The Sheriff’s Tender-Hearted Bride: A Christian Historical Romance Novel

by Chloe Carley

  The Sheriff’s Tender-Hearted Bride

  STAND-ALONE NOVEL

  A Christian Historical Romance Novel

  by

  Chloe Carley

  Copyright© 2020 by Chloe Carley

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher

  Table of Contents

  Table Of Contents

  Let’s Connect!

  Letter From Chloe Carley

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Ready To Start Your Next Romance Story?

  A Feisty Gracious Bride For The Rancher

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Also By Chloe Carley

  Let’s connect!

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  Letter from Chloe Carley

  "Once upon a time..."

  ...my best childhood nights had started with this beautiful phrase!

  Ever since I can remember, I loved a good story!

  All started thanks to my beloved grandfather! He used to read to my sister and me, stories of mighty princes and horrifying dragons! Even now, sometimes I miss those cold winters in front of the fireplace in my hometown, Texas!

  My best stories though were the ones from the Bible! Such is the spiritual connection that a sense of warmth pass through my body every time I hear a biblical story!

  My childhood memories were not all roses, but I knew He would always be there for me, my most robust shelter!

  Years passed by, and little-Chloe grown up reading all kind of stories! It was no surprise that I had this urge to write my own stories, and share them with the world!

  If I have a God's purpose on Earth, I think it is to spread His love and wisdom, through my stories!

  Now, it is your time to read my Best Seller Novel “A Feisty Gracious Bride For the Rancher”!

  Brightest Blessings,

  Prologue

  March 18th, 1885,

  My dear journal, it’s been a while since I wrote here. I guess things have been a little busy, what with such awful events befalling us. It’s a sad and sorry sight to see one so young all dressed in the black of a widow. I couldn’t help but shed a tear, particularly as the young lady was an acquaintance of mine—a friend even, you might say. Aline Hale was burying her husband, and I watched from across the street as the funeral cortege passed on its mournful way. They’d no children, they’d hardly been married a year, and she’d no family to speak off, apart from me of course. She was all alone, and I felt so very sorry for her.

  They say he wasn’t good to her and why, today, when the world seems to be moving at such a pace, a woman is expected to marry an old man like that, I’ll never know. I guess she didn’t have any choice, orphans rarely do and a young girl like her even less. I have no money to speak of, and when her parents died it was as much as I could do to put a roof over her head until she was old enough to make her own way in this sad world. She was only twenty years old and already a mourning widow, expected to play the part of the grieving spouse. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she passed by with her head bowed low, her veil covering over her face.

  Damon Hale, that was her husband, owed money to a lot of men. It’s true what they say: money only brings trouble with it. He’d plenty of it, a prospector out west, who made his money in the gold mines and squandered it all on the pleasures which life back home afforded him. She’d inherit well enough, and I guess she’d be comfortable, though the debts he’d left were the talk of the town.

  “God bless you, Aline,” I said as she passed just a few yards from where I was standing to pay my respects.

  I had no love for Damon Hale, but I did for Aline, my niece. I have no children of my own and Aline was always good to me. I loved her like a daughter and I couldn’t bear to see her looking so mournful, so full of sorrow as she did on that awful day, when it seemed that her whole world had come crashing down around her.

  She paused for a moment and turned to me, offering a weak smile from beneath her veil. I could see a tear in her eye, though whether it was a tear for herself or for Damon I couldn’t tell.

  “Thank you, Aunt Miranda,” she said, before turning to follow the coffin on her husband’s final journey.

  Even in sorrow she still looked as beautiful as she ever had done, a blooming rose, as her dear mother used to say. That perfect hourglass figure, those sapphire blue eyes and her long wavy dark blonde hair, enough to steal the attentions of any man she should meet. My beautiful niece, now so racked with sorrow.

  A tear ran down my face—not for Damon, for I was glad she was rid of that horrible man who had made her life such a misery. But a tear of sorrow for Aline, whose future now seemed so bleak and uncertain. For a moment longer, I watched as the coffin disappeared around the bend in the muddy track through the town, followed by a motley collection of mourners and those to whom Aline’s departed husband still owed money, even in death.

  “It’ll be all right, Aline, I promise. The good Lord’ll provide,” I’d whispered, offering up a prayer for my niece, and for the future, whatever that might hold.

  And now, I’m tired and ready for my bed.

  Chapter One

  Montana, 1885

  The sheriff’s office was quiet that morning, a little too quiet for Sheriff Thomas Redmond’s liking. He’d arrived early from his lodgings at Lita Morrell’s boarding house. The cells were empty, for Deputy John Hoskins had reported a quiet night, and Thomas settled h
imself down at his desk to go through the wanted reports and prepare his monthly report for the mayor.

  “I’ll be getting home, then, Sheriff,” John Hoskins said, peering around the sheriff’s door. “I’ll take the night duties again tonight, if it’s still all right to have Thursday off.”

  Thomas nodded and smiled. “Who’s it this time? Let me guess—Susan Ford, the grocer’s daughter. She’s pretty enough,” he replied.

  John Hoskins went red and turned away in embarrassment. “How … how did you know that, Sheriff? I haven’t told anyone I’m sweet on Susan,” he confessed.

  “Come on, John. How difficult is it? It’s hardly a mystery. You’ve taken out just about every girl in town, except for Susan Ford, who has made it quite clear on several occasions that she is waiting for you to do so,” Thomas pointed out.

  “All right, all right, you’ve got me there. I’m taking her to the Last Chance Saloon. They have a singer on Thursdays, they say she’s pretty good,” the deputy said, shaking his head and smiling.

  “And who am I to argue with local opinion, John. Go get some sleep now; be back for night duties and you can have Thursday off as we agreed,” Thomas said.

  “Thank you, Sheriff. I’ve got a feeling about Susan Ford, what is it they say? Leave the best ‘till last,” he said, and went off whistling to himself as Thomas shook his head.

  You can’t fault him for trying, Thomas thought to himself, for the deputy was rarely successful past the first formal encounter and Thomas would no doubt hear about a fresh disaster at the Last Chance Saloon on Friday morning.

  He flicked idly through the list of wanted men, their ugly faces staring up at him above their rewards.

  Louis Carelli, wanted in three states for murder, extortion and cattle rustling, Thomas thought, looking at the picture of a man with half his ear missing and a thin scar running down his face.

  And William ‘Black Eye’ Priestly, now there’s a man to avoid if I ever saw one. He shook his head and laughed.

  The litany of unsavory characters continued and he eventually cast the pile aside, leaning back at his desk and placing his hands behind his head.

  It sure is quiet today, he thought, for he’d not even heard whisper of a drunk or fisticuffs in the town of Lakestone, Montana that morning.

  And still no word on those cattle rustlers, I’ll bet they’ve flown town now that we’re on to them, and good riddance, too. Just recently, there’d been a spate of rustling at farms in the local district.

  Thomas had been sheriff there for the past three years and a deputy two years before that. In that time, he’d faced outlaws, cattle rustlers, bandits and trail robbers—he’d even taken part in the famous rescue of the governor’s daughter, kidnapped and held to ransom two years before. But today was quiet and Thomas was not complaining, for a quiet day meant a chance to catch up on his paperwork and make his rounds of the town.

  A man can have too much excitement, he thought, shaking his head as the sound of a horse could be heard from outside, galloping up toward the sheriff’s office.

  He got up from the desk and crossed to the window, interested to see who was pulling into town at such an early hour. Lakestone was a small town on the road west, in the corner of the state near to the border with Wyoming. It was a stopping point for ranchers heading to the western plains and a settling place for those grown weary from traveling far from the East. It was a place of mixed fortunes, though Thomas had done well enough for himself. He was happy here and all in all the folks were good-natured, though at times there could be trouble, of the sort you get in any town which once called itself the frontier.

  Though Robbie McCain looks excited about something, Thomas thought as the fiery red-headed ranch hand from Lakestone Creek Ranch leaped down from the horse and hurried onto the veranda outside.

  “Woah there, Robbie. What’re you in such a hurry for?” Thomas said as the ranch hand burst in, jabbering in his thick Scot’s accent.

  “Tis’ the ranch, Sheriff. The rustlers, come quickly, tis’ the second time in a week. I rode down just as quickly as I could,” Robbie said, panting and breathless, as he stood before the sheriff.

  “Again? We’d better go. Did the foreman send you?” Thomas asked, grabbing his Smith and Wesson and putting on his sheriff’s hat.

  “He did, sir. Aye. But there’s more, too. I heard a shot. Just as I was ridin’ off now. I daenae know who fired though, sir. It may have been the foreman. Those rustlers were ridin’ around the cattle somethin’ awful, ye know. They’ll stampede them, if they’re nae careful. But it may have been…” His words trailed off, his eyes wide with panic.

  “Let’s not stand here talking about it, Robbie. Come on, now, put your fear away. We’ll ride up there and see, follow me,” Thomas said, for he’d no fear of cattle rustlers.

  But the ranch hand drew back, a fearful expression upon his face.

  “Should we… should we nae wait for back up, sir? There were three of them, and if they are armed,” he began, but Thomas just laughed as he hurried out of the sheriff’s office.

  “I’m the backup, I only have two deputies. Now come on, let’s get going—if we’re quick, we might just catch them. Stay here if you’re too scared, though I thought you Scots had some fire in your bellies,” Thomas chided as he climbed onto his horse Scout, a chestnut mare who could ride like the wind.

  “I’m nae afraid, sir, I just…” the ranch hand began, but Thomas had already ridden off in a cloud of dust along the track, hoping to catch the rustlers in the act and before they could disappear off down the trail.

  ***

  Lakestone Creek Ranch lay about a mile outside of town and had been one of the first places settled by the early frontiersmen in this part of the state. It was a small operation, headed up by the foreman—one Mr. J. B. Banks, whom Thomas often shared a drink with—and assisted by a couple of hands, of whom Robbie McCain was the youngest.

  As he approached the ranch, Thomas slowed Scout to a trot, surveying the scene before him.

  No sign of any rustlers, he thought, looking out across prairie grass that rustled gently in the breeze.

  “Too quiet,” he said, as Robbie rode up alongside him. “What was the last thing you saw?”

  “I… well, I was just about here, as it happens. I looked back and I could see the rustlers over there,” Robbie said, pointing to one of the fences, which appeared to have been broken in two.

  “And where did the shot come from?” Thomas asked, but Robbie shook his head.

  “I… I daenae know. It could’ve come from there, but it could’ve come from by the barns there. I just rode… I’m sorry,” he replied, his words trailing off.

  “You did the right thing. If they were shooting, then they weren’t bothered who they hit. Come on, let’s ride into the ranch yard. Keep your wits about you,” Thomas said, his hand on his pistol, lest they suddenly be set upon.

  With caution, they rode into the ranch yard. It was still, no sound coming from anywhere. Thomas felt a shiver run through him; usually, the ranch was a hive of activity, under the direction of his friend Jeremiah.

  What’s happened here? He looked around himself with suspicion.

  “It’s got to be the same men, the ones who hit us last week. Daenae ye think?” Robbie said, climbing down from his horse and looking warily about him.

  “I don’t know, Robbie,” Thomas said, but he didn’t like it, not one little bit.

  If I find it’s him, he thought to himself as an unpleasant possibility crossed his mind.

  Thomas’ past was not something he often discussed, for it contained things which hardly fitted with the life he now led. As a young man, Thomas had been part of his father’s gang of outlaws and, alongside his half-brother, Harrison, he’d been involved in just about every misdemeanor he now arrested others for. When their father had died in a shootout, he and Harrison had moved West in the hope of a better life. Somehow, Harrison had never quite left his shady past behind him,
though it was not common knowledge that he and Thomas were related.

  But the recent cattle rustling had unsettled Thomas, more so than he’d let on. John Hoskins had hardly seemed concerned. After all, out in the West, you expected such things. It was all part and parcel of life on the old frontier. But in the cattle rustling, Thomas had seen something else.

  This could’ve been one of my father’s jobs, he realized, looking around and recalling similar raids on unsuspecting ranchers from his youth.

  The cattle would be long gone by now, and if any of the ranchers had been foolish enough to get in the way, they would’ve felt the smoking end of a shotgun. Thomas paused, looking around, before a shout from Robbie brought him back to his senses.

  “Hey, Sheriff, look! It’s Amos. Over there, riding down the track,” he said, pointing to where one of the other ranch hands was riding at full pelt toward them.

  “Woah there, what is it? Where’s Jeremiah? Where’s the foreman?” Thomas said as the ranch hand leaped down from his horse, panting and sweating profusely in the heat of the sun.