Love Inspired Historical June 2014 Bundle: Lone Star HeiressThe Lawman's Oklahoma SweetheartThe Gentleman's Bride SearchFamily on the Range

by Griggs, Winnie; Pleiter, Allie; Hale, Deborah; Nelson, Jessica

  “Pjusket blå gardiner,” she wrote in her journal, forced to dream of “ruffled blue curtains” in writing rather than aloud because Lars was hidden away. She went on to describe a table set with sunflowers, piled high with big white pottery bowls bearing blue-striped trims. A bursting table groaning under heaps of food, set to feed a dozen people at least—her and Lars’s great big American families. Giggling, she expanded her story to write of a tall, handsome American cowboy riding in off the range to this well-deserved supper. In the American family of her daydreams, Katrine’s husband was far from Danish in his features; she would cast her imaginary hero as ruddy and dark-haired with a thick stubble and a cowboy swagger to match. And their children—all eight of them—would be a mix of features. Her imaginary sons would have dark, American eyes while her daughters would have big blue Danish eyes to bat at their many beaus.

  “Do you write in that?” A different dark-eyed male—eight-year-old Dakota Eaglefeather—stared at her from the edge of the tree’s shade. He nodded toward Katrine’s journal as though writing were a puzzle he could never hope to solve.

  “I do, Dakota.” She offered him a smile. As the son of a Cheyenne and a white cavalry officer, Dakota suffered too much scorn from too many of the full-blooded Cheyenne boys. Winona had reason to worry about his future among the tribe of Cheyenne. His lighter skin was no fault of his own, and Katrine could see that Winona did her best to give him confidence, but it was a challenge. It didn’t help that there had been enough people back in Boomer Town ready to look down on his skin for being too dark. Lars had said more than once how glad he was that Brave Rock was not home to men who considered Indians as only savages to be conquered or avoided.

  “Your stories?”

  “Something like that.” She looked behind the boy but did not see Winona’s dark braids anywhere in the yard. “Is your aunt with Reverend Thornton?”

  Dakota nodded.

  “I think it’s too nice to stay inside, too, even if I still want to look at books.” She closed her journal and patted the ground next to her. “Shall I tell you a story?”

  He smiled and moved to join her under the tree. Even though she guessed he could understand not much more than half of her words, he still loved to hear stories as much as she loved to tell them.

  She began to tell the Danish tale of Trillevip, the dwarf who helped a girl asked to spin twenty full spindles in a single night. Trillevip’s price for his help was the hand of the spinning girl in marriage. Dakota knew what spinning was, for she could mime the actions. She was just getting to the part of the story where Trillevip would let the girl out of her bargain if only she could guess his name, when a shadow fell across the boy and herself.

  “Trillevip’s boasting reveals his name and he loses his bride.” Clint’s deep voice offered the next point in the plot. “She outsmarts him.”

  “Ah, but she is still in a fix,” Katrine went on, “for the young man has chosen to marry her for how fast she spins, not knowing it is the dwarf who has made it happen.” She looked up at Clint. “Did Lars tell you this one?”

  The sheriff settled down on his haunches. “Not half as well as you do.”

  Katrine felt ill at ease continuing the story with Clint’s dark eyes watching her. Stories of marriage and rescue and clever tricksters seemed somehow odd and wrong to tell in front of him, although she couldn’t really say why.

  “So Trillevip tells the maiden he will send three old crones to her wedding banquet, and she must call them mother, aunt and grandmother and be very kind to them.”

  “Our chief says we must always be kind to guests,” Dakota offered. He was such a bright, considerate child.

  “That’s always true,” Katrine agreed, “but Trillevip had a special reason for asking this of the maiden. The first crone showed up with horrid red eyes that drooped to her chin.” Katrine looked up to see Clint making an awful face, pulling his cheeks into a clumsy droopy shape and crossing his eyes. Dakota erupted in giggles at Clint’s theatrics. “She told the groom her ugly eyes had come from staying up late to spin too much yarn.”

  She mimed spinning and yawning, smiling herself when Dakota did the same.

  “The next old woman was even uglier with a frightfully large mouth that stretched from ear to ear,” Katrine went on, falling into more laughter as Clint spread his mouth with his fingers in a ridiculous face. “She told the groom her mouth had grown wide from licking her fingers to spin smooth yarn.” Katrine watched as Clint made a grand show of licking his fingers. This was a side of him she had not seen—he was always so serious.

  “The third old woman was the ugliest of all. She was bent up and old, barely able to walk even with two crutches to help her.”

  Sure enough, Clint leaped to his feet and began lurching around the tree, hunched over and dragging one foot. Dakota laughed so hard he nearly toppled over.

  “This time the groom asked the old lady why she walked so, for he assumed all three of these old women were kin to the spinning girl. This old crone told the groom her bent legs were from treading the spinning wheel, and that no one should ever have to work as hard as she did or they would surely end up looking like her.”

  “What did the man do then?” Dakota asked.

  “He told his new wife he never wanted to have her spin again,” Clint offered, staring a moment too long at Katrine so that her cheeks felt hot, “for he wanted his wife to stay as young and beautiful as she was.” His smile was warm and not at all for Dakota’s amusement.

  “And so it was,” Katrine said after a moment, “that the spinning girl knew Trillevip had helped her one last time.”

  “Even though the clever little dwarf could not have the pretty young spinning girl as his wife, for now she belonged to another.” Clint’s words held just the slightest tinge of regret, making Katrine wonder who had just told what story to whom. “Trillevip could not have what he wanted.” Katrine held Clint’s pained eyes, even though it seemed unwise to do so, until Dakota’s huff broke the moment.

  “That is a silly story,” the boy declared, evidently far more amused by Clint’s antics than Katrine’s storytelling skills.

  “The best ones are always silly,” Clint said, putting his hat back on.

  Not always, she thought to herself as she watched the lawman walk away. The best ones leave everyone happy when they are done. It always bothered her that the clever, loyal dwarf ended up alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clint was steeling his nerve later that day to go try to warn the Chaucer brothers when Gideon rode up beside him as he trotted down the main street. “Got a minute?” his brother asked, a concerned expression on his face.

  “Sure.” Clint turned his horse to the side of the road as Gideon did the same. “Everything all right?”

  “Evelyn’s fine, Walt’s talking a mile a minute these days, and the horses are all well. But I have to say, that’s exactly the question I meant to ask you.” Gideon pushed up his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. These days the sun seemed intent on showing just how hot an Oklahoma June could be. “Everything all right with you? I mean with Lars being so shortly gone and all…”

  Clint knew he hadn’t exactly been cordial lately, but he figured the ruse of grief ought to explain his sour mood enough for most folks. Still, Gideon’s face showed a deeper concern. “What are you getting at?”

  Gideon resettled his hat. “It’s just that, well, Evelyn and I both noticed the look on your face when Walt called you Uncle Clint the other day. We’ve told Walt he has two new uncles now, never figuring it would bother Lije or you to have him think that.”

  “It doesn’t bother me.” It didn’t—at least not in the way Gideon thought. He’d enjoyed being an uncle before, had loved Gideon’s daughter to distraction before God took her.

  “It sure looked like it did. Look, I know Walt’s not blood kin, but—”

  “Walt’s your son now, and that makes him kin enough to me. He’s a fine bo
y.” How could he explain to Gideon that these days Clint felt as if he were surrounded by babies, families, newlyweds and young’uns? It wasn’t like they weren’t there before—Brave Rock had only a few more families than it had had two weeks ago—it was just the confounded regularity with which home and hearth kept popping up into his once solitary life. His once solitary, nearly satisfactory life. An uncle was not a father, but Clint had found being an uncle was close enough to raising sons and daughters of his own. Up until lately, that is.

  “But you left right after.” Gideon could be like a dog gnawing a bone some days, relentless and without sense enough to quit.

  “I’m fine, Gideon. I didn’t mean anything by it, and I’m sorry if I caused you and Evelyn any worry.” He didn’t begrudge anyone their happiness. Even now looking at his brother it was clear Gideon was so hanged happy Clint couldn’t be irritated with him. And Lije, well, he’d just spent an evening with Lije’s happiness on point-blank display, hadn’t he? Both of his brothers had found a love match weeks—even months—earlier and Clint had tolerated the joviality just fine. Now, suddenly, all of it just set his teeth on edge and dragged his imagination to places it ought not to go.

  “Walt can call me Uncle any day of the week,” he went on, just to reassure Gideon his new family was wholly welcome into the Thornton fold. If only the Chaucers were as generous. “If anything, it may be his other uncles that have a thing or two to say about it.”

  “You leave that to me,” Gideon said, and by the look in his eye Clint knew he meant it.

  The brothers parted ways with a hearty handshake, leaving Clint to darker thoughts as he turned his horse toward the trio of spreads where the Chaucers had staked their claims. This might have been easier with Gideon beside me, Clint thought, feeling even more alone. There were still miles of bad blood between the Thorntons and the Chaucers, but even those men had to accept that Gideon was now Evelyn’s husband. No matter how those stubborn brothers chose to object, Gideon was now kin to them, kin to their nephew. Maybe that would be enough to get them to listen to his plan. Even if they hadn’t the decency to show up at their sister’s wedding, he hoped Theo, Reid and Brett Chaucer would have the good sense to realize they needed to listen to their brother-in-law and the town sheriff, even if he was named Thornton.

  Walt and Evelyn were, however, exactly why Clint could not bring Gideon into this plan. This scheme was Clint’s and Clint’s alone to see through; no one else could shoulder this particular burden for Brave Rock. He just hoped it would go easy.

  Any hopes for such dissolved as he spied Theo Chaucer inspecting the stretch of property fence that ran closest to town. Of the three Chaucer brothers, Theo would be by far the hardest to convince.

  “Afternoon, Theo.” The man was only a handful of years older than Clint, but the frown that planted itself on his features aged him a dozen more. “Fence holding up okay?” A Thornton making small talk with a Chaucer. Who’d have figured on that? He’d have to figure on a lot of “firsts” if this was ever going to work.

  Theo pushed his hat back and squinted up at Clint. The man had sandy hair, dark eyes and a dark disposition to match. “Fine enough” was all he said. Kindly put, Evelyn was by far the friendliest of the Chaucer siblings. They’d given Gideon no end of grief before he’d taken up with Evelyn, and still hadn’t warmed up to the idea of their baby sister tacking on the Thornton name.

  At least try to be friendly-like, he told himself. Swinging down from his saddle, Clint took off his hat. “Good to hear. No troubles with it? No sudden breaks or suspicious-looking cuts?”

  Theo planted the shovel he was holding in the ground and parked one elbow on the fencepost. “Now just what is that supposed to mean?” Word had undoubtedly reached Theo that at one time, Clint had suspected the Chaucers of being the men behind all of the trouble Brave Rock had seen lately. That wasn’t exactly conducive to the partnership Clint needed now, but there was no help for that.

  Clint tried to tone his words with friendly concern rather than suspicion as he took a step closer. “Chaucer, we need to talk.”

  “Not the way I see it. Besides, ain’t that what we’re doing now?”

  A conversation Clint had categorized as “difficult” just slid into the “near impossible” column. “Someplace a bit more private, if you don’t mind. With your brothers.”

  “If you want an invitation to tea or some such thing, that’s Evelyn’s department. As it is, I’m a bit busy for Friday social calls, Sheriff.” Theo said the title with a nasty edge to it, a bite just short of disrespect.

  Clint felt his lips press together and he made a conscious effort to unfurl his fingers. This was far more important than a family squabble. “As a matter of fact, I’m here on sheriff business. So no, I’m not expecting hospitality. But I do need you to hear me out.”

  Theo pulled the shovel from its place in the ground. “Say your piece, then. I’m listening.”

  Clint forced the exasperation from his voice, trying hard to sound reasonable. “Like I said, this ain’t an outside conversation.”

  It took another ten minutes of persuasion before Theo tossed his shovel into the wagon and drove toward the Chaucer compound where the three men had situated their cabins. Clint kept his eyes open as he followed across the Chaucer land, trying to see it with McGraw’s eyes. Where would they ride in from? What fence would be cut first? Which building could be set on fire without being seen? It soured his stomach to be thinking like a criminal, but second-guessing those of ill intent was part of his job and always had been.

  Once the men had gathered, Clint didn’t hesitate to give a straight-on account of what “certain suspicious parties” were planning. It wasn’t yet time to reveal who was after them—Chaucers were a hotheaded clan, and if they went off straight to McGraw picking a fight, all this intrigue would be lost. A storm of proof-less accusations would only get him right back where he started from, and Clint wanted this over quickly.

  “I think you’re seeing things that aren’t there.” Brett Chaucer sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “I know the foreigner was your friend but ain’t nobody had it out for him and ain’t nobody have it out for us, neither. Especially if you can’t even affix a name to these bandits you tell us are coming for our land.”

  Clint took a chance. “What if I was to tell you I have proof the Brinkerhoff fire was set deliberately to kill Lars? And that Gideon’s fence didn’t break, it was cut? And the Morrison well didn’t fail all on its own? The Black Four are forcing good people out of rightful claims, and now it’s clear they won’t stop at murder to get what they want.” Clint held Theo’s eyes, hoping to appeal to him as the eldest brother. “They’ll kill one of you as easily as they did Lars, if it suits them. You really want to take a chance that I’m wrong?”

  “What I can’t figure,” Reid Chaucer cut in, “is why you’d bother to come out here with a wild story like this knowing we wouldn’t fall for it? What’s it to you if Chaucers get run out of Brave Rock? It’s not like we’re all neighborly.”

  “We were,” Clint felt compelled to point out. “Once.” The families had indeed been close before the war between the states. Since then, the ravages of the South’s reconstruction had driven a bitter wedge that had only soured with the years.

  “Water long under the bridge, Sheriff.” Brett’s words had an air of finality.

  “All right, then, think of it this way—I can’t very well let innocent people fall prey to the likes of these bandits without trying to stop them. It’s my duty to warn you of a threat, no matter what my last name is or whether or not we get along.”

  “I’d like to meet the man who thinks he can spook us off our land,” Theo boasted. “Black bandana or no.” It was exactly the kind of reaction Clint would have expected from the man.

  “Monday night, I expect you’ll get to do just that.”

  “Why can’t you just arrest them now?” Brett asked.

  Clint wiped hi
s hands down his face, tamping down his growing frustration. “Because I need more proof, need to catch them red-handed. If things go as I hope they will, I’ll be able to do that Monday night.” He ignored the way the next words stuck in his craw. “But I need your help to do it. And I need to know you all are ready for whatever it is they’ve got planned.”

  Theo crossed one boot over the other, far too casual for Clint’s taste. “Appreciate the warning, Sheriff, but I think we’ll be just fine.”

  Clint put his hat on. This conversation was over, whether he’d convinced them or not. “Just be on the watch. That’s all I ask.”

  “Are you going to send up a smoke signal to warn us or some such thing?”

  Warning them was a good idea. If they wouldn’t be on guard the whole night, at least some sort of advance warning would take away McGraw’s element of surprise. “I’ll figure something out and get back to you.”

  Theo gave a placating laugh. “You do that.”

  Clint tipped his hat to the brothers, who looked as if they’d prefer to swat him out of their sight like an annoying fly. Being sheriff was a thankless enough job without being outright dismissed.

  Some days foolish arrogance was as much a threat as any bullet ever fired.

  *

  Clint had been in sour spirits at Wednesday’s dinner, leaving Katrine to fear that the sheriff was getting ready to put his plans into action. Tension pulled at his shoulders and clipped short his words. Twice since then, she’d caught him staring at her with a strange look on his face. It wasn’t anything she could readily name, but it seemed to waffle back and forth between regret and determination. She couldn’t help thinking he’d somehow settled for something—compromised or made do when that sort of tactic didn’t seem to be in his nature at all. She’d find herself taken back by a battle-ready steeliness in his features, only to turn around and catch him with such a sad air of loss that she could nearly convince herself Lars was really gone.