The Coming Storm by Tracie Peterson Page A

build the new house .
    He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the place would look like. Dianne had described her uncle’s plan in her last letter. It sounded wonderful. A huge two-story house in a U shape, with quarters in the middle upstairs for guests and two wings— one east and one west—for the two families living there. His family. His and Dianne’s. And Bram’s family. There would be a large wraparound porch for warm summer nights and a huge stone fireplace for cold winters when they’d remain cooped up until spring.
    Dianne was quite excited about the design, having worked alongside Bram through the winter months helping with the plans.
    I should be home helping. I should be with you, Dianne .
    Sitting back up, Cole scooted closer to his fire and pulled a small book from his coat pocket. He’d been keeping a journal on the trip since he’d left Topeka. He thought to share some of it with his mother and father but knew he would pore over each detail with Dianne, telling her where he was each night and what had happened in the camp. Now he feared there might not be another chance to tell her of his situation. If the Indians attacked at dawn, as seemed likely, he’d never have a chance to explain if he managed to get killed.
    He dug into his other pocket and procured a pencil. Feeling the night chill on his back, he wrote.
    Indians—Sioux, we believe—have been following us for nearly a week. We think they’ll attack at dawn. All the signs point to it. Dianne, I can’t risk dying without writing once again of how much I love you and how very sorry I am for the delay in getting home to you.
    You are all I think about, and even now, faced with the chance of death, my only regret is in leaving you—of never seeing you again. I think of you with every waking moment. I long for your touch, your embrace. No matter what happens tomorrow, I pray that you’ll somehow be able to read these words and know that I went to my grave loving you .
    Cole put the pencil away and yawned. He couldn’t keep writing and get enough rest to properly do his guard duty. Instead of replacing the book in his pocket, he stuffed it down inside his boot and eased back onto his blanket.
    He could see her smiling face—could remember how her hand felt in his. God just had to get him back to her safely. He’d brought them together, Cole reasoned. Surely He wouldn’t stop there. Drifting into a restless sleep, Cole remembered the way she felt in his arms and how very much he wanted to have a chance to share a life with this extraordinary woman.
    Oh, God, please get me home. Please give us a miracle .

    Sam woke Cole at exactly three. Cole sat up with a start. For a moment he gripped his revolver and scrutinized the young man standing over him. He could barely see him in the dark.
    “Sorry . . . didn’t mean to scare you, Cole. It’s your watch.”
    Cole calmed and released the gun. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he got to his feet. “Thanks, Sam. Sorry if I scared you . I rarely wake up shooting. I’m usually good about figuring out my targets first. What’s the situation?”
    The young man shook his head. “Mr. Keefer figures there are at least fifty, maybe more. They’re waiting for first light— leastwise that’s how Mr. Keefer has it figured.”
    Cole nodded. “Try to get some sleep. Nothing will happen for at least a couple of hours. No Indian in his right mind is going to try to fight us in the dark.”
    “Guess not.” Sam didn’t sound convinced but nevertheless walked off across the camp.
    Cole quickly gathered his things, then rounded up Buddy. He saddled the horse in record time, then tied on his gear. Daniel had plans to be ready to fight or flee with the first light. By Cole’s best guess that would come in about three hours. Maybe even a little earlier. They needed to be ready.
    By five, the camp was starting to stir. A baby cried in one of the wagons. It gave Cole a sickening sensation in his stomach.