Savage Illusions

In her stu­di­es of the In­di­ans of that re­gi­on, she had le­ar­ned that the Blac­k­fo­ot In­di­ans al­ways wo­re black moc­ca­sins.

It ga­ve her a stran­ge sort of thrill to know that she wo­uld so­on be min­g­ling among the In­di­ans of the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory. The gu­ides for this ex­pe­di­ti­on we­re, in fact, sup­po­sed to be In­di­ans… per­haps one of the gu­ides might be as han­d­so­me as the war­ri­or in her dre­ams!

And per­haps she might even dis­co­ver her true he­ri­ta­ge. Yet she do­ub­ted she wo­uld. She was now eig­h­te­en ye­ars old. Her In­di­an mot­her had di­ed long ago, and her In­di­an fat­her had pro­bably for­got­ten the child that had be­en born the day he had lost his wi­fe.

And the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory was a wi­de and spa­ci­o­us land.

It did not se­em at all pos­sib­le, or lo­gi­cal, to Jole­na that her true he­ri­ta­ge wo­uld be re­ve­aled to her all that easily, if ever at all.

Sighing, Jole­na hug­ged her nig­h­t­gown aro­und her and went to the win­dow. Out­si­de, she co­uld see wil­lowy bran­c­hes of pur­p­le spi­rea dro­oping over the whi­te pic­ket fen­ce se­pa­ra­ting the front lawn from the stre­et. Da­isi­es flo­uris­hed in­si­de the fen­ce, and red­bud, dog­wo­od, and aza­le­as span­g­led the lan­d­s­ca­pe with the­ir pas­tel glory. If her win­dow we­re open, she knew that the air wo­uld be thick with the scent of flo­wers.

Saint Lo­u­is was a lo

­vely city, a city that had be­en go­od to her.

But it was June, the be­gin­ning of sum­mer, the se­ason that stir­red the si­de of Jole­na's per­so­na­lity that ye­ar­ned for ad­ven­tu­re.

She was go­ing to bid Sa­int Lo­u­is a fond fa­re­well, lo­oking for­ward to the land that awa­ited he­rand per­haps her pre­ci­o­us dis­co­ve­ri­es!

Eager to get her day on its way, Jole­na hur­ri­edly dres­sed in a flo­or-length de­mu­re gray dress. It was vo­id of any frills or fan­ci­ness of any sort for this, her first day of tra­vel on the ste­am­bo­at Yel­low­s­tone up the Mis­so­uri Ri­ver.

After she was dres­sed and her long, black ha­ir was spil­ling down her back, she went to her desk and be­gan sor­ting thro­ugh pa­pers and bo­oks, de­ci­ding which ones to ta­ke that wo­uld be the most va­lu­ab­le in her se­arch for the ra­re but­terfly.

Choosing one and then anot­her, she so­on had mo­re than one va­li­se stuf­fed with jo­ur­nals and bo­oks. Smi­ling, she grab­bed them up in­to her arms and left her bed­ro­om.

Her arms too full even to see her fe­et, Jole­na ma­de her way slowly down the ste­ep sta­ir­ca­se. ''That's a su­re-fi­re way to bre­ak yo­ur neck, sis," Kirk sa­id, co­ming qu­ickly up the sta­irs to res­cue her. He to­ok her he­avi­est bo­oks and tuc­ked them be­ne­ath his own arms. "Lord, Jole­na, are you ta­king yo­ur who­le lib­rary with you? You know it's only go­ing to ma­ke the jo­ur­ney mo­re cum­ber­so­me for you. I don't see that as wi­se."

Jolena did not ha­ve ti­me to com­ment be­fo­re a lo­ud, com­man­ding vo­ice spo­ke from the fo­ot of the sta­irs.

"I think this who­le fo­olis­h­ness abo­ut go­ing af­ter that elu­si­ve but­terfly isn't wi­se," Bryce Ed­monds sa­id firmly. "I'd ho­ped you'd re­con­si­der, but by the lo­oks of tho­se trunks by the do­or and tho­se stuf­fed va­li­ses, I see that I was fo­olish to think that you might de­ci­de aga­inst this ven­tu­re at the last mi­nu­te."

Jolena ga­ve her brot­her a ner­vo­us grin as he glan­ced at her, then smi­led mo­re gently at her fat­her. She was al­ways sad­de­ned to see how he was was­ting away with a stran­ge sort of pa­ral­y­sis, now con­fi­ned to a whe­el­c­ha­ir for the rest of his li­fe. The­re was only a tra­ce of his for­mer han­d­so­me­ness in his smi­le and eyes. His ha­ir was gray and thin­ning. His fa­ce was all li­nes and sha­dow. His sho­ul­ders we­re bent and le­an.

She co­uld hardly be­ar to lo­ok at his legs as they res­ted limply in the whe­el­c­ha­ir. They we­re me­re bo­nes, his mus­c­les ha­ving at­rop­hi­ed al­most to not­hing.

She scar­cely re­mem­be­red how he had on­ce lo­oked, ex­cept that when she lo­oked at her brot­her, she knew that she was se­e­ing the mir­ror- ima­ge of the­ir fat­her with his bo­yish frec­k­les, blond ha­ir, and a fa­ce that ma­de girls ta­ke a se­cond lo­ok at him.

She co­uld en­vi­si­on her be­a­uti­ful mot­her ha­ving be­en ena­mo­red by her yo­ung hus­band all of tho­se ye­ars ago, and it sad­de­ned her that her mot­her was no lon­ger the­re to sha­re li­fe with her hus­band and chil­d­ren. Char­lot­te had di­ed trying to gi­ve birth to a se­cond child.

Jolena tho­ught that if her mot­her we­re still the­re to lo­ok af­ter her fat­her, he wo­uld not ha­ve that lo­nely, ha­un­ted lo­ok in his eyes as of­ten as he did now.

She felt gu­ilty for be­ing so eager to le­ave him. Wit­ho­ut her and Kirk the­re to ke­ep him com­pany, what might his days and eve­nings be li­ke? Tho­ugh the­re we­re many ser­vants at his beck and call in this gre­at man­si­on per­c­hed on a high cliff that over­lo­oked the Mis­sis­sip­pi Ri­ver, they might not be eno­ugh.

But not­hing was go­ing to stop Jole­na from go­ing to the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

She was be­ing drawn the­re for mo­re than one re­ason.

She ra­ced on down the sta­irs and ga­ve her fat­her a warm hug and a kiss on his che­ek. "Ple­ase be happy for me," she whis­pe­red to him. "I so badly want to go. Say that you un­der­s­tand?"

Bryce pla­ced his bony fin­gers to Jole­na's sho­ul­ders and le­aned her away from him, his eyes me­eting hers as he grip­ped her sho­ul­ders. "Da­ug­h­ter, I don't think I've ever be­en ab­le to talk you out of an­y­t­hing," he sa­id thickly. "You've be­en wil­lful and ad­ven­tu­ro­us for as long as you've be­en ab­le to walk and talk. As for go­ing to se­arch for that dam­nab­le but­ter­f­l­yI un­der­s­tand. I was dri­ven to se­arch wi­de and far for it myself. But damn it, Jole­na, Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory is so far away. An­y­t­hing can hap­pen."

"Yes, I know," Jole­na sa­id, easing from his grasp. She to­ok her va­li­ses and set them on top of her trunks, then tur­ned and fa­ced her fat­her aga­in as he whe­eled his whe­el­c­ha­ir aro­und to me­et her sad sta­re. "But I do so badly want to go, fat­her."

"And I do gi­ve you my per­mis­si­on and bles­sing," Bryce sa­id, han­ging on to how she cal­led him fat­her to­day­for next we­ek, even next ye­ar, she might be sa­ying that to so­me­one el­se. If she sho­uld ma­na­ge to so­me­how dis­co­ver her true he­ri­ta­ge and find her true fat­her, he wo­uld lo­se ever­y­t­hing that was most pre­ci­o­us.

His da­ug­h­ter­his be­lo­ved da­ug­h­ter!

He wasn't su­re if he co­uld be­ar it.