Storybook Hero (Dorado, Texas 2)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Storybook Hero

  By Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Book #2 of the Dorado, Texas series

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.

  Published by Inked Figments

  Cover artist: Tamra Westberry (writing as Tara West)

  Edited by: Shenoa, Lustre Editing www.lustreediting.com

  Formatted by Author’s HQ

  Manufactured in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-940456-08-7

  First printing January 2016

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.

  Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.

  Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at inkedfigments@gmail.com.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Excerpt: My Heart Knew

  Titles Coming Soon in Dorado, Texas series

  Author Biography

  Chapter One

  December 1876

  Clarissant heaved out a sign and gave the feather duster a couple more half-hearted swipes over the store’s shelf of canned fruits and vegetables. Helping out in Othmann’s Mercantile gave her a sense of contributing to her aunt and uncle’s household since being taken in earlier in the year. Unfortunately, little excitement could be found among cans, boxes, and sacks of food, or bins of nails and hammers. Especially for a person who most often lived in the imaginary worlds created with words—either her own or those of other authors. Her gaze strayed to the long wooden counter where the orders were compiled and the bills tallied. And where she’d stashed The Wide, Wide World, the latest novel she’d been reading late into the night.

  Mid-morning in December in Dorado, Texas didn’t offer much in the way of distraction. Or excitement. She hurried down the next aisle in the store, flicking the duster over the display of ceramic and stoneware teapots. Finishing her tasks meant she’d have more time for reading…or writing her next adventure story.

  “Be careful you don’t breathe too deeply. The dust could be harmful.” A chiding female voice sounded from the far side of the store where a dark-haired woman folded men’s denims and shirts.

  “I won’t, Aunt Alda.” How many times have I heard a similar admonition over the years? She turned and forced a smile toward the plain-dressed woman who resembled her mother but had such a different personality. Suffering from asthma meant all the adults in her life restrained her from participating in any activity involving exertion. Sadly, the activities were the very same ones that usually involved fun and laughter.

  Clari moved around the counter and walked over to a shelf holding a dozen books. This group of leather-bound volumes was nothing like the collection she’d had at her fingertips in her family home in Racine, Wisconsin. Thank goodness, her parents encouraged their children to read literature, because getting lost in a book had composed the majority of her approved entertainment.

  Giving another big sigh, she looked around the mercantile that now occupied the major part of her day. Moving to the drier region in central Texas had been done on doctor’s orders, following a third bout of bronchitis last winter in Wisconsin’s cold, damp climate. Although she missed her parents and siblings, Clari couldn’t deny the West offered sights she’d only read about in novels. Wide open places with scrubby trees and spiky cactus, with purple hills in the distance.

  More than once, she’d stood at the outskirts of town, watching the sun set and marveling that not a single building obscured the view to the horizon. For a person raised in a city, that was a remarkable sight. Everyone here either rode horses or drove buggies or wagons. No trains puffed clouds of smelly smoke or factories belched coal fumes into the air.

  Stopping at the window that faced the town’s main street, Clari thought of life during the holiday season back home and wondered about the parties she might have been invited to. A snort escaped, and she dashed a look over her shoulder to gauge if her aunt had heard such an unlady-like noise. In years past, Clari had received invitations to socials and dances from her circle of friends. Unfortunately, her mother always insisted on acting at chaperone and then when they’d arrived at the event, she’d restrain Clari from joining any activity more strenuous than euchre or dominoes. How Clari had always yearned to play charades or join in a set of dancing. What young woman wanted to be thought of as weak and dull?

  But if she made a visit now, strengthened by her new-found health, what fun she might enjoy. Wearing the latest fashion, she could perform the steps she’d only practiced in solitude and…

  The hoof beats of multiple horses approaching filtered through the window. Clari craned her neck to see who might be coming into town. Maybe those cowhands from the Shady Oaks Ranch.

  Why, just last week she’d seen an exciting and daring rescue through this very window. She’d watched, with a hand clasped at her neck, how the dark-haired cowhand ran across the street and grabbed up a little girl who had wandered in front of a wagon moving through the center of town. Granted, the wagon was being pulled by a team of sure-footed oxen and had only rolled slowly. But the rescuer been so dashing, not giving a thought to his own safety. As a spectator, she held her breath and felt her heart pound in her chest. What must have lasted only seconds seemed to drag in slow motion. Just like the knights of old that she read about in her beloved tales of the round table.

  Seeing two riders pull up their horses and dismount in front of the store gave her an idea. What if she used that rescue as the opening scene of her next story? She hadn’t yet written one with a western setting. Of course, for the story to be considered by the nickel novel publishers, she’d have to change the team of plodding oxen to that of energetic horses. Or better might be a spirited black stallion whose long mane flowed in the breeze. The horse could have a tendency to rear and paw the air. The villain could be the rider who gave not a care for a small child, but instead he wanted the hero’s ranch because…

  Her shoulders slumped. Why would someone want a ranch? She had no idea what tasks people did on one or what made them valuable. Since arriving in Dorado in May, she’d had the chance to talk with the cowhands only a few times, and mostly about goods and supplies.

  What were the duties of a cowhand? She liked to use as much real-life detail in her stories as she managed to research. When the men she knew to be cowhands were in the mercantile, they always looked ready for outdoor work, as their long-sleeved shirts, sturdy denim pants, and heavy leather boots indicated. Now that the weather had grown colder, they often wore gloves, leather chaps, and long coats that hung below their knees.

  What tasks filled their days? Surely asking about their duties wo
uldn’t seem too forward. Most folks liked to talk about themselves. The Shady Oaks’ cowhands were two of the half dozen people close to her own age who visited the mercantile. Between church services and the store—the only places she was allowed to be—Clari didn’t have an opportunity to mingle with many people.

  Aunt Alda invited her to accompany her to the Women’s Auxiliary group at the church. But what twenty-two year old wanted to sit among women ten or fifteen or thirty years older, with several kids or grandkids, and listen to talk of bake sales for new hymnals, or a quilting bee to buy a brass bell for the belfry. A shudder ran through her body.

  Not Clarissant Rochester. She no longer wanted to be relegated to passive, quiet activities. She wanted to explore the Wild West she’d read so much about. The warmer climate had cleared up her breathing problems, and she hadn’t suffered with an earache or lung problems in months. Even after the weather turned cold, forcing her to wear flannel petticoats under her woolen skirts, she’d remained illness-free. In her last letter home, she’d pled with Mama to loosen the restrictions imposed on Aunt Alda before Mama agreed to let Clari make the relocation. But no change, translating to no more freedom, had been forthcoming.

  Boots stamped on the wooden planking outside, and the door opened, setting the bell tinkling with a merry chime. A whooshing breeze of cool air entered with the men, carrying with it the crisp scent of winter and a hint of wood smoke.

  Clari turned and her gaze flipped to the tall dark-haired man who’d yanked off his broad-brimmed hat and twirled it between his fingers. Trevor Driscoll. Wasn’t that just the most perfect name ever? The syllables rolled off the tongue with a matching cadence.

  Mr. Driscoll glanced her way, his cobalt blue eyes holding her gaze for the length of a single breath, and then dipped his chin in greeting.

  A smile burst onto her lips, and heat raged in her cheeks. He said ‘good morning’ to me. Her heartbeat raced. Well, almost. Knowing she shouldn’t stare, Clari waved the feather duster over the row of wooden bin covers with oats, flour, barley, and rye stored inside. As she cleaned, she darted side-long glances at the cowboy. The quiet man visited the store every couple of weeks and never said much. But something about his calm nature and solid presence arrested her attention and set her mind whirling with questions.

  “Howdy, Miss Rochester. How are you this great morning?” Jake Adley stomped across the floor, his boots steps echoing against the plank floor in the silent room. Thin and gangly, the cowboy always looked off balance. His denims weren’t long enough and his wrist bones stuck out from the cuffs of his shirts. As soon as he removed his hat, his reddish hair sprang away from his head at all angles.

  Fighting against the clown image that popped into her head, she dipped a slight curtsey and flashed him a friendly smile. “Morning to you, Mr. Adley. Is there a delivery you’re picking up, or do you have a shopping list from the Hawksens?” Clari had met the owners of the Shady Oaks Ranch several times, and she envied the couple for their obvious love for one another. The story of how they’d met two years earlier and the appearance of mysterious lights at Halloween time sounded like the plot of a great novel. The couple also had two cute sons and the most darling baby girl she’d ever seen.

  “Both of them choices.” Grinning wide enough to show the gap of a missing tooth, he unbuttoned his heavy coat and dug into a shirt pocket. “Here’s the list of what the boss lady needs, and a couple of crates should have been delivered.”

  Clari stepped close, accepted the paper, and scanned it. The requested items were standard ones and filling this order shouldn’t take long. When she moved behind the counter to gather the supplies, she heard slow steps cross the floor in the direction of the book shelf.

  Aunt Alda stuck her head through the curtain that separated the store proper from the storeroom. She glanced at the customers. “Hello, gentlemen.” Then she pointed toward the list in her niece’s hand. “Do you need help, Clari?”

  The men chorused, “Ma’am.”

  “No, I can handle this.” She held up the scrap of paper. “But Mr. Adley mentioned crates being delivered. Is Uncle Fritz available to handle that?” She hoped to get Mr. Driscoll alone for just a few moments and enjoy a private conversation.

  “I’ll get him.” The curtain rippled as she moved away.

  Clari lifted a small wooden crate from under the counter and started pulling items from the shelves. All the while, she glanced across the room toward the broad-shouldered man perusing one of the thick books. Enjoyment of reading was high on the list of characteristics she hoped for in a potential husband. Ha, what in the world was she thinking? She’d never had more than a four-or five-sentence exchange with the reticent man.

  The door opened again, chiming the bell.

  Clari glanced in that direction before giving her practiced response. “Morning, sir. I’ll be right with you.” Then recognition hit, and she jerked her head back for a second, longer look. Well, the owner of the Golden Door Saloon is up and about early today.

  In stepped Colin O’Shea, dressed in a gray suit complete with vest that was more appropriate for strolling the streets of a big eastern city than the dusty one in this small town. Sweeping off his stylish derby hat, he approached the counter. Pomade slicked back his red hair, darkening it to a chestnut color, and gold glinted in his shirt cuffs. “Morning, Miss Rochester. You look quite fetching in that pink blouse.”

  Vanity reared its ugly head, and she blushed. She’d been on the receiving end of more compliments in the seven months she’d been in Texas than during the past seven years in Wisconsin. Aunt Alda claimed the attention was due to the great imbalance between the number of men and women in the West. For her own self-esteem, Clari wanted to believe at least a few men really meant what they said. “Thank you, Mr. O’Shea.” Checking the list one more time to be sure she’d packed all the items, she rested a hand on the crate and looked up. “How may I assist you today?”

  After a glance over his shoulder toward the corner of the store, he leaned over the counter. “Well, I was hoping you’d agree to allow me to escort you to church services on Sunday morning.”

  “Oh.” Aunt Alda had warned Clari about not having anything to do with this man. To her aunt, a person whose business profited from encouraging men to drink themselves stupid was not a man of honor. But Clari so yearned for an event considered a bit out of the ordinary that she was tempted to accept. Although doing so within earshot of the man she truly wished had asked her just didn’t seem right…or smart. Didn’t she deserve an hour of special attention. Besides, one day she might want to set a story in a saloon. Before she could give an answer, she heard a raspy throat clearing and snapped her gaze to the side.

  Mr. Driscoll leaned a shoulder against the shelves and held a book open in his hands, appearing to be reading at his leisure. But the tautness of his jaw and the stiffness of his stance portrayed caution.

  Really? She stiffened and swung her head around. He thinks to warn me? She took a deep breath, looked at the man across the counter who stood only an inch or so taller than she, and plastered on a wide smile. “I don’t recall seeing you in the house of worship before.”

  Mr. O’Shea ran a pale hand down the front of his shiny buttoned vest, a move that displayed his expensive cufflinks to good advantage. “The nature of my business precludes me from being an early riser. I do make more of an effort near the special holidays such as Christmas and Easter. The training of my saintly mother must be well engrained.” An eyebrow waggled as he spoke.

  Saintly mother? Clari bit back a chuckle at his disingenuous attitude about religion and attending services. Maybe Aunt Alda was right. “Well, sir—” Quick footsteps approached from her right side.

  Aunt Alda stepped through the curtain and into the store, her gaze shooting wide. “Ah, Mr. O’Shea.” She hurried to reach Clari’s side, bumping her with a hip. “I believe Mr. Othmann has your beer barrels on the loading dock, ready to be collected.”

  The di
sapproving tone when her aunt said the words ‘beer barrels’ made Clari cringe inside. She refused to make eye contact, knowing the censure she’d see in her aunt’s gaze. Instead, she looked toward the book corner and started when she noticed Mr. Driscoll standing not four feet away. When did he move? Maybe they would get a chance to talk for a moment.

  “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll head right out there.” Mr. O’Shea dipped his chin. “Miss Rochester, we’ll speak again.”

  “Yes, sir.” She released a relieved breath. Luckily, he hadn’t repeated his invitation. That would certainly have gained her another lecture from her aunt on proper lady-like behavior.

  “Come right along with me, Mr. O’Shea. I’ll take you the short way.” Aunt Alda gestured toward the space behind the counter and stepped toward the curtain. “No need to spend any more time outdoors than needed.”

  “I appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Othmann.” He rounded the end of the counter and approach where Clari stood. Pausing right behind her, he whispered, “I’ll be expecting an affirmative answer.” Then he swept past. “Overheard a customer last night complaining about his aching bunions. Said that condition always predicted a coming storm.” The volume of his voice increased the closer he got to the storeroom.

  Air filled with bay rum and cigar smoke settled around her, and she coughed. That’s odd.

  “Miss?”

  The deep tone sent a shiver down her back. “Oh, yes, Mr. Driscoll.” She gazed into eyes that matched the striking blue of a Texas summer sky, and her stomach tumbled. Even in December, the skin of his face was a tan color that meant he spent plenty of time outdoors. Probably on that big black horse he always rode into town. She wondered if—

  “The order.” He swept a gloved hand toward the crate on the counter. “Is it ready?”

  “Oh.” Caught daydreaming again, she straightened and gave a sharp nod. “Yes, it is. I’ll just add the total onto the ranch’s account.”