Forever by Your Side (Willamette Brides #3) - Tracie Peterson Page 0,48
in it. We also used other things. Sometimes we would weave with tulle or cane, and we used all sorts of things for our dyes.”
“Tom, I can tell you about those later,” Connie interjected. “I helped make dyes when I was a girl. We used flowers and vegetables—fruits too.”
Tom enjoyed her excitement over the baskets. It was almost as if she’d forgotten her worries and was transported back in time to her childhood. He remembered the animated fifteen-year-old who had come to live with her aunt and uncle and wondered what she must have been like as a very young girl.
By the time they finished with Rosy, Tom felt he had a great overview of the history of the Shasta people. Rosy said most of them now lived on the Siletz Reservation near the ocean. It would be some time before Tom and Connie made their way there, but for now, Rosy’s detailed memories of her life as a girl would make for a great outline of life in the Shasta villages.
“She’s a very nice woman. I can see why you consider her a good friend.”
Connie carried the empty food basket. “Rosy was good to my mother even when the others were still so angry.”
“You can hardly blame them for being angry. They were uprooted from all they knew, forced to leave behind so much that was precious to them and march for hundreds of miles.”
“And they watched many of their loved ones die and were then forced to live on a reservation with their enemies.” Connie shook her head.
It was nearly three o’clock, but Connie said they could still talk with another family. They stopped at the poorly structured, unpainted house of the Sheridans.
“The Sheridans are Modoc. The Modoc were enemies of the Shasta at one time. Joseph Sheridan and my father, however, were good friends. They knew each other before the move to the reservation,” Connie told him. She knocked on the frame where a blanket hung instead of a door. “I hope they’ll speak with us.”
An older woman appeared. She seemed surprised by Tom and Connie and called over her shoulder in Modoc. Tom had no idea what she had said, but she disappeared behind the blanket, and two large men appeared.
“Mr. Sheridan, do you remember me?” Connie asked. “I’m Adam Browning’s daughter, Connie.”
“I heard you had returned,” the older of the two men said. “You frightened my wife. Why have you come?” He had a long scar on the side of his neck, and his face was weathered and wrinkled. Tom wondered about the stories he could tell.
Connie explained why they had come. “It’s a good thing that the government has finally seen the importance of remembering the real people, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t,” the younger man spat. “The less the government knows about us, the better. Then maybe they will forget about us and let us live our lives as God intended.” He crossed his arms and glared at Connie. Despite his anger, Connie seemed undaunted.
“We are your friends, but you treat us like enemies, not even inviting us in.”
“We are no longer friends,” the younger of the two declared. “Your father would not help my father when he came to him many years ago.”
“Your father came to my father for help in leaving the reservation,” Connie countered. “It was illegal, and your family would have been killed.”
“I lost my wife and daughters,” the old man said, his voice low. “We died just the same.”
Connie shook her head. “I was sorry for your loss. I loved your wife. She was like an aunt to me—teaching me Modoc cooking and speaking. Now we’ve come to make sure that those things are not forgotten. That the Moatokni maklaks—the Modoc people—are remembered.”
“The Moatokni maklaks do not need your help,” the younger man declared, puffing himself up to tower over Connie.
Tom stepped forward at this. “We come in peace, but you act as though we are at war.”
“You are not our friend. You are a white man. You have stolen our land and ways of life. You force us to dress like you—to speak like you—to live as you do. We have no friendship.”
Connie frowned. “I’m sorry you don’t want to be our friend anymore. But even though it hurts me, I don’t wish you ill. My heart still cares for you, and I will still call you my friend. I will also pray for you and ask God to heal the pain in your heart.”