by Lynn Donovan
A Groom for Linda
Blizzard Brides Series
Book 4

Lynn Donovan
Table of Contents
Copyright
About this Series
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Personal Note from the Author
About the Author
Appreciation
Newsletter and a Free Gift for You
Humble Request
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
The book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. All rights are reserved with the exceptions of quotes used in reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without express written permission from the author.
Blizzard Brides
©2020 Lynn Donovan
Cover Design by Virginia McKevitt
Editing by Cyndi Rule
Beta Reader: Amy Petrowich
About this Series
And a series similar to it.
For more information and list of books available in this series, go to www.theBlizzardBrides.com
If you love mail order grooms may I suggest the Silverpines Series!
“When disaster strikes… the women of Silverpines, Oregon must band together to survive.”
I have three books in this series and my author friends have many more for you to read, plus some companion series as well. Check it out.
Wanted: Gunsmith
Wanted: Barkeep
Wanted: Zookeeper
Introduction
A woman recovering from a terrible loss, a man on the trail of an outlaw, and the mishap that brings them together.
Linda Applebee’s life is perfect until she loses her husband in a freak blizzard. Now instead of spending her time writing an adventure novel, she has to find a husband or be required to move back to Wisconsin where she knows nobody. With one ad for husbands and a selection made, maybe life in Last Chance can return to normal.
Then he rides into town!
Michael Darcy longs for the freedom offered by tales of going west. He gives up his comfortable law practice and embraces the life of a bounty hunter. Following a lead, he ends up in Last Chance, hot on the trail of a criminal. His heart is captured by Linda, but he has a job to do, and she already has an intended. Does he follow his heart to Linda or his lead to his bounty? Can Linda change her mind and the man she promised to marry? Is this Michael and Linda’s last chance at happiness in a border town called Last Chance, Nebraska?
Prologue
November 1878 - Last Chance, Nebraska
“Well, this is it, Son,” Michael Darcy spoke out loud to his strawberry roan horse as he gazed at the hand-painted sign depicting the odd name of the town, Last Chance. It marked the invisible line he was about to cross to insure himself the freedom he had longed for. He pulled the Wanted bulletin from his dust-covered waistcoat to glare once again at the face he had memorized. If he could find and capture this elusive criminal and take him back to Kansas City, Missouri, where he’d be tried at last, Darcy could claim to be a reliable bounty hunter who always got his man.
Back east, Darcy had been a good lawyer, ferreting out the facts and winning cases. He had built a sound reputation for his skills and his practice, but he was miserable and saw nothing in his future to change his circumstances. Until two things happened:
Newspapers reported gruesome stories about a freak blizzard that caused an unbelievable amount of destruction through Nebraska and Wyoming, and a rumor was unleashed that the notorious Robert “Deuce” Taylor was headed to the snow-damaged area to take advantage of the few people who remained alive. A bounty had been offered at double the poster’s price if someone was dumb enough to head toward the devastation and bring Taylor back. Darcy had stood in his office, glaring at the man’s poster, and decided he was just dumb enough to try.
From Connecticut to Nebraska, Darcy had enjoyed the multitude of grazing livestock; even the wild mustangs and buffalo, but for the last hundred miles or so, damage and death from the freak blizzard was evident by prairies that were strangely sparse of animals. Debris indicated how high the flood waters had reached in the tree line along the North Platte River as he came closer to his destiny.
The general landscape changed here also. Nebraska had been a swath of level prairie riding, but here toward the west, rock formations jutted out of the ground, known as bluffs, they could be seen in the not-so-far-away distance. They looked like God thought to make a mountain but changed His mind and smoothed off the top to make a raised bit of land instead. One to the south looked like a tall, thin chimney except it was another of these odd rock formations.
Beyond this unusual area, a silhouette of the Rockies laid at the western horizon— could easily be mistaken for a bank of clouds— giving hint to the difficult trail ahead. It was said this was the reason Last Chance had been named thus. The wagon train masters would call out to the wagon owners in the train, “Last chance! This here’s your last chance ’fore this trail really gets hard.”
A set of elderly men, claiming to be retired Oregon Trail Wagon Masters, who sat playing checkers out front of a general store back in Iowa had told Darcy the story. “Those Rockies will make a man outta ya or a martyr. I seen plenty of shallow graves to prove it. Can’t do much more than pile rocks on top of a rotting carcass, ground’s so hard. That’s why they call ’em the Rockies. And that town was them folks’ last chance to reconsider going all the way to Washington, or Oregon, or California.”
Darcy had heard these stories more and more frequently as he neared Last Chance, Nebraska. This Chimney Rock had been the landmark that told him he was heading in the right direction. That, and he had followed at a reasonable distance behind a stagecoach since Grand Platte. The only railway through Nebraska was the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy south of the North Platte River. The stagecoach brought mail and travelers the rest of the way to these towns.
Another reasonable rumor from a good source suggested Taylor was headed to this town, following an advertisement for husbands. Seems the evidence of the great September storm took more than just the livestock in the fields. A lot of the menfolk were killed as well. Darcy reckoned Taylor knew an easy prey when it presented itself.
Darcy eased his strawberry roan with one white sock forward. They had a job to do and with any luck this town was where they could get it done.
Dust from the departing stagecoach still filled the air as Michael Darcy dismounted. His horse whinnied and lowered his muzzle into the water trough. Purchased in Connecticut, the previous owner had named the horse Son. Michael had no clue why, but the name seemed to suit the horse after a while and Michael understood for the first time in his life how cowboys became so emotionally attached to their mounts.
Darcy’s back ached and his knees were stiff from riding his horse for the past several weeks. He only stopped to gather supplies and information. People were willing to share gossip with a stranger and those loose tongues c
onfirmed the leads Darcy was following. With any luck his trek would come to an end among the devastation of this western region of Nebraska. That very early and very harsh blizzard had opened up all kinds of possibilities for men from the east, such as himself and perhaps this Robert Taylor, too, to change their lives or fulfill a dream they didn’t dare claim, until now.
It hadn’t been an easy decision for Darcy. Could he leave the comfort of his law practice and his apartment above the office to galivant across the country chasing down this one criminal? Could he manage the harsh life of a Bounty Hunter, as it was called? Something about the title and the thought of being free of these walls made his heart accelerate its beat.
However, once he made the decision, things moved quickly. With very little pomp or circumstance, he made arrangements with his bank, bought a fine horse with good tack, packed a minimal bag, and headed west. Tracking Taylor from his last know location, the man seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth, but that was impossible. So, unless Michael found the man or his grave, he wasn’t giving up.
Until the Matrimonial Gazette had coincidentally been left behind on his table at a diner where Michael stopped for a bath and a hot meal, Darcy thought the trail had gone too cold to ever pick it up again. Michael’s eyes landed on the advertisement and formulated a wild idea that radiated from his gut. He stopped by the Gazette’s home office to break all the rules with a persuasive, albeit fake, warrant and learned Taylor had answered the ad with a letter of introduction.
Luckily, the matchmaker in charge kept very good records of all the replies to ads before sending the batch of envelopes to the intended general address. It seemed the widows and young women of Last Chance, Nebraska had banded together to list the advert and would sort through the responses once they were delivered.
The matchmaker said she had been inundated with responses. She barely had time to record the names before a young man volunteered to hand-deliver the letters in a huge satchel that he carried himself. Seems he had a personal interest in handling the delivery and it gave the matchmaker peace of mind that the letters would arrive in a timely manner.
Whether a widow or young woman from Last Chance had answered Taylor’s inquiry was unknown, but there was a good chance one had. Thus, Darcy considered this a good lead for Mr. Taylor’s whereabouts. Now that Darcy was in Last Chance, the sheriff’s office seemed like a reasonable place to begin his search. Surely the local law knew every man, woman, and child for miles around.
Darcy stepped onto the boardwalk awkwardly, his knees needed time to loosen up and his back needed a nice hard bed to lie on for a while. A brass plaque beside the door indicated Ron Applebee was the sheriff. Darcy knocked on the door.
No response.
He knocked again, glancing around, and through the window. The jailhouse was empty. Foot traffic seemed light for a town this size, but several men on horseback meandered along the street. One lagged behind the others. He looked uncomfortable in the saddle. Michael recognized the look. He had felt that way several weeks ago when he first bought Son. That man must have just rented his horse from the livery. “Hey there!” Darcy called out to a group of men riding by.
“Yeah?” The uncomfortable one responded.
“You know where I can find Sheriff Applebee?”
“Just got into town, myself, mister. Name’s Cairn, Charlie T. Cairn. I hear there ain’t no sheriff. That’s why we are here. I personally got a letter from the sheriff’s widow. Going to the church now. That’s where we’re supposed to meet our gals and go from there.”
“I see.” Darcy looked up to see a steeple in the distance. “Mind if I tag along? I suppose the sheriff’s widow might have the information I’m looking for.” He hesitated when the man’s brows pinched tight over his nose. “I don’t mean no disrespect. I’m not here for a bride. I’m looking for an outlaw.”
The man nodded and eased his horse to continue down the dirt road. Michael quickly mounted Son and fell in with the group heading toward the church.
Chapter One
Three months earlier…
Ron Applebee sat up in bed. What was that? He listened. The horses in the livery next door were uneasy. Something wasn’t right. He touched Linda’s side of the bed. The sheets were empty and cold. He sighed heavily as he leapt out of bed. While staring into the dim moonlit night, he yanked on his britches, shirt, and vest. He tucked and buttoned everything into place. His sheriff badge, never removed from the vest, reflected a soft illumination.
His hawk-like eyes caught movement. A slight, dark figure slipped through the slats of the corral.
Applebee was outside in a flash.
A long, dark duster, lifted by a breeze, exposed the intruder’s indigo-blue canvas britches tucked into stove-pipe boots, as the figure made its way into the barn where over a dozen horses were kept by the livery. Two of them belonged to the Applebees: his and his wife’s. His deputy had taken his horse when he left town with a large group of men who were on a Hail Mary hunt for buffalo to help get the town through winter after a harsh, dry summer.
A horse whinnied in the waning moonlight. Hooves stamped straw strewn dirt as the horses awakened to steel bars scraping against latches. Their stall doors were opened and lead ropes were snapped onto halters. Sheriff Applebee hid in the shadows opposite the double doors leading to the street as six horses were guided into the cold night air. He stepped out from the barn wall.
“Hold it right there!” His baritone voice cut through a chilling breeze. Sheriff Applebee swung his Winchester to engage the cartridge into position— the only warning he would give.
The figure stopped abruptly when he spoke, slowly lifting gloved hands that were still holding six ropes.
“Don’t shoot!” The dark figure didn’t dare turn around to face the accuser.
“We don’t cotton to horse thieves around these parts.” Ron drawled, his Texas roots thick in his voice.
The figure shrugged. “I didn’t reckon you would. It’s why I came in the dead of the night.”
The horses shivered and whinnied. It was unusually chilly for September. They were cold and nervous. For beasts of burden, they knew something was wrong with being taken from their stalls in the middle of the night without being tacked for a ride.
“Here’s what you’re gonna do.” The sheriff inched toward the thief, keeping his rifle aimed from his hip. “You’re gonna hand me them lead ropes and turn around so I can cuff ya.”
“And what if I don’t.”
“Well,” The sheriff let one side of his mouth curl up with humor. “Then I’ll be forced to shoot ya.”
The thief swallowed hard and held out one arm awkwardly to hand the ropes over his shoulder to the sheriff. “That’s good. Now, put your hands behind your back.”
The thief complied.
Applebee looped the lead ropes around his arm and pulled out his handcuffs, slapped them on the thief’s wrists, and squeezed them tighter than he should have.
“Ow! Ron! That hurts!”
“Well! Dang it, Linda, you wanted everything to be authentic!”
“Yeah, but you don’t gotta cut my hands off at the wrist just to let me experience what it feels like to get arrested as a horse thief.”
“Woman! This was your idea, not mine.”
She sighed. “All I’m asking is for you to loosen these cuffs just a little bit.”
“Fine.” Ron used his key to unlock the cuffs and pulled them open just a couple of clicks so they were not so tight against his wife’s wrists. “That better?”
“Yes, thank you. Now what?”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed louder this time. “What would you do with the thief now?”
“Well.” He looked at the six horses and his wife, waiting for him to complete the task of arresting her as a horse thief. “I reckon I’d latch your cuffs to a post so I can put these horses back in their stalls, since my deputy’s not here to help. It’ll be up to me to take
care of them before I take you to jail.
“All right. Then let’s do that.”
“Linda! This is ridiculous. Let’s just go back to bed!”
“No. I need to know the whole experience so I can write an authentic story about a lady bounty hunter and her horse thief bandit.”
“Whoever heard of a lady bounty hunter in the first place?”
“Ron, we’ve been through this. Please. You promised.”
“Oh, all right. But let the record show, I don’t like it.”
“Duly noted.” She chuckled and stood still while he took another set of cuffs to connect the cuffs on her wrists to a brass ring on the post. He guided the horses back to their stalls. They whinnied and protested. The disturbance was not to their liking any more than it was to his.
He hung the lead ropes back on their hooks and walked back to where she waited. “Now, you’re going to jail.” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Applebee, you are under arrest for horse thievin’, and disturbing your husband’s peace in the middle of the night.”
She giggled under her breath and walked as if he was shoving her in front of him. “That’s not a charge.”
“It is now.” Ron grumbled. They walked down the middle of Stagecoach Road to the sheriff’s office. He unlocked the door and walked her inside to a barred set of cells along the back wall. He unlocked the door to one cell. The metal squealed as he swung the door open. She shuffled inside and waited for him to take the cuffs off her wrists.
He hung the keyring on a nail just out of the prisoner’s reach and began to swing the door closed.
“Hey! What about the cuffs?”
“Oh, yeah. Almost forgot.” He yawned as he pulled the key from his leather vest pocket. He released her wrists and tucked the cuffs in his back pocket. “Now, be a good horse thief and go to sleep. I’ll be right outside your cell in that room, right there.” He pointed at the room where he or his deputy slept when they had a prisoner. “Come morning, I’ll let you out.”