Prairie Romance Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  A tender smile played at the corners of her mouth as his gaze returned to her hand. “When did you do that? How could I have gone without noticing?”

  “You mean the ring?” she innocently inquired.

  “You know I mean the ring. Are you going to become shy now that I’ve noticed? Because if that’s the case, you need not,” he said as he pulled her into his arms. His lips brushed hers with a wispy tenderness as he ran his finger along the side of her face. “How I’ve longed for this moment,” he murmured. He felt her shiver beneath his embrace and pulled her more closely to him, meeting her lips in a lingering, passionate kiss.

  “Oh, William,” she whispered.

  A muffled cough from the doorway caused them to scoot apart. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Millie said with a broad grin on her face as she led the Martins into the house.

  “As a matter of fact, you are,” William replied. “But I imagine it’s getting too cold to ask you to remain outdoors,” he joked.

  “Well, what do you think, Hannah? I told the Martins that this would have to be a matter we all agreed upon,” Millie said, rubbing her hands as she moved toward the fire.

  “We were, uh…discussing another matter, Millie. I haven’t had a chance to explain the Martins’ circumstances just yet,” William interjected.

  “Ah. I could see you were in the midst of a deep discussion about something when I walked in,” she responded with a crisp laugh. “In that case, why don’t we let Mr. Martin explain while I finish getting supper ready? I’m sure that everybody will be ready for a bite to eat. Mrs. Martin, would you care to clean up in the bedroom? You will find water and fresh towels on the bureau,” Millie offered.

  William observed Mrs. Martin look toward Hannah as she rose from her chair. Hannah smiled and nodded as if to add her agreement to the overture. He wondered if Mrs. Martin was thinking of her own miserly attitude earlier that very day.

  “You want me to tell you about it, missus?” Mr. Martin asked as his wife moved off toward the bedroom.

  “Yes, please,” Hannah replied, giving him her full attention.

  “Well, to start with, it’s all her fault,” he said, gesturing toward the bedroom. “You got something I can spit in?” he asked, tapping his tobacco-filled cheek with a dirty finger.

  “We don’t smoke or chew in this house, Mr. Martin. And you can rid yourself of that tobacco outside,” Millie answered from the hearth.

  He didn’t argue but returned to the table a few moments later, the puffiness gone from his cheek. “See, here’s how it happened. You might recall the missus was washing clothes when you left for church?” he said in a questioning tone.

  “How could I forget?” Hannah replied, remembering how she had tried to encourage Mrs. Martin to observe the Lord’s Day by waiting until Monday, when she would help.

  “Well, she thought she could get the clothes to dry faster if she hung them inside. I told her it wasn’t that cold outside—that they’d eventually dry. But no. She refused to listen. So she commenced to stringing up a rope in front of the fireplace and draping the clothes across it.”

  Hannah nodded. She’d done the same thing back in England on damp winter days.

  “Only it seems she’s forgotten how to tie a knot. While she’s out puttering around—“

  “I was collecting eggs!” Mrs. Martin yelled from the bedroom.

  “You keep out of this, woman; I’m telling this tale!” Mr. Martin hollered back.

  “Then tell it right! Don’t make it sound like I was out having me a good time, and I left the house to burn to the ground. I was working, just like you.”

  He ignored her remarks and continued in a lowered voice. “As I was saying, the missus is out and about somewheres, and the knot in her rope gives way. The clothes caught fire, the house caught fire, and the rest is history. We’re wiped out.”

  “Well, you still have your land—and ours,” Hannah added, glancing at William and giving him a faint smile.

  “That’s true enough, but with winter coming on, I won’t be able to rebuild until spring. Winters around here are long and cold. When your husband made his kind offer, I have to admit I was surprised, but I thought it was provision sent from above.”

  “I see. So you believe in God?” Hannah inquired.

  “Well, of course I believe there’s a God.”

  “That’s not what she’s asking, Mr. Martin,” Millie interrupted. “She wants to know if you’ve accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior and invited Him into your heart. Do you know Him, or do you believe merely that He’s up there just floating around in the clouds? I’m asking because it’s your own eternal salvation that’s at stake. You might want to give some serious thought and prayer to the matter—and your wife, too,” she added, looking toward the bedroom door.

  “She don’t mince words, does she?” Mr. Martin whispered to William.

  “Not about something this serious. Did you know that she’s been praying for you and your wife since you moved to Pike’s Ferry?” William asked.

  “Why would she do such a thing? I never asked her to pray for me.”

  “Because she’s a woman who wants others to have the same peace that she’s found. Spend some time talking with her, Henry—both of you. I don’t think you’ll be sorry,” he advised. “I think Hannah and I need to discuss things further, so if you’ll excuse us for a few moments, I think we’ll step outside,” William added as he reached for Hannah’s heavy woolen shawl.

  “What do you think?” William tentatively inquired once they were on the porch.

  “I know it’s the Christian thing to do, William. My heart says yes, but my mind says no. A part of me wants to treat them as badly as they treated us, but I won’t do that. Millie has no objection, and apparently you think we should help them.”

  “If it makes it any easier, Millie tells me that the old cabin she and her husband built when they first moved here sits back behind the tree line. With some cleaning and a little repair, she thinks it will be quite usable for the Martins until they rebuild. They wouldn’t be living in the same house with us for long.”

  “Perhaps long enough that God will stir their hearts. How could I object?”

  “You’re sure? I don’t want this to cause a problem between us, especially since…”

  “Since I’ve turned the ring?”

  “Especially since you’ve turned the ring,” he agreed. “And you never did answer me. How long did it take me to notice?”

  “Not long,” she replied.

  “Will you tell me—what made you decide?” he asked.

  “Many things. Your kindness, your gentle ways with Elizabeth, your tenderness toward me, but primarily the fact that you permitted me the time I needed to fall in love with you.

  “I must admit I didn’t believe you would be patient. Deep in my heart, I thought you would grow weary of my hesitation and force yourself upon me. Instead, with each day that passed, you grew more unselfish, more caring. How could I resist such compassion and love? I now know that you never intended me to feel obligated or bound to you out of necessity. This ring is a symbol of freedom, not bondage or servitude. You wanted me to come to you freely, to stand beside you as your helpmate, your lover, and your friend. I’m ready to do all of those things, William,” she whispered as he pulled her into a fervent embrace.

  JUDITH MILLER makes her home in Kansas with her family. Intrigued by the law, Judy is a certified legal assistant currently employed as a public service administrator in the Legal Section of the Department of Administration for the State of Kansas. After ignoring an “urge” to write for approximately two years, Judy quit thinking about what she had to say and began writing it and then was and has been extremely blessed! Her first two books earned her the honor of being selected Heartsong’s favorite new author in 1997. You may contact her via e-mail atjamauthor@aol.com.

  Returning Amanda

  by Kathleen Paul

  Chapter 1

/>   Sheriff Jake Moore carefully rolled the week-old St. Louis paper into a tight baton. He eased his shoulders away from the wooden slats of his office chair and swung his paper bat down against the heavy desk. Whack!

  “Forty-three,” he said, satisfied.

  He flicked the fly carcass onto the floor, propped his boot heels back on the desktop, and unrolled the paper. Scanning the page, he found the article he’d been reading. Fool paper said those mechanical carriages would one day take over private transportation.

  “Humph,” grunted the sheriff. A scowl momentarily brought thick brown eyebrows down over his hazel eyes.

  Jake picked up the bandanna lying over his lap and made another swipe across his face, wiping sweat from his strong, square jaw. A bristly stubble darkened his chin.

  When had he shaved? About seven that morning. The four o’clock eastbound hadn’t even blown its whistle at the crossing yet, and here his face already felt like sandpaper. Fortunately, the Wednesday night church social didn’t require him to spruce up. If it were a town meeting, he’d make the effort, but not for the ladies of the church. It wasn’t as if there was someone there he wanted to impress. He’d go for the good eats, and maybe he’d corner Elder Kotchkis and get him going on predestination. Kotchkis was always open for a good debate.

  Jake ran his hand over the stubble he did not intend to shave. It’d be better, he decided, if all those women thought the sheriff was too unkempt to take home for keeps. He was tired of being viewed as potential husband material for every single female in the county. How was it that this town had so many widows and unmarried gals anyway? He’d made it twenty-six years without a female’s coddling; he could make it a few more.

  A fly buzzed around his head, and Sheriff Moore watched it as he once again rolled the St. Louis paper into a weapon. His lean frame tensed as the fly landed on the Kansas map hanging on the wall behind him. It would be a stretch, but he had long arms to match his tall, angular body. Jake tipped his chair back anotherinch, pressed his lips together in concentration, and slowed his breathing. Waiting for just the right moment, he struck. Whack!

  The chair slipped off the two back legs. Jake crashed to the floor.

  “Ouch!”

  He rolled out of his sturdy throne, feeling just exactly where the wooden arm had refused to flatten under the small of his back. He rubbed the spot with a strong hand. A small black speck lay a foot from his elbow.

  “Forty-four,” he muttered.

  A soft knock sounded from the front door of the jailhouse.

  Jake wrinkled his brow. Nobody knocked at his door—they just came tromp- ing in with all sorts of complaints and problems. Twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents, plus room and board at Maggie’s, paid Sheriff Jake Moore to worry about the citizens of Lawrence, Kansas, and their difficulties.

  The knock sounded politely again.

  Jake unwound himself, placed his hands on the edge of his desk, and rose up to see what matter of business had intruded on his formerly peaceful afternoon.

  He looked out and saw no one; then his gaze drifted down from where he had expected to see a face. A small girl stood on the boardwalk porch just outside his door. Corn-silk hair in tight curls billowed out of the bonnet topping the pudgy, frowning face. The bonnet matched the blue dress covered with tiny yellow flowers and petite green vines. She carried a doll under her arm and a small square basket by its handle.

  “Are you the sheriff?” she asked. Her scowl lightened to a small smile as she took in the image of the man behind the desk.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jake stood and righted his chair. He looked over the diminutive figure in his doorway. Her clothes looked expensive. Her speech was refined. Her face held an expression of intelligence. In a few years she’d be breaking hearts. Now she looked hot and tired. Jake didn’t recognize her as one of the town children.

  He sighed, relieved that his visitor wasn’t one of the older girls in town, one of the pesky females dogging his bachelor steps. Whoever this was, she most likely wouldn’t carry the tale of his falling out of his office chair to wagging tongues.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked the small stranger.

  “I’ve come to report a robbery.” Her hard black button-up shoes tapped on the wooden floor as she stepped into the room and crossed to stand in front of his desk. Her smile wavered, and her forehead creased with worry. The proud little chin quivered slightly. She blinked deep chocolate eyes hard, pushing back tears.

  Where did this filly come from? Jake took pity on the little mite. He pulled up the only other chair in the room and offered it to his guest.

  “I don’t believe I know you,” said Jake.

  She put down the basket to climb into the chair. With her knee in the oversized seat, she hoisted her chubby body up and twisted her backside into place.

  Plump legs encased in white stockings stuck straight out in front of her. She smoothed her skirts around them. She looked kind of cute in all her finery.

  “I’m Sheriff Moore,” Jake said. He winked at her the way he did with the small girls at church. He didn’t mind flirting with the little ones. It was the bigger ones, the ones who dreamed about marriage. Those he avoided.

  “I’m Amanda Greer of St. Louis, Missouri.” She supplied the information with crisp, polite formality.

  “And you’ve had some property stolen?” Jake sat down in his chair, steepled his fingers, and leaned his elbows on the table. One tender elbow told him he must have slammed it on the way down. He leaned back.

  The little face scrunched into a frown again.

  “Not prop-er-ty,” she said.

  Jake suppressed a smile. With all her self-assurance, he found it humorous to see her puzzle over the unfamiliar word.

  “Can you tell me what was stolen?”

  Her lips snapped into an angry line, and she scowled at him.

  Whoa, thought Jake, she’s got a temper.

  “Of course I can,” she answered smartly. But the flare of temper fizzled. The fierce pride on the chubby face melted. The little mouth softened, and the chin quivered. The dark eyes batted. Amanda Greer took a deep breath and let it out with the merest suggestion of a sob. She pursed her lips, breathed again, and spoke hurriedly, getting the two words out as quickly as possible.

  “My sister.”

  Jake sat up and leaned forward.

  “Where are your parents?” he asked.

  “In New York City, New York.” Her head bobbed as she said the words, and the profusion of golden curls bounced.

  “Do you know who took your sister? Did you see it happen?”

  She nodded, the curls again springing into action.

  “Who?” he asked.

  Tears pooled in the soulful eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  “The train.” The words came out in a whimper, and Jake thought for a moment he must have misunderstood.

  “The train?” Then it dawned on him—Amanda had been left behind when the train had pulled out of the station. She and her sister must’ve been traveling west together.

  The curls bounced again. Amanda Greer pulled the doll into a tight embrace and buried her face in its cloth head. Jake froze, immobilized by the muffled wails punctuated with loud sniffs. The chubby little blond with an extra helping of dignity rocked back and forth with her dolly, her abject misery piercing the heart of one confirmed bachelor.

  “Now don’t cry,” Jake said, desperation shaking his usually solid baritone. “Your sister will realize that you’ve been left behind, and she’ll probably get off at the next stop and come right back for you.” He abruptly stood and paced to the door, away from the distressed child. He looked out at the dusty street, squinting into the glare.

  Henry Bladcomb swept the stoop before his jewelry shop. Gladys Sence gabbed with Miriam Halley in front of the mercantile. The Jones kids laid ambush to the Whitcombs beside the livery. Was there any help for him among these fine citizens of Lawrence?

  Jake looked up the street to
the station. A pile of luggage blocked his view of the telegraph office.

  “Miss Amanda,” said the sheriff, swiveling back to his weeping visitor, “we’ll go right now to the telegraph office and send a telegram. That’s what we’ll do. That telegram will be waiting for your sister when they make the stop at Big Springs.”

  Jake jammed his hat on his head and grabbed the little girl’s square basket.

  “Come on, now,” he urged. “Let’s do something about this predicament. No use crying when we can do something.”

  Amanda bravely lifted her head, sniffing loudly. She delved into a side pocket of her dress and pulled out a white hankie edged in elegant green crochet. With a honk that certainly didn’t fit her diminutive size, she blew her nose. Replacing the hankie, she gathered up her doll and hopped out of the chair.

  “Sheriff?” she asked, tilting up her chin to look him in the eye. “I’m tired.”

  Jake didn’t quite know how to talk to a yard-high person. He crouched down, almost sitting on his heels. The tears had left tracks on her cheeks. Her little shoulders sagged, and all the sparkle had washed out of her eyes.

  “Let’s go out to the pump and wash your face before we go,” he suggested.

  Amanda reached out a small hand and took his large calloused one.

  How he came to be carrying the mite, he didn’t know. But there he was walking down Main Street with a chubby bundle of feminine sweetness. Not only did she ride in his arms, but she’d put her head down on his shoulder, and her soft breath tickled his neck.

  Jake kept his eyes trained on his destination, giving only curt nods to those who tried to speak to him.

  “Hello, Samuel,” he said as soon as he reached the telegrapher’s open window.

  Samuel jumped. The balding man ruffled like a hen at the interruption. He scooted his small frame around on his wooden stool and lowered his glasses from where they rested over the top of his head to their proper position on his nose.