Books by Davalynn Spencer
Historical
THE FRONT RANGE BRIDES SERIES
Mail-Order Misfire - Series Prequel
An Improper Proposal - Book 1
An Unexpected Redemption - Book 2
An Impossible Price – Book 3
THE CAÑON CITY CHRONICLES SERIES
Loving the Horseman - Book 1
Straight to My Heart - Book 2
Romancing the Widow - Book 3
The Cañon City Chronicles - complete collection
Novella Collections
“The Wrangler’s Woman” - The Cowboy’s Bride Collection
“The Columbine Bride” - The 12 Brides of Summer
“The Snowbound Bride” - The 12 Brides of Christmas
Contemporary
The Miracle Tree
Novellas
Snow Angel
Just in Time for Christmas
A High-Country Christmas – complete collection
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An Impossible Price ©å 2020 by Davalynn Spencer
ISBN 978-0-9989512-8-7
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Book cover design by ebooklaunch.com
Wilson Creek Publishing
www.davalynnspencer.com
~
For the wounded and scarred.
~
~
It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed,
because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning; Great is thy faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:22, 23
~
Contents
Books by Davalynn Spencer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue:
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Olin Springs, Colorado
Late March 1885
The bay stallion pawed at the stock-car wall and tossed its head.
Quick as a rattlesnake, its back leg struck. A partition splintered, sending wood fragments showering over crates and barrels.
The horse had fought its constraints for the last four hours—all the way from Denver. It was only a matter of time before the battle between bolted wood and brute strength was decided.
Clay’s money was on the horse.
The rhythmic clack of iron wheels began to drag, and Clay pushed to his feet, bracing against the louvered wall of the car. Already heavy with horse sweat and manure, the air thickened at the screech of steel on steel, fear tainting the mix. A long blast of the whistle drew his horse’s ears forward.
“It won’t be long now, Duster. We’re almost home.”
His buckskin’s dark eye widened with uncertainty. Its shoulder and leg muscles bunched for balance. Clay took hold of the rope that tethered the gelding and rubbed its neck and shoulder, telegraphing calm.
A general stock car wasn’t his first choice for either himself or his horse, but the Denver & Rio Grande had nothing else for livestock. He’d chosen the speed of a train over the length of the trail between Kansas City and Colorado, but he’d refused to ride with human passengers and risk injury—or worse—to his unattended horse.
The bay stallion was a perfect example of why.
The car jerked against its couplings, sending a nearby horse to its knees. Billowing steam hissed along the rails, and the train inched toward a full stop.
Olin Springs.
Clay eased out a tight hiss of his own. They weren’t off the train in one piece yet.
Memories of his first arrival rose like smoke from the stack—riding into town beaten, broke, and bitter. His outlook now was a whole lot better than it had been four years ago.
Expectation rippled through him, as well as the mixed bunch of horseflesh tethered to rings on the walls. Clay had secured a forward corner, farthest from the stallion and somewhat protected with the outer wall on one side and a flimsy partition on the other.
Anticipating the slide of the car door, he untied Duster and turned him to face daylight.
Behind them, the stallion reared against its rope. Any minute now.
Freight crewmen slid the door wide, and Clay led his horse down the stock ramp into sunshine and fresh air. They’d been too long cooped up.
As they hit solid earth, a panicked whinny sent a chill up Clay’s neck. He looked for someone to hold his horse and took a chance on an older boy in tall boots.
“Hold him steady and I’ll make it worth your while. And get back out of the way.”
The boy took Duster’s rope with a silent nod and seasoned hand.
In the same instant, a brutal crash from inside the car froze everyone on the station platform as well as those waiting for livestock.
Clay tugged his hat down and rushed to the open cargo door, finding exactly what he’d feared. The stallion had broken loose but had punched through the stock-car slats with a back leg and was wildly trying to break free—sawing deeper into its leg with every lunge. Frenzied, it bit and struck at whatever it could reach. There’d soon be a blood bath.
Arms wide, he whirled on the men who had crowded the loading ramp hoping to see the show. “Get back!”
Those close to him gave way, looking as uncertain about him as they did the commotion inside the car.
He swung up through the open door and flattened himself against the wall.
The lathered stallion blew and struck, head high, eyes wide and wild. Fear and pain were a volatile mix, Clay well knew. Who in their right mind would send a hot-blooded horse like this on a train without a handler?
A crewman came up the ramp and quickly led two horses out. Clay untied a half dozen more, looped their leads around their necks, and slapped them toward the door. After pulling his hat off, he dragged his sleeve across his forehead, then screwed the hat down hard. He had to come at the horse from the side—not unseen, but not straight on either. Setting his voice at a low, easy tone, he stepped away from the wall and eased toward the stallion.
If he survived, he might be the worse for wear. If he didn’t, at least he’d die doing what he loved.
~
Sophie Price stood at the window inside Eisner’s tailor shop, her curiosity growing with the increasing number of people rushing toward the depot.
“What could it be?” Abigail Eisner, mere weeks from the birth of her first child, laid a protective hand on her swollen abdomen and joined Sophie at the window. “Please, go see and come back and tell me. I cannot go. Not like this.” She was clearly as eager to know as Sophie, her lively eyes sparkling
with anticipation.
“All right, but I’ll return quickly. We have more to discuss.” She set her satchel on the floor at the end of the store counter. “I won’t be long.”
Hurrying out the door, Sophie almost felt guilty running after others who had dropped whatever they were doing to ogle an incident at the depot. A holdup? A shooting?
Spring fever, perhaps, drawing everyone outdoors, but she didn’t slow her steps until she rounded the Western Union office, where a crowd gathered near a stock car, its side door open at the loading ramp.
She pressed through onlookers and passengers who still lingered, all mesmerized by the rocking rail car. Her flesh crawled at the chilling screams of a horse, but a sudden silence disturbed her even more, eerie after such an uproar.
“I hope he’s not dead.” A fashionably dressed woman clung to her male companion’s arm. Both appeared to be travelers who had either just arrived or were ready to depart.
“Did you see him go in there alone? I doubt he survived from the sound of that demon he’s facing.”
The man pulled his arm free and encircled the anxious woman. “It’s a horse, Martha, not a demon.”
Sophie’s curiosity pushed her past social propriety. “Someone went in the car?”
“A cowboy,” the woman said, her voice struck through with awe. “At least he looked like a cowboy. That’s his horse over there.” She pointed to a saddled buckskin, held by the livery’s tack and stable boy. The horse stood with ears and eyes alert, watching the car.
At its whicker, Sophie’s attention returned to the loading ramp, where a man appeared in the doorway. He eased a lathered, wild-eyed horse to the edge of the ramp—one of the finest horses she’d ever seen, and clearly terrified. The man’s sweaty shirt clung to his back and broad shoulders, but he murmured to the horse in low tones, stroking its neck while leading it down the ramp.
Almost sure she could feel his calming presence herself, she worked her way closer for a better look.
Something about his manner sent a thrill rippling through her. His unquestionable ability to influence the horse, as if it drew peace from his gentle command.
A hush settled over the onlookers, and those closest to the ramp eased back. The rest of the crowd ebbed with them. And then the sea parted for this unlikely Moses as people opened a path for him and the lathered horse. Turning, he skimmed the crowd on each side, as if looking for something or someone—and his eyes locked on Sophie.
Startlingly blue.
Her breath caught. One hand fisted into her skirt.
He didn’t smile, or nod, or touch the brim of his hat. But recognition fired as sharply as if he’d spoken her name.
Passing by, he jerked his head for the livery boy to follow, and that’s when she saw the ugly gash on the stallion’s back leg. Blood pumped with every step and trailed to the hoof, calling for sutures.
A twinge at the corner of her mouth drew her fingers, but she tucked her hand under her arm. That beautiful animal would die a horrible death if the wound were left untended and became infected.
Following the two and their horses, she brushed past the crowd as it closed behind them. The handler spoke to the stallion in soothing tones, his voice steady and deep. Familiar. She knew of few who worked such miracles with wild or frightened horses. Deacon Jewett at the Parker ranch was one. The other, a young man who’d honed his gift at Deacon’s side.
Anticipation veined through her as she made the corner at Main Street, still following the livery boy and the stranger. Could it be? On occasion, Deacon’s young protégé had turned her head and set her mind to wondering if she’d remained unmarried for a reason not yet revealed. But young was the word that snagged. He’d been a boy of sixteen, she a woman of twenty, and that fact had quashed her musings in those days.
Craning her neck to better see the stranger, she noted his long stride and the slightest hint of a halting gait. Her heart reared like a horse itself, and she pressed a hand to the base of her throat.
The voice, the subtle limp. Those eyes. Only one person had all those traits, and when he’d left, he’d said nothing that made her think he’d ever return.
Far from an unseasoned youth, the confident stranger leading the fiery stallion might be no stranger at all.
Had Clay Ferguson come home?
Chapter 2
Torn between desire and duty, Sophie paused at the Eisner’s window, where Abigail still watched, and held up a finger. “One more minute,” she mouthed.
Abigail nodded excitedly as she motioned Sophie on.
Thank God the woman wasn’t in labor. Of course Sophie would not have asked under those conditions, which was the reason she was in town in the first place. At the very moment that man—whoever he was—led an injured, frightened, yet powerful animal off a train and through a crowd of people without anyone being harmed.
She shuddered at what could have happened and quickened her pace, holding her skirt as she stepped from the boardwalk to the street.
Few stragglers had followed from the depot, so she had an unobstructed view from the livery’s wide entry where she stood eavesdropping.
Not exactly eavesdropping. Merely listening.
Shoot. All right, eavesdropping.
She faded to the left, pressing against the door frame and into the building, feigning invisibility in the shadows. “Never be a target,” Deacon had once told her on one of his many visits to the farm on some trumped-up mission so he could see Mama.
But Sophie simply had to know more about this horse handler—confirm her hunch—for he certainly dwarfed the person she thought he might be.
She hadn’t seen Clay Ferguson since Betsy and Garrett Wilson’s wedding reception three years ago. The reception before the wedding. Only Maggie Snowfield with her exquisite home and refinement could have pulled off something completely unheard of without raising a single matronly eyebrow in town.
Erik came from his forge, hammer in hand, leather apron circling his substantial girth. Doubt narrowed his eyes as he took in the new arrivals.
“Erik.” The handler spoke calmly, as if he knew the smithy, and the deep timbre of his voice rippled over Sophie’s skin like warm water.
She moved a step closer.
“I need a stout beam and large box stall for this fella. He requires sutures, and I doubt he’ll stand for it without … assistance.”
At the mention of sutures, Sophie’s hunch burrowed deeper. All Clay had ever talked about was becoming a horse doctor. A veterinarian.
Erik set his beefy hands at his hips and scowled. “And you might be …”
Without taking his hand from the stallion’s neck, the handler tipped his head toward its hind quarters. “I might be in a hurry to save this horse’s life.”
Blood still pulsed from the deep gash on its right back leg and now pooled around the hoof. Time was not on their side.
Erik took a closer look and gave one stout nod, then motioned for the stranger to follow. “I have what you need.”
The stable boy held the buckskin inside a stall near the front.
As the stranger passed, he slowed. “Unsaddle him for me and bring me the saddle bags. Then give him a can of oats.”
Two steps on, he glanced over his shoulder. “Obliged.”
The boy drew himself up, as proud as if Napoléon himself had commissioned him to care for his war horse, Marengo.
Sophie wanted nothing more than to follow the parade, but she had an obligation to an expectant mother. And this whole affair really wasn’t any of her business. However, that didn’t keep her from approaching the boy.
“Do you know that man? The man whose horse you’re holding?”
He draped the saddlebags over the edge of the stall and set to unsaddling the buckskin. “No, ma’am, I don’t. But after what I just witnessed, I’m happy to do what he asked.”
Secretly she agreed but kept that opinion to herself and left.
By the time Sophie returned to the store,
Abigail had abandoned her vigil at the window and was busy with a feather duster on a wall-mounted shelf of men’s hats, gloves, and other accessories. She turned at the click of the door.
“Was anyone hurt? I saw that beautiful horse.”
Sophie picked up her satchel from where she’d left it. “That beautiful horse was a handful and, thankfully, was the only one injured. The man who was leading him is tending to his wound at the livery.”
“Is he from town? He wasn’t Dr. Weaver.”
“I don’t know for sure where he’s from, but he seemed to be in charge.” Very much so. And apparently, very capable. Even Erik hadn’t challenged him beyond an initial question.
She angled her right side forward, conscious of Abigail’s curious glance when they’d first met. “Is Mr. Eisner around to watch the store while we talk privately? Perhaps at the back?”
“Oh yes. He is sewing. Come with me.”
The poor woman actually waddled ahead of Sophie, raising questions about when this baby might be making its entrance into the world. Sophie’s instincts said sooner rather than the assumed later.
Beyond a curtain at the back, a treadle sewing machine hummed off and on. Abigail drew the curtain aside. “Hiram, this is Sophie Price, my midwife.” She blushed as she spoke.
Hiram looked up and then stood with a stilted bow, acknowledging Sophie’s presence. “It is my pleasure to meet you,”—his eyes flicked to her cheek—“Miss Price?”
The unintended jab hit its mark.
“Yes. Miss Price. But you may call me Sophie since I will be here so often, working closely with your wife.”
He glanced aside as if he could not consider such a breach of manners.
“Hiram, can you watch the front while we discuss … things?”
“Of course.” Another brief bow. “Excuse me.” He left as if fleeing imminent attack.
Abigail drew the chair away from the sewing machine for Sophie and took another for herself, then fell heavily onto it. “We could go upstairs to our apartment, but I try to make the trip only once a day. It is becoming more difficult for me.”
Concerned, Sophie walked to the railing that disappeared around a wall, and looked up at the narrow stairway to the second floor. No handrail beyond the first few steps. Completely unacceptable.
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 1