Desperate to escape a mundane future as a Virginia planter’s wife, Julia Hancock seizes her chance for adventure when she wins the heart of American hero William Clark. Though her husband is the famed explorer, Julia embarks on her own thrilling and perilous journey of self-discovery.
With her gaze ever westward, Julia possesses a hunger for knowledge and a passion for helping others. She falls in love with Will’s strength and generous manner, but, like her parents, he is a slave owner, and Julia harbors strong opinions against slavery. Still, her love for Will wins out, though he remains unaware of her beliefs.
Julia finds St. Louis to be a rough town with few of the luxuries to which she is accustomed, harboring scandalous politicians and miscreants of all types. As her husband and his best friend, Meriwether Lewis, work to establish an American government and plan to publish their highly anticipated memoirs, Julia struggles to assume the roles of both wife and mother. She is also drawn into the plight of an Indian family desperate to return to their own lands and becomes an advocate for Will’s enslaved.
When political rivals cause trouble, Julia’s clandestine aid to the Indians and enslaved of St. Louis draws unwanted attention, placing her at odds with her husband. Danger cloaks itself in far too many ways, leading her to embrace the courage to save herself and others through a challenge of forgiveness that will either restore the love she shares with Will or end it forever.
Praise for West of Santillane:
'"West of Santillane" is not just an account of historical events but also a story of love, resilience, and self-discovery. Brook Allen successfully blends romantic, historical, and adventurous elements, offering readers a captivating and memorable reading experience. The book is a warm recommendation for those who appreciate well-documented historical fiction and engaging life narratives.'
~ The Historical Fiction Company
'Brook Allen’s novel West of Santillane is guaranteed to tug at your heartstrings, so have some tissues nearby. This book is so captivating that it begs to be adapted into a movie. Seeing these characters brought to life on the big screen would be amazing. This book will definitely be remembered as one of my favourite reads of the year.'
~ Ellie Yarde, 5* Editorial Review, The Coffee Pot Book Club
Sheheke prodded the fire, and Lodge plopped down next to his mother, shaking a buffalo-bladder rattle and grinning playfully with his sparse teeth. Yellow Corn spoke some solemn-sounding words to Sheheke, and he nodded in obvious agreement, not taking his eyes off of me.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I learn much from these years on this journey to see the Great White Father, but my greatest lesson is that the season of my people is changing. It is a storm I cannot stop. None of the Hidatsa, Lakota, Arikara, or Omaha can stop it. This storm is a blizzard of white men that will change these lands forever.”
I glanced at Yellow Corn, dismayed to see her cheeks wet with tears.
“Jefferson, your Great White Father, spoke peace,” Sheheke continued, “but he also spoke power. My own eyes saw the white man’s cities, armies, and people who number like kernels of corn at harvest. Jefferson’s words invited peace—or it will be war. Americans have more guns, more people, more warriors. I saw this. I know this to be true.”
My pulse pounded, for Sheheke saw what Will saw—what I saw now too. The west’s gateway had been flung open, and nothing would ever be the same. How long the process of transition and change would take, none of us knew, not Sheheke and certainly not me. Would it be peaceful or forceful, with lives lost? Would it come in my lifetime? In Will’s? Would there be enough room for white settlers and Indians to share?
Yellow Corn had risen and gone to a satchel, rummaging. She pulled out a long calumet—the traditional sacred pipe smoked by the Plains peoples, solemnly presenting it to her husband. Sheheke removed dried plant matter from a pouch at his waist, tamping it down into the clay pipestem. It made me smile, thinking of Papa or Meriwether doing the same thing.
He raised the pipe, a long eagle feather dangling from the stem and strings of buffalo-horn beads and a bushy coyote tail embellishing its length. In a high, mournful voice, he began crooning, chanting.
I bowed my head. There was no telling what his song was about, other than the sound of it was moving, reverent, timeless—a sort of blessing.
When it ended, I looked up, and Sheheke slowly brought the pipe back down. Yellow Corn brought over a braid of smoldering sweetgrass to light it. When I could smell its earthy scent at last, Sheheke placed it to his lips, inhaling deeply and pausing before releasing a lengthy exhale.
He spoke, “Lone Man—a great spirit—did not bring us the pipe. No, our people and those of other tribes say that a woman brought us the first pipe and taught us to use it. It was sacred and good. Since then, we share pipes with those we wish to trust and call our own.”
He extended the pipe to me with both hands, and tentatively I accepted, bringing it to my mouth. I inhaled a little—not much. I didn’t want to dishonor myself or Sheheke by coughing, thereby not meeting his expectations.
Acrid, bitter—a gag started at the base of my windpipe, but I held my breath and sat motionless until the sensation eased, blowing the smoke out in a swift puff. Forcing myself to swallow hard, I took several rapid breaths, preventing myself from hacking, swallowing several more times, my eyes watering.
I gave the pipe back. He took another draw, waiting again and then sighing the smoke back out with relaxed ease, handing it over to me again. This went on a while until finally, after eight or nine exchanges, Sheheke handed the calumet back to Yellow Corn. He stood, motioning me to rise too, and as I did our hands joined above the small fire that continually burned inside the lodge.
I wasn’t at all sure where this was leading.
“We have not traveled too far a distance together, but we have come many miles, we four,” Sheheke said, nodding at his family. “Today, you brought news making my heart glad. Today, you have become my daughter. From now on, I will call you Óti shí Mííhe—Kind Lodge Woman, for you have come bringing goodness through your gifts and your time. You have helped us make a home where we were not welcome.”
On the other side of the lodge, Yellow Corn began singing in the same high-pitched, wailing sort of vocalese with which they made music.
It was the most moving experience I’d ever had in my life.
While riding home, I cried off and on. I was so filled with wonder and pride. What would Mama and Papa think? Their youngest daughter from Santillane being adopted by Sheheke—Chief of the Mandans.
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