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 the 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.

“What her mother thought or did is of no importance,” the Reverend declared.

“On the contrary,” Lord Seton countered. “Part of my reason for exploring your country is to learn about the people, and what makes them who they are. King William is working to restore relations between England and America, and he has championed my undertaking most vigorously. Pray, go on, child.”

As the Reverend and Mrs. Dalrymple retreated into angry silence, Blind Deer studied Lord Seton. He was by no means a young man, but he hadn’t quite gone paunchy since leaving the military. His mouth was not generous, but he seemed quick to smile, and his clear gray eyes offered the unwavering gaze of a man with seemingly nothing to hide. At his nod of encouragement, and with all the animation she could muster, Blind Deer recounted the facts as they had been told to her.

“My mother was born right here, in St. Louis. Her father, a purveyor of medicine, was determined to bring the white man’s cures to the West. To that end he and his family along with a small band of likeminded souls set out to do so.”

She couldn’t resist glancing pointedly toward the Reverend and his wife. “I’m told they also brought the message of the white God. But they did not beat their religion into those who came to them—nor beat the devil out of those who resisted.” Old Lady Dalrymple averted her gaze first. The reverend held on a little longer.

Seeming not to notice the conflict, Lord Seton turned sideways in his chair and leaned forward as if eager to hear more. “And what happened next? Is that when they ran into the infamous Blackfoot savages?” Being a military man, he seemed fascinated with the battle aspect of her story rather than her family history, so like any good storyteller she followed his lead.

“Oh yes. On that terrible day, the Blackfoot warriors swooped down upon the harmless group, and all were killed in a horrific battle—except my mother and her best friend. They were captured and led away, each with a rope around their neck. Then my brave father appeared—spear in one hand, war club in the other. He and his companions fought long and hard, driving off the Blackfoot horde. Then my father scooped up one of the bedraggled white women and carried her away to make her his bride.”

“And she willingly stayed with this warrior and his tribe?” The man sounded incredulous.

“Why of course. My father and mother love one another very much—and very often. My three brothers and I are proof of that.”

Lord Seton slapped one thigh and gave a hearty laugh at her insinuation.

The reverend gained his feet, toppling his chair over in the process. “Enough.” He pointed a finger in her direction, “You will leave this room immediately—to be dealt with later.”

She dared to glare back at him. This was her only chance to speak with Lord Seton—her only chance for freedom.

“I can read and write your language, sir.” She blurted out the words, gripping the handle of the cart with cold hands. All appeared stunned at her declaration. Had she made a mistake in revealing her greatest weapon?

Along with speaking the language, her mother had taught her both of these skills at an early age. But here, to aggravate her teachers and old lady Dalrymple, she pretended otherwise. And when they were not watching, she borrowed and read nearly every one of the donated books in the library. Those precious tomes fed her soul and mind many times better than the scraps of food they threw at her to feed her body.

She would miss the books—her only friends.

The reverend unclenched his jaw and appeared about to speak.

“I also have many maps in my head,” she added, cutting him off. The atlas she’d discovered held drawings of 18th Century Europe, hardly useful to Lord Seton, but she’d gained a feel for these types of renderings, wouldn’t such knowledge be helpful?

At wit’s end, she wracked her brain for a means of convincing him to take her along on his journey to the west. Keep talking, keep talking. He liked the story about the battle. Tell him about the other explorers.

“Long ago, Lewis and Clark visited the land of my people—the elders were children then, but they still remember. They still have many tales to tell.”

“Lewis and Clark.” For a moment, Sir Reginald’s eyes glowed with faraway visions, and he whispered the names with reverence usually reserved for deities. “I’ve read their journals—their expedition was extraordinary, legendary. And I’ve heard the tales of Beckwourth, and Fremont.”

“And Charbonneau and Sacagawea.” Daring to say more, she slipped in the noteworthy names. “Like the Shoshone girl who led Lewis and Clark to the far side of the mountains, if you take me along with you, I will help you in your endeavors.”

Why didn’t he say something? Tears threatened, but she balled her hands into fists and refused to cry. She was a warrior, the granddaughter of a great chief. She would show no fear. Meeting his stern gaze, she stood tall and unflinching.

Finally, the man who held her future—possibly her life—in his hands, turned to face her captors.

“Reverend, Mrs. Dalrymple, I have a proposition for you.”