Love Conquers All (Cutter's Creek Book 14)

by Annie Boone

  Love Conquers All

  Annie Boone

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Annie Boone

  About Cutter’s Creek

  Copyright © 2016 by Annie Boone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except for short excerpts used in a book review.

  All characters, places, events, businesses, or references to historical facts are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any references to actual people, places, or events are purely incidental.

  Chapter 1

  Cutter’s Creek, Montana 1883

  Josh stood looking at the new cattle grazing on the rich, lush green grass. A few calves frolicked along, dancing around their mothers whose tails just swatted at the flies. He leaned on the fence, shaking his head. He never thought he’d make it to this moment. A moment so bright and full of promise.

  Had it only been a few short months ago that he had faced losing it all? His livelihood, his home, and most importantly the woman he loved. He turned at the sound of footsteps moving through the tall grass. Felicity came to stand beside him and they watched the herd together.

  “So, what’s on your mind?” he asked.

  She planted a hand on her hip and turned her gaze to the mountains slightly covered by misty clouds. “Lana’s received another letter. They just keep coming.”

  He groaned and he turned back towards the cattle. “I wish they would call this thing off. It can’t lead to anything but heartache for Lana.”

  “Why do you say that? They seem like a good match. At least from what Lana tells me, it seems so.”

  “I’m just afraid he’s toying with her heart or something. He’s all the way in New York, though, so I guess since he’s so far away he can’t do that much harm.”

  “Josh, you need to get prepared. I think this is a little more than letter writing. Lana told me he’s planning to come here to visit.”

  He folded his arms over his chest as he leaned against the fence. The look on his face was grim with a tinge of annoyance. “Why can’t the man just leave well enough alone? Can’t he see that this can’t work out? Why is he interested in her, anyway? I’m sure there are more than enough women for him in New York.”

  “You need to open your mind, Josh. They have a bond and it happened quickly. It won’t be broken unless something drastic happens. It may be that eventually they’ll drift apart, but for now, they’re close. And one day soon, they’ll be closer.”

  “So, what do I do?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything you can do. She’s in love, or at least deeply infatuated. That won’t reverse itself overnight. Let’s just be supportive and see how things go? Yes?”

  “If you say so. But if that man gets out of hand, I’m going to step in. Got it?”

  “All right. I understand. Now let’s go have some lunch. I’m starved.”

  Chapter 2

  A wail pierced the air, making Lana drop her pencil on her bed. She flung back against the headboard and focused on the flickering candle light as a slight, warm breeze blew across her face. Though she loved being an aunt, her nephew’s constant crying rattled her every nerve.

  Outside her room, she heard the rushing of feet and the opening and closing of doors. She was sure her brother and best friend were trying to make the little beast quiet by singing lullabies or rocking him, but it would be no use. Once little Colton got going, he would cry until exhaustion overtook him.

  Lana looked down at the journal laying on her lap, half covered by her quilt. All thoughts of the story fled from her. Though she tried, she couldn’t conjure up what the next line should be.

  There would be no way she could write with the constant noise. She lifted her journal from her bed and walked up to a desk in her room, which stood in front of her window. Two white curtains made gray by the light flickered in the breeze. She set her journal down and stretched her arms.

  A wrinkled letter caught her eye. She picked it up and unfolded it, as pleasure mixed with bitterness filtered through her.

  In the fading candlelight, she began to read it. Again. She’d read it so many times she almost had it memorized.

  Max told her of his desire to see her. This was the part she liked. He shared his feelings and mentioned her beauty. He had made plans to visit. She’d been thrilled when she’d learned this, but her joy was now extinguished. The main purpose of this letter was to let her know he would have to put his plans off. Something with work had come up.

  Lana set the letter to the side. She had finally found a man who inspired her. A man she might even fall in love with. As her luck ran, he lived on the other side of the country. Could there have ever been a more hopeless love story?

  The wailing from her nephew intensified, making her scrunch her eyes closed. There was no way she’d get any sleep, so she decided to go downstairs and get a cup of tea. Lana picked up her journal and walked back to her bed. She bent and pulled out a box, and placed her journal in it on top of several others.

  Running her fingers over the smooth covers, she thought of the stories she had written, stories of love, and cowboys, western manners. Jealousy filled her. Stories of cowboys catching outlaws were as well loved as hotcakes. Stories about cowboys getting snared by a charming young lady was another situation altogether.

  The one time she’d gotten the courage to send one of her stories to a publisher, she’d been flatly rejected. The words of the representative still burned in her mind. How she wanted to tell him that he could take his blasted advice and choke on it! But now that wouldn’t be very mannerly. Focus on finding a husband, indeed. The very nerve!

  She put the lid back on the box and shoved it back under the bed. Grabbing her candle, she walked down the stairs, leaving behind the piercing wail of tiny Colton, and made her way to the kitchen. The scent of tea wafted to her. A slight rumble filled her stomach. Someone was already up.

  She pushed open the door and walked in to see her mother, sitting at the table with a steaming teacup in front of her. To the side was a plate of sugar plum berry scones—their scent adding to the sweet smell already permeating this small space. Her mother looked up and smiled, though a weariness filled her eyes. Her brown and gray curls lay loose over her shoulders and the housecoat she wore was slightly rumpled. Colton was going to make this whole house go crazy if he didn’t decide to start sleeping.

  Lana poured herself a cup of tea and let the rich scent float around her. She pulled out a chair and sat, gripping her teacup.

  “It’s so nice to have a baby in the house again,” her mother said.

  Lana quirked a brow. Her mother thought it was nice to put up with a crying baby? Lana imagined he would start being cute once he reached the crawling stage. Or maybe the adult stage. All little Colton did now was cry and sleep. More cryin
g than sleeping. Hardly endearing.

  She decided to keep her thoughts to herself. It was probably a good thing, considering her mother’s next comments.

  “Someday, Lana, you will have your own little ones and you will welcome their crying.”

  Her own little ones. Lana fumbled with a teaspoon on the table, sliding it back in forth. She couldn’t imagine ever having her own children. Not with Max so far away.

  “Matthew Thompson has been asking about you.”

  Lana fought to keep from rolling her eyes though this was a difficult task.

  “You know he’s a fine young man and handsome, too. He’s not a rancher, so you wouldn’t have to depend on the health of the cattle or whether or not it rains for survival.”

  No, Matthew Thompson was a blacksmith. He worked for Caleb Jefferson in town. This meant he depended on everyone in Cutter’s Creek being able to afford the services of the shop he worked in. If the shop closed, he’d be out of work. Hadn’t her mother thought of that? Many ranchers in these parts had gone broke and left town with the recent drought. The blacksmith’s shop was probably feeling the effects of lost business. At least that was her take on it.

  “Lana, maybe you should give Matthew a chance.” An earnest look filled her mother’s eyes.

  A huff escaped her, making one of her perfect spiral curls blow up and fall back against her face. Matthew was a fine young man, but, well, he didn’t seem to share her passions. Had he ever read a book? Explored the world of Dickens or Bronte? Did he know how a poet could make a girl dream? No, all he ever talked about was the weather and steel. Horses and wagons. Nothing about Matthew entranced her. Nice, handsome, but boring.

  Not like another young man who often sent her sweet verses he had written for her. Or story ideas about young philanthropists doing what they could to help the poor of New York.

  “You’re so young and pretty, I’m...” her mother continued as Lana’s mind drifted.

  Yes, she was young and pretty. That was all her family ever saw her as. What would they think if they knew she snuck into the library at night to read? She had been told she was pretty so much, it was as if her family expected nothing else of her. In their defense, she had done nothing to prove to them otherwise. She wanted to, but what would they think? A woman was to be competent enough run her household—and handsome, if she could possibly attain it. She was never to have her own thoughts or waste time exploring the deeper meanings of the world around them.

  “So, what do you think, Lana?”

  Lana flinched and refocused on her mother. “Think?”

  Her mother leaned back pushing her lips into a thin line. “You’re always woolgathering, dear. Life is passing you by.”

  She folded her hands together and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mama, what did you ask me?”

  “Your father wants to invite Matthew over for dinner.”

  A groan escaped her, and she stood walked to the window. She picked up her tea, realizing the teacup had long cooled. “Oh, Mama...”

  Her mother also stood and walked over to her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Dear, you must realize that Max Tolbert is so far away. And I don’t see how you two could ever be together. On top of that, you barely know him.”

  Tears gathered in Lana’s eyes as a small stab of truth filtered through her. For the past ten months, they had written constantly. She’d saved money to buy stamps and stationery so she could stay in touch with him.

  In every letter, they shared their hopes and dreams. Did her mother not understand that? No one did. Just like no one had ever understood her. Except for Max.

  But her mother had spoken some truth. A truth she didn’t want to admit. How could they ever be together? A marriage took more than words. She sniffled hard and turned to go back to her room.

  The bawling had finally stopped, and every part of her wanted to bury herself in her covers, shutting out the world, though she knew she wouldn’t sleep. As she made her ways up the stairs, gripping the finely polished banister, only one thought crossed her mind. Miss Jane Austen should have written a story about a couple whose love dared to cross such a great distance. Maybe then she’d have some hope.

  Chapter 3

  New York City 1883

  Max raised the small leather-bound book to his face and inhaled the fresh scent of paper and ink. Closing his eyes, he found himself in a world with a sheriff’s bullet slashing through the air, propelling the gang leader back against the wall filled his mind. The sheriff would toss his gun to the side and then race to the girl tied up, her blonde ringlets spilling over her shoulders and around her tear-stained face. A full smile would cross...

  “Are those the cookbooks back from the printer’s?”

  The world he daydreamed of crashed into a heap in his mind. Max turned and spotted his mentor, Mr. Paul Hightower, in the doorway of his office. A desk piled high with various books and papers stood behind him, adding the perfect touch to the business look his mentor wore. A finely tailored black suit and slicked back gray hair. He looked more like a robber baron than the literary genius he was. Unless he smiled. When he smiled, laughter entered his eyes, and one got a glimpse of the kind soul resting inside.

  “It is, indeed. The boxes are full.” Max stood and picked up one of the books from the overflowing boxes. He walked away from the crates of books at the side of his desk to stand near his mentor. He gave him the book and waited as he looked it over.

  Mr. Hightower took the small volume with a brown leather cover and began flipping through the pages. He stopped on Miss Felicity Lipscomb’s recipe. Then he caught himself. She was Felicity Garrett now. She and Josh had married right after Christmas. “I wonder how that cowboy and his spitfire of a wife are doing?”

  Max nodded and smiled, but wondered more about how the cowboy’s sister fared. Though he knew from her letters, the ranch was thriving, and she had become a new aunt, there was something about her last letter that made him pause. Something that worried him. The hope her words had often shone seemed to be dimming.

  She spoke less of the future and asked more about his daily activities, almost like she was searching for some clue. It seemed as if she was trying to find out if he was taking actual steps for them to be together. How he hoped and prayed every day for that to come about.

  He wanted to visit Cutter’s Creek; he just needed to convince Mr. Hightower of it. The old man had spoken of going back to the small mountain-enclosed town and putting together a folklore collection, but he had stopped talking about it. Perhaps he needed to remind him of it.

  “I still think the idea of a folklore collection would sell well.”

  His mentor pushed his lips in a thin line, nodding as he continued to flip through the pages.

  “You know Cutter’s Creek has to be full of tales,” Max added.

  “I was thinking more in the line of Appalachian tales.” Mr. Hightower turned back into his cluttered office, setting the recipe book down on the corner of his desk. He picked up a little black leather book he often wrote dates in and sat in his big chair behind his desk.

  “Appalachia? Didn’t Harpens just release one on the Blue Ridge mountains? I thought we were going to specialize in the new West.” Max followed Mr. Hightower to his office and leaned on the door frame.

  “Things have changed.” Mr. Hightower leaned back and propped his feet up on the desk.

  What could have changed? Something troubled his older friend, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what might be going on. Since the letters started arriving from Lana, he had become standoffish about returning to Cutter’s Creek. He had been charmed by the small western town and its people and admitted that he wished life could be like this everywhere.

  Life could be like this. Max turned from Mr. Hightower and walked to his own desk that sat out in the open area in the middle of the large room. He stepped over to the grimy windows and looked down at the streets down below. Carriages rumbled on in a rapid pace. Women in fine dr
esses and bonnets passed each other, barely acknowledging the other. A young girl stood on the dusty street, holding out small bundles of flowers, hawking what little she had while a man in a fine long black coat and top hat walked by without even noticing her.

  Lana wanted to see the city. The theater, the opera, Central Park. Places he imagined could send a young woman’s mind wandering. What she didn’t realize was the New York he knew was also full of tenement houses and large factories sending smoke into the air.

  There was also the bitter despair in the less fortunate. Many of the people here felt trapped. They were stuck in their meager wage earning jobs, confined to their city surroundings.

  There were no open fields, no deep forests, no majestic mountains to enlighten the imagination. The air was often oppressive, and people mostly didn’t care to know those around them.

  He turned away and sat at his desk, picking up a piece of paper. He placed it in his typewriter, turning the knob. Laying his fingers across the keys, he began plucking at them with his forefingers as quickly as he could. He imagined the keys to be like a piano, but his skill level was too low to be proud of. Instead of discordant music pouring forth, a new world was created. A world where a grim sheriff could right all the wrongs of the world, as the memory of Lana’s laugh tickled all his senses.

  As he lost himself in this world, a harsh cough chopped the air, growing louder and more urgent. He flinched and then stilled.

  That cough was getting worse. This attack sounded more violent than the ones before it. A thump sounded. Max jumped from his seat and raced to Mr. Hightower’s office. He skidded to a halt in front of the opened office. Mr. Hightower knelt at the side of his desk. A trickle of blood dripped down his chin to his white cravat.

  “Mr. Hightower.” He raced to his friend and touched his shoulder.

  The old man looked up and gave a weak smile. “I’m fine, just slipped.”