against the bank split apart behind the baby. His black hair clung to the tears on his cheeks as he continued to wail for his mother.
Jean-Marc watched the soldier. Nothing was real. He was in a dream, like when he’d try to run after the buffalo but his legs wouldn’t go fast enough. He forced himself to move and pulled an arrow from his quiver. His numb hands set the arrow against his bow.
He pulled the bowstring so tight it cut into his fingers. The muscles in his arms hurt as he aimed at the soldier’s blue coat.
He’d never killed a man before.
He released the string.
The arrow sliced through the air.
Chapter One
New York
Almost there. Her new home.
Freedom and grand dreams awaited, and Anna glided to them on a cloud across the ocean. The Vesta cut through waves as salt water sprayed her cheeks. Seagulls called above the sails that billowed into the sky.
It’d been two long months since she’d heard or seen anything other than the same groaning ship, the same hard working bodies of officers and crew, and the same gray water stretching across the endless horizon.
She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and held her cap in place. Gulls soared above the towering masts and dove between the taut ropes that shot up and down on all sides of the ship. This was so much better than being tucked away in the cabin that rocked and creaked monotonously below deck.
“Anna!”
She turned to her father’s voice but saw only faces of other passengers.
“Anna van Stralen!” her father called again.
She spotted him on the other side of the deck. She ducked under a rope, dodged past a couple, and tucked herself under his arm.
“There is it, my little one. America!” Papa whispered hoarsely through wind that whipped his blond hair above his collar. He hugged her to his side and pointed across the water.
Anna gripped the ship’s railing and gazed through frigid air where mist rose to reveal a shadow of land in the distance. The scents of grasses, fresh water streams, and rich earth seemed to carry up like a faint vapor above the salty sea. What would it be like to have her feet on dry land again? She tried to imagine the trees and flowers, the cobblestone streets and houses, wondering how much they’d resemble Holland.
“There was your mother born long ago.”
“Why are you speaking English, Papa?”
“I told you, when on America we arrive we must speak English. So, now we begin.”
Anna giggled.
He squeezed her close. “It were many years since I’ve used these words. Too many,” he added with a shake of his head. “For this day on we speak English. The language of your mother.”
“Ya, Papa.” Even though she’d studied English, the thought of not speaking Dutch seemed strange to her.
“You are smart girl. You receive good schooling here. I make sure of it.”
Sails whipped in the wind above their heads, and she huddled close to her papa.
He coughed into his kerchief, his breath evaporating into the crisp air.
“Maybe we should go below deck, Papa? De wind blows strong.” Her tongue stumbled in her mouth every time she tried to hiss a “th” sound past her teeth. She’d struggled with it since trying to learn the language, and she hoped now that she was in America and surrounded by English, she’d master it.
“No, we are staying here. I dream of this moment for long time. We live in Denver City. Near the beautiful Rocky Mountains.” He sighed. “You never saw mountains like in Colorado Territory. We raise cattle. I plan it all.”
Anna grinned. They’d had countless conversations about their plans. She hugged him tighter at the thought of finally nearing their dreams.
“The Lord bring us so far.”
Anna nodded, knowing full well they were spoiled by God. He always looked out for them. And she had no doubt He’d make their dreams come true. Despite never knowing her mother, Anna didn’t feel like anything was missing in her life. She had everything she needed. As her father said many times, God always looked out for them.
“Mr. van Stralen,” Mariska’s voice called from behind them in Dutch. Anna’s nanny pulled her heavy cloak closed against the breeze. “Would you like me to take Anna below deck?”
“No, that’s not will be necessary.” He waved her away. “This is special moments with my daughter.”
Anna nestled under his arm for warmth. Speaking the new language felt like a game. She giggled.
“It’s a bad time in the East,” another passenger bellowed in Dutch to his friends as they walked by. “The North and South are still at war.”
Concern clenched Anna’s heart as the word “war” sank into her mind, dashing dreams of a new, happy life. She vaguely remembered hearing about the war before they left Holland.
“Be not afraid, little one. We not worry about that. The Lord protect us. Besides, we be far away from the fighting and death. We go west. To American frontier. Denver City. That is where we belong.” His sky-blue eyes gazed out over the sea. “That is where we belong.”
~*~
Three weeks later and still in New York, Anna sat alone in the quiet hall of their rented, furnished townhouse. The large clock thrummed half past the hour, and she worried that each passing moment was one moment closer to her father’s death. Each tick of the clock like a drop of water from a leaky faucet: drip . . . drip . . . drip. Each droplet, a draining of life. If only the incessant sound would stop. Wringing her hands to keep them from covering her ears, she stared through the banister at the Christmas tree in the parlor below.
Red ribbons and white popcorn draped around its greenery. Earlier that day Mrs. Stone, her father’s lawyer’s wife, had come to help Anna and her nanny decorate its branches. An effort to cheer her spirits. But Anna felt anything but cheerful. This would be the worst Christmas ever.
“Let him live, God. Please, let him live.” She folded her hands until her knuckles turned white. “You made all those people in the Bible better, so I know You can make Papa well too.” Yes. That was it. Jesus healed so many. He would heal Papa.
She sighed with relief, and her gaze fell on a newspaper lying on a small table next to her chair. The Dutch name Wynkoop caught her eye. Hands still folded, she leaned closer. It was page one of the New York Tribune where a Major Wynkoop told about his encounters with Indians in Colorado Territory. Her interest piqued as she read the words. Though they were in English, she was pleased she understood most of them. It’d always been easier for her to read the language than to actually speak it.
She became caught up in the story as she read about Colonel John M. Chivington, who led a surprise
