The Sand Dancer

By Lydia Emma Niebuhr

Two-year-old Carrie Morton was found alone in a cabin behind the man the county sheriff had just shot to death.  Although a game warden reported seeing a woman at the cabin, the woman was never found.  The woman's identity and disappearance remained the subject of rumors that followed Carrie as she moved through a series of foster homes on her way to adulthood.
 

After Carrie left her last foster home, she remained in Sanstone, living a life without close ties to anyone.  Her treasured moments were on a small section of the beach where she could be alone and escape her reality.
 

Carrie's comfortable and uneventful life was shattered when a stalker forced her to confront her past.

 

 

REVIEWS:

 

"An intriguing book and an enjoyable read. Characters are well developed slowly allowing the reader to get to know them. The reader will be drawn into caring about Carrie and what is happening to her. I am looking forward to reading more of Lydia's writing."

Mary A.
Austin, MN

"Wow! Once I started reading, I couldn't stop until I reached the end. The mystery of Carrie's past keeps you wanting to read more.  I like that the story takes place locally."

Michelle E.
St. Paul, MN 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fox Pointe Publishing, LLP
• Release date: Nov 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393305873

Lydia Emma Niebuhr

Lydia Emma Niebuhr has undergraduate degrees in both Chemistry and Biology and a graduate degree in Chemistry. She began her career in medical research at the University of Minnesota, later transferring to the Hormel Institute, and then onto Hormel Foods Corporation in their Research and Development Department. Although Lydia Emma wrote during those years, she didn’t become a full-time writer until 2010. Lydia Emma lives on a farm near Corning, MN. In addition to her husband Dean, her family includes three children, their spouses, and eight grandchildren.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Light was beginning to force its way through the dirty windows. Carrie watched as the devil paced from left to right around the dimly lit room.

You make me think of Lorna and I don’t like that. I don’t want to think about Lorna! he shouted.

Carrie tried and failed to stifle the dry rasp in her throat, but the sound brought the devil to a halt in front of her chair.

Are you crying? Lorna cried. She begged. Not for herself. For that bum! Who are you crying for?

She heard the baying of hounds.

The devil did too.

Even if those dogs find this place, he bellowed, they’ll never catch me.

In his haste to escape the approaching dogs, the devil reeled around too fast and landed on his knees. Carrie heard him groan as he got to his feet. She watched him stagger across the room and heard the door slam.

The devil was gone.

And Carrie was left alone with the fear that she had been deserted forever.

-1-

The soft wet sand pressed between her toes as twenty-year-old Carrie Morton walked along the water’s edge. She was alone and had known loneliness for most of her life—except here.

Turning she saw the misshapen prints that marked her meandering path before the waves splashed up around her ankles and the prints disappeared. It took only a few seconds for the rush of water onto the beach to wash away any sign of her.

Sandy Lake was just a horseshoe shaped hole in the ground gouged out by a glacier that had covered this land. The melting glacier eventually filled the hole with water while it stacked jagged boulders like tumbled building blocks along the shoreline. And as the glacier slowly receded, some of those rocks were pulverized into the fine, soft sand that was thrust against the boulders and continued under the water for hundreds of feet, creating one of the finest beaches ever to be found on an inland lake.

This was her beach, an area few ventured into because they didn’t have the courage to climb over the jagged rocks. Carrie had discovered the narrow passage between the two largest rocks when she was ten years old and looking for a place to escape from her current foster home.

Frank Wheeler had been the first to discover her secret and he was the one who had asked for the ‘No Trespassing–Dangerous Rocks’ sign to be posted by the Sheriff’s Office. Frank, the venerable former sheriff of Prescott County, was also able to convince the Sanstone Park Department that the area should be reserved for Carrie after he had noticed her climbing the rocks one day.

Yet Carrie, years later, still didn’t know if she was trespassing on private property. She had never seen any sign of life on her rock path, or within the secluded beach, but she had learned to be cautious of her privacy, sharing her life only when and with whom she wanted.

Only once had she seen footprints in her sand, they had come from the opposite direction of her entry point. Someone must have climbed over the rocks and found her beach; she returned daily, looking for the person who made the footprints...

Carrie failed to see either a person or the footprints again.

The moist breeze hit her face. This warm, mid-morning breeze was different from the hot, mid-afternoon breeze that would come later. She could probably be here blindfolded and still tell what time of day it was just by the feel of the sun, the heat of the rocks, the breeze, the moistness of the air, and the sound of the water.

She stopped at the water’s edge, sucked in a deep breath of the fresh air, before tossing her sandals away from the water lapping at the sand.

Carrie spun around as a ballerina would, her bare toes making imprints in the sand. She did a few ballerina-like jumps along the water’s edge, stopping to watch a wave roll in and wash her prints away, then dancing back again. She danced the length of her beach repeatedly, making new footprints as soon as the water erased the others. Finally, out of breath, she nestled against one of the smoother rocks, one most easily warmed by the sun.

Carrie Morton believed her world was like the sand and waves. Her past had been washed away by the waves of time and by people in her everyday life, people who didn’t really know her or want to get to know her. Her present was a solitary stroll through life, just as isolated as this beach. She wasn’t angry about that, just wished it could be different, wished it could be like the lives of the people she saw on the streets of Sanstone every day from her window.

Her window that served as her viewing point was a second-floor window in Finley House, an old mansion with rooms to rent for girls only. Carrie’s small room, which held all her belongings and precious few treasures, would sometimes feel so small. She felt as if it would take the breath from her. When that happened, that one and only window came to her rescue. With a chair pulled up close and her nose pressed against the pane in winter or the screen in summer, she could let her imagination put her in the faraway places she could only read about.

When the window was not enough, Carrie escaped to her beach.

A bell tolled in the distance; its melancholy sound drifting across the lake and disrupting her thoughts. She listened, counting the number of clangs from the old clock in the town square. It was still echoing over the water when she realized the clock had struck twelve times. She had one hour to get back to her room, change into her uniform, and get to work.

* * *

Carrie slipped her time card into the punch clock exactly two minutes before one o’clock. A sigh of relief escaped as she placed the card back into its slot—she couldn’t afford to be late again. George Lindale, the owner of George’s Café, had been very specific about that when he caught her punching in late last week.

Glad to see you finally graced us with your presence, George grumbled as he stepped into the hallway from the kitchen.

I was here on time, Carrie said meekly. She sensed she wasn’t one of George’s favorite employees because she didn’t relate well to his customers.

There are plenty of other kids who need a job if you find it difficult to get here on time.

Yes, sir.

I agreed to give you a job because... well, just because. I’m doing this as a favor to you. George glared, daring Carrie to argue before he turned back toward the kitchen.

I know that, Carrie replied, loud enough for the retreating George to hear. You don’t ever let me forget that.

I need people who show responsibility.

Yes, sir, Carrie muttered. She couldn’t lose this job; it was her only source of income. It would be like leaving another footprint in the sand to be washed away by the waves.

* * *

The day passed in the mindless routine of taking the food and drink orders from the customers in her section and then hoisting the tray on her shoulder to deliver their food.

There was safety in the routine of such work. Working was a time when Carrie didn’t have to feel the loneliness of being in a world of only her where there were people all around her, even if none of them belonged to her and she belonged to none of them.

On slow days, when there were few customers and she had more time to think, she wanted to cry out at the top of her lungs just to have someone notice she was there, that she existed.

The last customer in her section, a grubby old man, finally left to the relief of her and Jeremy, the busboy assigned to Carrie’s section. They had been waiting in the kitchen, watching him through the window in the swinging door.

Jeremy grabbed a plastic tub and went to collect the dishes; Carrie followed with the spray bottle and a towel to wipe the table down.

No tip, Jeremy grumbled, as he cleared the table.

Just be glad the guy had money to pay his bill, Carrie said. That’s it for me for today. She pulled her accumulated tips from her apron pocket and handed Jeremy his share of the day’s tips. I’m out of here.

With her shift over, she planned on returning to her tiny room, slipping into pajamas, and curling up in bed with the new book she got from the library. She liked the busy days best though because she would be too tired to do anything but curl up on the narrow bed and fall asleep—the nights lasted forever when sleep wouldn’t come quickly. On those nights, she usually read romance novels, pretending she was the heroine who won the love of the handsome young man and lived happily ever after with him.

And although Carrie dreaded the nighttime because of its loneliness, the mornings were not that way. Mornings were welcome starts to a new day and each morning she told herself that today could be different. When she didn’t have to work, the mornings always felt different too.

This might be the day I find a place to belong, she would whisper to the image in the mirror looking back at her. A place where I could leave a footprint that the waves can’t wash away.

Carrie was always ready to greet the world at sunrise, even if the world was not ready to greet her back. She could wander the busy streets for several hours before depression began to seep in and block out the cheerful morning thoughts. When that happened, she knew it was time to go to the water’s edge, to her beach, to her sand, to her favorite rock. The beach was the only place that made her feel good, even when she was feeling her worst. Just the thought of the beach made the day brighter, the sun stronger, the clouds fluffier, and the sky bluer.

One, two, three, twirl, Carrie’s song would echo across the lake as she danced across the sand. Wash them away, wash them away silly little waves.

* * *

The first thing Carrie now looked for when she arrived at her beach were footprints. Day after day she would drop down on the beach hoping to see footprints in the sand.

Then one day, after a difficult shift and a sleepless night, it happened—there were footprints in the sand when she arrived. How her heart had leapt with both anticipation and trepidation at the thought of meeting someone here in her world.

Eventually she’d snuggled against her favorite rock, still waiting as the sun had dropped low enough to touch the horizon, watching as the waves rolled in again and again.

The maker of the prints didn’t return.

Loneliness returned as she made her way back to Finley House.

-2-

Carrie didn’t remember her mother and had only a vague memory of a man at a cabin, commonly assumed to be her father. It wasn’t until she was older that she learned from Sanstone gossip, that the man and woman who lived in this cabin had intentionally isolated themselves from their neighbors. That the man had built the cabin in the woods along the northern edge of Sandy Lake, almost directly across from Carrie’s secret beach to be away from the town and its people.

Over time, Carrie also learned that no one knew she’d existed until Game Warden Jerry Johnson visited the cabin to warn the man, Henry Morton, to stop violating state hunting and fishing laws.

The story told and retold around Sanstone was that on Game Warden Johnson’s first visit Henry Morton met him in the middle of the driveway, not allowing him to get close to the cabin. In his report of the encounter, Johnson stated he had heard noises inside the cabin, but not distinct voices. He also mentioned that before he left a woman holding a child came to the doorway of the cabin.

Johnson made a second trip to the cabin several months later to warn Henry Morton again about his violations of the state’s hunting and fishing laws. Wary of the man who stood in front of the shabby cabin, Johnson wrote in his report that he had hesitated before he eventually stepped out of his car.

Henry Morton, I received a report that you haven’t stopped your hunting and fishing, which is illegal since this is a state game preserve.

Is that right? Morton snorted.

There’ll be jail time if you continue to break the law.

Is that right? Morton repeated with a sneer.

Do you understand the consequences if you continue? Johnson nervously wiped his sweaty hands on his uniform shirt, leaving a dark smudge across his belly.

I understand you are on my land and I want you to leave. Morton took a step toward Johnson, forcing Johnson to retreat back a step toward his car.

This is public property, Henry. I could have you evicted.

You would love to do that, wouldn’t you, Jerry? Morton took another step and continued his advance until Johnson reached his car. Morton had remained in his defiant stance in front of the cabin until Johnson’s car was out of sight.

––––––––

Later, in his report of this second trip, Johnson had noted that there was a young child playing alone outside the cabin but there was no mention in this report about a woman. The most important statement added in at the bottom of Johnson’s report was how Morton had taken a threatening stance and that no further visits would be made to the Morton cabin without the sheriff or one of his deputies.

Three months later, as the story goes, Sheriff Frank Wheeler grudgingly accompanied Johnson to the Morton cabin with Johnson as his passenger. This time Henry Morton met them in the middle of the driveway with a rifle cradled across his arm.

Sheriff Wheeler strolled slowly toward Morton after telling Johnson to remain in the car. As he approached Morton, Wheeler held up his hands, away from the gun strapped on his hip.

There’s no need for that, Wheeler advised. Please put the gun down.

You’re trespassing, Henry Morton asserted and didn’t change his stance.

Game Warden Johnson and I have simply come to talk to you about your activities on the lake and in the game preserve.

A second later, Sheriff Wheeler dropped to the ground as a gun discharged in front of him. Instinctively, he pulled his gun and fired a single shot that hit Henry Morton in the chest.

* * *

What exactly happened next was clouded in the conflicting reports of Game Warden Johnson and Sheriff Wheeler.

Sheriff Wheeler stated in his report that he had hit the ground when a gunshot, or maybe gunshots, rang out. He returned fire and hit Henry Morton with what turned out to be a fatal shot to the chest.

Game Warden Johnson reported that since he was unarmed, he stayed in Sheriff Wheeler’s car as ordered by Wheeler. He mentioned that because of his obstructed view he was unable to offer any other information.

* * *

Jumping to his feet, Sheriff Wheeler had then searched the cabin and found a child alone and asleep on a small cot. He was unable to find the woman Johnson had reported seeing on his first trip to the cabin though there were signs indicating a woman lived there.

Volunteers searched the woods around the cabin and the game preserve for days, but the woman was never found.

The official investigation, which found Morton’s gun hadn’t been fired, concluded a second party must have fired the initial shot.

As time passed and the story was told and retold, it became fact that the shooter was Morton’s woman who had taken the first shot and ran off without the child. This was the story that was whispered around Sanstone from that day on.

* * *

The child left behind, nameless and of unknown age, was given the name Carrie Marie Morton by Sheriff Wheeler and his wife, who became her first foster parents. Forever after, her birthday was listed as the day she was taken from the cabin. Based on her size, her age was determined to be two years.

Carrie spoke very little and was extremely shy. The social worker’s initial assessment was that the child was developmentally disabled. Later when Carrie proved to have above average intelligence, the social worker concluded her original assessment was attributed to the child’s extreme shyness due to her lack of human contact with anyone other than the man and woman in the cabin, presumed to be her parents.

At six years of age, Carrie was still a silent child, unable to express emotions easily like others her age. Carrie had clung to Mrs. Wheeler’s hand, both in tears, for as long as she could until the social worker led her away to a new foster home. It wasn’t until Carrie was ten years old that she learned Mrs. Wheeler’s illness had been the reason she was taken from the Wheeler home.

While with the Wheelers, they had been careful not to let Carrie hear them discuss the many times Sheriff Wheeler visited the old cabin for clues. He’d also gently plied Carrie with questions about her life at the cabin to help him understand why the confrontation happened but Carrie had no memories of her life in the cabin and none of the day Henry Morton was shot. She’d been too young.

Carrie learned while in her third foster home that the rumor around town was that Sheriff Wheeler was never the same after he shot Henry Morton, so it surprised no one when he declined to run for sheriff in the next election. The townspeople believed he had never gotten over the knowledge that he had killed a man who hadn’t fired a shot.

Meanwhile, Carrie continued to pass through a series of foster homes as she aged. Although she always had good physical care, Carrie never really felt she was a part of her foster families. It was no