Wild Secret, Wild Longing: A Sweet Historical Western Romance Novella (The Front Range Series Book 3)

by Charlene Whitman

  “Madame,” Thomas, the butler, said, offering his arm to escort Emma’s mother inside. Emma nodded her thanks to the older gentleman who had been serving her family for as long as she could recall. Thomas led her mother into the drawing room, and Emma blew out a breath. She enjoyed these outings with her mother, and knew once she went away to college she would no doubt miss them, but her mother had been especially annoying today. On and on about her cousin’s lovely wedding they had just attended last week upstate. And what a beautiful wedding she would plan for Emma once she became engaged. It seemed all her mother talked about these days was her inevitable wedding. But they knew her plans to go to college. It was as if no one listened to her or cared what she wanted.

  As she willed herself to calm down, her personal maid, Helen, came hurrying the length of the hall and took Emma’s lace gloves from her as Emma peeled them from her sticky hands. The house was a mite cooler than the outdoors, but perspiration still dotted her brow, and her blouse and petticoats stuck to her skin. Her corset had seemed to swell from the heat, and she longed to unlace the stays and breathe freely again. She pushed back a stray strand of long ebony hair that had come unpinned, looking forward to washing up and changing into something cooler for dinner.

  “Helen, would you see to it that Mother gets some sweetened tea?” She saw no sign of Katherine, but assumed the maid was upstairs and hadn’t heard them arrive.

  As she handed her purse to Helen, she caught a glimpse of her brother standing just inside the door to her father’s study. The sight gave her pause, and she drew in a deep breath. “What is Walter doing here?” she asked in a quiet tone.

  Helen, who was not much older than Emma and easy to glean secrets from, pursed her lips in agitation. “Your father has been waiting for your return. He asked to send you directly into the study.”

  Emma’s throat clenched. What now? What could possibly be so important that he called for Walter to come over in the middle of a workday? And why was her father home? He should be at one of his textile mills, where he often stayed late into the evening. Something must be terribly wrong.

  Her first thought turned to Lynette, Walter’s petite and frail wife. Had something terrible happened? She dared wonder—another miscarriage? She hoped not. The poor woman already had had three in three years, much to the grief of Emma’s brother. But her failure to successfully bear a child seemed more tragic and upsetting to Emma’s father, who had no qualms about reminding poor Walter how important it was that the Bradshaw line continued. Her heart went out to Lynette, who wanted a child terribly, and who seemed to be getting more and more withdrawn year after year. And it was apparent the waiting was trying on Walter. His patience had been worn to a thin veneer, and Emma worried at some point it would crack.

  Emma could hardly imagine the disappointment and heartache of losing a child, albeit early in pregnancy. But three? Would Lynette ever successfully bear a child? If not, Emma hated to think how her father would react. And what that would mean for her, his only other child progeny of continuing the Bradshaw name. Although, once she married, she would no longer be a Bradshaw. But if her brother failed to provide any grandchildren, Emma knew she would be pressured more than ever to marry and have a family.

  She scowled at the thought. She was little more than a brood mare to her father—like the many horses he owned. Someone to whom he could pass along his wealth and investments and race horses and properties, labeled with the reputation and prestige of the name Bradshaw. She would not be allowed to marry whomever she wanted. Nor would she be allowed to marry for love. She gulped back tears as she walked slowly to the study, dreading every step. She had no doubt if Lynette failed to provide her father an heir to his estate that she herself would be forced into a marriage solely to his liking, and not hers.

  All the more reason to hurry off to college, where the long arm of his authority could not fully reach. Maybe while at college she would meet a man she could love with all her heart. A man she would choose—not one picked her father.

  As she entered the study, she saw not only her mother already seated on the settee, a sweating glass of sweet tea in her hand, but also Lynette, who appeared fine—albeit a bit pale— much to Emma’s relief. Lynette, dressed in a light-blue crinoline skirt and white button blouse, gave her a smile from the small sofa she sat upon, but a reserved smile, and Emma wondered about that. She nodded hello to her brother, who had a big grin on his face as he towered over his wife from behind the sofa, his chin jutting and his arms crossed.

  What could that possibly mean? Maybe Lynette was pregnant again? But if she was, they would not be sitting here in the middle of a Thursday, and her brother’s face would be more worried than joyful. No, there had to be another reason for this mysterious gathering.

  “Please sit, Emaline,” her father said, smoothing out his silk vest and gesturing to the velvet wingback chair next to the settee. His tone was firm but held a spark of excitement. Emma dreaded what was coming. Her father had the look of someone who had just made an important decision. And usually those decisions did not take anyone else’s opinion into consideration.

  Oh no . . . He couldn’t have . . .

  “As you know,” he began, his eyes lighting on each person in the room, “I’ve been in correspondence for a while now with my longtime friend Nathan Meeker—who used to work at the Tribune—ever since he started the colony in Greeley, Colorado . . .”

  Emma’s head suddenly spun. The room grew claustrophobic and hot, and she grasped the sides of the chair to steady herself, afraid she might faint.

  Her father gestured enthusiastically. “. . . For five years now they’ve been building a wonderful town, based on morality, high values, family, and church. Ever since the last presidential election, you know how upset I’ve been with the disturbing state of affairs. With Greeley’s loss in the election, and then his death, I’d lost all faith in the current administration. And these last few years of depression have shown that the economy is getting worse. All that overspeculation in the railroads, the closing of the stock exchange for ten days, the whining and lying and corruption everywhere, particularly in Grant’s cabinet—”

  “Darling,” Emma’s mother said, patting her husband’s hand a little frantically, “we all know how you feel about President Grant. And the economy.”

  How many evenings at the dinner table had they all been subjected to her father’s rants about the loose and shameful morals of those running—and ruining—the country? More than Emma could count. But why was her father going on about this now, in the middle of a hot June day? She wished she had her fan so she could cool off her face, but she dared not move for fear of swooning.

  Walter spoke up. “What Father means is we are going to leave all this . . . chaos behind. A new life awaits us.”

  “What?” Emma blurted out before she could catch herself. She stole a quick glance at her mother, and then Lynette. They did not seem surprised at all by Walter’s words. Which meant . . .

  “I don’t understand, Father. What are you talking about?”

  Charles Edwin Bradshaw gave his daughter a smile filled with confident assurance. “In two weeks we are moving to Greeley. You remember our good friends, the Turnbulls, who moved some years ago to Albany? Well, they’ve recently moved out there, and Ernest has been after me for two years now to join them.”

  “Colorado . . .” Emma barely whispered. Colorado Territory was all the way across the country, halfway around the world. Images of cutthroat Indians and mangy cowboys shooting rifles at poor homesteaders ran through her mind. Snakes, buffalo stampedes, dust storms, dirt. “But, Father, how . . . why . . . ? It’s the middle of nowhere.” Why in the world would her family want to move there? She would never go to a place as wild as that. Just the thought of living in a house without indoor plumbing, and having to venture the elements to wander out to an outhouse . . . She sucked in a deep breath. Thank God she had been accepted into Vassar and her classes were already secured.
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  “Turnbull’s company has finally brought the railroad up to their colony. The town is a short train ride from Denver—a booming city with everything you could possibly need. He’s already had two houses built for us in town, and they are nearly finished—”

  Emma gasped in horror. “You’ve been planning this for months, then. And never told us?” She could hardly keep the ire and shock out of her voice. From the corner of her eye she saw Lynette drop her gaze, no doubt embarrassed for Emma over this outburst. Emma seethed in silence. How long had Lynette and Walter known? Emma rarely dared to speak up to her father, but she had to. They were abandoning her, or so it felt.

  Her father stroked her mother’s head. Only then did she realize her mother, too, had not only known this secret but approved. She asked her mother pointedly, “How can you give all this up? Live in the Wild West like some outlaws?”

  Walter chuckled. Emma scowled at him. “What’s so funny?”

  He waved his hand in the air in an arrogant manner that so reminded her of her father. He was slowly but surely becoming just like him, the way he would disdain those who had the misfortune of a lower station in life, as if it were somehow their fault. Sometimes she felt sorry for Lynette having him as a husband. It couldn’t be easy. But Lynette had come from a family that had lost much of its wealth in bad investments. Her status had been greatly improved by marrying into the Bradshaw family. She didn’t doubt her brother loved Lynette, but Emma did not miss how he often treated her in a cool and condescending manner, much like Father treated Mother.

  Walter got up and stood in front of Emma, shaking his head as if she were a silly child. “Greeley is a forward-thinking community. Founded by men of great education and skill. In the last few years they’ve built flour mills, tanning factories, and opera houses. The original group of six hundred all come from wealthy families from New York and other East Coast cities. Hardly a bunch of country bumpkins. They heeded Greeley’s cry to go west and restore this country to right morals and ideals.”

  He sounds just like Father too. Emma sighed, knowing it was foolish to try to dissuade her family. Clearly they had made up their mind to leave. But why hadn’t they discussed this with her before now?

  “Emma, dear,” her mother added, “a wonderful land of promise awaits us. A place where we can live in the fresh air surrounded by beautiful mountains. A town with culture, values, integrity. No more humid, crowded city to endure.” She looked over at Lynette. “And the doctor says the climate change will be good for Lynette’s health.”

  Emma nodded. So she would be in better health to bear a child. She could see now why her brother had jumped on the bandwagon like some political supporter. But didn’t they even consider all the dangers? Did they really think they could transport this comfortable, wealthy lifestyle to the frontier?

  “Well, I suppose if you’ve made up your mind to go, I can hardly stop you,” Emma said, conceding. It would be much more inconvenient for them all to visit each other, but in a way, the idea began to appeal to her. Perhaps with them so far from New York, she could truly live the life she dreamed of without hindrance. She would dutifully write them, and assure them in the way they’d expect, but she would be free.

  A lengthy silence fell. She looked up from her musings, only to find puzzled, stern expressions. “What is it?” she asked, a terrible feeling creeping into her stomach. Once more the heat constricted her breathing, and her corset felt about to burst. She fidgeted on her chair.

  Her mother smiled sweetly and laid her hand on Emma’s wrist—not all that lightly. Emma sensed tension and chastisement in her touch.

  “We know it’s not what you had planned, dear, but we feel it’s for the best . . .”

  Emma’s hands clenched, and she shut tight her mouth. No . . .

  “What your mother is saying,” her father interjected, “is we are all going. As a family, together.”

  Her father’s words sounded as if coming from underwater, but they made their way into her heart, piercing her like tiny darts as she drew in short, shallow breaths. No one noticed her distress.

  “But . . . I’m going to Vassar. I’m already enrolled—”

  Her father smiled, but it held no warmth. Emma knew by his look he would not brook any argument from her. The realization of what he had done descended upon her like a storm cloud, and tears fell like rain upon her cheeks.

  “I’ve taken care of all that. The school knows you will not be attending this fall.”

  An uncomfortable silence flooded the small room, stifling Emma more than the heat. “Please, Father . . .” she managed to eke out.

  “There will be no further discussion.” Then her father clapped loudly, a boom of thunder to add to her storm, startling Emma, who had her eyes pinned on the gold brocade drapes drawn to keep out the noise and heat of the city. “We have two weeks to pack. I am having trunks and crates delivered tomorrow, so we can begin going through our things and instruct the servants what to pack. Our furniture will be shipped, as will your horse, Emma. Once we get settled in, you should feel right at home. So no need to fret.”

  With that last brusque announcement, her father strode to the study door. “I must get back to the office. I’ll be home late.” Emma lifted her face and met her father’s stern gaze. He forced a smile, but his eyes warned her against any more objections. She knew nothing she could say would change his mind. Without a word or gesture of support, the rest of her family quietly vacated the room, leaving her alone in her misery.

  Her dreams were now dashed, she realized as she wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse. Maybe Colorado was a land of promise to Father and the rest of her family, but it felt like a death sentence to her.

  Chapter 2

  Emma looked up from where she was sitting on a cushion and glanced out the window. From her second-story bedroom, she could see the servants and movers emptying out her house, one trunk, one piece of furniture, at a time. As four men hefted the heavy pieces onto flat platforms attached to draft horses, her mother looked on from the front stoop, calling out to them, although Emma couldn’t hear what she was saying. No doubt warning them to take great care with her precious china and collectibles. Her father was finishing up at his office, leaving Emma and her mother with the last bit of packing.

  A few neighbors strolled by eyeing the goings-on with curiosity. What had Father told them? Who would soon buy their lovely house? Who would soon be sleeping in her room? Emma had lived in this charming high-ceilinged brownstone her whole life, and although she had planned to leave for college, she’d assumed she’d always have a home to come back to. Now, she felt unmoored, like a ship floundering the waves, directionless.

  She wrenched her gaze from the window and returned to her packing. Helen had offered to help her finish, but she wanted to be alone. To sit in her room one last time and try to prepare herself for what lay ahead. If it were possible.

  What would she do without Helen each day? Mother had assured Emma a placement agency in Denver would provide them with suitable help, but Helen had become more of a friend than a lady’s maid over the last few years. It had brought tears to her eyes saying good-bye to the young woman who had provided not just a listening ear but kind compassion at the times Emma needed it. And she’d hardly been able to spend a few last hours with her closest female friends with whom she rode on Saturdays in Central Park.

  A lump lodged in her throat as she pictured the life she knew beginning to slip from her hands. She let out a trembling sigh, holding back the tears pushing to the corners of her eyes. At least she’d have Shahayla, her Arabian mare, to ride to counteract the loneliness she was bound to feel.

  Emma looked around her bedroom. The pretty blue-striped wallpaper appeared barren without the pictures and drawings hanging upon them. With the furniture already loaded onto the wagons, her room was now an empty, impersonal space that gave little indication anyone had occupied it in the last seventeen years. It hurt her heart to think of walking out
the door, never to return.

  As much as her father’s decision had blighted her dreams, she would find a way to turn this disaster into something worthwhile. She was determined to continue her studies of botany, and to hone her illustrative technique. She knew she had talent as an artist, but that wasn’t what mattered to her. She had a longing to understand plants—how they grew and reproduced. And no doubt there were going to be plants in Colorado that she could study and draw.

  She got up from the floor and went to her little glass atrium off her room and set the space to memory. She would miss this haven of solitude the most. After she had read a book on the Royal Botanical Gardens in Kew, England, two years ago, at her pleading her father had had this glass-paneled space added to her room, extended out over the back roof a few feet. Just like the Palm House at Kew, the addition was framed in wrought iron, with hand-blown glass panes to allow light to stream in. The small transom windows could be opened to regulate the temperature and bring in a cool breeze. Here she grew her orchids and violets and other flowers, but her most cherished plant was the crape myrtle she’d ordered from England, which originally came from Asia. She had planned to plant it in front of the brownstone before heading for college, as a way of leaving something of herself behind. But now . . .

  She knew myrtles could withstand some winter weather, but would it survive in the harsh Colorado elements? She had cut back on watering and fertilizing last fall, to increase its hardiness and help it survive the cold. It was only three feet tall, and it seemed silly to bring it along on the train, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it behind, not knowing if anyone would tend to it properly. Her mother chided her for her request but thankfully had given in.