GUNSMOKE AND LACE

by Linda Broday

  Contents

  Gunsmoke and Lace

  The Telegraph Tree

  Moon Dog Night

  The Gunslinger

  Hard Luck

  Letter to the Reader

  About Linda

  Gunsmoke and Lace

  ~

  A Short Story Collection

  Linda Broday

  ~

  Copyright © 2018 by Linda Broday

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage or retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission of Linda Broday.

  All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Epitaph Press

  PO Box 7624

  Amarillo, Texas 79109

  https://LindaBroday.com

  ISBN: 978-1-7323199-1-2

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  Cover art by Charlene Raddon

  Editing by Jerri Lynn Hill

  Formatting and Layout: Jeri Walker

  https://JeriWB.com

  EPITAPH PRESS

  ~

  Author Praise

  “Beauty and warmth spring from the pages as the quiet strength and grace of the characters capture readers’ hearts and bring that deep sigh they crave.” ~~ Romantic Times 4 ½ Stars Top Pick for Knight on the Texas Plains

  “Broday knows how to create characters that elicit decided emotional responses …” ~~ Long and Short Reviews for The Heart of a Texas Cowboy

  “An unforgettable journey through the Old West.” ~~ Booklist Starred Review (To Marry a Texas Outlaw)

  “This is one author that knows how to tie you in knots keeping you on the edge and making you smile through it all.” ~~ Cyn’s Reviews

  “Broday’s gritty depiction of the Texas frontier will strike a chord in the hearts of fans who long for proud, rugged cowboys and strong-willed women.” ~~ Romantic Times (To Marry a Texas Outlaw)

  “Great for fans of history, romance, and some good old Texas grit.” ~~ Kirkus (Texas Redemption)

  “To the very end Linda Broday will have you guessing and sitting on the edge of your seat …” ~~ Fresh Fiction

  “The men are hot and sexy and the women are sassy.” ~~ Fresh Fiction (Texas Mail Order Bride)

  ~

  Other Books by Linda Broday

  Texas Heroes Series:

  Knight on the Texas Plains

  The Cowboy Who Came Calling

  To Catch a Texas Star

  Bachelors of Battle Creek:

  Texas Mail Order Bride

  Twice a Texas Bride

  Forever His Texas Bride

  Men of Legend:

  To Love a Texas Ranger

  The Heart of a Texas Cowboy

  To Marry a Texas Outlaw

  Redemption – Single Title

  Anthologies:

  Christmas in a Cowboy’s Arms

  Give Me a Texan

  Give Me a Cowboy

  Give Me a Texas Ranger

  Give Me a Texas Outlaw

  A Texas Christmas

  Be My Texas Valentine

  Hearts and Spurs

  Coming soon! Outlaw Mail Order Bride series! Feb. 2019

  ~

  Dedicated to all readers—young and old—who love stories of the old west and characters that might’ve strode down a dusty street with a certain swagger, spurs jingling.

  Deepest thanks and much appreciation to Jerri Lynn Hill, Charlene Raddon, Jeri Walker, and Jan Sikes for helping to get this book out. It does take a village for me. Ha!

  The Telegraph Tree

  West Texas Prairie 1879

  “Come on, Belle, get on out of there. You’re a dumb cow, you know that? How on God’s green earth did you find what is surely the only mud hole left in all of Texas?”

  Maura Killion blew a strand of chestnut hair from her face and stared at the brown and white Jersey that was bogged down up to her hocks. The heifer’s frightened bellows and eyes rolling back in her head struck a blow to Maura’s heart.

  Tears clogged in Maura’s throat. She sagged against the milk cow, cursing this godforsaken land that had stolen her husband before he’d even known he was to be a father and left her all alone with a broken spirit.

  If not for her baby girl, Allie Rose, she’d give up completely. At three months old, the babe depended on her for survival so she had no choice but to keep going.

  When Maura’s milk dried up four days ago, fear paralyzed her. Allie would die without nourishment from the heifer.

  She glanced at the infant lying in a basket at the edge of the bog. How the child could sleep with all the racket was a mystery. Even when awake, Allie seldom ever cried. It was as if she, too, had lost the will to live.

  Sudden anger swept through Maura. Giving up was not an option. God help her, she’d fight to give her baby girl the right to thrive and grow up strong.

  Though thick mud of the buffalo wallow sucked at her legs, gripping them like bands of iron, Maura made her way to Belle’s wide rump. With loud shouts and a mighty shove, she applied the last of her waning strength.

  The cow must’ve sensed her desperation because somehow, someway, Belle managed to pull herself out. Maura collapsed into a sobbing heap under the mid-morning sun.

  This was too hard. Life was too hard. Living was too hard.

  She raised her head and stared at the vast blue sky that seemed to swallow everything, leaving nothing but empty dreams, loneliness and sorrow. She’d scream if she had energy left.

  This land took and took, giving nothing back except endless days and hopeless nights.

  Maura wearily pushed aside the drowning sensation. Gathering the wicker basket cradling Allie, she yelled to the cow, “Come along, Belle, you ornery critter. If you happen to find yourself in another mess today you’re on your own. I’m done for.”

  The heifer’s last bellow of indignation seemed to say she took exception; nonetheless she followed along docile as a lamb.

  The mud in Maura’s shoes created sucking sounds as she trudged through waves of tall brown grass toward the little soddy that sheltered them.

  No matter how big a toll this land took on her she knew she’d continue to keep putting one foot in front of the other. For Baby Girl and for the slim hope that someday her struggle would all be worth it.

  She had no other choice.

  * * *

  An angry howling wind battered at the door all night, insisting she let it in. Feeling as though she’d only crawled into bed, Maura rose and started her day.

  Allie stared silently from a crib fashioned from a crate that Maura had lined with part of an old frayed quilt. Apparently, Baby Girl hadn’t slept either.

  When Maura’s time had come three months ago, she gathered her fortitude and delivered the baby herself. Mrs. Fletcher on a farm a half a day’s ride, promised to help with the birthing, but the wind and emptiness drove her mad. She’d taken her own life two months before Allie arrived.

  Now, with Mrs. Fletcher gone no one remained within a day’s ride.

  Maura changed Allie’s diaper and put the babe in a sling contraption tied around her neck then went out to milk Belle.

  Thirty minutes later, she patiently spooned milk into Allie’s mouth. She returned the babe to the sling and trudged out to hitch the plow to her mule. Time to plant a garden if they expected to eat.

  Halfway through the plowing, she stopped and leaned against the mule to catch her breath. A spindly tree no more than five fee
t high that stood at the edge of the homestead snagged her attention. It might be the only tree as far as the eye could see, but the branches spread wide as though challenging the wind to rip it out by the roots. She’d often wondered who’d planted it. Other nesters? Had they been dreamers who yearned for a bit of shade?

  She’d noticed the tree before but had never heard it whisper in the wind. Never heard it call her name. Until now.

  Speak your heart it seemed to say.

  As though in a trance, she dropped the mule’s reins and went into the soddy. Finding a scrap of paper, she dipped a goose quill into a small bottle of ink.

  Dear God, I fear I’m going mad like Mrs. Fletcher. This blessed silence is a curse. Dead dreams and solitude fill the unending days. I yearn for a touch, a smile, and the sound of another human voice. I long to be loved, cherished, kissed. To know I matter.

  After punching a hole in the paper, she found a piece of yarn. Marching across the partially plowed furrows, she tied the paper onto a tree limb.

  No one would ever read her scribbles. No one would ever hear her heart’s hope, but she felt a calm wash over her for having voiced her thoughts. Feeling somewhat renewed, she tried to spoon more milk into Allie’s rosebud mouth before returning to her plow.

  * * *

  During the night, a snarling pack of coyotes awakened Maura. They were very close to the soddy. She rose and lit the lamp. Snatching up a loaded Winchester that had belonged to her husband, she opened the door about six inches. At least half a dozen pairs or more of glittering yellow eyes stared back at her. The way they bared their razor sharp teeth and lunged at each other’s throats they had to be from rival packs.

  She stilled her trembles. Opening the door a little wider, she aimed at the predators and pulled the trigger. One went down. Three of the pack pounced on their brother, snarling. Orange flame shot from the barrel of her rifle again, then again. At last, pulling the dead coyote, they retreated into the safety of darkness.

  Fear crawled up her spine. They were still out there whether she could see them or not. And they sensed her terror. They’d kill her without hesitation.

  Holding the lantern up high, she inched toward a large dark form lying several yards away. Her cow? Relief made her knees weak when she found it was a dead antelope the coyote pack had brought down.

  A quick glance at the barn assured her she’d remembered to bar the door earlier to keep Belle safe for the night. She couldn’t take any chances with Allie’s only milk supply.

  Allie! She had to get back to Baby Girl.

  But she had herself to think about also. This meat would feed her for weeks. Her clothes hung on her because she’d had so little to eat.

  Did she dare to fight the vicious coyotes for what she could salvage?

  Without hesitation, she grabbed the antelope’s hind leg and yanked. Halfway to the soddy, the coyotes started closing in. They would risk death to get the fresh carcass.

  She put the rifle to her shoulder and fired. One lunged at her and she shot it. Bone-chilling snarls echoed in the night air.

  Unable to remember how many shots she’d fired, panic gripped her. If she ran out, they’d swoop in for the kill.

  Maybe she should abandon the antelope and let them have it.

  Yet, Allie’s life and hers depended on this food. She’d not quit. She couldn’t.

  She tightened her grip and using her remaining strength managed to drag the antelope up next to the wall of the soddy.

  No time to rest her aching muscles. She hurried inside for a sharp knife and began cutting off chunks of the meat while keeping one eye out for the desperate, hungry predators.

  By the time rosy ribbons of light finally spread over the land, she’d washed off the blood and went in to feed Allie. The babe had become even more listless and that struck fear so deep into Maura’s soul she couldn’t breathe. Over the course of an hour, she managed to trickle some nourishment at least into the child’s open mouth without strangling her. But she needed more.

  Sobbing with frustration, Maura had to find a better way of getting milk into Baby Girl or else dig a grave. Ice swept up her spine.

  Maura gathered her sharp knife and again tempted fate, going out to harvest the antelope’s stomach. She’d heard tales of such things serving as a feeding implement for babies. Willing to try anything, she gently removed the stomach and formed a makeshift pouch by sewing it tight with some of the animal’s sinew. Several washings with hot water made it ready for use. She quickly filled it with milk.

  Minutes later, Allie sucked greedily from a pinhole left unbound. Once full, the babe gave her a weak smile. This was going to work. Maura said a quick prayer of thanks and knew just how to share her joy.

  * * *

  That morning Maura got out her paper and wrote:

  Thanks be to God from whom all blessings flow. I have food and I’ve pushed death from my door yet again. I won’t let it have my baby. I won’t let it silence my hope. I vow to fight to the last breath.

  Trudging across the furrowed garden to the little tree, she tied it to a branch. Now two notes fluttered in the breeze like little doves carrying messages. She desperately wanted one to return with a green leaf, an olive branch, some hope of better times like the bird once had to Noah.

  Maura stared across the unending waves of brown grass that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  She needed to believe. She needed a relief from toil and exhaustion.

  Most of all she needed to feel alive again. To dream.

  This couldn’t be all there was. There had to be more.

  * * *

  Though exhausted by the long previous night, she kept busy. When dusk came she thought back over her day and all she’d accomplished. The dead carcasses lay well out of range of the soddy for the wild animals to finish devouring. Her food stores were replenished.

  The antelope stew with its thick juice simmering on the stove filled the dwelling with a delicious aroma. She moved over to stir it, remembering the joy she took from serving this dish to her dear husband. Of course, they’d had cornbread to go with it then. She’d had plenty of flour and meal in those days.

  He’d come in after a full day’s work, sniff the air and a big smile would spread across his face easing the tired lines. Then he’d put his arms around her and nuzzle her neck. Tell her how much he loved her.

  Oh God, how she missed that man.

  She brushed away a tear and glanced over at Allie. Maura had fed her every two hours. Color had begun to come back into the babe’s wan little face, a testament the makeshift bottle would do its job.

  Before complete darkness descended, Maura got out her paper and tore off another piece.

  Is there anyone out there? Am I and my baby the only ones left on this earth? I desperately need to know for my own sanity, to hope.

  When she closed her eyes in sleep, she dreamed of a man with laughing gray eyes and strong callused hands.

  * * *

  The image stayed with her when she awakened. Who was this man of her dreams? Her husband’s eyes had been dark brown and he’d had a withered hand.

  A strange sound met her ears.

  A baby’s coos.

  Maura peered into the wooden cradle. Allie was staring at her hand and cooing.

  “Hey there, little darlin’. How’s my girl? I hope you’re hungry because I’ll have some warm milk as soon as I get Belle in the mood of giving.” Tears stung her eyes. She laid back on the pillow, contemplating this wonderful gift she’d been given.

  And so began her day. After feeding Allie, she put the child in the sling around her chest and went to work. She had to get seed into the ground. More spring rain would hopefully come and she wanted to have her plot of land ready.

  But before she got started, she tied her late-night note onto the little scraggly tree. In a way, it was like talking to God. No one would ever read them, but they helped relieve her frustration and voice the deep loneliness that seeped into her sou
l.

  With the notes rustling in the wind murmuring words of hope, she went about the job of living.

  * * *

  The next morning after feeding Allie and herself, she got out her writing implements.

  I dreamed of strong arms around me, holding me with love. Am I destined to never know that again? I yearn to hear another’s heart beating softly next to me, feel his touch on my body. I cannot bear the thought of living the rest of my days all alone.

  Once more, she tied it to the tree. Then she jerked back.

  One note did not belong to her. It had a bright red string. She always used a length of gray yarn.

  Who could’ve put this strange one there?

  Maura quickly glanced around, scanning the flat land. Nothing. No evidence of another human within sight.

  Nothing but this note to say another had walked near.

  Her trembling fingers fumbled with the red string. At last she got it untied it and read:

  You are not alone. I am here. I care. You matter to someone. You matter to me.

  A tear trickled silently down her cheek. Someone felt her pain and took the time to let her know. She carefully retied it to the branch and again surveyed the area. Still no movement anywhere.

  Over the next three weeks, Maura and this mysterious person conversed back and forth. She learned his name was Sam and that he worked for Western Union Telegraph Company as a lineman in charge of repairing broken telegraph poles and downed lines. She savored each of the lonely widower’s messages.