Rain Shadow: Dutch Country Brides

Rain Shadow

Prologue

Nebraska, 1875

An unfriendly wind carried the pervading stench of scorched wood and canvas. Two Feathers, crouched in an outcropping of boulders, ignored the odor as well as the rocks biting through his moccasins, his attention focused on the ruinous scene below him.

The charred skeletons of two dozen covered wagons lay on their sides like so many smoldering carcasses on the Nebraska prairie. Thin gray trails of acrid smoke curled into the darkening sky. Growing bolder as night drew near, black scavengers circled overhead, occasionally swooping toward the scattered bodies of the slain whites.

He examined a few overturned rocks. A small war party had lain in wait earlier. The arrows in the bodies were Crow. Two Feathers wasn’t worried that the band would return. They had scalped and looted and were long gone.

Ominous thunderclouds had obliterated the setting sun the better part of an hour ago, and the purple sky boasted the unmistakable aura of rain.

Through the stillness a pitiful wail carried, wafting with the dry, acrid stench of gunpowder. The sound had grown weak—at times almost a mewling—but its effect was no less profound than the first time Two Feathers had heard it.

Several yards from the violent scene, Two Feathers saw a small figure take a few reeling steps and crumple on the short-cropped buffalo grass. It was a girl child, tiny and dark-haired. The sun, her foremost enemy earlier, had disappeared, and now her true peril began.

The Indian gestured to the spotted pony behind him, covered the velvet nose and whispered a command. The animal stood unmoving, its eyes watchful. Two Feathers crept stealthily from his hiding place, silently closing the distance between his horse and the child.

Catching sight of the lithely muscled Indian dressed only in deerskin leggings, a knife at his hip, her dark eyes registered surprise. Her head rolled tiredly, but the soft keening lessened.

She was no more than three or four summers, dressed in the muslin and aproned fashion of the whites. Her exquisite hair, near black and flowing, held bits of dry grass and twigs. A heart-shaped gold locket with a stone Two Feathers didn’t recognize dangled from a chain around her neck. Was the ornament a bauble to pacify her during the day’s journey, or perhaps a mother’s last frantic attempt to leave the child a shred of her identity?

Two Feathers crouched over her.

She stared back fearlessly, her stormy violet eyes taking in his angular features, his beaded headband and the two red feathers dangling over his left ear.

What had she seen here this day? How much had she been spared? Her lack of fear showed a brave and strong spirit. Wandering away from the others as she was, he imagined a parent thrusting her from the wagon when the attack came. He would have done the same. He would have taken any measure to save his own child—had she lived.

Mama, the girl child managed in a raw-throated voice, and touched the feathers. Was she asking for a parent or was his long, black hair familiar? She placed a dirty palm on his mahogany cheek, and his warrior’s stoic heart admitted her.

To the west, an enormous dark cloud covered what little remained of the sun, and rumbling thunder shook the ground. He couldn’t leave her to die. Not this child with a strong spirit and will to live. Wakon Tanka had spared her for a reason.

Lightning forked from the dark sky, punctuating Two Feathers’ decision.

There’d been no movement near the scattered wagons since he’d come upon them. If anyone lived through the massacre, he would soon be dead. Once darkness settled on the plain, the night predators would close in. The child would be prey to scavengers and the ominous storm.

He didn’t know which wagon the child belonged to, and if he ventured any nearer, a dying white man might mistake him for one of the Crow attackers and shoot. With deft movements, he plucked her from the ground and ran silently to his waiting pony. She didn’t weigh as much as most game he brought down and gave less resistance.

Astride, the girl in one arm, he kicked the pony with a moccasined heel and skirted the carnage of the wagon train. A jagged streak of lightning pierced the sky, momentarily illuminating his granite-cut features. Before the rain fell, Two Feathers pulled a deerskin from his bundle and covered the sleeping child. His child now.

His Rain Shadow.

Chapter One

October 1894

Smoke, like an eddying black caterpillar, spiraled endlessly past the excursion car window. This train was one of the three needed to transport performers, orchestra, cowboy band, staff, tents, props, wardrobe and livestock. Rain Shadow grew tired of watching the variegated red and gold trees of western Pennsylvania reel past and closed her eyes. The steady lurch of the locomotive chugging along the iron rails wore on her nerves. She pulled a gold locket from beneath the neck of her deerskin tunic and thoughtfully fingered her only piece of jewelry.

It was time.

Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show had finished a five-month season in Brooklyn and was on its way south to winter quarters, a trek they made each fall. If she were going to prove herself, it was time. She had the entire winter ahead to prepare. When the show opened again in Philadelphia next April, she would shoot the pants off Annie Moses Butler—the famed Annie Oakley.

Are you hungry, daughter?

Rain Shadow opened her eyes and accepted an apple from Two Feathers.

He studied her face a long minute. You are planning your contest?

Yes.

What if you lose?

She took a bite of the crisp, sweet apple. Losing was something she’d never let herself think about. Covertly studying Annie Oakley, Johnnie Baker and the other sharpshooters, Rain Shadow had developed her skill over the years. Under Two Feathers’ tutelage, she was confident her precision and timing had surpassed the others’. I won’t.

His coal black eyes, unclouded by criticism, bespoke indulgence.

How could she make him understand? How could she tell the father who had nurtured and provided for her since childhood that she wanted to give her son a real family? That she wanted Slade to have a home and go to the white man’s school the way she never had? If she proved herself a better shot than Annie Oakley, she was certain her remaining relatives would be proud to claim her.

Instead, she touched his arm. "You know I’m not ungrateful. You’ve filled every corner of my heart with your kindness and taught me everything you know. Both of us are caught between two worlds. You remember the way it used to be, but I plan for the way it can be.

When I claim my position as champion sharpshooter, I won’t leave you. Together we’ll learn how to live a new life. Aren’t you tired of living one grand performance after another?

He grunted and pulled a knife and a whetstone from the satchel at his feet.

Rain Shadow watched his dark, scarred warrior’s hands sharpen the blade in deft strokes. Of course he was. She knew the alternative would be unbearable for Two Feathers, a Sioux who lived by the direction of his guardian spirit—a spotted eagle. Reservation life was like imprisoning the proud, freedom-loving Indian in a cage.

The Lakota loved the earth, and all things born of it, the soil itself, and their attachment to it grew with age. Old people sat on the ground to experience being close to a mothering power, many even removed their moccasins to feel the sacred dirt on their feet.

The ancient way of life was rapidly becoming a thing of the past. Towns and farms and railroads had presumptuously erased the hunting grounds. The sounds of birds, gourd rattles and ceremonial chants were usurped by tinhorn saloons, clanging steel and the rumble of wagon wheels. The white man’s song of progress was louder than the red man’s Sun Dance. Rain Shadow had often wondered if it was her white-eyes heart that lent her foresight.

More than grateful to Two Feathers, she loved him as the only parent she’d ever known. He was a man trapped between two cultures. The entire purpose of the Wild West Show was to recreate a piece of the Old West as it had been, and Two Feathers was as happy with the show as he could be anywhere. He no longer had a home and a people. For now the show was the only place she belonged, as well.

Rain Shadow’s thoughts shifted to her seven-year-old son on the train ahead of this one. She wanted a full life for Slade. She wanted him to feel the acceptance she had never known. If he were to succeed, he must be given every opportunity to learn and grow and prosper in the white man’s world.

He needed a family. She would find him one. Somewhere she had grandparents, aunts or uncles, maybe cousins. She loved Two Feathers and appreciated all he’d done for her. Desiring to meet her flesh and blood family was no reflection on him. Something was missing, though, and if she could find it, she would feel whole. Using the locket as her only source of identity, she’d asked in every city and town the show had toured. Having been unsuccessful at locating relatives on her own thus far, she would let them find her. As soon as her story made the newspapers and dime novels, whatever family she had would seek her out.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

The bell over the shop door tinkled. Anton Neubauer glanced up to discover Estelle Parkhurst storming into his store.

Mr. Neubauer. Ruddy-faced and out of breath, she marched to the counter behind which he sat on a stool.

On the glass work surface in front of him, a myriad of tiny gears and springs lay—pieces of the clock he’d been working on for the past hour. Mornin’, Mrs. Parkhurst. What can I do for you?

You can teach that son of yours some manners for one thing, she huffed. And for another you can replace the window on the alley side of my office.

Again? Anton slid his new spectacles from his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. I’m sorry about the window. I’ll talk to Nikolaus about it.

Talking seems to have little effect on the boy. He’s only six years old, yet he’s allowed to run wild in the streets. What he needs is a firm hand and strict guidance!

Playing in the alley is hardly what I’d call running wild, Mrs. Parkhurst. I can’t expect him to stay cooped up in here with me when I have work to do on Saturday.

Well, then you should leave him with one of his aunts. The child needs supervision.

Anger rising, Anton stood. Look. My sisters-in-law both have children of their own to look after, and they take care of Nikolaus plenty as it is. He checked an exasperated sigh. I said I’d replace the window. Nikolaus is just a boy. It’s only natural for him to throw things when he’s playin’.

The woman puffed out her ample bosom like a banty rooster. If he throws one more thing through my window, I’ll report you and your boy to the authorities! Do yourself a favor, Mr. Neubauer. Find that child a mother.

Slack-jawed, Anton watched the door close behind her. The bell tinkled musically. He dropped to the edge of the stool. Tell me something I don’t know, ya old pickle puss. Intuitively, he turned in the direction of the back room. His towheaded son kicked the doorjamb with the tip of his scuffed shoe.

Hi, Papa. Nikolaus thrust his lower lip forward, and his shoulders sagged. A streak of dirt across one cheek completed the irresistible look of little-boy innocence.

Nikky.

You gonna whup me?

C’mere. Anton knelt on the wooden floor.

Mutely, hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded denim overalls, Nikolaus trudged to his waiting father. His round blue eyes filled with tears. Sorry.

Anton’s chest tightened with tenderness and guilt. Hanging around the confining shop was difficult for a child with all the energy of a lightning bolt. For weeks he’d been promising to take Nikolaus hunting for a wild turkey. He pulled the child against his wide chest and hugged him hard, struck as always by the changeless and unbounded love his son inspired. I know, son.

It was just an ol’ hunk of cinder I found in the alley. I didn’t think I threw it hard enough to bust the glass.

"You’ve got quite an arm there. You’ll be a good mosche balle player when you’re a little bigger." The boisterous game was a favorite activity among the male population of the Pennsylvania Dutch community. A good mosche balle player was revered by all.

Really, Pa? Ya think I will? Nikolaus drew back excitedly.

Really. I’d better tell Uncle Franz and Uncle Jakob to watch out.

The bell over the door tinkled, and father and son exchanged resigned glances. Pickle Puss Parkhurst again? Anton stood. One of his brothers closed the door behind him.

Didn’t expect to see you, Jakob.

I brought Lydia’s eggs into town.

Uncle Jake! Nikolaus ran and flung his arms around the legs of the man who looked much like his father.

Jakob ruffled the boy’s pale blond hair with a huge hand. Look what Aunt Lydia sent for you.

The child accepted the small bag and drew out a sugar cookie.

Why don’t you take your cookies in back and play with your horse collection for a while? Anton suggested.

Okay, Papa. He headed for the back room.

Anton sat and gestured to the other stool.

Jakob straddled it and splayed a large hand on the glass counter. His eyes, less intense, a frostier blue than his brother’s, sparked with humor. Who’s the lucky girl tonight?

Hmm. Anton put on his spectacles and poked at the clock parts with a long finger.

C’mon. Your bride shopping isn’t exactly a secret. Seems you’d be quite a catch for these local gals. Last week Helena McLaury, the week before that Sissy Clanton... I hear the widow Schofield even had a few spins around the dance floor with you last month. Whatsa’ matter, did she step on your toes?

This isn’t funny, Jakob. I need to find a wife, and none of the women around here are passable.

Sissy is under thirty and has all her teeth. What’s wrong with her? And next to my wife, the widow Schofield makes the best apple dumplin’s in all of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t see you marrying either of them. Jakob had met his wife on a trip through Accord. She had been a member of the Harmony Society.

She has a sister. Jakob’s bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief. Right pretty, too.

Anton shifted his weight, and the stool squeaked beneath him. I don’t care if she’s drop-dead beautiful. Just so she’s mild-mannered and...domestic. She has to cook and sew and be a mother to Nikolaus.

And a wife to you.

Anton shrugged. That too, I reckon. Nikolaus needs two parents. A family. The rest wasn’t important. He didn’t have to love this wife. He didn’t want to love her. Not after Emily. He’d messed things up good there.

Never again would he allow himself to be vulnerable or stick his neck out begging for hurt. He wanted a woman like Annette or Lydia, his brothers’ wives. Sissy Clanton wasn’t so bad, in fact, he was seeing her again tonight. All week long he’d tried to picture the three of them—himself, Nikky and Sissy—living in a house together as a family. He would work the farm with his father and brothers, as always. Winters he’d fix watches and clocks for extra money, and Sissy would take care of the house and cook for them. Nikky would go to school.

He’d thought he loved Emily, but maybe he hadn’t loved her enough. Maybe he was incapable of pleasing a woman. Thinking about Emily still left him feeling confused and empty. She’d been discontented...had held back from everything and everyone and he hadn’t known how to reach her, how to please her. There had always been something missing, and he hadn’t known how to correct it. He took the blame for making a hasty choice and expecting too much.

Nothing he’d imagined about his marriage had come to pass. He blamed himself for not recognizing her unhappiness sooner, for not knowing how to fix things. Ignoring a problem didn’t make it go away. But this time he wasn’t going to delude himself or Sissy into believing the impossible. Some marriages were for practicality, and both people had to accept the fact. If Sissy couldn’t accept a friendly arrangement, he wouldn’t pursue the idea.

But he did visualize a clean house, tasty dinners, evenings around the fireplace, playing checkers with his boy while his wife sewed. Those details focused as clear as a bell in his mind. What dealt him trouble was imagining taking Sissy to his bed. How could he—

The door burst open, the bell clanging in protest. Anton! Jake! panted Tom Simms, a local farmer. A train derailed down by Ed Jackson’s place! People and animals are hurt bad. Livestock—and buffalo—are running wild. They need help!

Anton peeled his spectacles from his ears and shouted after Tom, already out the door, Jakob on his heels. I’ll take Nikolaus to Mrs. Parkhurst’s. He sprinted to the doorway. Buffalo?

Yeah, Tom hollered over his shoulder, running toward the next store. This ain’t just any ole train. This here’s Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Congress of Rough Riders!

* * *

The scene Anton came upon a short time later was one he’d tell his grandchildren about. A small herd of elk huddled beneath the dappled shade of an elm, cropping grass like cattle. He drew his horse up and gestured for Jakob to look. They watched in puzzlement for a moment until three brown and white spotted ponies thundered past, and the elk loped off toward a stream.

Sounds reached them before they comprehended the scope of devastation. Animals shrieked in pain and terror. Men shouted, and echoing gunshots rang out.

An endless string of black railroad cars lay twisted haphazardly across the gently sloping ground like a child’s forgotten toy. Mortally wounded horses and longhorn steer writhed on the ground, and two Indians dressed like cowboys fired bullets into the animals’ heads, ending their misery.

Able passengers led the wounded to a designated area well away from the teetering cars. Occasionally, an animal or person escaped an overturned railcar unaided.

Overwhelmed, Anton slid from his horse. Behind him someone moaned in pain.

We need more help. Doc, a beefy Norwegian, dragged his bag across the grass to the next patient. I sent the Von Goethe boy for another doctor, but it’ll be dark before he can get here.

Neubauer! Over here!

Collecting himself, Anton loped to where the townspeople had formed a team and joined them. Dividing, they methodically checked each car for trapped survivors.

The afternoon passed, and three men were discovered dead—two whites and an Indian. Those in need of a doctor had grown to an alarming number. Toward the rear of the train, a metallic sound caught Anton’s attention. He followed the noise to one of the overturned stock cars and climbed the bottom of the car, heedless of the grime already covering him. Squatting at the opening, he peered down.

A young red pony lay dying. Its exhausted body jerked reflexively, one hoof occasionally striking a tin bucket. A cage of chickens had spilled open, feathers and strutting chickens everywhere. Anton paused, blinked the sting of perspiration from his eyes and wiped sweat from his temple with his shirt-sleeve.

Another sound came from below.

Human.

Feet first, he lowered himself inside the car, swung suspended for a moment, and then dropped to the metal side with a loud clash of his boots. Squawking chickens disbanded in a dozen directions. He climbed a mountain of feed bags, many burst or split, and discovered tumbled crates, scattered harnesses, snaffle rings and bridle bits. Beneath the rubble, he spotted a hand. Anxiety sparked a cold shiver through his overheated frame.

It was a small, dark hand.

A sleeve.

Shoving aside a saddle, he made out an Indian boy, his leg pinned beneath a trunk. The boy laid unconscious, dark fingers of blood tracing his brow. Anton lifted the trunk, and the boy groaned. Immediately, something inside him locked in on the boy’s pain, and he touched the narrow face tenderly. Just a little boy...a boy like his own.

Running his hands over the child, he checked for wounds, finding none save the cut on his head. The boy’s leg, however, twisted at an unnatural angle.

Out of crates he built a passable stairway and kicked open the car’s trapdoor. The child was longer than Nikolaus, but surprisingly lighter. Both arms occupied, Anton scaled the shaky pile and crouched in the opening, taking great care not to move the injured leg more than he had to.

Anton reached the doctor’s makeshift quarters, and the boy awoke, pain contorting his face. He grimaced and fought tears, then fell back and shuddered.

Doc! Anton yelled. He squeezed the child’s thin shoulder through his buckskin shirt. The doc’ll fix you up. It’ll be all right. Hold on. Doc! Gently, he lowered the boy to the grass.

Hang onto your britches, Neubauer. What’ve you got here? Doc gave a cursory examination. Leg’s broke. We’ll hafta set it.

Anton jerked his head up. We?

The doctor took a vial and a syringe from his bag. What’s your name, boy?

The child’s black eyes widened, and his dark skin paled. He stared at the needle and swallowed. S-Slade. What’re ya gonna do with that?

Make you sleep so we can fix your leg.

Admiring the boy’s composure, Anton took Slade’s chin firmly in one large hand and turned the boy’s face away from the needle. He was barely older than his own son. Nikolaus would likely be screaming his head off in pain and fear about now. Slade met his gaze and held it. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and he jerked as the needle pricked his skin.

Sleepy lids drooped over black, black eyes. Grandfather will be proud, he muttered before losing consciousness.

Anton nodded. He’d be proud if this were his boy.

* * *

Annette pulled a coverlet up under Slade’s chin and turned to Anton, her tawny eyes filled with sympathetic tears. I wonder where his parents are. Did he ask for them?

In the lantern light, Anton studied the dark-skinned boy, so small and alone, asleep in his bed. He mentioned his grandfather.

His grandfather could be one of the injured or... His sister-in-law’s voice trailed off. Tendrils of russet-colored hair had come loose from the love knot she always wore, and curled prettily around her face. She had prepared rooms, freshened linens and assisted the men in bedding down their unexpected houseguests.

A motherly lady with a shoulder injury occupied one bedroom. Two Pawnee Indians, one with a head wound, the other with his foot stitched up, rested in another.

When Anton had offered to bring the boy home, it had seemed only right to bring a few others, too. Butler residents and neighboring farmers had taken home as many Wild West passengers as they could. The huge old farmhouse he rambled around in with his father and son held extra beds, and could easily accommodate three more people.

In the morning he and his brothers would head back to help bury and burn the dead livestock, a staggering prospect. Tomorrow I’ll ask around for his grandfather.

Annette nodded. She knelt over the pallet on the floor and ran her fingers through Nikolaus’ pale blond hair, her sweet face reflecting her love. She had helped Anton care for Nikolaus since Emily’s death when he was barely a year old. "Didn’t take your little Deutschmann long to fall asleep after all. He’s fascinated by Slade."

Pretty exciting having an Indian sleeping in your pa’s bed, Anton said, grinning.

You’d better get some rest, too, Anton. She smiled and stretched on tiptoe.

Anton leaned forward, accepting her sisterly kiss on the cheek. She smelled of lilac water, as always. "What about