Copyright
ISBN 978-1-59310-181-7
Copyright © 2004 by Tracey V. Bateman. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
One
The dusty ground rose up to meet Andy with alarming speed. He landed hard on his gut, the impact forcing the breath from him like steam from a train whistle. With a groan, he twisted around to face his assailant. George, the massive bartender, snarled down at him from the boardwalk. Andy -winced as a stream of tobacco juice landed inches from his head. His beatup hat followed.
George pointed a stubby finger at Andy and squinted hard. “Don’t come back, if you know what’s good for you.”
The giant of a man didn’t have to worry about that. All the cash Andy had carried in his pocket the night before—fifty dollars and a gold piece—was gone. Plus two hundred more that hadn’t been his to spend. A splitsecond of fear clawed at him. Mr. Dobson was going to kill him. No way could he pay back the loan now. If only his luck had held. For once.
Andy heard the rattle of a wagon just in time to scramble out of the way as it swerved to miss him. The driver shouted a curse. “Get out of the road, drunk. I’ll run you over next time!”
Andy used the edge of the boardwalk for support and pushed himself to his feet. He stepped onto the wooden platform as a woman and child passed. Holding her little girl close, the woman jerked her chin and sniffed in disdain.
He didn’t care how many selfrighteous biddies looked down their noses at him. He was past caring about status. What did bother him was that the little girl shrank back, her innocent blue eyes wide with fear.
The curlyheaded cherub reminded him of his niece, Aimee. He’d taken Aimee a little Indian doll last time he’d seen her. Had it really been five years since he’d been back to Oregon? She was most likely becoming a young lady now. He had promised to bring her another doll. Pain squeezed Andy’s heart. He blinked away quick tears. He’d never hold another Indian doll in his arms again. Alive or handmade.
His stomach lurched as his night of carousing caught up to him. Through a dizzy fog, he headed toward the alley, clutching his gut, fighting to keep from disgracing himself further in public. When the retching ended, he slid down the side of the building and sat in the filthy alley. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
Last night, he’d been on top of the world. Winning at poker, the liquor making him feel in control. Beautiful saloon girls clung to each arm—oohing and ahhing over his muscles and brains. He’d found a precious few hours to numb the pain of loss. Too bad the lucky streak hadn’t held up. The liquor quickly overpowered his reason, and of course, as the money stack dwindled so had his manly charms, and the girls deserted him for greener pastures.
Now, with the reality of the morning sun stabbing his eyes and heightening the pain in his head, Andy regretted not stopping when he was ahead. One thousand dollars ahead. He could have paid back Mr. Dobson and had enough left over to get a nice little start somewhere.
A groan escaped from deep inside him. Life was such a disappointment. Maybe it would be better if Dobson’s thugs did find him and end his misery. As quickly as the thought slammed into his mind, a precious image eclipsed it. Ma. True, he hadn’t seen her in a while, and he had never really done right by her, but that didn’t mean he loved her any less than his brothers did. It was just that, with sons like Hank, a preacher, and Michael, an upstanding, moral man who took Ma into his home, what did she need with a nogood son like Andy? She was better off without him in her life.
The whole world would probably be better off. He’d had the thought more than once. More times than he could count, as a matter of fact, but he’d never really believed it until this moment. He’d finally reached the end of his rope. His will to live fled and, in a moment of clarity, he made a decision. He nodded to himself to cinch the deal. So that was it. There’d be no hiding from Dobson. He would face his death sentence like a man, and maybe the end would come quick. A shot to the head or heart. And then peace. Please, God, finally peace.
❧
Fit to be tied, Hope Parker stomped after the wagon master. She wasn’t accustomed to taking no for an answer, and she didn’t intend to start now. Especially from this uncouth tobaccochewing stump of a man.
“I am willing to pay double the fare to secure a place on this wagon train for myself and my children. I can be in Independence in plenty of time to—”
The wagon master stopped and turned to her. He gathered a slow breath, obviously trying to control his exasperation. “Lady, I’ve already told you. It ain’t a matter of money or your ability to get from Chicago to Independence. It’s a matter of you being a woman alone.”
“But I’m not alone, as I’ve already told you.”
“A greenhorn boy and a maid ain’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Need I remind you I will also be traveling with my driver?” She motioned toward her carriage. The aging gentleman waiting for her beside the carriage door nodded.
The wagon master snorted. “Sorry, lady.”
Refraining from mentioning the eightyearold twins who would be accompanying her, as well, she squared her shoulders and matched his glare. “Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. I’m rich. I will pay anything. No matter the price.”
He scowled and leaned so close, Hope had to resist the urge to retreat. But she held steady. A Parker didn’t back down from anyone. And Parkers always got their way. At least when it mattered most. And this mattered. Her son’s future was at stake. Perhaps his life.
“I’m telling you, lady. You could be rich as Midas and I couldn’t let you on this train without a man to take care of you.”
“Fine. I’ll hire someone—a younger someone than my driver.”
He was shaking his head before she got the words out.
In frustration, Hope stomped the ground. “Why on earth not?”
“A hired man might get sick of your bossy ways and decide the money’s not worth it. Company policy. No single women are allowed space.” He gave a short laugh. “If it means that much to you, go buy yourself a husband.”
Hope saw red at the mockery. “I may be a plain woman, sir, but I am not that desperate. Th–there are plenty of men who want to marry me.” Hated tears burned her eyes and she swallowed hard. She spun around and stomped away from the despicable man before she further embarrassed herself.
The truth was that no one wanted her. Oh, they wanted her money. She could name a halfdozen men right now who would jump at the chance to marry her bank account, but she refused to give her heart to one more golddigger. She certainly wouldn’t share her bed or her life with such a man.
Francis, her driver, opened the carriage door, and she slid onto the black leather seat, hot tears of frustration making a trail down her cheeks. She stared out the window as the carriage jostled through the street. What would she do now? She simply had to get Gregory out of this city and away from his socalled friends. At only eleven years old, her son had already had several runins with the law. Her money would only keep him out of serious trouble for so long before the sheriff had his fill
or the judge couldn’t be reasoned with.
She was just about to lean her head back on the seat and close her throbbing eyes when she noticed a scuffle in the alley. A gasp escaped her throat. Three men stood over another, obviously beating him.
She knocked on the carriage roof. “Stop the carriage, Francis!” She couldn’t abide bullies. Three men ganging up on one was just too much for her already agitated mind to ignore. Reaching for her reticule, she retrieved a small pistol—a gift from her deceased husband—and exited the carriage without waiting for Francis to open the door.
“You men, stop it!” She shouted a good five yards away from the alley, knowing full well that this would draw attention from passersby. Compassion was one thing, but she was not fool enough to walk alone into an alley and confront three roughlooking men.
The men turned, dismissed her with bored glances, and returned to their task—making a bloody pulp of the poor man’s face. “I said stop.” She fired the pistol into the air then pointed it toward the thugs. “The next round goes into one of you. I don’t care which.”
“Get out of here, lady,” a tall, pencilnecked man shot in her direction. “We have our orders.”
“I don’t care about your orders. I care about that poor man. And if you don’t do as I say, I’ll plug you through the shoulder then I’ll send for the sheriff.” She nodded toward the growing crowd. “I have plenty of witnesses.”
“All right.” A massive bear of a man scowled past her. Hope didn’t turn around, but she could hear a crowd gathering.
“You win. But when he wakes up, tell him Mr. Dobson wants his two hundred dollars by the end of the week, or next time it ain’t gonna matter how many folks are watching.” The three men left through the alley in the opposite direction.
“Francis?” Feeling faint with relief, Hope turned to her driver, who looked almost as ill as she felt. “Help me get him to the carriage.”
“The carriage, ma’am?”
“Yes. We can’t leave him to die in the alley.”
Now that the show was over, the crowd had dissipated. Resentment burned in Hope at the lack of compassion. The unconscious man weighed a ton, but they managed to get him into the carriage.
Hope pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and swiped at the blood still coming from his broken nose. He reeked of sweat and vomit, and she wondered if perhaps she’d been hasty in her decision to bring him home. After all, there was a church just down the street where she was sure he’d be welcome. When a church was called The Good Samaritan, it really had no choice but be willing to take in a wounded indigent.
A moan escaped his throat, igniting her pity once more.
“Shhh,” Hope soothed, gently pushing a strand of redbrown shoulder length hair from his face. She jumped as he grabbed her wrist and buried his lips in her palm.
Hope’s heart leapt in her chest. She wasn’t often in the presence of such masculinity and even stinking and wounded, this man exuded a power she found exhilarating. Disconcerted by her rapid pulse and the direction of her thoughts, she pulled her hand away.
“Yellow Bird?”
Yellow Bird? He thought she was a squaw?
“Are we in heaven, my love?”
Hope swallowed hard. A man in desperate love. Oh, why couldn’t anyone love her that deeply?
“Shhh,” she said once more. “We’ll get you taken care of. You’ll be all right.”
“You’re not Yellow Bird.”
“No.”
“Yellow Bird’s dead. Why? Why didn’t they kill me?” The cry seemed wrenched from deep within his gut. And he passed out again.
Hope’s throat tightened and she swallowed hard. What caused a man to come to the end of his rope? Was the loss of love enough to make a man give up on life? Or was there more to his story? He obviously needed something to live for.
She studied him. He was big and, given his buckskin clothing—foul though it may be—he appeared to be rustic. Just the type of man a swaggering wagon master might find suitable to “take care of her” on a westward trail.
This man was desperate. He needed to pay off that Mr. Dobson character or risk death. True, he seemed to want to die, but she highly doubted he’d want to go through another such beating.
Perhaps the wagon master had been right. If she wanted a man to accompany her west, she’d have to buy one.
Two
Every inch of his body screamed with pain. Andy tried to open his eyes but the light jabbed at him, forcing him to squeeze his lids shut.
He remembered standing up and walking toward the alleyway entrance, determined not to hide like a gopher in a hole from Dobson’s men. They’d found him before he’d gone ten feet beyond the alley and had pulled him back into the narrow pathway. He’d been certain the putrid ground, flanked on either side by buildings, would be his tomb.
Years of base living had flashed through his mind at the last second, and he’d hoped to wake up in heaven, or at least not in the alternate place. Waking up on earth never entered the realm of possibilities. Why was he still alive?
He forced himself to open his eyes, moaning at the pain. His lids felt heavy and barely opened wide enough for him to see though tiny slits. Dobson’s thugs had done a number on him. That was for sure. Touching his eyes, he winced. They were so puffy, it was a wonder he could see at all.
He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position for his aching body. Then he noticed the pillowysoft, warm bed. Running his hands along the crisp, clean quilt, he felt his throat tighten.
When had he stopped feeling like a man and started to accept an animalistic existence? Lying in a bed felt foreign to him. For the past two years, he’d been passing out in alleyways, and when he could get by with it, an unsuspecting farmer’s barn. Occasionally, when his luck held out, he spent a few hours in a room above the saloon. Why hadn’t he realized how dirty he was before now? The contrast between him and this clean bed was startling, sobering.
Ma would be so ashamed.
He was ashamed.
Andy’s ears, sharp from his years of scouting for wagon trains, picked up the sound of footsteps outside his door, coming close. They hesitated and, instinctively, he reached for his guns. Panic rose inside of him. His belt was gone from his waist. Where were his guns? His vision was limited by the swelling, but he made a quick sweep of the room. The weapons were nowhere to be seen. Unaccustomed to feeling this vulnerable, Andy sat up, poised to defend himself with his bare hands, if necessary.
The door opened, revealing the intruders. He relaxed and released a pentup breath. Two children, a boy and a girl, stood in the doorway. They couldn’t be more than seven or eight years old. Irritation shot through him as they stared at him as though he were something from a freak show.
“Who are you?” he asked, gruffly.
Apparently taking his question as an invitation, the two bopped into the room, closing the door behind them. “I’m Betsy. This is Billy. We’re twins. Can you tell?”
“No.” Why didn’t they just go away and leave him alone? Where were their parents? Children had no manners nowadays.
“Well, we are. Only we’re not identical. Except we both have brown eyes and practically brown hair. And the same birthday. We’re going to be nine.”
“Well, my brothers both have reddishbrown hair like mine, but we’re not twins.”
“We are.”
“Good for you.” Now, go away.
“Woowee, someone busted you up good, didn’t they, mister?” The little boy finally got a word in edgewise. But Andy wished he’d kept his trap shut. He didn’t need a fourandahalffooter reminding him of why he felt like he’d been trampled by a bull.
The boy inched closer, examining Andy’s wounds. “How come you got yourself thrashed? Did you steal a horse?”
Resentment burned his chest. “No. I didn’t steal any horse. Only a lowdown varmint would steal from someone.”
“You mean you’re not a lowdown varmint?” The boy sounded disap
pointed.
“No.”
Betsy stepped closer and gave him a scrutinizing once over. “You look like a lowdown varmint to me. Don’t he, Billy?”
Andy released a frustrated breath. “Where’s your mother?”
The little girl shrugged. “She had to go out. Said not to disturb you.”
“Then maybe you’d better obey her.”
“Naw, we’ll be out of here before she gets back.”
“What makes you think I’m not dangerous? What if I get out of bed and scalp you like a wild Indian?”
“You won’t get out of bed.”
“I might.”
“No, you won’t. Francis took off all your clothes. Loaned you a pair of his long johns. He said they were too little for you. But he got them on you anyway.”
Alarm shot through Andy. He ran his hand over his chest. The tight, scratchy long handles were definitely not his. He hadn’t even noticed. And the little girl had him pegged right. He wasn’t going to get out of bed without proper clothes on. “Little girls shouldn’t talk about a man’s state of dress. It’s not very polite.”
Betsy shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
“It’s still not becoming for a pretty little girl like you to speak of such things.” Andy inwardly grimaced. Now why had he gone and told her she was pretty? From the grin on her round little face, he’d won her over and would probably never get rid of her.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Determined not to encourage the newfound friendship, he grunted and closed his eyes. “Go away. My head hurts.”
He heard a shuffling and sighed. Maybe they were leaving.
No such luck. He continued to listen to water being poured into a basin then little bootsteps headed back to his bedside. Lying motionless, he pretended to be asleep. A cool, wet cloth was laid gently across his forehead, followed by a gentle kiss on his cheek. “We’ll leave you alone, mister.” Betsy’s voice sounded close to his ear. “I’m glad you’re not a varmint.”
Feeling his throat clog, Andy scowled but didn’t open his eyes. Just like a female. Tell her she’s pretty and she either wants to be your mother or your sweetheart.
Everlasting Hope Page 1