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Summary
Summary
The First Dance takes beloved mountain man Barnaby Skye's family to its third generation in North America.
Miles City, Montana. 1885. Barnaby Skye's mixed-blood son, Dirk, has just married a beautiful Metis girl, Therese. But Dirk's position as a civilian translator for the U.S. army threatens to shatter their union.
Montana ranchers wrestling with livestock theft and the incursion of settlers into their range have persuaded the army to send the Metis people back to Canada. The military enlists Dirk to translate between the two sides in the brutal campaign.
Unable to reconcile her love for Dirk with the pain he is inflicting on her people, Therese flees on their wedding night. Heartbroken, Dirk rides off with the army.
Therese has a powerful vision. She is inspired to build a church that will be a gathering place for her people and a symbol of their resistance to deportation.
The suffering refugees--driven into the wilderness by Yankee soldiers and cruel ranch vigilante gangs--find a friend in Dirk and an inspiration in Therese. In their common cause, the lovers are reunited
Author Notes
Richard S. (Shaw) Wheeler was born in Milwaukee in 1935 and grew up in nearby Wauwatosa. Wheeler spent three years in Hollywood in the mid-50s, where he worked in a record store and took acting lessons while struggling as a screenwriter. He eventually returned home, and attended the University of Wisconsin at Madison.
He spent over a decade as a newspaperman, working as an editorial writer for the Phoenix Gazette, editorial page editor for the Oakland, California, Tribune, reporter on the Nevada Appeal in Carson City, and reporter and assistant city editor for the Billings, Montana, Gazette.
In 1972, he turned to book editing, working in all for four publishers through 1987. As an editor for Walker & Company he edited twelve Western novels a year. Sandwiched between editing stints, in the mid-70s he worked at the Rancho de la Osa dude ranch in Sasabe, Arizona, on the Mexican border. There, in the off season, he experimented with his own fiction and wrote his first novel, Bushwack, published by Doubleday in 1978.
Five more Western novels followed Bushwack before Wheeler was able to turn to writing full time: Beneath the Blue Mountain (1979), Winter Grass (1983), Sam Hook (1986), Richard Lamb (1987) and Dodging Red Cloud (1987).
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Though series anchor Barnaby Skye dropped dead a couple of books ago, the Sky's West series lives on as it chronicles the life of Barnaby's son, Dirk, a mixed-blood school teacher and civilian translator for the U.S. Army in 1885 Montana. Much like in The Owl Hunt, in which Wheeler explored the shameful treatment by whites of Native Americans, he exposes the prejudice against people of mixed blood, especially the Metis, a predominantly French-Cree people driven south by the Canadian government. Dirk is sympathetic: while he is tolerated for his linguistic skills, he knows he will never be accepted because of his mixed blood, and after his new Metis bride, Therese, runs away on their wedding day, Dirk is ordered to join an army expedition to force the Metis back north to Canada, a task he hates and cannot understand. He's soon dismissed for insubordination and quickly decides to aid the Metis. Therese, meanwhile, is guided by a saint to build a church for the Metis. Aided by a mysterious Irishman and a crafty and sympathetic U.S. marshal, Therese and Dirk's separate efforts achieve surprising results, but at great cost. This sad, tragic tale finds in Dirk a character worth following. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
The new novel in the multigenerational Barnaby Skye series finds the late Barnaby's mixed-blood son, Dirk, translating for the U.S. Army in Montana. What should be a celebratory day turns dark when Dirk's new bride, Therese, a Metis woman, flees the wedding ceremony and informs Dirk she doesn't want to see him again. Dirk reluctantly returns to his job, and his next assignment is a distasteful one The army has orders to chase recent Metis settlers from their homes to free up more range for politically powerful cattlemen. Dirk soon balks at the injustice and becomes an advocate for the displaced refugees. Meanwhile, Therese has had a vision and begins the difficult task of building a church that can serve as an anchor for the Metis community. Initially, Dirk and Therese work independently, unaware of one another's efforts, until their paths inevitably cross. A typically solid Wheeler western, featuring intelligent, believable protagonists and more than a few lessons regarding the difficulty immigrants faced in establishing community and broad acceptance in their adopted country.--Lukowsky, We. Copyright 2010 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Dirk Skye, the half-British, half-Shoshone son of Barnaby Skye from the long-running "Skye's West" series, is a very happy man. He just placed a silver wedding ring on the hand of Therese Trouville, a half-French, half-Metis refugee from Canada. After their first dance following the marriage ceremony, she dances with many others then disappears. But the new groom can't search for her. Skye, a civilian translator for the U.S. Army, must leave on a debatable mission that takes him throughout Montana. He is supposed to help the army flush out many of the Metis who have been exiled from Canada. Meanwhile, readers learn the whereabouts of Therese, whose religious visions have set her off on a grand quest. Will these two lovers reunite? And how will the much-hunted Metis make it through the winter? VERDICT Suspense, romance, and survival themes intertwine nicely as this second-generation star of the Skye series settles in for what many loyal Western genre fans undoubtedly hope will be a long ride.-Keddy Ann Outlaw, formerly with Harris Cty. P.L., Houston, TX (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
one The vows came next. Dirk Skye had asked Father LeBoeuf to employ both his Shoshone and British names when the moment came to recite the vows. "North Star, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others keep thee only unto her as long as ye both shall live?" "I will," the young man said. "Therese, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him for as long as ye both shall live?" "Oui," Therese said. Dirk gazed happily toward her. She was small, glowing, and dark, and her eyes were only for him. A bit of moisture on her brow caught a few strands of her chestnut hair. She stood across from him, lit by the lamps of the saloon, wearing a simple gown of white muslin, which had cost her family all the cash it possessed, and it possessed very little indeed. She was a refugee from Canada, where her people had been dispossessed in the great Red River upheaval of the 1860s. Like Dirk, she carried two bloods, hers French and Cree, his British and Shoshone. The Red River Métis had flooded into the States in the 1870s, but they remained dispossessed, often unable to take up land and renew their farming life. Therese was very thin. Father LeBoeuf hurried on. "I pronounce that they are man and wife," the priest said. Dirk had not caught what had been said before that. He only knew he was now married. And this wisp of a woman facing him was his forever, and he was hers forever. And they would live together, rear a family together, and someday die in the midst of love. He gazed at her through the consecration of their marriage and the benediction. She gazed back at him, something wild flaring in her eyes, as though this marriage would burn itself out on this altar, leaving only a pile of ash. They held hands. Her left-hand ring finger now was encased by a small band of silver which shone brightly, reflecting the lamps of the saloon. There was no church in Miles City, and no meeting hall, and only an itinerant priest drifting through the Yellowstone Valley, offering the sacraments to whoever sought them. A priest with a French name was good enough for her people. Nothing else would do. "Amen," the priest said, and smiled at them. Dirk remembered to smile back. All his smiles were for Therese. She was not smiling, and seemed to stare at the saloon lanterns above. Dirk was alone. She had a dozen relatives there, and fifty more Métis friends. He lacked so much as a brother to stand with him; she had sisters and aunts and nieces and childhood friends to stand with her. His family was dead. He wanted to kiss her, but didn't know if that was proper. She smiled slightly, as if to say yes, kiss me now. But somehow he didn't. There were parents and grandparents and siblings and nephews and brothers watching. He took both her hands in his own, and she squeezed his, and then the Métis swarmed them, shaking hands, hugging both, laughter lighting their faces. There were so many of them, some with liquid brown eyes, others as pale as Europeans, others burnt chestnut, most of them the color of gold. One thing about the Métis: they didn't breed true to any form or color. Their clothing was as diverse as their flesh. The women wore neck-to-ankle velvet in subdued colors, with moccasins underneath. The men mostly wore brown corduroy pants, gaudy beaded moccasins, and Hudson's Bay Company wool shirts. And many wore the florid red and blue and white sashes of their people, two or three yards of bright-colored webbing that held their pants up and wrapped around their necks and served as a badge. Now they crowded close, a babble of oddly guttural French laced with Cree words, filling the gloomy tavern with its smoking lamps. He slid an arm about her thin shoulder and shook the hands of her people as they clustered close. Her father, Montclair Trouville, offered Dirk a bear hug; his wife, Helene, offered a soft brown hand. Her brother, Francois, shook hands heartily and combed his black beard with his fingers. Her cousins--the Desportes--were lined up to embrace the bride and groom. Their friends, the Lesages, were waiting patiently, and so were others Dirk didn't know. Ah! They were a bubbling lot. Their lovely Therese had taken the vow of matrimony, and with a fine fellow, himself two-blooded, even if one blood was Anglo. But some things could be forgiven, if just barely. The gloomy tavern absorbed the joy, which seemed to cast light into its bleak corners. It was one of many thrown up in the settlement to cater to the rough blue-clad soldiers at Fort Keogh just to the west, along the Yellowstone River. "Marie fait la soupe." "Voici le pain." Dirk Skye listened to the Métis version of French. The saloon's proprietor, Billy Stiles, hovered behind the bar, disapproving of everything about the goddamned foreigners except the occasional brandy he poured. Therese's people had stocked the bar with les baigne, or fried bread; la rubaboo, or soup; les boulettes, meatballs; soupe au pois, bean soup; and le flaon, custard, and some cracked bowls and wooden spoons for all this. There were no English-speaking people other than Stiles, the priest, and himself, but the Métis knew a little of it, and Dirk knew enough French and some Cree. He had needed it to win the heart of Therese, whose English was small and tentative. None of the soldiers from the fort were present, and by design, because there were walls of silence and moats of trouble between the soldiers and the French-Cree people who called themselves Métis. Dirk Skye was employed by the United States Army as a civilian translator, and in fact he was an intermediary between the officers and the various tribes around the post, including the Crows, the Sioux, and the Cheyenne. It was not the best of jobs, but it was employment, and many a day he could operate on his own, far from the stern command. He knew half a dozen Indian tongues, as well as French and some Spanish he'd picked up. Enough to make him valuable to the army. It had been his bleak task to inform the French-Crees who were drifting into the United States in the wake of the troubles in Canada, which drove them from their ancestral holdings, that they had no status here, were not citizens, could not take up land, and had to move on. It had never been a pleasant task. They were hungry, these people. They wanted only a little land for their farms, or a corner or two in towns to set up shops. They wanted only to practice their faith. They wanted only to settle peaceably, speak their odd tongue, and offer their devotions to the Virgin. And that was how he had met Therese, thin to gauntness, with eyes bitter-bright and alive with both joy and bleakness--and beautiful beyond anything Dirk had ever known. She had delft-blue French eyes and strong Cree cheeks. She had a voice with an edge, a voice that carried, so that if she said she loved him, everyone in the country heard it. If he had been smitten in one blow, so had she. He had come, actually, to inform her parents that they could not settle in the Yellowstone Valley above the fort, on land claimed by a rancher who wanted the good hay land for himself. He had come to tell them that they must move on, orders of Major Bullfinch, and they must abandon their gardens, pile their goods into their creaking Red River carts, and be on their way. And had fallen in love. Father LeBoeuf devoured la véyant, meat; la gallet, bannock; aeñ paták, potatoes; and a little brandy. Stiles eyed the Métis through hooded eyes. Dirk knew what the man was thinking, and it didn't matter. Let him think what he would. Dirk had paid him out of his small wage and spent the rest on a silver ring. He heard the fiddles. This time there would be two, one played by Pierre Duplessis and the other by Jacques Langlois. The Métis had migrated far from the Red River, but the fiddles came with them. They were homemade, wrought from maple and birch. He heard the fiddlers tighten the strings, until they were more or less in tune, and then there was a sudden burst of scraping fiddle music, a lively jig, almost without rhythm as the crowd quieted and sipped and waited to dance with the bride, which they all would. Every male Métis would jig her once, twice, thrice, and kiss her for good measure, and secretly ache inside. It was an ideal place for a dance. Plank floors worn smooth by army boots stretched across the room. A few homemade tables, hewn from local wood, mostly miserable cottonwoods, lined the walls. A wagon wheel chandelier, with three smoky lamps, tossed wan light into the evening shadows. Stiles propped the front door open, letting in a welcome evening breeze. And then they waited. Dirk finally realized they were waiting for him. The first dance. He slid a hand into Therese's and guided her to the floor and the fiddles exploded, almost a screech of noise scraped out of catgut. Dirk didn't know a waltz from a quadrille, but he swept Therese around, and the Métis howled. She smiled up at him. "You are beautiful," he said. "You are plain," she replied. "And non, you can't dance." There was absolute truth in it. He had broken mirrors simply by staring into them. Babies howled when they saw him. He could no more do the jig, or the step dance these people performed, than he could bay at the moon. The close air drew moisture to her face until it glowed in the yellow lamplight, and her hair clung to her forehead. "You will be even more beautiful later," he said. " Mon Dieu! A barbarian," she replied. "Do you think I will surrender?" "No," he said, "you'll resist to the last." She dug her fingernails into his arms. "The better to annoy you." He rattled her around the plank floor, and she bore it for a while. "Métis, they can jig," she said. "But you are British." "Shoshone," he said. "My papa, he is drunk," she said. "It's your sin, getting married in a saloon." She forgave him his British heritage, or at least she endured it. The fiddles whined and chattered, and one of her brothers, Pierre, cut in. Dirk knew he'd not hold his bride close again until every Métis male in the smoky saloon had stomped away the eve with her. The raw spirits parleyed by Billy Stiles were inflaming the evening. He was selling the Métis his absolute worst. It didn't matter whether it lit lamps or went down throats. The fiddles sawed away, the messieurs and mesdames whirled, a fine aura of lust and piety settled over the celebrants, the priest vanished, and the evening settled into merriment. Now Francois was dancing with her, then Pierre again, then Boniface, then Alexandre, then a stranger. Moisture rose on their faces, making them glow in the lamplight. The fiddlers never stopped. While one rested, the other sawed out new melodies, more and more of them sad or sorrowful. It was as if the fiddler were directing the evening, setting its mood, and now the mood was that the Métis had lost their jewel to an outsider, and the wedding was sung as loss and the breaking of a dozen hearts. But of that Dirk Skye had only the faintest understanding. He watched them whirl his bride. He watched their big male hands slide up and down her shoulders, their fingers yearning. He watched the Métis women in velvet watch the men in corduroy. He sipped Billy Stiles's rotgut and waited. At some future moment he would cut in, reclaim Therese, and hustle her into the night, and the celebration would swiftly wind down. He would take her to the flatboat at the riverbank, pole her across the lazy Yellowstone, and walk with her a mile or so up Sunday Creek to a comfortable cabin with a fine fireplace and a great mound of buffalo robes and bearskins, which would be their heaven for a few days until his leave from the post came to an end. When he judged that the time was right, and the Métis celebration was withering, he went to claim his bride. But she wasn't there. Well, then she was changing her clothes somewhere. But he didn't know where. No doubt in a room nearby. But she didn't appear. He headed toward the foul outhouse behind the saloon and knocked. But she wasn't there. He looked for her among the departing Métis, but she was not among them. He tried the raw streets of Miles City, but she was not there. He called to her in the shadows, but she didn't respond. He stopped knots of Métis, but she was not among them. He returned to the saloon to await her return, but she didn't return. Billy Stiles was blowing out lamps and eyeing him without curiosity. He walked the rutted streets of Miles City, calling to her. "Therese, Therese," but she did not answer him. He tried the riverbank; she might be waiting for him there. But she was not there. Her lovely white muslin gown did not catch the moonlight. He hiked this way and that, in ever wider circles, but she was gone. Copyright (c) 2011 by Richard S. Wheeler Excerpted from First Dance by Richard S. Wheeler All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.