The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection

by Kristin Billerbeck

  Behind him, Ned heard Birdie grunt. She had told him about the marks the girls made on those contracts when they were too drunk to know what they were doing.

  The side door opened and Sheriff Carter strode in. “Not unless I say so.” He also trained his rifle on Owen. “In fact, I hear tell the town council is ready to put the vote to make Calico dry on the next ballot. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll skedaddle out of town before you lose your shirt altogether.”

  Owen stumbled forward a step, discharging his weapon as he flopped about. It hit a rafter high above him.

  Ned’s finger pressed on the trigger, and the bullet hit Owen right where he aimed it—at his right shoulder, to wing him, not to kill. Owen slumped on the floor and howled. “I wasn’t shooting at you!” He screamed curses.

  Sheriff Carter ran down the side aisle, keeping his rifle ready to shoot if necessary. He kicked Owen’s gun away and handcuffed his hands together. “Tell it to the judge—after we all tell him how you started a gunfight in this house of worship. That’ll be right after we get a doctor to fix you up.” Dragging Owen to his feet, he paused by the door. “The rest of you better leave before I find a reason to drag you along with your boss.”

  “They all follow his lead.” Birdie came up beside Ned as the men filed out the front door. “None of them has enough courage to come after us here without him. We’re free.” She pulled the sunbonnet from her head. “We’re finally free. How perfect, to celebrate our personal freedom on the Fourth of July.”

  As the sheriff escorted Owen out of the church, Haydn headed for the back room and Ned crossed the front to the pastor. “I’m sorry for the gunfire, pastor.”

  “Don’t worry. You were protecting what is most important to you except for the Lord Himself.” He smiled at Birdie. “I’ll join the ladies in the room.”

  Ned pulled Birdie close to him, closer than he ever had before, and she settled comfortably against his chest. He breathed in the floral scent of her brilliant hair. He could face a hundred lions for this woman.

  Michal coughed, reminding him that although Ned had so much to tell Birdie, now was neither the time nor the place. He relaxed his hold on Birdie, and she took one hesitant step backward. “I need to get back to Miss Kate’s. To let her know about her company coming.” Even as she spoke, her eyes studied his features one by one, as if memorizing them.

  “You’ll see me later today. I promise.” A tenderness Birdie couldn’t believe possible shone from Ned’s eyes as he smiled down at her.

  “Of course. When I bring you the eggs.” Dropping her eyes, she stepped past Ned on her way to the door.

  “And when I announce the winner of the button jar contest.”

  Birdie’s laughter rang as she and Michal headed for the door. “I plan on being there.”

  “If you don’t come, I’ll come down and get you myself.” She laughed again. “But now I’ll walk you home.”

  Later that morning, Michal had no interest in the button drawing. “It’s too soon for me, Birdie. But you go, with your Mr. Finnegan. Enjoy yourself.”

  Birdie walked down Main Street, striding confidently past the Betwixt ’n’ Between. A good-sized crowd had gathered in front of Ned’s store. He should be pleased.

  Ned noticed her approach and motioned her forward. For some reason, he began to clap. Soon everyone joined in.

  Birdie stopped in midstep. They couldn’t be clapping for her—could they? Ned motioned again for her to join him in front of the store. “Now we can get started.”

  Light laughter rippled across the crowd.

  “First I’ll announce the winner of the counting contest. The person who will be leaving here with all the lemon drops she can eat, as well as a length of my prettiest calico, is the sheriff’s wife, Enid Carter.”

  A young boy ran ahead and reached Ned first. “I’ll take the lemon drops, please.”

  “That is up to your mother.” Ned tossed a single lemon drop to the child, who caught it in midair.

  “Thank you, Mr. Finnegan. For everything.” Mrs. Carter walked back to her husband amid generous applause.

  “And now … for the most important part of the day.” Ned reached behind him and lifted the nearly full jar of buttons over his head. “Who gets to keep all these buttons that I’ve collected?”

  Voices called from all over the crowd. “Miss Landry.” “Miss Birdie.” A few small children began chanting “Miss Landry” until everyone joined in.

  Birdie looked at Ned, not understanding what was happening.

  He handed her the jar of buttons. “Here is a gift from the people of Calico, to you. All of the buttons you’ll need for a lot of dresses, as well as a sizable credit to your account for any other supplies you need, from concerned citizens.”

  The din of applause and hurrahs gave Ned and Birdie a cocoon of privacy. She found a tag attached to a red-and-white gingham bow around the top of the jar. She unfolded it and read the single sentence twice before looking at Ned.

  “You don’t think I’d let a few buttons come between me and the woman I love, do you?” Ned’s grin was as spectacular as fireworks on the Fourth of July. “So. Will you marry me?”

  All the defenses Birdie had built against a man’s love crumbled. “Yes.” Her answer was both a capitulation and an exultation.

  Ned claimed Birdie’s lips.

  The crowd cheered even louder, their approval touching Birdie’s heart like the ping of a button hitting the bottom of the jar.

  Bestselling author DARLENE FRANKLIN’s greatest claim to fame is that she writes full-time from a nursing home. She lives in Oklahoma, near her son and his family, and continues her interests in playing the piano and singing, books, good fellowship, and reality TV in addition to writing. She is an active member of Oklahoma City Christian Fiction Writers, American Christian Fiction Writers, and the Christian Authors Network. She has written over fifty books and more than 250 devotionals. Her historical fiction ranges from the Revolutionary War to World War II, from Texas to Vermont. You can find Darlene online at www.darlenefranklinwrites.com

  Dedication

  For Paulette Dvorak, with my love

  “O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?”

  MATTHEW 14:31 KJV

  Chapter 1

  Mackinac Island, 1887

  The first rays of daylight stole across the garden as Francie Woods slipped through the thick green bushes that surrounded the foliaged area. She lifted her dark green skirt to an unmaidenly midcalf height and silently hurried on bare feet down the stone-tiled path.

  The garden had been her favorite place since she’d first arrived on Mackinac Island one week before. Somehow God seemed closer there—and her stories and drawings came easier in the midst of the garden.

  Near the center of the garden, morning glories coiled up a white-painted, slatted bower. The garden was an eclectic mixture of native plants and those that had come with her aunt, carefully uprooted from the Detroit home, packed with tenderness for their journey, and replanted here on Mackinac Island. This plot with its curving walkways and granite fountain was Aunt Dorothea’s pride and joy on the island.

  Francie dropped to a crouch and flipped open her sketchbook. Through the soft light of dawn, the sketches of yesterday’s pansies, their faces remarkably humanlike, seemed to come alive.

  But that wasn’t what interested her now. She turned to an unmarked page but didn’t write. Instead, she balanced in her stooped position, intently watching the morning glories.

  Finally the magical moment began. The white flowers unfolded as the sun brightened, until, at last, they were totally opened.

  Francie’s fingers flew across the page, recording the process. Later, after she’d had her breakfast, she would visit with the family for a while before her morning walk to the shore. Right now, though, her attention was on the drawing before her.

  The sun rose into its full radiance, and in the background, the muffled sounds of the island com
ing awake drifted to her. Inside Sea Breeze, the summer home of her aunt and uncle, she could hear the strains of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” hummed in Middle Meg’s strong alto.

  “Francie! Francine Woods!” Cousin Marie’s voice rang out from the back porch. “Breakfast is ready, and Grandmama Christiana will have your head if you’re late!”

  Francie added a few quick lines to her picture and stood. “Coming!”

  She hurried into the house and slid into her chair at the table, tucking her sketchbook under her and self-consciously patting her hair to make sure she wasn’t any more disheveled than usual. It was a battle she fought daily—and generally lost.

  Middle Meg, whose song had ended, winked at her as she poured tea in the delicate blue and white china cup at Francie’s place, and Francie knew that the maid was aware of her time in the garden.

  The first night there, Aunt Dorothea had explained Middle Meg’s name. There were three generations of servants in the family, and all the women were named Margaret but called Meg. Old Meg and Young Meg were still in Detroit, tending to the main house and Uncle Leonard, who came to Mackinac Island whenever his banking business would let him. Middle Meg, her ruddy face always wreathed in a smile, took capable care of all of the others on the island.

  “What are your plans for the day?” Aunt Dorothea asked Marie as she stirred her tea.

  “Plans?” Marie laughed. “Francie and I will go for our morning walk.”

  Grandmama Christiana snorted. “You’re probably going over to that nasty pit. I tell you, in my day, nice girls didn’t stand around watching men at work. That’s trouble looking right back at you, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Aunt Dorothea reached across the table and patted the elderly woman’s hand. “Now, now, I’m sure that Marie and Francine will conduct themselves like the ladies they are, won’t you, girls?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they chorused, but as Marie looked at Francie, she rolled her eyes.

  “You know the Grand Hotel is going to open in a month, so it’s hardly a pit, not any longer,” Marie declared. “It’s extraordinarily large and very elegant.”

  Grandmama Christiana merely sniffed in response.

  “Will you be stopping at the Carltons’ house for your embroidery lesson?” Aunt Dorothea asked. “It’s so nice of Annabelle to share her talents with you.”

  Grandmama Christiana nodded knowingly and turned her piercing dark gaze on Marie. “Embroidery is a lady’s art, and you’re wise to learn it. Now, that’s the way a young woman should spend her time, not gallivanting around.”

  Francie nearly choked on her toast as Marie looked down and rolled her eyes surreptitiously.

  “Yes, Grandmama Christiana,” Marie said with an artificial meekness, and Aunt Dorothea adeptly steered the conversation to a safer discussion of daylilies.

  Marie caught Francie’s attention with a subtle wave of her napkin, and soon the two were out of the house and walking along the dusty path.

  “I can’t help it if the road to the Carltons’ cottage goes right past where the Grand Hotel is being built, now can I?” Marie winked at her.

  Francie smiled. The shortest route to the Carltons’ home did, in fact, not go past the construction area, but she didn’t say so.

  Marie batted at a low-hanging branch. “I love Grandmama Christiana, but she came from another century. If she had her way, I’d be wrapped head to toe in black crepe.”

  This was a time to keep silent, Francie knew. The elderly woman was outspoken and crusty, but the twinkle in her eyes that were as black as polished onyx told Francie that she was probably not as cantankerous as she appeared.

  Her cousin’s steps slowed. “Is it terrible, having your parents gone so much? I know you’ve been in a boarding school, and now you’re here and they’re in South America.” Her porcelain brow furrowed.

  Francie had answered this question so many times that the response was practiced. “Yes, it’s difficult, but they’re doing God’s work.”

  “I can’t imagine being a missionary,” Marie said. “You’d live in the worst conditions. There wouldn’t be any stores, really, and I suspect the food is dreadful.”

  “It’s not that bad. I went with my parents for a while. Some of the houses we lived in would seem primitive to you, I suppose, but in many parts of the world, Sea Breeze would be the home of several families. And the shops … the food … We spent time in China, and the stores and the food were exotic and tremendous. Every place has a unique beauty, given by the Master Artist.”

  She’d had similar conversations before, and each time, it drove home how different her life had been from most American girls and how it had made her find ways to amuse herself. Fortunately she’d discovered her vivid imagination and an artistic talent that might have otherwise gone untapped.

  “Not having your parents around must seem strange.”

  “Not to me,” Francie answered. “I’m used to it. I’d probably find it strange if they were suddenly around me—just as odd as you’d find it if your parents left to travel the world.”

  Marie shrugged. “Possibly.” Then she laughed lightly. “Papa is so rarely here on the island, and when we’re in Detroit, he’s always off to some business or social matter. At times, it seems like he might as well be in Spain.”

  Francie didn’t answer. There was no way to explain it, the longing that ate at her while her parents were gone. Of course they were in God’s hands, doing His work, and she wouldn’t begrudge them that. There were times, though, when she wished they would swoop in and carry her away and the three of them could spend time just walking and talking and being together.

  But Marie was on to another subject. “So, at this boarding school you went to, did you get to see any fellows? At Miss Helena’s, which was the day school I attended in Detroit, every Friday we had what she called ‘Cotillion,’ when we met with students from Briarhurst, the men’s school. We had to make ‘polite conversation.’” Marie stretched out the words in a terrible French accent and snorted in a totally unladylike manner. “Miss Helena was French when she wanted to be, but rumor had it that she came from Des Moines.”

  “We didn’t have anything like that,” Francie answered, with the unspoken addition of fortunately. Making “polite conversation” sounded dreadful. “We were kept quite sequestered.”

  “I don’t believe I would care for that at all,” Marie answered vaguely. Her interest seemed to have been diverted by the hive of activity where the hotel was being built.

  As her cousin’s steps slowed, Francie took the opportunity to lean over and study a cluster of trillium. The three petals of the lovely white flower rising from the three glossy green leaves were, her mother had once told her, a reminder of God’s love for His people and what He expected them to do. Not only Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, she’d said, but Faith, Hope, and Charity.

  The trillium was a beautiful flower and one of the first of the year to bloom.

  “You and your flowers.” Marie sighed, but there was no rancor in her words. “I’d rather look at—”

  Her sentence was interrupted as a horse drawing a wagon clip-clopped along the path.

  “Miss Harris!” The driver of the vehicle pulled back on the reins, and the horse stopped. “You’re out early this fine summer morning.”

  Francie didn’t move out of the shadow but instead watched Marie. The sideways tilt to her head and the faint smile on her cousin’s face told her that this wasn’t the first time the two had met on this road, and Marie’s next words confirmed it.

  “No earlier than usual, as you might know. A walk clears the mind and prepares it for the day ahead.” Francie watched with a growing fascination as Marie overtly flirted with the man in the cart. “You should try it sometime.”

  Instead of being offended, the driver smiled broadly and laughed. “Yes, Princess Marie, I shall do just that.” And with a snappy salute, he clicked the reins smartly, and the wagon left them.

 
“Princess Marie?” Francie asked as he drove away. “Who was that man?”

  Marie turned to her, a blush climbing her neck. “Just one of the workmen here who thinks he’s being charming when in fact he’s being overly fresh.”

  “You should report him to his supervisor,” Francie said.

  Marie, though, shook her head and laughed, a lovely sound that reminded Francie of a wind chime. “Francie, dear, if I reported every man who spoke to me, the hotel would never be built, and I’d have that on my conscience until the end of time.”

  “I don’t know …” Francie began. “Maybe we should take another road to go to the Carltons’ to avoid them then.”

  “Oh, you goose, I’m just teasing you. That fellow was harmless. I’ve seen him several times already, and he’s simply being friendly.” Her cousin touched Francie’s arm. “But please don’t mention this to Grandmama Christiana. She’d forbid both of us to leave the house, and we’d have to spend the entire summer stuffed inside that airless parlor, fanning ourselves and making ‘polite conversation.’”

  Just the week she’d been there had been long enough for Francie to recognize the truth in Marie’s words. She could imagine the elderly woman’s reaction when she learned Marie had been speaking with a workman. In all likelihood, the two young women would spend the rest of the summer inside Sea Breeze, safe from the advances of brash fellows.

  “Anyway,” Marie continued, leading her down the hill to the main street, “I want to stop in at the shops on our way to the Carltons’ house. I’d like to get some fudge to take to Mrs. Carlton as a thank-you for teaching me to embroider. I’m really enjoying it—”

  Francie listened to her cousin’s chatter with only half her attention. She’d adored Marie since they’d been children playing together during summers at their grandparents’ farm in southern Michigan. Marie, with her ebony hair and flashing dark eyes, was three years older than Francie, and her sophistication was appealing, even to a small girl. Now the distinction was more marked, but Marie was still as kind to the young admirer as she had been when Francie was six.