Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Judy Ann Davis
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Under
Starry Skies
by
Judy Ann Davis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Under Starry Skies
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Judy Ann Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-364-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-365-0
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Judy Ann Davis
“Storyteller Judy Ann Davis weaves her award-winning tales to make her readers laugh, maybe cry, but always able to relate to the unique characters and the dilemmas they encounter.”
~Long and Short Reviews
~*~
“With her fast-paced, but easy reading style, Judy Ann Davis, takes you back to the Old West in the Colorado Territory. The novel [UNDER STARRY SKIES] has action and adventure—with a generous touch of humor. The author provides enough twists and turns to provide a captivating mystery, western, and romance. And you’ll have no trouble finding colorful characters to carry the tale forward, including a wily renegade Indian called Two Bears.”
~J.F. Burten, freelance writer & editor
Dedication
In memory of my father, Frank Lashinski,
who was a gentle, peaceful farmer
in love with the land and all its creatures.
Chapter One
Colorado Territory
1875
Abigail O’Donnell stood at the station of Canon City Landing and watched the group of men hoist the two cherry coffins from the freight wagon to a smaller dray. She silently prayed no one would suspect there was anything but bodies inside. Especially now when she was only forty miles away by water from Pueblo and five more days by wagon from Golden, her final destination.
Several feet beyond, Amos, her old traveling companion, glanced nervously at her before singing out some words of caution to the laboring men. The late summer sun reflecting off his ebony face made his skin shine like polished marble. Nearby, the dray stood ready to shuttle the coffins just a short distance down the spongy riverbank to a waiting flatboat rocking gently on the glassy waters of the Arkansas River.
“Easy men, easy. Let’s not jolt the souls out of Joshua and Adam before they greet their Almighty Maker,” Amos’s deep baritone voice rumbled above the passengers milling about the front of the station. “Step aside, folks, step aside. Let’s show the dead some respect as they make their journey to their final resting place.”
The sea of faces parted as soon as the first coffin was lifted from the wagon bed.
A surly farmer groaned under its weight. “Good thing the Lord takes only their souls. He’d have a tough time getting these two into heaven!” He hoisted the edge of the coffin onto the dray and sucked in a cleansing breath. “Maybe we ought to take them one at a time. We’ll bury this rig up to its axles. Why, they must weigh well over two hundred fifty pounds each!”
“Closer to three, I’d say,” a second man complained, stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. From the canvas trousers and stout boots he wore, Abigail suspected he was a farmer as well, or maybe a lumberman.
“Sure ’nough, these were big men,” Amos agreed. “Big bodies, big hearts, even bigger souls, praise the Lord! And once gallant Union soldiers, too.”
Minutes later, when the coffins were safely loaded onto the boat, Abigail breathed a sigh of relief and searched the area for her younger sister. It wasn’t difficult to pick out Maria’s dark midnight hair from among the ragtag-looking group of people who were there to collect supplies and mail from the freighters arriving from Salt Lake City to the west and from St. Louis to the east.
Even those dressed in Sunday best were a pitiful lot, wearing clothes well-worn and outdated. The War had taken its toll on everyone, both North and South. Although it was over, goods, tools, and supplies were still in short supply in the Colorado Territory with all the miners pouring into the area in search of silver and gold.
Behind her, she heard Amos come lumbering up, huffing like a steam engine. He stopped beside her and tried to catch his breath.
“Miss Abby,” he said, battered hat in his gnarled hand. “I think I’ll mosey around a bit, maybe find someone who might help us for a few coins. We can’t take those coffins downriver alone.”
Abigail nodded, watching Maria as she wandered down the grassy riverbank below the station toward the crude flatboat. They had been lucky to rent it for only three dollars when they arrived at the landing. It belonged to a merchant upstream who had been planning to dismantle it and sell the wood for scrap in Canon City.
Abigail’s stomach rumbled in an unladylike fashion. Yesterday morning, they had spent the last of their allotted coins for food—two loaves of stale bread from a German family heading south. They agreed to save the rest of their pittance to try to hire a river man.
For a brief moment, Abigail stared at the rolling river where the flatboat, now loaded with the caskets, bobbed like a square cork on a sea of cobalt blue. Memories of her father’s recent burial, just four months ago, came flooding back. His casket had been similar, if not a trifle more ornate. His sudden death from a weak heart had come as a shock to all of them. His list of debtors had been a jarring blow as well. Even though he had once been a prosperous merchant, he had left Maria and her very little, having generously given credit to the poor who couldn’t pay and to those who didn’t intend to ever pay. Their traveling trunks held more books than clothes or household goods.
When the old black man started to walk away, Abigail called after him, “Amos, wait!”
He turned. “Yes, Miss Abby?”
“Please don’t beg,” she said in a quiet voice. She hated the thought of being poor, but she dreaded even more the thoughts of having to beseech others for their welfare. She waited until Amos rounded the corner of the station before she climbed the steps to the platform encircling the building like a giant hoop skirt and entered through the front door.
If it hadn’t been for Uncle Henry, h
er late mother’s eldest brother who operated an inn with a barroom in Golden, she didn’t know what they would have done. As soon as he heard of their father’s death, he had urged them to come live with him. Knowing the town needed a school teacher, he had made the proper arrangements to secure a position for her sister.
Uncle Henry had no children. An old bachelor at the age of fifty, he had married Emma Foster, some fifteen years younger, just as the War broke out. Abigail remembered her father saying Uncle Henry had captured the most beautiful widow in the territory. Emma’s family had relocated from Georgia to farm the rich, silt-covered lands along the South Platte River running through the Territory like a lazy blue ribbon. Emma’s first husband had been a miller who drowned before their second anniversary.
Inside the station, only a few people loitered, and Abigail quickly located the manager sorting the mail. Explaining both her plight and her need for frugality, she inquired about hiring help for their trip downriver.
“Sorry, miss,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “the regular operator is off getting his eldest daughter properly married, and I don’t know of anyone around here who’d be fool enough to take all that baggage, two coffins, and three people to Pueblo, let alone on to Golden—and on their good word alone with only the promise of payment. Times are tough.”
Abigail felt her cheeks burn in embarrassment. “But upon our arrival in Golden, I assure you, my uncle would pay whatever costs we might incur.” She turned away to quell her threatening tears while she surveyed the room around her. Crude, but solidly built of logs and mortar, it was weather-tight to protect the crates, boxes, and barrels which lined its perimeter, awaiting destinations further inland. Beside her, an open door led to the rear platform where two lone crates, like sentries, faced the river beyond. Abigail forced herself to take a steadying breath, determined not to betray her anxiety. They had already been traveling over three weeks since they left Utah, and she was not about to cave in to fear or despair. She turned back around, her gaze finding the station manager’s face again. “Surely there must be some goods or supplies in need of transportation to Pueblo, too.”
He rubbed his chin, lips pursed. “Most of these goods are headed for the settlements in the south, miss. Two freighters are due in the day after tomorrow to clean this place out.” He peered at the platform. “Outside, there are some crates, but I don’t think you’ll want to take them. Oh, and there’s a mailbag here waiting to go downriver to Pueblo. But all I’m obligated to pay is two dollars, mind you, for the entire bag. One dollar to be paid now, and one to be collected at the stage office when it’s delivered.”
“Two dollars?” Abigail’s heart leaped wildly. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. “You mean, if I can locate someone to navigate our boat to Pueblo, you’ll pay me a dollar to take the mail with us?”
“Why yes, miss, but only one. And one dollar when it’s delivered. No more. You’ll need to hire someone handy with river skills.”
She nodded and gestured to the side door where the two squat crates sat covered with a thick, oily canvas. “What are those?”
“I’ve orders to pay ten dollars apiece to anyone willing to take them, but I’m warning you, you don’t want them. Over a dozen men have declined the offer so far.”
Abigail stepped onto the platform and peeled back a portion of the canvas. Bold letters, painted in red, stared at her: DANGER! Handle with care. Nitroglycerin.
Lips pursed, she looked at them for a moment longer, then ducked inside, and spoke with more confidence than she felt. “I’ll take them.”
The station manager’s old eyes flickered in surprise. “That’s some pretty dangerous goods to be totin’.”
She smiled. “My father once said, ‘Those who never dare, never do.’” After all, what choice did she have? She dismissed the impulsive part of her brain warring with the more rational one. They needed money for food. They had to hire help. And once they arrived in Pueblo, they would need more money to rent a wagon to take them to Golden. There was no turning back now. Her aunt and uncle were waiting for them.
Beside her, a short, thick-waisted man in black trousers with wide suspenders was filling out a weigh slip. “I saw Tye Ashmore yonder, miss.” He tilted his head toward the river. “He comes to the landing every so often to deliver horses or gather supplies from the freighters, and he has been known to handle a few boats in his time, if you catch him in the right mood, that is. He has a ranch somewhere north of here with his brothers. Near Golden. Along Cherry Creek.”
Abigail quickly gathered the mailbag and the money the station master counted out. “Thank you, sir. How will I recognize Mr. Ashmore?”
“Tall. Dark haired. Ain’t much of a talker.” He paused. “He’s usually dressed in buckskins and walks with a limp while his leg is healing from tangling with a wild bronc. Last time I saw him, he was skipping stones on the river down below the station, just upstream from where your flatboat is tied.”
Abigail nodded to the stranger and turned to leave.
“Oh, and miss, I’d watch out for that speckled blue herding dog of his. The dark marking around its one eye makes him look like a pirate with four legs. I heard tell if he gets riled, he can get as cantankerous as his owner.”
“I will. Thank you again for the advice.” She smiled graciously, then gazed at the station manager. “Would you please secure the canvas on those crates? I’d prefer not to advertise the wares.”
“Ah-hh, I see.” The station manager nodded knowingly and winked. “Why, yes, of course. I’ll tie ’em down so secure even a field mouse won’t be able to crawl under.”
“I appreciate it.” Relieved, Abigail left the station and stopped for a minute to get a feel for the land. Outside, the day was warm and sunny. Not a cloud skidded across the bright blue sky towering over a sea of aspen marching up the river, their coats just beginning to turn a rich gold. In the marshes upstream, a duck complained. Somewhere along the riverbank, someone had started a campfire, and the smell of wood smoke mingled with the breeze. Several yards in front of her, a tall, lean man stood near the water’s edge, staring into its shadowy depths. He wore a simple cotton shirt beneath a buckskin jacket, too heavy for the unusually warm weather. A gun was strapped to his hip, and a rifle lay among his belongings on the bank. His hair, dark as fine onyx, sparkled under the sun’s rays, framing a pensive lean face. When he turned to walk farther up shore, Abigail noticed his faint limp. She stepped off the platform and hurried after him.
“Tye Ashmore?”
The man turned abruptly.
“I’ve heard you might be heading downriver.”
“Might be.” He eyed her warily. His eyes were dark, almost brooding. They were the kind of eyes that would never betray his deepest thoughts. His tall, muscular frame reminded Abigail of a sleek timber wolf, guarded and distant.
“Station manager tells me the regular flatboat operator is off today. We need to get to the dock at Pueblo and then to Golden. Perhaps you’d be willing to lend a hand?”
Abigail watched his gaze drop to the mailbag, and he muttered something indiscernible, maybe undesirable, under his breath. “No, miss, I’m sorry.”
“I’m willing to pay.”
He shook his head. “Not interested.”
Disappointed, she stared at him. This was not what she needed to hear. There was no way they could stay overnight at Canon City. Little more than a crossroads for those headed north or south on the Arkansas River, it had once been a stop for early travelers and Ute Indians who crisscrossed the lands and used the hot springs located nearby for medicinal purposes. The landing contained only a sparse outcropping of buildings. It wouldn’t be easy to find a place to stay or eat—with or without money. Wearily, she turned back toward the station.
“Wait!” he called after her. “No offense, but I’m just not fond of dead people. I’d be willing to take the mail off your hands.”
She swung around. “Oh, no! I’ve just agreed to deliver it saf
ely to Pueblo for two dollars. The cash can line my pockets just as easily as yours.” She took a breath and paused, searching for the right words to convince him to change his mind. “If it’s the coffins you’re afraid of, I assure you, my dear cousins are harmless. They did not die from any fever or contagious diseases. Adam and Joshua are as clean as a new bottle of Canadian whiskey. They were killed in an unfortunate wagon mishap, God rest their souls. And to think, after surviving the horrors of the War. The irony of it all!”
Tye walked to where she stood. “It’ll cost you some cash,” he drawled, a scowl cutting a valley of creases onto his suntanned forehead. “Five dollars for you and your companions, and five for the coffins and baggage. Ten, total.”
Abigail hesitated, frowning. It was a considerable amount to part with. Yet, there was no place for them to stay until tomorrow unless she could convince the tender at the stable to allow them to use the hayloft. “You cut a hard bargain, Mr. Ashmore,” she finally said. “My name’s Abigail O’Donnell.”
He ignored her. “Let’s see the cash, little lady.”
“Oh my, certainly.” With reserved anger, Abigail set the mailbag aside, tore open the strings on her reticule, and dropped one of the gold eagles the station manager had just given her into his outstretched, callused palm. She looked him squarely in the eyes as she spoke, “Now a deal is a deal. Please get the boat loaded and be careful with the two crates on the platform. My mother’s finest crystal and bone china are packed inside. Even the slightest jolt could shatter them, Mr. Ashmore.”
He snickered and removed his hat. A head of unruly dark hair tumbled out. He bowed, and waved his hand like a gentleman of royalty before replying, his voice full of mock sarcasm. “As you wish, my lady, but first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take my own belongings aboard.” He limped down the riverbank and gathered his saddlebags, rifle, and ring flask.
Amos came to stand beside her, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his baggy trousers fastened to his tall, stick-like figure with an oversized worn belt. “What’s in the crates, child? Tell me you didn’t get yourself mixed up in some devilish scheme already?”
Under Starry Skies Page 1