COWBOY ROMANCE: Devon (Western Contemporary Alpha Male Bride Romance) (The Steele Brothers Book 2)

by Amanda Boone

  Jared replied quickly, before she could even complete her entire sentence. “Oh, he did let me pick one. He was in town one day, so I told him how unhappy I was with the way she was treating Emily. He told me to go ahead and find the woman I wanted, and he would pay for her, no matter what the cost. He wants me to be happy here and to stay with his company.”

  She shot her startled gaze to his face. “He said that? He pays Karin?”

  “Actually, he pays me more so I can pay her. It works for us. So you see, he’s not buying me; he’s simply paying me a salary that’s consistent with my needs.”

  “I see,” Bridget said, desperately struggling to contain her anger as she rose. “I should let you get back to work and go see how Karin is feeling.”

  Jared scrambled to his feet and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Tell her I hope she feels better soon.”

  Bridget struggled to contain her excitement at his innocent peck. Oh, how she wished she could stay and love him—right on his desk if need be. Instead, she left, promising that she would relay the message. But her mind reeled with thoughts and suspicions that she really didn’t want to have. Was Jared really that naïve?

  Chapter 11

  Rather than going to check on Karin, this time Bridget went to the doctor’s office to see how Rollie Palmer was feeling. When she arrived, though, she discovered he’d already gone home.

  “Then he wasn’t injured as badly as it seemed yesterday,” Bridget said to the doctor. “I’m glad. I was really worried about him when my husband didn’t get home until around 10:30 last night.”

  Dr. Frey’s eyes took on a seriousness that Bridget hadn’t seen the day before as he said, “Oh, he’s quite badly injured. He just wouldn’t stay here. He insisted that he would heal better in his own bed. Since his injuries weren’t as serious as Moya’s were, though, I decided to let him go. I wish he wouldn’t have, though. Now I have to go over to his place to check on him.”

  “Neither Jared nor Mike mentioned it. What are his injuries, anyway?”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you because you do the printing of the paper.”

  “We’ll just print his injuries and his name. I promise. If we print anything at all.”

  Dr. Frey chuckled. “Young lady, if you didn’t print little things like this, you wouldn’t have much of a newspaper.”

  With a smile, Bridget agreed. “I suppose you’re right. So I can report the accident, how it happened, Rollie’s name, and his injuries. Is that okay?”

  This time Dr. Frey turned solemn. “I wouldn’t print anything about how it happened.”

  “Why not?” Bridget asked. “It might alert others to be careful—so they don’t have the same thing happen to them.”

  Turning in his chair and going through some papers on his desk, Dr. Frey said, “Rollie has at least two broken ribs and one cracked. In my opinion, if you crack a glass, you throw it away because it’s broken. If you crack a bone, it’s broken, so you treat it. Not all physicians believe that, though. Of course, he’s quite bruised around the site of his injury. Also in my opinion, he most likely has a cracked or chipped thoracic vertebra. He’s going to be bedridden for quite some time.”

  While the physician scribbled on a piece of paper before him, dipping his pen into the ink on occasion, Bridget asked, “Could you write that down for me, Dr. Frey? I’ll never remember it all.”

  “That’s what I’m doing right now. I wasn’t sure I should tell your brother last night, so I didn’t. The more I thought about it, though, the more I think this accident needs to be published.”

  Bridget studied him curiously. Only a few seconds ago he was telling her that she shouldn’t print about the accident, but now he thought it was a good idea. And why was he telling her these things when he wouldn’t tell the actual reporter for the newspaper? All she did was print what Mike wrote.

  As though she’d asked the question aloud, Dr. Frey said, “I want you to write this article, not your brother. He was much too curious last night. I’m not sure he would be objective.” The doctor paused to hand her the piece of paper. “I also wrote on there what he said caused his injuries—simply a board falling on him. Print that and that alone.”

  “I promise, sir,” Bridget agreed, but she wondered why he would word his statement like that.

  “Don’t elaborate on it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What I’m going to tell you now, you can’t repeat to anybody, not even your brother. Will you promise to agree?”

  Desperate to know what he would say, Bridget agreed without hesitation. Then the doctor went on to explain how Moya was the most respected man in town because he was always honest and trustworthy. Bridget didn’t disagree; she’d found Moya nothing less. Rollie was probably the next most respected and trustworthy man in town. Moya had been injured on the job, just as Rollie had—by a falling piece of wood, be it a limb or a board. Still, she decided, Dr. Frey was telling her nothing of import. She couldn’t understand why he would want her promise not to print it. His next words, however, explained everything.

  “Either of their wounds could have killed them” Dr. Frey announced. “Moya is lucky that he only has memory loss. Rollie is lucky that he bent over just before being struck. If he hadn’t that board could have hit him on the neck hard enough to break it, which could have torn his spinal cord and killed him instantly—or paralyzed him for life.”

  “So Mike was right when he told me that you said this wasn’t an accident?”

  “Just like Moya’s wasn’t an accident.”

  “How can you be sure of that when he doesn’t remember what happened?”

  “I’m a doctor. I can tell when something is done on purpose. With Rollie’s accident, I see evidence that the blow changed direction in the middle of the board’s fall.”

  “Meaning it wasn’t a fall.”

  “Have you ever seen a board fall any direction than straight down? Have you seen a heavy piece of wood change direction, even if a strong wind caught it, in the middle of it dropping? I haven’t. But the nature of Rollie’s injury shows that likely happened.”

  “Somebody swung that board, somebody pretty strong.”

  “That’s my theory. Unfortunately, I can’t prove it without Rollie telling me what happened right before he was hit, and he’s not saying a word about it.”

  Before long, Bridget left the office, notes from Dr. Frey in hand, and ran into Elise headed into the office. While Bridget waited outside, Elise went inside. A few minutes later, she came out with a small vial in her hand. Together they strolled toward the house that Elise had once inhabited. Now that she was married, she and Moya had a home of their own, and the Bengtson sisters lived in the house.

  Bridget wanted to question Elise about Moya’s accident to see if she knew anything others didn’t, but she hesitated. Elise was so happy lately, much happier than she had ever been in New York, and Bridget wanted her to stay happy even longer. No, questioning her now wasn’t a good idea.

  “How do you like being married?” Bridget asked Elise.

  “I love it, Bridge,” Elise enthused. “I’ve never been happier in my life. Moya is probably the most wonderful man to ever walk the earth. What about you?”

  “I like it. I’m just now getting to the part where we get physical.” Bridget felt her face heat as she blushed. “You know, in bed.”

  Elise stopped and gave Bridget a bear hug. “I knew you would like him. Is it love yet?”

  “I don’t know if I would call it love,” Bridget admitted, pushing away from Elise. “I like him a lot, though.”

  “Give it time. It will happen. It has to happen.”

  They walked in silence for a couple of blocks. Elise knew something about Moya’s accident. Bridget could feel it. Not today, but she would somehow get the truth from either Elise or Moya.

  Chapter 12

  Back at the office, Bridget sat down at Mike’s still empty desk to write the article about Rollie Palmer. If s
he hadn’t promised Dr. Frey that she would print what he’d told her, she could have a really hard-hitting story. As it stood now, though, she had a silly local interest article that would barely get noticed.

  Suddenly, she craved something good, something juicy, something that would catch people’s attention and help her make her mark as a true journalist.

  Mike came into his office just as she finished her article and asked her what she was doing.

  “Dr. Frey asked me to write the article about Rollie Palmer and his accident. I promised I would.”

  “But I was going to do that,” Mike protested.

  “He doesn’t want you to. He’s afraid you’ll go over and above to get a better story. He just wants what he told me published, and I promised that’s what I would do. I’m putting in nothing more than what he told me I could publish.”

  Mike dropped onto the chair before his desk. “Did he tell you something else?”

  “He did, but I’m not at liberty to tell you what it was. He made me promise, and you know how I am about that. I always keep my promises.”

  “Did he give you more information than he did me?”

  “How would I know, Mike? I only know what you told me. That doesn’t mean you told me everything.”

  “Sometimes you’re the most stubborn person I know. And right now I know that you’re not telling me anything, so I’ll drop the subject—for now. You can be sure we’ll revisit it, though.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” Bridget said as she wandered out of the room. “I’m going to typeset this article now, so it will be ready to go when we’re ready for the next edition.”

  ***

  On November 5, 1872, the saloon closed for business, and the American men of Forestville lined up to vote for either Republican presidential candidate, Ulysses S. Grant and his vice presidential nominee, Henry Wilson, or Horace Greeley and his running mate, Benjamin G. Brown. As Mike wrote in an article about the elections the following day, Greeley had been nominated by two parties, the Liberal Republican and the Democratic Parties.

  No more accidents or injuries had been reported for two weeks, so the election was Mike’s focus for the newspaper. On the fourth Thursday of November, the day President Abraham Lincoln declared a national day of thanksgiving, all businesses closed and families and friends gathered together for dinners. It wasn’t an official holiday like the Independence Day, Mike reported, but the town had gotten together during the elections and had decided to observe it as a holiday.

  Bridget and Karin Bengtson worked on pies and vegetables at Bridget’s house, while Elise and Stina Bengtson prepared a large ham and potatoes at Elise’s house. Everyone in those households met at Bridget and Jared’s house, which had the long table Elise had used when Bridget and Mike first arrived from New York. Bridget had learned that it had always been Jared’s table, but that he had loaned it to Elise for that particular occasion.

  With the Bengtson sisters, Elise and Moya, Mike, Emily, and Bridget and Jared all seated around the table, Jared gave thanks for the food and their freedom. He also thanked God for Moya’s continued recovery from his accident and requested that he get his memory of the event back.

  Hearing a movement across from her, Bridget opened her eyes to see Elise squirm on her chair. That was it! Elise knew that Moya already remembered the incident. Bridget was sure of it. Now all she had to do was get Elise alone and talk to her about it. This was the story Bridget wanted to write, this story about what was happening in Forestville. Mike couldn’t write it for fear of losing the newspaper, but nothing would stop her from writing it.

  After dinner, Mike asked Stina to take a walk with him, so Bridget suggested that Karin, Moya and Jared take Emily outside to play while she and Elise cleaned up after their meal. Bridget started the conversation while she pumped some water into a pail in the sink so they could wash the dishes.

  “How is Moya feeling lately?” Bridget asked.

  “He’s doing much better, thank you,” Elise replied. “Have you noticed that he’s losing his limp?”

  “I have. How is his hand working?”

  “Better, but I would like to see it improve some more. So would Dr. Frey.”

  “I suppose it’s only going to get as well as the Lord has in mind. At least, he ended up with a better job than he had before his accident, and not as dangerous.”

  “He does have a better job, thanks to Mr. Harris. I don’t know what Moya would have done if he hadn’t been able to support me. He felt quite guilty about it.”

  “That’s what a man thinks he’s supposed to do,” Bridget said with a grin. “But you and I both know that we can take care of ourselves just fine.”

  Elise laughed. “We certainly can. How is the newspaper business doing?”

  “Very well. I just wish we could find a good story to print.”

  “The election results should be coming in before too long, don’t you think?”

  “By the end of the year, Mike told me. That’s not that great of a story, anyway. We all know Grant will win.” Bridget paused to add some hot water from her cast-iron stove to the dish water. “How is Moya’s memory coming along?”

  Turning away from Bridget, Elise picked up some dishes from the table and put them into the water. “There’s been no change since the last time you asked.”

  Bridget believed her, but that didn’t mean that Elise had been telling her the truth the last time. On this subject, Bridget didn’t trust her friend. Taking Elise by the shoulders, she pushed her friend backwards until Elise sat on a chair.

  “Tell me what you’re hiding, Elise,” Bridget ordered gently. “And don’t say it’s nothing, because I know that’s not true.”

  Elise’s sorrowful gaze met Bridget’s. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be true, but I can’t tell you. I made a promise.”

  “At least, tell me if Moya remembers what happened to him.”

  “I can’t tell you anything, Bridge. Please don’t push me on this. Just let it go.”

  “Why? Is it dangerous for me to know the truth?”

  “Heavens no!” Elise exclaimed.

  “Then why not tell me?”

  “Moya says it’s too early.”

  Bridget studied Elise suspiciously. Then a thought came to her. “If it’s not dangerous for me to know the truth, and Moya says it’s too early, Elise, are you pregnant?”

  Elise beamed. “I didn’t tell you that.”

  Pulling her out of the chair, Bridget hugged Elise. “That’s wonderful. Maybe our kids will grow up being friends.”

  “Are you pregnant, too?”

  “No,” Bridget admitted, “but I hope to be soon. Now that I’m not a virgin anymore.”

  Chapter 13

  Although happy for Elise and Moya, who would both be good parents, Bridget knew something was amiss about Moya’s accident that they weren’t talking about. If only she could get Elise to confide in her as she did in New York.

  Undoubtedly, their sisterhood had changed in their time apart. Of course, that was only natural, but Bridget missed the Elise she used to know. She missed her sister.

  But she had work to do. Other things could prove that Harris was a crook, and she needed to pursue that, since Mike couldn’t write a story about it. In the meantime, however, she had a paying job to do, and that included preparing the news Moya received on the telegraph today.

  Horace Greeley, the presidential candidate, died the day after Thanksgiving, before the electoral college could meet. By the time it did meet, it proved that there had been no real contest between Greeley and Grant. Grant had won the election by a landslide.

  Bridget set the print for both stories, which had come from both San Francisco and Sacramento. By that time it was the end of December, and Christmas had passed. The new year began, and Bridget had barely begun her investigation.

  She had spoken with the manager at the mercantile store, William Wessel, and had learned a great deal. The store owner, as Mike had told her, was indeed F
rank Harris, and he took all but ten percent of the proceeds of sales. There was no line of credit at the store, as many places accepted at that time so people could pay when they got paid. Everybody was required to pay in cash at the time of the purchase. At least, the manager got his home rent-free like the rest of the company town, and he was given his choice of whatever food was sold at the store in order to feed his family. He did, however, have to pay for clothing supplies and any incidentals that he or his family needed, as well as for food items that the store didn’t carry.

  When Bridget asked Wessel what Harris expected of him in return, he insisted that only the ninety percent of the proceeds went to Harris.

  “That seems like an awful lot,” Bridget told him. “One would think you would want more of a percentage. Ten percent isn’t very much to raise a family on.”

  “It’s fine. Mr. Harris gives me free food and a house. That’s really all we need, because those are the highest expenses I have.”

  “I suppose that’s true, but you admit that’s not all of your food,” Bridget said. “What happens if somebody comes in and doesn’t have enough money to pay for what they need? Say a mother comes in and needs some food for her children and can’t pay?”

  “They can’t have any food. Mr. Harris said that’s what the church is for.”

  “But the church is closed most of the time. Children get hungry on days other than when the traveling preacher comes to town. As far as I know, he’s the only person with a key to the church.”

  “He is. The people who come in and can’t pay find another way to get what they need.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that you can’t open credit accounts for the citizens, Mr. Wessel? You know that Mr. Harris will pay them eventually. Surely, you could make arrangements for those people to get what they need and pay later.”

  “If Mr. Harris would allow it, I would do it. But I work for Mr. Harris, and I don’t want to lose my job. I have five children of my own and my sister’s three. I can’t afford to lose this job.”