Dakota Rose

By Diane Gustafson

On June 25, 1876, Sioux and Cheyenne warriors killed more than two hundred members of the Seventh Cavalry led by General George Armstrong Custer. Outnumbered by more than four to one, the solders fought valiantly in what is now know as the Battle of the Little Bighorn and Custers Last Stand. Sharing the Generals fate were his nephew, his brother-in-law, and his brothers Tome and Boston. Little is know of the youngest brother, and Diane Gustafson has created for him a fictional fiance. This is Rose Chaplins story: her love for Boston, her grief when he died, and her courage to love again. It is also a record of a womans spiritual journey as she tries to find Gods plan for her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467040198

Diane Gustafson

Diane Gustafson is a retired college librarian and professor of research skills. Her other published books are Mary Christmas: short stories spanning two centuries and Dakota Rose. Her hobbies are writing, travel, reading, and playing the fiddle and percussion instruments. She lives with her husband in a San Diego suburb. Visit her website for more info: www.dianegustafson.com

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© 2004, 2011 Diane Gustafson.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/19/11

ISBN: 978-1-4670-4020-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-4019-8 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents

Montana

Summer, 1916

PROLOGUE

Monroe, Michigan

1876

CHAPTER ONE

Fort Abraham Lincoln, Dakota Territory

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Monroe, Michigan

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

New York City

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Michigan

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rapid City, Dakota Territory

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Montana

Summer, 1916

EPILOGUE

for Bill, Brian, and Danielle

and

in memory of my father-in-law,

whose love for South Dakota inspired me

Special thanks to:

Cynthia Bass, my mentor, favorite author, and friend. Over the years she has given me the benefit of her knowledge of history and of the writing craft. Without her I would never have had the courage to publish my books.

Phoebe Pantages of Pantages Studios in San Diego for designing a beautiful cover for this book.

Professor Pamela Ellis of Southwestern College for checking my use of French.

The friends who have been so supportive of my writing. If I were to try to name them all, I’d surely forget someone.

Last but not least, Bill for his love and encouragement. By shouldering so many responsibilities at home, he gives me a precious gift: time to write.

Montana

Summer, 1916

PROLOGUE

The boy and his grandparents trudged through the dry, brown grass on Custer Hill. He put the picnic basket down, wiped the perspiration from his face, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

Almost there, he whispered as he looked at the stone monument at the top.

He turned and called, Come on, Gramps!

The elderly man waved. His wife leaned on his arm, and in her right hand she carried a cane. They paused to catch their breath.

She turned and looked into the valley below, the valley of the Little Bighorn River. Despite the warmth of the day, she shivered as she imagined more than one thousand Sioux and Cheyenne warriors charging the hill where they now stood.

I never expected it to be like this, she whispered.

What do you mean? her husband asked.

So big, so wide. The paintings make it look smaller.

The boy reached the summit. He set the basket down and made a complete turn, his eyes bright with excitement. He had read so many books about the famous battle and had acted it out with his friends. He was always Custer, of course. And now he was here, where it happened.

This is the best day of my whole life! he shouted.

The grandparents slowly approached him, relishing the happiness they were able to give him with this trip for his eleventh birthday.

Come, Rose, sit. You must be tired, the man said to his wife as he spread the plaid blanket on the ground.

In a minute.

She made her way among the white granite stones, each one bearing the name of a victim of the massacre and placed where he had fallen. Many of the names were unfamiliar; it had been, after all, forty years ago.

I see you’ve found the General, Alex, she called to the boy, who was standing by the marker for his hero.

A few feet away was Tom’s stone. Tom Custer, the General’s brother, Emma’s fiance. Rose squeezed her eyes to shut out the horror of what had happened to him and then remembered that what had happened to Emma was, in its own way, just as bad.

She looked at each stone, reading every name, searching for one in particular.

Finally she found it and, dropping the cane, slowly sank to her knees. Her eyes welled with tears from the pain of arthritis and from her memories, and she gulped air to keep from crying. With the hem of her cotton skirt, she wiped dust from the stone. Her fingers caressed the letters of his name. Boston Custer.

Alex stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. She reached up and patted his hand.

Her voice cracked as she whispered, Can you help me to get up?

They moved to the blanket, and again she turned to look down the hill.

Grandma, you really knew General Custer, didn’t you?

Yes, I lived with him and his wife in 1876.

The year of the battle.

Yes.

Tell me the story, Grandma.

Oh, Alex, you’ve heard it so many times.

"But I was never here when I heard it! Tell me again, Grandma, please! Tell me while we eat lunch." He handed her an apple.

She took her husband’s outstretched hand and, with difficulty, sat down on the blanket. Alex placed a small pillow under her knee. She took a bite of the apple and then began, Once upon a time …

The boy groaned, Oh, Grandma! and then chuckled.

She smiled and asked, "Who’s telling this story?

Once upon a time there was a girl whose father died, leaving her all alone in the world.

Monroe, Michigan

1876

CHAPTER ONE

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want …

As the minister read from Psalm 23, Rose Alice Chapin stared at the hole in the snow-covered ground, the hole into which her father’s coffin would soon be lowered. Next to it stood her mother’s gravestone with the words Nathalie St. Pierre Chapin 1825-1866. And on the other side was that of her sister Tish, Letitia Chapin Van Dyke 1848-1873 Beloved wife of Jan.

I’m the only one left, Rose thought. I’m an orphan. Or is that word used only for children? When you’re twenty-two, can you still be called an orphan?

She lifted her eyes to the gray sky and lowered them to the leafless trees. A cemetery in February was such a desolate scene, but it matched the way she felt.

She was afraid, and her situation seemed hopeless. She began to cry uncontrollably.

She was drawn into the embrace of Libbie Custer, her best friend, and Libbie’s husband, Gen. George Armstrong Custer. The famous Indian fighter patted her shoulder. The couple led her to their carriage and then to the Chapin home, where they stayed beside her all afternoon as mourners came to pay their respects. Dr. Chapin had been loved and admired by his patients, and now his daughter could take comfort in their kind words.

Among the first to come was Mr. Gruenbacher, who had been caught in a blizzard two years earlier. Everyone thought he would lose some toes to frostbite. But Dr. Chapin had been diligent and encouraging, and Mr. Gruenbacher still had all ten toes.

Mrs. Neidecker was one of many who told Rose that her father was the best doctor in the whole state of Michigan and that her daughter Katrina would have died without his care.

The Barkers came with chubby little Martin, whom they named for the doctor who saved his life during childbirth.

Finally, everyone had gone. Rose lay on the wine-colored velvet sofa in the parlor, gazing into the fireplace and listening to the sounds of Libbie and the General in the kitchen, fixing a supper she knew they would make her eat, whether she had an appetite or not. She ran her hands over her mother’s wedding quilt, which was tucked around her, and remembered times when she had been ill as a child and her mother had placed the quilt over her. Back then the faded muslin with wheels of every imaginable color had represented comfort.

But it will take more than this quilt to comfort me now, she thought as she reached into her pocket for another handkerchief. What am I going to do?

The grandfather clock in the hall struck five.

The worst part about a funeral isn’t the cemetery, where people try to pull you away so you can’t witness the finality of the lowering coffin. It isn’t the hours of visitors squeezing your hand and fumbling for words while your head hurts and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from going to pieces. The worst part is when all those people go back to their homes and their families and their security and you sit alone in the dark, listening to the ticking clock, counting off on your fingers the people who came, doing anything but acknowledging the future — your new, frightening, unwelcome future — lurking in the shadows, getting ready to jump out and demand that you make decisions.

Rose toyed with her food while the Custers assured her that they would stay in her house until they had to leave Monroe.

What will you do then? Libbie asked.

I don’t know! Rose sobbed.

You can’t stay in the house alone, the General said as he handed her a clean handkerchief .

Even if you wanted to, it wouldn’t be proper, Libbie added.

Rose told them about the telegram she had received from Jan, inviting her to live in Grand Rapids with him, his new wife Maude, and her two little girls.

I think he asked me only because he knows I don’t have anyone else. I’ve never met Maude, but surely she wouldn’t want the sister of Jan’s first wife living in her home. And, to tell the truth, I don’t know if I could take seeing him with someone else, she confessed.

Libbie took Rose’s hand. We want you to come back to Fort Lincoln with us. Stay the winter and spring. Keep me company in the summer while Autie is away on the Indian campaign.

Libbie glanced lovingly at her husband. She always called him Autie, which was his own childhood pronunciation of Armstrong, his middle name.

In the fall, she said, when we head to New York for our annual visit, we’ll take you wherever you decide to go. But until then, you’ll be able to take your time and consider the possibilities.

Oh! Rose’s heart began to pound. I couldn’t possibly impose on you for so long a time! Yet even as the words were tumbling from her lips she was thinking, Yes! Perfect!

It’s not an imposition, Libbie insisted. Every year we have at least a couple of my friends come for months at a time. It’s good for me, and the bachelor officers at the Fort enjoy it.

Lowering her voice to a whisper, she added, I’m quite the successful matchmaker, you know. I brought Autie’s sister Maggie together with Jimmy Calhoun. They’re perfect for each other! And Tom has been courting my cousin Emma − you remember her, don’t you? − for ages. She’ll be coming in the spring.

Libbie squeezed Rose’s hand. I want you to come. We both do, don’t we, Autie? Libbie turned to her husband, and he smiled, nodding his approval.

Rose lowered her eyes and rubbed her temples. It was all happening so fast.

Libbie raised Rose’s chin so that their eyes met. Let me, let us help you. That’s what friends are for. Besides, in the last few years we haven’t been able to spend as much time together as I wanted to.

She rattled on, I have to warn you, it’s a long and tedious journey to the Fort. During the winter there’s a lot of snow. Sometimes we don’t leave the house for days at a time! Summer is hot, hotter than it ever gets here. But, on the other hand, I can promise you adventure! How many young women get to experience the frontier first hand? It’s something you’ll tell your children and grandchildren about.

Custer bent to kiss the top of his wife’s head. Libbie always gets her way, so you may as well give in gracefully. We both think it’s a fine idea, Rose, he said.

Having made the decision to go with her friends, Rose had to hurry. In the next two days, the General took care of closing up the house, arranging for the bank to handle Dr. Chapin’s financial affairs, and sending a telegram telling Jan that they were taking Rose to Fort Lincoln. Libbie supervised Rose’s packing. One trunk and a valise had to hold clothes for winter, spring, and summer. Libbie went through the closet, rejecting summer shoes because the dust would ruin them and tucking every pair of wool socks Rose owned into the corners of the trunk. No, it’s not too many, she insisted. Sometimes you’ll wear two pair at a time for warmth. An old straw hat Rose had intended to discard was pronounced perfect for preventing sunburn.

The morning of departure, Rose wandered through the only home she had ever known. She stood in the big tree-shaded kitchen where she had cooked so many meals for herself and Papa. She looked at the copper pots hanging on the wall, the blue gingham tablecloth on the kitchen table, Papa’s coffee mug. She picked up the mug, intending to pack it, then put it down again. There was so little space in the baggage for all that she wanted to take.

In the dining room, she ran her hand over the mahogany table and sat down in one of the eight chairs upholstered in green and gold tapestry. Next was the parlor where she and Papa had sat every night, a stack of books beside each armchair. And when they hadn’t been reading, they had played chess. Carved pawns and rooks, black for Martin, white for Rose, testified to an unfinished game and reminded her once again that things would never be the same in her life.

She climbed the stairs and, turning left, entered Tish’s bedroom, which looked much like it had so many years ago, before she married Jan and moved away. Rose touched the quilt, her sister’s first sewing project, still cheerful with flowers in many shades of yellow, Tish’s favorite color.

Rose recalled a conversation in which her sister had suggested redecorating the room, now that she was going to have her own home in Grand Rapids.

You could make it into a sewing room, she had said, but leave the bed here so we have a place to sleep when we visit.

No, I’m going to leave it just as it is, Rose had said. I don’t like change.

But now everything had changed. Some girls could look at the opportunity to go to the West as a great adventure, but all Rose felt was fear.

She moved on into her own room. The trunk stood open, ready for any last-minute additions, and the carpetbag valise sat on her four-poster bed. She looked around, memorizing everything, for it would be many months before she came back. The bedcover of lavender blue, which Papa had allowed her to order from Philadelphia despite the outrageous cost. The porcelain basin and pitcher with violets painted on them. A watercolor painting of hyacinths. Mama’s wedding quilt lay on the floor next to the trunk. There really wasn’t room for it, but perhaps when the General came back from visiting his parents he would be able to squeeze it in.

She had left for last the room she dreaded leaving most, her father’s bedroom. Like the man himself, the furniture was large and sturdy. Tears welling in her eyes, she touched his razor and hairbrush. She picked up his heavy robe and buried her face in it, sniffing the Bay Rum scent that lingered. Still clutching the robe, she lay across the massive oak bed. Her eyes fell on the night table, which held a photograph of her mother as well as her father’s journal. His black leather-bound Bible, well-worn and with his notes written in the margins, had been there, too, but now rested in his hands in the