Love's Last Stand

by S. B. Moores

  LOVE’S LAST STAND

  LOVE’S LAST STAND

  S. B. MOORES

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, a Cengage Company

  Copyright © 2018 by S. B. Moores

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Moores, S. B. author.

  Title: Love’s last stand / S. B. Moores.

  Description: First edition. | Waterville : Five Star, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018000907 (print) | LCCN 2018006025 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432838614 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432838607 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432838591 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3861-4

  Subjects: LCSH: Pioneers—Tennessee—Fiction. | Frontier and pioneer life—Tennessee—Fiction. | Love stories gsafd | GSAFD: Historical fiction

  Classification: LCC PS3613.O5695 (ebook) | LCC PS3613.O5695 L68 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018000907

  First Edition. First Printing: July 2018

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3861-4

  Find us on Facebook–https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website–http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at FiveStar@cengage.com

  Printed in the United States of America

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The popular image of a novelist is that of a solitary individual who sits in a lonely room, banging away on the keyboard and sipping endless cups of coffee. Occasionally, the author will gaze out a window for inspiration, usually at a snowy mountain range or at a set of dramatic waves crashing on the seashore. For me, only the endless cups of coffee applied.

  The histories of Kansas that my Aunt Mary authored were my earliest inspiration. More recently, my motivation has come from the many friends and writers who unfailingly inspired me along the road from idea to story. Thank you to the past and present members of my amazing critique group. I owe you so much. Thank you to my wonderful wife. And special thanks to Tiffany Schofield, who had faith enough in my writing to make me a Five Star author. You all inspire me to do my best.

  —S. B. Moores, 2018

  PROLOGUE

  I am an old woman now, but I was young once upon a time, and in love.

  My love took me far away from the safety of my Tennessee home, but I survived the journey. Others did not. I saw it all and I can tell you about it. A gentle breeze warmed us as it blew softly between the sharpened points of the stockade wall. The redwing blackbirds sang, glad that winter had left the Béxar Valley early. Pink and white flower buds speckled the gnarled branches of fifty-year-old apple trees in the courtyard, and there should have been a fine crop, come fall.

  But it wasn’t to be. The trumpets blew and the battle was joined. So many men on both sides died, simple as that. History would not accept any survivors. Neither Texas pride nor the honor of Mexico would permit it.

  In a manner of speaking I died, too, on that day. At least what I was and who I was died. It’s not all a sad story. I returned to my Tennessee home, reborn into a life with such a love that might never have been possible if there hadn’t been so much death on that fine spring morning.

  Life, death, and love. These are my stories.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ridgetop County, Tennessee, Late September 1825

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Justin Sterling’s fascination overcame the shadow of jealousy he’d felt when Tobias Johnson had first pulled the new knife from his belt. He was glad his best friend had received such a fine gift, even though he knew he might never be so lucky, himself.

  “My pa brought it all the way back from Nashville two weeks ago,” Tobias said, “just for my tenth birthday.” He lifted the blade over his head as if brandishing it at the unseen Indians the two boys knew were somewhere in the forests around their farms.

  “What’d your pa give you for your birthday?” Tobias asked.

  “My daddy?” The idea that his father should give him something as special as a knife just because he’d been born had never occurred to Justin. “Nothin’ much,” he said. He kicked at the school ground dirt with his toe, unsure whether he’d suffered some sort of injustice. “But my ma cooked me the biggest dumpling you’d ever ate. Baked it with apples!”

  “Aw,” Tobias said. “That ain’t nothin’. We eat dumpling pies most every week. The sharecroppers’ women bring ’em to my ma.”

  An uncomfortable feeling dawned in Justin’s mind. He had heard his father called a “sharecropper” once, but he couldn’t remember whether his mother had ever taken pies to the Johnsons. She could have, he figured. After all, they lived on neighboring farms. But the idea that his family might be different from Toby’s settled over Justin, and the unseen barrier he felt rising between himself and his best friend worried him. True, the Sterlings and Johnsons were both farming families, but Toby’s father worked the rich, dark bottom land along the Tennessee River, while Justin’s father had always farmed in the rocky hills to the north. Justin didn’t know how much land either family owned or leased. It never seemed important to him before.

  Tobias’s knife glinted in the morning sunshine. Justin closed his eyes and turned his head away when reflection off the blade flashed over his face. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was drawn to a girl playing tag with kids on the other side of the schoolyard. She was a little younger than he. Her long red hair bounced in fiery curls across her face and her blue cotton dress swayed back and forth as she dodged her schoolmates. Her laughter resonated in Justin’s mind like the melody of a song drifting to his ears over the cold, clear air.

  “See how they wound the handle with strips of leather?” Tobias asked. “It’s so you can get a good grip when you stab.”

  Toby thrust the knife out in front of him, chest level, but Justin barely noticed. He had never seen the young girl before. Any newcomer would have been noteworthy in the small farming community, but this particular girl struck a chord somewhere deep in Justin’s soul.

  “Who is that?” Justin asked, pointing at the kids. He immediately regretted saying anything, once he realized what Toby would think.

  Tobias quit admiring the knife long enough to give Justin a questioning look. His gaze followed Justin’s outstretched arm to the other side of the schoolyard, where the children were playing.

  “You mean the new girl?” he asked. It was obvious to Toby. There hadn’t been another new student at the Ridgetop school in two years. “Her name’s Abigail, but folks just call her Abby. Her family’s been working the Talbot farm since old man Talbot died of consumption.” Tobias ran his thumb lightly across the blade of his knife, testing its sharpness for the hundredth time. “Her pa and my pa are start’n a cattle company,” he added absentmindedly.

  Justin l
istened with one ear, but kept his attention on the figure of the lithe young girl. She seemed to dance on the air, rather than madly dashing about to escape being caught.

  “Maybe we should play tag,” Justin said.

  “What?” Tobias looked at the jumble of kids and then back at Justin. A wicked smile spread over his face. “I think Justin’s in love,” he said, dragging out the word “love” to give it as scornful a sound as possible.

  Justin glared at his friend and growled, “I am not! Besides, you love Louise Gunderson.”

  Tobias’s eyes sprang open, not in shock at the offensive comment, but in his surprise that Justin knew of his affection for the girl. He worked his jaw, groping for some kind of denial.

  “That’s a lie,” he said. “We only held hands once, and she made me.”

  At the tender age of ten years, it was still unthinkable to the boys that girls, who didn’t hunt, fish, or fight Indians, could have any importance in their lives. The accusation that they would pay girls any attention at all was an insult. Never mind those increasingly frequent occasions when their thoughts inexplicably turned to the wonder and mystery of the softer sex.

  Tobias dropped his knife in the dirt and the two friends crouched, facing each other, obliged to spring into hand-tohand combat to defend their honor. Thankfully, the school bell clanged before they could come to blows.

  The teacher, Miss Murphy, put her finger on her chin and looked at her assembled students. “Tobias Johnson,” she said. “Why don’t you move to the back of the room this year and give someone else a chance to sit near the blackboard?” Her stern gaze turned on Justin as she physically divided the boys with her hands and Toby went to the back of the room.

  “Justin Sterling,” she said, her voice artificially sweet. “Why don’t you sit next to our new student, Miss Abigail Whitfield.”

  Justin rolled his eyes as he and Toby parted for the school year. They both knew Miss Murphy wanted to avoid the disruptions she’d suffered at their hands the winter before. He dutifully took his seat next to Abby on the hardwood bench and immediately felt a wobbly electricity run through his head at the nearness of her. She smelled fresh, like tumbling creek water. He squirmed a little, then managed a quick sidelong glance at her. She was smiling directly at him! Now what was he going to do? Would he have to sit next to her and suffer like this for the entire year? His head swam at first, but then a strange calmness came over him. He turned toward her, looked into her eyes, and returned her smile.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” Justin croaked. He looked down at his hands, hoping she wouldn’t notice the pink rushing into his cheeks.

  No doubt about it. Toby’s knife was no longer the most beautiful thing Justin had ever seen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Christmas Eve Day 1827

  Christmas, Justin decided, was his favorite time of year. During no other season were the homes in the Ridgetop Valley decorated so gaily. Pinecones and mistletoe were gathered from the surrounding forests, and extra candles decorated everything. Christmas trees displayed in the windows of the houses of the well-to-do were covered in metallic tinsel that sparkled like long curly diamonds. Even the Sterlings had an abundance of venison, oranges and other fruits from the south, as well as chestnuts. Justin’s farm chores were fewer, which gave him more time to read and think, and anything seemed possible.

  Everyone’s attention focused on the coming Christmas day. People set aside their earthly concerns and differences, at least for a little while. It was as though the inhabitants of the valley had forgotten each other during the rest of the year, but at Christmastime they drew together, seeking to renew a biblically inspired fellowship with their neighbors in the cold of midwinter.

  While Christmas may have been his favorite time of year, Christmas Eve wasn’t always Justin’s favorite day, since it meant extra time spent in church. He looked at his mother across the congregation and tried not to fidget on the hard wooden pew. His mother liked being on the side of the church nearest the stove. But Justin and his father thought it too warm. They sat with the rest of the men, next to the windows, which were opened a crack to let in the crisp winter air.

  Henry Whitfield stood behind the lectern at the front of the little church, dressed in a long black coat and exhorting the assembled worshipers with outstretched arms to remember why Christ was born a man—so he could die to cleanse all mortals of their sins. Justin thought hard to remember which sins he’d committed that might have caused Christ to die for him. He blushed and looked down at his shoes when he remembered some thoughts he’d had about Abigail Whitfield. “Lascivious” thoughts, Justin decided. That was a word Henry Whitfield used a lot when he presided over services in the absence of the regular, circuit-riding preacher. When he wasn’t watching Abby, Justin stared at Henry Whitfield and wondered how he would react if he ever found out that his daughter was the object of Justin’s sinful thoughts.

  “Thank you for sparing me, Lord,” Justin whispered. He hoped that by acknowledging Christ’s forgiveness, he could erase his sins and prevent any possibility that they would be revealed.

  Services ended. His mother kept one eye on him as she socialized with other grownups, so he tried not to rush down the stairs, eager to be free of the stuffy church. Out in the yard, he could see his breath, and he exhaled as hard as he could to see how big a cloud he could make. When the air cleared he saw Abby Whitfield standing on the bottom rung of the nearby corral, gazing at the milling horses. He glanced around. His parents were caught up in talk about the weather and plans for Christmas celebrations. Toby was nowhere to be found. Justin and his friend often sat together during the service, but when Henry acted as their preacher, Toby had church obligations that required him to sit elsewhere and stay behind after the service. Justin wasn’t sure why Henry had chosen Toby, or why he, Justin, wasn’t required to help, too. The adults probably thought it was a privilege to help the preacher, but Justin couldn’t be jealous of Toby. Sitting through a service at the back of the church was punishment enough.

  Watching Abby out of the corner of his eye, he reached down for a small stone, and tossed it casually in the general direction of the corral. Then he walked that way, as though he were going to retrieve the stone and throw it again. When he drew near Abby, he changed directions and stepped up onto the corral rail next to her.

  “Hi,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “Hi.” She glanced at him, smiled, then turned back to the horses. “I’m looking for my Christmas present.”

  “Did you lose it in the corral?” He wanted to help, but he thought it odd that she had received, much less lost, a present on the day before Christmas.

  Abigail laughed. “No, you silly goose. My father says I’m old enough to ride a horse now, and I want him to give me one for Christmas.”

  Justin stared at the horses with new appreciation. He was two years older than Abby and already an experienced horseman, having ridden almost daily as part of his chores. But the idea that someone not quite his age—and a girl, besides—could be given a horse as a gift bestowed a value on the animals he hadn’t appreciated.

  Abby sighed and rested her chin on her crossed forearms. “They’re all so beautiful,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  “Sure.” He looked at Abby and back at the horses. They milled about quietly, blowing steam from their nostrils, anxious to get back to their own warm stables. Abby’s statement sounded like one of those odd things girls said that they really didn’t want an answer to. He felt vaguely jealous of the animals and the way Abby looked at them.

  “Someday I’m going to raise my own horses,” she said.

  Justin thought about that. He knew Abby’s father raised horses, so it didn’t seem out of the question that she could too, when she grew up. But all of the breeders in the valley were men, as far as he knew. He’d never heard of a girl who owned a farm or raised her own horses.

  “Me too,” he finally said.

 
; She gave him a sidelong glance, and the unexpectedly sad look in her eyes took Justin by surprise. Didn’t she believe him?

  “Really, I want to.” He looked off at the tree line beyond the corral and scuffed his foot on the rail. Did she think he’d said it just to please her?

  “My father says horse breeding is hard work,” she said. “Do you think I can do it?”

  Justin studied her for a moment, trying to tell whether she meant to challenge him with her question. He had an idea that Abby was serious, so he decided not to say anything about her being a girl and how all the people he knew who raised horses were men.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said. “But you might need some help.”

  “Would you help me, Justin?”

  Justin thought about it. The truth was, he had always loved horses, but he didn’t want to look to Abby like a copycat.

  “Maybe I will,” he said. “If you need me.”

  “Oh.” Abby beamed. “It’ll be wonderful. You wait and see. We’ll have a big green pasture, and red barns, and lots of little colts to play with.” In her excitement, Abby turned and stepped off the rail. Justin stepped down, too, and Abby gave him a hug.

  “Abigail!” Henry Whitfield’s voice boomed from across the yard.

  Abby let go of Justin, who had been too surprised by the hug to return it.

  “Abigail Whitfield, you come here this minute.” Henry strode toward them.

  Confusion crossed Abby’s face, but it was quickly replaced by an expression of resistance.

  “Father,” she said, “I’m only watching the horses with Justin.”

  “I can see very well what you were doing,” Henry said.

  Justin stood by dumbly as Henry snatched Abby by the arm and pulled her a few feet away from him.

  “And what were you trying to do?” Henry pointed an accusing finger at him.