Brighter Tomorrows (6 page)

After eating their fill, they sat on the swing, him with a whiskey, she pillowing her head on his shoulder and enjoying the feel of his arm around her shoulders.

She glanced up. “What a horrible way to say you love me. You yelled it down the street.”

His eyes glittered. “Oh yeah? You screeched like an ol’ washerwoman, and it meant just as much to me.”

His words warmed her. “I hate that you’re a marshal.”

“May not be a marshal for long.”

She glanced up. “Why not?” 

“David Millet said he’s gettin’ tired. Been wantin’ to move to Cheyenne to be with his family since his wife died.  He offered me the sheriff position.”

“Would you even consider it?”

He sipped his whiskey. “Might, but only if the town approved two deputies. If one gets sick or hurt, I’d be stuck; two in a sticky situation is always better. I’m tired of movin’ around. Be nice to stay in one place. He’ll talk to the town fathers.”

“What about your brother, your house?”

He shrugged. “Jeff doesn’t need me. We’d stay in touch. I’d sell the house. I think there’s more attraction here.” When he winked, her heart twittered.

She met his gaze. “Make love to me.”

“Sweetheart, there is nothing in the world I’d like better. But not tonight. We’re both exhausted. And you’re more than vulnerable. When we make love, we both need to know it’s because of what’s in our hearts, not to wash away today’s horror.” His voice hinted of anguish.

“Tell me what’s wrong. You say you love me; that you might move here; and then, you refuse my offer. Don’t lie or lead me on. I couldn’t take that.”

“You could have been raped or murdered. I failed to protect you, just like I failed Bethany.” 

Anger surged, yet she caught herself, realizing that reinforcement of his worth, understanding, and love would make him see the truth.

“You did protect me. With your love, you gave me the fortitude to fight adversity. I was determined nothing would stand in my way to see what lies ahead for us. Otherwise, I would’ve folded and given in. Had I lived, I’d be forever floundering. Thank you, my love, for being my backbone, fortress, savior—and my true love.

His eyes glistened. “You humble me.” He kissed her tenderly, and that kiss alone said everything, even without his next words. “I love you so much, Callie. I didn’t refuse, I only postponed. Tonight, I’ll hold you in my arms and kiss you until we’re both breathless.
I need
to show you I love you and will never use you. After tonight…you’re fair game.”

♥ ♥ ♥

By early afternoon, Chase joined Callie at the celebration. They strolled past tables set in long rows with snacks, beverages, sandwiches, and fresh cut vegetables. They laughed as children of all ages grabbed bags of popcorn, or chose taffy, fudge or cookies off the tables, then run to catch up with friends. 

They shared popcorn while shouting encouragement to contestants throughout different events. Chase won the shooting contest easily, while Ben Tucker, the postmaster, won at archery. By three-thirty, they left so Callie could bake corn bread.

♥ ♥ ♥

Since Callie had most everything premeasured and organized on the kitchen table, she made simple work out of mixing the batter. Chase opened jars of canned corn. 

“Do you buy this or make it?” Chase asked smelling the bowl of sour cream.

She broke eggs into a bowl. “You can buy cultured, but I mix milk, vinegar, and heavy cream. It has to set, covered for twenty-four hours, then chilled until used.”

He started greasing the pans as she’d instructed. “Why use it?”

Callie stirred the corn meal into the mix. “It adds richer flavor, and cakes and breads bake more level instead of doming.”

They worked side by side until six pans of corn bread were baked, covered with a quilt in the wagon and the kitchen was tidy. Callie changed into a navy blue gingham dress and pulled her hair back with a bright red-and-white ribbon. Chase wore denim pants and a dark blue shirt.

As the wagon rolled along to the celebration grounds, Chase said, “You look lovely. Of course, you always do.”

She blushed. “Thank you. You look very handsome, as well.”

He winked, and her blush deepened. He flicked the reins and said, “So, you like to watch the children run and play. Do you want children?”

Their gazes met, and she actually glowed. “I’d love a houseful. More, if I were so blessed.”

The grin he gave her said he would do his best to oblige.

♥ ♥ ♥

Hand-in-hand, they milled around the grounds after eating their fill of supper. Chase praised her corn bread repeatedly. He’d chucked down four pieces. The festivities were in full swing, with baseball at one end and crochet at the other. Men pitched horseshoes while women tended their younger children.

While Matt and Chase played a game of horseshoes, the two women watched. Marianne turned to Callie. “Matt said he has months of training and wants to write to me. He asked that I do the same. Do you think I’m crazy?”

Callie smiled. “No, you’re not crazy at all. Sounds like you might have actually found someone worthy of you. Follow your heart. If he’s the one, it’ll be worth the wait.”

♥ ♥ ♥

Sheriff Millet clapped Chase’s back. “Had time to talk you up to most of the board. Most feel two deputies could work. Looks like the job’s yours, if you want it.”

“Sounds great. Thanks, Sheriff. Let’s talk tomorrow before I haul those three to Cheyenne.” They shook hands, and David tipped his head to Callie.

“Congratulations.” She gave his cheek a peck. He took her hand and began walking.

An hour before dusk, the band started playing.  Chase led Callie to that area and they danced three dances. He led her to the side, again among the crowd.

He turned to her and squeezed her hand. Keeping his voice low he said, “I feel our bond is so strong because I now know the value of such a precious gift and treasure it. I’m blessed you love me, and I’m so thankful you could trust me enough to find your heart and soul again.”

He held her left hand and went down on one knee. “I love you and I want that house of children to share our lives and love with. I want those brighter tomorrows with you. Callie, will you marry me?”

Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, and love beamed from her eyes. He held up a ring. His gaze captured hers—and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

“This ring was my mother’s. I ask you if you’ll accept this ring as a token of my love and fidelity. If you prefer another, I’ll—”

“Oh, Chase…it’s beautiful…Yes—I’m honored to accept this ring.” She smiled. “And yes, I will marry you.”

Chase placed the ring on her finger, stood, and kissed her lightly on the lips. Then, he whispered, “I love you.”

She repeated his words. The crowd roared.

Finding a spot away from the crowd, Chase explained he and Matt would be leaving tomorrow to take the three prisoners to Cheyenne.

“We’ll be gone two weeks…I’m wondering if that’ll be time enough to plan a wedding?”

Callie’s heart soared. “That will be just about perfect.”

Another boom rent the air, and the sky lit up with a brilliant display. Callie leaned back against Chase, savoring being held within his arms. Shouts from the crowd went up around them as a multitude of colors, sparkling and more dazzling than each one before, exploded overhead to shower down like colorful falling stars.

Chase tipped his head down and his breath fanned her ear. “What do you say to going home to make our own fireworks?”

Submitted by Beverly Wells

2 packages (6.5oz.) Betty Crocker Cornbread & Muffin mix

1 stick butter (soft)—can use light

8 oz. sour cream

8 oz. can cream corn

8 oz. can whole kernel corn

2 eggs

Preheat oven to 350’

Beat eggs with whip till blended. Mix: all ingredients. Pour into greased 9x12 pan

Bake approx. 30 minutes or until golden brown. Overbaking dries it out, under will be gooey.

Wait 10 minutes to cut. Serve—Mm mm, lip smackin’ good!

Refrigerate leftovers. Microwave 10 seconds or so to reheat. Always serve warm as honey or butter will taste so much better on it. May make smaller batches or larger, just portion accordingly—may to have change bake time.

**If you prefer to use
corn bread meal
then add the standard dry ingredients called for in corn bread recipe, and then all moist ingredients from this recipe.

** Homemade Sour Cream: ¼ cup milk, ¾ tsp. White Vinegar, 1 cup heavy cream, stand 10 min., store 24 hours at room temp. covered. Chill till used.

About Beverly Wells

For years Beverly Wells worked a hectic pace as a Public Health Nurse in Homecare while also serving on the Medical Reserve Corps for Homeland Security. Little did she know when she decided to escape from reality and write a historical romance it would set another whirlwind to swirling. Now as an award-winning author, she devotes her full time to making writing her career. Bev enjoys writing humorous, sensuous historical romance while including a lesson learned or raising awareness of a heartfelt issue, or just a darn good heartwarming tale. 

She feels blessed not only to live on one of the Finger Lakes in NYS with her husband (who patiently puts up with her crazy writing world) and her devoted walking buddy, Jamie, a rescued black lab mix, but to have a wonderful and loving son, daughter-in law and two fantastic granddaughters plus oodles of treasured friends. She enjoys all lake activity, Nascar, volunteering at the local shelter, flower gardening( so she can get her hands good and dirty) and cooking for gathered friends. 

For more information regarding Bev, visit her at
Prairie Rose Publications author page
, her website @
www.beverlywellsauthor.com
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FB
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twitter, blog @beverlywellsauthor.wordpress.com
or gmail her @
[email protected]
She’d love to hear from you.

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A Mail Order Bride Novel

(Originally published as Only When the Loon Sings)

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

Washington Territory, 1880

“Where are you, Luke Kincaid?” Morgan Prescott hissed through clenched teeth. “If you order a mail order bride, you should be here to meet her.”

Morgan’s ire was so festered from stewing over her future husband’s long-delayed arrival she was surprised her hair hadn’t smoldered by now. Her backside prickled unmercifully, and she squirmed for the hundredth time on the hard bench outside the weathered general store. Stretching her back, she flexed her shoulders and ground the tip of her high-laced black shoes into the dirt. All failed to release her frustration.

Nearly every man in this logging town had praised Luke Kincaid up and down for his exemplary leadership, backbreaking hard work, and infinite wisdom. Well, if he possessed all they claimed—it seemed mighty hard to believe from her standpoint—the paragon definitely lacked being punctual or considerate.

“And my tongue will tell you as much, Mr. Not-So-Perfect,” she vowed to the waning sunlight, as if it might agree. By God, she’d give him a lashing when the rude man showed his face. How embarrassing to be so blatantly neglected!

For the first hour or so, she and the women she’d befriended on the ship had chatted while the men sorted through the list of names. Once each had staked his claim, so to speak, he rushed his bride-to-be into the saloon to become better acquainted. Most would have the traveling preacher tie the knot tonight, Morgan figured.

And here she sat. Alone, discouraged, uncomfortable. Darn well offended. A loud creak rent the air as the saloon door opened, its harsh sound readily drowned out by the boisterous laughter from within.

“Ho, there, Missy,” Hans called, stepping past the doorway, not thirty feet away. “Ya sure ya won’t come inside, have something ta warm yur innards? It’s turnin’ a mite chilly out. Never thought Luke would be this long.”

Morgan returned the smile of the blond, bearded Swede who insisted on calling her Missy. She found his Swedish accent mingled with Western twang quite pleasant. He was a bear of a man, six foot or so of barreled chest, thick muscled arms, and broad shoulders that barely fit through a doorway, yet friendly, outgoing, and carefree.

“Thank you, Mr. Svenson,” she called, raising her voice over the cacophony from inside. “But I’m fine. I’m sure Mr. Kincaid will arrive soon.” She glanced at the sun as it set a notch lower. With each passing minute, the chill rose. At least her rising temper kept her blood bubbling.

“We won’t be havin’ any of that, now.” He closed the door, muffling the voices and music, and strode to her side. “I told ya we go by first names here. We’re like one happy family. Town’s too small to do otherwise.” His smile sent a twinkle to his eyes.

For one brief moment, Morgan thought of her family, the note she’d left on her bed. Were they distraught? She felt so unsure of herself in this ramshackle logging town, and she’d not seen much of it, so far. Of course, there wasn’t much to see. Just a vast wilderness—predominantly trees reaching halfway to the sky—far more remote than she’d expected. She felt no regret for her decision.
Yet
. But deep down, she hoped she hadn’t caused her parents, as uncaring and insensitive as they had been, to worry.

This town would be her new home, her new family. It had to be better than the type of life she’d endured up till now. She eyed the four unpainted log buildings that made up the town proper: a general store, a good-sized saloon, a livery of sorts, and one community catchall serving as post office, bank, church, and anything else it was needed to be. Each building stood by itself. Hand painted signs over doors bore no fanciness: Carl Turner’s General Store, Wet Your Whistle, Hank’s Livery, Town’s Building. She couldn’t read the many papers nailed to the outside of the latter. Set a few feet away from the row of buildings, a large bell hung from a wooden stand.

At the edge of town, about ten one- or two-room cabins, each on an acre or so of clearing, lined both sides of the wide road. Some boasted rough-sawn siding while others were constructed of logs, all weathered gray, with either round metal or stone chimneys. Hans had informed her Luke Kincaid’s cabin was one of many nestled throughout the dark, tall-pined forest. Her new home.

This isolated, desolate community of hardworking loggers appeared a far cry from anything she’d envisioned. Had she made the biggest mistake of her life? She was too tired, hungry, cold, and annoyed to think it all out at the moment.

Hans squatted, took her chilled hands within his and rubbed them. “Ya can stay another half hour. Then, yur comin’ inside. Ya upset about Rosie? Is that why ya won’t come in?”

Morgan smiled at his misplaced concern. She’d not been the least bit insulted when he’d chosen the robust, red-haired dance hall girl, Rosie O’Hara, over her. The two had taken one look at each other and that had been that.

“Not at all. I’m very sure the two of you were made for each other. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.” After knowing him only a few hours, she liked this man—as a friend. She’d felt no attraction to him, as a wife-to-be should. But Rosie O’Hara had. Stars had danced in the woman’s eyes the minute she laid eyes on him. And his eyes had mirrored Rosie’s.

What will I feel when I see Mr. Luke Kincaid?

Now, why had she thought there would be any instant attraction? They were strangers, for heaven’s sake. As long as they got along, that would be as good a start as any. She intended to be a good wife. Love, if she was lucky, might come over time. If not, she reminded herself, she’d need to be content with his friendship, a true and everlasting type of partnership.

Once again, the fleeting thought—disheartening, to say the least—whisked through her mind. Would he find fault with the new arrangement? Well, she’d not think about that possibility right now. It was his fault for being late. She felt a wave of satisfaction at that reminder.

Though Hans scowled as if still concerned, Morgan wanted none of the gaiety of the matched couples inside. Her anxiety fed her restlessness. Her temper needed the cool air.

“Ja, ya can stay another half hour. Then ya come in. Ya hear? You’ll need a good stiff drink by then, to warm ya.”

“Thank you. I promise I’ll come in then.” A stiff drink would probably put her to sleep. She’d never had more than small sips of delicate wine. Were the other women used to spirits? Besides the ten who claimed they’d been “dance hall girls” from various states, there was Sarah, a middle-aged widow, and eight spinsters ranging in age from their early twenties to forty.

He reached in his coat pocket and withdrew a pair of rawhide gloves. “Put these on. Your hands’ll be so cold by the time ya come in; ya won’t be able to nurse yur own drink.” His blue eyes danced with laughter, his smile warm, friendly, and very welcome.

She slid the large gloves on and was instantly toastier. “Thank you. They do help.”

Unfolding from his haunches, he nodded and returned to the others without glancing back. The rickety door squeaked on its hinges as it closed to muffle the boisterous jubilee from within. Pulling the woolen shawl tighter around her, she leaned her head back. And waited.

****

Rolling wheels and heavy plodding of hooves brought a half-asleep Morgan slowly awake. She pried her eyelids open.

“Whoa.” The deep-timbered voice reached her on the evening breeze. Instantly alert, her eyes widened, her senses soared. She scanned across the wide ruts to focus on the tall man in a thin buckskin jacket and matching pants as he leaped down from his perch. He’d stopped his two-team flatbed in front of the livery across from the saloon.

Could this be Luke Kincaid? With his broad-brimmed hat and the sky now gloomy gray, she could make out none of his features, other than a short-trimmed beard. He was tall, though, she’d noted when he’d jumped to the ground with ease. Straight, wide shoulders stretched his coat. He carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence as he strode to the back of the buckboard. Tough, lean, and sinewy came to mind. How was she to recognize him?

The saloon door opened and three couples, talking and laughing, walked out onto the road. He paused in rearranging items on the flatbed to wave, and they steered toward him. As they congregated around the wagon, their laughter ebbed as they greeted him.

Morgan leaned forward to hear their words. Useless. She watched handshakes and nodding as the men apparently introduced the women. They all laughed before turning away from the newcomer. Each man, an arm around his bride or bride-to-be, headed toward the cabins.

The man in the street resumed shoving large crates forward in the wagon. She squinted to catch his every move. Surprisingly, her anger dissolved, yet apprehension jumped in. If he was Luke, he seemed amicable enough. But how amicable would he be about the switch? Again the saloon door squawked. Hans took two steps toward her before noticing the wagon.

“Luke.” Hans’s voice boomed through the crisp air. “Ya son of a gun, where the hell ya been? I need to talk to ya, quick-like.” He lumbered toward the wagon.

So
this
was him. Excitement mingled with trepidation. Her courage shrank away as fast as her anger had. Oh, why hadn’t she been able to meet him right off? Before her nerves got the better of her? Dare she join them? Knowing she must look as bedraggled as she felt, she hesitated. Well, she’d made the choice to come here. She’d best make the most of it. And now.

She pushed herself up, halfway, only to sag back down. Her legs, her backside, even her arms had turned to tingling mush. She grimaced, clenched her teeth, took a deep breath, then pushed again, grunting as she stood on unsteady legs. Glancing down at her large bag, she thought better of trying to wrestle with it. She would, sure as the stars now dusting the sky, land on her nose if she tried to carry the cumbersome thing on such wobbly legs. He’d have to fetch her trunk, anyway. Let the oaf carry both.

Forsaking the baggage, she removed Hans’s gloves, laid them on her trunk, and gingerly started across the dirt road. Her legs weighed a ton. Lifting her dress to clear her feet, she cautiously watched her footing as she sidestepped the deep ruts. Halfway there, she stubbed her right toe on a raised clump. “Oh!” Morgan flailed her arms and stiffened her left leg to bear her weight, and her foot drove into a mound of dirt as she fought for balance. The mound gave way as if made of fine sand.

****

Luke swung around at her frenzied cry. His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened at the spectacle. He’d not seen anything more comical in a helluva long time—a woman frantically thrashing her arms every which way come Sunday as if batting at a swarm of bees. In a flurry of ruffled petticoats and yards of brown cotton, her legs flew upward till she was bent at the waist, the toes of her high-laced shoes saluting the sky. For a second, she seemed suspended in air, as if sitting on an invisible carpet hovering two foot above the ground. Or more like she’d been propelled through the air by a cannonball’s impact in the gut.

Either way, he mused, gravity finally won out. With a resounding thud she landed flat on her rump, knees bent wide under the full skirt, a stunned look upon her colorless face. Despite the woman’s disaster, his usual manners—drilled into him by his loving mother—and better sense, Luke let loose a howl. Tears sprang to his eyes as he doubled over in a fit of chortles.

“Yur ass is showing, ya moron,” Hans said with a snarl.

Luke roared all the more, thinking it a wonder the
lady’s
ass wasn’t showing.

His expression cold and furious, Hans rushed toward the woman. Hans’s rancor sobered Luke. Well, almost. They’d clowned in mock anger, but they’d never crossed words. He found it difficult to totally suppress his mirth, but he, too, dashed to the middle of the road.

“Missy,” Hans said, his concerned voice far different from a moment ago. Kneeling at her side, he brushed from her face the strands of hair that had pulled loose from her now-drooping upsweep.

Hans gripped her shoulders. “Don’t try to move yet. Catch yur wind first.” The woman took a deep breath, shivered, then exhaled long and hard.

Luke skirted them and retrieved her shawl from where it had flown. He turned, placed it over her shoulders, and stood silent behind her. Without acknowledging him, she wiggled her shoulders to adjust it.

Hans leaned on his haunches. “Can ya move?”

Clutching the shawl with both fists, she squirmed from side to side as if testing body parts. “It takes more than one clumsy fall to do harm to these tough bones.”

Her laughter tinkled through the evening’s chill like soft chimes. Luke had to give her credit for her resilience. “Only my pride’s hurt, Hans. If you’d help me up, I’d appreciate it.”

Hans assisted her till she found sure ground beneath her feet. Only then did she turn and look straight at Luke.

“Thank you for rescuing my shawl.” Her voice held a bit of shyness, her dark brown eyes mirrored equal embarrassment. Though the sky had turned ashen, he noted her becoming blush. He’d first thought her quite plain in her drab brown dress and matching shamble of hair. But with cheeks rosy, her eyes gleaming like polished mahogany, Luke felt something stir deep inside. Her mere presence drew him. Warm and welcoming. Unsettling, to say the least.