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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781509220670 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Wild Rose Press |
| Publication date: | 06/11/2018 |
| Pages: | 344 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.72(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
July 4, 1885, Aspen, Colorado
It was the smell, the unforgettable stench of burning horseflesh that turned Jesse Colburn's head. He didn't need to see what was on fire, in his gut he already knew — the barn. His stomach retched. Hungry red flames licked at the twilight sky just beyond the familiar treetops. Wiping sweaty waves of hair from his eyes, he leaned in low and gripped his mustang's worn reins. Without a word, Rusty, his horse and longtime companion, knew what to do, and together they raced down Independence Pass toward home.
"Andy!" Jesse called as he leaped off his horse and ran toward the barn. He grabbed the closest grooming bucket and tossed the brushes aside. Water splashed his boots as he filled the bucket from the trough and hurled it at the blaze. One bucket of water had no effect. He had to get to the horses.
"Where the hell are you?" he yelled.
A muffled cry came from the barn.
"No." Sucking in his breath, he struggled to hear the noise again. Then he heard it, a shout from inside the inferno. Jesse battered the barn door with his boot. He kicked it open, emitting flames so hot he staggered and fell.
Smoke flooded his lungs. He coughed into the crook of his arm attempting to suppress the invading odor of death. Forcing away rising panic, he shielded his face with his arm and braced himself. Against intense waves of heat, he plunged through the doorway. The crackle of splintering wood roared in his ears. Debris, charred remnants of a lifetime of sweat and hard work, surrounded him.
Violent coughing erupted at his side. "Andy, get out of here!"
"Get the damn horses," the foreman choked out.
"I will." Andy was too old for this. "Get out of here."
Timber sparked above. Jesse dove as part of the loft fell.
"Andy!"
No reply came. Jesse pushed himself to his knees and crawled to where his pa's oldest friend had stood moments before. "Where are you?" Clawing at the dirt, his fingers found a limp lifeless body. Fear clutched his chest. He threw off his hat, twisted a clump of the old man's shirt in his fist, and heaved him over his shoulder.
Jesse staggered, blinded by the flames and searing heat as he fumbled through the smoldering barn. Smoke singed his lungs. With his memory guiding him, he prayed he'd make it to the door. His knee struck something hard. Andy nearly toppled from his shoulder. He kicked at the object blocking his path. He gagged, realizing it was one of his stallions.
Jesse's lungs ached for air. Smoke and death encircled him, taunting him.
"Move!" He screamed helplessly at the dead horse. Pain shot through his arms and legs. His muscles cramped until he found another surge of strength. He regained his footing and stepped around the once-prized animal and through the burning doorframe.
Cool mountain air filled his chest, and he fell to his knees releasing his oldest friend.
"Andy?" he cried, shaking him. "Answer me, damn it." He shook him again and collapsed onto the old man's rigid chest.
"You're too stubborn to die." He begged for a reply. Andy had been running the ranch since Jesse's first pair of boots. He couldn't lose him too.
Suddenly, Andy gasped for breath and started coughing.
"You know I can't run this ranch without you," Jesse said, relieved.
The old man grabbed Jesse's shirt pulling him closer. "Did you get 'em?" The dry and rough sound to his voice was almost a plea. "Did you save the horses?"
Jesse couldn't look at him. Not when the man's lifetime of toil and sweat turned to an ashen grave right before his eyes. Sorrow caught his throat. "They're gone."
"Then you've come to it." He released his grip on Jesse's shirt and dropped his head to the dirt coughing. "Luke Tremain torched that fire."
"Don't talk. You need to drink." Jesse's fists clenched the water bucket's handle. His hands shook as he tried to pour water into the old man's mouth. Andy swatted the bucket away and coughed again.
Jesse squatted next to him. "You could have died." He splashed cool water onto their clothes. "You risked your life to save the stallions."
"To save the ranch." Andy spasmed with a cough. "I was too late. That son-of-a-bitch stole your pa's blood and sweat right out from under ya."
"I said stop talking." Jesse trudged toward the barn. Yelling at Andy wasn't right, but the man had to save his breath and stop predicting the damn future.
The fire raged and ingested almost everything. He still had his land and cattle. Luke scared most Aspen ranchers into selling their land to the railroad for a pittance. Now, the only thing standing in Luke's way of railroad riches was Jesse's Enchantment Ranch.
After a few minutes he walked back. "I ain't done in."
"Your cattle ain't worth their feed." Andy labored to sit up. "Face it, Son, you can't pony up enough money in time to save your ranch with the crow bait you got left." Jesse hauled him to his feet. "You needed them horses."
Luke Tremain wasn't getting Enchantment Ranch — no one was. Within the past year, Jesse buried both Ma and Pa right here. Losing his ranch would be disgrace enough. Losing his folks' final resting place, at the hands of Luke Tremain? Never. He bit down hard and tasted the metallic mix of blood and sweat on his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. This time it was his blood. Next time it would be Luke's.
CHAPTER 2July 14, 1885, Boston, Massachusetts
With an exasperated sigh, Samantha Ward leaned out her second story bedroom window. "What are you doing here, J.W.? You agreed to visit the convent during the day and use the front door like a normal person." Her father never took a shine to being called anything remotely close to "Pa" so she, like everyone else, called him J.W., short for John Ward.
"And get a scolding from the 'Good Sisters'? Don't think so. Come down here."
"No," Samantha said as loudly as she dared. After living with the Sisters of St. Joseph for a few years, the nuns moved her room to the second floor thinking that would deter her father's sporadic and drunken visits. He still came, just yelled louder.
"Got a partin' gift for you," he called.
Samantha shook her head. "Pay off your debts, not me."
"I'm leaving for Aspen tonight."
"Running away again? Who's after you this time?" In her twenty years, she'd been talked into and fooled into so many dishonest endeavors she swore she'd never trust him again. No one did. Which is why on her twelfth birthday, the good citizens of Boston decided she'd be better off in the care of the Sisters.
"Just got a telegram from Aspen. I am getting my hands on some land out there."
"You need money to buy land." Believing him became too painful years ago. "I'm going back to bed."
"Sam!"
He'd never said it, but she knew that raising a daughter scared the hell out him. It was no coincidence that just when she started looking more like a girl than a boy, he shortened her name.
"If you don't come down here for your present, I'm going to climb up there."
"Sure," she scoffed. It was just another attempt to get money from her.
"Listen to me," he insisted.
"Sh!" she hissed, lowering the window.
"I'm off now. I'll send you a telegram when I get there. If anything happens to me, look up Luke Tremain."
"Luke Tremain?" She shoved the window open. "You said he was a no good son of a mudsill. You trust him?"
"Hell no, but he's gettin' me a deal on a ranch."
"A deal?" Sam yelled dangerously loud. "Are you swindling some rancher, J.W.?"
Muffled footsteps sounded in the hall. The glimmer of candlelight cast its sliver of a shadow on the floor below her bedroom door. It was probably just Sister Mary Ellen sneaking a snack again, but getting caught talking to J.W. could mean eviction or worse — disappointing the Sisters. She couldn't take that chance, so she quietly closed the window and dove into bed.
"You'll come when I'm settled. I'm going to make things right. You'll see."
"Ugh," she groaned, still able to hear him. He liked to remind her that she was a cowboy's daughter and belonged in the West. He would have been the father she deserved, he'd say, if they just lived in Aspen. But after all that had happened over the years, she wasn't sure where she, or he, belonged.
"The gift — it's what you always wanted."
Her heart pounded. Someone was going to hear him.
"Don't you worry about me," he said before his voice finally melted into silence.
Don't worry? It was his favorite thing to say. As a child, she had held onto his coat-sleeves with the strength of an ox each time he walked out the door. Too many nights had turned into mornings when she feared she would never see him again.
She replayed his words in her head. A gift she always wanted? What she always wanted was a father she could ... wait. Was it Mother's bowie knife? She bolted across the room and flung open the window. She craned her neck into the night sky. The sound of crickets filled the crisp air. "I thought you ..."
He was gone, but a pouch awash in the familiar scent of worn leather lay on the sill. He climbed up here? She clutched the soft bundle to her chest and held her breath. Huddled before a hastily lit candle, she unfolded the wrappings. The sparkle of silver danced in her hands. He remembered how much she wanted this piece of her mother.
A long-lost smile stretched across her face. What had Mother thought when she opened this on her wedding night? Mother was a Boston girl who fell for a cowboy. That's what J.W. said anyway, back in the days when he would talk about her. He promised her on her deathbed that their daughter would be raised back in her hometown. He'd kept that promise. The only one he ever did.
The sleek steel glided across her hand. Her fingers swept over a small ruby soldered in the hilt. J.W. had concealed the knife along with his memories of her mother. Sam had tried to reach the buried parts of him, but she'd failed and his demons took him away long before the nuns took her in.
The bowie knife was sacred to him so why was he giving it to her tonight? He was up to something, something that made him think he might never see her again.
She glanced at the window. The knot in her belly began to twist as it always did whenever he thought he was acting like a good parent. The ache in her stomach hadn't been this bad since the time he showed up at mass announcing his intentions to change and be a good father. Archbishop Williams, along with the rest of the congregation, pretended he wasn't even there. Drunk, he tripped and landed in the first pew. Instantly, his proclamations had turned to snoring for everyone to see and hear at communion. He was a swindler, a liar, and a drunk. He was also the only real family she had.
For him to team up with Luke Tremain meant he was in deep this time. She tore off her nightgown and threw on her dress. Rummaging through her sparse wardrobe, she unearthed her cowboy boots — contraband in her home for the improperly parented. Covering the bowie knife in soft leather wrapping, she slid her present under her pillow.
Years ago, she learned to accumulate only enough belongings that could easily fit through her bedroom window. But tonight she'd be back, so she grabbed her usual rock along with her secret stash of money. The nuns forced her to give every penny she had earned, won, or swindled to the poor. But money was security, so she gave up enough to cleanse her sins and kept the rest.
"This is the last time I'm going to save your hide, J.W." With a deep breath, she slipped quietly down the stairs. The door on the main floor groaned open. Nudging the rock into place, she propped the door ajar for a safe return.
"J.W.," she called into the darkness.
No answer.
Nausea rolled in her belly. He wasn't really going to leave her again, was he? No, he wouldn't.
"J.W.?" The sound of her breathing was all that filled the night until the whistle of the Boston and Albany blew, announcing its imminent departure.
"No!" She spied the dim lights of the gas lamps at the train depot and ran for them.
Smoke and ash filled the air as the thunder of her boots pounded the wooden stairs. She rounded the train platform. "Wait!" It was too late. The caboose was already snaking its way toward Worcester.
He'd left. "Don't worry," he had said. They both knew better.
* * *
The tapping of Sam's boot kept time with the pounding of her heart as she surveyed the Boston Train Depot. Black smoke curled through the locomotive's cars and windows, engulfing the platform in its blinding ash. She had returned to the convent after J.W. left, she had no choice, but after two days of her pacing, the Sisters knew something was amiss. They also knew just what to say to get the truth out of her. If Boston had nuns enforcing the law instead of sheriffs, there'd be a lot fewer criminals on the streets. Confessing was the easy part. It was being cooped up in the convent, hovered over and watched day and night that Sam couldn't take anymore. Ten days had passed with no word from J.W. and with each passing hour the expressions on the Sisters' faces hardened, their smiles more forced their eyes downcast.
No one could replace a parent, but the Sisters came close. In the beginning she clung to the nuns for the stability she never had. Over time, the prostitutes and orphans who lived there too had become a surrogate family. Which made her resent J.W. even more for what she was about to do.
Sister Mary Ellen was the easiest to fool. Sam wasn't allowed out of her sight. So she simply told the Sister that she had to see a friend off at the train station. Not exactly a lie.
"The train is about to leave. Are you sure your friend is coming?" Sister Mary Ellen asked.
"Yes," she said searching the faces of the passengers. A close friend and reformed prostitute at the convent assured her that the nuns' lawyer was going to be on the train. "He's as bright as mineshaft. Afraid of women, won't try nothing. You'll be as safe as Reverend Mother at a whore house." Having met him before, Sam agreed that Wade Rush was the perfect man for her plan.
She took a deep breath as she spied the young lawyer boarding the train. When the last of the first-class coaches passed, she slid a note into the nun's hand.
"You are the friend. Please share this letter at home and tell them not to worry. I'll send a telegram when I get there."
"Not to worry? What are you ...? Get where?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't risk losing him. I know you don't agree, but there is good in him." Wrapping her arms around the nun, she breathed in the fragrance of maple and molasses, the comforting scent of the woman who had wiped her tears and made her laugh over the past few years. "I'll miss you," Sam said. With sweaty fingers, she lifted her skirts and raced for the back of the train. She leapt onto the boarding crate and gripped the warm steel railing and climbed the stairs.
"Goodbye!" she cried to Sister Mary Ellen, who stood dumbfounded on the platform clutching the letter.
In the coach, plumes of smoke filled the cramped quarters. She spied Wade sitting alone peering through wire-rimmed glasses, his nose burrowed in a book as he chomped on a roll of beef jerky. She slid down on the bench next to him. Gusts of gray soot wafted through the air and the engine screamed as it began its steady chug west, sending her stomach fluttering as the train lurched forward.
Allowing herself one last look, she leaned over him and peered out the window. Sister Mary Ellen was still there staring at the letter.
Sam bowed her head. She was no nun, but she prayed they'd forgive her all the same.
"Tickets, please, sir," the conductor said to Wade. "And your wife's,sir?" he added patiently.
Wade coughed up his beef jerky and reddened under his spectacles. "My wife?"
"Here it is." Sam handed her ticket to Wade. The man nodded and took her ticket. He frowned at Wade clearly disapproving of a wife handling her own ticket. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dusty window and smiled. He thought they were married. Just as she had planned.
* * *
Time dragged by as the train jolted its way through the countryside. By Albany, Sam finally convinced Wade to pretend to be her husband. Of course, it took scaring him into thinking the nuns would never forgive him otherwise. He was clearly jittery about either her plan or his trip, which one she wasn't quite sure. She didn't press him, even when he said that he had an important family matter in California and cryptically stated something about needing God on his side as much as possible.
She wiped the foggy remnants of her breath from the coach's window. As they left the cities behind them, the stench of the railcar grew more pungent. She buried her face in her lavender scented handkerchief hoping to mask the stale odor of her fellow passengers. Six days into their journey, they finally reached Colorado. Towns and streets had faded away long ago. Just past Denver, enormous mountains filled the windows. Her belly fluttered knowing that in a few hours Aspen would be just a stagecoach ride away.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Rocky Mountain Runaway"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Kathryn E. Crawford.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
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