by Rachel Bird
I experience more contentment each day than a man has a right to in a lifetime, and with the ranch flourishing and the new baby coming, I look forward to even more happiness. I am truly blessed, Rafe.
As your brother, I offer the only advice I know worth having: marry a woman who brings out your good qualities, doesn’t mind the bad ones too much, and delights in the tenderest secrets of your heart. Then all else falls into place as the good Lord must intend.
Rafe had received that letter almost six years ago, just after the girl he thought he loved married another man. He couldn’t disagree with her reasons. He possessed no means to provide for a wife and children. How could a woman with any self-respect give him the time of day?
He took it as a sign. He’d come out to Colorado to work for Pres, thinking he’d learn from the best how to be a rancher, then take advantage of the Homestead Act to establish his own place.
He’d met with a shock. That happy, contented man Rafe used to know had died with Rosamund. Left behind was a ghost. A Preston Morgan who looked the same and sounded the same and did everything as well as the brother Rafe worshipped—but with no life in him. As if all the world’s joy had drained away and left a shell of a man.
But tonight Pres smiled at Lissy and pursued his part of the conversation. “That book you’ve had your nose in for these past two weeks was my favorite. The Age of Fable by Thomas Bullfinch.”
“That’s right.”
The happiness on Lissy’s face made Rafe’s heart swell. Other than Pres, there were three living souls still at the ranch who had known Rosamund well—Corby, Consuela, and Rhubarb. Lissy only ever heard talk about her ma from the two men.
The Lord did work in mysterious ways. Penelope’s colt had touched his brother, the new birth sparking his reawakening. Tomorrow the extra crew would assemble, and the next day this year’s cattle drive to Cheyenne would begin. Rafe prayed this Pres would still be there upon their return.
Consuela brought in the dessert, and Pres made a big show of taking his first bite as he ruffled the boy’s curls. “This is mighty fine pie, Ug. I heard you had a hand in its creation.”
“I surely did, Pa.”
He was an adorable kid. Ulysses Grant Morgan. Rosamund had suggested the name—how could Pres deny her last wish? When it proved too heavy for the small child, Lissy had come up with the unfortunate nickname.
“I don’t know which I like best, apple or cherry,” Rafe said. “I better have another piece, just to make sure.” He winked at Lissy. “It’s research.”
His research was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots stomping hurriedly toward the dining room. Rhubarb appeared at the door, worrying the hat in his hand, a sick look on his face.
“I-I’m sorry to disturb your supper, boss, but Penelope’s taken poorly all of a sudden. Corby says you better come.”
Pres shoved his chair back and was at the door, with Rafe and the others not far behind. They raced to the foaling pen.
Penelope lay on the ground under the shelter, Corby on his knees behind her. She looked bad.
“Her pulse is racing and she has a fever,” the foreman said.
Press knelt down and stroked Penelope’s neck. “Rafe, take Lissy and the boy back to the house.”
“But Pa, I want to—”
“Girl, don’t argue!”
It wasn’t anger in Pres’s voice but desperate, unchecked fear. Could the young girl tell the difference?
Gently, Rafe tugged Lissy’s braid and hoisted Ug up onto his shoulder. “Let’s give Penelope some room to breathe, Lissy-girl.”
He took his niece and nephew back to the house and asked Consuela to make them all hot milk and honey, but nobody had the stomach for it.
It took another twenty-four hours to know an infection had settled in and there’d be no coming back. Still, Pres couldn’t bring himself to end Penelope’s life. Rafe pulled the trigger. He’d bear a hundred times all Pres’s rage and sorrow to come if it would bring Penelope back. Or Rosamund.
His jovial, warm brother slipped away and once again became the cold man all the ranch had come to know.
For the children’s sake, Rafe was glad Pres would be gone for a time. Lissy and Ug were great kids who deserved a father who noticed they were alive in the world.
Heck, they deserved a mother.
A mother…
The answer hit Rafe like a rockslide at Elk Canyon.
So obvious! What a dolt he was not to think of it before, especially after hearing that Deckom fellow spout off on the very subject.
Rosamund had surely been a wonderful woman, but she was long dead. For the good of the living, Pres had to let her go. Hanging on to her ghost wasn’t fair to the kids. In truth, it wasn’t fair to the man himself to live like he did, cloaked in despond. Even the Bible must have something to say on that subject.
The following morning, the sound of fading thunder could still be heard in the distance, but it didn’t come from the sky. Thousands of head of cattle accompanied by three hundred horses and sixty men—cowboys and hired vaqueros, not to mention the chuck wagon with Cookie and his helpers, and of course the big bug—had all headed out from the Morning Star hours earlier.
In the barn, Rafe found Abigail Vanderhouten’s letter where he’d left it, in the mail pouch at the bottom of his saddle bag. He only hoped he wasn’t too late.
Preston Morgan needed a new wife.
Chapter 7
How did Naomi’s shawl get here? Flooded with relief, Charity reached for the elegant India shawl. It had belonged to her sister, a favorite thing lost to the rapids at Break Heart Bend, and all Charity’s fault.
But something wasn’t quite right. The red roses were too large, almost cartoonish. The chrysanthemums were like scary spiders, their white petals elongated and undulating eerily.
The garment dissipated into a fine mist, and her grip closed around nothing.
“Help!” It was Hannah… somewhere. Not here. Did Big Mama have her?
Someone’s bedroom door jerked open, then came the sound of excited bare feet running on hardwood.
“Oh!” Hannah cried out again. Alarmed, but not afraid. “Oh no!”
Overhead, a rumbling chortle from someone long unheard—so loved, and so missed. Mark’s laughter danced all around Charity, filling her with alarm… but with wonder too. She whirled round in the darkness to see her older brother.
“Mark! What are you doing here?”
But where was here?
She caught her breath: Mark and Matthew both stood together on her raft, only a few feet away. They looked so young! But then Charity was twenty-one now, and they would be forever eighteen and seventeen.
“Oh, Matthew! I’ve missed you so much!”
Dread knotted her stomach. This couldn’t be right.
Matthew and Mark were dead and buried. Drowned years ago. Charity had witnessed the awful event with her own eyes.
Cold water rushed over her bare feet. She was wearing nothing but her shift, once again on the raft on the river at Break Heart Bend, and everybody was alive.
Another chance! Still time to save Ma and Pa—and her poor drowned brothers too. “I can swim now,” she told them.
They smiled at her, and she expected one of them to say, Silly creature.
“Pa, leave it!” Her father was winding a rope through the handles of the chest that contained all their money. “It’s too heavy!”
Matthew stepped forward. “We’ll be with him.”
He was too calm, ignoring the danger. He and Mark exchanged a knowing glance, and with a sinking feeling, Charity knew neither would be of any use.
“Pa, forget the chest. It’s not important!” To her horror, the rope had wrapped around her father’s leg.
Just like last time.
“Let me through!” She couldn’t get past her brothers. “He’ll die!”
“Everybody dies.” Cruel words from a gentle voice, Mark’s eyes were so kind they broke her heart. The wall he formed with
Matthew was impassable.
“You go on now,” Matthew told her softly. “Go to Hannah.”
That’s right! Hannah fell in the river and I have to save her.
But Hannah’s happy laughter echoed all around as the rope’s slack tightened on Pa’s leg. Again it yanked him off-balance.
Again the logs split apart.
Again the trunk, heavy with coin, pulled him down, down, down to the dark and relentless waters.
“Pa, no!”
He was gone, and so were Matthew and Mark and everyone else.
“Watch out!” Hannah again laughed uproariously, with no sign of fear or sense of danger. “Help!”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Now Luke joined in with that deep belly laugh of his that made Charity smile every time. Through a snort, her little brother cried, “Get it, Hannah!”
This was real. Pa and the raft seemed a million years ago, a million miles away.
Charity bolted upright.
* * *
It was morning, and Charity was warm and dry in her bed at Calico Manor, the nickname Break Heart had given the house she and her sisters rented from Mae.
Where she was happier than she had a right to be.
Despite the loss of her parents.
Despite the nightmares.
Every night she found herself on the raft, in the instant before it began to break apart. Every night she failed to save Pa and didn’t even notice Ma had gone missing. This was the first time Matthew and Mark had shown up.
Everybody dies, Mark had said. She shuddered.
What did it mean? Had angels from heaven come to warn her in her dream? Was someone she loved in danger? She couldn’t bear to lose anyone else.
No, it was nothing, she told herself. Merely lingering anxiety caused by Red John and his horrible aunt. Last night when she went to bed she’d still been shaken by the image of Big Mama holding that rifle on Jane Stedman.
The fear, the not knowing if they’d all survive… She knew from experience: terror doesn’t release its grip just because the crisis has passed.
Luke ran past her bedroom door, barely getting his words out between giggles. “What did you do?”
Her little brother’s glee drove away the dream’s leftover angst. Charity threw on her wrapper and went out to investigate the commotion.
Already she was steady, grounded again in the real world. The delicious aroma of strong coffee wafted up from the kitchen. The sound of boots galumphing heavily on the stairs. Both combined with the silly giggling going on in Naomi’s room.
Charity suddenly felt ridiculously happy.
Faith reached the landing, already dressed and ready for the day. “What on earth is going on up here?”
Inspired by Mae Tagget, Faith had taken to wearing men’s trousers—though on Sundays, at Naomi’s request, she relented and wore a dress to church. Her dark hair was bound in a single thick braid draped over one shoulder, partially covering the star imprinted with the word Deputy.
Charity’s heart swelled with admiration and gratitude.
How wonderful, how brave she was! Yesterday she’d been so cool and calm. Thanks to Faith, nobody got hurt. Plenty in Break Heart still doubted Sheriff Fontana’s decision to take on a female deputy. If only the doubters could have seen her disarm Big Mama!
“I don’t know,” Charity said. “I think everybody’s in Naomi’s room.”
“I could hear the ruckus all the way down in the kitchen. A noise of chariots, and a noise of horses, even the noise of a great host!”
Faith had a Bible quote for every occasion. It was comforting to know some things never changed.
Steam rose from the mug she carried. Lately Faith had been rising earliest of them all to light the stove and make sure the coffee was ready before Naomi came downstairs—which was mighty thoughtful, since Naomi had to make breakfast for the Overstreets every morning.
Charity had always been accused of being thoughtless and selfish, charges she had ignored—which pretty much proved they were deserved—until they’d come to Break Heart.
In a dark moment on the day they buried Ma, she’d questioned her life with brutal honesty and had to admit she deserved the criticism. She’d vowed to be a better sister. So far it was hit or miss.
They passed Belle’s open bedroom door—Hannah’s room now. As soon as their second oldest sister moved her things to Nighthawk, her new husband’s ranch outside town, Hannah lost no time moving from the room she’d been sharing with Luke.
Thankfully, Belle was close by—it was only seven miles to Nighthawk.
Hannah’s bed was unmade, the nightstand turned over, the dormer window wide open.
“Ah…” Charity breathed in the morning air, still fresh and cool but with a hint of the warm June day to come.
“I’ve got it!” Hannah called out. She was indeed in Naomi’s bedroom. “Quick, open the window!”
Charity and Faith arrived just as their youngest sister tossed something outside with both hands.
“Great thunder on the mountain!” Charity stopped at the door. “Was that a… a bird?”
Hannah pulled the window shut, nodding. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm in a melodramatic show of exhaustion worthy of Sally Overstreet. “The poor creature came in through my room.”
“You slept with your window open again, hmm?” Naomi managed to sound disapproving while she accepted the mug from Faith with gratitude.
Charity was on Hannah’s side. She’d sleep with her window open too if she could, especially when the weather was so nice. Heaven knew she tried!
Every night she looked out at the brilliant starry sky, listening to the night birds and enjoying the cool breeze. But then a feeling of panic would overwhelm her and she’d have to close the window and fasten the latch against unknown terrors before she could relax enough to get to sleep.
“I like the fresh air.” Hannah shrugged, undaunted by Naomi’s tone. She was approaching fifteen and becoming a little rebellious—a little full of herself, truth be told.
Charity was glad to see it. High spirits were a welcome change from Hannah’s traumatized withdrawal after their ordeal.
“Well, you’d better go close it,” Naomi said drily. “That bird might circle round to come in again. You wouldn’t like finding a little present on your pillow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hannah bounded away as if she hadn’t a care in the world, which was wonderful to see.
Charity suspected the river disaster had affected Hannah more than any of them. She’d nearly drowned, but the Deckoms’ attack had disturbed her more, even though Sheriff Fontana and his men had arrived before anything truly awful happened.
In the span of a few hours, between the rapids and the Deckoms, Hannah had experienced the worst the world had to offer. The rapids, she’d been prepared for. Nature had always been brutal to the Steeles. They’d lost siblings to stillbirth, accident, and disease. They’d lost crops to plagues of locusts.
But the Deckoms’ attack had nothing to do with the vagaries of Mother Nature. The Deckoms were men possessing free will and evil intent, willing to take what they wanted from those they deemed weaker. That day Hannah lost her innocence, and none of her sisters had known how to console her.
Then a total stranger, Jane Stedman, had become a mentor to Hannah. They’d bonded over fashion and a shared admiration for the House of Worth, whatever that was. Charity didn’t care. With Jane’s friendship, Hannah’s inner wounds had begun to heal.
“Luke, get your boots on,” Naomi said. “It’s time we left for Mr. Overstreet’s.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And leave your treasure pouch at home!” she called out as he sped off through the doorway.
Luke had a five-dollar gold piece, a birthday present from their father that liked to wear around his neck in a pouch Hannah had made for him. “I think it reminds him of Pa.” Charity understood completely why Luke couldn’t part with the coin.
“I know.”
Naomi sounded tired. Too tired for it to be only the beginning of her day. “And he’ll be devastated when he loses it running through the orchards with Sally and Demon.”
She never said anything—well, aside from calling Damon Demon—but anyone with eyes could see she wasn’t happy. Her employer, Jonathan Overstreet, was a middle-aged widower with two hundred and twenty acres of fruit orchards located about six miles outside Break Heart, bordering Nighthawk. His wife had died of fever the year before, leaving him with two young children, and Naomi was an excellent housekeeper and wonderful with children. After all, she was like a second mother to Hannah and Luke.
Her job should have been perfect for her.
And yet her mood was always lighter and brighter on Sundays—not because she was in thrall to Parson Hood’s sermons, Charity guessed, but because Sundays provided a respite from the Overstreets.
Everyone else had gone downstairs, and she and Naomi were alone. She ventured gingerly, “Naomi, is Mr. Overstreet… Have you considered you might be happier in a different job?”
“What would be the use? It could be worse.”
“Oh, Naomi!” Charity just wanted everyone to be happy. It had been wonderful when Belle fell in love with Brady, and she’d also enjoyed her position running the kitchen at the Lilac Hotel. Faith and Hannah were both flourishing in their situations, and if Charity could work for Mae Tagget the rest of her life, she’d be in hog heaven.
But Naomi… Naomi had not flourished. She’d grown quieter. She never smiled, unless wistfully. Or ruefully. She wasn’t sad so much as she was resigned, and that broke Charity’s heart.
“It could be better too!”
“Maybe. Not likely. Mr. Overstreet isn’t cruel. He’s just a man who works too much, trying to do the best he can for his children—who are little monsters, but not evil ones. It isn’t them. It’s me.” Naomi smiled—ruefully—and brushed an errant dark strand of hair out of her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
She set the coffee mug down on her dressing table beside a chunky piece of jet jewelry and forced her dark locks into compliance with a few more hairpins.
Charity caught her breath. “How did this get here?” She picked up Ma’s mourning brooch.