Stolen Heritage (Historical Christian Romance)

by Barbara Goss

  Ada was a difficult woman to like, yet hadn't Mr. and Mrs. Tatum preached to her so often that she should love her fellowman? She would try harder to like Ada, so she could be in God's good favor. She truly wanted to please her heavenly Father.

  Tears threatened to spill at the thought of her first look at Angus McCallister—her father? She shivered. The room had been dark, despite Maggie's attempts to let in the sunlight by opening the heavy drapes. The man called Angus had lain upon his bed, reeking of firewater. The very thought sent chills down her spine. Hadn't Big Bear smelled the same? Recalling the beatings she'd received only when he'd smelled like firewater sent fear through her whole body. Was her father another Big Bear? Would she be denied a loving family her whole life?

  So deep in thought was Brook that Jeremy had to tap her riding boot to gain her attention. She had been unaware they had reached the Grant home. Jeremy was already off his horse and waiting to help her off the mare.

  “I’m sorry, I was daydreaming,” she apologized.

  He grasped her waist instead of her hands this time, giving Brook a strange, warm, secure feeling. Once on the ground she looked up into his eyes, only to find there a look she'd never seen on anyone before, could it be sympathy? She prayed not.

  “I’m sorry about Angus,” he said, hands still grasping her waist. “I’d heard some town gossip that he'd been drinking too much, but never trust hearsay.”

  “I'm sorry, too,” she replied.

  “I'll do everything I can to help you,” he said.

  She pulled away from his lingering hands. “What can be done? The man is a drunk. Do you think he's my father?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “His looks, Maggie's—bright-blue eyes and high cheekbones and Angus’s red hair—and a gut feeling.”

  “All right,” she said, swallowing her disappointment and straightening her backbone, in an effort to accept reality. “What is our next move?”

  He led her toward the house. “That's what I've been contemplating. I'm thinking another visit, but this time earlier in the day—before he can get too bagged. Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “through our helper, Maggie.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “We must find a way to let Maggie—and Maggie alone— know we are coming to see Angus. I think she is anxious to help and can assist us on that end. Maybe she can even keep him sober.”

  “We'll send her a letter!” Brook exclaimed, eyes bright.

  Jeremy smiled and cuffed her chin lightly. “But what if Ada intercepts it?”

  Brook cocked her head in puzzlement.

  “I don't mean to act dumb, but I'm still learning. What is intercept?"

  “My fault; I'm sorry. You seem so adept at English I forget you only recently learned it. Intercept means ‘to stop something short of its purpose or goal.’ Should Ada receive the letter instead of Maggie, she may stop it from reaching Maggie. She didn't want us seeing him, perhaps because of his condition—or some other reason.”

  “I see,” she said thoughtfully. “We could have someone deliver it to Maggie personally.”

  “Yes, but who? Someone who never visits Maggie might arouse too much suspicion and tip off Ada.” He scratched his head and opened the back door for her.

  As usual delicious smells met her as soon as she entered the warm, homey kitchen. A large pot was boiling above a roaring flame, and its top rattled from the outpour of aromatic steam. A freshly iced chocolate cake sat on the wooden table, and Reva, Flora's hired girl, mashed potatoes at the counter. Flora smiled a warm greeting as she gingerly removed freshly baked bread from her large oven.

  “Hope you two are hungry. Sauerbraten with gingersnap gravy—Grandma Bauer's favorite—is our menu,” Flora announced.

  “You might be able to force some on me.” Jeremy winked.

  “It smells heavenly,” responded Brook.

  “And I have one other surprise for dinner,” she said, waving her hand toward the open dining-room door.

  A dark, clean-shaven man, in a suit complete with string tie stood in a gentlemanly fashion beside the tall china cabinet.

  “Dusty!” exclaimed Brook, running to greet him. “It's so wonderful to see you. I've so much to tell you!”

  Dusty smiled boyishly.

  Jeremy merely nodded in his direction and muttered some polite words of greeting with no feeling behind them. To everyone he said clearly, “Allow me to wash the dust off, and I'll join you promptly.” He bowed and disappeared.

  His curtness to Dusty shocked Flora more than it did Brook. She closed her gaping mouth and shook her head, “Just can't figure my son out these days.” To Dusty, she apologized, adding, “You know what stress he's been under….”

  Looking at both women, the Indian nodded, “I understand Captain Grant perfectly. Pay it no mind.”

  Brook also excused herself to wash, and her mind did not dwell on Jeremy's rudeness to his best friend, but on the drunken Angus McCallister and his mother, Maggie.

  After dinner, in the living room, Brook conveyed her news to Dusty while Flora and Jeremy listened and added to the conversation as needed—Flora, excitedly; Jeremy, sullenly. When Brook got to the end of the story, she described Angus' drunken state and explained how they planned to get a message to his mother.

  “Now,” added Flora with a sly smile, “I can be of help. Few people around here call on the McCallisters, for they keep to themselves, but there is one caller for Maggie who might help us.”

  All eyes flew to Flora Grant.

  “Dr. Quade goes out to see Maggie periodically; we can ask him to give her a message.”

  Brook looked at Jeremy who seemed to be digesting the idea.

  “Isn't Quade a family friend, too?” he asked his mother.

  “I suppose, but he's treated Maggie since her illness. I would think a family doctor could be trusted.”

  “Fine,” stated Jeremy, “the doctor it shall be.”

  “That's settled,” said Flora. She looked at Dusty, “How is your family?”

  Dusty's smile faded. “Not as well as I'd hoped. The reservation is not what the government vowed.” He looked at Jeremy Grant evenly. “Few of the promises made by you and your fellow officers at Fort Sill were kept.”

  Jeremy sat straight and asked indignantly, “What do you mean? What promises?”

  “Many of the Indians are ill, and no one cares. Your government promised medicines and doctors. They ordered my people to cut their hair, dress as white men, and to get rid of tepees and live in huts. They insist Indians suddenly change the life-style they've had since birth. They made our warriors do garden work, like squaws, and took all the fire from their hearts. Now my people are pitiful. They cough from sleeping inside a shanty with no ventilation and fumes from inside heat. Our strong warriors have become weak and puny.

  “The government promised to supply meat, and we never get it on time, and my people are starving. The last shipment of food was so late it was rotted.” Dusty glanced at his bewildered audience, “Do you want me to continue?”

  “I had no idea,” Jeremy said. “I only relayed to you what Colonel Grierson was told from Washington.”

  “Washington, bah!” Dusty spat. “My people are sick and dying!”

  “Are there Comanche there, too, sick and dying?” Brook ventured.

  “Yes.” Dusty said. “Mostly all just over the Red River are Kiowa and Comanche—further north are several other tribes.”

  Brook thought about her best friend, Singing Bird, and her cousin Little Fox, and her heart flooded with concern. “Captain Grant, what can we do?”

  Jeremy frowned. “I can do nothing here in Fort Worth. It will have to wait until this matter with you and your family is settled. Then I will return to Fort Sill and confront the colonel with these facts—actually you will, Dusty. I'll make sure you get a meeting with him. You can give a detailed, first-hand account of the conditions on the reservation.
”

  Dusty nodded and smiled at his friend. “That, my friend, is fair enough.” He settled his smile on Brook. “Well, I guess our first business is your family. Since I am indirectly involved here, may I add something?”

  “Of course!” Flora, Jeremy, and Brook chorused.

  “May I try some Indian tactics?”

  “Indian tactics?” Flora asked.

  Brook nodded knowingly.

  “Just a little sneaking around the McCallister place and spying a mite,” he offered.

  “It can't hurt,” said Jeremy. “But we'll progress with our letter and, I hope, another visit, while you play Indian games.”

  “One thing,” Dusty added urgently. “I'm not so sure the doctor can be trusted. I see him in town with that Ram, Ada's son—and we know he can't be trusted.”

  Jeremy frowned. “We have no choice.”

  “I could deliver the letter,” Dusty offered.

  “But how?” Flora asked. “Surely Ada would find out.”

  “Trust me. Just describe the person the letter is meant for, and it will be in her hands—without anyone knowing. I'm a scout, remember?”

  Flora gave Jeremy a sheet of thin stationery and an inked pen. He wrote:

  Dear Maggie:

  We will return to see Angus McCallister on Wednesday morning and trust you will prepare him for our visit. It is urgent that we settle this matter as soon as possible. Please answer the door—alone—if you can, when we knock. It may not be a good idea to tell anyone other than Angus of our plans. Thank you for your help.

  Our messenger is a friend, Dusty, and you may trust him completely.

  Sincerely, Captain Grant and "Brook"

  After everyone had read the missive and agreed on its contents, Jeremy folded it and handed it to Dusty. “Go to it, my friend.”

  Taking the letter and putting it in his breast pocket, Dusty said, “I’ll need a good night's sleep to be at my best tomorrow.” He waved good-night and disappeared up the stairs.

  Flora squeezed out of her chair, “Guess I'll make a night of it, too.” She hugged Brook, “Good night, dear.” Jeremy bent for her to embrace him. “Good night, Son. Snuff out the window candles before you go to bed.”

  When Flora's creaking steps could no longer be heard going up the wooden stairs, Brook, too, excused herself for the night.

  “Wait.” Jeremy halted her steps. “It's a beautiful evening, and not so late. Would you like to take a short walk?”

  Relishing the thought of the fresh night air, she agreed. She missed sleeping outdoors and could relate to the Indians' sufferings on the reservation. She thought how many times she had crawled out Tatum's window and slept atop the eaves until the first rays of dawn warned her to return before she was discovered.

  They walked the quiet streets, talking only when they saw something to point out. The air must have been close perfect, for Brook could feel no difference in the temperature from that inside the house, not cooler or warmer. The air was perfect, without a breeze or cloud.

  After walking about a mile, they headed back toward home. As they neared the house, Grant seemed to slow his pace, and Brook felt him slightly squeeze her hand, tucked under his arm. He seemed about to say something when he tensed at the sound of a horse galloping toward them. Gunshots broke into the stillness of the night.

  “What—?” Jeremy muttered, pulling her with him against the large cottonwood in front of his house. The large tree hid them from view.

  The rider approached at breakneck speed, without letting up, and he continued to shoot his pistol. When the horse and rider rode past the Grant house, they slowed only long enough for the rider to throw something at the house, smashing the front window. The culprit rode on, shooting randomly.

  Looking from the rider to the house, in shock, Brook and Jeremy said in unison as they ran toward the front door, “The candle!”

  Chapter 7

  With lightning speed, Brook and Jeremy ran for the front door. Jeremy reached it first and burst into the living room. By the time Brook caught up, hungry flames leaped from the carpet to the drape. Jeremy ripped the fiery panel from the window, threw it over the flaming spot on the floor, and began stomping on the fabric. “Get water!” he yelled.

  Dashing into the kitchen, Brook grabbed the bucket, which someone had left almost full. Yet by the time she handed it to Jeremy, she was sure she'd lost half of that in her haste.

  Moments later, Dusty and Flora raced into the room, Dusty dressed haphazardly and Flora wrapped in a bathrobe. Both loudly demanded explanations. Dousing the entire area with water, Jeremy told them to wait until the fire was out.

  From the sofa, the three watched Jeremy snuff the life from the fire. When it appeared under control, he reached under the chair opposite the table that the candle had sat upon and drew out a large rock. Flora gasped.

  Jeremy frowned at the rock, then untied a cord wound around it, opened a soiled paper, and studied it intently. His face paled.

  “What is it?” Brook voiced the question in all their minds.

  Jeremy shook his head and rubbed his temple with his free hand, leaving a soot mark on his brow. Folding the missive carefully, he put it into his breast pocket. Replacing the wet, wrinkled, scorched drape and pulling it shut, he turned to the awaiting questioning looks.

  Jeremy recounted the walk he and Brook had taken and the frantic horseback rider. “When I didn't recognize him, I hoped he was merely an anonymous prankster—a drunken cowboy having a little fun, throwing a rock at a random home. But this note,” he withdrew the folded letter from his pocket, “proves me wrong.”

  “What does it say?” his mother asked, eyes wide.

  He gave Brook a sympathetic look. “Maybe we can discuss this later—”

  “It's about Brook, isn't it?” asked Dusty. “She has a right to know,” he added, also looking at her with concern.

  Jeremy sighed. He reluctantly opened the paper and reread it. Shaking his head, he handed it to Dusty. “I can't.” At Dusty's reproachful look, he added, “Go ahead, then, you read it.”

  Taking the paper, Dusty read aloud without screening it first.

  “Get rid of the white squaw. We don't want no Indian trash living here. She ain't related to no one in Fort Worth. Send her back to the Comanche. If she stays, there will be more trouble.”

  Dusty folded the paper with a frown. “It isn't signed.”

  “Yet,” said Jeremy, “while the grammar is a farce, the spelling and handwriting are perfect. Almost makes me think we are purposely being misled as to the intelligence of the writer. He wants us to think it was written by an illiterate troublemaker.”

  “I must find somewhere else to stay,” blurted Brook.

  “That's ridiculous,” Flora said.

  “We won’t hear another word about it,” affirmed Jeremy.

  “I cannot bring this type of trouble to your home,” Brook stated. “I will not.”

  “But we don't mind one bit. Do we, Jeremy?” Flora spoke with a shaky, unsure voice.

  Knowing Flora's loving nature, despite her fear or anger, Brook knew she'd always be welcome in the Grant home.

  Jeremy knelt down to where Brook sat on her chair and took her small hands in his. “Brook, you're our guest. No one tells us whom we may entertain in our home. I will get to the bottom of this. Someone will answer for this deed!”

  Confused, Brook looked from Flora to Jeremy. “But it's my fault. Look at your carpet and drapes! Why the whole house could have—”

  “No!” Jeremy interjected, squeezing her hands. “It is the fault of the demented person who threw the rock or ordered it thrown.” Then more gently, he added, “Someone is trying to scare you away, but it will not keep us from what we came here to do. We will find your family, and you will stay here until we do.”

  The next morning, after breakfast, Jeremy and Dusty departed. Dusty went to deliver the letter to Maggie and sneak around and see what he could find out, and Jeremy claimed he had bus
iness in town.

  As Flora poured Brook another cup of coffee, she sighed. “Do you think Angus is your father?”

  “Jeremy thinks so; he may be right. I'm confused right now and very disappointed in Angus McCallister.”

  “H-m-m-m,” Flora murmured thoughtfully. “I don't blame you. Did anyone ever say what Angus's daughter's name was—or is?”

  “No,” said Brook. “It's strange not to know your own name.”

  “I would think so,” Flora patted her arm. “Let me see, if I had a beautiful daughter like you I'd have named her…,” she studied Brook's face carefully. “A soft name, because your face and features are soft. Mary or Marian, for I prefer biblical names. Another ideal name for you would be Angela, because you often appear angelic

  and—”A knock at the kitchen door cut her off.

  “Now who can that be at the back door? Excuse me, dear,” she said, rising.

  “I'm coming,” she called as she waddled to the door.

  Until this moment, Brook had never known Flora to be at a loss for words. She couldn't see the visitor, for Flora's large bulk hid it, but Flora remained silent for several long moments. “M-Melita! How …, um good to see you,” she finally uttered. Brook had never heard Flora force cheerfulness.

  “Won't you come in?”

  Melita Cooper-something, thought Brook. That's the woman who did something horrid to Jeremy: gelded, gilded, or jilted him, or something like that. Brook couldn't wait for Flora to step aside, so she could see this woman.

  As Flora finally moved, Brook struggled to keep a shocked look from her face. Melita Coopersmith stood there, tall, thin, and dressed in a turquoise satin Brook longed to touch. The woman was beautiful in a way Brook had never before seen—though she hadn't seen many women other than Indian. She longed to run her hands through Melita's hair and wondered if its unusual color, which dazzled her eyes, resembled a buttercup or dandelion.

  Melita's round face glowed with rosy cheeks and large blue eyes several shades deeper than Brook's. However, on closer inspection, Brook noticed Melita's beauty had a touch of cosmetic help. Clever darkening around her eyes gave them a larger, wider look.