.

  “I’m not ashamed to say that we’ve hired a girl,” Mrs. Masterson, the pastor’s wife, declared. “She’s a half-breed and works hard. She cleans well and is good with children, being the oldest of a family of ten.” Since she was a mother of five with one on the way, no one faulted her for her decision. But Mrs. Masterson still hurried to add, “Besides, her family moved away, and she had no one to care for her, so it was an act of charity as well as necessity.”

  The talk continued on the subject of children and the difficulties in keeping their families fed, clothed, and free of sickness.

  “Oh, Grace,” Aunt Mina began, “I need a couple five-gallon jugs of vinegar. I have the empty jugs to trade you for them, and Edward will happily pay you. We’ve all been much healthier since you suggested we take several teaspoons a day.”

  “Vinegar is a definite gift from God,” Grace replied. “My grandmother and mother used to say there was very little vinegar couldn’t help and nothing that it would hurt.”

  The conversation moved on, and the inevitable topic of the trial and hanging came up. Hope tried to pay little attention to the discussion, but the ladies were boisterous, and ignoring them was all but impossible. Nevertheless, she took up her spindle and did her best.

  Spindle spinning was an interesting art Eletta had taught her. It required a weighted dowel with a hook at the end. A piece of starter yarn was attached to the spindle and then drawn around the hook. Hope would then turn the spindle to create a tight twist on the starter yarn and add roving to be caught into the twist as she released her hold. Once a nice line of roving had been twisted into yarn, she would then tuck the spindle between her knees and wrap the yarn around it. After that, she would start the process again. It was monotonous and not at all as relaxing as being at the wheel, but it served her purpose all the same.

  “My husband said a couple of the Indians didn’t die right away. Their necks weren’t broken, so they slowly strangled. I can’t help but believe it was God’s punishment for the most wicked of the bunch,” Mrs. Fuestelle said in an authoritative manner befitting her nearly sixty years.

  Her daughter-in-law Mary offered her opinion as well. “I think they should have forced all the guilty Indians to trial. Pity that the governor made a deal to let so many others go.”

  Hope was curious about this but didn’t want to join the conversation. Thankfully she didn’t have to, as one of the other women joined in.

  “Yes, Dr. Whitman’s own nephew Perrin stated for the newspaper that the governor allowed eight others who participated in the killings to go free. Apparently he felt the five we hanged were the leaders and instigators.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mary continued, “they should have been forced to pay for what they did. I knew sweet Narcissa Whitman, and it’s a travesty that anyone responsible for the deaths that day should go free.”

  Hope focused on her spindle. She spun the wooden dowel to tighten the twisted yarn then paused to put the spindle between her knees and allow the next section of drafted wool to be caught up in the twist.

  “I can’t abide the Indians,” Mrs. Fuestelle declared. “I say the sooner they’re eliminated, the better off we will be. They simply refuse to get along with anyone.”

  “That’s because they’re more like animals,” one of the women murmured.

  “It’s true. They live in the most primitive manner,” Mrs. Fuestelle continued. “Some of them live in structures covered with mats made out of grass. If they were an intelligent people, they would have learned to cut down trees and make log houses.”

  “Or collect stones,” Mary added. “Rock houses can be very nice.”

  Mrs. Fuestelle nodded. “Or they might have made those adobe bricks. Heavens, the Israelites made bricks for Egypt. It hardly requires much skill or material.”

  Mrs. Masterson paused in her sewing. “My husband said that Chief Telokite made a statement when asked why he had given himself up if he wasn’t guilty. He said, ‘Did not your missionaries teach us that Christ died to save his people? So die we to save our people.’”

  “Of all the nerve,” Mrs. Fuestelle said, disgusted. “To use our Savior’s name as an example.” She shuddered.

  It did seem strange to Hope that Telokite had made such a statement. He knew about Jesus and His death, as Dr. Whitman had taught that much every Sunday, and many of the Indians professed to accept this as truth. Still, the idea that Telokite was sacrificing himself to save the rest of his people rang hollow as far as Hope was concerned. If he cared that much, he never would have killed in the first place.

  Grace took that moment to interject her thoughts. “Ladies, you must allow that not all Indians are unsaved heathens, just as not all white men are Christians. It is up to the individual heart to decide. Therefore, not all Indians are bad and all whites good.”

  “I don’t think the heathens ever truly understand the issue of salvation,” Mrs. Fuestelle countered. Her tone betrayed her irritation. “I believe it’s beyond them.”

  “Then is it also beyond God?” Grace asked. “After all, God is the one who calls the heart to repentance and salvation. Is He not able to save the Indian?”

  Mrs. Fuestelle sputtered and fell silent.

  Grace looked around the room at each of the women before continuing. “I owe my life to a very good Nez Perce man who loves the Lord every bit as much as I do. He was kind to all of us, in fact.” She looked at Hope and smiled. “I also know a stalwart and faithful missionary who happens to be part Indian. He has led many people to Christ.”

  “My husband has many Christian friends among the tribes. For years he was a trapper and shared the Word with the unsaved whenever the opportunity presented itself,” Mina offered.

  Hope continued to spin and listen. She hoped they would soon tire of the Indian topic. After another twenty minutes or so, they finally moved on to concerns about their sons and husbands desiring to relocate to California, where the streets were apparently paved with gold.

  “My dear, I do so love your yarn. I wonder if you might have brought
any for sale,” Mrs. Masterson asked Hope, taking a break from the others. “With the baby due at the end of July, I want to knit a few things. Yours is such a fine, soft yarn.”

  “Indeed it is.” Mrs. Fuestelle had to throw in her opinion. “I used to spin my own but would much rather purchase Miss Flanagan’s.”

  The other women nodded or spoke their agreement.

  Hope smiled. “I did bring quite a selection. It’s in the wagon. Would you like me to bring it in?”

  “Oh, please do,” a chorus of voices answered.

  Hope put her spinning aside and rose. She quickly retrieved the large flour sack of yarn, and as she made her way back into the sitting room, Mrs. Masterson was already staking her claim.

  “I get first choice since it was my idea,” she said with a smile.

  Hope opened the sack and began taking out the beautifully colored yarn. Mrs. Masterson immediately grabbed up two skeins of yellow and three of white. “Oh, these will be perfect.”

  The other women joined them, leaving their places at the quilting frame. They exclaimed over Hope’s work, and before they were done, they’d purchased all of the yarn, including the undyed skeins at the very bottom of the sack.

  “I have to make John some socks,” one of the women said. “This darker yarn is perfect. He can’t keep anything clean.”

  The women laughed and one by one paid Hope for their treasures. In just a few minutes, Hope was nearly ten dollars richer.

  “Mercy, can you take a walk with me?” Toby Masterson asked.

  She smiled, feeling shy. “I suppose I can.” She looked at Beth, who was on her left. “Beth and I were caring for the children while the women quilted. I was just walking her home. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Yes, please do,” Beth urged.

  He grinned. “I’d like that. Then afterwards, Mercy, I could take you home.”

  “No, I’m spending the evening here with my sisters. Uncle Edward and Mina have asked us to stay for supper.”

  He shrugged. “No matter. We can just walk around town, if that suits you.”

  Mercy nodded. “It does. Let me tell Grace. I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the house and found her sister. “Toby Masterson has asked me to walk with him after we see Beth back to her house. Will that be all right?”

  Grace glanced at Mina, who was nursing her son. The women exchanged a knowing smile. “Of course. Just be back in time to eat.”

  “I will.”

  Mercy rejoined Toby and Beth. “Sorry, but I knew if I didn’t tell Grace, she’d worry.”

  “It’s no matter,” Toby said, smiling. “I was in town to get some seed for my uncle, and when I saw you on the porch with Beth, I thought I’d better take the opportunity to ask you something.”

  Mercy looked at Beth and then back to Toby. “Me?”

  He nodded. “I wondered if you would let me accompany you to the Fourth of July picnic.”

  She couldn’t contain her joy. “I’d like that very much.”

  “There’s a dance that night,” Beth offered. “I’ll be there.”

  Toby nodded. “I was getting around to that. I hope you plan to be at the dance too, Mercy.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, if you are, I want you to save all your dances for me,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

  “She can’t do that,” Beth protested. “There are a lot of other fellas in town who’ll want to dance with her. You’ll have to pick a few of the dances on her card and be satisfied with that.”

  Toby considered this a moment. “Well then, if that’s the way it is, I’ll dance half the time with Mercy and half the time with you.”

  Beth giggled. “I guess that might work.”

  Mercy shook her head at the silly look on Beth’s face. Beth was far more romantic than Mercy and often talked about all sorts of ridiculous notions, like knights in shining armor coming to carry her away on a white horse. The only white horses in the entire valley belonged to old Mr. Simmons, and he wasn’t even able to ride anymore.

  They reached Beth’s house after a few blocks, but Mercy could tell she was hard-pressed to leave them. The girl could be absolutely daffy.

  “You could come inside,” Beth urged. “Mama might let me serve you some cookies and buttermilk.”

  “No, I can’t stay too long. My uncle expects me back by dark.” Toby turned and offered his arm to Mercy. “We’d best be on our way.”

  Beth nodded, but disappointment was clearly written in her expression. “I suppose I’ll see you on the Fourth.”

  Mercy let Toby lead her away. She liked walking out with Toby. It made her feel grown up. After all, Toby would turn eighteen come winter. Mercy didn’t believe the same romantic nonsense that Beth did, but she liked the idea of having a steady beau. After all, she was nearly fifteen, and most girls her age were already spoken for.

  “So, you’ll talk your sisters into staying for the dance—won’t you?” Toby asked.

  Mercy smiled. “I’m sure I can. Even if they don’t want to stay, I could come with Uncle Edward and Aunt Mina. They would let me spend the night with them.”

  “Good. I can hardly wait. I want everyone in town to know you’re my girl.”

  “You do?” Mercy couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

  “Of course, you ninny.” He chuckled. “Why do you think I asked you to start walking out with me?”

  “Well, so we could get acquainted. Getting acquainted isn’t quite as serious as telling folks we’re . . . a couple.”

  He laughed all the more. “You women are queer creatures. Fellas don’t waste time with just getting acquainted. We have the future on our minds.”

  Mercy swallowed the lump in her throat. The future suddenly seemed much closer than it had an hour ago.

  After supper that evening, Hope scanned the Oregon Spectator until she found the comments of Perrin Whitman regarding the eight Indians who had been allowed to go free rather than face trial. Her uncle sat down beside her.

  “I bet you’re reading about the Indians the governor let go.”

  She lowered the paper and nodded. “Dr. Whitman’s nephew sounds enraged.”

  “What about you?”

  Hope frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He gave her a smile and patted her hand. “I just wondered if it was upsetting to you as well.”

  “I think it’s wrong to let guilty men escape justice. There were definitely more than five Indians at the massacre and definitely more than five participating in the murders. The governor should never have bargained with the tribes and set guilty men free. In fact, the tribes that hid those men for so long ought to be punished as well.”

  Her uncle frowned. “So when is enough enough?”

  “What do you mean?” Anger rose to the surface, and Hope was hard-pressed to keep from expressing it.

  “When will enough people die to satisfy the debt? I just wondered. I mean, I figure there ought to be punishment for wrongdoing, just like you. But there does come a time when wars need to be settled and pardons allowed for.”

  “You think they should simply be pardoned, then? Maybe you think it was wrong to hang those five.”

  “I can’t say. You told me yourself they were among the men responsible for the death of Dr. Whitman and the others. The jury, too, found them guilty, and so legal justice was done. But we can hardly go around killing every Indian. I’m saying that we need to learn to live side by side—find common ground where we can all get along.”

  Hope bristled. She knew he was right, but it still didn’t sit well with her. How could the settlers ever learn to live with a people who were so very different? How could either side just forgo their ideals and culture to make peace with the other?

  When was enough . . . enough?

  Chapter

  12

  I think you’ll work out just fine,” Edward Marsh said. “You can start Monday.”

  Lance breathed a sigh of
relief. He was quickly running out of money and didn’t have the means to get back to New Orleans. He could send for the funds, but that would take months. Also, something about Hope Flanagan had given him second thoughts about leaving. With her in mind, and his pockets empty, he’d decided to stay for a while.

  He’d tried to find someone to take him on as a law partner but hadn’t had much luck finding a paying position. One man, Mr. Davis Bryant, offered to let Lance work with him for a few hours each evening for experience, but he couldn’t offer any pay. Thankfully, Edward Marsh had agreed to take him on at his sawmill.

  “I appreciate it, Mr. Marsh. Like I said, it isn’t permanent.”

  “Well, with my partner away for several weeks and so many men gone to the goldfields, I can definitely use the help. Hiring a good man who’ll stay on the job is getting harder and harder. We’re nearly back up and running to full capacity, so it’s likely I’ll need to hire more full-time workers. If you prove to be capable, I might want to extend your position into something more permanent.”

  “I promise to give you my all, but it is still my intention to return to New Orleans once I have the funds. For now, however, a man has to eat and put a roof over his head.”

  Edward scratched his beard. “Say, where are you staying?”

  “Over at the City Hotel.”

  “That can’t be cheap. I tell you what. I have an empty cabin on the far end of town right on the river. It needs to be cleaned up. My nieces used to live there, but when the river flooded some months back, it took a beating. It’s just a little place, but if you’d like to take it on, I’ll let you stay there for free.”

  Lance couldn’t hide his pleasure. “I would be much obliged. The hotel has been eating into what little I’d managed to save.”

  “Well, that’s settled then. Give me a couple minutes, and we’ll head over there so I can show you around.”

  Lance waited just outside the mill. He’d been a civilian for a week, and it was still hard to get used to. He’d served only four years, but somehow it felt like a lifetime. After all, he’d been involved in a war and then made a two-thousand-mile trek across the vast American wilderness. With that part of his life behind him, Lance felt both a void and a sense of excitement. And always in the back of his mind was Hope Flanagan.