White Dreams
White Dreams
By Susan Edwards
Nebraska Territory, 1857
To Star Dreamer, seeing glimpses of the future is more a curse than a gift. Haunted by the belief that she could have prevented the death of her husband, she struggles against the Sight—even if it means leaving her people to hide from the Spirits in the white man’s world with handsome Grady O’Brien, a man who inspires passions Star thought were long buried.
After losing his wife, Grady vowed never to love again. But the beautiful and wise Star Dreamer tempts him to risk his wounded heart a second time. Their budding relationship faces opposition in a world bound by prejudice. And when they rescue a free black woman from slavers, Grady and Star incur the wrath of a dangerous man known only as the Dragon—a man who won’t rest until he enslaves Star herself…
Book 8 of 12.
Previously published.
90,000 words
Dear Readers,
I am so excited to see my White Series available in digital format and once again available to you, my readers. This series is so close to my heart—each character became my brother, sister, best friend, etc., and to see them republished makes it seem like a long-awaited family reunion. I can’t wait to become reacquainted with each character! Even the villains, for there is nothing like seeing justice served.
I started the first book, White Wind, way back in the ’80s. These two characters just popped into my head one day. I met them at a stream in the wilderness where my honorable (and very virile) hero, Golden Eagle, was determined to rescue a very stubborn heroine named Sarah. It just seemed as though the action stopped as they turned to me and said, “Well? What now?”
Huh? Did they think I was a writer? Not me. Never did any writing at all and had never had any desire to do so. Well, Sarah and Golden Eagle just shook their heads and let me know that despite never having written before, it didn’t matter because I was a storyteller! A vivid imagination, a love of romance and the Native American historical genre were all that were required. Okay, not quite but I got the message.
So I thought, why not? I could write a nice scene or two. Or three. Hey, how about even just a love scene in this wonderful setting that I could see so clearly in my mind? But then I ran into the first problem. What had brought my two willful characters to this stream at the same time? What connected them? Why would this mighty warrior want to claim this white girl? What made him fall in love with her and risk everything for her?
I found that I couldn’t go on until I had answers and that meant, yep, I had to start at the beginning. I learned who they were, what their problems were, and when we once again met at that stream in the wilderness, I just sat back and gave directions, and this time, my characters knew their lines and away we went!
And that, dear readers, was how my writing career began. Once I started, I could not stop. I loved writing about this family. Sarah and Golden Eagle had four children and it just seemed natural to continue the series. I had so many letters begging and, yes, even demanding Jeremy and White Dove’s story in White Dove. And honestly, I was right there with each and every reader, for that was one story that just called to me. So from two people, who met by chance, eleven books were born.
Over the years, I valued each and every reader comment: from the mother who read the books to her dying daughter, to the lonely women who found companionship, and to women who appreciated the bravery and willingness of the heroines and heroes to do whatever it took to overcome adversity.
Each of the White books has a story that means something to me. Jessie in White Wolf is a lot like I was in my youth. I couldn’t accept “no” back then without a good reason, always looking for a chance to rebel . I could go on and on but then I’d be writing a book instead of a letter!
Just writing this letter makes me all teary and homesick, but just as these books will be available once more to my readers, I will become reacquainted with each book and each character. Thinking of reunions, I might just have to plan a White reunion! But for now, I am just so grateful to Carina Press and my editor, Angela James, for once again making this series available.
Sincerely yours,
Susan Edwards
In loving memory of Sally Marie Swenson.
You are missed.
Butterflies and Angels
The free-spirited butterfly,
Dancing on a warm summer breeze,
Flitting from flower to flower,
Touching, caressing, moving on.
Wings of chiffon, God’s creation
Appears each spring, vibrant, wondrous.
Life is short for this fragile being,
Whose beauty soothes, inspires.
For it starts out not so worthy,
Cannot fly, not very pretty.
Yet a great service it completes,
As it grows, transforms, emerges, flies.
Sally embraced the universe,
With arms outstretched, heart full of warmth.
Like the elegant butterfly,
She gave, cared, nurtured, blessed our lives.
Though her time on earth was cut short,
She brought us love, joy, happiness.
To all her family and friends,
Sally was special, the Lord’s own.
She’s in Heaven, has earned her wings,
She’s taken her place, high above.
Finally at peace, free of pain,
Among angels and butterflies.
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to Tom Dewey at the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial in St. Louis for all his help and time spent researching and answering my questions about early St. Louis. Any historical errors are mine and mine alone.
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Late summer 1856, Nebraska Territory
Insidious, like a snake slithering through the tall prairie grass toward its unwary prey, the vision came in the dark of night when her mind was at its most vulnerable. It hovered at the edge of consciousness: a swirl of color, a whisper in the mind, a thread of awareness. Without further warning, images of events to come struck, obliterating her peaceful sleep.
Star Dreamer moaned and thrashed, trying to wake and ward off the unwanted vision. But it seized her mind and will with swift savagery. Across the back of her closed eyes, the kaleidoscope spun, bringing with it a familiar sense of nausea until, with crystal clarity, a scene formed.
She stood in the middle of a battlefield.
The night sky glowed with yellow, orange and red flames. Smoke filled the air, making her gasp even in her sleep. Her hands rose to cover her ears in a vain attempt to blot out the war cries as warriors battled to the death. On and on the scene raged, until just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The eerie silence frightened her more than the battle cries and left her shaking. She backed away and tripped over the fallen body of a warrior.
She scrambled to her feet as the ground turned red. Bloodred. All else faded but the red sky, red dirt and the pale body of the fallen warrior whose life’s blood drained
from his body. Crimson pooled on the soil and flowed away from her, a dark, glossy river absorbed by the maka, from which all life sprang. Moving in slow motion, she reached down and touched him, felt his coldness. Felt death.
In the night sky, the bright, round face of Hanwi slid from behind a cloud and sent a beam of white light to illuminate the fallen warrior. Vulnerable, unable to fight what she did not want to see, Star bolted upright on her pallet of furs, her eyes wide open yet unseeing, hands in front of her as she struggled to free herself from the grip of the frightening vision. Hunching over, knees drawn to her chest, she covered her head with her arms. “No,” she whimpered, her fingers pulling and clawing through her hair.
Look, the traitorous voice in her vision commanded. See the face of the newly dead.
“No!” The sound of her own hoarse shout tore Star from the clutches of the nightmarish vision. She woke bathed in sweat. Frantically, she reached out beside her, needing the comforting reassurance of Two-Ree, her husband.
He wasn’t there. The mound of furs beside her was empty and cold—as cold as that lifeless warrior in her vision. The last vestige of the vision fled, leaving her wide awake, shivering and apprehensive. Her chest constricted, her throat tightened. “No,” she moaned, over and over, denying what she knew to be true. She’d seen her own husband’s death.
Her gaze swept the tipi, hoping it wasn’t too late to warn him, but it was. His weapons were gone. With frenzied movements, Star untangled herself from her bedding and dashed out into the predawn light. She ran between tipis, past solemn warriors and weeping women, searching frantically.
Near the edge of camp, a handful of warriors gathered on horseback, the paint on their bare torsos and faces standing out in the faint light. Relief that the war party hadn’t left yet spurred her forward. It wasn’t too late.
Star scanned the men gathering to ride to war. Where was Two-Ree? He wasn’t with the mounted warriors. Behind her, she heard the approach of horses and spun around. Two warriors rode toward her: her brother and her husband. Relief left her knees trembling. She wasn’t too late. Two-Ree had painted his torso and face with wide slashes of red and black, and he wore a quiver of arrows slung across his back. In his hands, he carried his bow, shield and lance.
Pride warred with fear. Her husband had been chosen to accompany her brother, Chief Striking Thunder, on a raid against their enemy for the murders of their people earlier that day—including Meadowlark, Striking Thunder’s young wife.
Star stumbled forward to stop her husband, to warn him of her vision and to plead with him not to go, but denial and doubt stopped her. What if the fallen warrior in her vision had not been her husband? It could have been anybody. In that short space of uncertainty, both men rode past in stoic silence to join the rest of the war party.
Star ran after them. Whether or not it had been him, she needed to share her vision. Before she could approach her husband, the shaman, an old man with long, flowing white hair, stepped forward with arms outstretched. In a loud chanting voice, he evoked the Spirits to go with the brave men. Star watched, helpless to intervene. When the wise man finished, the air came alive with shouts and chants from warriors and tribal members alike. Revenge would be theirs.
Two-Ree glanced back at Star. Their gazes met and held as he lifted his lance high and let out a long war cry. Tears streamed down her cheeks. To approach him now, to speak and ask him to remain behind, would shame him before all. He was a great warrior and, as such, it was his duty to protect his people. Yet he was her husband, the father of her children.
A small, warm hand slipped inside hers. Star glanced down at Morning Moon, her young daughter. The child’s eyes held a hint of worry. Together, in silence, they watched the warriors ride off.
A week later, Star woke once more to the sound of screaming—her own. Oblivious to her family rushing in, she rocked back and forth. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that her husband was dead.
Chapter One
Spring 1857
Star Dreamer watched her people rejoice in the marriage of Chief Striking Thunder to Emma O’Brien through troubled eyes.
In the center of the village, women moved about wearing dresses exquisitely adorned with beads, feathers and dyed quills. More feathers and beads decorated their long, black hair, which gleamed in the firelight. The men, not to be outdone, had painted their bodies and wore their best breechclouts and moccasins.
Orange-red flames from a large fire leaped high into the sky, casting a warm glow over the darkened camp, showcasing male dancers. Some wore impressive bonnets made from sacred eagle feathers they’d earned with their brave deeds, while others waved coup sticks in the air as they shuffled, twirled and danced around the hot flames.
Infectious laughter competed with the chanting of dancers, voices raised in storytelling and the happy shrieks of children running among the adults. She spied her five-year-old son, Running Elk, tumbling and somersaulting with other boys, and smiled. Like most children his age, he loved to stay up late and play in the dark. Though it was mid-March and the night air held a bitter chill, no one minded. It was a night for everyone, young and old alike, to lose themselves in the simple joy of being alive.
Star ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair—a reminder in itself of her recent loss—and her reasons for avoiding the crowds. She yearned to be happy and carefree, even if only for one night, but shame at failing her people held her back. The fast and furious beating of drums accompanied by the loud, rhythmic chants of the drummers rose in pitch and tempo.
Death. The words came at her, echoed loudly in her mind as the pulse at her temple reverberated with the loud, pounding drums, driving her farther into the deep shadows between the tipis. Peace, harmony and contentment would always be denied to her. Like her deceased grandmother, Star possessed the Sight. But unlike her grandmother, who’d considered the ability to see into the future an honor, Star felt cursed.
She hated the uncertainty of never knowing when the visions would strike. She dreaded losing control of her mind to a force unseen and unfelt by most. Most of all, she was tired of being afraid. Tired of taunting glimpses into the future. Tired of being torn by the knowledge that each time she failed to heed or understand the warnings of her dreams, she put her people at risk. Death lay on her shoulders, bowing them under the weight of guilt, leaving her feeling as though she lived in the dark shadows of the Spirits.
Walking around the perimeter of the outer circle of tipis, she spotted a group of girls trading beads and necklaces. Morning Moon, her daughter, sat among them. Watching the girl laugh and play with her friends, Star wondered how long it would be before her daughter began suffering the same fate.
Morning Moon already has the Sight.
Prickles of gooseflesh chilled Star’s flesh. She rubbed her bare arms. She’d been sure that her daughter had been spared, that once again a generation had been skipped. Morning Moon, knowing how her mother felt, had hidden the truth from her.
Tears trickled down Star’s cheeks. Despair engulfed her. Please, not my daughter, not my sweet child. Morning Moon was only eight winters—an innocent child—too young to understand. Just knowing that one day her daughter would experience this same torturous pain as her mother made Star want to fall to the ground and curse the Spirits for their cruelty.
“Why does my sister hide in the shadows and walk alone?”
Startled, Star jerked her head up. Striking Thunder, her brother, stood before her, arms crossed, a fierce frown upon his stern visage. He looked every bit as intimidating as their father when displeased. Unable to look him in the eye, Star averted her own gaze.
How could she join in the happy celebration when it was her fault that many present tonight had lost their loved ones? Since her own husband’s death, she’d felt so lost and alone. Two-Ree had been her anchor when her world spun out of control. Hugging herself, she turned from her brother. “I wish to be alone.” Forcing herself to smile and act as though nothing was a
miss was more than she could manage.
Striking Thunder’s fingers, warm and firm, stopped her retreat. He turned her gently, forcing her to meet his frustrated gaze. “You still blame yourself for your husband’s death. When will you accept that you were not to blame? If you do not stop torturing yourself in this manner, you will make yourself ill.”
Concern roughened his voice. His gaze slid down her body. Even in the shadows, her weight loss was noticeable, as were the sunken hollows below each cheekbone, the pallor of her skin and the sharp jut of bone beneath his fingers.
“You must eat, build your strength, mitanski, my sister. I know you are troubled. You fight your gift, but someday you will fulfill our grandmother’s prophecy.”
Seeing her brother’s hard features soften with worry made Star uncomfortable. It would be so easy to bow her head, agree and grasp at the hope he offered. But she couldn’t. Not any longer. “Hiya! You are wrong.” Star squeezed her eyes shut against the stark truth and yanked herself free. She didn’t want to remember their grandmother’s words, her promise that the Sight would one day save their People.
Star’s visions used to be filled with vague images or impressions she couldn’t interpret and could easily shove aside or discard. And once she’d had her children, they’d visited her less often. But over the last year, messages from the Spirit world became more frequent, lasted longer, the images far too powerful to ignore. They warned of evils she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—comprehend.
Only her grandmother could have understood the panic Star felt when her vision darkened and control was taken from her. Only Seeing Eyes could have known how it felt to have one’s mind caught in the grip of a spiritual force.