“It’s bad enough children are throwing stones.” He raked his hand through his hair. “The rest of you, you’re adults. You know better, and yet you stood by and did nothing as your children attacked my wife. Shame on you. Shame on us all.”
Jack clenched Coral’s hand.
The crowd parted as he led her to the buggy. Jack lifted her onto the bench. Coral slid over and he pulled up next to her. With a flick of his wrist, Jack clicked his tongue. The horse started down the dirt lane, hooves clopping on the hardened road framed by apple trees.
They traveled in silence.
He should have listened to her. He should not have agreed to visit the orchard today. His wife was hurt because he hadn’t protected her. Because he naively believed she would be safe among his kin. He was to blame for refusing to see the feud for what it was—children repeating what they’d been taught.
Kindness—love—could overcome hate. He believed this to the core of his soul.
It could. It didn’t always.
His uncle carried his bitterness to the grave. His grandmother, he feared, would as well. And Hiram… Jack wasn’t sure. Hiram had a chance to lead the Kents on a different course, if he chose it. Today, when they talked, he’d seemed open to it. He’d even congratulated Jack on the wedding. Hiram, he knew, was a schemer. Time would prove his words true or false. Time would also reveal bruises caused by thrown stones.
Jack kicked the floorboard. He should have known better than to take Coral onto Kent land.
Coral rested her head on his shoulder. “Jack, I’m all right.”
“I’m not,” he said, his pulse still pounding.
She wrapped her arms around his right arm. “I am sorry I accepted Hiram’s invitation. I shouldn’t have pressured you into attending.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, too. It won’t happen again.”
“But—” She straightened on the bench, turned to face him. “Are you giving up that quickly?”
He pulled the reins, stopping the buggy. “They threw rocks at you.”
She stared at him blankly for a second. “Well, yes,” she said, shifting to face him. “Years of hate can’t be unlearned in one day.”
He shook his head. He didn’t have her optimism.
“Let’s think about this.” She removed the reins from his hold, rested them on the side hook, and then took both his hands in hers. “A minor skirmish, only a few harsh words, and no one tossed in jail. I’d say that’s a grand improvement over the last Kent-Davies altercation.” She smiled.
Jack didn’t.
She leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “We’re together. That’s what counts.”
Jack didn’t say anything. His grandmother—and likely most Kent and Davies kin—believed he and Coral were married only because they’d been forced into it. They had been. The judge admitted they’d made the decision under duress. Love was a choice. Marriage was a choice, too. His heart leaped. It was a perfect idea.
“Marry me,” he blurted. The startled look on her face made him chuckle. “I’m serious, Coral.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why? We’re already married.”
Jack did not take his eyes off her beautiful face. “Marry me again.”
She gave him a have you lost your mind? look.
“I am serious.”
“Jack…”
“Coral…” he said in the same I’m trying to placate you, but you’re pestering me tone. “We’ll send invitations to everyone who gave us gifts. Seems only right. We don’t need a host of attendants or an ice sculpture. You, me, a preacher, two- or three-hundred witnesses, and plenty of food is all we need.”
“Why?” she asked, her tone still wary.
He looked at her as if it were obvious.
“Why?” she repeated.
“We were married in a jail, in muddy clothes, after a night of no sleep—”
“I slept,” she put in.
“—on empty stomachs, and while we were under duress.” Jack grinned, never feeling surer of a spontaneous idea. “I want you to look back at our wedding and have a good memory, not one you have to find something good in. Marry me, Coral. Let’s show everyone in our families we are together because we want to be.”
Her head slowly shook, but she was thinking about it. Jack could tell she was considering the idea. The time she would need to address the invitations. What food to serve. What dress she would wear. He said nothing. He was far too happy to watch the play of emotions on her face as she considered the pros and cons and added together time and cost.
She opened her mouth, and he blurted, “Even a simple wedding will be costly, which is why I will sell Hiram my share of the orchard. He’s been pestering me about it for weeks.”
She eyed him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to sell.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t need the money. Until now.” Jack pulled her onto his lap, and she immediately wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “You, my love, are a worthwhile investment.”
She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. “We are. I love you, Jack, and I believe I will love you forever.”
“Mrs. Coral Davies Kent, will you marry me again?”
She looked thoughtful. “I daresay, this is the strangest marriage proposal I’ve ever received.” Her lips tipped up at the edge. She then held up a bare left hand. “Will I get a ring this time?”
“Absolutely. Take note we are in a doctor’s buggy, surrounded by apple trees, on a dirt road where no one can be seen for miles. Miles,” Jack emphasized, taking note of the close proximity of her lips to his. “Miles. Just you and me.”
“And the horse.”
The gelding’s ears flickered, yet he never stopped eating the grass on the side of the road.
Jack tossed his hat and hers onto the buggy’s hood. “Trust me, he never tells anything he sees.”
She leaned close, touching her nose to his. “Are you planning on compromising me before our second wedding?” she asked and then gave him no time to respond.
He could live with that.
Epilogue
There is no remedy for love but to love more.
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
August 20, 1905
The train’s whistle blew. The last of the passengers boarded the car.
Coral nervously smoothed the skirt of her blue traveling suit as Jack placed his hat on the upper shelf. “I’ve never been farther from Wathena than St. Joseph.”
He slid next to her. “Are you nervous?”
He obviously read her expression. “I may be a tad nervous.” Coral sighed and noted how ragged her breath sounded. Her stomach churned, hands trembled. She’d been waiting for this day for years. “Anxious. Nervous. Excited. I’m a bundle of emotions.”
Jack looked over his shoulder and scrunched his face in a funny expression. Giggles came from the seat behind them. He then draped his arm over Coral’s shoulder. Kissed her cheek.
“Why are you so calm?” she asked him.
“Because I am leaving with what I hold most dear,” he whispered. “You will like New Orleans.”
She thought about it. Last night she’d even made a list of the pros and cons. She expected she would like living in Louisiana, yet couldn’t help ask, “And if I don’t?”
“It’s only two years.”
Coral sighed again. He was right, as always. Two years didn’t seem enough time for Jack to learn all he needed to know about eardrums and surgical repair, but he was confident, and thus Coral would be confident, too.
The whistle blew again.
The conductor walked down the aisle, checking tickets. He then left their car and moved to the one behind theirs.
Coral looked out the window. She waved at the Swayzes as they stood next to Whit, Gil, Ann, and Hiram. All waved back. No other kin came to the station to see them off. Three Davieses. One Kent. The rest of their family continued to nurse
their grudges.
More giggles came from the seat behind them.
Coral looked over her shoulder.
Four-year-old Sophie sat on Gracelyn’s lap, looking out the window as Gracelyn wedged a pencil into Sophie’s left braid. The child’s blond hair now stuck out like five-inch horns on the side of her head. Yet both girls looked even happier than they’d been the day Jack and Coral walked them out of the orphanage for good.
Jack snorted.
Coral elbowed him in the side. “Did you give her the idea?”
The right side of his mouth hitched into an enchanting grin. “Isn’t that what fathers are for?” he said all innocent, and all guilty.
“Jackson Kent, you are the most…” Her words trailed off as the train jerked into motion.
His lips grazed her ear. “Devoted husband you will ever have.”
Coral looked at him out of the corner of her eye. A smile teetered on her lips. Devoted he certainly was…to her, to their daughters, to being kind to all.
Marriage suited Jack Kent quite well.
Coral Davies Kent Applesauce
The best time to make applesauce is in the fall, when the apples have just ripened on the trees. Visit a local orchard and pick your own.
Gather one pound of apples for every cup of applesauce. Peel apples, and cut each into four pieces, removing core and seeds. Put the pieces into a kettle or Dutch oven. Cook the apples over medium heat, stirring from time to time, until they are soft. (If the mixture seems too dry or the apples start to stick, add a little water.) Mash the apples. Add honey or sugar to taste. Sprinkle on a bit of cinnamon and nutmeg. Enjoy warm or cooled!
Author’s Note
The United States, at the beginning of the twentieth century, enjoyed the distinction of being the greatest fruit-producing nation of the world. The largest and most profitable apple orchards were located in the central part of the United States—on the most fertile lands of Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, and Nebraska. According to the report of the State Horticultural Society for 1909, Kansas had over seven million apple trees, five million pear trees, five million peach trees, one million cherry trees, and almost one million combined plum, quince, and apricot trees.
One of the first commercial orchards was planted in the spring of 1876, in the southern part of Leavenworth County in Kansas by Frederick Wellhouse, who became the largest apple grower in the world. He owned at one time 1,600 acres in orchards in Leavenworth, Miami, and Osage Counties. In the late 1870s, Doniphan County reported 140,000 apple trees, mostly located around Wathena. Tree fruit acreage expanded to where an Apple Grower’s Association was formed in 1905.
Visit kansasfruitgrowers.org to learn more about Kansas orchards.
ECPA-bestselling author Gina Welborn wrote public service announcements until she fell in love with writing romances. A moderately obsessive fan of Community and Once Upon a Time, Gina lives in Oklahoma with her pastor husband, their five Okie-Hokie children, two rabbits, four guinea pigs, and a dog that doesn’t realize rabbits and pigs are edible. Find Gina online at www.ginawelborn.com
The Colorado Coincidence
by Kathleen Y’Barbo
Dedication
To my agent Wendy Lawton. Here’s to ten more years!
For thou wilt light my candle: the LORD my God will enlighten my darkness.
PSALM 18:28
Chapter 1
San Francisco
April 1878
Mack McCoy slipped the envelopes into his vest pocket and willed himself to remain calm. To smile at the three pretty girls who were vying for his attention on the sidewalk outside the San Francisco Post Office. To walk back toward his hotel room as if it were any normal day.
Once inside, he gathered up what he could shove into his saddlebag to wait until darkness descended. A glance around the elegantly appointed room should have caused him to consider all he would miss in leaving San Francisco.
He’d been wealthy before, and he’d been poor as well. Neither suited him for long before his old friend wanderlust came along and sent him off on the next adventure.
Mack pressed his palms against the desk and stared at the envelopes stacked in front of him. Two letters.
One had been expected. The envelope plain but sturdy and embossed with the seal of his father the Duke of Crenwright, came regular as clockwork. Inside was the remittance paid to ensure he never returned to his homeland, a remittance Mack would place in a new envelope and mail to his mother for her care.
The other letter was no less noble in origin, no less elegant in the materials used to carry the message from London to this distant city. And yet this envelope and its contents, a simple emerald stickpin, carried the strongest warning.
For unlike Father, who paid Mack to stay away, his half brother Colin, younger by some five years, used a more persuasive means.
Colin’s promise that if Mack set foot on English soil, his mother would surely die held much more meaning than any amount of money. Until today, Mack had no proof that his half brother had found the home tucked away in a quiet part of the English countryside far from Crenwright lands.
Until today.
Colin or someone in his employ had not only found her but had the gall to steal from her. If his mother was hurt, he’d kill Colin. Of this, Mack was certain. There was no need to involve her. Colin was heir even though he was the younger son. For only Colin carried the pure blood of the duke and his legitimate wife the duchess.
Mack held the emerald stickpin up to the light, allowed a moment’s perusal to be certain of its ownership. Yes, it was his mother’s. Of this there was no mistaking.
“You’re my hero, Mack,” he could almost hear his mother say.
Her hero. Mack snorted. He was no one’s hero, and he knew it.
He wrapped the pin in his fist and willed himself to think rationally, calmly, as he walked to the window and gazed out over the city he had grown to love and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Any number of the vessels bobbing at anchor might take him away from here, though their destinations would prove far too difficult to discern. Much as he wished to slip from his father’s grasp, not allowing the remittances to reach him meant that they also did not reach his mother.
So Mack was in a fine fix. The only solution was to keep moving. To provide a change of address for his father and to beg the elder man’s indulgence that Colin not be told of his whereabouts.
For all that the duke loved both his sons—as much as he could love anyone—Mack knew he was his father’s favorite. Sending Mack away had been the duchess’s doing, an act meant to ensure that her son was named the rightful heir upon their father’s death.
So he would keep his promise and would keep providing for his mother. Though she had once been a simple maid to the nobility, Mother had settled into the life of country gentlewoman with a happiness that Mack intended to see continued.
Carefully, he slipped the pin into his lapel and then rose to begin the process of packing his saddlebags. His final act before closing the door to his life in San Francisco was to deliver a forwarding address to the postmaster.
“So you’ll be moving to Denver?” the elderly man said as he duly noted the information in his ledger. “Nice place, Colorado. Thought many a time of heading that direction. Good for the lungs, you know.”
Mack responded with a nod and a tip of his hat. It didn’t matter whether Denver was nice or not. It was merely a stop on a journey that was unlikely to end.
Not as long as Colin drew a breath.
May 1878
Callyville, Colorado
Gloree Lowe tossed a clod of wet dirt toward the three graves and wondered again why she wasn’t in one of them. “Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and be at rest.” More than once on the trail up from Texas she had whispered those words, usually during the labored breathing that came with the illness that sent them to the rarified healing of Colorado.
As if by suggestion, she inhaled a long breath of clear,
cold morning and let it out slowly. Pitt always told her God heard every prayer, even the ones we sent forth in tortured groanings. Her husband was the smartest man she knew; he’d been right about this.
He also told her to marry again if something happened to him—which she agreed to without meaning a word of it—and never to go anywhere without the Springfield in her hand, and she’d forgotten. Not that she could imagine anything worse that could happen to her than the things she’d already endured.
Besides, she hadn’t touched the rifle except to move it to the porch since the sheriff brought it back from the fields still strapped to Pitt’s lifeless body. A sob threatened and she doubled over, ready to spill the contents of her meager breakfast. Again.
Gloree lifted her face to a cloudless cornflower sky. Heat rose from skin nearly frozen by the Colorado morning. An odd thought, that tears would warm you like that. She leaned back on her heels, beyond caring about the muddy mess she’d made of her apron and skirt or the splotches that must be staining her checks.
The cross had slipped out of place again. Gloree made another attempt to right it then gave up. It would just have to stay crooked until the frozen ground thawed and proved more cooperative.
The ache in her heart intensified. With the need to curl up between her babies so strong it startled her into rising, Gloree fisted her icy fingers and felt the grit rub into her palms. A glance at the largest of the three graves proved impossible, so she turned her back.
Odd, how the Lord went about His business.
She lifted her gaze and then her fist to the majestic Rockies, rising gray-blue and dusted with sugar-white peaks against the cornflower-blue spring sky. Dirt from her palms dusted her face and most likely turned the tracks of her tears into muddy rivers.
Had she known the trek from Texas to Colorado would end this way, she’d have refused to go. But it would have done her no good. With her husband, there was no refusing to do anything. Once that man set his cap on something, he did it and that was that. That was his way, and what first drew her to the handsome rancher.
The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection Page 41