Shattered Dreams: Legacy of Dreams, #2

By Susan Edwards

Shattered Dreams

A broken heart. An arranged marriage. And an enemy out to destroy.

"When you read Susan Edwards, you read the best!" –Bell, Book & Candle

[1810 Dakota Territory]                       

After a summer of vision-questing, Swift Foot returns home to marry the woman whose life he'd saved when they were children. Though his heart belongs to another, duty and honor are placed above love. He's seen first-hand how following one's heart can bring death to so many.

Determined to win her chief's heart, as well as his respect, Small Bird believe their shared past is key to their future. Visions convince her that this man is the answer to the survival of not only her people, but his.

Though he does not love her, Swift Foot cannot hide the desire in his eyes. On the sleeping mat, on riverbanks, and dusty plains, passions blaze to life. But darkness and danger loom. The enemy draws near, and the wife of Swift Foot is their target.

Shattered Dreams is the second book in the Legacy of Dreams series, a series of Native American/Western historical romance novels. If you like strong, compelling characters, sensual prose, and stories of the old west, then you'll love the way Susan Edwards breathes life into the past. Buy Shattered Dreams and slip into a world where love conquers all and dreams come true.

Originally Published as White Dusk

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Edwards
• Release date: Dec 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393741251

Book preview

Prologue

Rolling banks of gray-white fog shrouded a band of mounted warriors slowly creeping across the prairie in the early dawn. Silent as the moist clouds concealing them, they followed a gentle, curving stream.

High above, Wi stretched his fingers of light, painting the sky with pale pinks and golds, and spreading his warmth upward and outward across the horizon, chasing away the last vestiges of night. Satisfied, he studied the earth below. Spotting war-painted warriors and horses edging through the grove of trees lining the fast-moving stream, Wi dimmed his light.

Tate howled his own protest as the warriors moved ever closer to their unsuspecting enemy. The wind rushed downward, dispersing the thick mist, shoving it away from men with murder in their hearts, and rage in their minds. Reaching out to the oncoming warriors, he circled them with his breath. Go back, he howled. But the revenge-bent warriors ignored him and pressed onward.

Flowing above the budding forest, Tate rushed across the land until he reached an encampment along a narrow branch of the river that was the war party’s objective. His frantic breath flattened bright green grass. Flames flickered in fire pits, and he sucked smoke and sparks from the camp’s many cook fires, sending them high and far.

Unaware of the danger, warriors readied themselves for a day of hunting while the women bustled about as they cooked the morning meal. Children of all ages embraced the dawn with the exuberance of youth. No one paid any mind to Tate’s howls of rage or the dimming of Wi’s light. Saddened and angry over his inability to stop more blood from flowing across, and into the earth, the Wind spirit screeched upward, back into the heavens to join Wi.

Far below, the ground vibrated beneath the pounding hooves as the band of Miniconjou warriors broke through the thick stand of cottonwoods lining the river. Their high-pitched shrieks shattered the gentle, spring-morning calm. Birds flew from the treetops, frantically beating their wings to escape the melee below while a white-tailed deer froze in place for a single heartbeat before leaping nimbly across the stream to dart to safety among thick trunks.

Camped far enough away from the trees to prevent an enemy from sneaking up on them, Hunkpapa warriors scurried into action. Each man grabbed his weapons, mounted his war pony and rode to meet the enemy. Women cried out warnings to each other, grabbed their young children and ran out into the expansive prairie to hide among the tall spring grass. Like ants fleeing their nests, they ran low and then flattened themselves on the ground to hide. The aged, feeble and ill members of the tribe had no choice but to take refuge in tipis.

Warriors, some with bows, arrows already nocked, others with knives and axes lifted high, ready to cut down their enemy let out their own outraged cries, yells, and shouts. Half a dozen youths ran to the large herd of horses. They mounted and urged the rest of the herd out into the prairie to safety. Despite the wall of warriors riding to meet them, the attacking enemy didn’t slow.

With the first war whoop, a group of young boys ranging from eight to ten whirled as one. Calf Boy, the youngest, felt his heart slam into his throat at the sight of the enemy riding out of the fog. They were heading right at him and the other boys.

His uncle rode among the defending warriors. As he passed the shock-struck boys, he yelled, Go! Hide!

Moist earth churned up by the horse’s hooves pelted him and spurred Calf Boy into action. He and the other boys wasted no time in heeding the command. While their skill with the miniature bows and arrows slung across their backs might bring down a squirrel for the morning meal, they were no match against seasoned warriors.

Heart pounding against his ribs, Calf Boy ran, his feet carrying him across the uneven ground. Fear bit at his heels and lodged in his throat. Had the enemy learned that he, the son of Runs with Wind and Sun Woman, lived? Had they come to kill him as they’d killed his parents?

Calf Boy ran past the line of squatting tipis. A visiting tribe nearly doubled the number of dwellings. A miniature tipi and two dolls lay in his path. The girls who’d been playing outside of the ring of tipis were nowhere to be seen. He jumped over the toys. Behind him, the sounds of a fierce battle raged.

Once he was past the camp and out on the wide-open prairie with the fighting well behind him, Calf Boy dropped flat. Dew clung to the grass and bathed his bare chest. He shivered. On his belly, he lifted his head and parted the grass carefully.

He trembled when he saw enemy warriors slashing the hide walls of brightly colored tipis, yelling in victory. The high-pitched shouts echoed around him. He shivered in fear. He wanted to bury his head in his hands, yet he couldn’t stop watching the horrific scene spread out before him. When the enemy reached the eastern horn, and the largest tipi pitched there, one warrior leaned out, his knife stabbing through the hide, and into the home belonging to Calf Boy’s uncle—the Hunkpapa chief.

Frightened, a woman and a young girl stumbled from the entrance, seeking safety. Horrified, Calf Boy watched two warriors ride them down. The older woman, his aunt who was ill, stumbled. Willow Song, his cousin, stopped to help her mother up. One of the warriors raised his war club.

Helpless, yet unable to look away, Calf Boy watched the woman who’d raised him fall beneath the blow. Then the warriors ran down his cousin who fell onto the cooking fire near the tipi. Her shrill scream reverberated through his head and joined other cries and screams, as well as shouts of victory that ricocheted through the air.

His uncle’s warriors were fighting off the enemy, but slowly. Too slowly. More than one tipi fell to the hacking of a knife blade, or ax, or a body thrown into it. The acrid scent of burning hide blew into the prairie where he hid. He covered his mouth to keep from coughing or crying out.

The two warriors who killed his aunt and cousin left the village to ride out into the prairie, sending women and children running. In that moment, young as he was, Calf Boy realized the enemy knew of his existence, and that they were searching for him. Frantically, he prayed for his uncle to stop the Miniconjou. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want anyone else to die because of him.

A large rock dug into his knee, but he ignored the pain and remained still as a newborn deer until a frightened cry to his right brought his head around. There, a tiny girl fled her place of hiding: Small Bird, a child from the visiting tribe, fled from the two searching warriors, right toward where he was hidden. The two Miniconjou warriors laughed and rode after the child.

Suddenly, one of warriors screamed. He toppled from his mount, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back. Looking around, Calf Boy spotted several of his uncle’s warriors riding away from the fighting by the river and heading back toward the camp. But they were still too far away. With a cry of rage over his fallen comrade, the second enemy warrior raised his club high to strike down the small child—a life for a life. Calf Boy had to do something. He couldn’t allow the girl to be killed in cold blood, as his aunt and cousin had been killed. Without thought for his own safety or life, he snatched the rock beneath his knee.

Rage and grief propelled him up and out of the tall, concealing grass. The enemy killed innocent women and children, not warriors engaged in honorable battle. With the skill he’d hones at bringing down squirrels from the trees with stones aimed true, he threw the rock with all his might, hitting the Miniconjou warrior’s horse between the ears. The startled animal reared up on its hind legs, forcing the warrior to cling to its back and use both hands to regain control.

Heart racing, blood pounding in his ears, Calf Boy yanked an arrow from the small quiver slung crosswise across his back. Determined to save the little girl, he ran toward the distracted enemy, ducked beneath the rearing hooves, and using both hands, he stabbed the arrow deep into the thigh of his enemy.

The warrior screeched in pain and outrage as Calf Boy scooped the little girl into his arms. Tiny at only four winters, she felt light as a feather. She clung to his narrow chest tightly. Hold on, Small Bird, he shouted as he ran for all he was worth.

The pounding of hooves beating across the earth rumbled behind him. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the ground beneath his feet to glance over his shoulder. He didn’t dare risk falling. Didn’t dare falter. He ran—ran until he was overtaken by a large black horse. Glancing up, afraid the enemy had caught up to him, he nearly stumbled when he saw the fierce features of his uncle.

His uncle leaned down and scooped both boy and child up onto the horse. Calf Boy sagged with relief, though he held tight to the little girl still clinging to his chest.

Around him, triumphant whoops and yells filled the air. They had won this battle. They had fought off the Miniconjou.

That night, in a simple ceremony, Calf Boy was renamed Swift Foot—and the legend of how he had at such a young age counted coup while saving the life of a small girl would be retold by friend and foe alike long into his adulthood.

Chapter One

Late Summer, 1810

Thirteen years later

Small Bird paused near the edge of a dry streambed cut deep into the earth. It twisted and wound its way through the flat prairie, leaving a snake-like trail as far as the eye could see. She surveyed the dry, dusty land and short mounds of burnt-brown grass amid patches of bare earth.

A few stunted, scraggly pines dotted the land here and there, and further out, she spotted strange mounds of rock and a flat-topped hill. A family of prairie dogs romped a short distance away on the other side of the gully. She also spotted a rabbit moving cautiously among the stubby grass. Life found ways to survive, even in harsh conditions.

Glancing down into the narrow, but deep gorge at her feet, she had a hard time believing that the water, when it flowed, reached the top where she stood. Now, there were only a few shallow puddles left from the torrential summer storm that had struck the land during the night. Not enough water to make use of—if one could figure out how to get both down into the gully, and then back out.

She hugged herself. This land was so different than what she was used to. The prairies to the east where she’d lived her entire life boasted gentle, rolling hills covered with tall, golden grass, the heads now bent and heavy with seeds that flowed in gentle waves with the warm breeze. Giant cottonwoods edged the steams and provided homes for birds, and firewood for her people. And shade, she thought longingly. How she missed the cool shadows and relief from the blazing sun overhead. Right now, she’d welcome even the tiniest of breezes, but the air was still. And almost unbearably hot.

Sighing, she shook her head, mourned the loss of a body of water for bathing or cooling off. Water in this world so far from her own came from a small spring fed from an underground lake, or the occasional afternoon storms. Yet the very violence of the thunder beings roaring and slashing the ground with their sizzling bolts kept most of her people inside and dry in their tipis. And after the storm, the air, instead of cooling, once again turned hot, and thick with moisture that made it difficult to breathe.

Blinking against the bright glare of the sun as it edged higher into the brilliantly blue sky, she turned and studied the village of tipis set before a backdrop of towering stone. Mako Sica. Land Bad. The mountain of rock extended as far as she could see in either direction. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Low, smooth and rolling mounds gave way to high, jagged needle-like peaks that stretched skyward. Sides were sheer in many places, sloping in others. Long, narrow mounds rolled into deep crevices, before once again rolling upward.

The wall of rock stretched in either direction as far as she could see. In one place, it curved inward and then spilled outward. To her left, there was a low section that climbed high before sloping downward.

The base of many formations reminded her of feet sticking out into the prairie. She could almost imagine those rocks coming to life to stride across the prairie and plop down. She smiled at her fanciful imagination, but it was clear that the children of her village also found the formations fascinating as they climbed and explored the wall with its shades of pink and whites.

What amazed Small Bird were the striations in the rock itself, those shaded tones of whites and pink. White and beige splashes of color formed horizontal lines of color along the tops and bottoms. Pinks and tans added a gentle swath of color in the middle. It was as though the gods or spirits had painted and scraped straight horizontal lines from one side to the other. Or perhaps the gods had painted a gigantic hide and then draped it over a foundation of rock as even the crevices continued the patterns as they rolled gently, some going deep, others just a shallow dip.

As a child, she’d heard many stories of ghosts and other malevolent spirits who lived among those jagged peaks that were part of the Badlands. Though the thought of encountering spirits made her nervous, the beauty, both majestic, and stark, called to her.

But it was also puzzling. Unlike any other hill, or mound she’d ever seen, there was no vegetation. No trees, no shrubs, and no grass. Just bare, colored stone. Except for two areas. The first reminded her of a flat, bowl-shaped depression sitting above the prairie, but far below sharp looking peaks. It wasn’t deep enough to be considered a valley as it spilled toward the prairie but was still high enough to require climbing to reach. Dark green trees, and brown grasses offered some relief to the harsh starkness of stone on either side.

Far to the right, on the other side of the larger formation of pink rock, a second whitish area was also peppered with green trees in a swirling pattern. Like the children who looked like tiny ants in the distance, she wished she had the time and freedom to explore, but there was much she needed to do to prepare for her wedding.

High above the harsh, jagged peaks, a golden eagle soared lazily across a crystal-blue sky as it spiraled downward in an ever-tightening circle. The majestic bird circled toward her, over her, and across the prairie at her back.

Lifting her hands, holding her fingers up and out, she turned in a circle as though she too soared across the blue heavens. The rich golden browns of the bird’s plumage stood out against the bright blue sky: a calm, comforting and familiar sight in a land of vast differences. Without warning, the hunter went into a steep dive. A squeal rose from the prairie as the bird rose into the air, a young rabbit clutched in its deadly talons. With sharp downward beats of its wings, the powerful eagle lifted its head to the sun, and flew off toward the hills.

Small Bird stumbled back, the unexpected violence shattering the peace and beauty. Her heart pounded as hard as that of the doomed prey. One minute, the golden eagle embodied grace and beauty and had made her long to spread wings and soar across the heavens. Then, in the blink of an eyes, the bird revealed the powerful predator within.

Nothing on the ground moved. At the first sign of the bird’s shadow, the prairie dogs had bolted into their burrows. Though she was in no danger herself, the sight of the eagle making a kill left her feeling edgy. Wambli, the spirit of the eagle, presided over war parties, hunters and battles; his appearance today, the day before her marriage to the powerful warrior and chief, Swift Foot, did not bode well.

All creatures had to eat, she reminded herself. Even great hunters like eagles. The kill hid no messages or omens. At least she tried to convince herself of that fact. Just survival. No different than her own people who’d left the comfort of their home on the prairie to join her soon-to-be husband’s tribe.

Survival.

Small Bird gripped her upper arms, her nails digging into her flesh as she denied the warning of Eagle.

Death.

No. Could not—would not be.

It is a sign you must heed.

Startled, Small Bird spun around at the sound of the deep, familiar voice that echoed aloud her own fears. She faced Lone Warrior, her elder brother. Worry darkened his eyes and lined his firmly pressed lips. Neither sibling spoke. Both knew she understood the message of the eagle whether she’d admit to it or not. She paid attention to details, listened to the spirits, and in turn, they guided the way. But this was one truth she desperately wanted to ignore. No, she had no choice but to ignore the warning, one her brother voiced, but she could not.

Trepidation dried her mouth. She ran sweat-slicked palms down the sides of her deerskin dress. It does not change my future, she whispered.

Her brother closed the distance between them until he towered over her. It changes everything, he said, his voice low and harsh. The spirits warn of death. You cannot marry Swift Foot!

Small Bird forced herself to tip her chin and locked her gaze to his. "Wambli is a great hunter. She held out one hand to stop her brother from interrupting. Swift Foot is also a great warrior and hunter. Perhaps Wambli reminds me of this." She didn’t believe her own words. Had that been the truth, the eagle would not have made a kill. He’d have just shown himself.

Lone Warrior’s eyes narrowed. He threw his hands high over his head in frustration. "You are no fool, sister of mine. The eagle warns of death. Yours. Are you so foolish that you would ignore this sign? The enemies of Swift Foot will seek you out as they sought his parents and killed them, as they’ve tried many times before to kill him, even when he was but a child. You were nearly killed yourself. Or have you forgotten?"

Small Bird shrugged. She wasn’t so foolish as to discount entirely the warning of death. But arguing with her brother wouldn’t change anything— especially the upcoming union between her and Swift Foot. Lone Warrior loves you, she reminded herself. He worries and doesn’t understand that the past shaped your future.

"There will be peace between the Hunkpapa and Miniconjou. I know this to be the truth.

Disgust filled Lone Warrior’s voice. It is a trick. They will attack and kill again. As the wife of Swift Foot, they will seek you. As they killed the parents of Swift Foot, they will kill you and him, he repeated as he spun away to pace along the edge of the deep gully.

After several taut minutes of silence, he continued, I cannot allow you to put yourself in this danger.

Small Bird sighed. His words held truth. Over the years, the Miniconjou had tried many times to kill the son of Runs with Wind. She knew they might continue to hunt him down—and as his wife, her own life would be in danger, as well as any children she bore. Though it scared her, she accepted her fate. The past had set her on the path that led to this marriage between her and Swift Foot.

She also couldn’t deny that the fact that the Miniconjou seemed willing to end the feud. That reassured her somewhat. Deep in her heart, she had her own goal and belief in the future. Peace would be achieved between the two tribes, and she’d have a hand in it. Needing to be alone with her thoughts, she strode away from her brother, heading toward the hills, skirting the edge of the village in order to remain alone. She repressed her sigh of frustration when Lone Warrior dogged her steps.

How could she convince him that it was far too late to change her mind? He, like many others, had been against the marriage and the joining of the two Hunkpapa tribes from the beginning; it put them all at risk. The enemies of Swift Foot now became their enemies. A few families and warriors from her tribe had also felt the risk not worth the benefits of merging the two tribes. They’d refused to become part of Swift Foot’s tribe and had remained behind or found other tribes to join.

Lone Warrior had tried his best to talk their father into refusing the marriage offer. But deep in her heart, Small Bird had known this was her future. She’d turned down many suitors before Swift Foot, sure in her belief that one day her life would merge with his. And now it would—no matter the consequences.

The welfare of her people weighed heavily on her shoulders. Their tribe was small and vulnerable. Her marriage would join the two tribes, at least those who’d been willing. Small Bird’s emotions whirled, leaving her confused and frightened. Responsibility could be scary. There were times she longed for ignorance.

Halting just past the outer ring of tipis, the dry streambed behind her, the strange wall of rock before her, she felt as though she’d been sucked into the turbulence of the past like a leaf caught in the grip of a whirlwind. She blinked against the brightness of the sun bouncing off the whiteness of the hills. Her sight blurred. She stopped as the sharpness of the scene softened. Colors and hues merged, turned silvery-white. Come to me, she commanded. Knowledge came to her in many forms.

Thoughts. Feelings. Dreams.

Even as knowledge of her fate remained strong in her mind and heart, another image, crystal-clear, formed behind her eyes. This of a small boy. The young child had deep, raven-black hair and he wore a big grin as he waved at her. Above the child, gray clouds formed, and an almost transparent image of a warrior stared down at the child.

The scene soothed her. This child—her child—hers and Swift Foot’s—represented the future and gave her the faith she needed to believe she had a future. One she’d share with a great warrior: the same warrior who’d saved her life when she’d been a tiny child, as small as the boy in her visions. The image faded at the sound of Lone Warrior’s angry voice.

This is not the time to let your mind cloud with silly dreams.

Small Bird whipped around, her long braid slapping her shoulder as she glared at her brother. She didn’t bother to tell him that what he called her silly dreams were visions that often spoke of the future or explained the present. She’d kept her talents mostly to herself. It was this dream of the little boy combined with her past connection to Swift Foot that ensured her choice of husband, and a future for her people, and his.

Swift Foot’s uncle, the old chief, and Wind Dancer, the young shaman of Swift Foot’s tribe knew of her abilities, knew of her vision. She’d asked each of them not to reveal the truth to others. She had no desire to become winyan waken, a holy woman. Her role lay in becoming a wife and bearing a child. This child. They’d reluctantly agreed.

Small Bird kept silent and willed her brother to leave her in peace. Nothing he said would change the course of her future. Yet she understood his fears. He cared. Sighing, she reached out and rested her hand on his arm. When it came right down to it, she really didn’t have a choice in the matter, but knowing this was her destiny didn’t make it any easier to accept. She wished Lone Warrior understood.

I must do this, she said softly, regretfully, hating they were at odds. Her enjoyment of the afternoon ruined by omens and anger, she turned away.

You are a fool, Sister. Lone Warrior’s hands closed over her shoulders. He held her in place firmly. Like the rabbit snagged in Eagle’s sharp talons, you will be taken by Swift Foot’s enemies. He turned her, held her gaze.

"Wambli warns of death. If you go through with this foolish marriage, you will die and so will many of our people. You were spared once. Do you think the gods will spare you a second time?" Once more, bitterness filled his voice.

Trembling beneath the heat and conviction of her brother’s words, Small Bird closed her eyes as memories of that day so long ago intruded.

The screams...

The pounding of her heart...

The rumble of the ground beneath her chest as the thundering hooves carrying the enemy toward where she hid in the tall grass...

The terror of being alone with the acrid smell of smoke mingling with screams that had seemed to last a lifetime.

And after the attack, with so much grief, she’d been confused and just as frightened. Women who’d lost mates and sons had shorn their hair short, slashed deep cuts into their own flesh. She shuddered; the vision of a woman chopping off the tips of her own fingers still haunted her.

Small Bird drew a deep, shuddering breath and forced the nightmarish memories from her mind. How could she make Lone Warrior understand? Though he was not a chief, the warriors of their clan of Hunkpapa looked to him for leadership. If he refused to give his allegiance to Swift Foot, who was the new chief for both tribes, then the rest of the warriors would also withhold loyalty, and that would only cause tension and strife.

She hated the weakness and fear his prediction elicited, yet all she could do was hold on to that tiny ray of hope the dreamchild gave her. By this time tomorrow, she’d be Swift Foot’s wife. Sliding free of his grip, Small Bird took his hands in hers. I have not forgotten that day. I will never forget. So many died... Her voice broke.

And do you not care that you may meet the same end? His question sounded almost desperate.

Small Bird closed her eyes, her grip tightening. You know I care, she whispered.

"Then I will speak to our father. I will tell him about the appearance of Wambli. He will agree that it is a sign."

Small Bird loved her brother, hated to see him so worried, but she could not allow him to interfere. "No! Do not. No more fights. 

For long moments, brother and sister glared at one another. Finally, Lone Warrior inclined his head. This does not make me happy, but I will respect your decision.

Relieved, Small Bird lowered her gaze to show respect. Thank you, my brother.

Shouts startled the pair. Hard on the heels of her own flashback, her heart pounded in response until she realized the voices came from a group of five exuberant boys tearing around a large tipi to race toward the hills. Smiling sadly, Small Bird longed for the carefree days of childhood. The boys skidded to a stop when an old woman came into view, walking from the hills, heading toward a single tipi set far apart from the others.

Bent slightly, leaning heavily on a thick stick, she hobbled over the uneven ground. She wore a long shapeless dress with no decoration. Not even a simple row of colorful quilling adorned the yoke. No rows of swinging fringe had been added to soften the plainness of her garment. A long length of softened deerskin covered her head and hid her face. In her free hand she clutched the edges of a wide strip of leather that encircled tiny twigs and dried grass.

Small Bird couldn’t see her face, but she appeared quite tall. Was she an elderly woman or a Winyanktehca, a two-soul person who dressed as a woman?

After a moment’s hesitation, three of the boys ran in circles around the old woman, taunting her. One youngster picked up a rock. Show us your face, old woman, he shouted. Show us your face!

Small Bird gasped at the rude display of boys from her tribe. The two others, from Swift Foot’s tribe, silently backed away from their new friends. Ashamed of the children’s behavior, Small Bird rushed forward with Lone Warrior passing her with his long strides.

Enough! she shouted.

Engrossed in their cruel game, the boys didn’t hear. Without warning, one leaped forward and snatched the woman’s head covering away.