Pleasance's First Love: A Six Brides for Six Gideons Novella (Book 3) (Grandma's Wedding Quilts 6)

by Kristin Holt

  Before the letters had begun and after she’d exhausted her memories of the things they’d said in person to one another, she’d embroidered trees, appliquéd elements of their joined rear gardens. Their courtship over so many years had taken place there, so it only made sense that she memorialize the essence of that shady, beautiful place, amidst their words. Whether courtship in person or through the mail, these experiences and phrases had brought the two of them together, entwined their hearts, and stitched them together into one great whole.

  This quilt told their love story in no particular order. Some blocks were exclusively their childhood, others were their letters, but the order in which she’d stitched them together had been random as in her mind, there was no difference. They were all memories of Jacob. All their story.

  “Oh, Pleasance. It’s a masterpiece.” Mama traced a line of stitches so tiny they were nearly invisible. “You will treasure this quilt forever.”

  Her heart twisted. Now she understood why people applied the word breaking to their hearts. The organ wasn’t made of glass, but she understood now how a heart could break. Beyond repair, she feared.

  “Oh, Mother, what am I to do? I’ve thrown away the thing, the person, I wanted most. Because I had to be right.”

  Mother enveloped Pleasance in her arms, the way she’d done so often in childhood.

  Tears spilled. Her throat, hot and tight, made it hard to speak. “What am I to do? I love that man, and he—he’s just so impossible.”

  “I love you, daughter. You know this, right?”

  “Yes, of course—”

  “You are high-strung, volatile, emotional, passionate, vibrantly alive—and Jacob loves you. He’s loved you for most of your life. It’s not too late to beg his forgiveness and make things right.”

  “How?”

  Mama stroked Pleasance’s hair, as she’d done so often when she’d been little. “Write him a letter. That will make a good start.”

  She could do that. But she could growl in frustration. She’d ripped out seam after seam of progress—so much positive, good work…and now she had to face rebuilding their lives.

  Overwhelming. But worth it.

  “You have two quilt tops,” her mother said.

  She nodded, grateful for the change in subject.

  “What do you plan to do with them? Two quilts?”

  “I hadn’t thought…I’d honestly thought Grandma gave my quilt to Jacob.”

  Mother smiled softly. “In essence, she did. I believe Grandma Mary’s a wise soul.” She opened her chest of drawers and brought out a clean handkerchief for Pleasance. “Dry your tears, Pleasance. We have work to do.”

  “What work?”

  “I see the two quilt tops as complimentary, a matched set. They tell the same story. Let’s quilt them back-to-back.”

  The idea not only felt right, a sparkle of delight chased away the sadness. “I don’t want to diminish the importance of Grandma’s Flying Geese.”

  “I don’t think a two-sided quilt diminishes the importance of Grandma’s gift to you. I believe your own handiwork compliments Grandma’s. She’ll be so pleased when you tell her of it.”

  “Which will be the top then? The side used when quilting?” She considered both options, one so fiercely personal, the other deeply meaningful for different reasons. “I like the idea of our courtship story on the underside.”

  Mama sat on the bed, patted the space beside her, so Pleasance joined her there.

  “It’s private. Not that I mind sharing those intimate details with you. You witnessed most of it anyway. You played a key role in helping us find each other again. I’m just not sure I’d want friends and neighbors to see that quilt on the bed.” She looked to her mother. “If the courtship is on the underside of the Flying Geese, Jacob and I would both know it’s there. And we’d hold that remembrance closer to our hearts.”

  “Beautiful sentiments. Let’s put the quilt on and invite our friends and neighbors to drop by and set a few stitches.”

  “Now? Jacob is angry with me. It could be a waste of time.”

  “You and Jacob will work it out.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.” That last fight had mirrored their first great fight…the one that had brought about a four-year separation. Her second-greatest mistake. Her greatest? Walking out on him again.

  Mother’s features softened. “You and Jacob will work it out.” A repeated message, heartfelt and genuine.

  Pleasance nodded, though she couldn’t really believe it.

  “You’re home, my dear, after four years abroad and touring America’s biggest cities. The neighbors will come by anyway.” Mother shifted, hugging Pleasance tight. “And as far as the disagreement with Jacob? I assure you he’s thinking of you, as much as you’re thinking of him. Very soon, the time will be right for the two of you to talk it through. Love like yours won’t shrivel up and die simply because you disagree.”

  She wanted to believe her mother. She really did.

  “Love,” Mama said, “is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast.”

  Regrets anew surfaced. She’d been so wrong. So impatient, so unkind. Would Jacob forgive her?

  “Love does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking. Not easily angered, and keeps no record of wrongs.” Mother finished and Pleasance spoke the rest of the familiar verse with her. “Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

  If Jacob had continued loving her, even after that first awful fight in the gardens, when she’d left him for music, he’d love her through this, too. “Love never fails.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  January 1875

  4 ½ years earlier…

  On Jacob Gideon’s twenty-third birthday, Pleasance joined Jacob’s family for supper around their over-crowded, boisterous supper table. Though her family couldn’t have been more different—quiet, small, sedate, Protestant—she loved the O’Kanes and they loved her.

  Times like these, in the warmth of the crowded kitchen, with lamplight glowing on Pleasance’s blonde head, their fingers intertwined on his knee, beneath the tablecloth, Jacob had never felt so blessed.

  “I propose a toast!” Cabhan O’Kane, “Pa”, in his rich brogue, shouted to this loud crew and raised his wine goblet. “To my son, the one black-haired man in the room. He’s Black Irish, he just don’t accept the fact.”

  Laughter erupted and Ma kissed Jacob’s crown as she passed by, carrying more bread to the table.

  “May he find more love and happiness with the lovely lady at his side than his heart can hold.”

  “Hear, hear!” the O’Kane clan chorused.

  He swallowed a sip of wine—not his favorite beverage—and accepted the kiss Pleasance leaned in to offer.

  The siblings, all around, erupted into cheers and applause.

  “When will you marry this pretty girl?” Pa asked. “Even if she isn’t a Catholic, she’ll do.”

  Pleasance laughed, her cheeks merrily pink and her eyes bright. Across the table, his elder sister, Frances, sat with her new husband, Ira. Ira kicked Jacob beneath the table, and when he glared at the man, not much older than himself, Ira waggled his eyebrows. All in good fun.

  “Cake! Cake! Cake!” The little ones began the chant and everyone joined in.

  “Patience, patience, my little ones.” Yseult O’Kane, the mother of his heart, as red-headed as her husband and all of their American-born children, had embraced Jacob as a dirty, starving, feral boy of four or five years old. He didn’t remember much from that fateful day, but he remembered Yseult’s loving embrace.

  He remembered her calling him her little one.

  The cake was cut, plates passed around. More teasing, more jokes at Jacob’s expense. The best part of birthdays, in his experience.

  “Will ye marry this year?” Pa asked. “You’re a man of three-and-twenty.”

  Someone
else might’ve been embarrassed by the direct admonition, but not Jacob. This family loved him and he loved them, deeply.

  “I haven’t the money, Pa. Maybe after summer. When I’ve money saved.”

  “Bah! When I married your mother, I hadn’t a penny in my pocket. ‘Tis better that way. You don’t need money, Jacob Gideon, my boy, and you be remembering that.”

  “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The children were at it again, their slices of cake demolished.

  Pleasance’s cheeks flushed pink, and the blue of her eyes warmed him clear through. He took her in his arms, loving her tonight, perhaps more than ever.

  Safe in the knowledge of this family’s acceptance, Pleasance kissed him first. She circled her arms about his neck and showed him, without a single word, how very much he was loved.

  Chapter Sixteen

  July 1879

  Present Day

  Two days after Pleasance departed by train to Denver, Jacob shoved aside the memories of a time when life was simpler. Back then, love had been full, he’d lived in a state of trust with his family and trust with Pleasance. Unscathed. Despite his abandonment in the streets of Denver, many years earlier, he hadn’t lived with constant fear of rejection.

  So why now? Why had Pleasance’s choice to embrace music, for just a few years, brought up such horrible, buried pain?

  He’d succeeded in pushing away the one woman he’d ever loved, ever wanted, and now she’ll never come back.

  Tuck approached to where Jake leaned on the front porch railing. “I saw the letter on the kitchen table, return address, Beau Gideon.”

  Jake grunted. When Whip had taken Fran and Pleasance into Leadville, he’d picked up the mail.

  “I thought you’d be happier to find your brother. That’s good news.”

  Jake’s brother was thrilled. Jacob, not so much. Not anymore.

  He’d been elated…until he realized the first person he wanted to tell was Pleasance, but Pleasance wasn’t here.

  He’d driven her away, just like he’d been obsessed with.

  If he’d never once thought about her leaving, would it have happened?

  “Is this what you want, Boss?” Tuck asked. “You really want to see her gone?”

  Just like that, Tuck had dropped talk of Beau and picked up talk of Pleasance.

  “No.” Jake clenched his jaw. “If you hadn’t been shot a few days ago, I’d throw a punch. I told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I did take a bullet, Jake, and we’re going to talk about it. What needs to happen so Miss Pleasance will come back?” Tuck’s tone was all business.

  “She needs to stop looking at me like I’m something I’m not.”

  Tuck shook his head. “I’m talking about you. Not her.”

  One thing was for sure—Pleasance had been quick to apologize. And own up to her own secrets.

  He could have done the same thing. On several occasions, just as she’d accused.

  He should have.

  Maybe she’d still be here if he had.

  “What?” Tuck demanded.

  “I could apologize, but—”

  “No buts, Boss. I’m tired of buts.”

  “It’s a good thing I count you as a friend. I’d fire you if I didn’t need you so bad.”

  Tuck folded his arms.

  Here they went, Tuck’s no nonsense talk. “Say it again. This time, say it like a man.”

  “I could apologize.”

  “Can you?”

  “What, apologize?” He snorted. “I can. Of course I’m capable of apologizing.”

  Tucker nodded. No discussion. No argument. “Will you apologize?”

  “What good would it do? She left, Tuck.”

  “That track runs both ways. She knows it, I know it, and you know it. Will you apologize, to Miss Pleasance, and own up to your own stupidity? The cockeyed certainty she’d walk out on you?”

  Jake turned that over in his mind, examined it from all sides, and saw the past for what it was. His own behavior had been just like that, hadn’t it?

  If changing needed to happen, Jacob owned it.

  Pleasance had already done a lifetime’s worth. She’d come here with humility, decency, and sincere apologies. And he’d done nothing but accept those apologies, begrudgingly, as his due.

  Why hadn’t he just opened his mouth? Why hadn’t he told her?

  Why had he thought he could remain on his high horse and expect her to come to him?

  Mortification stole his wind. He tried to breathe, but couldn’t draw enough air. As if he’d been thrown, landed hard, and the horse had run off.

  Tucker clapped a hand on Jake’s back, the impact not that hard, but it stung like the slap of a whip. “You want to fix this Jake? You’re the only one who can.”

  Jacob Gideon was a man of no small influence. It took him being backed into a corner, his best friend recovering from a bullet wound to realize it, but once he had, figuring out a solution became easy.

  He’d gathered neighboring ranchers to stand with him. He’d rounded up the merchants in town who’d been encouraged by Bank of Leadville’s president to withhold standard services, and staged his own run on the bank.

  Forty men strong, Jacob walked straight past Sandusky’s secretary and into the overly posh office. “Morning, Mr. Sandusky.”

  “You can’t barge in here—”

  “Actually, sir, we just did.” Jacob smiled, enjoying the banker’s obvious distress as the men poured in, now standing four men deep in his office. “See, I have something of yours.”

  At the cue, Whip and Cactus marched young Harrison Sandusky, trussed up like a wayward calf, into his father’s office.

  If Jake had doubted the connection between father and son—it was partially conceivable the older man didn’t know of his son’s illegal activities—the fantasy was dashed within seconds.

  “Dad! Tell these brutes to let me go. It’s your fault—”

  “Shut up, Harry.”

  “—they stole the ore, and I figure it’s your problem—”

  “Harrison. Shut. Up.”

  “Do shut up, Harry,” Jacob said. “Daddy’s nervous.”

  The mob behind him laughed. One pulled his Colt from his holster and fired at the expensive ceiling.

  The crack of gunfire reverberated, plaster dust rained down, and Sandusky screamed like a little girl.

  Jacob laughed. He couldn’t wait to tell Pleasance about this.

  “Guards!” Sandusky yelled, when he’d recovered himself.

  “I don’t think they’re out there,” Tuck said. “Everybody left the building when they saw us come in.”

  “You can’t do this. It’s unlawful.”

  “Let me tell you what’s unlawful, Lycurgus, see if any of it rings a bell.” He grinned at the man’s florid face and the perspiration beading his brow. “Mining on private property. Intent to foreclose on a mortgage fully paid.”

  “You are not fully paid, why, I ought to—”

  Jacob pulled a letter from his jacket pocket, flipped it open. The mortgage was indeed paid in full.

  “How did you—what is the meaning of this?”

  “My silver mine, on my property, paid my mortgage. You know, the one you managed to show hadn’t received a single payment over the past five months. Curious, isn’t it, when my bank receipts show application of payments, more than the required, every month during that time.”

  “This is preposterous.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ll send for Marshal Kelly. He’ll run your mob out of town.”

  The same fellow who shot at the ceiling did so again. This time, two bullets struck the ceiling, one shattering the gas lamp flue on its fixture.

  “Stop destroying my property.”

  “Indeed. I could say the same to you. Marshal Kelly? Stop hiding—come on out now.”

  Everyone turned to the back of the mob, where Marshal Kelly, who wore the badge in this lawless, wreck of a city, came
out of hiding.

  “Do your job,” Jacob ordered. “You have more than enough evidence to lock both these worthless Sanduskys up until a hearing.”

  “Charges won’t stick,” Lycurgus said, his nervousness showing in sweat now pouring down his face.

  The odor of urine caught Jacob’s attention—Papa Sandusky hadn’t yet lost control of his bladder, but Harrison had.

  “I do believe they will. See, what you don’t know is we’ve hired Mart Duggan—you remember him? He’s back in the neighborhood. We hired him to see you into federal custody down Cañon City way.”

  “I call your bluff.”

  “Mart?” Jake called.

  The best marshal Leadville had ever seen swaggered in from the hallway, a grin on his usually stoic features. Mart grabbed one of the banker’s wrists and had the old man in irons before he could blubber more about his innocence.

  “Shut up, Sandusky. I had my eye on you and your illegal dealings early in the year, and I’ve enough dirt on you to see you in the state penitentiary for a hundred years.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jacob stood on the Benton family’s front stoop in Denver, his hat in his hand. He sucked in a breath for courage, finger-combed his hair, and knocked.

  Odd. This was his first time approaching the home from the front. The front door was for peddlers and official callers. The back door was for friends. He’d always been a back-door friend.

  The door opened, Pleasance’s mother smiling—until she saw who’d come to call. Her smile faded, but her eyes showed compassion, and a hint of relief that he’d finally followed her daughter home.

  “Hello, Mrs. Benton. I’ve come to call on Pleasance. Is she at home?”

  Conversation hummed in the parlor, a chatter of female voices that ebbed and trickled, nearly to a hush. Somebody scolded the last whisperer.

  No matter the audience, no matter who gathered in this home, he’d come to say what he needed to say. He wouldn’t be put off so easily. His love for Pleasance had only deepened, and these past days without her had been torture. He couldn’t live—at least not happily—without her.