PRAISE FOR CHARLOTTE HUBBARD!
JOURNEY TO LOVE
“Ms. Hubbard brings to life a spoiled, selfish young girl who has many lessons in life to learn, and learn them she does through the telling of Journey To Love. . . . The romance is sweet and the conclusion a happy one, though it doesn’t come without much soul searching and spiritual growth. Enjoy your journey of love with the reading of this novel.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“This is an interesting historical romance that showcases how different society was just under a hundred and fifty years ago as the sixteen-year-old heroine hopes to marry the man she loves. . . Charlotte Hubbard provides readers with an interesting mid-nineteenth century journey to womanhood.”
—The Midwest Book Review
A PATCHWORK FAMILY
“Hubbard delights with the first in a five-book series that is sure to keep readers salivating for the next installment.”
—Romantic Times BOOK reviews
“A Patchwork Family is a wonderful adventure! Each time you think the story has finally leveled out, there is another surprise waiting at the turn of the page and around the bend. . .A Patchwork Family is a Perfect 10 and sure to become a cherished keeper!”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A great family story to share, [A Patchwork Family] will appeal to nearly every age and anyone who enjoys historical literature.”
—Fresh Fiction
VOWS INTERRUPTED
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in God’s house to witness the sacrament of Holy Matrimony, to join together this man, William Henry Bristol and this woman, Emma Jane Clark.”
Eve’s throat tightened. She felt ugly and fat and tainted. She had no right to intrude on the bride’s special day; no right to expect her childhood friend to come to her rescue, as he had when they were young. It wasn’t Billy’s fault his brother still couldn’t tell the truth or honor his promises.
She swallowed again, battling the urge to collapse with exhaustion or vomit from agitation—or both.
“If there be anyone present who believes this man and this woman should not unite as one, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
A spasm ripped through her abdomen and Eve cried out. Her knees buckled. As her body slid down the back wall, she saw a multitude of faces turn toward in her horror, and Billy’s eyes widening in disbelief.
Other books by Charlotte Hubbard:
JOURNEY TO LOVE
A PATCHWORK FAMILY
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2007 by Charlotte Hubbard
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477806463
ISBN-10: 1477806466
For Neal, truly the hero of my life’s story.
Contents
Start Reading
“I cannot think…
AUTHOR’S NOTE
To everything there…
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.
“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.”
—Sigmund Freud
“Tenderness is a virtue.”
—Oliver Goldsmith
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The characters in my “Angels of Mercy” series discuss Negroes and colored men and Indians, because in the 1800s such terminology wasn’t derogatory or demeaning. It simply was. The Malloys pray and discuss their faith in public, too, because a strong belief in God was the foundation these homesteaders built their lives upon.
So, at the risk of writing a politically incorrect story, I have told a more authentic, historically accurate one. I applaud my editor, Alicia Condon, for supporting me in this.
To everything there is a season,
A time for every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born,
And a time to die;
A time to plant,
And a time to pluck what is planted;
A time to kill,
And a time to heal;
A time to break down,
And a time to build up;
A time to weep,
And a time to laugh;
A time to mourn,
And a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones,
And a time to gather stones together;
A time to gain,
And a time to lose;
A time to keep,
And a time to throw away;
A time to tear,
And a time to sew;
A time to keep silence,
And a time to speak;
A time to love,
And a time to hate;
A time of war,
And a time of peace.
—Ecclesiastes 3
Prologue
April 1876
“Oh, Emma, you’ll make the prettiest bride Abilene’s ever seen!”
Emma Clark’s cheeks tingled as she watched Mrs. Rieckmann measure out yard after yard of frothy lace trim. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad Mercy Malloy offered to sew my gown, though, because her new machine makes fast work of these slippery silks and satins. Sewing just isn’t my talent.”
“I don’t imagine Billy notices that. He’s a fine catch,” the grandmotherly clerk affirmed, “and Lord a-mercy, I thought he’d never ask you! What took him so long?”
Fingering the delicate lace, Emma bit back a grin. “He’s been tucking away his pay from handling the horses there at the Triple M. Wanted to be sure he had enough laid by,” she hedged. “What with not really being the Malloys’ son, he doesn’t want Mike and Mercy putting themselves out on his account.”
No sense in letting this old biddy know that she had done the proposing: it’d be all over Abilene by sundown, and Billy would be embarrassed. As well he should be! Everyone knew they’d been sweethearts since they were ten, when Billy’s mama had abandoned him and the Malloys took him in. Her mother had always said some men needed a little extra time to catch fire. Emma thought of her proposal as lighting the cookstove: Billy made fine kindling, but he needed a flame like her to set things boiling!
Maude Rei
ckmann was nodding, her weathered face creased like old parchment. “Billy Bristol’s a giver, not a taker. Very responsible and hardworking, that young man is. Every girl in Dickinson county had her eye on that rusty hair and those blue, blue eyes.”
“But I caught him!” Emma crowed, “and just two months from now he’ll be all mine! Those other girls will just have to hunt for someone else.”
“Shall I put this on your daddy’s account then?” She folded the lace tenderly and fetched a spool of white thread from the notions rack behind her.
“Yes, please. And we need some flour and a case of tinned peaches.”
“And how’s your father doing? Always harder for a man to make his way after his wife dies,” the storekeeper mused. “Women deal with the loneliness and the day-to-day living better. They’re tougher than their men in many ways.”
Emma’s jaw clamped shut against an emotional outburst. Just when she thought she could have a conversation without someone mentioning her mother’s death—just when she could concentrate on her own happiness for a moment—this storekeeper reopened the gaping hole in her heart.
“Daddy’s all right, I guess. Doesn’t say much. Goes off to the barn and the fields each morning.” The lace on the counter blurred, so she looked away to compose herself. “Comes home to eat and sleep. Tells me how much he misses my mother’s cooking. Always finds a way to remind me how I come up short, compared to her.”
“That’s his grief talking, Emma. That second plague of grasshoppers last summer cost him a lot more than his crops.” Maude’s face and voice softened. “He’ll miss you, too, when you move into that new house with Billy. He just doesn’t know how to say so.”
Mrs. Reickmann finished the notation in her ledger, and smiled kindly at Emma. Then she walked back to the yard goods table and returned with a small bolt of trim.
“We just got this in yesterday, and the pale blue reminded me of your eyes, dear,” she said as she unfolded a length of tiny, shiny ribbon roses. “Sew these on something for your wedding day, or for your new home.”
“But Daddy’s already fussing about how much—”
“This a gift, Emma. I’d like you to have it.”
Nodding mutely, Emma swiped at her eyes. How she hated it that she cried as quickly when folks did her favors as when they brought up the subject of her mother. She was made of tougher stuff! She should be over this by now!
“Th-thank you,” she murmured miserably. “These are just the thing for the nightgown Mercy’s made for my wedding night. You’ve been very k-kind.”
A weathered hand squeezed hers, and then Maude cleared her throat briskly, to shoo away the gloom that had settled over their transaction. “Let’s not forget your mail—and you might as well take the Malloys’, too. I’m sure they’re busy with foaling and the spring plowing—and all those children! Mercy has her hands full!”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m stopping there on my way home.”
The little bell above the door tinkled as she hurried out, determined to quit crying before anyone else saw her. Everyone meant well, but it only made her situation more difficult when people felt sorry for her. Eight months had passed since that hot August day when hordes of grasshoppers hit the ground like hail and ate everything in their path . . . including the green gingham dress her mother was wearing.
High time they all set their pity aside! She was tired of feeling like a charity case, when these weeks before the wedding should be the happiest of her life.
The Reickmann boy was hefting a crate of peaches beside the fifty-pound bag of flour already in the back of her buckboard. Feeling generous, she clutched her precious package of lace to take a nickel from her reticule.
“Thanks, Stephen.”
He flashed her a gap-toothed grin, and then wove the fingers of both hands into a step-up for her. She whooped when he gave her an unexpected boost above the driver’s seat, making her skirts billow around her—which was exactly why he’d done it.
Emma settled herself on the wooden bench and raised an eyebrow at him. “Watch yourself,” she warned. “Your mother’ll tan your britches for sneaking a peak at mine. And I’m just the one to tell her!”
“She’ll hafta catch me first!” The kid darted off, his snicker trailing in the breeze behind him.
She clucked at the horse, suddenly too excited to be bothered by Stephen’s pranks. Two months from today, she would be Mrs. William Bristol! She and Billy could begin the life of her dreams in the frame house her father, Billy, and Michael Malloy were building at the corner where the two homesteads met. It wasn’t as big or as fancy as the house on the Triple M, but it looked out over the trees along the Smoky Hill River, and it had plate glass windows and plank floors, and it was all theirs. Their first home!
Smiling broadly, Emma waved at Pastor Larsen as she drove by the church. Once past the livery stable, she clucked to Bessie and gave the mare her head on the open road. Bride-to-be or not, she would always love the feel of speed that made her hair billow back in the breeze and painted roses on her cheeks. Soon enough she’d have babies and all the responsibilities of managing a home, and these rides by herself would be few and far between.
Holding the reins in one hand, she reached into the sack containing her lace and the mail. She’d noticed a few letters—reason enough to be curious—but a much larger envelope had caught her eye when Mrs. Reickmann took the Malloys’ mail from its slot behind the counter. Emma pulled it out, scowling at the three large wax stamps with an elaborate E in their centers.
They were pink.
When she flipped the envelope over to read the address, her eyes widened. It was addressed to Billy—in very elegant, feminine handwriting.
“Whoa, Bess,” she crooned. “Whoa, girl—easy now.”
She pulled off to the side of the road and wrapped the reins on their hook. Was it her imagination, or did she smell lavender? Perfume, perhaps? The return address—E. Massena, Richmond, Missouri—made her heart flutter because that was Billy’s hometown, and E. Massena obviously wanted to get his attention, sending an oversized letter like this!
Emma blinked, her fingers itching. Should she?
She could always say the wax seals had been broken before she got it: mail that traveled by train got crammed so haphazardly into those leather bags, after all. And it wasn’t as if she and Billy wouldn’t be sharing every dream and secret as man and wife.
Before her conscience could talk her out of it, her finger slipped beneath one pink seal, and then another. With a little gasp she popped the third one, glad the vellum envelope didn’t tear with her efforts. Who could possibly be contacting her Billy? He hadn’t lived in Missouri for more than ten years! The Bristols had lost their breeding stock to bandits and their home to a scalawag of a banker, so as far as she knew, Billy had nothing to go back for in—
She let out a low whistle. She’d pulled a small painting from the envelope, and it showed an impressive white house with pillars along the front porch. It sat back from the road, and the long driveway was lined on both sides with trees painted at the peak of their autumn glory. In the bottom corner, she made out “E. Massena” in the same perfect penmanship she’d seen on the envelope.
So this picture had been painted by the same young lady who’d written the note she pulled out next.
“Dear Billy,” Emma whispered. . . .
It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen each other. I thought you might enjoy a memento of your home place, the way it looked before the war. I painted it from memory, from the times Mother would bring me to visit your mama and Christine. Sad to say, the house and stables are in a state of disrepair that would break your heart.
Emma glanced at the painting again, even though it made her pulse pound painfully. The Bristol kids had obviously lived a very fine life before their wayward mother abandoned them on a stagecoach. No wonder Billy’s sister had run off! The log houses here, so dark and plain, must have been a painful comedown for these children of t
he upper crust.
And if this young woman had painted it from memory, with such detail that Emma could almost feel the comfort of the shade on that front porch, Miss Massena had also enjoyed a privileged life. The only kind of paint they saw out here on the Kansas prairie was the kind used on the walls of houses and barns.
Emma read on, gripping the page so the breeze didn’t snatch it away. She suddenly had to read every line this E. Massena had written to Billy, and then fill in her own assumptions between them.
I thought you’d also like to know that I’ve seen your brother Wesley. He’s grown into a big fellow with the same ornery twinkle in his blue eyes he had when we were kids. Still doing his best to find trouble, it seems. Which is why I’m writing you this letter.
“Oh, here it comes,” Emma muttered. She read on, as fast as her limited book learning allowed, until the words blurred before her eyes.
There are things I think you would want to know, Billy, so I’ve decided to come to Abilene this summer to visit with you. If you could send me back directions on how to find you—
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Emma muttered. But she kept reading.
—I’ll catch you up on all the local gossip in person. I know you’re probably still upset at how Daddy foreclosed on your home, but things are very different around here since he hanged himself in the barn five years ago. Mother still plays the organ for church and gives piano lessons, while I teach in the little school—
Impatient, Emma skipped to the very end. What did she care about this presumptuous Miss Massena and her mother?
—hope your mama is doing well, but it’s you I need to talk with, Billy. I have a very special favor to ask. I hope you’re as eager to see me and hear my news as I am to tell you about it. Fondly, Eve.
Fondly? Who did this Eve think she was, demanding a favor of Billy a decade after her daddy had turned them out of their home? Her name alone conjured up images of that snake and the apple in the Garden of Eden.
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