A Love Defying The Odds (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  Uncle John looked up at Matthew sharply, surprised at his nephew’s cold-blooded threat.

  “Uncle, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Frank kept Miss Jones squirreled away in your house for several days, all while pretending he was me. I don’t know what he was playing at, but he seems to have carried off all your things while you were in Chicago and thrown them around in here. If you’re up to it, I’ll help you put it all back.”

  Uncle John shook his head, still lost in thought. “No, I’m all right. I’ll set it all to rights. I just can’t believe he’d do such a thing! I mean, I ‘spose with his past he might get a wild thought once in a while, but—”

  “What do you mean, with his past?” Matthew questioned.

  “Well son, that boy had been locked up before,” John admitted. “He’d been on the run for a few years before the law caught up with him down in Texas. He struck out for new territory once he was free though, trying to put all that behind him.”

  “You brought a known criminal out to my property and set him loose? With women around the place and everything?” Matthew asked, his fists balling in his anger. “What on earth were you thinking?”

  “Now Matthew, a lot of people come west looking for a fresh start!” his uncle argued. “There’s a good many men who are hard workers and can learn to be honest folk if they’re given a new beginning. Frank was one of those men, or at least I thought he was. Now I just don’t know.”

  Matthew paced slowly in the doorway, then sat down on a nearby bale of hay. He dropped his head to his hands and answered, “I suppose you might be right. There was no way to know if he was truly a changed man or if he was plotting something else. Now I guess we have the answer, don’t we?”

  “I’m sure sorry about this,” Uncle John said slowly. “If I could go back and never lay eyes on him, I wouldn’t be the least bit sad. But it’s done, and all we can do now is be a good bit more careful about folks out here from now on.”

  “I know it,” Matthew agreed, still shaking his head. “But I’ve just come to think of everyone as a family, it seems so wrong for someone to turn on us like this.”

  “Son, mark my words. There’s a difference between a landowner who looks after his hires the way you do and being one of those hired men who toils all day long to enrich someone else. You all may be on good terms and it’s a blessing the way you do things around here, like how you have everyone gather for a meal at the end of a long day—just the way your pa did. But make no mistake, those men aren’t your family. They work for you, and if you ever came on hard times—just like with the price of cattle dropping so much this year—they’ll leave outta here faster’n a jackrabbit for better work and better wages. D’you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matthew muttered, but he didn’t want to believe it. His men had been good to this ranch, and he wanted to believe it was more than just the wages that kept them here.

  There had to be more to it than that. Otherwise, there was nothing to stop anyone from trying to take what was his… starting with his bride.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sheriff looked down at the bedraggled man on the floor of the jail’s only cell. His face was worn thin and the bones of his arms showed through the threadbare fabric of his shirt. He looked up at the sheriff with eyes so rheumy they ran, the whites of which had turned yellow some time ago from drinking too much homemade liquor.

  This is our hardened outlaw? the sheriff wondered, scoffing at the notion. He’d have to have a word with his deputies about investigating a crime more thoroughly before dragging in an old bum and pinning a murder on him.

  “Are you Greer?” the sheriff asked, nudging the older man through the bars with the toe of his boot.

  The man turned to look at him, his eyes following slower than the rest of him. He grunted in a half-answer, but shook his head.

  “What’s yer name then?” the sheriff pressed.

  “Is Nelson. George Nelson,” the man slurred before letting his head rest peacefully once again on the floor of the jail.

  “Just as I figured,” the sheriff muttered before bellowing, “Oakes? Where are you?”

  A deputy ran in from out front of the jail, his shirt and collar freshly starched and his silver star shining. “What’s the matter, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Cooper pointed down at the filthy man and said, “Does this man really look to you like a known outlaw, one who has led a gang of criminals across the entire Southwest Territory?”

  The young deputy looked through the bars and down at the man, then shrugged. “Well, maybe in his younger days?”

  “Why are you going around arresting folks for the crime of being the town drunk when we’re supposed to be staging a manhunt for a cold-blooded killer?” The sheriff waited, his thick arms crossed in front of his broad chest.

  “I dunno. I just heard that was Nelson Greer, and that he’s our man! I was afraid he’d get away, so I brought him in and locked him up,” the deputy said, fidgeting nervously under the sheriff’s intense gaze of scrutiny.

  “Smith, you’re not even half right. This ain’t Nelson Greer, it’s George Nelson. From the looks of him, the only crime he’s committed is going more than a month without a good washing. For his trouble—and your stupidity—you get to take him out to the wash house, clean him up good, and deposit him back at whichever saloon is his favorite. Then when you get back, I want you to sit right there in the corner and study this poster real good.”

  Sheriff Cooper walked over to the nail beside the doorway and ripped down a wanted poster for Granger Greer, notorious bank robber and murderer.

  “See here? Our man uses an alias. He don’t go by Nelson, and he sure doesn’t use the name George. Understand? Now get busy, ‘cause from the looks of things you’re gonna be cleaning old George up for a while.”

  When the deputy had let the old man out of the cell and taken him outside—along with a faint stench that had shown up with him—Sheriff Cooper sat at his desk and watched out the window that faced the street. There was a murderer loose in his town, and all signs pointed to a fearsome outlaw.

  Of course, there was another possibility, one that the sheriff couldn’t seem to shake. Why would the first gunfight this town had seen in nearly twenty years happen the same day a beautiful young stranger appeared in town? Was she playing at some ruse, snaring the men of Tuckerrise in her web like a lovely black widow spider?

  Against his intuition and his better judgment, Sheriff Cooper had bought the story about Matthew Miller bringing her to town. He should have kept her for a time, just to see if her story held up. Truth be told, the thought of his wife’s face if she found out a pretty girl like that was locked up in the jail alongside the likes of old George was enough to stop him in his tracks.

  “But I’m not done asking about you, Miss Jones,” Sheriff Cooper said out loud as he watched the comings and goings beyond the window. “I’ll find out what you’re up to, and if it’s anything like I suspect, we just might hang our first murderess.”

  * * *

  Lucy was silent all the way back to the house. Susanna had tried in vain to speak to her, but Lucy only shook her head, unable to answer and still keeping her arms tightly wrapped around herself. Constance rode beside the wagon, keeping her horse nearby and watching intently for anything that might frighten Lucy even more.

  “We’re here, Miss Jones,” Susanna said quietly. “Do you want me to draw you a warm bath? Constance and I will bring the tub to your room, and no one will be allowed upstairs. That’s Mrs. Miller’s orders.”

  Lucy thought to refuse, but then decided it might help steady her nerves. She nodded quickly, still looking down at the ground in front of the wagon.

  “Is it… is it all right with you if I explain to Mrs. Miller what’s happened? She’ll be so worried, you don’t want her barging in and trying to draw the words out of you,” she continued. “I can tell her while keeping your personal matters private.”

  Lucy finally no
dded again, grateful beyond measure to have people around who were both so protective and so understanding. Even Mrs. Miller—who admittedly would have flown into a tizzy and wanted to make sure Lucy was all right—was a saint on earth for her compassion and concern. But at the moment, she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Lucy only wanted to slip beneath the hot water, wash off the anger and hurt, then crawl beneath the covers and cry for a while.

  “Constance, you take Miss Jones up to her room, I’ll go speak to Mrs. Miller. I’ll have Gertie start the water and then I’ll help you bring up the tub.” Susanna nodded firmly at her sister then marched off to handle everything.

  “I’m so sorry you were pained by all this,” Constance said softly, not knowing what else to say. “Just tell me anything you need—anything at all—and we’ll make sure to fetch it for you.”

  Lucy mumbled a word of thanks, intensely warring with herself. She knew deep in her bones that none of these kind people had any ill will towards her, but yet, she was fearful all the same. Her mind reeled with the possibilities.

  Had the first Matthew Miller actually been the right one, and this new Matthew killed him to get to her? Was she in danger before, and if not, then what was the purpose in being ferried away to the cabin? Or was she in danger now, her real future husband replaced by a murderer who took anything and everything he wanted?

  No, she thought. The image of this kind, generous young rancher who worked as hard as his hired hands and who provided for everyone here filled her mind’s eye. It simply didn’t fit with the cold, silent man who’d barely spoken to her other than to tell her not to do this or that.

  She waited while Constance delivered her horse to the barn, then followed her around the back of the house to a staircase that ran adjacent to the kitchen. Upstairs, Lucy waited while Constance left and returned with a short, thin chemise for her to wear in the bath.

  Lucy was only feeling the barest bit better when Constance and Susanna brought an enormous brass tub up the stairs and set it up in her room beside the window. She felt foolish for letting them make trip after trip down the stairs and back up again, fetching the hot water to fill the tub.

  At long last, Susanna poured one last bucketful in and declared it ready. She shooed her sister out of the room, and then turned to Lucy.

  “I will be right outside the door,” she assured her in a serious voice. “No one will be coming in, I can promise you that. And there’s no hurry, neither. You just take your time and see if a good warm bath doesn’t put your heart at ease. Here.”

  She handed Lucy a small sachet, then pointed to the tub.

  “You can put these in the water if you like. Oh, don’t look like a nervous nelly! It’s just some dried flower petals to make the water smell nice,” she said with a laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Susanna,” Lucy finally said. “I just… I don’t know what to think. I can’t imagine what I could have done that would make anyone want to hurt me, but now… I don’t even know who I can trust.”

  “I understand. And I won’t hear another word of apology! None of us will. You’ve been through so much as it is, and then this happened today. It’s a wonder you haven’t fainted dead away from the shock of it all. But you go on and get in that tub before your water chills. And remember…” Susanna looked around then gave Lucy a mischievous grin that made her laugh slightly. “…if we’d wanted to poison you, we didn’t need to put herbs in your bath. We could have just dosed your food!”

  “I do suppose that’s true,” Lucy admitted, trying to smile. “Susanna, thank you so much for all your kindness, but especially for being so dear to me today.”

  The maid nodded and patted her shoulder sweetly, then left the room. Lucy waited until she heard the scrape of a chair being dragged in front of the door, and even then, it was a few seconds before she could bring herself to undress and put on the thin gown.

  But as soon as she lowered herself into the water, enjoying the luxurious feeling of being wrapped in its warmth, Lucy felt her fears begin to drift outward from her, one tiny bit at a time. She thought back to what had passed for bath time at the schoolhouse—standing in a low wooden tub as close to the fire as she dared, washing in the completely blackened kitchen in the middle of the night so there would be no chance any of the children might stumble in on her—and realized this was one of the most wonderful new experiences she could imagine.

  A long time later, long enough that Susanna had peeked her head in the room to offer Lucy another bucket of scalding water to warm up her bath, she was finally ready to get out. She dried off quickly and put on the nightgown she’d been given, then covered that with one of the girls’ robes. She wasn’t sure if it would be rude to avoid the family supper, but somehow, she was certain they would understand.

  Constance and Susanna emptied the great tub and carried it downstairs, then Gertie appeared with a small table and a tray laden with food. A full pitcher of dandelion tea sat beside the plate, along with a wedge of cake that Lucy could have easily shared with all of the children at the schoolhouse.

  “I already heared you had a bad adventure today,” Gertie began, sympathy clear on her face. “If you want to come down for a bite of your dinner I’ll be glad to help you with this old plate, but if you’d rather just stay up here and rest, well Miss Jones, that’s mighty fine with everybody too.”

  “Thank you, Miss Gertie. I don’t want to be a trouble,” she began, but a loud whoop from the older woman stopped her.

  “It ain’t no trouble at all! Don’t you go thinkin’ like that! I’m happy to fix you up something, and between you and me, this plate will sure start putting meat on your little bones!” Gertie looked to the door and saw that no one was there, then turned back and added in a low voice, “Just don’t go tellin’ Miz Miller on me none. She’s worried that her little old waist is getting’ bigger with her age, so I promised her there’s nothin’ in my cookin’ that can make her fat!”

  Lucy was so surprised by the cook’s confession that she had to laugh, and for the first time since the horrible sight this afternoon, she realized it felt good to laugh.

  “Thank you, Miss Gertie. I am very grateful to you, to all of you here.”

  The cook’s face turned deadly serious. “Now hold on a minute, Miss Lucy. That sounded a whole lot like somethin’ final. Are you… are you thinkin’ of leavin’ us?”

  Lucy’s eyes went wide, not because Gertie had guessed her plans but because she honestly hadn’t thought of it. Mistaking her silence for an answer, Gertie retrieved the chair Susanna had left in the hallway and pulled it up alongside the bed.

  “Now young lady, I want you to talk to old Gertie. Tell me what’s wrong, child!”

  Before she could stop herself, years of worries and hurts poured forth. Lucy told of losing her own family, growing up in the schoolhouse as a ward, finding herself with so few prospects that she stayed on as caretaker to the children, then losing that position when the Aid Society washed its hands of the little ones in need.

  “And that’s how I came to answer Mr. Miller’s advertisement. But then… it was awful! I simply don’t know what to believe now, or which version of events is true!” Lucy explained before falling back against the pillows, worn out from reliving the worst of it.

  “Whoo, your poor child! No wonder you can’t get yer feet under you out here!” Gertie said, clucking sadly. “But now answer me this. I don’t have any book learnin’, but I do have heapin’ loads of common sense. You say you can’t know which Matthew Miller is the real one—and don’t you dare take my word for it since I have a special affection for him, after all, I’ve helped raise that boy since he showed up on God’s earth—but think about them letters. Which Matthew seems rightly like the one who wrote to you?”

  Lucy thought, and nodded her head. “I know that this Matthew is the one who wrote to me,” she replied, gesturing to the property. “But what I don’t know is whether or not he had any hand in the other Matthew’s scheming ways. He brought m
e out to the cabin then could not explain why!”

  “I don’t know that one myself,” Gertie admitted, “but I can tell you this much. Poor Matthew is down those stairs, nearly rending his garments like they did in the Bible over grievin’ you today. I’m not gonna ask you to do anythin’ you don’t want, but if you find it in yer heart that you wanna send some kind words of hope down to him, you just call old Gertie. All righty?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Lucy replied, smiling for the woman’s benefit.

  “Whoo, don’t you go callin’ me ‘ma’am’ now, I’ll start getting too big for my britches. Next thing, I’ll be sittin’ in the porch rockers with Miz Miller and havin’ lemonade ‘stead of fixin’ yer supper!” Gertie laughed so hard she nearly choked, which only made her laugh even harder. She dabbed at happy tears in the corners of her eyes, then said, “Miss Jones, you have a restful time now, all right? Don’t worry yerself too much, just get yer rest. Yer mind will get straight with whatever yer heart decides to do.”