Forever by Your Side (Willamette Brides #3) - Tracie Peterson Page 0,33

little girl, my mother said I was lazy. If she were here now, she would see how busy I’ve become and tell me to sit down and enjoy what God has given.”

Connie smiled. “Exactly. People are definitely like that in the cities. They work very hard and seldom stop to enjoy life. My aunt and uncle are very busy people. Many people think them wise and constantly seek their counsel. My aunt has a small book in which she writes her various appointments for each day. It is the only way that she can keep track.”

Rosy looked appalled. “What a horrible way to live—always bound by those things.”

Connie thought about it for a moment. That had been her life for the last seven years, and while she’d always been occupied, she’d never thought of herself as being bound or chained to those things. When was the last time she’d had nothing to do and spent the day in leisure?

“But now you are home. Will you stay?” Rosy asked.

“At least for a while. I have come with a job to do. The government has hired me to make a list of the tribes here at Grand Ronde. And not just a list—I’m to write an account of the people and their culture. The men in the big cities want to know about the life of the Shasta and the Tututni and the Modoc. They want to know about all the tribes.”

“What is it they want to know?” Rosy asked, frowning.

“They realize that some tribes have disappeared. That the great march stole many lives, and that over the years some of the tribes have died away. They want an accounting of those people and all who are left. They want to know what you believe and how you used to live. They want to know about your clothing and way of life. They want to know about your trade goods and hunting, about your houses and ceremonies.”

“If they had left us to our lives, they could easily know those things by observing us,” Rosy said with a hint of bitterness.

“Yes. They could have,” Connie agreed. “It was wrong of them to take that life from you. Now perhaps some of them are seeing that and want at least to know about that life. I cannot say for certain what is in their hearts, but in my heart, I want to make an accounting that will never allow the people of this vast land to forget the real people who were here first.” She used the Natives’ phrase for the various tribes to remind Rosy of her devotion and respect for the people of Grand Ronde.

Rosy shook her head. “It will not matter. The tribes have lost their heritage—lost their vision. The old ways were taken from us, and all that is left are the stories. Our stories are sacred—they have always been sacred. Why should we share them with the people who have taken away everything else? Should we let them steal our stories too?”

Connie had never seen it that way. She was saddened by the thought that Rosy considered her job to be theft. Connie had thought it good—a way to honor the Indians.

“I have no desire to steal your stories, Rosy. I wanted to come and make a record so that those stories won’t be forgotten. So that the people wouldn’t be forgotten.”

“Our people will not be forgotten. We will tell our children, and they will tell their children.”

Connie nodded. “I realize that, but I want everyone to know about your people. Not so they can steal that from you, but so they can learn the truth. I want them to see what they have done—how they have taken those precious things from you.”

“Why, Connie? What good will it do?”

For a moment Connie didn’t know how to respond. What good would it do? Connie and Tom, along with other teams, would chronicle the tribes and their old life, but it wouldn’t change anything for these people. Even a record that would ensure the old ways weren’t forgotten would never bring the old ways back. It would never give back the real people’s way of life. Their history would be recorded and then . . . forgotten.

Still, if even a few refused to forget, wouldn’t that be worth the effort?

“The history of your family—your people—is precious to me, just as my own is.” Connie chose her words carefully. If she couldn’t convince Rosy that this was a good thing, there was