Murphy: Cowboy Deceived: The Kavanagh Brothers Book 6

by Ball, Kathleen

  Murphy: Cowboy Deceived

  The Kavanagh Brothers Book 6

  Kathleen Ball

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen Ball

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

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  Book 7 Fitzpatrick: Cowboy Reluctant

  Cora’s Courage

  Tattered Hearts

  About the Author

  Other Books by Kathleen

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  Chapter One

  A ratcheting click-clacket-click sounded near Murphy’s head and he woke with a start. That was a gun. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he eased his gaze upward. Standing above him was an older man with long greasy hair and an unkept beard. His clothes were ragged, and he smelled as though he never bathed.

  “Mister I’m not looking for any trouble,” Murphy said as he slowly sat up. The heaviness of the gun in his hand hidden under the blanket felt good. “I’m just traveling through. If you like, you can share my breakfast.”

  But the offer didn’t affect the old coot who kept his gun trained at Murphy’s chest. “You’re not here to steal land?” The man’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, sir. I have a legal matter, and then I’m heading back to my ranch in Texas. I have enough work to do with my spread. I sure don’t need any more land.”

  The man stared at him for more than a minute and then uncocked his gun. He put it back in his holster. “Name is Crier, Jim Crier. Everyone just calls me Crier.”

  Murphy stood and strapped on his holster. He put out his hand. “I’m Murphy Kavanagh.” They shook hands, and Murphy suppressed his cringe, hoping none of the vermin on Crier jumped onto him. Murphy stepped back and quickly revived the waning fire. It didn’t take him long to make coffee and heat a can of beans. “Help yourself.”

  Crier dug in. Since there was only one fork and one cup Murphy waited. Crier scooped the meal right out of the skillet, slurping and swallowing with an occasional grunt, not stopping until three-quarters of the beans were gone. Licking his lips, he held out the skillet to Murphy.

  “Go ahead and eat the rest,” Murphy said, shaking his head. “I need to pack up.” He really wanted to scrub everything Crier touched. He could make more coffee later.

  Shrugging,the older man went back to shoveling the food into his mouth, and from the look of it, Murphy wouldn’t have a long wait to get his utensils back.

  “This is the Hills Plantation area, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

  “What’s left of it. The area didn’t survive the war much and people mostly left.” Crier scraped the last beans up and handed the skillet to Murphy. “Thanks for the grub. I’m hoping the missus is done cooking my food. Take care now.”

  Murphy released a sigh and then chuckled after Crier was out of earshot. He’d been sure the old man was there to rob him. He set the skillet aside, planning to rinse it out before he stowed it. Then Murphy had one stop to make before he headed to town. The entire time he had traveled from Texas to Arkansas, all he could think about was her. He’d privately mourned her these last years. She still had his heart, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He supposed he would soon find out if there was anything that could be done about it.

  He’d been getting hints about getting married from his nine brothers and their housekeeper, Dolly. For the most part, he ignored their pointed comments, but he’d have to tell them the truth soon before they sent off for a bride. They didn’t know about his marriage, didn’t know that his heart was still taken. He’d never love another the way he’d loved Brooke.

  As soon as he had cleaned up, he lifted himself onto the saddle. “One more stop, Nugget,” he told his palomino. He took a few moments and got his bearings, then rode north. Before he knew it, he was in more familiar territory. As he approached the area behind what was once Brooke’s family home, he jumped down and walked.

  The willow tree still stood and was just as majestic, its yellow branches trailing down, seeming to weep over the land below it. A smile tugged at his lips. He’d had a few memorable picnics under that tree with Brooke.

  He tried to harden his heart against the memories, but it was too late. The pain of losing her was as fresh as when he had first been given the awful news. He stood in front of a big light-colored rock. It was the only marker of her grave.

  He had ridden in, beat and beleaguered, the war finally over, and he wanted only to see his wife. Thoughts of her, of holding her in his arms had given him the energy to return home. But his father-in-law had met him at the property’s edge and taken him to the rock.

  “Brooke is here,” the old man had said bitterly, showing she had been buried under that cold piece of granite.

  “What? No!” Anguish, hot and heavy, had rolled over him. “What happened?”

  But her father had only shaken his head, unable or perhaps unwilling to give an answer. “There’s nothing here for you now,” the old man had grunted out. “Best you be on your way.”

  “Let me carve her a proper marker,” Murphy’d begged, tears rolling down his face.

  “No need,” her father had answered with grim resolution. “Those who love her know where she is.”

  “Let me stay, help you rebuild the farm,” Murphy had suggested, desperate to stay close to Brooke, to the place where he had felt her love and warmth.

  Her father was a stubborn old coot, though, and he had jutted out his chin in defiance. “Best you just go back where you came from,” he’d said, and then he’d turned his back and shuffled away, shoulders stooped.

  There had been no other choice. Heartbroken, somehow Murphy and Nugget had made it home. He just had never been able to bring himself to tell anyone he’d been married; the pain of talking about it was too much. His family thought his bouts of sadness and anger were remnants of the war. And God help him, he had let them hold to that belief.

  Glancing at the house now, he cringed. It wasn’t standing quite square anymore. It looked to be leaning on one side. There wasn’t a crop in the field, just dried soil that was mostly overgrown with grass and weeds. A garden struggled for survival to the rear of the house, though, and it looked like someone had tried to keep it tended. There were a few animals wandering about, so someone must have been feeding them or they would have left. A kind neighbor, perhaps… or squatters. Hopefully, selling the land and animals would be easy. First, though, he needed to talk to the lawyer.

  Murphy turned Nugget and headed for town. It was a small town, and he didn’t even know its name, though he vividly remembered the battle of Hills Plantation…

  They had all been so young and full of themselves, he and his men, especially the first day when they had driven the Union Army a quarter mile back. They’d felt invincible, but that feeling hadn’t lasted very long. The Yankees had come after them and whooped them good. But j
ust driving the Confederate Army back wasn’t good enough. They had started hunting down rebel soldiers.

  So many of his company had been slaughtered. With a lead ball in his shoulder, Murphy had hidden and, at his first chance, had hightailed it out of there. It was a miracle he’d slipped past. He hadn’t stopped at the closest farm, figuring it was too great a risk that he’d get caught. It had taken him four pain-filled days to get to the Malery Farm.

  He’d been so thirsty, but too afraid to go to the Cache River. Shots seemed to come from that direction rather frequently. When he spotted a house, he stayed hidden in the woods until nightfall. Under cover of the darkness, he drew water from the well and then sheltered in the barn. It’d been all too common for soldiers to hide in the hay, so it was often the first place searched. He couldn’t risk that. No, he needed something clever. He studied the barn and, despite the pain in his shoulder, spent all night digging. He was right proud of his hiding spot.

  He’d dug under the water trough, a hole big enough and long enough for him to crawl into, where he would be unseen. The only bad part was the pile of manure mixed with hay he used to cover himself. But he had to do what he had to do. Settling in, he got some rest, and occasionally left the safety of his hole to watch the people in the house.

  His breaths came sharp and fast, and his heartbeat quickened as Nugget tossed his head, returning him to the present as he rode into the tiny town. The war was past, he reminded himself. He didn’t have to hide any longer, and he sure didn’t want to remember. It was better to put his past behind him.

  Murphy reined Nugget in at the lawyer’s office and swung out of the saddle. The building was hardly more than a large shed made of wood. To anyone else, its appearance would probably not intimidate. He took a deep breath. It was going to be an interminable day.

  The door creaked as he opened it and stepped across the threshold. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he belatedly remembered to take off his hat. An older woman in a worn but clean dress glanced up from her desk just inside the door but said nothing. A man about his own age sat behind a scarred and battered desk inside a small room off the main one. He rose and approached Murphy, holding out his hand.

  “I’m Tom Faber,” said the man as he and Murphy exchanged a handshake. “Are you Murphy Kavanagh?”

  Murphy studied the man, trying to decide if he looked familiar, as he gave a brief nod.

  “I’m glad you could make it. You have plenty of decisions to make.” He gestured to the small side room. “Come into my office; we can have a bit of privacy.”

  Plenty of decisions? What was that supposed to mean? Murphy hoped to start his return trip that afternoon.

  “Everything is pretty straight forward,” Faber continued, indicating Murphy should take one of the seats in front of his desk. “We’re just waiting on one other person.”

  The outside door opened and closed. The footsteps on the wooden plank floor sounded light, like a woman’s. Murphy turned in his chair to see who it was. His breath left his lungs in a whoosh and the blood ran out of his face. He shook his head, thinking he might be hallucinating. A lump formed in his throat as his heart felt as though it was being squeezed in an ever-tightening vise.

  “Hello, Murphy,” said the newcomer in a brisk tone. “Tom, let’s get to it.”

  Murphy stared at the redheaded woman, stunned and speechless. She hadn’t changed a bit. But how could this be happening? Finally he recovered his breath enough to speak. “But… you’re dead. I was even shown where you were buried.”

  One eyebrow quirked upward. “And yet here I am… where I’ve always been, Murphy. While I waited for a husband who never came home. Tom?” She took a seat on the chair next to Murphy. Her fresh scent washed over him as she passed, and he inhaled deeply, still struggling with his shock.

  “I had to check a few things out since Mr. Kavanagh deserted you. I was hoping things would go your way, Brooke. Unfortunately, since he is your husband, the land belongs to him.” Tom looked at Brooke as though he pitied her.

  Brooke closed her eyes as she nodded. “I had a feeling this was how it would play out. I’ve got a job lined up.”

  “Doing what?” Tom asked.

  “Laundry. It’ll do until I can move on to something else. I doubt living in a tent in the winter will work. Maybe if I could get a divorce, I could find a husband who doesn’t run from responsibility. I need someone I can count on. Someone who won’t deceive me to get what he wants.” Tears glistened in her eyes as she stood. “Thank you, Tom.” She turned and stared at Murphy. “I’ll pack up and be off the property by tomorrow.” She put her hand over her heart for a moment, then squared her shoulders and walked out.

  Murphy stared after her as a sense of coldness swept through him. She’s alive. The words kept echoing through his mind. How? What happened? Her statement began registering. She thought he’d never come back for her?

  His chair toppled as he leaped to his feet, but he left it lying on its side as he ran from the office and vaulted into his saddle. “We need to catch up with her, Nugget.”

  She was already out of sight, but he knew where she was going.

  Chapter Two

  Brooke’s hands trembled as she tried to hold the reins. She veered off her path and took the road to the Cache River. She reined in and slipped down off the saddle. Her heart pounded madly against her ribs. What just happened? Why did Murphy come back? From what she’d been told, he was a rich rancher. Why would he want her failing farm? When she had ridden into town, she’d expected Tom Faber to have a telegram stating that Murphy wanted nothing to do with the land. She’d counted on it.

  When he had abandoned her after the war, she’d never thought to see him again. She’d held out hope for months that he would change his mind and come back for her, but he never had. What he had done had turned her bitter toward all men. Not that it mattered. In the eyes of the law, she already had a husband and wasn’t allowed to find a new one. Without a mate, she’d been torturously lonely. She had spent night after night wondering what had been lacking in her that had made him run off and leave her behind.

  And now Murphy was back.

  What had he been doing for the past eight years? Had he pretended he wasn’t already married and married another?

  She couldn’t imagine him living without a woman. It didn’t seem in his nature to be alone. Oh, how she’d been taken to task by her father for marrying Murphy. He’d warned her that men like Murphy Kavanagh were no good, and when her husband had abandoned her after the war, her father hadn’t let her forget her poor choice in a man. It had been difficult to hold her head up all these years. She’d loved Murphy more than life. She’d poured every ounce of love in her heart into him. She had known he could die in the war, and she’d prayed and prayed every day for him, yearning for the day he would finally come home and sweep her into his arms. She had been convinced once he did everything would right itself, her father would see how good a man Murphy was.

  But he hadn’t come for her.

  Brooke walked along the river, her eyes full of tears and her heart full of anger. She’d waited and waited for him to come home. When he never arrived, she had mourned him as dead. It wasn’t until she told her father she would need to find another husband, someone who could help with the farm, that he finally admitted to her that Murphy was alive. His disclosure had left her reeling. The hurt had been an immense blow, both physically and emotionally.

  “I told you he was a no-account,” her father had admonished. “Now you need to buck up and realize you’ve been played the fool. That man got what he wanted from you and left. He probably never looked back.”

  That experience had changed her. She’d always been happy, quick to laugh, eager to be around friends. But not anymore. She had gone into isolation and kept to herself. All that had mattered was her family and the farm. She had nothing to offer anyone else.

  One by one, her friends got the message and the men who’d been waiting to hea
r she was a widow let her be. At least when she was home, she didn’t have to pretend everything was just fine. No one said a word when she sometimes cried herself to sleep. She was strong and did as much as she could to work the farm. She always tried to do her best, but somehow, she knew her best would never be good enough. She’d hoped to keep going, just like she always did.

  It hadn’t turned out that way.

  She impatiently brushed away her tears and kicked a stone out of her path. Maybe if she’d been prettier, or better educated, he’d have come back. She’d been a fool and had taken his every look and touch to heart. Why hadn’t she known better?

  Her father had kept telling her to forget the man who had left her behind. But how could she even for a single day? Her son MJ was his very image. A handsome boy, to be sure. MJ was the only reason she still knew how to love. Otherwise she’d have withered.

  As soon as she heard the bushes rustling, she knew he was approaching, and she turned back to the river. Even as she had stormed out of Tom’s office, she had known Murphy would follow her there. How long and often had she thought about this moment? So many times… at first how wonderful it would be to tumble into his embrace, but then as the months turned into years and bitterness had filled her heart, she had pictured a very different encounter, one that involved the choice words she’d have for him.

  But now… it was only hurt she felt, and shame that colored her every thought.

  “Brooke,” he whispered. “I was told you were dead.”