The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  “To think that everything I’ve worked for during the last eight years is all coming t’ pass at once. My brothers here by spring. And my own land,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “A wife. Isabella, what did I do to deserve all this? To deserve you?”

  Isabella turned in his arms. Her heart broke at the tears pooling in his eyes. She reached up and gently kissed one eyelid, then the other, his tears salty on her lips. “You were simply being you. Showing your love for your brothers, your determination to care for them as the elder of the house. But you couldn’t be content to save only your brothers; you had to save me—more than once, I might add—you saved Miss Watts, you saved William—”

  “More than once.” His lips twitched in amusement.

  “Yes, definitely more than once.” Isabella smothered an indecorous snicker. She lifted her hand, cupped his jaw, and smiled. “You can’t help fixing things, fixing people, saving and protecting them. It’s who you are, my love.”

  “I’ll spend the rest of my life protecting you, saving you, if you’ll let me.” Connor’s gaze raked over her face, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He leaned forward until his lips just barely touched hers.

  “I love you more than life, Mistress Bartholomew. Promise you’ll be me bride, forever and always?” he whispered, his Irish brogue thick with emotion.

  “Yes,” Isabella breathed as his lips claimed hers. “Forever and always. I promise.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF ANOTHER NOVEL BY PAM HILLMAN

  “(Hillman is) gifted with a true talent for vivid imagery, heart-tugging romance, and a feel for the Old West that will jingle your spurs.”

  Julie Lessman, author of the Daughters of Boston series

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  Wisdom, Wyoming Territory

  LATE SPRING, 1882

  Dust swirled as the two riders approached the house.

  They stopped a few feet shy of the steps, and Mariah Malone eyed the men from the shadowy recesses of the porch. Both were sun-bronzed and looked weary but tough, as if they made their living punching cows and riding fences.

  One man hung back; the other rode closer and touched his thumb and forefinger to the brim of his hat. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Afternoon.” Wavy brown hair brushed the frayed collar of his work shirt. A film of dust covered his faded jeans, and the stubble on his jaw hinted at a long, hard trip. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Seth Malone.” His voice sounded husky, as if he needed a drink of water to clear the trail dust from his throat.

  At the mention of her father, a pang of sorrow mixed with longing swept over her. “I’m sorry; he passed away in January. I’m his daughter. Mariah Malone.”

  The cowboy swung down from his horse and sauntered toward the porch. He rested one worn boot on the bottom step before tilting his hat back, revealing fathomless dark-blue eyes.

  “I’m Slade Donovan. And that’s my brother, Buck.” He jerked his head in the direction of the other man. His intense gaze bored into hers. “Jack Donovan was our father.”

  Oh no, Jack Donovan’s sons.

  A shaft of apprehension shot through her, and Mariah grasped the railing for support. Unable to look Mr. Donovan in the eye, she focused on his shadowed jaw. A muscle jumped in his cheek, keeping time with her thudding heart.

  When her father died, she hadn’t given another thought to the letter she’d sent Jack Donovan. She’d been too worried about her grandmother, her sister, and the ranch to think about the consequences of the past.

  “Where is . . . your father?” Mariah asked.

  “He died from broken dreams and whiskey.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, knowing her own father’s sins had contributed to Jack Donovan’s troubles, maybe even to his death. How much sorrow had her father’s greed caused? How much heartache? And how much did his son know of their fathers’ shared past?

  The accusation on Slade Donovan’s face told her, and the heat of fresh shame flooded her cheeks.

  “My pa wanted what was rightfully his,” he ground out. “I promised him I would find the man who took that gold and make him pay.”

  Tension filled the air, and she found it difficult to breathe.

  “Take it easy, Slade.” His brother’s soft voice wafted between them.

  Mariah caught a glimpse of Cookie hovering at the edge of the bunkhouse. “Miss Mariah, you need any help?”

  Her attention swung between Cookie and the Donovan brothers, the taste of fear mounting in the back of her throat. An old man past his prime, Cookie would be no match for them. “No,” she said, swallowing her apprehension. “No thank you, Cookie. Mr. Donovan is here to talk business.”

  She turned back to the man before her. Hard eyes searched her face, and she looked away, praying for guidance. “Mr. Donovan, I think we need to continue this discussion in my father’s office.”

  She moistened her lips, her gaze drawn to the clenched tightness of his jaw. After a tense moment, he nodded.

  Malone was dead?

  Leaving Buck to care for the horses, Slade followed the daughter into the house. She’d swept her golden-brown hair to the top of her head and twisted it into a serene coil. A few curls escaped the loose bun and flirted with the stand-up lace of her white shirtwaist. She sure looked dressed up out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Then he remembered the empty streets and the handful of wagons still gathered around the church when they’d passed through Wisdom at noon. He snorted under his breath. Under other circumstances, a woman like Mariah Malone wouldn’t even deem him worthy to wipe her dainty boots on, let alone agree to talk to him in private. He couldn’t count the times the girls from the “right” side of town had snubbed their noses at him, their starched pinafores in sharp contrast to his torn, patched clothes. At least his younger brother and sisters hadn’t been treated like outcasts. He’d made sure of that.

  He trailed the Malone woman down the hall, catching a glimpse of a sitting room with worn but polished furniture on his right, a tidy kitchen on his left. A water stain from a leaky roof marred the faded wallpaper at the end of the wide hallway. While neat and clean, the house and outbuildings looked run-down. He scowled. Surely Seth Malone could have kept the place in better repair with his ill-gotten gain.

  Miss Malone led the way into a small office that smelled of leather, ink, and turpentine. She turned, and he caught a glimpse of eyes the color of deep-brown leather polished to a shine. The state of affairs around the house slid into the dark recesses of his mind as he regarded the slender young woman before him.

  “Mr. Donovan,” she began, “I take it you received my letter.”

  He nodded but kept silent. Uneasiness wormed its way into his gut. Did Miss Malone have brothers or other family to turn to? Who was in charge of the ranch?

  “I’m sorry for what my father did. I wish it had never happened.” She toyed with a granite paperweight, the distress on her face tugging at his conscience.

  He wished it had never happened too. Would his father have given up if Seth Malone hadn’t taken off with all the gold? Would they have had a better life—a ranch of their own maybe, instead of a dilapidated shack on the edge of Galveston—if his father hadn’t needed to fight the demons from the bullet lodged in his head?

  He wanted to ask all the questions that had plagued him over the years, questions his father had shouted during his drunken rages. Instead, he asked another question, one he’d asked himself many times over the last several months. “Why did you send that letter?”

  Pain turned her eyes to ebony. “My father wanted to ask forgiveness for what he had done, but by that time he was unable to write the letter himself. I didn’t know Mr. Donovan had a family or that he’d died.” She shrugged, the pity on her face unmistakable.

  Slade clenched his jaw. He didn’t want her pity. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.
<
br />   She strolled to the window, arms hugging her waist. She looked too slight to have ever done a day’s work. She’d probably been pampered all her life, while his own mother and sisters struggled for survival.

  “I hoped Mr. Donovan might write while my father was still alive, and they could resolve their differences.” Her soft voice wafted on the still air. “I prayed he might forgive Papa. And that Papa could forgive himself.”

  “Forgiveness is too little, too late,” Slade gritted out, satisfaction welling within him when her back stiffened and her shoulders squared.

  She turned, regarding him with caution. “I’m willing to make restitution for what my father did.”

  “Restitution?”

  “A few hundred head of cattle should be sufficient.”

  “A few hundred?” Surely she didn’t think a handful of cattle would make up for what her father had done.

  “What more do you want? I’ve already apologized. What good will it do to keep the bitterness alive?”

  “It’s not bitterness I want, Miss Malone. It’s the land.”

  “The land?” Her eyes widened.

  He nodded, a stiff, curt jerk of his head. “All of it.”

  “Only a portion of the land should go to your family, if any. Half of that gold belonged to my father.” Two spots of angry color bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes sparked like sun off brown bottle glass. “And besides, he worked the land all these years and made this ranch into something.”

  Slade frowned. What did she mean, half of the gold belonged to her father? Disgust filled him. Either the woman was a good actress, or Malone had lied to his family even on his deathbed.

  “All of it.”

  She blinked, and for a moment, he thought she might give in. Then she lifted her chin. “And if I refuse?”

  “One trip to the sheriff with your letter and the wanted poster from twenty-five years ago would convince any law-abiding judge that this ranch belongs to me and my family.” He paused. “As well as the deed to the gold mine in California that has my father’s name on it—not your father’s.”

  “What deed?” She glared at him, suspicion glinting in her eyes. “And what wanted poster?”

  Did she really not know the truth? Slade pulled out the papers and handed them to her, watching as she read the proof that gave him the right to the land they stood on.

  All color left her face as she read, and Slade braced himself in case she fainted clean away. If he’d had any doubt that she didn’t know the full story, her reaction to the wanted poster proved otherwise.

  “It says . . .” Her voice wavered. “It says Papa shot your father. Left him for dead. I don’t believe it. It . . . it’s a mistake.” She sank into the nearest chair, the starch wilted out of her. The condemning poster fluttered to the floor.

  A sudden desire to give in swept over him. He could accept her offer of a few hundred head, walk out the door, and ride away, leaving her on the land that legally, morally, belonged to him. To his mother.

  No! He wanted Seth Malone to pay for turning his father into a drunk and making his mother old before her time. But Seth Malone was dead, and this woman wouldn’t cheat him of his revenge.

  No matter how innocent she looked, no matter how her eyes filled with tears as she begged for forgiveness, he wouldn’t give it to her. Forgiveness wouldn’t put food on the table or clothes on his mother’s and sisters’ backs.

  “No mistake.” He hunkered down so he could see her face. “You have a right to defend your father’s memory, I reckon. But I’ll stick by what I said. The deed is legal. And that letter will stand up in court as well. You’ve got a decision to make, ma’am. Either you sign this ranch over to me, or I’ll go to the sheriff.”

  Silence hung heavy between them until a faint noise drew Slade’s attention to the doorway.

  An old woman stood there, a walking stick clasped in her right hand. Her piercing dark gaze swung from Mariah to him. He stood to his full height.

  “Grandma.” Mariah launched herself from the chair and hurried to the woman’s side.

  The frail-looking woman’s penetrating stare never left Slade’s face.

  He held out his hand for the deed. Silence reigned as Mariah handed it over.

  “I’ll give you an hour to decide.” He gave them a curt nod and strode from the room.

  A Note from the Author

  A BOOK ISN’T BORN out of one person’s imagination, but from an entire cast of characters: artists, editors, agents, family, and friends. And during edits, an author of historical fiction realizes that not just those who actually have their hands on the project have a say, because the historians who have made it their lives’ work to document history have a chance to shine.

  I’ve had the pleasure of working with the same editor on this project as my first two books released through Tyndale. Erin Smith cracks the whip gently, but she knows me well. Once an anachronism is discovered, I cannot rest until I’ve exhausted every effort to fix it. I’m not saying I’m always successful, and any errors are mine and mine alone, but I’m glad to have Erin on my team.

  Writing about the Natchez District in the 1790s was especially challenging, but also rife with potential as it was a melting pot of French, British, Spanish, African, and Native American.

  Breeze Hill Plantation, the Bartholomews, Braxtons, Wainwrights, and Hartfords, as well as their respective plantations, are fictional, as are Connor O’Shea and the majority of the secondary characters.

  Actual historical figures who play a part in the story are Manuel Luis Gayoso de Lemos Amorín y Magallanes. Gayoso was the governor of the District of Natchez, also known as West Florida, in 1791. His second wife, whom he married in 1792, was indeed Elizabeth Watts. Unfortunately, she died three months after their wedding.

  Another historical figure was Stephen Minor. Born in Pennsylvania, Captain Minor served in the Spanish Army before being appointed as the secretary to Governor Gayoso de Lemos. He later went on to become a successful planter and banker, as well as one of Natchez’s richest residents in the early 1800s.

  I hope you enjoyed this first book in the Natchez Trace series. I can’t wait to share Quinn and Ciara’s story with you.

  Pam Hillman

  About the Author

  CHRISTIAN BOOKSELLERS ASSOCIATION bestselling author Pam Hillman writes inspirational historical romance. Her novels have won or been finalists in the Inspirational Reader’s Choice, the EPIC eBook Awards, and the International Digital Awards.

  Pam was born and raised on a dairy farm in Mississippi and spent her teenage years perched on the seat of a tractor raking hay. In those days, her daddy couldn’t afford two cab tractors with air-conditioning and a radio, so Pam drove an old model B Allis Chalmers. Even when her daddy asked her if she wanted to bale hay, she told him she didn’t mind raking. Raking hay doesn’t take much thought, so Pam spent her time working on her tan and making up stories in her head. Now that’s the kind of life every girl should dream of.

  Visit her website at www.pamhillman.com.

  Discussion Questions

  Connor and Isabella both feel a strong sense of duty to care for their families, even to the point of reversing the parent-child roles. In what ways is their commitment commendable? Where might they go too far in accepting this responsibility? How do you find balance with boundaries in your life?

  After losing both her mother and her brother, Isabella stops just short of placing blame squarely on God’s shoulders. How would you answer her question that, in allowing their deaths, God had essentially taken them from her? Is that the same as blaming Him?

  The Bartholomews have a rather progressive stance on slavery for their time. What convinces Matthew that “Every man has the right to prove himself regardless of race or creed or his bloodline”? Where do you still see inequalities in today’s society? What can you do to help overcome prejudice?

  After the Hornes arrive and place an extra burden on the Bartholomew family, Isabella wonder
s how she’ll find the resources to compensate them. Describe a time in your life when you or someone you know was asked to make sacrifices for the sake of others. What actions did you take? How did things turn out?

  Isabella is greatly affected by Mr. Horne’s sermon focused not on Job, but on Job’s wife. Mr. Horne says, “What man or woman among us hasn’t questioned God in our hour of sorrow?” Is it okay to question God as long as we “sin not”? Was Isabella on the verge of taking her questions and her blame too far?

  In chapter 12, Isabella believes her prayers didn’t save her mother or brother or the plantation. How does Connor respond to her in that moment? What would most comfort you if you were facing a similar situation?

  After Connor shares a little about his family with Isabella, she reminds him, “It’s never too late to make amends.” Have you been in a situation where you felt it was too late to make amends? Were you able to repair the relationship?

  In John 16:33, Jesus tells His followers: “Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.” What does this reminder mean to Isabella? What does it mean to you?

  In today’s society, parents want their children to have a better life than they themselves did. For the middle class, this usually means a college education and a good job. In the 1700s, it wasn’t unusual for parents to indenture their children. While this might seem cruel to us, if this was the only way to improve their child’s lot in life, do you think it was the right decision for the parents to make? Why or why not?

  Given the melting pot of classes and cultures that made up Natchez in this time period, it was inevitable that there would be marriages across different classes. Isabella unsuccessfully tries to ignore her attraction to Connor because of her parents’ ill-fated marriage. Should anyone ever make life choices based on family history? Is Isabella’s conviction to marry within her social class instead of for love an issue that couples face today?