A Love Defying The Odds (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  “That was horrible! I cannot understand why any sane man would choose to drink such a vile thing!” he cried out. The ranch hands laughed good-naturedly.

  “There’s the problem…” John said, slapping his knee. “You think sane men drink whiskey! There’s nothing sane about them!”

  John and the men laughed a little more, then John turned serious. “It shouldn’t take a newcomer like you too long to start feeling that drink. I’d say within a few minutes, then we can set that shoulder. Miss Gertie, would you tend his cut while we wait?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. John,” Gertie answered, toting her items over to the table. She placed a bowl of hot water, a bar of lye soap, and some liniment on the table, then removed the cloth entirely from Matthew’s wound.

  “Whoo, Mr. Matthew. That looks like it smarts somethin’ awful! This won’t feel too good, but it’ll keep it from getting the sickness in it.”

  Gertie got to work, dabbing slowly at first to let Matthew get used to the sting, then scrubbing a little harder when she noticed that he wasn’t complaining as much. By the time she’d finished and was dabbing at the sore with some foul-smelling ooze, Matthew was practically smiling.

  “There, that’ll do ya!” she proclaimed, closing up the small glass jar and dropping the soiled wash rags into the bowl. “Mr. John, I daresay he’s ready for the worst of it now.”

  “Thank you kindly, Miss Gertie. Could you step out and make sure Mrs. Miller doesn’t come inside per chance? I’d hate to distress her if she happened to come this way.”

  “Of course! I’ll see to her, you just take good care of Mr. Matthew here.” Gertie nodded and dropped her items near the washboard in the corner, then hurried out the door before she could accidentally hear any of what would undoubtedly be a commotion the folks could hear all the way in Tuckerrise.

  “All right, Matthew. That whiskey got you feeling a little happier than before?” John asked. Matthew nodded, his eyes already looking sleepy. “Okay boys, let’s get him steady in the chair. You two hold onto his other arm in case he starts swinging. One the count of three…”

  John tenderly raised up Matthew’s arm until it was level with his shoulder, then gently turned it this way and that until it seemed aligned. He took care not to put too much pressure on it, lulling Matthew into the possibility that this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Without counting aloud, John gave a mighty shove and smiled when he felt a soft pop! under his calloused hands. Matthew nearly came out of his chair, screaming from both the pain and the surprise of it.

  “I thought you were gonna count for me!” he roared, wincing to hold back the unexpected tears that pooled in his eyes.

  “I was afraid to give you too much warning, son!” John shouted back, chuckling sympathetically. “I’ve done ripped my arm loose from its socket, too, and I knew exactly how bad this was gonna pain you!”

  Matthew opened his mouth to object but he bit back another roar of pain instead. He instinctively rubbed at the shoulder joint with the hand the other men had only just let go of, and cringed again when he touched it.

  “Now, you’re gonna need to keep that arm bound up to your ribs,” John warned him. “The meat around the bone is all disturbed, and it can pop right back out again if you’re not careful with it. You do that, you’ll be sitting in this chair again to have me set it some more.”

  “No! I won’t, I’ll be good!” Matthew promised weakly, feeling the sudden shock of pain coursing through him coupled with the whiskey.

  “Good boy! Now somebody go fetch his ma and we can tell her to take good care of him. She’ll put you to bed and see to ya, but don’t worry. I’ll tell her about the whiskey so you don’t have to try to explain!”

  John laughed again and turned to head back to the barn, leaving Matthew to keep rubbing his fingers against the injury in hopes of quelling the soreness. One by one, the ranch hands filed out to get back to work, but the quiet of the empty kitchen was short-lived.

  “Matthew! Son! What happened?” Genevieve cried as she flew through the back door. “Uncle John has just told me there was an accident!”

  She threw herself to the floor beside his chair and looked over the bandage Gertie had only finished putting in place a few minutes before. She reached for his shoulder but pulled her hands back at the last minute.

  “Does it hurt much?” she asked softly, and Matthew slowly turned his head to look at her, his eyes slightly glazed.

  “It’s terrible, Ma. But Uncle John made me drink the… that awful…” Matthew gestured towards the glass with his good hand and his mother picked it up and smelled it. She made a face and set it back down, far from their reach.

  “Oh, that sounds like that old rascal! But at least he tried to keep it from hurting too much. Can you move it any? Does it feel like it went back in straight?”

  Matthew moved his arm as best he could without too much pain, and his mother slumped somewhat in relief. She smiled, pressed her hand to his bandaged head once more, and stood up.

  “Come on, let’s get you in the bed so you can rest.” She held out her hand for him to lean on, but he shook his head.

  “Ma, you don’t have to take care of me. I can… I mean, I’m tired, but I can…” His words trailed off without any direction.

  “Of course, my son! But indulge your dear old mother for this? For my sake?” Her hopeful smile did him in, and Matthew nodded. “Besides, you’re going to want a warm compress for that headache in a few hours! If the hay bale didn’t get you, the whiskey most certainly will!”

  * * *

  Hours later—Matthew couldn’t be sure how many—he awoke from a strange dream. He was being chased by a runaway locomotive but knew not why he was running on the tracks or why the train was intent on barreling over him. He remembered calling out for help but couldn’t conceive of why he didn’t just jump off the track.

  I will not be drinking of that awful stuff again! Matthew thought resentfully. If this is what it does to a man, I have no need of it!

  He tried to turn over but the pain in his shoulder was too great. He turned his face towards the window, but the glare of the bright light felt like an iron spike had just been driven straight through his forehead and out the back of his skull. There was nothing to do but lay there in misery, hurting all over and feeling somewhat sick to his stomach.

  “Are you awake?” his mother whispered from the doorway when she opened it just a sliver.

  “Yes, Ma,” Matthew replied quietly, trying not to jostle anything.

  “Are you hurting much?” she asked, still keeping her voice soft and low. Matthew nodded almost imperceptibly but instantly regretted it. “I’ve brought an aspirin and some water. Gertie sent up some broth and fresh bread.”

  “I can’t eat,” he moaned quietly, still trying to think of a comfortable position. “If I find out that anyone ever has that ill-intentioned whiskey anywhere on my ranch ever again…”

  Genevieve laughed softly. “You’re a good man, Matthew. But Gertie did say it would help the feeling to get away sooner if you had something in your stomach. Here, just try the bread first.”

  Matthew obeyed, taking the piece with his free hand and nibbling at the hard crust. He had to admit that the taste did soothe his stomach instantly, and he took a larger bite.

  “That is quite good, actually,” he muttered between tentative bites. “I’ve learned a few lessons today, starting with whiskey is the devil’s drink and ending with don’t walk under the hay loft when the men are working up there.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it, but don’t put all the blame on yourself. It was an accident, nothing more. As for the whiskey, while I’m glad to know it’s not to become your new hobby, it served its purpose!” Genevieve said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “I still wonder how they would have gotten you to hold still for such a thing otherwise!”

  “Now Mother, there is something I want to ask you,” he began, hesitating now that the words were finally coming
forth. “It’s about those… advertisements.”

  Genevieve straightened up in her chair, attempting not to look too eager. “The ones we talked about last night, you mean?”

  “You know which ones I mean, Ma!” Matthew said, pretending to glower at her innocent expression. “I thought about it during the night, and I suppose there’s no harm in posting an ad such as those. No one may ever see it, for all I know, so there’s no sense fretting about it.”

  “That’s very smart of you,” his mother replied, still trying not to appear overly excited. “In fact, I’ll fetch my writing desk and take down your dictation if you like… since you cannot get up and do any work, that is. You might as well think on this while you’re not so busy.”

  Matthew sighed wearily. Of course his mother stood at the ready to oblige! But he laughed and said, “That’ll be fine. I’ll be right here when you get back, of course.”

  The older woman flew from the room on hurried feet, then returned moments later with a varnished wooden box. She placed it on the table beside Matthew’s bed and opened one of the drawers to withdraw some paper. She lifted the slanted lid to take out the inkwell and a pen, then readied herself to write down what Matthew thought to say.

  And they waited, looking at each other quizzically.

  Finally, Matthew spoke first. “I don’t know how to begin. You’re the one who’s read so many of these posts!”

  “Oh! Well, usually they start with an announcement of what they’re looking for,” Genevieve replied. “Wait a moment, I’ll return with some of the ones I saved.”

  She raced out and back again in no time at all, holding the stack she’d shared the evening before. Her eyes scanned the page intently until she found several that were appealing.

  “Here, like this one. ‘Wanted: A Wife for a corn farmer with 50 acres, plan to increase the land after harvest time. I don’t take to the drink nor do I smoke or gamble. My only vice is sassafras.’”

  Genevieve looked at Matthew, who seemed perplexed. He shook his head.

  “Well then, son, there’s also this one which I think is very direct and clear. It reads, ‘Seeking a wife to help with my household…’ Wait, no. That’s not very personal, I suppose. You might not wish to mention chores and hard labor in the ad! How about this one?” Genevieve cleared her throat and read, “Poor Farmer in Need of a Bride. I’ve come West to make my fortune and my land is almost in the clear. Now able to provide for a family. Please reply.”

  “I guess that is rather direct,” Matthew said, frowning. “I don’t know, Mother. None of these sound very sincere. They seem as though it’s now a convenient time to snare a woman in their traps.”

  “I agree there, but then again, what would you have your ad say?” she countered kindly. “‘Wealthy young heir to nearly 500 acres and a thousand head of cattle seeks a wife to sit around the home and look pretty while the servants do all the work?’ I’m somewhat afraid of what kind of person might respond if you tell all that you know.”

  “That’s true. I don’t want to entice people who are only interested in material wealth. After all, we do all work around here. No one sits idle while the others toil away, but that is because we all love this land as much as you and Pa did.” Matthew looked at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “I think I know what to say. If you’ll write this down, please…”

  Chapter Eight

  The two men exchanged a glance then sidled away from the cattle they’d been tending. Heading in opposite directions, they met up at the farthest corner of the barn where no one could see them.

  “That was a close call this morning,” one of them said quietly, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes he’d rolled the night before.

  “I’ll say,” the other one answered, accepting a cigarette and lighting it with a match. “Looks like Miller’s gonna be fine, though.”

  “Yep. That’s the problem.” The first man spit a few shreds of tobacco on the ground before taking another long drag from his cigarette.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the second man answered, looking around carefully before adding, “You gotta watch what you say, you know.”

  “Oh I know. I’ve been watching my words for far too long. I’ve bided my time, but there’s no opportunity out here unless a man is willing to make it for himself.”

  “By killin’ a landowner and taking his property you mean? Is that really how far you’re willin’ to go?” He looked at the other ranch hand and waited, expecting the worst.

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve always seemed like the type. But what do you want with me?” he asked.

  “I know you’ve done some pretty bad things before hiring on out here. I want you to help me get rid of Miller, once and for all. That good-for-nothing poke woke up one day and inherited everything your eyes can see. He didn’t have to work for it none like you and I did. We worked our way out here and took up every kind of job we could get our hands on. Him? What did he ever do? He doesn’t deserve to put his name on land as good as this when he didn’t have to do anything more than have the right pa and ma.”

  “I don’t hold any ill-will towards him,” the other man answered. “I won’t go rattin’ you out since I’m no snitch, but I’m not aimin’ to stick my head in the noose, either. Like you said, I’ve done some things, but I ain’t never killed a man. Not even some who deserved it.”

  “Naw, I don’t mean kill him. I think too much of his family for that, I guess,” the first man explained. “But there’s things we can do to get rid of him, make him see that life out here in Tuckerrise just isn’t for him. Know what I mean?”

  “I can’t say that I do, but if the money’s good and we ain’t hurtin’ him for real, I got no issue with steppin’ in, I suppose.”

  “Oh, there’ll be money. When this place isn’t worth anything anymore, I’ll buy it up and cut you in on it. You can have land or gold for your portion, your choice.”

  “Don’t go makin’ offers you can’t follow through with yet. I’ll help you, but I’ll be the one to decide how much I get and how I get what’s owed to me.”

  “That’ll do.” The first man held out his hand and the second one stared at it for a few moments. He finally reached out his arm and took the offered handshake, sealing their bargain.

  “Now what is it that we have to do to him?”

  * * *

  Lucy awoke early one morning the following week to prepare a breakfast of blueberry flapjacks and fresh milk from their goat. She even set aside a little batter with some of Mrs. Mayhew’s white sugar to make a crumb cake for later on. That, along with some biscuits and the stew she’d made from the fresh squirrels her neighbor had brought over the day before, would make a nice feast for all of them, one that would lift their spirits.

  And they were sure to need it: she’d decided during the night that she would tell the children today.

  It wouldn’t be an easy task, and for a moment she pondered whether or not it would ruin blueberries for them forever. She decided to wait until breakfast was finished and then take them down to the swing that a long-gone homesteader had erected in the church’s oak tree from a plank and some old rope.

  There, they could sit in the shade and hear their fates… then have a good cry together if they wanted.

  Getting through the morning meal without losing her mind was harder than she’d thought. Lucy struggled to put on a happy smile, but their inquisitive minds knew something was amiss. The first question had been about whether or not she was feeling poorly, but the last was a direct demand to know what was wrong.

  Only Forten—sweet, intuitive boy that he was—stayed quiet before finally offering to take Jeremiah and Samuel out to feed the chickens so that Lucy could finish washing up.

  “Children, come sit with me,” Lucy said later on after the last child had taken a turn on the swing. She patted the grass around her, the sun flicke
ring through the enormous oak canopy overhead, and the children came close.

  “Are you gonna tell us a story?” Jeremiah asked hopefully as Betty’s smile widened.

  “I’m afraid I might,” she began, “but I have to tell you something… it’s not a very good story.”

  “Well then don’t tell that one,” he argued. “Tell us the one about the cowboys driving their cattle to Wyoming again!”

  Lucy smiled and patted his head, but her tears betrayed her. Jeremiah grew quiet and leaned closer to her, putting his head against her arm. Betty’s thumb immediately went to her mouth as she sensed something awful was about to happen.

  “Children, this is a story about a little family with only a big girl and five little ones, living all alone in Nevada,” Lucy started after she managed to catch her breath.