His Prairie Sweetheart

by Erica Vetsch

  A Home for Her Heart

  After being jilted at the altar, Southern belle Savannah Cox seeks a fresh start out West and accepts a teaching position in Minnesota. But between her students’ lack of English, the rough surroundings and sheriff Elias Parker’s doubts and distrust, Savannah’s unprepared for both the job and the climate. However, she’s determined to prove she can handle anything her new town throws her way.

  Elias gives it a week—or less—before the pretty schoolteacher packs her dainty dresses and hightails it back home. But no matter how many mishaps he has to rescue her from, Savannah doesn’t give up. Yet the real test is to come—a brutal blizzard that could finally drive her away, taking his heart with her...

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Parker.”

  Savannah’s lips were stiff, and straight vinegar tasted better than this particular slice of humble pie, but she got the words out.

  He shook his head. “The kids can help you inside. If you need anything—not that I’m assuming you will—” he held up his hands “—but if you do, holler.”

  He strode across the grass, leaving Savannah staring after him. His walk was powerful, his upper body swaying slightly, his arms swinging. Everything about Elias Parker spoke of hard work and capability.

  But he wasn’t to be trusted. No man was. Elias offered help one moment, but in the next, let her know he was certain she would fail. Girard had asked her to marry him, but at the last moment, he’d fled rather than go through with the wedding.

  Even her father wasn’t reliable, never home for more than a week at a time, always traveling, always putting business first.

  No, a woman shouldn’t put her trust in a man. She was better off on her own.

  It might be lonely, but it was better than a broken heart.

  Erica Vetsch is a transplanted Kansan now residing in Minnesota. She loves history and romance and is blessed to be able to combine the two by writing historical romances. Whenever she’s not immersed in fictional worlds, she’s the company bookkeeper for the family lumber business, mother of two, wife to a man who is her total opposite and soul mate, and an avid museum patron.

  Books by Erica Vetsch

  Love Inspired Historical

  His Prairie Sweetheart

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  ERICA VETSCH

  His Prairie Sweetheart

  Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me,

  for in You my soul takes refuge;

  in the shadow of Your wings I will take refuge,

  till the storms of destruction pass by.

  —Psalms 57:1

  Many thanks to Berit Oviatt and Jody Rosedahl for help with the Norwegian translations (any mistakes are solely mine), to Allie Pleiter, harpist extraordinaire, for help with the care and feeding of harps, and to my husband, Peter, for taking me to Vesterheim to research Norwegians in America.

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from The Cowboy’s City Girl by Linda Ford

  Chapter One

  Raleigh, North Carolina

  August 1887

  The humiliation. That’s what the gossips of Raleigh were calling it. Rehashing it with delighted horror in the tearooms and front parlors of the city.

  Savannah Cox kept her chin level and marched down the church steps, careful to slant her parasol to keep the August sun off her face...and if she was honest, to block out the looks. She put on her most remote expression, a reflection of the cold numbness that surrounded her broken heart. Agony at the core, a shell of ice around the pain, and proper manners covering all.

  After all, a lady’s pain was like her petticoat; she must never let it show.

  Three weeks ago she’d ascended these same steps arrayed in bridal white, eager and naive, surrounded by bridesmaids and anticipation. Shame squeezed tighter than her corset. Would it always hurt this much? Would she forever walk in the ignominy of being a jilted bride?

  Perhaps, but she wouldn’t do her walking here.

  Savannah climbed into the family carriage, ignoring her younger sisters’ chatter. Aunt Georgette patted her neck and temples with a lace hankie. “Poor Savannah. You’re being so brave. I’m just glad your dear mother isn’t here to see...” She tapered off with more fluttering and patting.

  Next to Aunt Georgette her sister, Aunt Carolina—broad, mannish and practical to her marrow—crossed her arms. “Nonsense, Georgette. Think for one moment what you’re saying. You’re glad Bettina is dead? Savannah will survive this, and the sooner everyone stops feeling sorry for her, the sooner things can return to normal. I, for one, think she made an expedient escape. If Girard Brandeis was so callow as to bow out at the eleventh hour without so much as an explanation, then he doesn’t deserve our Savannah. Now, let’s talk about something else.”

  Savannah stiffened. This was her chance. She’d dreaded introducing the subject, but she was running out of time. Inhaling a breath for bravery, she blurted out, “I wanted you all to know I’ve accepted a teaching position in Minnesota, and I’m leaving Raleigh the day after tomorrow.”

  Her sisters stopped nattering, Aunt Georgette dropped her hankie and a spark of something—was it admiration?—lit Aunt Carolina’s eyes.

  The coach lurched as the driver slapped the lines and the horses took off, harness jingling, wheels whirring.

  “You’ve what?” Aunt Georgette found her voice first.

  Savannah spoke with more conviction than she felt. “I said I will be teaching school this fall. In Minnesota. I leave on Tuesday.”

  Aunt Georgette blinked, and her face crumpled. “This is tragic. Think of the scandal. Savannah Cox, of the Raleigh Coxes, running off into the night to nurse her broken heart. Whatever will I say at the garden club, or the Aid Society, or at Priscilla Guthrie’s soiree next Friday?”

  “I imagine,” Aunt Carolina drawled, “you’ll say whatever gains you the most attention, and that you’ll say it dramatically and with great frequency. Now sit back and be quiet. I suggest we wait until we’re at home before we get further explanations.”

  Savannah shot Aunt Carolina a grateful glance, but she knew a reckoning was in her future. Father might be the titular head of the family, but not much happened without his sister Carolina’s blessing. What if she forbade Savannah to leave? Did Savannah have the courage to defy her? What if she encouraged her to go? Did she have the courage to follow through on her plans?

  Houses flashed by, and the horses’ hooves clopped on the cobblestones. Aunt Georgette dabbed herself, her brows beetling, her lips moving as if rehearsing what she wanted to say. Savannah’s sisters, Charlotte and Virginia, whispered behind their fans.

  Church had been a nightmare, the first se
rvice since...the humiliation. Savannah hadn’t heard a word the preacher said, had only mouthed along to the hymns and stared straight ahead the entire time, feeling the eyes on her, the speculations swirling.

  Oh, Girard. Why? What was wrong with me that you had to run rather than marry me? What did I lack? Did you ever really love me? How did this happen? All the same questions ran round and round in her head like a waterwheel, tumbling and splashing and getting nowhere.

  When they arrived at the house, mounting the steps to the three-story Italianate mansion the Cox family called home, Savannah headed straight for the room they jokingly called “headquarters”—Aunt Carolina’s sitting room.

  One of the servants had closed the tall shutters against the sun, and the tile floor and soft colors made the room the coolest in the house. August in Raleigh was brutal. Because of the wedding, they’d put off their annual trip to the coast, and Savannah missed the cooling sea breezes.

  Right now she was supposed to be on her honeymoon, a month-long sailing trip up the coast to New York City. She shoved that thought from her mind.

  Aunt Carolina glided into the room—she never walked anywhere—and rang the brass bell on the desk. The maid came in, followed by fluttering, scuttling Aunt Georgette.

  “Clarice, bring some lemonade.” Aunt Carolina took the pins from her cartwheel hat and eased it from her piled iron-gray curls. “I’m perishing in this heat. And tell the cook luncheon will be late.” She eased her comfortable bulk onto the settee and tugged off her lace gloves. “Sit, child, and start at the beginning.”

  Savannah removed her own hat. She’d known a confrontation would be coming, but now that the moment was here, she wondered if she should just take it all back, pretend she’d never said it, claim temporary weakness of the mind. Aunt Carolina skewered her with a “get on with it” stare. Savannah swallowed and wondered where to start.

  “She’s distraught, that’s what.” Georgette fussed with her fan. “She can’t be held responsible for anything she says or does when she’s in such extremis. Poor thing. I mean, the humiliation.”

  The mention of that word steeled Savannah’s resolve. This was why she had to leave. She was smothering under a blanket of pity. Words popped into her head...or maybe poured out of her heart.

  “I am not distraught. Nor do I have a nervous condition, though I might develop one if people don’t leave me alone.” Savannah dropped into a chair. “Aunt Carolina, I answered an advertisement I saw in the newspaper. You remember that client of Daddy’s who came to dinner, the one from Saint Paul? He had a copy of the Pioneer Press with him, and the moment I saw that classified advertisement, I knew I should apply. I have to get out of Raleigh, at least for a little while. If I don’t, I’ll forever be known as the girl who got left at the altar.” She clenched her hands in her lap, pressing against her legs through all the layers of fabric and hoopskirts to still the trembling in her muscles.

  Clarice entered with a tray of glasses. Ice tinkled in the pale yellow liquid as she poured. Savannah loosened her fingers to accept hers, careful to hold it securely given the condensation already forming on the outside of the glass. She sipped the tangy sweetness, letting the cool lemonade ease the tightness in her throat.

  “You’ve never taught school a day in your life. What makes you think you can now?” Aunt Carolina asked over the rim of her own glass. “And why Minnesota? If you want to teach, why can’t you find a school in Atlanta or Richmond or Charlotte? We have family and friends in those cities with whom you could stay. You wouldn’t be so alone that way.”

  “I graduated from normal school. I have a teaching certificate. I’m sure teaching a few children won’t be beyond my capabilities. And I chose Minnesota because I want to get away and start fresh. If I stay with friends or family, I’ll still have to endure their questions and pity. I want to go where nobody knows me, nobody knows what happened.”

  “Have you discussed this with your father?”

  “How can I? He left the day after the wedding on his business trip and hasn’t been back since. Anyway, he’d only tell you to handle it, the way he does everything that isn’t work related.” She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, but at Aunt Carolina’s frown, Savannah knew she hadn’t succeeded.

  “If you only want to get away for a while,” Aunt Georgette interjected, “why don’t you go up to New York City? Your father offered to pay for the trip... Anyway, I think you should stay here with your family, where we can support you and look after you. I’m sure the scandal will die down eventually.”

  “I don’t want to go back to New York. I’m supposed to be there right now with—” Savannah broke off, not wanting to say his name aloud, her heart once more sinking under a wave of pain and disillusion.

  Aunt Georgette subsided.

  “I can understand that.” Aunt Carolina drained her glass and set it on the side table. “However, Minnesota seems extreme. Where in Minnesota is this school, anyway? In Saint Paul?”

  Savannah shook her head. “It’s in the western part of the state. A small town called Snowflake. It’s a small school, too. Less than a dozen students.” At the moment, that sounded blissful.

  Aunt Carolina stared at her hard. That was the trouble with Aunt Carolina. She could hear all the things you weren’t saying and detect all the things you were trying to hide.

  Finally, when Savannah was sure she was going to veto the entire proceeding, her aunt’s lips relaxed, and she blinked slowly.

  “All right. I give my blessing, but it comes with a warning, too.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are trying to outrun your embarrassment, and I can understand that, but you’re also trying to outrun your self-doubt and hurt. You need to learn that while you can remove yourself from the circumstances, the feelings are going to go with you. You can’t run from what’s inside yourself, and it’s foolish to try. Until you deal with your feelings, they’re going to own you, whether here in Raleigh, in New York City or in the wilds of western Minnesota.”

  But the feelings were too painful to address. If Savannah opened the door to them, they would swarm out and engulf her. What Aunt Carolina said might well be true, but for now, Savannah’s only hope for recovery lay in keeping her feelings locked up tight and escaping to a place where she could start anew.

  * * *

  “Why do I have to be here? I didn’t hire her.” In fact, this was the last place he wanted to be. Elias Parker hitched his gun belt on his hip and tipped his chair back to rest against the front of the jail. He reached down and ruffled Captain’s fur. The collie rewarded him with a nudge from his wet nose and a swipe of his rough tongue.

  “You’re here because I need your help. Because I have to go to Saint Paul to appear before the State Board of Education and don’t know how long I will be gone.” Elias’s brother, Tyler, straightened the lapels on his checked suit and adjusted the angle of his bowler hat.

  Propping his boots on the hitching rail, Elias pushed his hat forward and crossed his arms. “Why are you dressed like a snake-oil salesman? You look like you just fell off a Baltimore bus.”

  “And you look like you just fell off a wanted poster. I’m trying to make a good impression on the new teacher.” Tyler checked his watch. “The stage is late.”

  “The stage is late eleven times out of ten.” Elias scanned the street from under his hat brim. As the town sheriff, it was his job to keep an eye on things and anticipate trouble—something not too difficult in a sleepy farm town like Snowflake. “Tell me her name again.”

  “Miss Savannah Cox.” Tyler said it as if he was reading copperplate writing with lots of loops and whorls.

  “And she’s from the Carolinas somewhere?” Elias grimaced. “Why’d you go and hire somebody from so far away?”

  “Small matter of ‘nobody else applied.’ After the last two fiascos, I promised myself I’d find the p
erfect applicant, but Miss Cox was the only one who answered the advertisement.” Tyler fussed with his collar.

  “Better to hire nobody at all than have another black mark on your record.” Or have a prissy girl arrive in town, flirting and leading you on one minute, and then decamping without a backward glance the next.

  “The children can’t afford to lose another year of schooling while we wait for a better applicant. I’m counting on you to look after Miss Cox. I can’t be here often. I have an entire county to supervise. You’ll be right here all the time.”

  “It’s not like I don’t have my own work to do, you know.” Which usually meant sweeping out the jail and making sure all the stores were locked up for the night. Snowflake was as quiet as a church on a Tuesday morning. Which wasn’t a bad thing because it gave Elias time to help his folks out on the farm. And evidently, time to babysit the schoolteacher. “How old is this woman, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, but she had such a refined way of writing, and used such fine stationery, I assumed she was middle-aged or better. She sounded very mature in her application letter.”

  Elias scratched his chin, feeling the rasp of whiskers he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. A “mature” female teacher might set some of his anxiety to rest.

  “Here comes the stage.” Tyler straightened and slipped his watch back into his vest pocket. He rubbed his hands together and scrubbed the toes of his shoes on the backs of his pant legs as if he were preparing to meet royalty.

  The coach rocked into town and pulled to a stop across from the jail. Elias let his boots drop to the boardwalk and levered himself out of his chair, righting his hat and bracing himself to meet the new teacher. “Stay here, Cap.” He motioned to the dog, which subsided into a hairy heap beside the chair.

  Elias formed a mental picture of the new teacher based on Tyler’s assessment. She’d probably be a dried-up old stick with a prunes-and-prisms mouth and no sense of humor. She could pose for the illustration in the dictionary beside the word spinster. She most likely carried a ruler and couldn’t wait to smack a kid’s hand for the slightest infraction. Elias foresaw a long winter ahead if Tyler made him look after her for the entire term. Then again, she’d probably take one glance at the living conditions and bare-bones schoolhouse and scamper back to where she came from.