Aiming for Love

by Mary Connealy

  Honestly, she was very tired. She just didn’t have the energy for it.

  As she drifted . . . no, wafted after Ilsa, she called behind her, “I’ll be back.”

  He let her go, and she was a bit surprised. Now she’d go home and face Ursula, who would be half-mad making up things to fret about.

  Maybe all that worry would make Ursula as tired as Jo, and they could set aside any squabbling. Jo hoped so, because dangerous as it was, she was not giving up this chance to see other people and learn about them.

  Ursula would be terrified for her, for all of them. But Jo would do it anyway.

  She was going to show Dave the highland meadow. It was well hidden.

  How upset could Ursula be anyway? What in the world could she say? Nothing. And that was final. There was nothing Ursula could say that would stop her.

  8

  If you spend time with those lowland invaders, you’ll die.” Ursula’s arms flew wide, and she slapped the wall behind her hard. She’d been stepping away as she listened to Jo’s tale of the interesting new people that had come to their mountain.

  Honestly, the threat of death should have stopped her, but Jo wasn’t even a bit discouraged.

  “And you’ll bring death home so Ilsa and I will die. Is your curiosity worth the lives of our whole family?”

  Jo knew her sister was scared, but she was just going to have to get over that. “Now, Ursula—”

  Her big sister charged right up until their faces almost touched. Ursula was a lot taller than Jo. She could really loom over a person. Jo’s mind scrambled thinking of what would calm Ursula down. Not much.

  “You have to stay away from them. Do you want to die? Grandma and Grandpa wanted us to live. And now our home is being invaded, and those invaders will bring death.”

  “Ursula, please.” Jo rested both hands on Ursula’s upper arms, holding firmly, hoping the grip would reach through her sister’s fears. “We can’t stop them from coming. We have no way to do it.”

  Ilsa sat at the table, not part of this argument. Withdrawn, apart from the whole world as usual, but watching.

  “This mountain belongs to us.” Ursula ripped loose from Jo’s grasp but didn’t back away.

  “We don’t use that grassland. Dave’s cows are hungry. It’s not right nor Christian to turn them away or to act hateful toward them.”

  “We’ve lived all these years by doing as Grandma said.” Ursula had been just old enough when Grandma died to take all her teachings as if they were commandments.

  Commandments written in stone.

  Commandments written in stone by the fiery finger of God.

  Jo and Ilsa had been a little too young to be quite so fervent—or maybe it was just in their nature to not let fear hold sway over them.

  Ursula was like Grandma in build, temperament, and looks. And she’d mothered them, which gave her some control over her little sisters. That had chafed as Jo grew into an adult woman, but she’d never had such a conflict with Ursula that Jo had bothered to shake off the reins of having a mother three years older than her. And it had been no burden to let Ursula be the head of the family. Grandma was a fierce woman who loved them very much. Ursula was gentler and less inclined toward anger. Her need to stay up here came from fear burned into her by her grandparents. For the first time, Jo thought of Grandma and realized it was fear that had driven her, too. Strange that it had never before occurred to Jo that Grandma was afraid. It had always seemed that she simply had stern rules to live by and passed them on. Jo hadn’t spent any time wondering why.

  “You only have to look at all the people up here from the Warden ranch to know not everyone who lives down below dies.”

  “Too many do. Far too many, the risks—”

  “Stop.” Jo grabbed her again and shook her. “You can’t live your life afraid of everything. Or maybe you can, but I don’t want to be alone all my life. God didn’t create us to cut ourselves off from everyone. Grandma’s teachings are nonsense.”

  Ursula slapped her hard across the face.

  Jo stumbled backward with a cry of pain.

  “Ursula, no!” Ilsa jumped to her feet so fast her chair toppled over.

  Jo’s hand went to her cheek. Her eyes met Ursula’s. She could see her big sister was as shocked as Jo.

  Ursula covered her mouth with both hands and gave a muffled cry.

  “What are you doing?” Jo hadn’t been slapped since Grandma died.

  Ursula whirled away.

  Jo’s cheek started to burn. Ursula had struck with all her strength. Jo would be bruised tomorrow.

  “I’m sorry.” Ursula’s voice broke. She ran for the corner of the room, her hands over her face as if she were the one who’d been slapped. Her breathing was loud and gasping. She might be crying.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I am . . . I am . . .” Ursula spoke into her hands. Jo, busy with pain, couldn’t hear all she said.

  Then Jo’s shock twisted to anger. She charged across the room and grabbed Ursula, yanked her around so they faced each other. Ursula was taller, but right now Jo was a giant in her fury.

  “You are not going to make me into a coward just because you are one.” Jo and her sisters bickered sometimes, but not like this. “You’ve never hit me before, and you are never going to hit me again.” Jo held Ursula’s arm tight enough that Ursula flinched. That ended the worst of Jo’s rage and stopped her from hitting back . . . barely stopped her, because she wanted to attack.

  “I am not a child to be ordered by someone and punished if I disobey. I know you’re afraid, but Grandpa went to the lowlands all the time and never died.”

  “Ma and Pa, though—”

  “Stop.” Jo shook Ursula hard, and it seemed like Ursula, whatever rage made her lash out, was now willing to let Jo push her. Her head dropped, her shoulders slumped, as if she were collapsing in on herself.

  “All those people who have invaded our mountaintop are from the lowlands, and they are fine.” Jo put all her anger into her words—well, not counting the shaking. “Healthy. They have lived all their lives in that dangerous place. Grandma’s fear, with Grandpa backing her, isn’t real, Ursula. You’ve got to think. The fear you have has no thinking behind it. People from down there are living and surviving and able to talk to others. I am sure there are dangers, but I’m tired of being cut off from the whole world. Grandma and Grandpa wanted us to live this way, but God cannot agree with that. He can’t have made a world of deadly danger, then let the three Nordegren girls have the only safe place. That is the thinking of a half-wit.”

  Ursula’s head came up. Again that flash of anger. They all considered her to be the smartest, the leader. She didn’t much like being called a half-wit. Well, fine! Jo didn’t much like being slapped.

  “You know our parents died—”

  “No, stop!” Jo cut her off. “I’m not going to—”

  “You had your say.” Ursula broke in, as angry now as Jo.

  “You hit me. I am yelling to stop myself from hitting back. This isn’t about taking turns.”

  “You will make your own decisions then, Josephine.” Ursula’s hand swept between them. Not a slap, but Jo jumped back.

  “Do as you wish with no thought of the danger to all of us. It will be as with Grandpa. You go to them and stay with them as long as you want, and then, when they leave, you stay away from us for two weeks. When you’re sure it’s safe, come back. And if you sicken and die from their diseases or are harmed by their guns—”

  Ilsa must have told Ursula about Quill’s bullet wound. Jo hadn’t spoken of it.

  “—then you let them tend you until you are well. Only then will you be welcomed back here.”

  Jo jabbed Ursula in the chest. “This cabin is no more yours than it is mine. I’ll come and go as I please. You have no power to refuse me my own home. Now enough. I didn’t sleep last night, and I won’t sleep tonight until you leave off your hollering at me. Good night.”

  Jo turne
d and stormed into her room. The cabin had three bedrooms. One for her grandparents, one for her parents, and one for the three girls. Now each girl had her own. Jo slammed the door so hard she heard something topple in the other room. She even knew what it was. A pretty gathering of stones and woven grass made by Ilsa, sitting on a small table on the wall beside Jo’s door. Well, Jo wasn’t going out to put the thing back in place. If she went back out, she’d have more angry words to say. And enough had been said between her and Ursula tonight. Too much, in fact.

  Jo got ready for bed. She’d be up and gone in the morning before she had to talk to Ursula again. And she’d lead the Warden family to grazing enough for their herd. And she’d eat their delicious food and talk more with Ma and Quill and, yes, with Dave. The thought of him was what made her strong enough to ignore Ursula’s dire fears.

  But she couldn’t just leave her sisters. Her mind wandered to all she did around here. She provided the bulk of the food with her hunting. What would her sisters do without her?

  And what if she did get sick? Could she really bring death to all of them? And Ursula wasn’t thinking of Ilsa, who had also spent the day with the lowlanders. Or maybe Ursula didn’t know. Ilsa must have talked about Quill being shot, but maybe Ursula believed Ilsa had learned about that from Jo.

  Would Ilsa sneak? She was a sly one. Or would she face Ursula and defy her and be cast out, too?

  Ursula and Ilsa were Jo’s whole world, and had been since Grandpa died. Did a woman give up her whole world because a new one caught her interest? Did Jo have to turn her back on her sisters or possibly leave them to suffer hunger because of her besetting sin of curiosity?

  Worry gnawed through Jo’s anger, and the night stretched long and sleepless before her.

  Months Earlier

  New York City

  Mitch Warden caught the reflection of a rifle in the window. He dropped to the ground just as a bullet shattered the glass in the elegant mansion behind him.

  Another bullet fired and kicked up splinters from the spindly tree he dove behind. Gas lamps barely cut through the gloom.

  The tree he picked was too thin, and the bullets tore at the bark. Mitch rolled, crawled on his belly, crouched, and leapt, dodging and moving the way he’d learned in the war, keeping the tree between him and his attacker.

  The rifle gouged the dirt inches from his head. His attacker had sharp eyes in this deeply shadowed ground.

  A set of steps that fronted the house lay just ahead, offering the only shelter. Staying low, he ran for it. The rifleman kept up his firing. Mitch threw himself forward and hit his right shoulder on the side of the steps so hard he was afraid the bone snapped. He crawled under them, worrying about his shoulder. He hoped he hadn’t damaged it. But with or without the use of it, he’d find a way to survive this.

  Five shots, six, seven—a repeating rifle, and a good one. The second he reached the meager shelter, he drew and came up firing long and hard into the park across the street. It was a far distance for a pistol, but Mitch’s gun was a good one, too. And Mitch knew how to use it all too well.

  He didn’t need to aim. He’d done all his figuring while he ran. A cry from across the street ended the attack.

  Mitch sprinted straight for the gunman. The recklessness that had made him rich rode him hard now.

  No one bothered Mitch Pierce Warden without paying a hard price.

  And being shot at was going to cost his attacker dearly.

  He dove through a hedge. Thorns tore at his skin. His right shoulder took the abuse poorly.

  Then he was on the man—who didn’t fight back. He lay bleeding, barely conscious.

  Mitch kicked away the bushwhacker’s rifle that had fallen by the man’s side.

  He frisked the man and found two holstered guns, a third up his sleeve, a knife in his boot, and another in a scabbard under his shirt. He stripped the weapons, throwing them hard enough they sank into the hedge. Then he dragged a small pouch out of his assailant’s pocket.

  Money was as familiar to Mitch as his own face, and a quick toss told him this was full of twenty-dollar golden eagles. Probably right around a thousand’s worth. The same amount he’d found on the other man who’d tried to kill him.

  Mitch caught the man by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. “Who sent you?” Mitch knew this was a hired gun. It wasn’t the first murder attempt. But it had to be the last. Whoever was hiring murder was paying for top men. Both attacks had come too close. And Mitch was being very careful.

  “You tell me, and I’ll get you to a doctor. Otherwise, you die right here.” Mitch slipped the money into his pocket. He wasn’t giving it back and golden eagles weren’t that common. He might be able to trace it.

  Besides, he figured he’d earned it by surviving the attack.

  “I’m as good as dead anyway,” the man whispered. “I live by my weapons, and there are plenty who’ll want a notch in their gun by killing me. And my right hand is shot to pieces. My right hand and plenty more.”

  “But you’ve got a chance to live. Most men would be willing to take that chance.”

  The man whispered a name, and Mitch, a cold-blooded man who didn’t trust many and called even fewer friends, found he could still be shocked.

  In fact, he was so shocked he wasn’t sure he believed it. Anyone who knew him and wanted to cause trouble might mention this name.

  A shrill whistle told Mitch help was coming. This neighborhood had a good night watch, and gunfire would bring them running.

  “I’ll send for a doctor.”

  The man nodded and said, “I can see you doubt me, but that’s who hired me. You’re too good a man to be back-shot by a low-down snake. Others will come. Heed my words.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Mitch jumped up and fought his way through the hedge again just as help arrived. He quickly identified himself and told the security guard what had happened. This neighborhood was too wealthy to trust their safety to the police, so private sentries were always on patrol.

  The guard said, “I’ll get shackles on him, then run for a doctor myself.”

  Mitch nodded, then stopped when his head spun. Had he hit his head along with his shoulder? “He’s right through here.”

  The hedge was harder to get through now, his third time. He ought to have busted a trail through by now. Was there an easier path through here? He wouldn’t know until daylight—and by then he’d be home.

  “He’s gone.” Mitch scanned the area thinking the man might’ve tried to get away and collapsed nearby. He spotted every weapon he’d tossed aside. The man was hurt bad if he didn’t have the strength to pick up even one of his guns.

  “He was barely conscious. I didn’t think he had the strength to run.”

  It made ice flow through his veins to think of this man out there, maybe still coming.

  “If he’s shot up as bad as you said, he may have found the strength to run off, but he’ll never survive. It saves me having him locked up.”

  Mitch had been to war. He’d seen some mighty shot-up people survive.

  The man was nowhere to be seen. Another sentry arrived, then a third. They gathered the guns, heard Mitch’s story, then walked him home. His house was right next door to where he’d been waylaid. He needed to bandage a few scrapes and soak a few bruises, get off his feet so his head would clear, and start making plans to stay alive. One guard stayed behind to try to follow the trail of blood—mighty hard in the dark.

  Mitch lived in one of New York City’s finest neighborhoods. The city had been good to him. His house was well lit with enough lanterns on the posts out front to drive all the shadows away. As he pulled his key out of his pocket, his arm hurt, and he wondered again if he might’ve broken it. But no, he’d been using his right hand all along. He started up the steps, but a wave of dizziness sent him staggering backward.

  The sentry caught him, and his shoulder was suddenly on fire. The sentry held him up and banged on his door at the same time.


  The door swung open, and his butler gasped. And his butler was a man who never showed a lick of emotion.

  A light from his front entry fell across Mitch, and he saw his right sleeve soaked in red.

  “Mr. Pierce,” the sentry said, “I think you’ve been shot.”

  I’m not going to start making survival plans as soon as I hoped.

  It was his last thought before his knees gave out and darkness pulled him under.

  9

  October 1873

  Hope Mountain

  Dave fell asleep the minute he lay down. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before, and it’d been a long, stressful day.

  His eyes blinked open in the gray light of dawn. He’d slept through the night. He’d meant to take a turn sitting by Pa. He’d told Ma to wake him if he didn’t come in. Had she been unable to leave Pa’s side? She’d be exhausted today.

  Shocked that he’d never stirred all night, Dave looked up. The sun had only begun to push back the night. The tent flap was open, and he saw that the small building was silent. Rushing in now might wake both his parents when they needed sleep.

  And he should’ve ridden out to check cattle a time or two.

  Feeling guilty, he tried to think of what to do first. That’s when he heard the heavy blanket used for a door to their little shed rustle. He turned in time to see someone slip in. How had someone gotten this close? He’d posted a watch on the trail, but maybe his men had fallen asleep. The whole crew, him and his cowhands and the men who’d ridden up from below, had been up most of the night the night before. Had the man who’d shot Pa slipped past everyone and—

  “Shh, it’s Ilsa.”

  Dave sat up straight, barely stopping a yelp of fear. He didn’t think he’d made a sound, but he felt his cheeks heat up. Good grief, he was blushing. He felt like a fool for letting Ilsa and Jo sneak up on him. He hoped they couldn’t see much in the dark.