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

by Charlene Whitman

  Emma let her fingers brush the shiny smooth leaves of the tree as she looked at all the various potted plants and flowers lining the shelf against the back glass wall. She had told Helen to keep them or give them away. Or perhaps she could even sell them and make a few pennies. If only Helen could come to Colorado along with her; she would so cherish her companionship in a place where she knew no one. But her maid had family in New York. In fact, none of the servants, although offered continued employment and reassurance they would be well taken care of in their new residence in Greeley, were coming—except for Josephine, her mother’s longtime maid. Emma didn’t blame them. Who would want to give up the comforts and familiarity of New York for the wild frontier?

  Emma smirked. As much as her family believed they would be picking up their life of class and ease and transferring it all to Colorado Territory without any trouble, Emma doubted it would be such a smooth transition. She had heard and read plenty of stories of those who had moved out west as if taken by a fever—searching for a new life, hoping to strike it rich in the gold fields. So many hopes and dreams dashed when faced with the rigors and challenges of the frontier. And what about the Indians? She’d read of massacres and continual skirmishes with native tribes in Colorado. When she mentioned this to her father, he assured her the “hostiles” had all been removed to Oklahoma. They were no longer a threat. But Emma wondered if that was truly the case. And the thought of forcing people off their land to make way for others that wanted the land for themselves . . . well, that just didn’t sit well with her.

  Emma shook her head and gathered up the few last drawings lying about. She tucked them into her leather portfolio and collected the stack of journals and books she still needed to pack. She would not leave behind Bantha’s Handbook of the British Flora or Schleiden’s Principles of Scientific Botany. They would be a source of encouragement and comfort to her in her new home. A reminder of her dreams. Maybe, in a few years, she would find a way to attend college. Without her father to pay her tuition, though, she didn’t see how that would be possible. But she would not give up hope.

  As she placed her portfolio and books into the small trunk at her feet, her mother came into her room.

  “Oh my. It looks so empty.” She came over to Emma and stroked her cheek. Emma said nothing as her throat tightened. Her mother took in the bare walls. “I remember when I decorated this room to be your nursery. Do you remember the wallpaper with the little flowers and rabbits?”

  Emma nodded, smiling at the memory. They had replaced that paper many years ago. She recalled counting the rabbits that jumped over the hedges as she lay in bed, fighting sleep.

  Her mother gave her a sad smile. “Where have all the years gone? You’ve grown up. Now you’re a woman, old enough to marry and start your own family—”

  Emma had no patience this morning for one of her mother’s long dreamy visions of Emma’s inevitable marriage and subsequent childbearing. She closed the trunk’s lid and said, “Mother, how long did you know about these plans to move to Colorado Territory?”

  Her mother seemed taken aback. “Why, your father only informed me of his decision the night before he told you. He’d spoken of moving many times, of course. But really—I had no idea he’d made up his mind—”

  “But didn’t he care to ask you what you wanted? You seem so happy here in New York, with your social circles and friends and all the events and charities you support.”

  “Emma,” her mother said in a tone that made Emma feel as if she were a naïve child, “you need to understand a woman’s role in marriage, in society. Your father is the head of the family; it is a divine charge for him to be so. A woman must concede to her husband’s wishes.”

  “But aren’t husbands also to love their wives, and make concession for their needs and wants?” Emma knew her father loved her mother, but he rarely asked for her opinion on anything, and his hard-handedness often seemed more oppressive than loving. And her mother never dared cross him or disagree with his decisions, although Emma could tell by her mother’s frequent “illnesses” that she suffered from such restraint. Mother’s way of coping with unpleasantness was to develop a migraine or shortness of breath, often excusing herself to her room—probably to take a dose of laudanum.

  Her mother paced the room, a look of discomfort flushing her cheeks. “This is not the time for such a lengthy discussion. The carriage is out front to take us to the train depot. Your brother and Lynette will be meeting us there at eleven.” She twisted the pair of gloves she held in her hand and stopped to look at Emma.

  “In time, when you’re married, you’ll understand. How it’s a woman’s place to support her husband. That the greatest fulfillment a woman can have is found in being submissive and obedient to his leading. Women are meant to be wives and mothers, not to take a man’s place in the working world. Expressing such strong opinions . . . isn’t proper.”

  Emma could think of nothing to say in reply. She’d read of the suffrage movements gaining momentum. Of women taking on positions of authority only men once held. Even at Vassar there were women who were members of scientific societies. How could her mother forget Victoria Woodhull’s run for presidency in 1872? Times were surely changing for women, and her mother just didn’t want to see it. Nor did her father, Emma thought bitterly.

  When Emma failed to say anything in reply, her mother curtly nodded and left the room with an admonishment to hurry up and finish packing.

  Emma listened to her mother’s shoes clicking on the oak stairs as she headed downstairs. The sound echoed solemnly through the empty house, mirroring the emptiness she now felt in her heart. She turned and picked up the small pot that held the crape myrtle. The poor plant was nearly bursting from its container, yearning to grow into a tall and magnificent tree full of beautiful crimson blooms. She knew exactly how the tree felt.

  She hugged the pot close and made a promise—more to herself than to the sapling. I will find a place for you in Colorado, where you can stretch out your roots and flourish under a wide-open sky.

  She walked to the threshold of her room, and after a final glance back, set her face to her uncertain future and made her way to the carriage waiting to take her to her new life.

  Lucas Rawlings felt someone staring at his back. He stopped walking the thoroughbred mare, turned and looked over at the paddock gate, and pushed back his wide-brimmed beaver felt hat. Two bright-eyed faces stared back at him. Lucas smiled and resumed walking the horse in a slow circle.

  “Whatcha doing, Doc Rawlings?” one of the twins asked. Lucas studied the ten-year-old’s face. He knew most folks couldn’t tell the boys apart, but he could. Thomas always had a more mischievous look on his face, and Lucas figured he was the instigator of most of their misbehavior. But he knew these boys had good hearts. Lucas chuckled. They just had an abundance of energy. Good thing their parents let them run a little wild, although Lucas could tell many of Ed Edwards’s neighbors did not approve. Those who lived here in Greeley tended to be very set on proper manners, and particularly in having well-behaved children.

  “This horse has colic,” he told the boy. “And you don’t really have to call me ‘Doc.’ I’m a veterinary physician, Thomas.” He knew those “big” words would make the boys frown in puzzlement.

  Thomas shook his head adamantly. “My name’s Tex. Not Thomas.”

  Lucas snickered but tried to keep a straight face. “Oh, right. My mistake . . . Tex. And how are you doing today, Bandit?” Lucas wondered if Henry had come up with that name for himself or if his more aggressive brother had thought of that one. The two boys, although identical in looks, were anything but when it came to their personalities. Henry was soft-spoken and shy, and Lucas could tell he deferred to Thomas in all matters. But he too had an eagerness to learn, and Lucas made a point to teach these boys as much as he could about what they loved the most—horses.

  “What’s colic?” Henry asked.

  Lucas looked over the mare, pleased wit
h how she was now faring, after he’d administered the medicine and been walking her for the better part of an hour. “It’s an intestinal problem. Oftentimes it’s just a stomachache, but it can be deadly, so you want to take care not to let your horse get sick like this.”

  “That’s the Wilkersons’ horse, ain’t it?” Thomas asked. “How’d it get sick?”

  Lucas looked back at the boys. “You recall how I told you about horses having sensitive stomachs?” The boys nodded. “Now, a horse that gets hot and thirsty will want to take a long drink, but if it drinks a lot of cold water, it can get colicky. Or even if it spends too much time in cold water, like wading across a deep stream. “ He noticed the boys listening with their usual rapt attention, and a familiar pang of sadness rose up in his heart. Push that thought away, Lucas Rawlings. It will do nothing but give you heartache.

  He cleared his throat, swallowing past the lump lodged there, and put on a serious face. “Now, some folks here, coming from the East, aren’t aware how cold our Colorado rivers are. The water coming down Cache la Poudre is snowmelt—”

  “And that’s really cold,” Thomas added with a twinkle in his eye showing he was pleased with his remark.

  Lucas nodded, then brought the gleaming black horse over to the boys. They eagerly reached their hands over the top railing of the gate and stroked her head and muzzle. “So,” he continued, “after a long ride across the prairie on a hot day such as today, a rider might let the horse take a long drink before bringing her back to the stables. But too much of that cold water too fast—”

  “Will make the horse real sick,” Thomas finished in his high-pitched voice.

  “Right,” Lucas answered. He ran his hands along the mare’s flank and belly, then patted her on the rump. “I think she’ll be fine now.” He unbuckled the halter and let the horse loose, then came toward the gate. The boys jumped down and swung it open for him, and he came out into the long corridor inside the livery stable. Lucas ruffled Henry’s hair, and the boy laughed and pulled back with a sour expression. He figured the boys thought they were getting too old for such affection.

  He looked out the open stable doors to the beautiful warm summer day. Sarah’s ranch dog, Hoesta, was waiting patiently for him, sitting on his haunches with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. The half-wolf loved to run, and just about every time Lucas headed to town, the dog loped along at the horse’s hooves. “You boys out of school already?”

  “Yep,” Thomas said. “For the whole summer.” Henry gave an enthusiastic nod in agreement.

  All the more opportunity to get into more trouble, Lucas mused with a smile. He closed the latches on his medical bag and straightened up. “So, how are those ponies doing? You taking good care of them?” He gave both boys a stern look.

  “Yes sir,” they chimed in unison.

  “Good.” He took a last look at the mare, marveling at her beautiful conformation and gentle nature. She’d been shipped out here in the spring from Massachusetts—Hugh Wilkerson had bought her on the recommendation of one of his neighbors who owned a horse farm. He’d made a good purchase. She surely was a magnificent creature. Much like the horses he had been around in his childhood in Kentucky. Although he loved all horses, he had a special fondness for thoroughbreds, since he’d grown up with them, and most of his veterinary training was on the race horse farms near Lexington. That life feels like a hundred years ago.

  “Well, boys, I need to be off. Things to tend to at the ranch.” He tipped his hat and started walking toward the graveled path that led to the street.

  Thomas tugged on Lucas’s sleeve. “But when are you going to take us out to see the buffalo? You promised.”

  Lucas shook his head. “Now, Thomas—”

  “Tex!”

  “Now, Tex, I can’t control when or where the buffalo roam. But if I catch a whiff of them anywhere around Greeley, I will come get you. So long as your folks say it’s okay.”

  “They will! They will!” Thomas answered. “Hey, did you know that buffalo can jump six feet in the air? And they can run forty miles an hour!”

  “Nope, didn’t know that,” Lucas said, amused at Thomas’s beaming face. “All right. Now run along.”

  Lucas sighed and shook his head as the two boys ran out the stables and down the road. Ever since their father had taken them to Denver to see Bill Cody’s Wild West Show, they wouldn’t let up about wanting to see the buffalo. Well, it wouldn’t be too hard. The plains were overrun with the beasts. And they were the cause of a lot of the Indian wars, Lucas reminded himself, thinking how not that long ago the Indians and white settlers had seemed to live peaceably together—until the disputes arose over the buffalo hunting grounds. Sarah had told him plenty of stories back when he’d come down from the mountains three years ago and began working for her. Her father had been a buffalo skin trader for two decades.

  Three years. He’d pushed it out of his mind this morning when he woke, but the anniversary date of his arrival on the Front Range made him realize how quickly the time had passed. And how slowly the pain ebbed away. But he refused to indulge in the sadness that threatened to engulf him. He had to move forward, leave the past behind and find purpose and meaning in his life. Even though at times he wanted nothing more than to give up.

  My son would have been three years old . . .

  He steeled his resolve and pushed the image of Alice and the baby out of his mind. But every time he did so, a knife stabbed his heart. What hurt more than anything was how her face was fading more and more each day. All he had was the one daguerreotype they’d taken that weekend they’d gone down from Leadville to Denver. It had been Alice’s idea to pose for a picture, as she wanted to frame it and put it on the mantle. Now it sat buried under a pile of clothes in his small cabin, where he lived alone and lonely.

  Sarah had recently been hinting he should think about “getting out.” Meaning, to start looking for a wife. But how could anyone ever replace Alice? No one could. He had loved her so much, and it had been his fault she’d died . . .

  Stop thinking like that. You know it gets you nowhere. He’d hoped by now he’d have stopped blaming himself. He knew he’d done everything he could to save her and the baby. It was just a bad set of circumstances. The blizzard, her going into labor early, the doctor sick, not able to clear the snow and get any help. He’d tried everything. God knows he’d tried.

  Lucas hurried his pace over to the hitching rail outside the stables. His mustang opened its eyes, awaking from a lazy nap in the sun at his approach. He patted the gelding’s neck, then tightened the cinch and looped the headstall over the horse’s head. After removing the halter, he tied it to the side of the saddle. He tossed the reins over the railing and fastened his medical satchel behind the saddle’s cantle. Then he led the horse down the hard-packed dirt street toward the Wilkersons’ house on Eleventh Street, to let them know how their mare was doing. Hoesta trotted with his head hung behind them, looking every bit wolfish.

  Earlier, when he arrived at the stables after Miz Wilkerson had found him at the mercantile, he’d explained to the couple about the colic and the need to take care not to let their horses drink so much after a long, hot ride. They’d only been in Colorado Territory a year, and this was their first summer on the Front Range. He liked Hugh and Cora very much, and unlike some of the other wealthy residents of Greeley, they treated him with warmth and acceptance, uncaring of any class difference between them. So many of the folks that had founded this town had airs. But the ones he’d become closest to were Ed and Ginny Edwards—the parents of the wild twins. Tex and Bandit. Lucas chuckled.

  As he walked along looking at the finely dressed ladies strolling the well-swept wooden sidewalks, he reflected on some of the names folks used when referring to Greeley, like “City of Saints” and “City of Churches.” Some of the local ranchers and farmers joked about the high-mindedness of the Greeley residents, but Lucas felt all in all they were a decent bunch that loved their families
and lived by good moral principles.

  Now, he knew some who lived around Evans and Fort Collins didn’t want any reminding of how low or lacking their own morals were and so rightly kept their distance from the town. But there were plenty of places for ruffians and low-minded individuals to spend their time and money without having to enter inside Greeley’s fenced community. Sometimes Lucas thought they’d erected that wood fence in hopes of keeping more than just free-ranging cattle from wandering into their fields of wheat or trampling their rows of vegetables. But trouble and bad intentions regarded no boundaries. Lucas knew that all too well from his years entrenched in the Civil War—more memories he hoped the crisp Colorado air would eventually whisk away across the open range.

  He stopped along the side of the road and looked out over the impressive acres of thriving crops, intersected with weed-free irrigation ditches, filled with water brought from the river by way of a wisely designed system of flumes and pipes. Although Lucas had no interest in moving to town, preferring his solitude along the South Platte at the northeast edge of Sarah’s ranch, he couldn’t help but admire what these industrious and talented folks had built here. It amazed him to see how the town had grown over the last few years, with more and more settlers from the East moving in. Why, they had three opera houses! And at least a dozen churches. Ed Edwards was kept very busy designing and building new homes, and had showed him just last week two new houses he was finishing up for a family moving out from New York. More rich folks bringing their fancy clothes and horses and furnishings. Paying top dollar and more to ship lumber out from as far as Chicago, due to the shortage of trees on the Front Range.

  All these folks, coming to Colorado Territory, with hopes and dreams—the frontier offering the promise of a new start. He wondered why they’d up and leave such a comfortable, easy life behind. Adventure? A sense of belonging they just couldn’t get in a big city?

  Lucas frowned as sadness welled back up in his heart. This time he let it, too tired to fight the surge sweeping him under. He pushed back the tears threatening to erupt and pulled his hat down to hide his eyes. He’d gone out to Colorado seven years ago with plenty of dreams, but they’d all melted away, like snow under the hot Colorado summer sun.