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  Opal

  Books by Lauraine Snelling

  A Secret Refuge (3 in 1)

  DAKOTAH TREASURES

  Ruby • Pearl

  Opal • Amethyst

  DAUGHTERS OF BLESSING

  A Promise for Ellie

  Sophie’s Dilemma

  A Touch of Grace

  Rebecca’s Reward

  HOME TO BLESSING

  A Measure of Mercy

  No Distance Too Far

  RED RIVER OF THE NORTH

  An Untamed Land The Reapers’ Song

  A New Day Rising Tender Mercies

  A Land to Call Home Blessing in Disguise

  RETURN TO RED RIVER

  A Dream to Follow

  Believing the Dream

  More Than a Dream

  Opal

  LAURAINE SNELLING

  Opal

  Copyright © 2005

  Lauraine Snelling

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-7642-2220-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Snelling, Lauraine.

  Opal / by Lauraine Snelling.

  p. cm. — (Dakotah treasures ; 3)

  ISBN 0-7642-2220-1 (pbk.)

  1. Women pioneers—Fiction. 2. Medora (N.D.)—Fiction. 3. Sisters—Fiction.

  4. Clergy—Fiction. I. Title II. Series: Snelling, Lauraine. Dakotah treasures ; 3.

  PS3569.N39O63 2005

  813'.54—dc22

  2004020016

  Dedication

  To all those many, many people who

  have shared their family stories with me,

  I dedicate this book, Opal.

  LAURAINE SNELLING is an award-winning author of over fifty books, fiction and nonfiction, for adults and young adults. Besides writing books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband, Wayne, have two grown sons and two dogs and make their home in California.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Acknowledgments

  My many thanks to those who’ve helped me with this book and others. Doug and Mary Ellison from the Western Edge Bookstore in Medora contributed more than they realize as they steered me in the right direction for books on the era. Diane Rogness of the North Dakota Historical Society provided a wealth of information on early Medora and the historical significance of Marquis de Mores and his family to Dakota Territory.

  I can never say enough thanks to my personal team: friend and editor Kathleen Wright; my assistant Cecile Knowles, who is growing in editorial ability all the time; my reunion friends; the Round Robins; and always my best friend and husband, Wayne. Whenever I need a cheerleader, they are always there. As is Deidre Knight, agent extraordinaire and encouraging friend. I am so blessed with and by the people in my life who love me enough to even say the hard stuff. Hats off to Chelley Kitzmiller, writer and friend, who dared me to write this series.

  Without the detailed and fine editing of Sharon Asmus and the rest of the editorial staff at Bethany House Publishers, my books would never see the light of day. How blessed I am.

  And without readers who keep asking for more, where would I be? So thanks to all of you who encourage me, share your stories with me, and buy my books so I can keep writing. To God be the glory for all and everything.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dakotah Territory, May 1886

  ‘‘Well now, ain’t that a purty sight?’’

  Opal Torvald heard the ribald words through river water in her ears and a haze of dreams in her heart as she floated on the gentle current of the Little Missouri River in her chemise and bloomers. Buoyed by the water, cat-contented by the sun, she was drifting along in a state of bliss. The words and intrusion took a heartbeat or two to register. It was a man’s voice, a strange man’s voice, and she was next to naked. Or at least in a manner of dishabille that would bring out the caustic side of her sister’s tongue. Besides attracting unwanted attention.

  Sometimes ignoring danger made it go away.

  And sometimes it just got worse. Like now.

  Fighting the urge to scream and run, she slitted her eyes open just enough to catch an outline of the man against the sun. She was well enough away from the shore that she could swim, then run to the western bank. However, her clothes were on the eastern bank. As was the man, not to be labeled a gentleman, for a true gentleman would have kept his back turned or would have ridden on by without comment.

  Nor could the term gentlewoman be applied to her, nor lady, for no female under those terms would have been swimming in the river without either someone to stand guard or a bevy of other females in attendance.

  She had thought of going in without even the benefit of thin cotton between her skin and the river water. But there was one count in her favor. She’d opted for decency—sort of.

  Who was he, anyway? She considered various ranch hands she knew from the area, or the men in Medora who were still building for Marquis de Mores. Oh no. What about former visitors to Dove House, the hotel she and Ruby had inherited years earlier that had burned to a trash heap after a lightning strike?

  No one came to mind. The man wore a hat she would have remembered had she seen it before. One side of the flat brim was pinned up to the crown, not a very practical method of protecting one’s face and neck from the elements. Protection was the purpose of the wide-brimmed felt hats worn by so many out here in the badlands of Dakotah Territory. The crown was shaped differently too. She noticed all this while trying to decide what to do next.

  Why did he have to come and spoil her unexpected break from school? She had truly felt sick when she told Mr. Finch she needed to head on home while she could still make it. Her head had been pounding like stampeding cattle, and she’d felt hot. His droning voice hadn’t helped the headache an
y, nor did the antipathy she’d begun to feel toward the classroom. Ruby might call it spring fever, but after saddling Bay and heading toward home, the river had been singing her name. Headache and heat, two things that might be cured by a dip in the still-cold-from-spring-runoff river.

  A dip had turned to a float, and now she was caught by something worse than a swift eddy.

  As unobtrusively as possible, hands fluttering at her sides, she stroked toward the western shore. Any moment she should be able to touch bottom. If the hot weather continued, the river would drop quickly, but right here was a pool that stayed fairly deep year round.

  ‘‘Hey, missy, you comin’ on out and showing off what you tryin’ to hide?’’ His laugh made shivers chase up and down her spine. Suddenly the water felt so cold her teeth started to chatter. ‘‘You can’t get away, so forget the other bank. I got your horse and clothes right here.’’

  I can give you a mean run for your money, you rattlesnake, you.

  He rode his horse closer to the water’s edge. ‘‘My, my, what a sight for sore eyes.’’

  Going to be a lot sorer before you get what you’re thinking on.

  The horse put his head down for a drink. The man crossed his arms on the saddle horn.

  She could feel his leer clear down to her toes that finally felt bottom. At least he could no longer see anything but her head. Water ran down her face, so she smoothed her hair back out of her eyes. She should have left her hair braided, but after the long winter, all she’d wanted to do was go for a short and simple swim. Free-floating hair was part of the pleasure. What was so bad about that?

  She answered her own question. Some stranger riding up. That’s what was wrong with it.

  Mentally she called the man one of the names that Ruby had threatened her with loss of life and liberty for using, but it surely fit here. At the moment Ruby would be right. No lady would let herself be caught in such a compromising situation. Not that Opal had any designs on that title anyway. Much to her older sister’s chagrin.

  ‘‘Well, if’n ya ain’t comin’ out, I’m comin’ in after ya.’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t advise that.’’

  ‘‘Ya wouldn’t? Now, ain’t that some terrible shame.’’ He slapped his leg and guffawed loud enough to set the crows to clacking. ‘‘And what do you think might stop me?’’

  Opal glanced beyond him when something moving caught her attention. ‘‘Water’s too cold for a yellow-livered skunk like you.’’

  ‘‘You ain’t in no position to be callin’ me names like that, missy.’’ He nudged his horse forward, but the animal sat back on his haunches, ears flat against his head.

  ‘‘Looks to me like your horse has more sense than you do.’’ She kept her shoulders under the surface by bending her knees, not letting him see that she’d moved to shallower water. His horse would have to swim, and it obviously didn’t want to do that.

  The rider cursed his mount and dug in with his spurs, but all the animal did was spin and try to break for dry ground.

  At the same moment, Opal was shocked to see her friend Atticus Grady launch an attack at the rider, pulling him off the horse with a bone-crunching thud to the rocky ground. The horse vamoosed but not before knocking Atticus back on his rear. The man was on him in an instant, and the two fought with fists and feet.

  Though Atticus was nearing six feet tall he’d not filled out yet, so he was outweighed by a stone or two. Out-experienced too, from the looks of it.

  Dear Atticus, for sweet pity’s sake, why didn’t you think before you leaped?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Western Pennsylvania

  Guilt could drive a man to his knees—or to the woodpile.

  Jacob Chandler swung the ax, splitting the oak butt in half with one blow. He’d learned that hard physical labor, something that a young preacher never got enough of, was about the best antidote to bad memories and regrets. He set the split half back in place and, with ease born of practice, chopped that one in two. If only he could split the memories down to kindling and burn them the same as wood.

  ‘‘Forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake has forgiven you.’’ His sermon text for Sunday. Along with, ‘‘If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.’’

  ‘‘Ought against thee.’’ But it wasn’t his brother. That would be so easy. The person he’d wronged had disappeared from his life after that one mistake. Not that loving her had been a mistake, but when Satan tempted, he’d not run the other way. Flee from temptation. . . . So the Bible said. But not him, no, instead he’d leaped right in and . . .

  He chopped off the memories, the recriminations, and stood another butt on the chopping block. He’d begged, pleaded, for God’s forgiveness. But he’d never seen her again and could not ask for hers. He drove the ax down with such force that he not only split the oak but also embedded the blade in the chopping block. The two halves landed three feet from the block.

  He had enough split wood stacked to last for three winters.

  ‘‘Reverend Chandler?’’ The voice came from the front of the house.

  ‘‘Be right there.’’ He snagged his shirt off the tree branch where he’d hung it out of the way and with it wiped the sweat streaming down his face before shoving his arms in the sleeves. He had to get presentable before Miss Honey Witherspoon took it upon herself to come looking for him. He buttoned his shirt and stuffed the tails into his breeches, settling his suspenders back on his shoulders. After slicking his hair back, he set his black flatbrimmed hat in place before striding around the side of the cottage that belonged to the Valley Bible Church, his first parish. What do I say this time? But then, with Miss Witherspoon one rarely had the opportunity to speak.

  At twenty-six and unmarried, not even betrothed, he was considered one of the better catches in this small town that was spreading up the hillsides of the Dubuque Valley. He knew the designs of the valley mamas, having been warned by one of the well-seasoned men who thought all men should remain free of encumbrances for as long as possible. Not that the man’s own state of servitude to the wife of his youth had anything to do with his sentiments.

  ‘‘Why, Miss Witherspoon, how nice of you to come calling.’’ The young woman fit the name she’d been christened with. Honey. Gold of hair, sweet of smile, and cloying to the ear and palate as she simpered her way through life—most recently with her sights on the single minister. Or perhaps it was her mother’s sights.

  Her laugh grated on his ears. But perhaps after the discussion he’d just had with the woodpile, even a visit from an archangel would have grated. He kept his smile in place, but under no circumstances was he inviting her inside.

  ‘‘I brought some chocolate cookies, still warm from the oven. Mama said you would be in need of some refreshment after your grueling hours of chopping wood.’’

  ‘‘Why, thank you.’’ He took the proffered basket and, peeking beneath the napkin, inhaled the aroma of fresh chocolate. ‘‘And thank your mother for me too.’’ He set the basket down on the stoop and eased her toward the gate. How had they known he was chopping wood? Surely the village grapevine didn’t include the daily activities of the local pastor.

  ‘‘Mama said to invite you for dinner, that surely when you’ve been working so hard—’’ she gave an approving stare to his sweat-darkened shirt—‘‘you might like a home-cooked meal.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, but I must finish my sermon. I find that chopping wood helps clear my brain and gets the thoughts flowing.’’

  ‘‘Oh, well . . .’’

  ‘‘Again, thank your mother for me and extend my most humble apologies.’’

  ‘‘Another time, perhaps.’’ After reaching the outside of the gate, she glanced from it to him, perplexity obvious on her brow.

  Neither she nor her mama were used to be
ing turned down, he suspected. ‘‘I’ll see you in church in the morning, then?’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course. I’ll be practicing my solo later this afternoon if you . . .’’

  ‘‘Thank you, but I’ll be working through until supper, most likely.’’ He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and backed toward the house. ‘‘Have a good afternoon.’’ When she twirled her parasol over her shoulder, he picked up the basket and entered the front door. With a sigh of relief, he took out one cookie and made swift work of it in two bites. After two more cookies he set the basket on the kitchen table and crossed to the cookstove to rattle the grate and add a couple of small pieces of kindling to the blinking coals. By the time his pot of soup warmed, he’d be cleaned up and ready to attack the sermon again. Glancing out the back window, he resolved to stack the newly cut wood before dark. After all, neatness was next to godliness, at least according to his father.

  As long as he refused to let any thoughts of his own life intrude, he applied the Bible verses, added a few thoughts about the meanings of the verses according to the Greek, and tied it all up in a neat bundle of remonstrance and encouragement, being careful to stay far from any accusations or judgmental phrases. As one of his professors in seminary had said, ‘‘Let God’s Word speak for itself. It has far more power than you.’’

  As he finished his preparation, Jacob remembered he needed to call on Mr. Dumfarthing, one of the founders of the congregation and now bedridden due to a fall on the last ice of the winter. Leaving the spare bedroom that he used for an office, he noticed a slight distaste in his mouth. Not that the distaste was for the task of calling, but the sermon still rankled. If he’d managed to become so convicted himself, he was sure to hear about it from one of the parishioners. Hellfire and brimstone didn’t go over well in such a fine Christian community as Dubuque Valley. Not that he’d ever been much of a hellfire man himself.

  He stacked the wood before he left, tucked a couple of the cookies into a napkin, and set out down the street to the Dumfarthing residence, one of the larger homes of gray cut granite. Five large houses faced Valley Avenue, protected by cast-iron fences and shaded by ancient oaks that never had the temerity to drop branches on the slate roofs or disfigure the stately matrons in any way. With window-eyes half lidded by shades, the stately dowagers were falling into disarray, as the mining had played out and the land wasn’t much good for farming. It was too steep for crops, though sheep did all right.