His Blessing in Disguise: A Western Historical Romance Novel

by Ava Winters

  A Bounty on Their Scarred Hearts

  STAND-ALONE NOVEL

  A Western Historical Romance Novel

  by

  Ava Winters

  Copyright© 2019 by Ava Winters

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher

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  Letter from Ava Winters

  “Here is a lifelong bookworm, a devoted teacher and a mother of two boys. I also make mean sandwiches.”

  If someone wanted to describe me in one sentence, that would be it. There has never been a greater joy in my life than spending time with children and seeing them grow up - all of my children, including the 23 little 9-year-olds that I currently teach. And I have not known such bliss than that of reading a good book.

  As a Western Historical Romance writer, my passion has always been reading and writing romance novels. The historical part came after my studies as a teacher - I was mesmerized by the stories I heard, so much that I wanted to visit every place I learned about. And so I did, finding the love of my life along the way as I walked the paths of my characters.

  Now, I’m a full-time elementary school teacher, a full-time mother of two wonderful boys and a full-time writer. Wondering how I manage all of them? I did too, at first, but then I realized it’s because everything I do I love and I have the chance to share it with all of you.

  And I would love to see you again in this small adventure of mine!

  Until next time,

  Chapter One

  There was a feeling deep in Peter Jones' bones. It was like something festering, something sticking him deep inside of himself. The feeling had been with him for days now, and he couldn't shake it. The old folks liked to say they knew when the weather was changing by the ache in their bones, but with Peter, it was something deeper than that—and it wasn't because of the weather.

  Since childhood, he’d had a knack of knowing things—sometimes bad and sometimes good, but always significant to his life and, sometimes, the lives of others. His grandmother used to say it was a blessing. Peter wasn't so sure whether that was true, but what he did know was that it was never wrong.

  He stood with his hands on his hips, the sun shining from the west onto the star-shaped badge on his chest. His honey-brown eyes, hooded by his lids, scanned the horizon. Evening would soon fall and the caravan had yet to arrive.

  "They're late," Peter called behind him without turning his head. Sheriff William Dawson's stilted steps let Peter know the older man had joined him.

  "They'll be here. If I know Cooper, he's racing like a bat outta hell to get here," he said calmly. In all the years Peter had been his deputy, he had never seen the man worried. He had the gift of a calm spirit and an even temper. "What's on your mind?"

  "Nothing, Bill," Peter replied as his eyes studied the horizon and the trail out of town. He scratched at the light beard that lined his jaw. He’d had his dark brown hair and beard cut recently, and his skin was still a bit sensitive from the shave. He’d opted for a new style, short sides with a part on the left. He was happy with it.

  "Sure," his counterpart replied, turning away. "And my grandmother's a mule."

  Peter remained quiet. Bill knew him better than anyone did. He knew Peter was lying, and that was his tactful way of calling his deputy on it. Still, Peter wasn't going to speak until he was sure what he was talking about. Then, he saw the dust rising on the horizon. He stepped closer, and the feeling inside him began to grow. Whatever was coming was less than a mile from Richstone's borders.

  "What’d I tell you?" Bill commented as he spotted the dust cloud.

  "That man will never learn," Peter responded gravely. "He's gonna lose his place with the company if he turns over and kills one of those pretty mail-order brides he's bringing over from Sutter's Fort."

  "He'll lose more than his place if one of their husbands finds out," Bill answered.

  Peter knew what he meant, but stating that Sam Cooper would find himself missing seemed a waste of breath. Women were a precious commodity in a small mining town like Richstone, California, where men left all the comforts of civilization behind them for an opportunity of wealth and significance. The West was a place where people settled things more quickly with a gun than a court, and Richstone was like any other developing town. There were good people, but there were equal amounts of the unsavory as well, and they came in all packages.

  "Did we get word on Fanny Miller?" he asked Bill. His eyes remained focused on the horizon.

  "This morning. Her hanging's in two weeks," the other man informed him. Fanny Miller was a twenty-six-year-old woman who’d been arrested for the murder of her parents, and burying them in the back garden under the cabbages. Her father had gone panning for gold and found himself a few nuggets of some value. She’d thought they would be more beneficial to her, as a younger woman, than to him, so she’d killed him for it. Then, she’d killed her mother when the older woman had walked in to find her daughter committing the crime. It was all a sad business over something that would have eventually become hers, if she had just waited.

  "Her father was sixty-five, for crying out loud," Peter said to himself.

  "And with his health, he would've been dead in two years, max," Bill added. "Such a waste.” He sighed deeply and bent to rub his leg.

  Six months ago, they’d been pursuing some rustlers when Bill was shot. The outlaws had stolen forty head of cattle from the Carpenter ranch, just outside of town. Malcolm Carpenter was not a man to be trifled with—it had taken all of Peter's convincing to stop him from hunting the perpetrators down himself. He was a man who only considered the first part of ‘dead or alive.’

  Bill had taken the bullet straight to the thigh. It was buried deep in the bone and the surgeon said it was best to leave it where it was. Since then, Bill hadn't gone a day without pain.

  "I'm going to sit down," he informed Peter as he passed by the deputy. Bill smirked. "I think I can trust you to greet our newcomers and give them the lay of the land."

  Peter smiled. "Sure thing.”

  ‘The lay of the land’ was their way of letting people know who the authority was in town, and what they could look forward to if they broke the law in any way. Bill was a fair man and he liked people to know what to expect the second they arrived—that way, they had no excuses.

  Peter turned as Bill entered the sheriff's office. Richstone would need a new man in charge soon. Bill, despite having the heart for the job, no longer had the physical ability to do it. His leg made it almost impossible for him to ride and, most days, it slowed him down in the most menial of tasks. He'd been asking Peter to take over, but Peter didn't want the
job. He was happy just being a deputy.

  The coach pulled up at the station in such a rush that the dust cloud made Peter cough. "Cooper," he said under his breath as he walked toward the man who had just jumped down from the reins.

  "Hi, Boss, sorry we're late. Had to stop. Some lady back there decided to have a baby on me," he informed the deputy. No matter how many times Peter told Cooper to call him by his name, he always ended up calling him 'Boss,' instead. Peter knew better than to ask why.

  His face slackened at the unexpected news. "A baby? I thought you were only bringing over mail-order brides?"

  "I was," Cooper answered. "Apparently, one of 'em had a surprise for her intended," he mused. Cooper was tall and lanky at six foot three, four inches taller than Peter. He was thin, almost gangly, with a head of red curls that stood out for miles and a penchant for tobacco and single malt whiskey.

  Peter tried to stifle a laugh. "I'd say so," he answered as he walked around to the back of the wagon and looked in. Seven women were seated inside, each with a small bag in their lap. Except one, who held a newborn baby instead.

  "Ladies, welcome to Richstone," Peter greeted, bowing his head and dipping the front of his Stetson. He unchained the back of the wagon and held out a lightly tanned hand to help the first of the women down. "Mind your step."

  Three women had disembarked when Peter heard the sound of hooves headed in their direction. He kept his hand out as he turned toward the sound; a rider was approaching at a clip, but there was something strange about the man in the saddle.

  Peter's gaze remained fixed on the mysterious rider and his billowing garments until he came closer into view, and Peter realized it wasn't a man at all—it was a woman.

  "Cooper," he called as he helped the next passenger down. She was a tiny thing, barely to his chest, with dark blonde hair and a round figure.

  "Yes, Boss?” Cooper answered as he rounded the corner.

  "Finish helping them down, will you?” Peter asked distractedly.

  "But I was unloading the trunks," Cooper protested.

  Peter didn't hear him; all of his senses were focused on the rider. Whoever she was, she was racing as if her life depended on it—and something told him that it just might. Women didn't ride across the plains alone like that unless they had to. Whatever she was leaving behind had to be significant for her to brave the journey.

  The minutes stretched on as Peter's eyes stayed fixed on the mysterious woman. The large hat on her head clearly belonged to a man. She probably thought it helped disguise her, and from a distance, it had, but the closer she got the more apparent it became that she was no man.

  The chestnut stallion reared as the reins were pulled and the woman cried out for the beast to steady. She had a pleasant tone, even in her firm command.

  Peter stepped forward and took the reins to help the horse calm. "Easy, boy," he said gently as he looked up at its rider.

  She was young—very young, by the looks of it. She didn't even look twenty. Her skin was fair, but covered by a layer of dust that told Peter she'd come a long way. Her coffee-colored hair was held in an untidy braid down her back and her hazel-green eyes were staring at him in wonder.

  "Can I help you?" she asked sharply.

  "I was about to ask you that," Peter replied cooly. "You came into town like a runaway train. You in some kinda trouble?” He looked behind her. The horizon was clear. "Someone after you?"

  Her gaze shifted to the badge on his chest before she answered. "So, sir," she said evenly, but there was a hint of anxiety to her tone. "I was just in a hurry to get to town before it got dark."

  "What's your name?" he asked, studying her carefully. It was an occupational hazard. Peter had a tendency to take in all the details he could about a person at the first meeting. He never knew when he might have to go looking for them in the future.

  "Layla McCarthy," she answered quickly.

  "And where're you coming from, Layla McCarthy?" he continued. He kept a firm grip on the horse, just in case it bolted or she attempted to escape. There was something about her—Peter couldn't put his finger on it, but whatever it was had him uneasy.

  "Silvertown," she answered. "It's a little place north of here," she explained.

  "I've heard of it," Peter replied. "It's near Cedar Gulch."

  She nodded.

  "And why did you leave Silvertown? It's a nice place. Not too many people."

  "That's why I left. The town is going nowhere fast. I wanted a fresh start."

  Her answers were reasonable, but there was something inside of him that said she was lying. Still, he couldn't keep her on a hunch. If he was right, and he usually was, then whatever she was running from would make itself known sooner or later.

  You’re too suspicious, he told himself. Take it easy on her, she's just a girl.

  Peter sighed internally. Sometimes, he got too wound up about those feelings. There was nothing that said they had anything to do with the woman in front of him—it could just as well have been one of the other women, or someone else entirely.

  "Welcome to Richstone, Miss McCarthy," he said, pushing aside his misgivings for a more welcoming attitude.

  She smiled shyly. "Thank you, Sheriff."

  "Deputy sheriff," he corrected. "And the name's Peter Jones."

  "Nice to meet you," she answered.

  "Let me help you," Peter offered, holding up his hands to take her waist.

  "That's alright," she answered as she swung a leg down and dismounted on her own. She grimaced momentarily, but soon turned to him with a smile. "I can do it," she added as she untied the knot at the front of her skirt.

  "I can see that," Peter chuckled. "Is that all you have?" He gestured to a single small parcel tied to the side of the saddle.

  "Yes," she answered, and removed it from its place. It wasn't much to carry with her, barely large enough to hold two or three dresses at best. It only made him wonder more about the background she was coming from.

  "Come on over here," he instructed. "I have to inform the new arrivals of the laws in the town, and I don't mean to do this twice."

  "Yes, sir."

  As Peter walked away, he could hear the sound of her feet shuffling along behind him. He looked back to find her eyes turned to the path she'd just come from. The horizon was still clear, but she seemed to be expecting something or someone.

  Peter gave his usual address informing the women before him of the simple facts about Richstone and what was and wasn't permitted. They listened silently, giving small nods when appropriate, like most audiences every other time he'd made that speech.

  "Right, you all can head over to the station. I'm sure your loved ones are waiting for you," he said with a smile. "I'll be seeing you."

  Everyone moved except Layla. She remained in place as if trying to decide what to do next. Peter stepped toward her.

  "Where're you staying in town?" he asked curiously.

  "I haven't figured that out yet," Layla replied with a small laugh. "But I will. I'm sure you've got a boarding house or hotel I can stay in for a few days. Just until I find something more permanent."

  Peter's brow knitted. "You came all this way alone with no idea on where you'd be staying?"

  "When you say it that way, it doesn't sound too smart, does it?" she answered with a small laugh.

  "I would say not," Peter said seriously. "And I'm guessin' you haven't got a job lined up yet either, little girl."

  "I'm not a little girl," she retorted, looking him straight in the eyes. "I'm twenty-one."

  Peter was briefly thrown by her emphatic answer. "Well, Miss Lady, do you have a job lined up or not?"

  She shook her head sheepishly as her eyes dropped from his face.

  "I see," he replied with a sigh. "Miss, if you don't mind me saying, what were you thinking, leaving Silvertown with no one to come to, nowhere to sta,y and no way to make a living?” He couldn't believe someone could be so foolhardy.

  The look in her eye
s was almost desperate as the answer slipped from her lips. "Freedom."

  Peter stood silently, staring into her eyes as he considered the feeling she’d expressed with that one word. Something was going on with the girl, that much was clear. Peter didn't know what it was, but it stirred something inside him. Maybe trouble would follow her, but maybe not. Whichever it was, he knew that the woman in front of him needed help.

  "Follow me," he ordered gently, taking the parcel from her hands and leading the way

  "Wait, where're we going?" she asked as she followed quickly after.