Hazelanne (Widows of Wildcat Ridge Book 15)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “But she’s not as practical.” Mama waved a hand in the air.

  “I wasn’t either when I was young, Mama, and I learned. She will, too.” Realizing her tone was too sharp, she smiled. “Just like my experience, she has you to come to for all her questions.”

  Papa approached and rested his hands on her shoulders. His bushy eyebrows wrinkled. “You are a capable young woman and have served this family well.” He cupped a hand on her jaw. “Too well. You have spoiled us with your diligent care and organization. I haven’t thanked you often enough during these years, but I do wish you well.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You have our blessing to go out into the world and make a happy life.”

  Happy she wasn’t so sure of, based on the last line of the letter tucked in her dress pocket. But Hazelanne was determined about making a choice to no longer be a burden on her family. She would make the best of being the wife of a sheep rancher.

  Chapter Two

  B

  rice MacAndrew hefted the last mail bag and wedged it into the Wells Fargo stagecoach seat corner. With only two paying fares from Coalville, Utah Territory, to Evanston, Wyoming Territory, he decided against going through the extra work of lashing the bags to the rack on the top of the coach. Besides, some passengers reported using the bags as pillows. As far as he figured, any comfort to be found on the jostling ride was an added benefit.

  “All right, gentlemen.” He turned to the older man and young boy sitting on the depot bench. “The mail is loaded. Go ahead and climb inside to get yourselves settled.” Then Brice strode into the depot where Harry, the driver, sipped coffee from a tin mug.

  “Loaded and ready?” Harry jerked his chin toward the coach.

  At least Brice thought the motion was a chin jerk. Harry’s beard grew to several inches past his shirt collar and movements were often buried. “Yup. Passengers’ bags are secured in the boot along with ours. Let me get a few more swallows of coffee inside me to brace against the cold weather tonight.”

  “Help yourself.” Ty Caruthers, the salt-and-pepper haired station master, waved a hand toward the pot-bellied stove. “I remember those days of being in your shoes and how hot coffee hit the spot.

  Within five minutes, the bright red coach with the yellow wheels pulled by six mules rolled down the wide dirt Main Street headed north-northwest. Left behind were the scattered buildings of the high prairie town housing its nine hundred or so residents.

  Harry leaned his elbows on his knees, the supple leather reins strung through his wrinkled fingers. “Did I ever tell you how that town we just rode through got its name?”

  The story had been repeated by Harry a few times, but Brice figured conversation was conversation. And the seasoned driver did vary the telling a bit each time. “Could have, but go on and tell me again.” Brice leaned his weight on the gloved hand gripping the rifle barrel standing on its butt end.

  “Well, back in ’54, the town of Salt Lake was growin’ like a house a’fire. Which ended up being nothin’ like the explosion of people who arrived in the next two decades. My family was part of the group comin’ in the early 1860s.”

  Now that last fact was one Brice hadn’t heard before. He was still living with his family when he was in his twenties? Did that mean Harry was a Mormon?

  “More folks movin’ in meant the need for fuel to heat their houses went sky high. By now, you’ve noticed how this region is not exactly flush with trees.” He glanced over his left shoulder.

  A look Brice barely caught in the light cast by the lantern swinging from the side of the coach. “Yup, I’m aware of the preponderance of rocky formations.”

  “Okay, now where was I?” Harry leaned over the edge of the coach and spat then shifted the plug of chewing tobacco until it bulged out his other cheek. “Oh yes. The territorial government put out a notice, announcin’ a reward of one thousand dollars for the discovery of coal within forty miles of the city limits.”

  Harry straightened and guided the animals in a slight curve around a boulder or two. “Took four years but Thomas Rhodes found a vein in the area that had been named Chalk Creek years earlier. Once the mine was in operation and a narrow gauge railroad built to deliver the ore to Salt Lake City, the town’s name became Coalville.”

  “Thanks, Harry.” At least he didn’t go into the part of the story that recounted this road being part of the Pony Express route in the 1860s. “I like learning about the areas on our route. You’d think, though, the townsfolk would have come up with a cleverer name. Coalville for a place where coal is mined is like naming a town by the river Riverside or a town near the ocean something with beach in it.” He scanned the area ahead for trouble, but at night the distance was limited.

  Mostly, he watched the ears of the wheelers. If the ears lay back on the mules closest to the coach, then he knew something out of the ordinary was happening. In the daytime, he watched he leaders, because the hostlers at the way stations always put the smartest pair of the six-mule team at the front.

  For the past three months, Brice had worked as the shotgun messenger for the Park City, Utah Territory, to Evanston, Wyoming Territory, route with several stops on the outbound and inbound legs. The duties weren’t hard, but getting only short snatches of sleep was starting to wear on his body. Even strong and fit, twenty-four-year-old men needed a solid eight hours of sleep more than once or twice a week. Some nights, he secretly wished for the excitement of an attempted robbery so he’d have something more to do than watch out for cougars or bears or a downed tree.

  Their route transported a large quantity of money only once a month. Two Rhodes Mine guards rode into Salt Lake City to withdraw the funds from the mine’s bank. They secured the bag into the metal strongbox under the driver’s seat of another Wells Fargo coach for the first leg and Harry’s for the second. The guards on horseback accompanied the stagecoach, providing extra protection. The trip was always made in daylight hours, and Brice hadn’t heard of any robbery attempts.

  After they took on a fresh team at the first way station, Brice rolled up his collar on his neck and climbed into the near side of the top seat. Wolfing down two stale biscuits and a slab of cold ham would help his stomach stop grumbling. Ahead, lightning flashed over the mountains. The mules knew the route so well that Harry barely had to keep tension on the ribbons. Time passed faster when they filled the air with stories and conversation. Leaning forward, he rested an elbow on his knee. “I’ve been wondering what job I’ll take next.”

  “What do ya mean?”

  “Sticking with one job is not my style. I done just about everything connected to cattle from feeding them to branding their hides to driving them from Texas to Montana to working in a slaughterhouse. When I was a kid, I accepted any job that was offered from mucking out stalls to sweeping out stores and stocking mercantile shelves.” He shook his head at the memories of the so-eager teen who needed to provide for himself after leaving home. “I’ve driven wagon trains to Oregon, logged trees there for a while, stood guard at banks, built houses, sheared sheep, wrangled broncs, moved households, even plowed a field or two.”

  “Whowee, that’s a bunch of jobs. Did you get good at any of ʼem?”

  “Sure did.” Even the ones that took the biggest toll on his body were jobs that taught him about hard work and perseverance.

  “Had a favorite?”

  “I always like the one I’m working until something better catches my eye.” He angled on the wooden bench to gaze at Harry’s profile. “You look like someone who has an interesting past.”

  “Me?” Harry shook his head and spat. “Tried to qualify to be a Pony Express rider. They hired younger fellas than I was at the time, and the maximum weight was one hundred twenty five pounds. But I still wanted to travel so drivin’ a stagecoach was a good fit. Been drivin’ ever since.”

  “Really? One job for decades?”

  “That’s right. I know the job, and I like my routine. Getting’ used to the temperaments
of the mules is about the hardest challenge.” He gave a sharp nod. “I figure a crash will get me if a blizzard don’t.”

  Brice shook his head. “I can’t remember when I stuck with anything longer than six months, except soldiering. The Army had me for two straight years, whether I liked the job I was given or not. And I mostly didn’t.” A shudder ran through him. Although he’d lied about his age to be accepted and served months as a green recruit, he hadn’t like being ordered around .

  They fell into companionable silence like on most nights. About an hour after sun edged the mountain ridges to the east, Brice sat upright and pointed. “Harry, pull them up.”

  Ahead, a twelve-inch wide sapling lay across the road, the trunk held suspended several inches above the dirt by the stiff branches.

  “Whoa, you jennies and jacks.” Harry leaned back and pulled with all the strength in his wiry arms. The leaders pranced a little at the strange object only three feet away. He tied off the reins and climbed down then surveyed the blockage.

  Brice jumped to the ground, glad for the chance to stretch his legs. “Think a lightning strike knocked it flat?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or tree rot?” Bending down, Brice studied the jagged wood and spotted the darkened circle. “Lightnin’. Lucky we had rain the past week and it didn’t catch fire.”

  With hands braced above his trouser belt, Harry arched his back. “Trail’s too narrow to unhitch the team and have them pull the length into the brush.”

  “Don’t worry. Logging job, remember? I’ll hack away just enough of the trunk to cut a path.” Brice sauntered to the back of the stagecoach and pulled an axe from the bottom of the luggage boot. The morning air still held a chilly bite. Knowing he needed freedom to move, he shucked his coat and set to chopping. After a few strokes, he worked his muscles enough to be plenty warm. Notching a space in the branch made the most sense, and he established a rhythm—four strokes downward left followed by four swings right.

  As he chopped, he let his mind drift back to the years of climbing trees with spiked boots and a thick chain held between his hands. In Oregon grew some of the prettiest trees and thickest forests he’d ever seen. He’d almost hated topping those trees, but people needed homes and entrepreneurs needed storefronts. The country was moving west.

  The chink of metal on rock brought him back to his task. “One side done.” Swiping a palm over his damp forehead, he moved to the other side of the trail. He hadn’t worked a tough job in a while, and the strain on his muscles felt good. In no time at all, they were on the road and only twenty minutes late. What was twenty minutes in the span of a lifetime?

  The stagecoach arrived in Evanston and stopped in front of the depot. Brice stowed his rifle in the office, and Harry handed off the reins to the hosteller. The men hustled down the street to the Mountain Café to grab a quick breakfast. The cook knew their preferences and had their meals delivered in record time as they crossed the threshold.

  Brice knew Harry took pride in being on time, so he didn’t talk as he shoveled in eggs and sausage. His philosophy was, a person had to allow for a few bumps in the road. They returned to the depot, and as he collected his rifle, he glanced at the clock. They were off schedule by only fifteen minutes. This section of their route was the most mountainous, with twisting curves and sheer drop-offs to one side or the other.

  Stepping from the office, he glanced at the pile of bags waiting to be loaded. Then at several people bunched in a group—too many to put the mail bags inside. He filled the boot with carpetbags and valises, buckled the straps, and then tossed up the mailbags and the last couple bags belonging to the passengers. Next, he climbed to the top rack and squatted on the coach roof to secure them. From his perch, he heard a sweet crooning voice and looked around for the source. Working her way down the team was a woman who stroked the back of each mule and scratched under its chin. A bonnet with a deep visor covered her hair and face, but she looked about average size and wore a gray coat over a brown skirt.

  After tugging a knot into the last rope, he glanced down again to see where Harry was in his process of inspecting the harness. No matter how long the hosteller had worked for Wells Fargo, Harry rechecked the equipment on his teams. Brice scanned the area and caught sight of the woman standing near the leaders. As she scratched between their long ears, she leaned close, like she whispered secrets. A pang of longing shot through his chest following by a wash of need. When was the last time someone touched him with an ounce of comfort?

  The thought reeled him backward, and he landed on his rear.

  The woman stepped between the lead mules and glanced up.

  Brice saw the face of an angel with smooth skin, high cheekbones, and lips that looked like they were puckered and ready to be kissed. Delicate brows pinched over her pert nose. Heat crept up his neck at being caught watching her and at being so clumsy.

  “Whatcha doin’ up there, Brice?”

  Harry’s voice pushed him into action. “Coming down.” He grabbed the metal bar and backed down the short ladder. By the time his feet hit the ground, he spotted Butch hightailing toward the lady. Made sense since the lady obviously lived in his town. He completed his duties of setting the stool in place and offering his hand but this group looked to be married couples and a solitary man. In anticipation, he watched the lead mules for a sight of the lone woman.

  Harry stepped out of the depot. “Passengers aboard?”

  “All but one.”

  “Oh. I’m coming.” Rapid footsteps hit the hard-packed dirt and then she dashed around the back of the coach. A hand clamped atop her head, she hurried forward.

  Brice glanced over his shoulder and the image of a daisy entered his mind--her wide smile made the sunny center and the folded-back parts of her bonnet looked like petals. Close by the woman was lovelier, and his usual greeting dried on his tongue. She rested a hand in his then disappeared into the coach before he could register the touch.

  “C’mon, MacAndrews. Load up. We got time to make up.”

  Brice leaned into the opened doorway. “Sorry for the delay, folks. The storm last night knocked a tree across the road. But we’ll see about working the team a little faster on the downhill sections.” He made a point of scanning the interior so he could make eye contact. The inside of the coach was to dim to tell what color hers were. Drat. “Sit back and enjoy the ride. Next stop is in about an hour and a half.” After grabbing his rifle, he claimed his seat.

  Harry sat wearing a wide grin.

  “Don’t say a word.” He angled his body so his long legs faced the exterior of the seat, he pretended something on the horizon held a fascination. Ignoring Harry’s chuckle, Brice reviewed everything that happened in the last ten minutes and came to a simple conclusion—the pretty woman with the sweet voice jumbled his thoughts.

  The team started the slow climb up the Uintah Range.

  Brice knew not to bother Harry’s concentration on this leg. Instead, he pondered the current state of affairs. Why had a sweet voice and a pretty face rattled him? While she petted the mules, he’d noticed she’d stripped off her gloves and that her fingers were devoid of jewelry. He didn’t often give passengers a second thought, but by the time Harry called, “Whoa,” Brice hadn’t thought of anyone else. When the coach stopped, he scrambled down from the driver’s seat and set the step into place. Soon as his mail duties were dispatched, he sauntered toward the far side of the team and stopped near the edge of the road, slipping his fingers into his back denims pockets. Across the deep gulch at the side of the road stood another mountain with trees climbing up its sides. “Beautiful view, don’t you think?” His voice echoed back before he heard the crunch of boots on the rocky soil.

  “Sir, were you speaking to me?”

  She stepped into his peripheral vision, but he didn’t turn his head. “Or anyone who loves nature, miss.”

  “I agree. I’ve never been this close to all these trees. Instead, I’ve looked through the cabin windo
w and seen their greenness from a distance. I had no idea so many trees grew here or that the green was of so many shades.”

  “You’re right, Miss…” He dipped his chin and glanced to the side.

  She had to turn to see past her bonnet. “Miss Pitts. And you are?”

  “Brice MacAndrew.” Wanting to feel her touch, he stripped off his right glove and extended his hand. “Shotgun messenger which sounds fancier than it is. I’m basically the porter and protector of the United States mail.”

  She duplicated his action before slipping her hand into his. Then she looked up until she connected with his gaze.

  Golden amber, like the semi-precious stone, was her eye color. For two counts, their pulse beats synchronized, heating the air between their palms.

  Then she pulled away.

  In that moment, the daylight dimmed and his skin cooled. Then he shook his head and cleared his throat. Fanciful thoughts had no place in his mind. His job was to get the passengers safely to the next city and not to be comparing eyes to gemstones. On the next leg he counseled himself to just complete his duties. But at the next way station, he positioned himself a few feet from where she gazed at the scenery. “Visiting a friend in Salt Lake City?”

  She looked around the immediate area then met his gaze, her eyes widened. “Me?” Not that far.”

  Enjoying her easy manner, he widened his stance and rested hands on his belt.

  “I’m traveling to Wildcat Ridge as a mail-order bride.”

  His breath hitched and disappointment sagged his shoulders. To hide his reaction, Brice crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that right? Well, miss, I guess congratulations are in order. Who is the lucky man?” He knew the Gold King Mine there employed almost a hundred fifty men, and the majority were bachelors.