Heart of the Sandhills (29 page)

I don’t think Gen will mind if I tell you some wonderful news, and that is they are going to have a baby. Gen says in the spring. They have gone to Santee with Robert and Big Amos, and so will be with friends when the baby is born. But I know they won’t be staying—Daniel could never be happy farming.

When we were crossing Nebraska earlier this year we camped at a veritable oasis in the sand hills. Daniel thinks there is a future in those hills for anyone who cares to raise cattle. It’s an interesting idea. Everyone seems to think Nebraska is a wasteland. Some of the maps label the very place where we found an oasis as the Great American Desert. I wonder what future generations will think.

Will you meet the train, please? Uncle Elliot and I will telegraph our arrival date. I would like it very much if Stephen Bannister stayed home this time.

Your Aaron

He hath made everything beautiful in his time.

—Ecclesiastes 3:11

The old warrior trudged up a hill. Once he had fought with thousands. Thousands had become hundreds; and now, only he was left. The rest were gone the way of their ancestors . . . or, what was worse in his mind, gone to reservations. As he made his way upward, his moccasins sunk into the sandy soil. At the top of the hill he stopped. It was there, the blue jewel of water shimmering in the morning sun. He crouched down, smiling and taking in the scene below.

The valley reminded him of one of his wedding gifts to his long-ago bride. He had put it inside a parfleche, and when she took it, he reminded her that while the parfleche might seem like only a worthless bit of dried skin, it held a beautiful treasure. As he stood at the top of the hill catching his breath, Going Higher thought it was like that with this valley, hidden away within miles and miles of seeming nothingness, a treasured secret of fresh water and cool grass.

But something had changed in the valley below. There was a small log house. The ancient warrior frowned. The tree was still there, larger even than he remembered, its branches reaching out over the water. But beside the house the earth had been plowed up. Someone was growing a garden. There was a barn and a corral. Inside the corral a handful of horses stood, heads down, their breath rising in steaming clouds. He was old, but his eyes were still true, and the warrior noted that whoever lived in the house had acquired good quality Indian ponies.

A handful of cattle lumbered up the hill behind him. As they passed him, the warrior noted the place on their haunches where white men marked their cattle. The mark was like nothing he had seen before and he was curious who would use a shape like that—the same shape his own mother had painted on their tepee long ago. There were two. Two stars.

Laughter rippled across the valley and a small woman emerged from the house. As the old warrior watched, the woman grasped the hands of the two children at her side. Together they ran toward the tree. They scrambled up its trunk—the warrior realized someone must have made a way—out onto the biggest branch and, screaming with delight, one by one, they dropped into the water.

Presently a man emerged from the house. He shouted something to the people in the water, and the woman swam to shore and climbed out. She ran to the man, who seemed to walk with difficulty. They embraced and then both children and the woman surrounded him and herded him to the water’s edge where they doused him thoroughly.

The old warrior smiled when he heard their language. It wasn’t Lakota. But it wasn’t white man’s talk, either. He stood up. At once the man was aware of him. The play ended. The children skittered across the grass and disappeared inside the house. He could tell the man and the woman were talking about him.

The woman smiled as he approached. She was beautiful. Her blue eyes testified to at least some white ancestry, but her face betrayed mixed blood. As for the man, he was pure Indian. He held out his hand in friendship.

As it turned out, Going Higher had come to a good place. Daniel and Genevieve Two Stars lived simply. Their cattle were sold up at Red Cloud Agency, and other than an occasional incident of poaching, life was good. They were visited sometimes by a white soldier stationed up at Camp Robinson. As it turned out, the soldier considered Genevieve his mother. It was a long story, but eventually Going Higher learned it. He lived with Daniel and Genevieve Two Stars for the rest of his life. He was, they told him, an answer to their prayers, because he had come to them just when Daniel needed help from a man with two good legs.

Going Higher learned of Daniel and Genevieve’s meeting in the place to the east called Minnesota.

He learned how they were lost to one another and then found again.

He learned how Daniel lost his leg and found a way to heal.

He heard the names of the two children they had lost . . . and played with the three who still lived.

He saw their children grow up.

He met the white soldier Aaron Dane and the people from the East called Leighton.

He helped Daniel raise cattle and break ponies and taught Meg Dane that she didn’t need to see to milk a cow.

He was there the day Captain John Willets rode in and, with a half-embarrassed smile, introduced them to his wife Two Moons.

Going Higher shared what was left of his life with the Two Stars.

And they shared their love, which was considerable, and their faith, which was remarkable, with him.

In 2001–2002, the most difficult year of my earthly life, I witnessed more than one miracle of God’s love. In love, He ended my best beloved’s suffering and took him to eternal rest. In love, He provided my children and me with a church family and loved ones and readers and fellow writers who never tired of praying for us and never turned away when we needed them. I owe a debt of love to so many, there is no realistic way to write a traditional “acknowledgment.”

That year taught me something about the irony of being human. When words are most important, they are not sufficient. A songwriter once penned the line that “to write the love of God would drain the oceans dry.” It’s true. Someday in heaven, when we have all of time and eternity, Bob and I would love to have you stop by so we could tell you what this section of my book would have said . . . had I had the words.

Best-selling author and two-time Christy finalist Stephanie Grace Whitson has made a career out of playing with imaginary friends, and it all started in an abandoned pioneer cemetery that not only provided a hands-on history lesson for Stephanie’s home-schooled children, but also launched her into personal study of the history of the American West. Since writing had always been a favorite hobby, it was only natural for Stephanie to begin jotting down scenes in the life of a nameless woman crossing Nebraska on the Oregon Trail. Eventually that story took on a life of its own and became
Walks the Fire
, her first novel, published in 1995.

Along with antique quilts and pioneer women’s history, French, Italian, and Hawaiian language and culture remain passionate interests. In May of 2012 Whitson received a Master of Historical Studies degree from Nebraska Wesleyan University. She travels widely to present her series of lectures on a variety of topics to civic organizations, church women’s conferences, and writing conferences.

And then there’s Kitty, the Honda Magna. “In some ways I’m 60,” she says, “in others I’m probably about 26. It all depends on the day.” On days when her virtual age leans toward the younger side of that equation, she’s been known to wake up in the morning and decide to ride Kitty to Canada that day. And then she comes home and descends to “the catacombs” (the basement office in her Victorian-era house) and heads back into the past to play with more imaginary friends.

Valley of the Shadow

Edge of the Wilderness

Heart of the Sandhills

The Key on the Quilt

The Shadow on the Quilt
(September, 2012)

The Message on the Quilt
(Spring, 2013)

Sarah’s Patchwork

Karyn’s Memory Box

Nora’s Ribbon of Memories

Secrets on the Wind

Watchers on the Hill

Footprints on the Horizon

Walks the Fire

Soaring Eagle

Red Bird

“A Patchwork Love” (a novella in A Patchwork Christmas Collection)

A Most Unsuitable Match

Sixteen Brides

A Claim of Her Own

Unbridled Dreams

Jacob’s List

A Garden in Paris

A Hilltop in Tuscany

How to Help a Grieving Friend: A Candid Guide for Those Who Care

Home on the Plains: Quilts and the Sod House Experience

Learn more at
www.stephaniewhitson.com

Contact Stephanie at
[email protected]

Heart of the Sandhills

©2002, 2012 by Stephanie Grace Whitson

Previously published by Thomas Nelson Publishers, Nashville, TN, under ISBN: 0-7852-6824-3.

First electronic printing in 2012 by eChristian, Inc.

eChristian, Inc.

2235 Enterprise Street, Suite 140

Escondido, CA 92029

http://echristian.com

Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370,
www.booksandsuch.com
.

Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, King James Version.

Scripture quotations marked (
NKJV
) are taken from the
New King James Version.
Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982, 1990, 1994 by Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover and interior design by Larry Taylor.

Produced with the assistance of Livingstone, the Publishing Services Division of eChristian, Inc. Project staff includes: Dan Balow, Afton Rorvik, Linda Taylor, Katie Arnold, Ashley Taylor, Lois Jackson, and Tom Shumaker.

ISBN: ePub 978-1-61-843271-1

ISBN: Mobi 978-1-61-843272-8