Texas Forsaken

Lone Star Redemption Book 1

Seven years ago, Maggie Logan (Eyes-Like-Sky) lost everything she knew when a raid on a wagon train tore her from her family. As the memories of her past faded to nothing more than vague shadows, Maggie adapted—marrying a Comanche warrior, having a baby, and rebuilding her life. But in one terrible battle, the U.S. Cavalry destroys that life, and she is taken captive again, this time by those who call themselves her people. Forced into a world she wants nothing to do with, Eyes-Like-Sky’s only hope of protecting her child may be an engagement to the man who killed her husband.

Enrolled in West Point to escape his overbearing father, Captain Garret Ramsey has graduated and finds himself assigned to the Texas frontier, witnessing the brutal Indian War in which both sides commit atrocities. Plagued by guilt for his own role, Garret seeks redemption by taking responsibility for the woman he widowed and her baby. Though he is determined to do whatever it takes to protect them, is he willing to risk everything for a woman whose heart is buried in a grave? Or is there hope she might heal to love once more?

“Fans will find this a heart-tugger with its vibrant leads and redemptive themes of love and duty, guilt and forgiveness.”
~ Lori Benton, Christy Award-Winnng Author

 

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Note From Sherry

Twenty years ago, I read a captive narrative that broke my heart. Cynthia Ann Parker was taken at age nine and spent twenty-four years with the Comanche, married, and had a family. Then, she was torn away from them by Texas Rangers and U.S. Cavalry. Cynthia Ann ended up dying of a broken heart.

The story haunted me for two decades, until I decided to put my pen to paper and write my own fictional captive story, with a much different ending. 

This is the story of Eyes-Like-Sky.

 

Book Excerpt

“Eyes-Like-Sky’s arms ached. She had spent the morning beneath a gnarled hackberry cleaning the buffalo hide. Granular bits of dirt and gristle bored into her bare knees below the bottom of her bunched skirt. Better her knees take the brunt of the filth than her buckskin garment.

No whimpers or babble from Little Star today to keep her company. Owl Woman had generously volunteered to watch the baby for the morning. The infant would enjoy a chance to escape the cradleboard and wiggle her tiny limbs.

Blushes of red and yellow wove their tapestry across the patches of oaks and cottonwoods, turning their leaves into brightly colored jewels. Autumn—despite the sprigs of new growth poking up amongst the withered grasses. There was much to be done before winter swooped south from the northern plains. A buffalo robe and new moccasins to finish, not to mention a season’s supply of pemmican to preserve—

A shout cut the air. A distant war whoop that crackled on the breeze billowing across the narrow valley. Tomopui, Eyes-Like-Sky, froze in mid-scrape, her fingers curled around the pumice stone. From within the Comanche camp, more cries rang out, bouncing off the rust-colored canyon walls. The raiding party had been sighted. She pushed up off the half-treated hide. Her husband, Dancing Eagle, would be with them. Her heart galloped.

Grease coated her arms and clothing. She grimaced. It didn’t matter that Dancing Eagle would understand. She knelt and rubbed her hands against the grass, wiping away the minced basswood bark and buffalo brains she used for softening the hides. The warriors would stop to deck themselves in full regalia and paint before entering camp Even their horses would be decorated for the victorious entry. Time enough for her to get clean.

With a change of clothes laid on the bank, she stepped over the sprawling roots of a cottonwood tree and into the creek. The cool water pricked her skin as she plunged to the center and scrubbed with the sponge Dancing Eagle had gifted her from his raid into Mexico last spring. He never mentioned how many Mexicans had died. He wouldn’t discuss it this time either. Except this time, it might be Texans. She would see the horses and the cattle. The whole village would celebrate with a dance. And she’d celebrate too. That he’d come back alive. That maybe they’d instilled enough fear that their village would be left in peace. And that no one recalled she’d once been Texan too.

Yelps echoed through the stand of scrub oak behind her. Wringing the water out of her waist-length hair, she slushed to the bank and slipped her finest dress, doeskin as soft as a baby’s cheek, over her head. She smoothed her hand over the turquoise beads, then buckled the silver belt above her waist. Fringes swayed against her arms as she tugged on her leggings.

Eyes-Like-Sky hummed as she stood. A tune from long ago, the words forgotten. A chill shivered through her. She rubbed the thin scar on her wrist and touched another milky-white mark, wider, whiter on her forearm. Two of the seventeen scars that marked her body from her early days with the tribe. Her life before Dancing Eagle paid three ponies for her and took her to his lodge to be his wife.

But no, the song on her lips was older than that, further back in the fog of her mind than the years she’d spent as Old Wolf’s slave. Before the Comanche captured her. Her head throbbed with the thought, as it did every time she tried to push aside the curtain of blackness that separated her from the before. With a sharp inhale, she pinched the flesh of her palm, digging her nails in deep, until the pain overshadowed the blurred memory.

More whoops and female voices chanted the songs of victory welcoming the warriors home. A hawk sprang from an overhead branch, pumping its wings in flight.

Eyes-Like-Sky scurried up the bank and wove her way toward the center square. Her heart thumped as loud as any drum. What if Dancing Eagle wasn’t with them? She wouldn’t even think it. He’d be here in minutes, safe and well. He’d take her in his arms…

Naked children toddled by her. Where was her own precious baby? Women young and old, along with the braves who hadn’t gone out with the raiding party, flowed toward the edge of the hundred-lodge camp. The smells of bear grease, horse, and buffalo tallow assaulted her nose.

Scanning the crowd for Owl Woman, she dug a walnut-size jar out of the small pouch which swung from her belt, dipped her fingers into the vermillion, and smeared a streak across each cheekbone and then another line beneath each eyebrow. She wanted to look her finest for her husband. A heel mashed the toe of her moccasin as a brave elbowed forward. She stepped to the side as she scraped her painted finger over the edge of the jar and returned it to the pouch.

“Yeeeeee!” Charms-His-Horse galloped down the lane, leading the war party in full regalia. A bone breastplate covered his upper chest, and a gold medallion swung down the middle, clinking against the rows of cylinder-shaped bones and shells. The crowd roared as he reined in his pony. Three tepee-pole lengths from the center square, he raised his scalp pole high.

Eyes-Like-Sky’s stomach shifted. Dancing Eagle would have his own pole, and he’d place it in their lodge. Namatunehtsuru, fear is a weapon, he’d told her. We must create a taste so bitter in the mouths of our enemies and make their knees knock together at the very thought of the Comanche so they crawl back off our prairies and leave us be. Peace and security…the longing of her heart. To have her husband near and raise their child without threat. How many lives would it cost?

Horse hooves pounded. An uncontainable smile spread across Eyes-Like-Sky’s face. Dancing Eagle cantered down the lane on the back of a fine black stallion, in the honored second place. Her husband. Safe. Home. She stretched up on her toes. Blue swirls decorated the horse, matching the blue and black paint of Dancing Eagle’s face, chest, and arms. His long, dark hair fell loose well past his shoulders. Two eagle feathers dangled from his scalp lock. His muscular body unmarred from battle, he wore nothing but a breechclout and red leggings. Handsome, free, and proud. Warmth flooded her cheeks as people cheered. How had she ever won the favor of the finest warrior of the band?

Other warriors followed, leading a small cluster of disheveled captives. Clothes torn and dirty from head to toe, the three Mexicans, one a girl on the threshold of womanhood, and two white children cowered as they were yanked off their horses. They’d be roped to the poles tonight, the center of the festivities. Only the children would be spared the humiliation and beatings. She winced and turned away. Not quick enough. A flash of memory. Bloodied rawhide digging into her wrists and ankles. Her whole body quivering beneath the lashes. Jeers pounding in her head. She had wished for death...

Eyes-Like-Sky shivered. A lifetime ago.

The crowd parted. Dancing Eagle reined his horse to a halt and extended his hand.

Her gasp spilled into a laugh as Comanche rolled off her tongue. “You cannot—”

His hand clasped hers and hauled her up. His left arm encircled her back and pulled her into his lap facing him. Blue and black paint smeared from Dancing Eagle’s chest to her blouse.

“Who says I cannot?” he whispered against her hair.

“The chief. Tradition.” But her arms slipped around him as the crowd cheered. Sweat and man and horse filled her nostrils. The nearness of him, the safety of his arms, melted the tension that had bound her neck and back ever since his departure.

His gaze roamed over her. “And where is our beautiful Little Star? I fear I’ve been gone so long she must be walking and talking by now.”

“She wouldn’t dare think of doing such a thing without you here to see her first step.” She beamed. “Besides, she decided it’d be best to master sitting and standing first.”

He chuckled.

Other warriors whooped past. Dancing Eagle shifted off the main lane, nudging his horse through a cluster of women.

He cupped his hand around her cheek. “I have missed you, Eyes-Like-Sky.” His lips brushed hers, feather light at first, before his mouth overtook hers in hunger.

A few young warriors hooted and cheered.

Scratches and cuts, unseen from the ground, scraped her palms as she swept her hands over his arms and back.

“Tonight, after the dance…” He breathed in her ear and drew back a few inches.

She kissed his palm. “We could forget the festivities?” And the prisoners.

“My warriors would come looking for us. Besides, I couldn’t bear to miss seeing my wife dance.” His brown eyes shone.

Words of protest died in her throat. Dancing Eagle wouldn’t understand how the thought of seeing the captives strung from the poles cinched her stomach into a knot.

Wood poked her legs.

Cane in hand and cradleboard on her back, Owl Woman stood by the horse. “Go say your welcomes elsewhere, my doves.” She shuffled onto a patch of grass. Gray-streaked hair framed her kind face. “The baby’s sleeping. I’ll bring her to you by and by.”

“If you say so, Mother.” Dancing Eagle gathered his reins. “I’ll take my bride to our lodge where she belongs.” His smile widened as he turned his stallion through the outskirts of the crowd and down a worn path, sidestepping a drying rack filled with strips of meat.

Eyes-Like-Sky’s foot bumped a burlap sack that swung from his saddle.

 “I almost forgot. I brought you something.” He reached into the burlap and dug a book out. “Your holy book.” A battered Bible, the weathered edges of the pages crumbled and stained. “This time not for my shield.”

A tremulous smile crept to her lips. The warriors stole every scrap of paper they could find to stuff between the two buffalo-hide sides of their shields for added protection. The cracked leather stung her hand as she accepted the Bible. Her head throbbed. The lettering blurred. The stain on the margins…blood? Surely not.

Did she think no one ever died on these raids?

Her hold loosened. She’d have dropped the book to the ground if he hadn’t been sitting there waiting for her approval of the gift.

He pulled her to him again, the book pressed between them. “I want nothing to do with the white man’s God, and you are white no more. But if the Great Spirit speaks to you through these lines on the pages, then so be it.” 

Did the Great Spirit say anything to her heart at all anymore? Had He ever?”