Sidney smiled back and shook her head. Overwhelming wonder filled her heart as she gazed at Dustin McCutcheon, her husband, a man larger than the whole West combined.
“Never in this lifetime, Mr. McCutcheon. I love you.”
Read on for an excerpt of Sourdough Creek!
Also, don’t miss the new arrival of
Under a Falling Star
Book 4
Prairie Hearts Novels
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Other Books by Caroline Fyffe
McCutcheon Family Series
Montana Dawn
Texas Twilight
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Evie
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Heather
Moon Over Montana
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Kathryn
Montana Snowfall
Texas Lonesome
~~~*~~~
Prairie Hearts Series
Where the Wind Blows
Before the Larkspur Blooms
West Winds of Wyoming
Under a Falling Star
~~~*~~~
Stand Alone Western Historical
Sourdough Creek
~~~*~~~
Stand Alone Contemporary Women’s Fiction
Three and a Half Minutes
~~~*~~~
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Acknowledgements
Heartfelt gratitude goes out to so many special people for their help in creating Texas Lonesome, book eight of the McCutcheon Family series.
My fabulous editors, Pam Berehulke of Bulletproof Editing, and Linda Carroll-Bradd of Lustre Editing, for their wonderful suggestions, sharp eyes, and deep and thoughtful guidance to round this story out to its fullest.
To Sandy Loyd, Lisa Cooke, and Saralee Etter, my author friends and first readers who spotted the missing opportunities of the story that I’d never want to miss. You gals rock!
To Kelli Ann Morgan for the new cover designs of my whole series, and especially for Lonesome. I finally have my little Western town. If you look very closely, I even have riders moving along the dusty roads of Rio Wells.
To my formatter, Bob Houston, for never scolding me for all the re-dos I ask him to make.
To the Pioneer Hearts Facebook Group of authors and readers, for making me smile every single day.
To my husband, Michael, for taking up all the slack so I can get my two thousand words a day. Thank you so much!
My awesome family—Matthew, Rachel, Adam, Misti, and baby Evelyn—you all set the moon and stars.
My four older sisters who always have my back—Shelly (in heaven), Sherry, Jenny, and Mary. No youngest sister could ever have such a wonderful family. I love you all.
To the most awesome readers in the universe—I can’t tell you what your love and enthusiasm means to me. It’s everything!
And to our Awesome God for making all this possible in the first place!
About The Author
Caroline Fyffe was born in Waco, Texas, the first of many towns she would call home during her father’s career with the US Air Force. A horse aficionado from an early age, she earned a Bachelor of Arts in communications from California State University-Chico before launching what would become a twenty-year career as an equine photographer. She began writing fiction to pass the time during long days in the show arena, channeling her love of horses and the Old West into a series of Western historicals. Her debut novel, Where the Wind Blows, won the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart Award as well as the Wisconsin RWA’s Write Touch Readers’ Award. She and her husband have two grown sons and live in the Pacific Northwest.
Want news on releases, giveaways, and bonus reads? Sign up for Caroline’s newsletter at: www.carolinefyffe.com
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Write to her at: [email protected]
Excerpt from
Sourdough Creek
By
Caroline Fyffe
Chapter One
Clarksville, Nevada Territory, June 1851
Sam Ridgeway awakened slowly. He grasped at the overwhelming happiness that enveloped him, unwilling to let it go just yet. The feeling ebbed and he opened his eyes. Someday, I’ll have my own ranch, and it won’t be a dream. A dull ache squeezed his temples, a result of too many hours of poker in the dim light of the saloon. Good thing he wasn’t a drinker. Waking up with a headache was as appealing as gettin’slapped in the face with a cow tail covered in dung.
The bedsheet, pulled haphazardly over his bare chest, felt cool against his skin. He stared at the cracked ceiling of his ratty hotel room, wondering how much longer the paper-thin walls would actually remain erect. The Desert Princess was anything but. Unfortunately, it was the only establishment in town to get a bed, if a saddle tramp like himself was inclined to stay over.
Suddenly, last night’s events came rushing back. His breath caught and he sat up. His gaze cut to his saddlebags across the room on a chair. It was true! Lady Luck had wrapped her arms around him and kissed him flush on the lips.
Sam threw back the sheet and crossed the scarred wooden floor. With shaky hands, he unbuckled first the left side, rummaged around, then repeated the action on the right. Not finding the thrice-folded document, he strode over to the morning light streaming through the window and tried again.
Nothing!
Heat rushed to his face as confusion settled in. Angrily, he tossed the bags onto the bed and stared at the floor, thinking. Just after midnight, when Sam had decided he’d had as much fun as one payday would allow, and time had come to call it a night, the Swede had made a startling declaration. The bald miner with only one eye was out of money. He wanted one last chance to win back some of his hard-earned pay. Feeling lucky, he tossed the deed to his gold claim into the middle of the saloon table.
It was the easiest hand Sam had ever won. Returning to his room, he put the claim into his saddlebag for safekeeping. At the most, he’d had two beers, so he hadn’t been drunk. He wouldn’t mix that up, not with how important these winnings were to him and his brother, Seth. They would finally get their life back on track. So where was it?
Dread gave way to anger as Sam put the puzzle pieces together. The only person who had known he was staying overnight in the Desert Princess was Arvid Angel, one of two other men involved in the game. Somehow that sneaking, lowdown bum had crept in here while he’d been asleep and stolen it!
Sam stepped to the door, took the handle, and tested the lock. It held firm.
Somehow—somehow—he’d gotten in.
Now almost frantic, Sam glanced around, wondering how the snake had accomplished it. The room was on the second floor, without balcony or toehold. The old coot hadn’t come through the window. So how did he do it?
A large hole by the floorboard, half covered by a dresser, caught Sam’s eye. He was sure it hadn’t been there last night.
Two strides gave him access. He grasped the cladding and gave it a yank. A three-foot section of wallpaper ripped away, crisscrossed with small boards pasted to the back. Sam glared at the poor excuse of patching material dangling in his hands.
Arvid must had taken the room next door and burrowed through after discovering the weak spot, somehow without waking him, and stolen the prize!
Sam clenched his fists. This wasn’t the end of it! No way, no how! Not by a long shot. He’d find Arvid and retrieve what was rightfully his, if it was the last thing he ever did.
“I don’t want to call you Cassidy,” Josephine announced boldly. Her eyes filled and her bottom lip wobbled. “You’re Cassie. My sister.”
Cassie almost winced at the distressed expression on her little sister�
��s face. But there was no changing what had to be done. Time had run out. “From now on, and until I say different,” she responded, looking into her sister’s eyes to make her point known, “I’m Cassidy, your brother. Remember that.”
Cassie smeared some dirt down Josephine’s cheek and a tad more across her forehead for good measure. She rubbed a little on her own neck, too, just enough to seem as if she hadn’t bathed in a good while.
Picking up scissors, she lifted a handful of sun-colored locks from her sister’s head and, with a sound akin to shearing wool, cut it off one inch from the roots, leaving only thick stubble behind. A cry tore from her sister’s throat as she pulled back.
“Sit still, Josephine. I’ve told you a hundred times this is only for a while.” She sectioned off another portion and cut, unmindful of the tears running down Josephine’s cheeks. “It’ll grow back, when this is all over.” The younger girl wiped her face with the back of her hand and nodded compliantly.
Forcing a smile, Cassie continued to cut. “I’ll call you Joey. That’s short for Joseph. It won’t be so bad. Think of it—as a boy you can get away with all sorts of shenanigans. Remember Clarence? How he’d tell his ma lies and make rude noises? Well, I don’t expect you to be fibbing, but being a boy does have some advantages.”
Her little sister chewed on her bottom lip, considering her sister’s words. “Can I spit and holler?”
“Sometimes.”
Love lifted Cassie’s chest. Josephine, only five, was strong and resilient. She was a survivor, a true testament to their ma’s goodness. How Cassie wished her ma was here with them now. Every fiber of her being ached with the unbearable sadness of the loss.
Prickly heat burned behind Cassie’s eyes but she willed the emotion away. She’d even appreciate the help of her Uncle Arvid, if he were around. Provided that he was sober. Despite being almost twenty years old, she wasn’t used to being the sole decision maker of the family.
Finished, she helped Josephine, who now resembled a moth-eaten little muskrat, off the pine cupboard and set her on the floor. She held her by the shoulders and looked into her face. “Go put on the dungarees I altered for you. Use the cord for a belt.”
Josephine’s face was resolute, her beautiful hair already forgotten. Her gaze held all the trust in the world. I wish she wouldn’t do that. A whirl of dread cramped Cassie’s insides and she looked away from her sister’s innocent blue eyes. “Go on now. Be quick. Make sure everything is in your satchel. There’s not much time to cut my own hair before those good-for-nothing Sherman brothers show up.”
She caressed the top of Josephine’s fluffy head at the same time she swallowed her fear.
“And don’t you go thinkin’ you’re the only special one, now, you hear?” Ignoring her request, Josephine stood rooted in place.
Cassie had no time to push her along. She propped the cracked mirror against the wall, angling it back and forth until she found her reflection. Gathering her waist-length chestnut hair behind the nape of her neck, and before she could think twice, she cut it off just under her ears. The blunt remains swung loosely around her face. She swallowed, looking at her reflection. “There.”
Josephine’s eyes narrowed. “It ain’t as short as mine.”
Cassie picked up the mirror to get a closer look. “That’s because I’m older. I’m tying it with a cord, like the older boys do.” Replacing the mirror, she took a thin strip of leather from her pocket and raked her hair back with her fingers, tying it in a knot taut against her scalp.
Josephine scrunched her face. “It don’t look too good.”
“It’s not supposed to. Question is, do I look like a boy?”
“Sorta.”
Cassie plunked a tattered old hat on her head. “Now?”
Josephine nodded, wide-eyed.
“That’s good enough, then. Run, put your clothes on. Time’s short.”
Cassie was just finished binding her smallish breasts and pulling her chemise over her head when a loud pounding sounded on the front door. Josephine dashed into the room and threw her arms around her waist with the strength of Samson. “They’re here!”
She peeled Josephine’s arms from her body and quickly threaded her own arms into the bulky, green plaid shirt of her boy costume. “Go into Miss Hawthorn’s bedroom and lock the door. Scoot under the bed and cover yourself with the quilt I put there, just like I showed you. Make sure nothing is sticking out. I’ll call when the coast is clear.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
The doorknob rattled violently, jiggling back and forth. Josephine’s eyes grew large and frightened.
Cassie wished she believed the words she was about to say. “Don’t you worry a smidge,” she whispered hurriedly. “We’ll be eating cherry pie before you know it. Bristol Sherman isn’t worth a barrel of monkeys. And neither is Klem. I’m way smarter than the two of ‘em put together. Once I tell them Arvid Angel has moved on and took his nieces with him, they’ll go away.”
“What if they don’t believe you?” Josephine asked quietly. “I wish Uncle hadn’t made ‘em mad by stealing Klem’s watch.”
“We’re not even sure he did,” Cassie replied, not wanting her sister to think their uncle was a thief. “You just stay put under the bed.” She gave Josephine a little shove. “Go on, now.”
When her sister’s bottom lip wobbled, Cassie knelt down and pulled Josephine into a comforting hug. Her small body quivered uncontrollably. In a moment of painful clarity, it occurred to Cassie that this could be it. This could be goodbye!
Cassie put her face just inches from Josephine’s. “You know Psalm 23. I want you to say it to yourself over and over.” When Josephine didn’t move, Cassie began, “‘The Lord is my shep—’”
A pounding on the door rattled the room. Trying to ignore it, Cassie took Josephine’s hands into her own and gave them a shake. “Come on, sweetie, say it with me. As Josephine’s raspy little voice melded with her own, Cassie turned her sister’s body toward Miss Hawthorn’s room and gave an encouraging push. “Go on now and do as I say. Hurry.”
Josephine moved away, her whispered words scarcely audible.
“And be quiet as a mouse.”
“I will, Cassie. I promise,” she called in a small voice over her shoulder.
Cassie snatched her ivory cameo off the dresser, and with fumbling fingers pinned it to the bodice of her chemise, hiding it beneath the heavy shirt. She heard her mother’s words as if she were standing here before her. “Take my guardian angel cameo. I pass it on to you.”
Boot steps moved across the porch toward the parlor window. She cinched up the rope around her waist, making sure the knot was securely tightened. The pounding sounded again, but this time on glass with a force so great Cassie was sure it would break the pane.
Cassie hefted her pa’s Colt 45 from the mantel and hooked it inside her pants on the rope belt, making sure her shirt concealed the bulge. “Hold your britches on!” she shouted back, forcing the deepest voice she could muster. “I’m coming!”
Chapter Two
The sign read: Broken Branch, population 432.
Trail weary, Sam dismounted and stretched his legs. Turning to his horse, he flipped the stirrup over the back of the saddle and gave a firm tug to loosen the cinch. A gentle breeze ruffled the gray mare’s long, black mane and stirred the leaves on the ground.
Sam ran his hand down her right foreleg and lifted it up. With his thumbs, he felt around the spongy frog at the center of her sole. Finding nothing suspicious, he covered her pastern with his palm and felt for warmth. Her shoe looked fine. On several occasions he’d felt Blu favor that foot, but nothing seemed amiss now, at least nothing he could discern. He’d have the blacksmith take a look as soon as he got a room and settled for the evening.
With the sun behind him, Sam tipped back his hat and took his first good look at Broken Branch. The town at the bottom of the hill was undistinguished. Consisting of several dusty streets with the
usual commerce buildings and houses, it could be any of the half dozen places he’d ridden through of late. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
“Hope there’s a smithy,” Sam said to his horse. His stomach let out a loud growl. “Not to mention a thick, juicy steak.” And a knowledgeable person who’s seen Arvid, willing to point me in the right direction.
Unbuckling his chaps, he pulled them off and slung them over the saddle, and then ambled ahead.
Just then loud voices erupted, drawing his attention to a house a block off the main street. Two figures skittered around the large front porch in some kind of scuffle.
It didn’t look life-threatening to Sam, so he decided to stick with his rule of keeping to himself. Appeared to be two kids, anyway. Probably arguing over who had to clean out the chicken coop, he thought with a lopsided grin. The skinny one was fast as a jackrabbit, and all over the place. The taller of the two was cumbersome and slow, and would never in this life catch his quarry. What Skinny lacked in bulk, he made up for in speed. Despite the fact it was actually quite entertaining, Sam looked away.
Cassie ducked under Klem’s fist and darted behind a rocking chair, thankful the scoundrel had shown up alone. She’d already taken several painful punches to her body and didn’t know how many more he’d land before bringing her down. She gasped for breath. This couldn’t go on much longer. She was spent, hurting. It took every ounce of her energy just to lift her arms in defense. The tinny taste of blood inside her mouth made her want to retch. Things had gone from bad to worse and she needed to draw Klem away from the house, away from Josephine hiding under the bed, before giving up the fight. The gun hooked inside her pants was cumbersome, but she was glad she had it for a last resort. Maybe he’d listen to reason if he were looking down its barrel.
Reaching for her shirt, Klem tripped over the spittoon Miss Hawthorn had out for her boarders’ convenience. His boot caught and he fell to his knees, knocking his head against the porch railing with a crash.
Texas Lonesome Page 29
