Amethyst (Dakotah Treasures Book #4)

© 2005 by Lauraine Snelling

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2011

Ebook corrections 04.18.2016 (VBN), 01.17.2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4412-0303-8

Cover design by Dan Thornberg

Dedication

To Jeanne and Bill, Mona and Eileen,

who gave me space and a place to write

faster than I ever have before.

What blessings you all are.

Acknowledgments

This book wasn’t planned as part of the DAKOTAH TREASURES series in the beginning, but when I ran out of book for Opal before I ran out of story, I asked my friends at Bethany House if we could add one more book. I danced for joy when they said yes, so thanks, Carol Johnson, David Horton, and all others involved in that decision. I wanted to find out what happened next as much as our readers did.

Kathleen, Chelley, Mona, Eileen, Woodeene, Nanci, thanks for brainstorming, for asking questions, reading again and again, helping me figure out these characters and get enough conflict. Sharon Asmus, you are always a delight to work with, the speed with which you get back to me is amazing. Do you read in your sleep? Deidre, agent and friend, what a journey we are on. Thanks for your wisdom and encouragement.

My perpetual thanks to all the readers who write and ask for more. I am so blessed. I’m glad these books mean so much to you and that you take time out of your busy schedules to let me know your thoughts.

To God be the glory, great things He has done.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

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23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books by Lauraine Snelling

Back Cover

CHAPTER ONE

Eastern Pennsylvania, Fall  1886

Her father’s words itched worse than a bur in her camisole.

Go find Joel. He’d said those words more than once or even twice. Every time he got to feeling poorly, he’d point his bony finger at her and utter those same words. What did he think she was—a gypsy who could look in tea leaves or a crystal ball and find out where the boy had disappeared to? What possibly irked her the most was that feeling poorly meant he’d had one—or many—too many drinks and would come home feeling right sorry for himself. And convinced he was dying.

More than once Amethyst Colleen O’Shaunasy, called Colleen because her father had thought her mother’s naming her after a pinky-purple rock was the height of stupidity, wished she could join the temperance movement. If there were some way she could destroy the local tavern, she would. Or at least shut it down. But there was far too much work to be done on the farm if she wished to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table to go gallivanting off to join a women’s movement. Not that all the hard work would help her any.

Did you hear me, girl?

Aye, Pa, I heard you. But no one knows—

That’s what ya allus say. Ya ain’t got the brains God gave a goose. Find ’im before I die, or you won’t even have this house to live in. Ya know a woman can’t inherit land. I’m just lookin’ out for yer own good.

Like you have all these years chasing away any beau who came calling? Her father didn’t think she knew of his perfidy, but she’d found out, thanks to the local gossip. He wanted her home to take care of her ailing mother and him. Not that he worried much about any ailing female, unless she collapsed in the field, as her mother had. An affront to his dignity that was.

If you have any suggestions as to how I should go about finding Joel, I’d be most grateful if you would share them with me. Of all the five siblings, only her brother Patrick had managed to live long enough to sire any children, and then only one son, Joel, who was seven the last time they saw him, more than five months earlier. After his father’s death in an accident, his mother, who’d been suffering from consumption, took the boy off, and they both disappeared. Eventually they’d heard that Melody’s body was found in a river to the west, but there was no sign of the boy.

Write to her kin and ask if they know where the boy might be. Maybe he is with them.

Do you know their names?

Surely your ma wrote that down in the Bible. Daft woman was at least good about keeping records like that.

Colleen narrowed her eyes. Never did he have a good word to say about her mother. Not that he ever had a good word to say about anyone, but still, she’d borne his children and his ire and worked herself to death.

If her father had worked as hard as he drove his wife, the farm most likely would have supported them quite well, but he’d always found something to be ailing about that needed a drink or two to alleviate.

I’ve looked in her Bible. There are no records within its pages.

There’s the big one, the family one what’s been passed down the generations. Where did it get to? He reared up in his chair and stared around the room as if the book might come leaping out of a corner or off a shelf.

Didn’t you give it to Patrick when Mother passed on? Colleen moved the coffeepot to the hotter part of the stove. She’d have a cup of coffee before heading out to do the evening chores. After milking in the morning, she’d finished digging the potatoes and stored them away in the cellar, along with the other root crops, all in their bins and covered, some with straw and others, like the carrots, with sand.

Do I got to do all yer thinkin’ fer ya? Didja ask those folks what took over his farm?

Why, no. I never thought of that. She glared at him. Of course I asked them. But perhaps I will do so again. The Bible was too large for easy travel.

The next afternoon she took time out from banking the house for the winter with used straw from the cow barn, made sure her skirt wore no traces of her morning activities, that her russet hair was corralled in a topknot, and strode down the road. Across the field would have been a mite faster, but the road seemed more proper. She took along a jar of her special raspberry syrup as a calling gift.

How nice of you to come calling, Sally said with a smile at her arrival and invited her in.

While the coffee heated, they chatted about the lovely fall weather they’d been having. Their conversation meandered to the Women’s Missionary Society that Sally had gotten involved in at the church. Colleen had always wished she could, but her father considered anything beyond Sunday attendance frivolous. Her interest perked up again when the discussion went on to the crops left in the garden.

My Judd always takes care of the harvesting. Sally turned from lifting the coffeepot and refilled their coffee cups. Did you dry any cut corn this year?

Colleen shook her head. Just beans. Other than the corn for the chickens and the cows, which now resided in the corncrib, ready to be used for shelled feed during the winter.

I’ll send some on home with you, then. Nothing like dried corn cooked in cream. I add a bit of onion too, for extra flavor.

That would be right nice. Colleen took all her resolve in hand and said, When your husband first moved here, I asked him if he’d found our family Bible anywhere. While she spoke, she sketched the size of it with her hands. Have you found anything since then?

Not that I know of, but there are some things up in the attic that I’ve not gotten around to sorting. We could have a look-see if you want.

That would be most obliging of you. If you have a lamp, I’ll do the crawling up the ladder.

We’ll both go, and thataway I’ll know what all is up there.

As soon as they both stood upright in the attic, they raised the lamp high, then crossed to a pile of boxes pushed into a back corner, a broken rocking chair, and a chest of drawers, minus one.

Well, I never. My Judd could fix these right up. He’s real good at fixing things.

I would have thought my brother was too. Strange the things that end up in attics. Colleen pulled out the top drawer—empty. The second drawer was missing, and the third held baby clothes, wrapped carefully in a knit blanket that the moths had turned into shreds.

Oh, how sad. Sally lifted the things out and, after dusting the top of the chest, laid them there.

They only had the one child. Colleen caught her breath. My mother made many of those.

Do you want them? Sally sent her guest a gracious smile.

Colleen thought a moment. She remembered her mother sewing some of the gowns and shirts by lamplight, her stitches so fine as to be nearly invisible. But wouldn’t it be better for the dear little garments to be used? After all, her childbearing years were about past, and with no man in her life other than her father, she would never need them. The thought made her heart clench. But I want children to love and a man who loves me and to whom I can be devoted.

She stroked the tucks in one little gown. One piece—would it hurt to keep one piece in memory of her mother?

Sally took the initiative and handed the perfect little gown to Colleen. You take this one. I’ll take the rest down and wash them all. Will be a few months yet before I need them, but I will think of your generosity when I dress my baby.

Thank you. Colleen took the garment and, folding it carefully, placed it in her apron pocket. When she tugged at the bottom drawer, it refused to open. She pulled again, but only a squawk rewarded her efforts. The women each took a handle and pulled firmly to gain only an inch. Again. This time the drawer gave up the battle with a groan, and therein lay the family Bible. Ah. Using both hands, Colleen lifted the heavy book out and set it on top of the chest as Sally removed the clothing bundle.

Both women sneezed at the dust generated by moving things around.

I can tell you I am going to give this attic a thorough cleaning. Don’t know why I put off coming up here.

A companion always makes one braver.

True.

Colleen held the lamp closer to the pages as she opened the cover. Sure enough, Mother had recorded all the information she needed, even to the town Melody had come from. Do you mind if I—

You needn’t ask. This Bible is yours. Let’s take it downstairs and dust it off.

Thank you. Such simple words for the feelings welling up like an artesian spring. She now had the Bible, part of her mother, part and parcel of the family.

After staying long enough to be polite, she took the tiny dress and the heavy book back with her to the homeplace. The chill in the air told her that her father had left sometime earlier, most likely as soon as she walked down the road. And there was no doubt in her mind where she would find him, if she cared to go looking. She checked the tin where she kept her egg and cream money. Empty!

No more! From now on she would keep the money she earned someplace safe, where his marauding fingers would not find it.

That night, after her father returned home and fell asleep, Colleen sat at the worn kitchen table composing a letter to Melody’s parents, pleading with them to give her any information they had learned about the boy named Joel, her nephew. Her father’s heir.

Dear Mrs. Fisher,

I am sorry for waiting so long to write to you, but I had no idea how to contact you. Melody did not leave your address, and I just found the family Bible in the attic of their house, which is now owned by another. I hope this letter finds you well, although I am sure you are still grieving for your daughter. She was a good wife to my brother and a friend to me. Joel was the child of my heart and greatly loved.

I know a long time has passed, but my father is insistent that we find Joel, as there are no other male heirs in our family and my father is afraid he will die before seeing Joel again. I cannot begin to tell you how grateful we would be for any bit of information. Is he living with you or do you know where he is? I know that Melody took Joel to see someone in a small town in Dubuque Valley, Pennsylvania. If I don’t hear from you, I plan to go there and make some discreet inquiries.

I hope that all is well with you and yours, although I understand that the sorrow of losing your daughter never goes away.

I thank you in advance for any help you could offer.

I remain respectfully yours,

Amethyst Colleen O’Shaunasy.

Colleen addressed an envelope, folded the letter, and inserted it, sealing the missive with a drop of wax from the candle she kept for that purpose. She’d walk into Smithville, the closest village, in the morning to mail it. Her father didn’t allow the horses to be used for transportation when feet were available. Unless they were his feet.

She pulled out the pins and let her hair, which was constantly fighting to fall free, tumble around her shoulders. The required one hundred strokes a night gave a sheen to the russet fall that glimmered in the lamplight. Her mother had always said her two best features were her hair and her eyes. The rest of her left a lot to be desired, as far as she was concerned. She had a jaw strong enough to outclamp a bulldog and a forehead broad enough to write on, and while most women were curvy, she had looked once in the mirror and thought she saw a broom with hair.

Ah, Mother, why did you go off and leave me like this? She continued with the regular strokes, thinking back to her sister-in-law. Melody had been so lovely when she and Patrick were married, and while the boy had been born a bit early, if one bothered to count, he’d been a precious baby. Since their house was right across the field, Colleen had spent as much time there as she could.

When she reached a hundred strokes, she tied her hair back in a club with a bit of cotton ripped from a larger piece, blew out the lamp, and slipped underneath the covers. The moonlit shadows of the red oak branches danced on the floor, the limbs themselves brushing the house boards with familiar taps and sighs, as if seeking entrance.

Her father’s snoring from the room below her grated her nerves like the washboard grated the skin off her knuckles. What if she were to find Joel and bring him back here? What kind of example would her father set for a young boy?

Ishda. She muttered one of her mother’s favorite sayings. Mother, I miss you so.

CHAPTER TWO

November

There’s a letter for you.

Colleen turned at the announcement from the man behind the counter, her hat not quite following. Between hat and hair, remaining properly attired was often a test of her persistence. Because it was market day, when all the farmers brought their goods to Smithville to sell, her father had driven the wagon, filled with her wares, to town. Renowned for her cottage cheese that always sold out first, Colleen had also brought freshly churned butter, buttermilk, and eggs, not to mention her piccalilli. She’d made extra jars because people liked it so much. At the end of the day, with a tidy sum in her reticule and her father at his favorite hangout, she’d gone into the mercantile, giving the owner her list of needed supplies and taking time to peruse the calicos and woolens. She needed a new winter skirt and a dress without holes. No matter that she could mend with the best of them, patches on patches it was. She pushed at her hat, knowing she needed to reset the hatpins, but that was not something a woman did in public. Raising her arms above her head that way was just not seemly.

Who would be writing to her?

Thank you. She took the letter and stared at the return address. An answer to her letter of nearly a month ago. She’d given up on receiving a reply, placating her father with the old adage, No news is good news. Although, as he’d pointed out, along with several comments about her stupidity, that didn’t seem to apply here.

Rather than spending the time reading under the man’s watchful eye, she placed the letter in her reticule and continued her shopping. Once behind the laden shelves, she reached up and reset her hatpins, hoping to restrict the swirl of russet hair. She had enough cash on hand to pay her past-due bill and for the supplies she’d purchased, but if she bought dress goods, she’d have nothing to hide away in case of an emergency. Her father had raided the last hoard, as he had earlier ones.

Sometimes she wished he’d go back to making moonshine. They’d had extra cash then. But even that had proved too laborious for him, so now he just reminisced about those days. The heart had indeed gone out of him when Patrick died, not that he’d ever been what one would call a hard worker.

With a shake of her head and a grimace at the hat shifting again, she left the dress goods section and returned to the counter to pay for her purchases.

You want I should load these in the wagon for you?

Yes, please.

You have any of your goods between now and next market day, you know I would be happy to sell them here.

Well, thank you. In the past she had traded butter and eggs for the things she needed. I’ll keep that in mind.

She thanked him again when the staples of flour, sugar, coffee, and other things she couldn’t produce on the farm were loaded into the wagon. Glancing up the street to the saloon, she hoped to see her father waiting on the front porch. No such luck.

Muttering under her breath, she untied the team, backed them up, and drove around the block so she could stop with the seat of the wagon in direct line with the steps from the saloon. Then, proper or not, she climbed out of the wagon, using the spokes of the wheel for steps, tied the nearest horse to the hitching rail, and mounted the stairs. Stopping at the door, she peered inside. Lord above, how I hate going in here.

Could you please bring him out, Mr. Peters? When there was no response, she raised her voice and repeated her request. No answer. Couldn’t you have a bit of mercy on me? She glanced skyward. Sorry for any disrespect. Blowing out a heavy sigh, she pushed open the door and stood blinking in the dim light, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

Her father even had his own table. And right now he lay cheek down, snoring loud enough to scare the rats that sometimes scavenged for bits of food dropped from the tables. The thought of seeing one again made her shudder. But they weren’t as prevalent in the daylight hours, so she sucked in a restorative breath, coughed on the fumes that permeated the place, and crossed the room. How would she get him out to the wagon if he was passed out?

Father. She tapped his shoulder. No response. Just like from the owner of this place, wherever he was. She shook her father, none too gently.

Go ’way. His mutter sent the alcohol fumes right up her nose.

Her eyes watered and she fought the urge to gag. Why did men do this to themselves? Pa, either you come with me now, or you’ll be finding your own way home. I am finished here for the day. And I have enough work to do at home to fill two days with some left over.

Minute.

She had to lean over to understand him because his lips and cheek were mashing the wood of the tabletop. Colleen took a step back with a finger to her hat. Never before had she had the courage to leave him. But the thought of sitting under a shade tree and waiting for him to stagger out gave her the desire to pick up the bottle sitting on his table and tap him on the head with it.

Aghast at the thought, she shook him again, more firmly this time. Pa, it is time to go home. You said you would meet me at the mercantile. Why even talk? He wasn’t listening.

The back door opened, and the proprietor pushed his way in, dragging a dolly loaded with crates. Sorry, Miss O’Shaunasy, I had to pick up my freight or someone might have lightened my load, if you get my drift. I’ll haul his carcass out to the wagon for you. Don’t know what you’ll do when you get home though.

I’ll let him sleep it off in the wagon, that’s what. How can you allow him to drink this much?

Man pays his money, I ain’t his keeper.

What if he has no money? She addressed his back as he slung the old man over his shoulders like a sack of wheat and hauled him out to the back of the wagon, where he dumped him on the goods already loaded.

I use ta run a tab, but not no longer. Not for him.

Thank God for small favors.

Peters dusted his hands off. If I was you, I’d hide my money real good.

Thank you for the advice. She mounted the wheel, eyed the line to the hitching rail, and sighed, a shoulder-drooping, toenail-curling sigh.

I’ll get that for ya.

Thank you so very much. When he knotted the line back to the harness, she picked up the reins and slapped the team lightly along with a giddup. The horses, long used to finding their own way home, ignored her orders and, nodding, each picked up one hoof at a time, making sure it was set again before picking up another.

Feeling Mr. Peters staring at her from the doorway, she slapped the reins again, with considerably more force, along with a sharp giddup to match. The shock made both horses throw their heads up and jerk forward. Her hat skewed toward the back of her head, and her posterior slid to the rear of the seat, making her grateful for the backboard so that she didn’t go head over teakettle into the wagon bed. Now, that would have caused some stir.

By reflex she jerked back on the reins, the horses stopped, and there she was. Lord, let me hide myself in thee. She glanced back over her shoulder to make certain she still had her father in the wagon but wasn’t sure if she was grateful that he’d slept through it all or not. Feet braced against the footboard, she slapped the reins again, this time holding them firmly to make sure the horses would walk not leap. They seemed to get the idea, as they walked out with quick feet. After she ripped the hat from her head and tucked it under her skirt so it wouldn’t blow away, she slapped the reins again, and they picked up an easy trot.

Lowering clouds in the west, the direction they were headed, made her groan. All she needed to do was let the bags of flour and sugar get wet. She clucked the horses faster and drove them into the barn just as the errant sprinkles turned into a downpour.

Obeying her father’s orders to never leave the team in harness, even though he often did it himself, she unhooked the traces from the doubletree and, after leading the horses into their stall, unharnessed them. You ungrateful wretches, she muttered as the darker of the two bays swung his haunches out enough to pin her against the sideboards. Get over. She slapped him on the rump with one of the leathers. You kick me and, so help me, I’ll shoot you myself. Horsemeat must not be much different than beef. He straightened out and let her pass, his twitching tail saying that he’d just as soon plant a hoof on her foot as not.

She hung the harnesses on the wall pegs, dumped a small amount of oats in each feedbox, gathered the smaller packages, and made her way to the house. By the time she stopped on the porch to catch her breath, her hair was drenched, her clothes were soaked through to her skin, and her felt hat was squashed beyond rehabilitating.

Lord, what did I do to deserve this? She dropped the packages on the table, wishing for a cup of hot coffee and knowing that she’d have to start the stove first. Which to do? Change clothes so she didn’t catch her death, or start the fire so she could warm up both body and coffeepot?

The gray-and-white-striped cat with the white bib and paws rubbed against her skirt, then sat down to lick the moisture off her fur.

If you’re hungry, go catch a mouse. It’s a long time till supper. Colleen, against all she knew to be proper, dropped her skirt and petticoat by the stove so she could hang them up to dry. Her blouse joined the skirt in a heap, and she debated about her chemise and bloomers. But fearing the arrival of her father or some passing stranger, she hauled herself upstairs to her room, where she stripped down to bare skin and rubbed her body with a coarse towel until she felt warmer. If only she could crawl in bed to warm up. Were her mother here, she would have had the stove lighted and something hot forthwith. She might have even brought a cup up to her daughter’s room, not that Colleen could remember such a time, other than when she’d had the measles.

Colleen sank down on the edge of the bed, feeling as if the roof of the house were pressing down on her. That and the black sky. How can I bear this? Yet how can I not? I mean, what choices do I have? Crawl in bed and let the animals suffer? You could crawl in bed to get warm. But if I fall asleep, then what? She shivered in the draft from the window, even though the sash was down. Wrapping the towel around her wet hair, she drew dry underthings from the drawers, her working shift from its peg on the low side of the steeply roofed room, and finished dressing. She added a sweater and warm woolen stockings her mother had knit for good measure.

Downstairs she fetched a pot of chicken soup from the larder and, after adding wood to the coals in the firebox, set the pot on the front burner. Because she’d not eaten since breakfast, she sliced bread and buttered it on both sides before laying it in one of the cast-iron frying pans that hung from a rack behind the stove. She set it right behind the soup kettle to speed the toasting.

Looking out the window, she saw the barn door was still closed. Rain pummeled the ground. The cow would most likely be in her stanchion, waiting for grain and milking. Colleen stirred the soup and turned the two slices of bread, pushing the frying pan back off the hottest part. Dark as the day had become, she lit a kerosene lamp and set it in the middle of the table.

My letter. She dug it from her reticule, only slightly damp, and laid it on the table. Whenever mail came to the house, her father always read it first—slowly, since reading wasn’t one of his strong suits. Today she would slice open the envelope, pull out the paper, unfold it, and read it—all by herself and first.

To prolong the pleasure she flipped the bread out onto a plate, dished up her soup and slid the kettle back, poured herself a cup of coffee, and set her things on the table. The pure pleasure of the quiet room, the hiss and crackle of the fire, the steaming coffeepot, and the purring cat made her sigh. If only her mother were here to enjoy this special moment with her. What more could she ask?

She salted her soup, staring at the envelope lying on the table. Good news or bad news. She ate a bite of bread, followed by a spoon of soup. The heat radiated from the stove, warming her back. She rotated her shoulders in delight.

Picking up the envelope, she slid the blade of the knife under the flap and popped open the blob of wax seal. Appreciating each move she made, she finally had the letter free and ready to read. Another slurp and bite prolonged the pleasure.

Dear Miss O’Shaunasy,

I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was to read your letter of October 7. Yes, the loss of our daughter has been a trial, but as ill as she was, we were not surprised to hear of her passing. What surprised and shocked us was the inference that she may have taken her own life. I will never believe that. There must have been an accident or some nefarious event, but that we will never know.

We, my husband and I, would love to be certain of the whereabouts of our grandson, Joel. Were we able, we would go searching ourselves. As far as we know, Joel has gone west with a man named Jacob Chandler. He and Melody were childhood friends. Not long ago we received a letter from his parents and understand that he and Joel are living on a ranch in the badlands of Dakotah Territory, near a town called Medora. While we could not locate the town on any maps, we have learned there is a train station there. It is near the western edge of the territory.

We are pleased to know that Joel has a place to come back to and a purpose. Perhaps Mr. Chandler, whom I believe is a reverend, or was, will be willing to bring Joel back. The Chandlers have a farm not far from our own.

Please keep in contact with us, and we wish you God’s blessing and speed in your mission.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Alma Fisher

Colleen read the letter again. Surely there was some kind of mystery going on here. Why had Melody left Joel with a man not a relative? What had happened to her in those last moments of her life? She had not been well for a long time, but after an attack of the influenza last year and the death of her husband, she had really gone downhill.

How can I leave the farm and go searching for the boy? Who would care for the livestock—and my father? Winter would be the best time to go because there was no fieldwork and the cow would be drying up around Christmas. But the heifer was due in January.

Colleen finished her soup and bread, poured herself another cup of coffee to sip while she put things away, and wiped off the crumbs. She cradled the hot mug in her hands as she stared out the window. The rain clouds looked to have taken up residency right over the farm. She should have thrown a horse blanket over her father. All she needed was to have him down with the grippe or worse.

Fetching a wool blanket from the linen shelf, she donned her chores coat