A Healing Love For The Broken Cowboy (Historical Western Romance)
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A Healing Love for the Broken Cowboy
A Western Historical Romance
Cassidy Hanton
Contents
A Thank You Gift
About the book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Preview: A Love Defying the Odds
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Also by Cassidy Hanton
About the Author
A Thank You Gift
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called Finding the Broken Cowboy. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.
Again, thank you ever so much for your continuous love and support!
Cassidy Hanton
About the book
She was the one to heal his wounded heart…
After years of struggling to make ends meet, Isabelle Logan is about to begin a new life.
Having left the grim city of Grimepass, she moves to Stephill of Wyoming where her brother has successfully built his ranch. Apart from a home there, she finds love in the eyes of her neighbor: a mourning cowboy.
Since the terrible loss of his wife, Harvey Willerson has dedicated his life to the last piece he has of her: their son. Having rejected any possibility of finding love again, he has devoted himself to raising his boy. His affection for Isabelle tears him apart: loving her feels like betraying his deceased wife.
But there are enemies hiding in the shadows of the ranch, ready to wreak havoc. With the clock ticking against them, they must defend their land before they see it burnt to the ground.
And when they finally think they're safe, another deadly threat shatters their peaceful moments. Because danger lurks behind more than one face…
Chapter One
Stephill, Wyoming, 1879
“Breathe, honey,” Harvey Willerson said as he looked down at his very pregnant wife − mostly because he had no idea what else to say. “It’s going to be all right. Just keep breathin’.”
Her face was red and strained, her eyes squeezed shut as the pain tore through her like a bolt of lightning. He clung to her hand, squeezing it as tight as he dared as she threw her head back and cried out, the agony in her voice a searing lance through his heart.
Marla, the midwife, bustled about, giving instructions to his wife to keep breathing and keep pushing. But seeing her in this much pain had him starting to worry that something was wrong.
“I - is this normal?” he finally asked. “Should she be in this much pain?”
Marla gave him a soft smile. “First child?”
A wry grin touched his lips. “That obvious?”
“Child birth is often painful,” she explained. “There is nothing to worry about.”
His wife let out a shriek he was sure they could hear clear across the rapidly growing country and it set his heart thundering in his chest. Marla positioned herself between his wife’s legs and he saw a frown pull her lips downward. Harvey suddenly had the feeling, or maybe a flash of intuition, that something was terribly wrong.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“The child is having difficulty,” she said and then looked up at his wife. “I need you to give me a really good push now. Push hard.”
She gripped his hand tightly, practically squeezing all feeling out of it as she strained so hard he was sure she’d pass out with the effort. Her scream of pain filled the small room, burrowing down hard into his very soul. His wife, the woman he loved, was in agony and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He had never felt so helpless in all his life.
“I can almost get him out,” Marla called. “One last push now. Make it your biggest yet.”
The scream that erupted from her throat made him cringe and look away. He simply could not bear to see her in such pain. And then everything fell silent. It was as if the world around him had stopped and was holding its breath.
A moment later, the cry of his child filled the room and his heart started to beat again. He opened his eyes and looked over at Marla, who was holding the baby with a wide smile on her face. His vision blurred with tears as he looked at the bundle of absolute perfection in Marla’s hands. He felt a tear of joy roll down his cheek as he turned back to his wife.
And for the second time that day, he felt his heart stop. He knew, the moment his eyes fell upon her that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Her eyes were glassy, her grip on his hand suddenly weak.
“Wh - what’s happened?” he asked.
Marla’s face blanched and then he saw the pool of scarlet spreading out on the bedspread. Fear surged within him and he trembled, squeezing his wife’s hand as if he could impart his life force into her. As if he could will her to stop bleeding.
Marla shoved the baby, now swaddled in a thin blanket, into his hands. He looked down at the baby − he was so small. So delicate. Every feature on his baby was so fragile and yet so perfect. Tears now streamed down his face − both at the joy of his new child and in anguish and fear for his wife.
“Come on honey,” he said. “You have to see our little angel. You have to see just how beautiful he is.”
Marla worked frantically − he couldn’t guess at what. She talked to his wife throughout, encouraging her to hang in there. To stay with them. To stay with their child. And with every syllable she uttered, his heart sank deeper and deeper into his chest as a cold numbness settled down over him, wrapping him tighter than the child’s swaddling.
Marla was crying, doing everything she could to revive his wife. But he looked down into her wide, unseeing eyes and knew the truth of it. He’d seen the glassy-eyed, vacant stare of death many times before. His wife. His beloved wife and the mother to their beautiful baby boy was gone.
Carrying his baby gently, he turned and walked out of the room. He passed through the house in an utter daze, his mind unreeling images of his life with her. The dark numbness held him tight as he saw her face on the day they were married, as he recalled how radiant she looked. He remembered her voice and how excited she’d been to tell him she was pregnant with the child he now held. And the memory of how she smelled, the sweet and flowery scent of her body and hair as they lay together in bed and talked about their future lingered in his mind.
He stepped out onto the porch and lo
oked at the green, lush world outside and sobbed for his loss. But as the child in his hand gurgled and wriggled, he knew that he had to keep himself together, to lock away his grief, and remember all he had gained as well.
Blessings and curses often walked hand in hand.
Chapter Two
Grimepass, Montana, 1880
“Trust me, this will all be for the best,” Mark said.
“Best for who?” Isabelle replied. “Leaving me here alone certainly isn’t the best thing for me.”
A soft smile touched his lips. “You have our family home to live in so you won’t be out on the streets,” he said. “You have a job −”
“If you can call being leered at and fondled by foul, disgusting men all day a job.”
Mark continued undaunted though. “You have some money so you won’t go hungry. Your basic necessities are provided for. You will be fine.”
“Fine. That is such a relative term,” she spat back. “Who will I talk to? Who will listen to my stories about which filthy man I had to stab for putting his hands on my backside? Loneliness may be the death of me.”
He laughed. “I doubt you would actually stab somebody.”
“You never know. I have come close a number of times.”
“And you have plenty of friends who will not only listen to your stories but help you plot your revenge,” he argued. “I doubt that loneliness will be your undoing.”
“Fine. Then boredom will be.”
He sighed and put his hands on Isabelle’s upper arms, squeezing her tight. Her brother looked deeply into her eyes and tried to calm her down, but she was not having it. She knew this day was coming and dreaded every sunset that drew it closer. And now that it was here, she was angry at the passage of time − as well as what he felt was a necessity.
All Isabelle could do was make the one argument she had been making since he first told her of this idea. An argument he shot down every single time. But she thought she would throw it out there one last time to see if she could persuade him.
“We are doing just fine here,” she argued. “As you said, we have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. What more do we need?”
He sighed and gave her the same patient smile he gave her every time they had this conversation. And it aggravated her no less this time than it did all the others.
“We are scraping by here,” he said. “Don’t you want more out of life? Don’t you want to thrive?”
“But −”
“Grimepass is played out. There is nothing for us here anymore,” he said. “There are no suitable suitors for you. Our parents are dead. This town is stagnant. I’m going to a place that’s growing. Where the opportunities are plentiful. Think of it − never having to work in a place where disgusting men leer at and fondle you all day. Wouldn’t that alone be worth it?”
She sighed. Frustrated. If she closed her eyes, she could remember what Grimepass used to be. She remembered walking through town with her family, passing through shops that sold fashionable clothing, more books than she could have read in a lifetime, and more kinds of candies than she even knew existed − though her parents had always been conservative in laving sweets upon she and her brother. She remembered spring concerts in the park and community celebrations on the town common.
Isabelle looked out across the landscape of the only town she’d ever known and knew that place was gone forever. The wind kicked up dust devils in the distance. It wound its way around the dry scrubby brush of what had once been lush grazing land with a large lake that had since dried up. The withered, blackened silhouettes of trees of once abundant orchards and farmland dotted the world around them − the trees every bit as dead as the town she clung to.
Isabelle knew the town she clung to was nothing more than a memory anymore. Most of the buildings were weathered, falling apart. A once vibrant community was decaying as more people fled for greener pastures − quite literally. She clung to the memory of the town simply because deep down, she feared letting it go would be the same as giving up the memory of their parents. And Isabelle didn’t know if she was ready for that.
She knew everything her brother had said made sense. But Grimepass, as played out as it was, was the only thing she knew. She’d been born and raised here. For better or worse, this was their home.
But he was right. The town was not growing. New people were not flooding in like they had before. In fact, many were heading west. To seek their fortunes and make a life for themselves. And as the population dried up, so too did the opportunities to advance themselves and as he put it − thrive.
Grimepass was withering on the vine and deep down she knew that unless they did something, they would wither along with it. She didn’t like it, but he was right.
He held her gaze intently. “It won’t be long before I send you word that a better life is waiting for you,” he urged. “It won’t be long before I send for you to come. Trust me.”
It wasn’t a matter of trust. It was a matter of her never being alone and on her own before. She hadn’t been lying when she said she would be lonely and bored. But more than that, she would be afraid. As Grimepass withered, it had allowed some rather unsavory elements to bloom.
He had taught her how to fight and shoot − he’d taught her how to defend and protect herself. But that did not banish the fear completely since she did not know if it came down to it, if she had to use one of the pistols he’d bought for her, that she could actually pull the trigger.
As if sensing her thoughts, he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, a gentle smile touching his lips.
“You’ll be fine. You’re tough, smart, and you don’t take grief from anybody,” he said. “Most of the men in this town know to steer clear of you already.”
She sighed again. Resigned to the fact that this was going to happen whether she liked it or not. She looked up at him, holding his gaze − silently hoping it wouldn’t be for the last time.
“Just be safe,” she said. “And send for me as soon as you can.”
“You can make book on that.”
They embraced tightly and she did her best to hold back the flood of tears that wanted to come pouring down her face. When he finally released her, he gave her a kiss on the forehead before grabbing his things and taking them down to the wagon. He loaded them into the back then climbed onto the seat, and gave her a wave as he picked up the reins.
She watched him leave in a clatter of hooves and a cloud of dust, feeling more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.
Chapter Three
Grimepass, Montana, One Year Later
Isabelle − Izzy to her friends − carried a basket of fresh biscuits into the bakery section of Turley’s General, the store where she had been working for the past year. It wasn’t her ideal job, but it was an honest day’s work and in that, she took some small sense of satisfaction.
She laid the biscuits out in the glass case and felt her stomach growl. She was hungry but didn’t feel up to making a full meal when she got home. There was little joy for her in cooking for one. Usually, she subsisted on things that did not require much in the way of preparation.
She eyed the fresh biscuits and decided she would buy a few to pair with the fresh strawberry jam she had in the larder at home. Not the most elegant meal but it would fill the void. She vowed to make herself an actual meal tomorrow.
“You about done for the day, Isabelle?”
Izzy turned to find Mr. Turley standing behind the counter, giving her a smile. He was a kind man about her father’s age − or would be her father’s age, if he were alive. He had wild curls of dark hair on his head, a thick mustache that hid his top lip, and sparkling dark eyes behind his round spectacles. He was only an inch or two taller than her and had plenty of padding around his midsection. Mr. Turley had an infectious laugh, a mind sharper than a straight razor, and Isabelle liked him immensely.
“I am. I was just going to buy up some of these biscuits.”
He frowned at her. “You need to eat better than that, Izzy,” he chided. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
She laughed. “Tomorrow. I’ll make something with vegetables.”