Taboo Love in the West Part 1: A Heart Off-Limits (Wild West Adventures in Love Book 3)
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Authors: Ella Camsen
Taboo Love in the West :
Part 1- A Heart Off-Limits
Wild West Adventures in Love Series
By Ella Camsen
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2015 by Ella Camsen.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author.
Thank you so much for purchasing this book. I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I have chosen to write about the wild west in this series of books and wanted to do my homework, but I do apologise to anyone from The Lower Brule Tribe if anything I have written here offends them in any way – it was far from my intention. I have found a huge amount of inspiration in my research for these books, and I have tried to use real places, real tribes and some real people in these books in order to build a world that is rich and enjoyable for you as a reader; however, this does mean that I have needed to take a little bit of poetic licence at times in order to stay true to the story of my hero and heroine. I sincerely hope that you enjoy where I have deviated from the actual reality of an era, which was at times brutal and constantly full of often insurmountable tensions. I wanted to try and show that there were people on both sides who wanted to learn to live in harmony with one another, and that even in the most unlikely settings, love can thrive.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Eliza couldn’t hide her dismay as she attempted to climb into the back of the worn and rusting wagon. A series of ever-worsening transport as she crossed the country over the last few months had somewhat made her immune to the privations she had been forced to suffer, but she was at the end of her ability to look upon it as an adventure now. She had known that the journey westwards would not be anything like the kind of travel that she had been used to, but faced with this decrepit vehicle that they kept on calling an ambulance (she could only presume they were doing so to cover up its less than basic nature) filled her with horror for this last stage of her journey. The driver looked like he hadn’t seen a bath tub in over a year and seemed unable to remove his hip flask from his fleshy lips for longer than a moment, and she was appalled to notice that many of her fellow travellers could probably boast the same lack of hygiene, even if they were at least showing better signs of sobriety. She was utterly drained. The last part of her journey had been on a rickety stage coach, full of holes from the arrows and even gunshots of the tribes as they managed to trade with the White Man to up their own fire power. She had to admit her fear of attack from Sioux warrior bands had been overwhelming and had sapped her of her last remaining reserves of pluck and courage. Now bereft of almost all her energy and emotions, to be faced with this rattling cart that had nothing but a fabric covering as protection from native arrows and guns or the harsh sun was hardly reassuring. She was tempted to stay just where she was. The staging post was basic at best, but at least there was a presence of soldiers from the fort, and the saloon, though seedy, had at least boasted a warm bed and some hearty fare. She wished that she could simply go back and sleep and hope to wake up in her own bed back in Boston, this nightmare journey nothing but a bad dream.
As she climbed wearily up the rickety steps that had been put at the back of the wagon for passengers to board more easily, she looked around her at the expanse of flat and desolate looking land that lay between here and the misty Black Mountains in the far distance. She sighed heavily. Her journey was far from over, and though she longed with all her heart to see her father, she wasn’t sure that her body could keep up with her desire any longer. She edged her way to the furthest corner of the wagon, right up behind the driver and his companion. If she was going to be shot at, she figured that she stood at least some chance of survival if she was close to the men who actually held the guns to repel and attack the onslaught, even though the stench of stale alcohol and rancid sweat was overpowering. Eliza had tried throughout her month long journey not to judge her fellow travellers, but the exhaustion she felt now made her so much more unhappy than usual, and her bad mood meant that she had less tolerance for other’s frailties. She looked at her fellow travellers as they boarded and realised with a sad heart that even out here she would always be the outsider. She had so foolishly hoped that maybe things might be different, that the troubles and trials of this wild land would bring women of all classes closer together, but her journey so far had managed to abuse her of that notion quite sharply. It seemed that class boundaries and correct social mores were maintained no matter where you went.
The swarthy looking men, who were boarded last, took posts at the end of the wagon, on the lookout for Sioux to hunt down so they could brag in the saloons of their conquests. The women were clearly not of her status in life and, like everyone she had ever known, seemed more than happy to chatter and gossip amongst themselves whilst humping their wares from the general store and lugging their screaming infants on their hips. They could not bring themselves to break the strict protocols of society to approach someone who appeared to be from the classes above them. She found herself admiring their dexterous management of their loads as well as the intelligence of their conversation and the wisdom of their advice to one another, but with every passing mile, she became more and more concerned about her future here. She simply could not imagine how she would adapt to the life out here. Comparing her own slight frame to their more buxom womanly figures, she could only assume that she was probably made of the wrong stuff for frontier life.
“Not to worry missy. The trip to Oacoma won’t take long now. Ol’ Larry here’ll have us there in no time,” the driver slurred, looking back at her with a lecherous wink over his shoulder, slapping his dusty mule’s flanks with a whip so hard it made the poor, starved-looking beast to bray loudly. Larry jolted forward as if all the hounds of hell were after him, and the cart hurtled after him causing all its inhabitants to lose their balance and end up in a heap on the floor. Eliza quickly pulled herself out of the melee and edged towards her seat again, as far away from all the others as she could manage in the cramped space. The properly bred part of her was determined to keep herself as far from physical contact with these unwashed and probably disease-ridden people as she possibly could, even though that little spark of something more mischievous and tough that resided deep within her wanted so desperately to be one of them. She felt utterly tainted from the contact, yet strangely exhilarated again. The shock had re-awakened her fighting spirit it seemed. But the salon Miss within her well and truly wished that she had never agreed to join her father out here in the middle of nowhere, with no civilized company for hundreds of miles just to assist him with his missionary work, and it wasn’t long before she was winning the fight for Eliza’s soul once more – it was hard to discount the training she had been a party to her entire life.
She couldn’t even bring herself to admit that the scenery she was watching fade past her
– t
he vast plains, the winding bends of the Missouri River and the majestic Black Mountains
–
was anything other than monotonously never-ending. She felt nauseous and just wanted to go back home to her comfortable bed and the easy life she had left behind her. She looked around her to try to pass the time – all the while trying to appear polite and as if she wasn’t actually noticing anybody, which was far harder than it sounds, especially when the wagon was jolting alarmingly at every tiny rut and bump in the trail. Eliza couldn’t help but wish that her upbringing as the child of a Methodist minister in a wealthy eastern city had given a little more attention to physical strength amongst the virtues of womanhood. She couldn’t help but think that if she was just a little less delicate then this torment might be a somewhat easier to bear. The other women aboard didn’t seem to be having anything like the discomfort that she was experiencing. Though they so indubitably were kindly enough to one another and were treating her with due deference, but their weather-beaten skin and coarse language amongst themselves made her realise just how unusual she was going to be out in these wild lands, though a lack of acceptance was something that would not be exactly new to her.
She had never exactly been welcomed in the wealthy community in which her father had preached his ministry, either. She wasn’t quite one of them, as the middle class daughter of a clergyman, and had always found herself on the outside looking in on the glamorous and exciting lives of her contemporaries. At twenty-three she had seen them all have their debuts and the slew of elegant dresses and gifts that had rained down upon them as they came out into society and made good marriages to men of wealth and power – whether they loved them or not, or whether they wanted to do so or not. They all knew their place, and did as their fathers bid them to, forging alliances and growing fortunes, influence and power. Only she was left on the shelf and unhappily taking care of her widower father – keeping house and undertaking all the duties of a wife except those more carnal desires a man has for his wife – that would obviously have been most inappropriate. She had no fortune, no power or political influence, and neither did her family. She was no prize in the matrimonial market. Yet her position in their society meant that she couldn’t very well marry for love either, as she simply never met people from her own station in life.
She had seen other ladies of the middle classes reach a certain age poring over the marriage papers and had waved many off as mail order brides to men in the west who wanted more home comforts than this lonely land could provide. Even the one woman she could truly call her friend in that lonely and image driven world, Lily Evans, had taken the lure of the possibility of marriage and children and had become a mail order bride. After she left Boston, no one heard from her again. Eliza prayed that this was because she had found happiness, but in the back of her mind was a lingering fear that her bright and bubbly companion had met some kind of terrible fate on her journey westwards. Eliza had believed that she could be as brave as they had been, as hopeful for a new start, but she wondered if they had been as downhearted as she felt now upon facing up to the realities of the new world they would be inhabiting. She certainly hoped not, but she at least was going to be the support of a known quantity. Her father may be difficult, his passion for his ministry often making him forgetful and eccentric to say the least, but she loved him and he was kind and adored her. Many women did not even know so much as the name of the man they were heading west to marry, let alone whether he may be handsome, kind or generous. These were things completely unknown and unknowable until they got there. Eliza tried desperately to count her blessings. She would be in a warm and well appointed clapboard house that sat right next to the chapel in the burgeoning town, and she would have good works to do, supporting her father and teaching in the school he wished to set up. It was a far better spinsterhood than those that many women had to look forward to. Yet she craved so much more. She wanted to be loved and treasured as all women do, and she greedily wanted the excitement and freedom to be whatever she chose that men took for granted, too.
The weather was scorching hot, and they stopped regularly for Larry to drink and for everyone to get out and to stretch their legs. As the time passed, Eliza wished she had not been so stand-offish, as the other women shared food, drink and, more importantly, laughter together. Though she might look like an upper class woman of fashion and had been made to behave like one for so long, she knew down in her heart that this was not who she really was. It was why she had come out here, to escape the constraints of that life – yet here she was now actually creating those barriers herself. She decided to pluck up her courage and to approach the women, to apologise for her terribly rude behaviour towards them. She would be one of them now, after all; she couldn’t afford to hold ideas above her station. She would be reliant on women such as these, and so what better time than now to start to become the woman she was going to need to be?
“I, er, I was wondering if you could maybe spare a little of your water, please?” she tentatively asked the woman with the red face that sat beside her as they settled back into the wagon. “I know I have been a beastly snob, and I am so very sorry, but I have run out and I am so terribly parched.”
“You daft thing, of course you can. Here, this’ll see you right, young’un. You girls from the big cities, you all start off the same, wanting to cling to your prim and prissy ways. By the end of the journey you all realise that things are different out here. We don’t care how much money you have or how fancy your clothes are – what matters is what is in your heart. You’re made of tougher stuff than you think. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” She smiled at Eliza warmly, and her words did indeed create a flush of confidence to rise once more in the young woman. “I’m Bella, that there is Ingrid, Kate, and Mary,” she said nodding at each woman in turn, and they nodded respectfully at Eliza. “The little ones, well, mine is Henry, Mary’s is Caleb and Ingrid, well, hers could come at any time!” She winked. Ingrid’s grossly swelling tummy showed that this could indeed be the case, and Eliza had to admire the courage of a woman so close to her time being out on the plains at all, let alone undertaking this treacherous journey. But as she began to make friends, she realised that she had more reserves of courage herself, and she noted with a smile that the vast and scenic landscape around her became more alive and beautiful to her with each passing mile.
“Amitola! Hey Amitola!” The cry came across the plain. Judd Spiers had become an unexpected friend to the tall and darkly quiet Sioux Indian, their mutual love and admiration for this beautiful land around the Missouri River and The Black Hills – in his language the
paha sapa
– of South Dakota bridging the gap between their two worlds. They had become friends some years before when Judd had needed a guide through the badlands, a maze of buttes and spires formed over millennia that often housed bandits and outlaws. The journey they had taken together had impressed upon both men the strength and honour in each other, and they had continued in that friendship, despite pressures from their respective peoples to give it up. Amitola was sad to see the changes to his land, but unlike some of the
Kul Wicasa Oyate
, and like Chief Iron Nation, he believed that, though he wished that the White Man would leave and never return, it was now so unlikely that it was time to try and learn how to live together. He had stood proudly at his chief’s side as he signed the Fort Laramie Treaty some years before that had created the Great Sioux Reservation. So many of his people had been against it, but what choice did they have against the guns and canon of the armies and even the bandits and cowboys who were better armed and more deadly than any Sioux warrior, no matter how brave and skilled in the arts of battle? He would not hold Judd personally responsible for the atrocities his people had committed and was pleased that the rangy cowboy appeared to be of the same mind when it came to forgiving him for those in his own people’s past too.
“Hello Judd,” he replied as his sandy haired and freckled friend rode up alongside him. Judd had arrived in the west, chasing the gold that was said to be in the Black Mountains, but had settled instead into a life of herding cattle. He was a wise man and had realised that the only people who would ever make money from the gold rush were those who supplied the over-confident fools who came with no skills and no hope of survival, even in the wild lands, with food and supplies and a place to rest between attempts. It was wise men like him who were responsible for turning Oacoma from a sleepy little trading point, where the trappers, traders and boatmen could commingle, into a burgeoning town – one that was becoming pivotal in the political landscape of the region. Though Amitola had no desire to see such men cementing their hold over the territory, he couldn’t help but admire the gutsy cowboy and his ilk.