by Kit Morgan
That Healing Touch
Cutter’s Creek Novella
Kit Morgan
Angel Creek Press
Contents
Copyright
Untitled
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
More from Cutter’s Creek
Chapter 1
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Kit Morgan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
To sign up for Kit’s newsletter and find out about upcoming books and other fun stuff, visit www.authorkitmorgan.com
To check out Kit’s complete collection of stories, click here.
Introduction
There’s nothing more fun than creating something out of nothing, and for this endeavor, I got to work with some amazing ladies! Cutter’s Creek was born out of the minds of Kari Trumbo, Vivi Holt, Annie Boone and myself. There’s nothing more fun than creating a whole new world to play in, and Cutter’s Creek, Montana is just that! So come join us in this quaint little town and experience the romance! We hope you have as much reading our stories as we did writing them!
1
Cutter’s Creek, Montana Territory, March 1866
“Why don’t you just shoot me and get it over with?”
Reverend Howard Latsch rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Jack, don’t be ridiculous. No one is going to shoot you, much as you’d like someone too. What’s done is done and now you have to deal with it. With the good Lord’s help, of course.”
Jack wished he could see the look on his cousin’s face. The good Rev. Latsch had been pastoring the people of the little town of Cutter’s Creek for a few years. Unfortunately, it had been more than a few years since Jack had set eyes on his cousin – ten, to be exact. And now Jack had lost his sight and would never know what his cousin looked like again. “If I was more cowardly, I’d do it myself.”
The sound of a chair leg scraping across the floor, followed by a creak of wood. “Don’t talk like that,” Howard said. Jack knew he was sitting now, could tell by the noises and the change in direction of his voice.
“Then you’re not going to like what I have to say next,” Jack said. “There are times I wish I’d lost more than just my sight. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess at all.”
“Jack,” Howard began with a creak of the chair. Jack envisioned his cousin now leaning forward. It meant he was about to lecture. “Losing your sight is a tragedy, to be sure. But you’re young, strong and would still make some lucky woman a wonderful husband …”
“Husband?” Jack blurted and stood. They were in the chapel’s small office, a place with which he wasn’t familiar. He had to be careful and stand still lest he trip over something and fall on his face. “Are you out of your mind? Look at me, Howard – I’m blind, totally useless! How in Heaven’s name am I to provide for and protect a wife?”
Silence from the chair.
“Ha! You see, you don’t have an answer.” Jack pointed in the likely direction of his cousin. He hoped he was right – he’d feel pretty foolish if he wasn’t.
“Just because you’ve lost your sight doesn’t make you any less of a man, Jack.”
Jack turned slightly to his right. His finger hadn’t been too far off. “Easy for you to say.”
The sound of skin slapping against skin, followed by a groan. Jack pictured Howard smacking his forehead with his hand and rubbing it over his face a few times – another habit of his, a sign of frustration. “The Good Book says ‘that all things work for good to them that …’”
“I know what the Good Book says, cousin,” Jack interrupted. “You don’t have to remind me. I’m not some lost sheep.”
“No, you’re more of a stubborn mule who won’t listen to reason. Who would rather sit in some dark corner bemoaning what he’s lost than use what the Lord has given him.”
Jack seethed. “Don’t speak to me of dark corners! Not until you’ve been in one yourself, preacher.”
“Oh, now you call me ‘preacher.’ I’ve been trying to get you to call me that for years …”
Jack sighed and sat down. Fighting was pointless. They could go for hours, but Jack simply wasn’t up to it. Not today. Unfortunately, there was only one way to get out of an argument with his cousin. “I’m sorry, Howard. I didn’t mean to get so upset.”
An answering sigh. “Jack, there are schools for the blind. You just have to learn to do things differently.”
“You know I’m not ready for something like that right now. I was hoping I’d be of some use to you here. After all, you’re the only one that hasn’t abandoned me because of my … affliction.”
“You know I’d never do that. And I’m sorry there were those that did.”
Jack nodded. “I’m better off without those people in my life … what’s left of it. I don’t want their pity. In fact, I think I’d rather have their scorn. At least that would give me an excuse to hit something. Problem is, I wouldn’t be able to see what I hit.”
“It’s nice to know you still have your sense of humor, cousin. I’d hate to think this setback had destroyed it. The war destroyed enough as it is.”
“Don’t speak to me of the war. I was there, remember?”
Silence, but Jack knew Howard was nodding in agreement. “Are you comfortable in your room?” he asked, changing the subject. Jack was staying in one of the spare bedrooms of Howard’s home and enjoying his wife Mary’s hospitality and excellent cooking.
“Yes, I’m quite comfortable. You and Mary have been most kind. But I know this isn’t a permanent situation. I can only take up space for so long.”
“It’s yours for as long as you need it.”
“It’s mine until you two start having children. But who knows, I could be gone long before then.”
“I think you should stay in Cutter’s Creek. You could have a life here, a good one. At least give it a try.”
“And if I don’t like it?”
“Then leave. But …”
“Yes, I know. Where would I go, what would I do? That’s what I came here for, Howard. To figure that out and deal with all of this.”
Another sigh. “I know you’re angry.”
“You have no idea.”
“I have some. I also know that in time, if you don’t let that anger go, it’s going to turn into something much worse.”
“Let me deal with it in my own way,” Jack said, his voice tense. He relaxed his hands, having realized he’d balled them into fists.
“Very well. But you’ll at least allow me to offer you some help now and then?”
“As you wish, cousin,” Jack grumbled. “As you wish.”
Mary Latsch watched her husband scribble on a piece of paper. “What are you doing?”
“Helping my fellow man.”
“By doing what?”
He looked up from his work. “Sometimes we have to do something for a man’s own good.”
She arched a single eyebrow at him. “Whose good?”
“Jack’s.”
She pulled a chair up to the kitchen table and sat. �
�Howard, what are you doing?”
He folded the paper, stuffed it into an envelope, sealed it and put it in his pocket. “You’ll see.” He got up from the table, reached for his hat and coat, put them on and headed out the door.
Mary stood, put her hands on her hips and then shook her head. “I guess I will. Eventually.”
Dover, Delaware, three weeks later …
Willow Bennett sat and tried not to fidget in her chair. The woman across the desk rifled through a sheaf of papers before settling on several she found satisfactory. The rest she shoved aside. “Ah, here we are. These three should do nicely.”
Willow leaned forward. “May I see them?”
“Let me read them to you, shall I?”
Mrs. Ridgley spoke with a Southern accent – Louisiana? – which made Willow wonder. “Mrs. Ridgley, how long have you lived in Dover?”
“To tell you the truth, not long – and I won’t be here for much longer. I just needed time away from New Orleans.” N’awlinz, she pronounced it. “I’ll be heading back there soon.”
Willow nodded. “I imagine the war did a lot of damage there.”
“It did indeed. Now, let’s take a look at these, shall we?”
Willow straightened in her chair and nodded.
“First we have Mr. Milo Saunders, a dirt farmer in Kansas. He seeks a wife of …” Mrs. Ridgley squinted at the paper and cleared her throat. “Oh dear, this is the wrong one.”
“What does it say?”
Mrs. Ridgley glanced up from the paper in her hands. “Trust me, dear, you would not be interested in this gentleman.”
“Why not? Read it to me and let’s see.”
Mrs. Ridgley pressed her lips together a moment. “Very well. He seeks a wife of good fortune, preferably consisting of at least thirty thousand dollars, so he can quit farming.”
Willow sat, wide-eyed and swallowed hard. “You’re right, he won’t do.”
“I apologize for letting that slip into the mix. I was looking for another.”
“Never mind. Who are the other applicants?”
She set the greedy Mr. Saunders to the side and read the next. “Here’s the one I was thinking of – a Mr. Oscar White in Oregon. He’s thirty-six years old and lives with his two younger brothers, Henry and Anson, and their mother. Says here his farm is a sort of stage stop for weary travelers between Clear Creek and Oregon City. He seeks a wife who can help him on said farm.”
“A stage stop?”
“That’s what it says.”
Willow turned her head and stared at the floor. “He’s so much older than I am.” She looked at her again. “What about the third one?”
“Oh yes, give me a moment.” Mrs. Ridgley searched through the stack of papers again. “Ah, here it is.”
“What sort of gentleman is this one?”
“His name is Jack Carlson, and he’s a …”
“What did you say?” Willow squeaked.
“I didn’t say anything yet – I was just getting to that.”
Willow slowly shook her head. “No, his name …”
“Jack Carlson.” Mrs. Ridgley studied her. “Miss Bennett, are you quite all right?”
Willow gulped, thinking her heart had stopped. Could it be? After all these years? “That’s what I thought you’d said.” She closed her eyes, trying to collect herself. Maybe it was just a coincidence – Jack was a very common name. So was Carlson, for that matter, though not as much. “Go on.”
Mrs. Ridgley glanced between the paper and Willow a few times, then continued. “He’s recuperating from the war and seeking to start his own business. He’d like a wife to help him in this endeavor and to start a family. He’s twenty-six years old, with dark hair and grey eyes …”
“Grey eyes …” Willow whispered as she opened hers and stared at the woman across the desk.
“Yes,” she said, staring at Willow. “Miss Bennett, are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
Willow sat, speechless, doing calculations in her head. Her Jack was seven or eight years older than her. It had to be him! “Grey eyes …” she whispered again. The Jack Carlson she knew had the most beautiful grey eyes she’d ever seen. She’d been lost in them every time she’d had a chance to gaze at them.
Which, admittedly, wasn’t often. Her Jack hadn’t paid much attention to her in their school days – to him she’d been just a silly child. But to her, he might as well have been a god. She worshipped him, loved him from afar and was exceedingly glad he was best friends with her older brother Sam.
She closed her eyes again. She’d lost Sam to the war, and her father. Her mother had died from grief not long after …
“Miss Bennett?”
Willow jumped. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Yes, this one.”
“This one?”
“I’ll take him. I mean, I’ll write back to him and see if … we’ll suit.”
Mrs. Ridgley nodded. “Very well, then – I’ll get what you need.” She opened a drawer of the desk, pulled out some paper, handed her a sheet, then reached for a nearby pen and inkwell. “Write your letter and I can send it out in today’s post.”
Willow took the pen from her with a shaking hand. Mrs. Ridgley made no comment and sat back in her chair to wait. At this point many a bride was probably nervous, so what was a tremor or two?
But Willow had much more to be nervous about than becoming a mail-order bride. She would be wed to the man of her dreams, the handsome Jack Carlson, whom she’d been in love with for years! As long as this was the same man, that is. But how could it not be? How many Jack Carlsons were there in the world with dark hair and grey eyes?
She began to write:
Dear Mr. Carlson,
My name is Willow Bennett. I have reviewed your letter with Mrs. Ridgley and feel we would make a good match. I have blonde hair and brown eyes. I can cook, sew and am very good at staying organized, which I think you would benefit from when you start your business …
Willow scribbled a few more lines, one of which was an apology for not including a photograph of herself. She wished he’d included one – then she would know if this man was indeed her Jack. But how could he not be? She signed it and handed it back to Mrs. Ridgley.
The woman took it, gave it a quick perusal, reached into her desk and pulled out an envelope. “You are sure you won’t consider Mr. White?”
“I just wrote Mr. Carlson a letter. Why bring up Mr. White again?”
Mrs. Ridgley shrugged. “I know he’s older, but he seems more established. Mr. Carlson is closer to your age, but from the sounds of it hasn’t got his business started. That doesn’t make him a bad candidate, mind you, but there are more unknowns.”
“I can handle a few unknowns, Mrs. Ridgley,” said Willow. “It makes it all the more adventuresome.”
“You don’t by any chance know this man, do you?”
Willow felt herself blush. “Well, if you must know, there’s a good chance I do.”
“I see. And if he doesn’t turn out to be the same man?”
“He has enough in his letter to tell me we would likely suit. He’s starting a new business and he’s closest to me in age.”
“Quite right, Miss Bennett. I just prefer my brides be sure. Very well – we should know in about a month what Mr. Carlson says. That’s how long it usually takes to hear back from a groom.”
“A month it is, then,” Willow said. But could she wait that long?
2
“You’re late!” Mrs. Weber snapped as Willow cut through the café to the kitchen in the back.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Weber. I had business to attend to.”
“Your business is to be here on time, Miss Bennett, and I expect you to do so from now on if you want to keep your job.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Willow hurried to the waiting piles of dishes.
In the café, Mrs. Weber did most of the cooking, and Willow … did everything else: serving, taking orders, washing dishes, sweeping, mopping, garbage, yo
u name it. It was a lowly position, but at least it was a job, and jobs had gotten scarce since the war ended and the soldiers came home last year. If she lost it, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Thankfully she only had to keep it for another month, until she left Dover and headed west.
West. How did Jack wind up on the other side of the country? Yes, the war had scattered men and their families, hers included. Willow and Jack had both grown up in Hartford, Connecticut, but she and her mother had come to live with her aunt in Dover after her father died in ‘64. Death had claimed Aunt Rosalie quickly and Mother not long after, leaving her alone. When the money she’d had ran out, she’d taken this job.
And now, with the job proving unsatisfactory, she was becoming a mail-order bride. The prospects in Dover, not to mention most of the East, were exceedingly slim, both for work and for good husbands.
“You have at least six customers waiting out there to place their orders,” Mrs. Weber barked, pulling Willow out of her musings. “After you’re done taking those, get to the dishes. Between customers, I want you to polish everything. Then you’re going to clean the stove after we close up.”
Willow was in shock. “Mrs. Weber, that’s two days’ work!”
“Can I help it if that worthless Betsy didn’t show up for work today? Blame her. You just inherited her workload. You handle it or I’ll get someone in here who can.”
Willow was used to the woman being unreasonable, but this was ridiculous. “What happened to Betsy?”
“How should I know? I’m sure that no-account brother of hers will be in here with some excuse. If she’s sick, then she’d better be close to dying. That’s the only reason I’ll take for her not showing up this time.”
Willow shook her head in dismay and turned to the stacks of dirty plates and bowls. It looked as if no one had washed a dish in three days. This next month couldn’t pass quickly enough as far as she was concerned.