A Claim of Her Own
A
Claim
of
Her Own
Books by
Stephanie Grace Whitson
A Claim of Her Own
Jacob’s List
Unbridled Dreams
Watchers on the Hill
Secrets on the Wind
(3 books in 1)
Walks the Fire
Soaring Eagle
Red Bird
How to Help a Grieving Friend
A
Claim
of
Her Own
STEPHANIE GRACE
WHITSON
A Claim of Her Own
Copyright © 2009
Stephanie Grace Whitson
Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota
Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations identified NASB are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE,® Copyright © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by International Bible Society. Used by permission. (
www.Lockman.org
)
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
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Whitson, Stephanie Grace.
A claim of her own / Stephanie Grace Whitson.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0512-5 (pbk.)
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. South Dakota—Gold discoveries—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.H555C63 2009
813'.54—dc22
2008051047
D
EDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF
G
OD’S EXTRAORDINARY WOMEN
IN EVERY PLACE
IN EVERY TIME
.
T
ABLE OF
C
ONTENTS
M
Y
S
INCERE
T
HANKS TO
. . .
M
R
. M
ICHAEL
R
UNGE
,
City Archivist, Deadwood, South Dakota, for providing maps
that enabled me to envision nineteenth-century Deadwood.
M
S
. A
RLETTE
H
ANSON
,
Curator, Adams Museum, Deadwood, South Dakota, for timely
answers and for putting me in touch with people
who knew the answers when you didn’t.
M
S
. R
OSE
S
PIERS
,
Communications Director, Adams Museum, Deadwood,
South Dakota, for your kind replies and guidance.
M
R
. D
AN
G
EORGE
,
aka Wild Bill Blackerby, for explaining the “how” of
Wild Bill Hickok’s cavalry twist.
A
UTHOR
S
TEPHEN
B
LY
,
for unselfishly sharing your expertise in all things Old West,
AND
A
NN
P
ARRISH
:
You always make the stories so much better.
What a blessing you are!
B
ETHANY
H
OUSE
P
UBLISHERS
:
It remains a great privilege to work for you.
T
HE
K
ANSAS
E
IGHT
:
You know who you are . . . and what you do.
R
ANDY
A
LCORN
,
brother in Christ and one of the most godly men I know,
thank you for allowing me to put your words in my fictional
preacher’s mouth. Thank you for your humility as you walk the
talk and for consistently challenging me to live in light of eternity.
(Readers are encouraged to seek out
The Treasure Principle
by Randy Alcorn, which, in this author’s opinion, should be
required reading for every Christian living on planet Earth.)
A native of southern Illinois, Stephanie Grace Whitson has resided in Nebraska since 1975. She began what she calls “playing with imaginary friends” (writing fiction) when, as a result of teaching her four homeschooled children Nebraska history, she was personally encouraged and challenged by the lives of pioneer women in the West. Since her first book,
Walks the Fire,
was published in 1995, Stephanie’s fiction titles have appeared on the ECPA bestseller list and have been finalists for the Christy Award and the Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award, and
ForeWord Magazine
’s Book of the Year. Her nonfiction work,
How to Help a Grieving Friend,
was released in 2005. Widowed in 2001, Stephanie remarried in 2003 and now pursues full-time writing and a speaking ministry from her studio in Lincoln, Nebraska. In addition to her involvement in her local church and keeping up with her five grown children and two grandchildren, Stephanie enjoys motorcycle trips with her blended family and church friends and volunteering at the International Quilt Study Center in Lincoln, Nebraska. Her passionate interests in women’s history, antique quilts, and French, Italian, and Hawaiian language and culture provide endless storytelling possibilities. Learn more at
www.stephaniewhitson.com
or write stephanie@stephaniewhitson .com. U.S. mail can be directed to Stephanie Grace Whitson at P.O. Box 6905, Lincoln, Nebraska 68506.
And in Your book were all written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there was not one of them.
Psalm 139:16 (NASB)
W
alking down the main street in Deadwood is like stepping onto
hell’s front porch. It’s frenzied and filthy, and it’s the last place
on earth a man would want to bring any woman he cared about. Be
patient. I know it’s hard, but you have to trust me about the timing.
Mattie had thought Dillon was just trying to scare her when he wrote that. She thought he was just making sure she didn’t take a notion to follow him up here before he was ready for her. But ready or not, she was here now, slogging into town alongside a freighter’s wagon piled high with goods. It didn’t take long to realize Dillon wasn’t exaggerating one bit when he wrote about Deadwood. “Main Street” was little more than a churning river of slops and garbage and manure. The common language seemed to be cursing, and the population 100 percent vile men who spat tobacco and smelled as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks. There wasn’t a real storefront for as far as she could see. At least not by her standards. Hand-painted signs improvised from old lumber or dirty sheets touted the location of laundries and stores, saloons and hotels, but most businesses were little more than large canvas tents.
Frenzied and filthy.
Mattie glanced down at the mud-caked hem of her skirt. Even before arriving in Deadwood she’d encountered plenty of filth—just as predicted by the reluctant freighter she’d convinced to let her travel with the supply train. As for frenzy . . . two men across the way were screaming at each other over a promised order and a failure to supply. Saws and hammers, jangling harnesses, and rattling wagons added to the cacophony, and if that weren’t enough noise, the bullwhackers were having their share of trouble getting their teams to haul through the mire.
The freighter called Swede cracked a fearsome bullwhip and called out, “Get along dere, you good-for-nuttin’ flea-bitten mireddown cayoose! Almost to home now! Gee-haw!”
All up and down the long line of wagons, freighters screamed and hollered and swore and cracked their whips. Finally, with bellowed protest and lowing complaint, the teams surged ahead.
Mattie continued to take the measure of Deadwood. The business calling itself Grand Central Hotel looked like someone newly acquainted with saw and hammer had knocked it together in a few hours. She stifled a laugh.
Grand
, indeed. Giving a place—or a person for that matter—a fancy name was little more than whitewashing a rotted board as far as she was concerned, and there was obviously plenty of rot beneath the scrawled signs and piles of fresh-cut lumber lining the muddy trail called Main.
Glancing back at the towering loads of freight in Swede’s three wagons, Mattie wondered who would ever want floral printed calico in a place like this. And what was the point of jet buttons and ivory combs? She stifled a cough and wished for a scented hanky. The stench of the place was getting to her. In fact—she glanced down— the stench of the place was getting
on
her in the form of more than mud clinging to the hem of her skirt and the soles of her boots.
At the sound of shrill laughter, Mattie glanced up the street just in time to see a woman clad in a rainbow of satin ruffles stumble and land on her knees in the mire. While the men around her roared with laughter, the painted creature looked up to the sky and began to bawl like a weanling calf separated from its momma. Mattie clutched at her paisley shawl and pulled it tighter around her shoulders. As the woman wailed and the men jeered, a bearded stranger exited the hotel and crossed the street to help the drunken woman get up. When she wobbled uncertainly, he put his arm around her and together they began to head up the street toward the part of town Swede had already warned Mattie to avoid.
