Heaven Found in an Outcast (Preview)

Chapter One

Colorado Territory 1861 

Margaret’s fingers brushed against the soft leaves of the wild strawberry patch, looking for any more fruit. She’d been out in the woods for the past hour, adding to the half-full basket at her feet.

These little moments of quiet she could take advantage of were precious. Her days with her four younger siblings were rewarding, and she enjoyed caring for them, but sometimes it was all a little bit much. The twins were a handful, wilder than a pair of colts let loose from the corral, and the younger children were no easier. 

If anyone found out she felt that way… A shudder ran through her body. She could just hear the preacher’s voice warning about shirking your God-given duties. It was her duty. Her little brothers and sisters had no one else. It was selfish to even think of a life in which she didn’t care for them. 

Margaret plucked the last two berries from the bush. That was probably enough. She had plenty to make everything she’d planned. A rustle behind her made her freeze. It was more than a squirrel or a rabbit. 

She spun around. Maybe Marcus or Melissa had followed her into the woods, wondering where she was.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” A soft breeze answered her.

Could someone else from the wagon train have come out here?

They’d stopped for the afternoon and the night to give everyone time to grease the wagon wheels, check the oxen’s hooves, and say their prayers over stew and coffee. They would take up their journey early tomorrow morning. The journey from Missouri to California was a long one, and any rest was welcome. 

At least it was May, which meant that while evenings were cool, the days held mostly good weather. 

Margaret frowned. Her overactive imagination was playing tricks on her. 

Another rustle made her heart leap.

The sun would be setting soon. Perhaps she should get back. The noise made her uneasy. Every nerve in her body stood at attention, ready for anything.

At night around the campfire, her father told stories of gangs, outlaws out in the wilderness, and the Cheyenne Indians in these parts who hated white settlers.

“You can’t trust the Indians, that’s a fact.” Her father would say the words with a shake of his head and a serious expression.

A shudder ran down Margaret’s spine. She didn’t have to be told twice about the Cheyenne. They’d killed her older brother, Jericho. Left him in the middle of the woods, alone, dying. Her heart twisted in pain.

Jericho was seventeen when he passed away. Her mother’s wails deep into the night for months, the constant questions from the twins, and the hollow feeling Jericho’s absence left in her chest haunted her to this day. 

Margaret looked down and scooped up her basket of berries. As she straightened, she gasped at the sight of a man there on the edge of the clearing. 

Taking a stumbling step back, Margaret’s heart leaped into her throat. The man had materialized out of nothing. A horse was beside him, the reins clutched tightly in his fist.

An Indian! 

She was sure of it. The deep tone of his skin was the first thing she saw. His black hair pulled into a ponytail confirmed it. His dark eyes, close to the color of midnight, stared at her, pinning her to her spot, making her afraid to move, much less breathe. 

Her terrified brain managed to realize he was wearing clothes exactly like her father’s—a plaid button-down shirt and trousers tucked into worn cavalry boots. Strange for an Indian, but his clothes didn’t change who he was. 

“I’m sorry,” his deep voice solidified the cold fear gripping her chest. “I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes darting around the clearing, looking for a quick escape. He was blocking the route she’d taken from the wagon train, but perhaps if she went around him, she could still get back to camp…

“It’s okay… I was just leaving,” she murmured, not daring to look him in the eyes again.

“It’s a little late to be in the woods on your own, don’t you think?” he asked, taking a step toward her. 

“Yes, my family is probably worried.” Margaret’s feet stayed rooted to the spot. Was she about to meet her end with this Indian? Who would find her? Would her family be spared or even be able to search for her? 

“I was hoping you could answer some questions.” The Indian crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the tree that was right beside him, bracing most of his weight onto his shoulder. 

“Questions?” Margaret squeaked, surprised at the strange tone of her own voice.

“Yes, questions.” He sighed. “You don’t have to look so frightened. I’m the least you have to worry about out in these woods.” He seemed almost amused by her reaction to him.

“You’re an Indian!” Margaret swallowed as soon as she’d said the words, wishing she could snap them back up. “Of course I’m scared.” Why had she gone and said something dumb like that? Now he might be angry with her. 

“Do you think every Indian is out to go after white settlers?” The man shook his head. If he had normal emotions, Margaret thought he looked annoyed, but she wasn’t very sure. “Never mind. You’re with the wagon train, aren’t you?”

He had a slight accent, barely noticeable but there, as if he were from a different land, or spoke English differently than she or her family would.

“I am with the train.” Margaret clutched her basket closer to her chest. 

Answer his questions, and get back home. That’s all I have to do. The thought grounded her, filling her with strength.

“Have you seen two little boys? Indian little boys?” The man’s tone grew even more serious, making Margaret question once again if there wasn’t a way to get out of the situation. 

“No.” She frowned.

What was he doing asking about Indian children?

“Are they lost?” For a moment, a touch of curiosity overcame her fear. 

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” The man shook his head. “I’m out here looking for them. Have you seen any tracks around here? Any sign of anyone?”

“No. Not at all.” Margaret eyed the space beside him. He looked very relaxed. Would he be fast enough to stop her if she tried to rush past? 

Her father said that Indians needed to find God to be civilized, that they weren’t like the white settlers who went to church and kept the commandments and watched out for one another. They only looked out for themselves, even when it meant violence. 

The thoughts sent her already rapidly beating heart into a frenzy. 

“I should leave.” She took a step as if to go around him, watching for any reaction, any intention of his to stop her. He didn’t move, just stayed where he was, watching. 

“You’re free to go.” His eyes sparked with frustration. “I’m certainly not stopping you, ma’am. You’re so caught up trying to leave it’s not like you’re being much help anyway.” 

Margaret took another step. Trying to ignore the fact they were only a few feet away from each other. As she passed him, the smell of cedar and wood smoke tickled her nose. 

Once she’d reached the other side of him, she took off at a run as her feet could carry her, heart drumming in her chest the whole way back through the woods, down the trail, and up to the wagon train.

Her family’s wagon was the last in the train for the night, hitched behind the Branson’s oxen team and the new family from Missouri, who were driving mules. Each day, a new family would go to the back, bringing up the end of the train. It was a system that the wagon train leader had put in place so that the risks would be shared equally along their journey.

As she skidded to a stop at her father’s wagon, she gulped in ragged breaths of air, trying to calm herself. Her hands shook, and she set down the basket so as not to drop it. 

“Everything all right? Child, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Margaret’s father walked around the back of the wagon carrying a load of firewood. His deep voice shook her from her state of shock.

“I’m fine,” she said, drawing in a couple of deep breaths. Her gaze went to Ally, Jonas, and the twins, who weren’t too far off, sitting around the campfire, poking sticks into it and chattering—unaware of the danger she had just faced in the woods.

“There’s an Indian in the woods,” she blurted out.

“An Indian?” Her father’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive, Father.”

“Did he have others with him? Were there feathers in his hair?” Her father’s gaze went to the tree line as if he hoped to catch a glimpse himself.

“No,” she frowned. “He was dressed like a white man, but he had dark hair, dark eyes—just like the pictures of Indians we saw in the city.”

Margaret shivered. The man had certainly not been a white settler. Her father’s face paled a bit, and he did not look any happier than she felt.

“I’ll have to tell the rest of the settlers,” he said. “They’ll want to know. An Indian in the woods could mean a lot of things.”

“Do you think they’re watching the wagon train?” she asked, remembering what the man said about the Indian children. Had it all just been a story to get close to the wagon train without causing suspicion? 

“They could be,” her father’s frown deepened. “Indians follow wagon trains sometimes until they see a weakness, then attack and steal the cattle and horses. Just keep the children close to the wagon and keep an eye out. We’ll build an extra-big fire tonight, and I’ll get a couple of the men together to keep watch all night.”

Margaret nodded at her father’s instructions.

Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions, making a lot out of something that wasn’t so dangerous after all. 

She made her way to the fire, stepping over a bundle of bedrolls and cooking tins near the edge of the fire area, the scent of beans and salt pork lingering in the evening air.

“Did I hear you tell Pa that you saw an Indian in the woods?” her brother, Marcus, asked, his green eyes lighting up with excitement. “I can’t wait to meet an Indian myself!” Marcus was fourteen, and both he and his twin, Melissa, were always talking and getting into trouble.

“Don’t talk like that,” Margaret scolded. “You remember what happened to Jericho when he ran into an Indian.”

She needed her younger siblings to understand. Things were more dangerous than they seemed.

“I know,” Marcus hung his head, “but they can’t all be bad, can they?”

“Pa says that they are unless they learn the white man’s ways,” Jonas piped up, his curious gaze turning to Margaret.

He was a wise child, often speaking for his seven years of life.

“That’s enough talk of Indians.” Margaret had had enough of the topic for the day. “I’m sure it was nothing. Let’s just focus on getting this camp set up. Marcus, you go and fill the buckets with water—take Jonas with you. Melissa, you help me chop the vegetables for dinner.”

She handed Melissa a worn paring knife from the supply crate and grabbed the burlap sack of potatoes they’d traded for at the last fort.

The children jumped up to follow her requests. There was no sense in sitting around pondering her interaction with the Indians, or what the Indians may want with the wagon train.

She was confident that her father and the other men, and most of all, God would keep them safe.

After all, the wagon train leader had made this trip many times before. He must know what to do in an emergency.

Chapter Two

Wyatt Monroe crouched and examined the ground carefully, paying close attention to where broken yucca leaves or a scuffed trail through the dust might tell a story. 

He was hoping to find some sign of the missing Indian children. He’d made it his mission to search for them from the moment they’d gone missing the night before. 

Time was stretching longer and longer, and he was starting to worry.

They weren’t just any children—they were his best friend’s little brothers—and their disappearance was one of many strange occurrences lately. Bringing them home could keep a fragile peace from imploding. Not that it would stop the constant issues between the Indians and the white settlers. 

He looked up, spied the wagon train from the shelter of the trees. A touch of color caught his attention, light blue, the color of the young woman’s dress from earlier. 

There she was in her camp with four younger children, who were all busy helping her. He could imagine their conversation. 

Indian in the woods! 

Probably after the wagon train. 

You’re so lucky to have escaped.

Wyatt had seen the change in the dynamic of the camp as soon as the woman returned. The men mobilizing, making plans to keep watch through the night, ensuring extra security around the cattle and horses was in place. 

He scoffed. Of course, the woman had only seen him as a threat. It was nothing new. 

Wyatt was reminded of all the reasons he didn’t make a habit of leaving the farm or the protection of the woods. Solitude was his friend, making sure he never ran into anyone. They never understood him or looked deeper to see who he was. 

It wasn’t hard to see the woman’s fear when she saw him. She was so busy trying to find a way past him that she hadn’t paid any attention to his questions about the missing boys.

He wondered what her name was. It was most likely a simple white woman’s name like Anna or Mary.

If only she’d stopped conjuring damaging ideas in her head and tried to think of anything helpful, perhaps he’d have more to go off of when it came to finding Takoda’s little brothers.

One woman didn’t matter. She was not the first person or the last who would criticize him for his origins. The stares, the questions, and sometimes the ugly things that were said about him were nothing he enjoyed living with. They were, however, a part of who he was. 

Despite his mother being a white woman, he’d seen the way storekeepers in Lone Spur looked past him like he wasn’t there, even when he spoke plain English and wore boots just like theirs. The Cheyenne Indian tribe didn’t want him either. 

The low sound of an owl hooting made him strain to listen.

Takoda, his friend from the nearby Cheyenne village, and one of the only people who Wyatt allowed near him, was good at the owl signal. It was hard to tell it apart from the real thing. 

Wyatt cupped his hands around his mouth, making the owl noise back. When he got a response, he smiled. His friend was near. 

Barefoot and quiet as a deer, Takoda stepped out of the trees with a long face, the fringe of his buckskin shirt catching the last of the sunlight. 

Unlike him, Takoda dressed the full part of a Cheyenne. Both his parents were from the village, and Takoda didn’t live in the in-between world where Wyatt did.

“Any luck?” he asked Wyatt in their native language. No emotion stirred on his impassive face, but Wyatt knew he cared. The children were his brothers, and Takoda loved them dearly.

“No, no luck at all.” Speaking the Cheyenne language came in handy. Wyatt learned it from his father, giving him the ability to communicate with Indian and white settlers alike—not that it helped with the acceptance issue. 

“You’re watching the wagon train?” Takoda followed his gaze, taking a couple steps closer and peering through the trees. “Do you think they have my brothers?”

“No.” Wyatt quickly dismissed the notion. “I thought they might have seen something, but it was a false lead.” He hesitated before adding, “I think we both know who might have taken your brothers.”

Takoda’s face darkened. “We had best hope not. People in the village are already speculating it could have been one of the white settlers. If it was Reed and the Rattlesnake gang…” He clenched his jaw. “Wyatt, we have to stop him. Not to mention what he may do to my brothers. They’re so young. They shouldn’t have even been in the woods.”

Wyatt nodded. It was customary for the young boys of the tribe to venture out and help the women gather fruits and herbs, as well as explore and prepare for their days as warriors. Nobody could have guessed they would disappear without a trace one sunlit afternoon.

“We’ll find them, Takoda,” he assured him. “We just have to keep on looking. I’m not going to stop until I find at least a clue.”

“We won’t be able to keep this hidden for long,” Takoda said grimly. “The tribe is growing uneasy. You know that I want to keep the peace as much as you do, but if we don’t find my brothers soon, that’s going to be impossible—even for the two of us.”

Wyatt frowned. The animosity between the Cheyenne and the white settlers had everyone constantly on edge. 

For the time being, there was a fragile understanding. The white settlers stayed close to their town. They did their business, did their trade, and left the Indians alone. The Indians did the same. 

The Cheyenne had no war with the white settlers, as long as they were allowed to continue their lives without disturbance and weren’t provoked.

However, two missing children were definitely a disturbance.

“Don’t worry.” Wyatt cleared his throat. “Once I find Reed’s trail, I’m going to find him. And if he has the boys, then we’ll work together to get them back.”

Takoda pressed his lips together and nodded.

“You know how to signal me. I won’t be far away. We’ll keep searching the woods, in case they simply got lost,” he said, but Takoda’s tone was doubtful.

Wyatt nodded grimly. He couldn’t imagine Takoda’s little brothers getting lost in the woods. The forest was like home to them. Both boys knew their way in and out of the shrubs, around the trees, and down the wooded trails. 

Wyatt watched as his friend slipped back into the shadows of the evening, then he turned his attention back to the little orange fire by the last wagon of the train. 

He heard the laughter of a family gathered around, unaware of the troubles he was facing—or that might soon face them all. He sighed and nudged his horse westward, the saddle leather creaking beneath him as the sky turned the color of worn copper.

It would be dark in the next couple of hours, which meant he was running out of time to pick up a trail. Takoda was right: they only had perhaps a day or two to contain things, or the Cheyenne tribe would find out that it might really have been a white man who took the boys. 

They would not stop to figure out why Reed took the children, or discuss what had happened at that point. They would react, and they would hold it against any white settler, taking it as an act of violence against the tribe.

If Wyatt had been anyone else, the idea of driving the white settlers out of town with a confrontation might not have bothered him as much. But he knew how much it would affect his elderly parents. 

His mother, for one, would lose any friends and connections she had in town, and she would once again be seen as an outcast by any white settlers who were left—simply for staying with her Cheyenne husband and son. 

His father would be torn between two loyalties, feeling as if he had to choose one; as if he had to support one cause or the other.

His parents had been through so much pain and trouble throughout the years. All Wyatt wanted for them was peace and a normal life. It was too much to ask for, he was certain, but it was not too much to hope for.

Besides, he knew that if the Indians and the white men went after one another, both sides would lose the people they cared about. Violence would solve nothing, even if it seemed like the best immediate option to either party. 

He hoped there was still time to turn this misunderstanding into a thing of the past. He just had to find the boys, and then he could go back to his quiet life, pretending that he and his parents were the only people in the whole Colorado territory.