Every Girl's Dream
Page 1
Every Girl’s Dream
By
Cheryl Pierson
Every Girl’s Dream by Cheryl Pierson
Copyright 2011 Cheryl Pierson
Cover Design by Livia Reasoner
Cover Images Regency: bhmv8550a and
bigstock-old-wooden-fence-and-a-gold-su-21834308
Painted Pony Books
www.paintedponybooks.com
Licensing Notes
All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This story may not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Every Girl’s Dream is a work of fiction.
Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.
“Sheena McTavish, how could you?”
Sheena flinched at her mother’s tone. The accusation of her words was bad enough. But the condemnation in her voice was hard to bear—even for Sheena.
“Mama, it’s not as if I wanted—”
Brody McTavish leapt to his feet, towering above his daughter in wrathful fury. “Shut yer mouth, girl! Ye’ve brought shame upon yer family with yer wicked ways!”
“Da, I wasn’t wicked! I was rap—”
The harsh crack of the slap her father gave her filled the room, and tears sprang to Sheena’s eyes. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to remain quiet. When she finally raised her eyes to her father’s face, he looked as if someone had dealt him a blow. His blue eyes were haunted. He turned away from her, and Sheena knew it was because he was ashamed that he’d struck her. He didn’t look at her again as he stumbled toward the door and out into the cool May night.
Colleen McTavish gave her daughter a reproachful look. “See what you’ve done?”
“Mama, I did nothing!”
“Exactly.” Colleen shook her head and made a ‘tsking’ noise. “You should’ve fought him off—”
“I couldn’t! He was too strong and I—”
“You were weak, Sheena. Your virtue has been taken and our family name will be sullied all over Brush Creek.” Colleen’s mouth tightened, her lips thinning to a hard, straight line.
“Mama, I—” Sheena broke off. She would not apologize for something that had not been her fault.
“If ye can’t consider your own future, at least have a care for your Da and me.”
“You act like—like you think I deserved to be raped, Mama.”
Colleen sniffed. “If you’d not encouraged Richard Purl that day you wouldn’t have been…taken.”
“Taken against my will.”
“You say. He’ll be singing a different song, you may be sure!”
Sheena’s heart stopped beating for a dreadful moment. “You believe him?” Her voice was breathless and quiet.
Colleen met her eyes without flinching. “He’s a businessman, daughter. The man whose father employs your Da, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“He’s a liar,” Sheena ground out, her voice raspy with unshed tears. “Mama, I’m your daughter—”
Colleen nodded at the door that still stood ajar. “That man is my husband. He has been my husband long before you were my daughter. What do you think this means to him?” She went on, not waiting for Sheena to respond. “Caring for horses is all he knows…all he’s ever done. He’s too old to start over—and he shouldn’t have to, just because of your foolishness.”
Sheena was barely listening. Her heart raced, her breathing rapid and uneven. But the next words her mother spoke had her full attention.
“When Victor Purl was here earlier, he made an offer we must consider, daughter. You will be allowed to bear the child you and his son made together, then turn it over to the Purls to raise. And you will never see it again.”
Sheena rose slowly from where she sat on the rough stone hearth. “Mama! Surely, you can’t be thinking I’d give up a child…an innocent baby—”
Her mother stood facing her, slowly crossing her arms as if she dared Sheena to defy this edict. It was plain to Sheena that her mother did expect the unthinkable. Mama would never understand. Another more painful, obvious thought formed behind that one. Mama didn’t care. Sheena squared her shoulders, defiance replacing the anger under her breastbone. No one would fight for this child if she didn’t.
“And…if I don’t?”
Colleen McTavish’s eyes hardened. “Then your father and I will buy you a ticket for the stagecoach, Sheena. You will go to your Aunt Bridget and Uncle Corbin in New Mexico Territory. You will have the child and you will give it to the orphanage in Santa Fe. And…we will know you no more, here in this house.” She clasped her hands in the familiar gesture that Sheena recognized too well. There would be no arguing, no reasoning, and no defense. Her mother’s mind was made up. There were two choices. One of them didn’t bear consideration. For no matter how she despised Richard Purl and what he had done to her, she already felt a protectiveness for the baby. It was an innocent, and when she thought of turning it over to the austerity of the Purl household, to the man who had raped her, her blood ran cold.
A boy would he be raised as a mirror image of his monstrous father and grandfather. A girl would be bartered to a neighboring landowner’s son to enlarge the Purl dynasty. Either way, the baby would be used only for the Purls’ gain.
Sheena lowered her eyes, veiling them behind her lashes. In all her eighteen years, she’d never been more than ten miles from home. Though Brush Creek was a small community, there had been no need to travel any farther than Carthage, the nearest town of any size. She’d had everything she needed here.
But not everything she wanted.
Her mother’s foot tapped on the wood floor and Sheena could feel the tension mounting to a breaking point. It was plain she fully expected her daughter to give in, to promise to give up her baby.
“Sheena, girl, you’ve done wrong with Richard Purl and his da is offerin’ a chance for yer babe.” She heaved a sigh at Sheena’s silence. “Richard Purl could have any woman he wanted. He never had any intention of marryin’ you! So when he tried to get into your skirts you shouldn’t have fallen for that trick. They’ll promise you anything, and you were a fool—”
“He promised me nothing, Mama.” It would do no good to explain what had happened. Sheena could see that no matter what, her mother didn’t believe her. Richard Purl had forced himself on her one day as she’d been walking back home from town. He’d offered her a ride in his carriage. Insisted, in fact. Then, he’d wasted no time in forcing himself on her as the driver drove on and on, past the McTavish family’s cottage, past the grounds of the Purls’ sprawling horse farm, until he had sated himself and Sheena had been unable to fight him any longer.
“I will not give my child to the Purls.” Her voice was steady, and stronger than she’d imagined it could be. Even saying the words aloud brought a chill to her spine.
Colleen raised her chin. “You will, girl. You will, or you’ll leave Brush Creek and go west. Take your chances with the red Indian heathens and such in that godless land. You will not stay here and shame your father! Can you think of no one but yourself?”
Sheena came swiftly to her feet. “I am. I’m thinking of my baby. Giving a helpless child up to the Purls would be like turning it over to—to Satan himself!”
; Colleen’s breath hissed inward. Her eyes locked with Sheena’s and in that terrible look of mingled fury and condemnation, Sheena’s heart shattered. But somehow, someway, she held back the tears.
“You are going to have to give that whelp up either way. Your da is countin’ on you to help him out with the Purls. Can’t you show some gratitude?”
Gratitude? For a moment, Sheena was shocked to silence. Then, she shook her head. “My baby isn’t something to bargain with!”
“What difference?” Colleen spat. “If you give it to the Purls or an orphanage, its future is out of your hands. You might further your da’s position, girl! Put a bit more bread and broth on the table for us.”
“By selling my child?”
Her mother’s lips twisted in a smirk. “So that’s how it is, is it? ‘My child.’ Well, not for long, dearie. Not for long.”
****
The very next morning, Brody McTavish walked his daughter to the stage station in Brush Creek, a small one-room building at the far end of the community’s Main Street. The stage stopped here on Tuesdays and Fridays on its westward route.
Sheena had not spoken a word during the mile-long trek, and neither had her father, who strode beside her in grim, tight-lipped silence.
The early morning veil of gray suited Sheena’s somber mood. Fear tightened her chest, and she forced herself to draw a deep breath. God help me, she prayed. I am so afraid. But there was no turning back. Even had she been able to force a word of apology to her father past her lips, she knew it was too late. These events had been set in motion, like some kind of giant wheel that she was forced to ride. It hurt too much to contemplate her own mother’s harsh attitude, her father’s disappointment in her over something that had been out of her control. She stood alone, now, against, the world. She was the only protection her baby had. And if she were to do as she was bid, go to her Aunt Bridget and Uncle Corbin’s until the child came, she’d be forced to give it away to strangers. Another unpalatable option.
Her father opened the door to the small building, pointing to a wooden bench. “Sit,” he snarled, depositing her threadbare bag on the floor at the end of the bench. The thump it made on the wood planks seemed thunderous in the quiet morning, and Sheena flinched. But she seated herself, and waited while her father bought her ticket from the balding ticket master. Once he’d completed the purchase, he slowly walked back to Sheena and handed her the stamped paper, the ink staining her thumb as she took it.
“Sheena, girl—” He looked at her as if he had a million things to say, and hope began to rise in her chest. But in the end, he pressed a silver coin into her hand and turned away with a choked noise that sounded, ironically, like “Good luck.”
Sheena sat, speechless, watching him go. It seemed he couldn’t get away quickly enough, and again, the hate she felt for Richard Purl unfurled itself inside her, blotting out the hope completely. Tears swam in her eyes, and she closed her lids tightly. What would she do? Dear God, how was she going to survive? What if they were attacked by Indians? That fear had become overwhelming since her mother had mentioned it. She stifled a sob that rose up, threatening to dissolve her determination completely.
I’m at the mercy of the world. I have no one. I’m completely alone…except for this child.
When she opened her eyes, the ticket master was watching her with sympathy. She quickly averted her gaze, trying to think of anything else that might give her some peace, but her heart was sore, her spirit restless.
As if her present state of mind wasn’t enough, she felt the first dreadful inklings of morning sickness begin to steal over her. She’d thought that this illness would pass after the first few weeks, but she was into her third month now, and still it came upon her with precise regularity, each morning, some days worse than others, but never a morning passed without some showing of it. She tried to ignore it, but her stomach flipped, and she knew she was going to be lucky to make it outside the doors before it rebelled completely. She snatched up her satchel and hurried for the door, wrenching it open just as a tall, dark-haired man came up the front steps and onto the porch. Their eyes met briefly as she sped past him, frantic to get to the back of the building before she emptied her stomach.
I’m not going to make it. Her palms were clammy, her breath shallow. Just as she rounded the back corner, a relentless wave of nausea washed over her so swift and strong she went to her knees. Turning her head, she retched into the grass until there was nothing left. She managed to open her travel case and fumbled for a handkerchief until she located one, then dabbed weakly at her mouth.
A strong, masculine hand closed over hers. “Here, let me.” The voice was deep, soothing.
“No, please—I’m fine. Really.” She raised her eyes to his, mortified. Her heart suddenly threatened to pound its way out of her chest. It was him. The man she’d practically knocked down on her mad dash out of the building. This was one good reason to leave town. How could she ever face him again?
He took the handkerchief from her and gently wiped her forehead, pulling her up from the ground. At his smile, her heart stopped its mad dash. It floundered, thrashed until she thought it wouldn’t ever right itself and beat as it should. His ebony eyes seemed to look straight into her soul, and the smile that curved his sensual lips told her he liked what he saw, even in her distraught state.
But he was a man of color, obviously, the olive tint to his skin heralding a lineage of Mexican blood, or…Indian. A savage, covered by a thin veneer of politeness that existing in the white world dictated. But his hands were gentle on her, and his eyes held no wicked intent. Not like Richard Purl’s had.
“I’m…so sorry.”
“No need, ma’am.” His gaze narrowed and he brushed aside a lock of his dark, shoulder-length hair. “Your husband around? I’ll be glad to get him—”
“No,” she answered crisply. Might as well be honest. She held her head high, looking him in the eye. “That’s very kind of you, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Chandler,” he supplied.
“Mr. Chandler, but I…you see, I…have no husband.”
He watched her for a moment before he spoke, as if gauging her words, her thoughts, her very heart. “Dangerous, ma’am, to be traveling in your condition without a man.”
“Are you offering for the job, then?” Her tone was icy. If only he knew how his kindness broke her heart! She had to keep her defenses up.
He gave her a slow smile, as if he understood her reasoning, which she didn’t quite fathom herself.
“If you need anything, ma’am—anything at all—you let me know. My name’s Callen Chandler—I’m a scout for the U.S. Army. I’m headin’ west along the same route as the stage. I’ll be a few miles behind all the way to Indian Territory.” He bent to pick up her bag, giving her another moment to recover. “I know what it’s like to be alone. It’s not easy.”
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. His dark eyes held hers for scant seconds, but in his gaze she could see the depths of his understanding were real, and true. He did know what it was like—but he was a man. He may be alone in the world, but he was not at the mercy of it.
He gestured toward the street. “Better get on back inside. Town’s startin’ to come alive. It won’t do for us to come out from behind the building together.” He handed her the bag. “You go on. I’ll circle around and come in from another direction.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chandler,” she said softly. “I appreciate—your kindness.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” He walked away, then looked back at her once more. “I…didn’t catch your name.”
“Sheena. Sheena McTavish.”
“Sheena.” He nodded, then touched the brim of his hat. “Very pretty.”
Sheena watched him as he walked away from her, an odd feeling of loss settling in the pit of her stomach. Ridiculous, she thought.
But the memory of his kindness lingered, and somehow, things didn’t seem so black.
****
The landscape was much the same, one mile no different from the others, and her heart was heavy as the stage rolled nearer to her destination.
Very few passengers accompanied her on this leg of the journey. Sheena sat alone on one of the padded bench seats facing Mr. Talbot, an elderly gentleman, and his teenaged great-nephew, Ezra.
Their efforts at small talk eventually died away as the morning passed. Ezra had taken out a dime novel and begun to read, after their lunch stop. His uncle shook his gray head in disapproval.
“None of that’s true, boy.”
“Don’t have to be true to be entertaining, Uncle John.”
“Why don’t you read something that’s good for your mind?”
“This is good for my mind. I like to imagine I can see myself right there with Doc Holliday—”
He broke off as the horses picked up speed, the trees along the rough-cut trail flashing by quicker than before.
“Hyah!” The driver’s cry urged the team even faster.
Sheena moved to the window and tried to look out, but at that moment, they hit a rut in the road, nearly overturning the coach. Sheena lost her balance and was jolted to the floor, young Ezra landing beside her.
“Indians!” Ezra breathed.
Sheena tried to scramble up from the floor, but the jolting, crashing ride made it impossible.
A strangled cry came from above her, and when she looked up, John Talbot’s eyes found hers in the moment before he died, an arrow protruding from his throat.
“Uncle John!” Ezra shouted as the old man slumped to the side of the seat.
“Stay down!” Sheena warned, trying to pull him back to the coach floor. But she was not strong enough, and Ezra was wild with grief and fear. He lunged upward, just as the horses began to slow.