by Gini Rifkin
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Kudos for Gini Rifkin and…
Trapper’s Moon
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note…
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Glossary of Terms
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Remaining at her back, and seeming to understand, he rested his hands upon her shoulders.
“I’m not giving up on us, Blind Deer. I can wait.”
When she turned her head to glance back at him, he kissed her cheek, and then reaching for one of her hands, he drew her closer to the window. “The moon is so big tonight it reminds me of a Trapper’s Moon.”
Blind Deer squinted up at the sky, and although she would never know the patterns formed by the twinkling bits of light, her shortcoming did not stifle her curiosity for the world around her.
“What exactly is a Trapper’s Moon?” She was glad they pursued a subject other than the history of her love life, or lack thereof. And she enjoyed hearing about anything to do with Saka’am, the moon.
“It comes in February, and it’s a formidable sight—big and bright, like a golden plum, ripe for the picking. A body feels he might reach out and touch it if he could but climb a bit higher up into the heavens. So bright does it shine, if the rivers are thawed, a trapper can walk his lines all night long using the light it gives off to show him the way.”
Blind Deer watched Kade’s face as he spoke. His strong profile and earnest expression revealed his great love for the land and the wilderness. A handsome and noble face, one she fancied she would have been content to grow old beside.
Kudos for Gini Rifkin and…
COWBOYS, CATTLE, AND CUTTHROATS:
Finalist for Colorado Romance Writers Beverley Award
~*~
A COWBOY’S FATE:
5 stars from Still Moments Magazine
Winner of Maple Leaf award, best short story
5 stars from Net Galley
~*~
SPECIAL DELIVERY:
Five stars & Publisher's Pick, Still Moments Magazine
5 stars from Fall into Reading Reviews
~*~
SOLACE: Fae Warriors Book 1:
Paranormal Romance Guild Reviewer’s Choice Award
~*~
LADY GALLANT:
“Rifkin’s novel is epic in scope, meticulously researched and finely detailed.”
~Romantic Times
~*~
COWBOYS, CATTLE & CUTTHROATS:
“Gini brought us Ochessa Starr. She had more skill with a firearm than a rolling pin. Nic, was adventurous, charming, flirtatious, and brave.”
~Kam’s Place
Trapper’s Moon
by
Gini Rifkin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Trapper’s Moon
COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Virginia Rifkin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2019
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2990-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2991-8
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
In memory of Gary, my mountain man
~
Thank you again to
The Wild Rose Press and Amanda Barnett
Author’s Note…
Before the pioneers and wagon trains, before the cowboys and herds of cattle, there were the Mountain Men—taming, exploring, and oftentimes dying in the New Frontier.
Many were trappers, and they needed a practical way to get their coveted beaver hides to the East Coast. Between the years 1825-1840 the rendezvous came into being. These gatherings were an amazing confluence of humanity bringing together the good, the bad, and the you name it, crossing paths head-on, some by design, some by accident.
French, English, Americans, and Native tribes met in the summer for a mere few weeks of organized chaos, friendly competition, and serious trading. Entrepreneurs brought supplies from back East to exchange for the hides used to fashion haute couture in the form of top hats and coats for high society folks. But all was not fun and games.
The American fur trade companies were at odds with the Hudson’s Bay Company, owned by the British and known as the HBC. Some of the French and Indians were at odds with all who came to invade their territory. It was a tumultuous era when telling friend from foe could mean the difference between life and death. And loyalty, as well as knowing how to live free and in partnership with the Stony Mountains, was all that kept a man or woman alive.
~*~
For your reference, a glossary of terms is listed at the back of the book. Waugh!
Prologue
Summer, 1833, St. Louis, Missouri
A smile, cold and cruel, slid across old lady Dalrymple’s face. “One way or another, girl, your heathen soul is gonna be redeemed. Maybe a little time in the dark will help you to see the light.” The woman disappeared, her laughter fading as the door to the root cellar slammed shut.
The blackness descended mercilessly, complete, and dark as a tomb, which seemed fitting enough as Reverend Dalrymple and his wife wished to kill the Red Spirit inside her.
Pounding on the unyielding wood and howling at the top of her lungs, her rage and misery echoed around her. Then she jerked to a halt, palms pressed flat against the roughhewn planks. Even if they could hear her, no one at the boarding school would come to her rescue. Only Cook showed her a modicum of compassion—the rest either feared or hated her.
Easing away from the door, she groped her way around the dank enclosure. Coming upon a sack of potatoes, she climbed atop the burlap-covered mound—at least it was warmer than the cold earthen floor. Still shaking with anger, she wrenched off the too-tight shoes her captors forced her to wear and tore at the dress and camisole restricting her breathing.
How had it all gone so wrong? The Iroquois people, friend to her tribe, promised the Black Robes were kind, harboring no cruelty in their hearts. But these missionaries were not Black Robes. These missionaries knew only harsh ways. She must find her people and tell them the truth.
Because her mother was a white woman, they acted as if they were obliged to save her. But she knew better—it was for the money. If she bent to their will, she would be a great success story, an example of how their religion redeemed her from her wicked Indian ways. People would pay to look at her, or to sit and drink tea in her presence.
When her mother read verse from her special book, the words spoke of kind
ness and of living in peace with all creatures. These people invoked their God with spite and malice, with no concern for the life she had lived or the family she had loved for sixteen winters.
A scurrying noise sounded in the corner. Reaching for her knife, she grasped only a fistful of calico cloth—they had left her armed with nothing but memories.
The air seemed to thicken and press down upon her, and the quiet roared in her ears. Refusing to cry, she shivered in the darkness. Her stomach knotted with fear, and her mouth turned dry as the bread they fed her.
The pounding of her heart shook her body like the once familiar cadence of the drums, and rocking to and fro, she chanted the prayers her grandfather had taught her. She smelled the woodsmoke, felt the wind on her face, and the remembrance of another time and place gave her strength.
The Christians had stolen her tack belt and hide dress. They had cut off her hair and called her Belinda Dearborn. They tried to destroy everything that made her who and what she was. But as long as she drew breath she would never forget.
Her name was Blind Deer—and she was of The People.
Chapter One
Three long years later. St. Louis, May 1836
If they knew how she suffered, they would come to her rescue. But her family didn’t know, and they hadn’t come. Tonight, Blind Deer had a chance to save herself.
If her plan worked, she would no longer be their slave. Her hands would no longer grow numb in the freezing winters as she made lye soap or washed windows. And her back would no longer ache in the blistering summers as she tended their garden and scrubbed their floors.
Tonight could not come soon enough.
Glancing in both directions, making sure no one was in sight, she crept down the back hall and at the west end scrambled up the rickety ladder to the attic. While the rest of the household swarmed about like angry bees in preparation for this evening’s brush with royalty, Blind Deer intended to search the eaves of the house for the clothing stolen from her when she’d arrived. She’d heard talk that the Reverend and his wife had stored the remnants of her heathen past somewhere up here. Why? She couldn’t imagine—perhaps as a depraved souvenir.
She rummaged through a nearby duffle—nothing in there but white people clothes. Odd they hadn’t burned her pagan trappings. They were always preaching about the fires of hell. Instead, they’d stored them, if the rumors were true, in the highest room in the house. The one closest to their heaven. That thought kindled a smile.
She flung back the lid to a large steamer trunk. Behold, there they were—along with pieces of other women’s clothing—Indian women of various tribes. Apparently, she was not the first to be held captive in this house of misery. Wondering what had become of the other females, she bundled their few worldly possessions together with her own and crept back down to the floor below.
The sleeping quarters, hot in the summer and cold in the winter, had been partitioned off into several smaller rooms. Female servants, orphans, and schoolgirl charity cases—like her—shared the poorly ventilated accommodations. Slipping away to her allotted space, she secreted the items beneath her pallet—and just in time.
“Belinda Dearborn. Front and center. Now.”
Blind Deer smoothed the wrinkles from the flouncy dress they insisted she wear and headed toward the voice that harried her dreams. Like any good warrior, she had learned to pick her battles. Today she pretended what she wore didn’t matter, and in truth it did not—as long as doing so meant keeping alive what was inside of her. Besides, her cooperation lulled them into thinking they had won, which gave her the advantage of surprise, as well as access to the guests who visited here.
As she stepped forward for inspection, Reverend Dalrymple’s wife eyed her from head to toe. “You’d best smile and behave yourself tonight, missy, if you know what’s good for you.” Visciously grabbing Blind Deer by one arm, the older woman emphasized her threat. “Lord Seton has promised a large donation to the mission and boarding school. You are our example as to how his money will be put to good use. Are you listening to me?” The painful grip tightened.
Blind Deer wretched her arm free. “Yes, I understand. You have my word. I will not fail to impress Lord Seton.” Although not in the manner you are expecting.
Mrs. Dalrymple cocked her head to one side, and her eyes narrowed as if she suspected skullduggery. Blind Deer quickly cast her gaze downward in the submissive manner to which the older woman was partial.
“If you misbehave, you’ll feel the lash. It still has your dried blood on it. We keep it handy, just for you. Well, don’t stand there dawdling. Go to the kitchen and help Cook. And don’t get dirty. If there is one spot on your dress, you will know my wrath.”
Nothing new there. The woman was always embittered about something or someone.
Hiking up her skirts immodestly high, Blind Deer strutted down the hall in the most unladylike manner she could envision. The expected horrified shriek and reprimand erupted in her wake. Rounding a corner, she settled into a proper walk and headed for the kitchen.
The aroma of roast pork turning on the spit danced around the room, hand in hand with the delicious smell of fresh baked breads, mushroom pie, and Cook’s famous fruit tarts. It was a banquet rarely seen within these walls, and more food than Blind Deer remembered ever seeing at one time in one room.
“It’s about time. Get to it, girl. The pots and pans be piled to the ceiling.” Cook, with her hands on her hips, stood in the center of the kitchen, master of all she surveyed as she called out orders.
Blind Deer plunged her hands into the awaiting soapy water. Lord Seton, tonight’s guest of honor, would surely be impressed by such an array of food.
The thought of meeting the man both frightened and excited her. Earlier in the month, while cleaning the hearth in an adjoining room, she’d overheard a conversation between this British aristocrat and the Reverend and Mrs. Dalrymple.
With ill intent, the nefarious couple successfully endured several missionary excursions to the west. Their visitor, unaware of the dubious methods used to garner money and obtain the hired help, came seeking the Reverend’s advice regarding the best route heading in the same direction.
They’d spoken of other matters as well.
The British nobleman, a hero from the Napoleonic war, fancied himself a great explorer. And being an ardent admirer of American folk heroes and the Red Indians, he declared when he reached the West that he intended to shoot a grizzly bear in honor of Hugh Glass, and he yearned to meet an Indian chief, and spend the night in a tipi. She would gladly introduce him to her Grandfather—assuming her plan worked.
Cook shoved another pot into her hands, and Blind Deer dutifully scraped and scrubbed at the dried-on mess. Would this evening be her salvation or her undoing?
****
The hour grew late. Still the three people in the dining room lingered over the extravagant meal.
Dressed in full Indian regalia, Blind Deer was too nervous to be tired as she hid in the hallway waiting to serve dessert. Although she had grown taller, being half starved most of the time she hadn’t grown any larger around, and thankfully the clothing still fit.
Red faced and even more overworked than usual, Cook finally appeared rolling forward the little cart holding the sweets. The older woman positioned the trolley beside the doorway, and as their gazes locked, the expression on the portly woman’s face transformed from wide-eyed to mirthful. Heading back the way she’d come, Cook shook her head and gave a hearty laugh.
Hopefully, Lord Seton’s reaction would be of a more serious nature.
Adjusting the quilled dangles in her hair, Blind Deer resettled the tack belt around her waist and straightened the borrowed knife sheath, strike-a-light bag, and awl case attached to it. What had become of the Indian women who had lovingly made these personal items? When she’d dared to ask another servant, she had been told they had run away, never to be seen again. Did they fare well, or had they died for trying to escape th
e clutches of the missionaries?
“Belinda’s deliverance is a true miracle.” Pride and arrogance rode Reverend Dalrymple’s words, and at the sound of the white name by which they called her, Blind Deer came to attention and listened more closely. “A glorious transformation, done gratis on our part, of course.” Apparently, her labors were worth nothing in trade.
“Such a lovely obedient girl,” the wife added, the blatant lie dripping with sweetness to rival the confections waiting to be served. “But you must judge for yourself, Sir Reginald. Belinda, dear, you may bring the dessert now.”
Shoulders back, and steeling herself for what was to come, Blind Deer maneuvered the cart into the dining room.
The reverend’s eyes bugged out like a toad being squeezed too hard, and he turned whiter than the Sunday shirts she scrubbed and bleached for him.
Old lady Dalrymple, mouth agape and working like a landed fish, rose halfway out of her chair. Recovering quickly, she eased back onto the seat, fire burning in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Lord Seton. There has obviously been some mistake.”
“Nonsense. Come along, my dear. Let me look at your costume.” Blind Deer gritted her teeth at the term costume but smiled and stepped closer. “Where are you from? What is your tribe?” His eyes sparkled with interest as well as amusement.
“I am of The People, from the Bitterroot.”
“And how is it you speak American so well? And my word, you have green eyes.”
“My father is Salish, but my mother is a white woman. She taught me your language—and I miss her terribly.” Although true, she added the last to play upon his sympathy. “My father rescued my mother from the Siksika, the Blackfoot Indians.”
“The Blackfoot… By Jove. I’ve heard they’re a fearsome lot, and on the bellicose side, prone to warring and raiding and all manner of unspeakable mischief. Your mother was fortunate to be liberated from the dastardly scoundrels. What in Heaven’s name was she doing out West?”
“Following her heart.” That’s what Mother always said when we asked that question.