West Winds of Wyoming

by Caroline Fyffe

  Also by Caroline Fyffe

  Where the Wind Blows

  Before the Larkspur Blooms

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Caroline Fyffe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477825204

  ISBN-10: 1477825207

  Cover design by Anna Curtis

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907539

  Dedicated to my wonderful husband, Michael, whose love, support, encouragement (and brainstorming) mean everything to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Logan Meadows, Wyoming Territory, April 1882

  Nell Page tugged at the collar of her shirt, feeling her moist, prickly skin underneath. The mercantile was stuffy. Too warm for this blustery spring day. Meandering down the wide aisle, she marveled at the items on display. Everything from butter stamps to cherry pitters. Who dreams up all these gadgets? And who would want to spend their hard-earned money on them?

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Maude Miller rounded the long pine counter and stopped at Nell’s side. Maude had owned the mercantile for as long as Nell could remember. The woman resembled the apple-faced dolls Nell had seen once as a girl. A traveling Mexican merchant had shown her how he carved a face into a peeled apple, then left it in the sun for several months to dry. The finished product, leathery-soft brown and deeply wrinkled, had seemed so real. Nobody quite knew Maude’s age, and she wasn’t saying, but every time the two of them spoke, Nell couldn’t help remembering those dolls.

  The store owner slipped her feather duster into her apron pocket, handle first, so the plumes stuck out like the tail of a rooster. “Something special I can help you find?” Her eyes brightened. “That color would look pretty in your hair.”

  “Oh.” Nell pulled her hand away from where it had strayed to touch a bolt of silky yellow ribbon. “I’m just browsing while I wait for Seth. He’s over at the sheriff’s office talking with Albert and Thom.”

  Maude’s eyes widened. “There’s no trouble out at your place, is there?”

  “No.” Things at the ranch were good. Least, good as could be expected. “I think my brother just gets lonely for male companionship. It’s only been him and me since Ben passed.”

  Maude’s face softened.

  Nell glanced away, wishing she hadn’t mentioned Ben. Maude probably remembered the funeral, and the spectacle Nell’d made of herself.

  Uncomfortable, Nell picked up a twisted copper tube that looked like a knot. “What is this, anyway?”

  “The newest innovation to—”

  A menacing rumble of thunder cut off her answer.

  Nell stepped closer to the window. Down the street, dark clouds swirled in the sky. “Storm’s brewing and won’t hold off for long. Seth better hurry. I don’t fancy riding home through a downpour. I’ve seen too many trees charred by lightning.”

  The sun completely disappeared then and the room darkened even more, as did the whole of Main Street, casting an ominous premonition over Nell’s soul. She pushed the feeling away and tried to smile. “Won’t be long before the sky lets go.”

  “You’re right,” Maude said, joining her at the window. “Sure is deserted out there. Maybe you and Seth should stay in town and wait it out.”

  Nell waved off her disquiet, sorry she’d worried the old woman. “We’ll be fine—fine and wet is all.” She made a funny face and shrugged.

  The timeworn wooden floorboards shook as the Wells Fargo stage rolled past the mercantile’s plate-glass window toward the El Dorado Hotel.

  Maude clapped her hands together. “Oh good. Here’s the stage.” She untied her apron, revealing an azure-blue prairie-style dress that was a mite too small for her portly frame. “Mind if I leave you alone for a moment while I fetch the merchandise I ordered?”

  Nell didn’t mind being alone in the store or out on a deserted prairie. As a matter of fact, she preferred solitude. No one yammering in her ear. No one telling her what to do. “I don’t mind at all. But how about if I go with you, Mrs. Miller? Help you carry in your things.”

  Acutely aware of the men’s denims, plaid shirt, and leather jacket she wore, Nell followed Maude out the door, pondering what dressing like a lady would feel like. A gust of wind whipped the hat hanging down her back, held secure by a twisted-leather stampede string. She didn’t have time to wonder about silly things like that, not with chores to do and horses to be worked. Besides, she liked her life just fine.

  By the time the stagecoach had settled and the horses stood quietly in their harnesses, the shotgun messenger was up top with the freight and the driver stood in front of the opened coach door. Maude and Nell crossed the street, a loud clap of thunder making them both duck. The strength of the wind practically pushed them back one step for every two forward.

  Several other merchants had braved the wind to see what the stagecoach brought, and they formed a loose circle around the driver. Seth, along with Albert and Thom, watched from several doors down in front of the jail.

  “Come out, sweetie,” the driver coaxed. He put out his hands in supplication to someone inside the stage and smiled from behind a shaggy beard come alive by the wind. “No one here is gonna hurt ya.” After several seconds, he dropped his hands and turned to the crowd. “Ain’t no use. I can’t get her out for the life of me.”

  “What’s this? What’s going on?” Maude asked. Nell followed close behind and rose up on
tiptoe to peek into the window of the coach.

  A young girl sat alone on the bench, a darling little ragamuffin no more than six or seven years old. Even in her disheveled state, she was a beauty. Her legs were tucked up underneath a calico dress and she gripped a crocheted doll in her hands.

  Maude pushed past the driver. “Aw, she looks frightened to tears, Mr. Martin.” Her voice softened to barely a whisper. “Where’d you get her?”

  The child’s eyes followed a pattern. They studied the door, moved to one window, then the other, before pausing on her doll, then back to the door. From there, she started all over again. She reminded Nell of a skittish weanling just taken from her mama.

  Mr. Martin shook his head. “She boarded with an ol’ woman in Denver. Coulda been her grandma.”

  Maude straightened up, alarmed. “What do you mean? Where is this woman?”

  Mr. Martin waved his hand, put a finger to his lips. “Shush, ma’am.” Maude pulled back, red-faced.

  “She went to meet her maker yesterday.” Mr. Martin spoke as quietly as he could over the growing storm. “The tyke won’t say a thing ’cept her first name. And she’s blind.”

  Maude placed her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my. That’s horrible.”

  Nell stepped closer to the door. “Do you know anything about her?”

  Mr. Martin hoisted a tan carpetbag that had been lowered from the roof and handed it over. “This was the woman’s. Had a note pinned inside.” He slid a folded scrap of paper from the pocket of his denims.

  “May I see it?” Nell asked. By now, the prolonged activity at the stage had drawn Albert, Thom, and Seth down the street. One by one, they glanced inside the coach as Nell read the note aloud.

  “Please deliver Maddie to Brenna Lane in Logan Meadows. The child is blind, so I appreciate you looking out for her. Thank you, Cora Baxter.” Nell looked from face to face. “To Brenna Lane?” The widow already had three children of her own, plus a boy she’d taken in last year. Is Brenna kin?

  “Do you know why she died?” Albert Preston asked. The lines on the sheriff’s forehead bespoke his concern.

  Mr. Martin shrugged. “She felt weak when she went to bed, didn’t wake up the next day. Her grave’s back at the Gold Bug stage stop.”

  Albert nodded as he took the note and carpetbag.

  “Has the child eaten anything lately?” Nell asked. “She looks hungry. And more than a bit scared.”

  “Breakfast. I done the best I could for the scared little rabbit,” the driver said. When Maude prepared to climb in for the child, Nell stopped her with a touch to her arm. “I’d like to try, Mrs. Miller. Do you mind?”

  At first, she thought the shop owner would object, but then Maude drew back to make room. The child’s dirty face, messy hair, and frightened eyes reminded Nell of her own childhood. Just her and Seth, no parents in sight. “Hello, Maddie,” she said softly. “You’ve arrived in Logan Meadows. This is where Brenna Lane lives. Is she your aunt?” Another bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, lighting the dark interior of the coach.

  The little girl—Maddie—swallowed and fear skittered across her face. She clutched her doll tight to her chest.

  “Never you mind about that right now. I bet you’re worn out from this rickety old coach.” Worried about the growing storm, Nell inched in a little farther and stopped. “That sure is a pretty doll you have.” She smiled even though the child couldn’t see her. “I used to have one just like her when I was your age.”

  Are dreaming and owning two different things?

  “Let’s you and me go over to the Silky Hen and have a cup of hot cocoa. Then Hannah will fry you up some fat chicken drumsticks. Afterwards we’ll march right over to Brenna Lane’s house.”

  The child appeared uncertain. After a moment she nodded, lowering her legs to the floor, and reached out. When their fingers touched, another flash of unease moved through Nell, a warning of a coming storm that had nothing to do with the weather.

  CHAPTER ONE

  About six months later, September 1882

  Tristan Charles Axelrose guided his mare under the wooden sign spanning the width of the narrow, wagon-tracked road. COTTON RANCH. This was the place. The outfit the sheriff of Logan Meadows had informed him was looking to hire. A good twenty-minute ride from town, across some of the prettiest country he’d seen in a while. The land was sparse of humans but thick with wildlife, foliage and trees.

  He studied the homestead as he covered the distance, letting go a sigh at finally reaching his destination after all these months. The heaviness of his six-shooter pressed reassuringly on his thigh, but the guilt that was never far from his mind pricked his conscience. He rode into the deserted ranch yard, scattering a handful of chickens, and dismounted, hunger and anxiety twisting his gut. He gave his horse one short drink from the watering trough, walked a slow circle, then stopped.

  A large barn dwarfed the rustic-looking ranch house. A sturdy, well-used round pen, as well as several good-sized corrals, filled a half acre of land, and several more outbuildings dotted the area. A few green plants in the back, halfway hidden by the house, must be a vegetable garden. Far beyond, in a pasture on the hill, a herd of horses grazed on blowing brown grass.

  “Hello?” he hollered. “Anyone home?”

  The creaking of the barn’s loft door as it swung wide in the wind was the only answer.

  “Hello,” he called again, then waited. He didn’t want to get shot for trespassing.

  In its day, this ranch must have been a beautiful sight. He’d hoped to find employment closer to town, but he was fortunate to have heard about this possibility before someone else did. With any luck, the ranch hand job would still be open. What kind of people were Seth Cotton and his sister, Nell Page? Would they tolerate him bedding his tired mount down in their barn without permission? Or would they shoot first and ask questions later?

  Five minutes ticked by. A tumbleweed half as tall as himself skittered across the dirt yard and wedged itself against the windmill between the porch and the barn.

  Hell. He couldn’t let his mare stand out here any longer. He’d ridden eight hours straight on this last leg and Georgia needed tending. The sight of her drooped head made his decision for him. He gave her one more short drink from the long, wooden water trough and started for the barn.

  After pulling one of the double doors open, he stepped in cautiously and looked around. Stalls had been mucked recently and were bedded with clean straw. Three horses, interested in the newcomers, watched with pricked ears.

  He flipped his reins through a hitching ring and had lifted his stirrup over his saddle when the low metallic click of a gun being cocked stopped him short.

  “Drop your gun and turn around.”

  Habit kept him rooted. He didn’t give up his gun to anyone.

  “You deaf, mister?”

  Indecision warred inside.

  “Your choice. Prepare to meet your maker.”

  It was a woman’s voice, but the hard, no-nonsense tone made him reconsider. Without turning, he unbuckled his gun belt and lowered it to the ground.

  “Now turn around.”

  Palms up and forward, he turned. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it sure wasn’t her. Just outside the doorway of the barn stood a woman dressed in men’s clothing. With the sun to her back he couldn’t see her face, but her tall, assertive stance told him she knew how to handle the gun she held, and would, without blinking an eye.

  “What’re you doing in my barn?” she asked.

  “Waiting on you.”

  “Why?”

  “Sheriff Preston sent me out. Said you were looking to hire. When I rode in, no one was home and my horse is worn out. Didn’t think you’d mind me tending to her.”

  “Why should I believe you? You could have made that up, easy enough.”

  “I guess I could—but I didn’t. In town there was a large, wolf-like dog sleeping in front of the sheriff’s office when I arrived. I
had to step over him to get inside. The building had a few charcoaled boards from a fire.”

  She shifted, her right side now obscure in the shadow of the barn door, her gun trained at his chest. Her face, what he could see of it, was red from the wind. That mess of curly blond hair and her lanky body were a lot to take in.

  “That would be Thom Donovan’s dog, Ivan.” Her eyes darted to his horse and her features softened. She pulled a deep breath, then let the air out slowly. “What’s your name?”

  He’d already made his decision and he couldn’t go back now.

  “Well?”

  If he wasn’t going to be looking over his shoulder every day of his life, he’d best stick to his plan. Give the name he’d provided to the sheriff of Logan Meadows, the one he’d used to join the Union Army when he was just a kid so his pa couldn’t find him and drag him home. “Charlie Rose.”

  “Rose?” Her brows arched. “You must get some teasing over that.”

  His pa had taught him rising to the bait was like sprinkling whiskey on flames, so he ignored her comment and gestured to his horse. “Do you mind?”

  “Go on.” She motioned with the barrel of her gun. Then she stepped closer and picked up his gun belt off the ground. Her actions said one thing, her eyes revealed another. She was frightened of him, but her gaze never wavered.

  He unbuckled the back cinch and let it swing. Next, he undid the breast collar and drew the supple leather through Georgia’s front legs, hooking the equipment over the saddle horn. Unlacing the front cinch, he glanced back at the woman to find her watching him. As he tucked the long leather cinch strap into the keep on the pommel he said, “You can relax, Mrs. Page. You have my gun.”

  He lifted the saddle and pad together from Georgia’s sweaty back. Collecting the far stirrup and gear with his free hand, he draped them over the seat. Facing Nell Page, he waited for her to tell him where to put it.

  “In there.” She pointed. “You have any experience with cattle?” she asked as he strode toward the dark room.

  “Yeah,” he called as he set his rig on the saddle rack.

  “How about young horses?”