Dakota Dreams (Historical Romance)
Read Dakota Dreams (Historical Romance) Online
Authors: Constance O'Banyon
Tags: #Historical, #Romance, #Fiction, #19th Century, #American West, #Native Americans, #Indian, #Western, #Adult, #Multicultural, #DAKOTA DREAMS, #Marriage Of Convenience, #Gambling, #Brother, #Debts, #Reckless Ride, #Stranger, #Bethrothed, #Buffalo, #Fiancé, #Philanderer, #Heritage, #Promise, #Arapaho Indian, #England, #Paleface, #Warrior, #Adventure, #Action
Table of Contents
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Copyrigh
t©
1988 Constance O'Banyon
. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Carrie Ledford, researcher extraordinaire, thanks for your help.
In 1833, the German Prince Maximilian zu Wied traveled the Missouri River. Although he was one of America's least known explorers, he left a legacy of meticulous logs and records of the daily lives of American Indians. Karl Bodmer, the Swiss-born artist who accompanied Prince Maximilian on his expedition, created some of the finest Indian drawings ever made of that period, as well as invaluable watercolors of the wilderness along the Missouri River. We owe these two men a debt of gratitude for their contribution to our early history. Through their drawings and written accounts we can see and read about America when it was a virgin paradise. They left us an insight to a world we can only reflect on and dream about.
November 1833
The icy winds swept down the rock-faced mountain gullies to the valley below. In powerful gusts the wind picked up sheets of snow and whirled them around in a blinding-white blizzard. The small log cabin situated on the banks of the Salmon River was barely visible through the swirling tide of death.
Within the cabin, a woman in her mid-thirties was huddled among soft furs on the makeshift bed, trying to keep warm. A sudden gust of wind hurled its fury down the chimney with such a force that the fire flickered and went out, making the woman's lot even more wretched.
With chills shaking her body, Lady Cillia Remington moved off the bed and knelt in front of the rock fireplace. Tossing the last of the logs on the glowing embers, she waited until the fire ignited. In spite of the cold, Cillia's golden hair lay damp across her forehead, while her strange, jade-green eyes were fever-bright. She had an exquisite beauty that seemed out of place in this crude cabin. Clutching the golden locket that rested against her breast, she pressed the hidden catch, and the locket opened to reveal a miniature of her and her husband. She felt the anguish of loneliness as she stared at the dark-haired man with the finely chiseled face. With a pitiful sigh, she clicked the locket shut, unable to endure the pain of looking upon her beloved's face.
Cillia huddled closer to the blaze, wondering if she would ever be warm again. As her eyes moved around the primitive cabin, the scene took on the feeling of unreality. What was she doing here alone in this vast, uninhabited land? She remembered her father-in-law's impassioned objection to her and Holden joining this expedition to the American wilderness. His parting words now came back to haunt her. She could almost hear his voice raised in anger.
If you go with Holden this time, you will suffer the consequences! The American wilderness is no place for a woman with your delicate nature. You and my son should both stay here in England, where you belong. I am uneasy about this latest folly of Holden's.
Holden's father, the Marquess of Weatherford, had one burning desire in his life—he wanted an heir who would settle down at Weatherford Hall and be controlled by him. He had come to realize that Holden would never be satisfied under his domination, so the old Marquess yearned for a grandson on whom he could transfer his hopes and expectations.
A tear rolled off the tip of Lady Cillia's lashes and made a trail down her colorless cheek. If she had it to do over again, she would have done no differently. She would follow her husband anywhere he chose to go.
Lord Holden, Viscount of Remington, had been born with an adventurous spirit. Since their marriage, Cillia had always accompanied him on his travels. They had hunted tigers in India with a maharajah, traveled to a monastery in Tibet, and sailed around Cape Horn. They had stood in the shadows of the great pyramids in Egypt and watched the sunset. They had acquired trophies and valuable art objects, which had been shipped back to England from all over the world. Elephant tusks, tiger heads, and rare and unusual animal skins now graced the walls of the study at Weatherford Hall.
When the German Prince Maximilian zu Wied was planning an expedition down the Missouri River in America, he had invited Holden and Cillia to accompany him, and of course, Holden accepted. Cillia could remember so well Holden's excitement at the prospect of hunting the famed American bison so he could add its skin to his trophies. Her eyes moved to the corner of the room where a large number of buffalo hides were now stacked. Holden had certainly acquired his share of them.
Once more she listened for the sound of his footsteps. Where was he? What could be keeping him? Her hand moved down to her swollen stomach. Holden's father was about to have his wish to be a grandfather fulfilled, because she was heavy with child.
Holden was the only son of Quincy Remington, the ninth Marquess of Weatherford. Father and son were both strong-willed, and Cillia knew this was the reason they had often quarreled. Holden's father could be hard and demanding, and yes, even tyrannical. Few people ever denied the Marquess anything, for he was wealthy, powerful, and influential. When Holden had refused to settle down at Weatherford Hall, his father had tried to bring him back under his control. When the Marquess cut off his son's yearly allowance, Holden had been unaffected and had happily drawn from the substantial trust that had been left to him on his mother's death.
The Marquess had blamed Cillia's childless state on the fact that she and Holden never stayed in one place long enough for her to conceive. The two of them had been married for twelve years, and there had been times when she had despaired, thinking they would never have children. Holden had assured her many times that his happiness was complete and they did not need a child to complicate their lives. But she had often seen the wistfulness in his eyes when he had observed children at play. She had known he had only been trying to spare her feelings, for he had desperately wanted a child.
The expedition had reached Fort McKenzie, on the Upper Missouri, when Cillia had become convinced that she was expecting a child. When she told Holden, he had been overjoyed, and in his concern for her and the baby, he had insisted that they leave the expedition and return to civilization where the child could be born under a doctor's care.
They had started on the long trek back down the Missouri River with only Baxley, Holden's valet, and a scout named Levi Gunther. Levi was a strange man to find in the wilderness. He had obtained a certain amount of fame through several books that had been written on his daring exploits as an Indian scout and buffalo hunter. It was obvious that Levi was well educated and had a good command of the English language — two traits one did not often find in a man who chose the wilderness as his home.
They had hoped to make it all the way to New York before cold weather overtook them, although Levi had warned them how unpredictable the weather could be this time of year. Even the experienced scout had been unprepared for how swiftly winter had come upon them. After a blue norther had hit with gale-force winds, capsizing their flat-bottom boat, they had been forced to remain in this uninhabited mountain valley until spring.
Cillia and Holden had faced the reality that their baby would be born in this wilderness and that the tents they had rescued from their sinking boat would offer them no protection against the fierce winter that lay ahead. The three men had built a crude one-room cabin. It wasn't until a store of fresh meat had been laid in that Holden decided to send the scout to St. Louis for supplies, while Baxley was sent to make arrangements for their voyage to England before returning to London to inform Holden's father about the forthcoming birth.
In the beginning, Holden and Cillia had looked upon this as just another adventure. With joy in their hearts, they anticipated the birth of their baby and cherished their time alone together.
The wind intensified, making the door rattle on its leather hinges, and Cillia felt the icy drafts that seeped through the cracks in the logs. Shivering, she placed her hand on her swollen stomach, wishing Holden would return. He had only gone in search of firewood and should have come back hours ago.
One glance at the charred logs in the fireplace told Cillia that the fire would soon go out and there were no more logs to build it up again. She stood up and moved to the door, trailing the fur robe that was wrapped about her. Grasping the leather strap that served as a handle, she opened the door a crack, only to have the wind wrench it from her grasp and slam it against the outside wall. She strained her eyes, staring into the swirling white mass, but was unable to see anything that lay more then twenty paces from the cabin.
Panic took over her reasoning. Suppose Holden had gone too far afield in search of firewood and had become lost in the blizzard? Cillia tried to push her anxiety aside. No, Holden could take care of himself. He would never find himself in a situation over which he had no control. Cillia tugged on the door, and after struggling against the wind, finally managed to shut it and slip the latch into place. She moved back to the bed, reminding herself to remain calm while she waited for her husband.
The blizzard continued to howl throughout the day, seeming to throw its cruel fury against the small cabin. While the snow became deeper and deeper, Cillia's fear for her husband's safety intensified. By now the fire had gone out, but so great was her concern for Holden that she did not feel the numbing cold. She realized Holden would never have stayed away so long. Something must have happened to him.
As Cillia stared into the smoldering ashes, she knew she could no longer sit huddled on the bed, shivering. She had to do something or she would lose her mind — she had to search for Holden.
Having decided on a positive action, Cillia quickly pulled on her waterproof, sealskin boots, then wrapped herself in her fur cape. She moved out the door and latched it behind her. Mercifully, it had stopped snowing and the wind had died down, leaving the snowdrifts as high as her boot tops. With difficulty, she made her way toward the river, trying not to give in to her fears. Holden was safe. He was somewhere waiting for the storm to let up, she told herself. At any moment she expected to hear him calling her name. She scanned the nearby foothills, seeing no sign of her beloved, and her heart plummeted. It would be impossible for her to track him since the blizzard would have long ago covered his footprints.
Once Cillia reached the river, she saw chunks of ice floating downstream, and she shivered. What would she do if Holden did not return? If he was dead, she would not want to live either. But what would happen to her baby? A sob arose from somewhere deep inside her.
"Holden, where are you?" she cried. "Please come back to me."
Although there had been no sound that alerted Cillia to the fact that she was not alone, she suddenly felt a strange sensation that prickled along her spine, and she could not control the shudder that shook her body. It was frightening to realize that hostile eyes were staring at her!
She turned around slowly, and a terrified gasp escaped her throat. Not ten paces from her, she saw three mounted Indians, their faces hideously painted, their horses sending frosted breath into the frigid air! Cillia had met many friendly Indians at Fort McKenzie, but these Indians' dark sullen eyes told her that they were not friendly.
Cillia had no time to react to her fear, for when she took a step backward, her feet slipped on the rocks, and she plunged headlong into the icy river! Bitter cold needles of pain stabbed at her skin as the water sucked her under. She was a good swimmer, but she was being dragged down by the weight of her heavy boots and fur cape. Wildly, frantically, she fought to stay afloat and finally managed to reach the surface. She coughed and sputtered when she breathed in a deep gulp of air, expelling the water from her lungs.
Suddenly, a gasp tore from her lips as an agonizing pain ripped through her body. Dear God, she thought wildly, Don't let me have my baby now!
"Holden, help me!" she screamed. Fighting to keep her head above the churning water, Cillia realized that if she did not soon make it to shore she would freeze to death and her baby would never be born. In her fight for survival, she had forgotten all about the Indians.
Now she saw that one of the warriors had dismounted and was standing on the riverbank, looking at her with interest. Her eyes sought his, and she held out her hand in a pleading manner. A strong mother's instinct made her forget about her own safety as she struggled to save her unborn child. All fear of the man was pushed to the back of her mind, and she reached out to the Indian as one human being to another, beseeching him for help.
"Help me. Please help save my baby," she whimpered.
Two Moons, war chief of the Arapaho, stared at the white woman, observing her struggle for life. Although he could not understand her words, she reached a place of pity in his heart. With a strong grasp, he took her hand and pulled her from the icy jaws of death. When he lifted her into his arms, he saw the roundness of her stomach and felt her stiffen with pain. He knew she was heavy with child, and he thought of his own wife who was about to give birth.
Turning to his companions, Two Moons spoke. "I will help this white woman deliver her baby, though it is doubtful that she or the child will live. You will ride back to the camp and wait for me there." Leaving his friends to wonder at his strange behavior, Two Moons carried the woman into the cabin and closed the door.
He quickly stripped off her wet clothing and placed her among the furs on the bed. Cillia did not cry out, nor did she feel afraid as rough hands rested on her swollen stomach, feeling the contraction that knotted her muscles. The kindness in Two Moons' eyes belayed any apprehension Cillia might have. She knew she had nothing to fear from this Indian. He was going to help her.
It was long after sunset, and still Cillia labored to bring forth her baby. No words passed between her and the Indian, but they experienced a strange bond, a bond to save the child. Two Moons held a jug of water to Cillia's mouth so she could wet her dry lips, and she read compassion in his dark eyes. He left her only once, and that was to get firewood so he could lay a fire.
Cillia did not know at what moment she realized she was going to die. Death beckoned to her like a kind friend, offering her sanctuary from pain of body and spirit. Deep inside, she felt that Holden was dead, and she only wanted death to hasten her to his side. Agonizing pain ripped through her body, and she caught the Indian's hand, her nails digging into his skin. Too weak to scream, her body arched with the building pressure. With a gasp, she felt the child issue from her body, giving her peace, glorious peace.