Acclaim for Margaret Brownley
“Margaret Brownley’s Dawn Comes Early was an absolute delight. I spent the whole book reading with a grin on my face. She found wonderful characters and made them real to me and made a bleak desert landscape alive and beautiful. It’s been a long time since I had this much pure fun reading a book.”
—MARY CONNEALY, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF OUTOF CONTROL AND PETTICOAT RANCH
“Margaret Brownley draws vivid characters that are sparkling and endearing. They drew me into their lives and I don’t want to let them go. Thank goodness Dawn Comes Early is the first in her Last Chance Ranch stories. Like me, you’ll be glad this isn’t our last chance to visit!”
—DEBRA CLOPTON, AUTHOR OF THE BEST-SELLING MULE HOLLOW MATCHMAKERS SERIES
“. . . Brownley has a way with words that keeps the reader interested until the last page.”
—ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEW OF A SUITOR FOR JENNY
“I’ve known for years that Margaret Brownley is a great writer but I think A Lady Like Sarah is Margaret at her peak. A perfect blend of romance, the old west, and characters that steal your heart, along with writing that sings. A fabulous read. I laughed and cried and wished I could pick up the sequel immediately. Write faster, Margaret.”
—LAURAINE SNELLING, AUTHOR OF THE RED RIVER OF THE NORTH SERIES
“Margaret Brownley has created two wonderful, unforgettable characters in Sarah and Justin. Their story held my interest from the start, and I couldn’t wait to find out if or how their love would overcome the obstacles set before them. A Lady Like Sarah is one of my favorite reads of this year.”
—ROBIN LEE HATCHER, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF FIT TO BE TIED AND HEART OF GOLD
“Margaret Brownley brings the old west to life through her humor, drama, and memorable characters. A Lady Like Sarah is completely enjoyable from beginning to end.”
—JILL MARIE LANDIS, AUTHOR OF HEART OF STONE
WAITING FOR
Morning
ALSO BY MARGARET BROWNLEY
The Brides of Last Chance Ranch novels
Dawn Comes Early
The Rocky Creek Romance series
A Lady Like Sarah
A Suitor for Jenny
A Vision of Lucy
WAITING FOR
Morning
A BRIDES OF LAST CHANCE RANCH NOVEL
MARGARET BROWNLEY
© 2012 by Margaret Brownley
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brownley, Margaret.
Waiting for morning / Margaret Brownley.
pages cm. -- (A brides of Last Chance Ranch novel)
ISBN 978-1-59554-970-9 (trade paper : alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3602.R745W35 2013
813’.6--dc23
2012038041
Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my husband, partner, and best friend, George, for your love, patience, and willingness to eat out. God gave me the world when He gave me you!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Meet Magic
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
An excerpt from Gunpowder Tea
About the Author
HEIRESS
WANTED
Looking for hard-working, professional woman of good character and pleasant disposition willing to learn the ranching business in Arizona Territory. Must be single and prepared to remain so now and forevermore.
Chapter 1
DOBSON CREEK, COLORADO
APRIL 1896
Something was wrong. Molly Hatfield felt it in her bones. She cast an anxious glance around Big Jim’s Saloon. A couple of regulars were already passed out; others sat staring into amber drinks. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, a time when most men were at the mines.
On this cold April day, icy wind blew off the snow-covered peaks and the batwing doors squeaked in protest. Sawdust raced across the tobacco-stained floor, clinging to wooden chair legs and the soles of dusty boots.
Shaking away her uneasiness, Molly turned back to the burly owner standing behind the bar. If he detected anything out of the ordinary, he kept it to himself. He didn’t even seem to notice the lace tucked in her bodice for modesty. He insisted his “girls” dress in costume at all times, including face paint, even when not working.
A stogie clamped between his yellow teeth, he squinted down his bulbous nose and counted out each pitiful coin as if doing her a favor.
Her lips puckered with irritation. What pleasure could he get from making her beg for her weekly wage? Or did he simply enjoy the power he held over his dance hall girls? The truth was Molly needed him more than he needed her.
“Please hurry.” Why the sudden need for haste she didn’t know, but she was anxious to get back to her fourteen-year-old wheelchairbound brother. Not wanting to bring one so young to the saloon, she’d left him waiting in the lobby of the King Hotel, out of the cold. She’d done it before and he’d always been safe there. Still . . .
Big Jim’s bushy black eyebrows met in an upside-down V, but any effort to pick up speed was negligible.
From outside came the dreaded sound of pistol shots—six loud blasts in rapid succession, snapping through the air like an angry whip.
Molly sucked in her breath and Jim’s head jerked back, hands frozen over the till. Six gunshots meant fire and fire meant trouble.
Thinking fast, she scooped the money from the bar without waiting for the full count and darted out of the saloon.
People screamed and raced by, practically knocking her ov
er. While pocketing her precious coins she dropped one, but to dive for it would be sheer folly. She would be trampled to death.
“Fire, fire!” someone shouted as if the gunshots hadn’t already sounded the alarm.
“Where’s the fire?” she cried. Please, God, don’t let it be the hotel. Not the hotel.
“The King!” someone yelled.
Dear God!
Heart pounding, Molly swam against the stream of people. Swallowing the metallic taste filling her mouth, she lashed out, “Let me through. Let me through!”
She plowed headlong into the oncoming crowd with windmilling arms. She’d failed to save her brother once but—please, God—not this time. Don’t let me fail him this time.
Horses whinnied and pulled at traces. Dogs barked. A steer barreled down the street followed by several frenzied goats. A man shoved bills into the hands of a wagon owner and signaled for several children to pile inside.
Billows of dark smoke loomed over the red light district, turning gray skies almost black. Pushed by biting, raw winds, the fire quickly leaped jackrabbit-style along Benson Avenue with a fierce roar, gobbling up the wood-framed buildings that made up the heart of town. The clanging of bells and pounding of horses’ hooves signaled the arrival of the shiny new fire engine, the mayor’s pride and joy. Several men dragged an old pumper up the street, its heavy iron wheels skidding on the icy road.
Mine whistles shrieked in the distance and already miners poured into the street with buckets and shovels.
“Let me through,” Molly cried. Smoke burned her eyes. Her vision blurred. “My brother is at the hotel. Will somebody please help?”
“Good luck, lady,” a man yelled out.
A drunk stood in the doorway of the drugstore laughing his fool head off.
The closer she got to the hotel, the thicker the smoke. Molly pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and covered her mouth. A man dressed in a canvas coat waved her back with a stick of dynamite.
“Ya better run, lassie.”
Already, the dynamiters were getting ready to blow up houses and businesses around the hotel in an attempt to stop the fire.
Her way blocked by vehicles, Molly nearly panicked until the pumper truck moved just enough to let her squeeze by. Crunching her skirt in sweaty palms, she darted past the dynamiter. A wagon shot out of an alley in front of her and she leaped aside. It missed her by an inch, splashing her blue taffeta skirt with mud.
Farther down the road a large pox-scarred man stopped her. “If you don’t plan on meetin’ your Maker today, you better get a move on, ma’am.”
Mr. Wright, the owner of the hardware store, fired a shotgun into the air. “You’re not blowing up my place,” he yelled, seemingly oblivious to the flames already devouring the roof of his establishment.
While the two men argued, Molly dodged around them. Fire equipment blocked the street in front of the hotel. Flames shot from second-floor windows and long, fiery tongues licked the sky.
Icy fingers of fear gripped her but she pressed on, dodging falling timbers and bright sparks. A fireman with a blackened face squirted a thin stream of water onto the burning building. A stream of spit would have been more useful.
A dynamite blast from across the street sent a faro table crashing to the ground mere inches away, splintering into pieces.
She grabbed the fireman’s arm with trembling hands. “My brother! Have you seen him?” She shouted to be heard above the explosions, screams, and roar of angry flames. “He’s in a wheelchair.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Ain’t seen no wheelchair.”
“Please, he may still be in there,” she cried.
The fireman shook his head. “I’ve got me a wife and seven kids. I ain’t goin’ in there. The roof’s about to cave in.”
She spun around and stopped Mr. and Mrs. Merrick, who were pulling a wooden trunk. The man was one of Big Jim’s regulars, his wife a staunch church member. “Help me—my brother is in that building.”
The woman shoved Molly away from her husband, a spiteful look on her face. “Get out of the way, you harlot.”
Molly stumbled back to catch her footing. Staring at the flames in horror, she screamed, “No, no, no!” Something welled up inside, something bigger, stronger, and more urgent than fear. He can’t die. He mustn’t die. She wouldn’t let him die.
Shooting past the startled fireman, she ran so fast she hardly knew what she was doing.
“Hey, you can’t go in there!” he shouted.
She dashed beneath the overhang and darted through the door of the hotel. The ceiling and walls were ablaze, the smoke so thick it blinded her. Dropping on hands and knees, she held her head close to the floor. Throat closed in protest, she gasped for air, eyes burning.
“Donnnnnnnnnnny!”
The roar of the fire and crackling wood drowned out her voice and she yelled again and again. Where had she left him? Think. The fireplace.
She reached the stairs. She’d gone too far. Panicked, she spun around on all fours.
Where was it? Where was the fireplace? She scrambled around the floor spider-like until spotting the wheels of her brother’s chair. “Donny!”
A massive wooden beam plunged from the ceiling, missing the wheelchair by inches. Sparks flew onto her skirt. She brushed them off and scooted forward, mindless of the hot embers beneath her palms. Above the roar of flames came the explosive sound of dynamite.
“I’m here!” she gasped.
Her brother was slumped over, head on his chest. Scrambling to her feet, she grabbed the push handle and steered the wheelchair blindly through the smoke-filled inferno. It was by sheer determination that she found the door. She exited the hotel, coughing. They barely made it out in time before a thunderous roar announced the collapse of the second floor.
She barreled forward. The wheels wobbled, the chair shook. It was like pushing a mule uphill, but she didn’t dare pause until they were a safe distance from the burning buildings. Forced to catch her breath, she sank to her knees in front of her brother and grabbed his hands.
“Donny,” she rasped. She stroked his ash-covered face, her blistered hands leaving a trail of blood.
He looked at her with watery eyes. “I . . . I was so scared.”
“You’re safe now,” she managed, her voice ragged.
“I didn’t think you’d come—” He coughed so hard she feared he would hack up his insides. “I thought—”
She grabbed the canteen from his chair and forced water down his throat. “I’m here now. It would take a whole lot more than a fire to keep me away.” A blast of dynamite made her jump to her feet.
“You’re gonna have to move, ma’am,” a fireman shouted.
“We’re going, we’re going.” She pushed the chair a few inches when the front wheel sank into the mud. Grunting, she yanked at the chair, muscles straining, but it wouldn’t budge.
Wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she picked up a smoking timber, stuck the heated end in the mud, and shoved it under the front wheel. She gave it a mighty shove and the wheel broke free.
Dodging wagons, fire equipment, frantic horses, people, and dogs, she kept going until at last they reached their canvas home, one of dozens that dotted the area outside of town where most of the miners lived. She filled a glass from the bucket of well water and handed it to her brother, then poured a glass for herself.
A cracked marble-top washstand, two cots, and a table and chairs were pushed to the side to make a space for walking. A cookstove filled a corner. Their prized possession was the spinet piano carted around Cape Horn by their mother all the way from Ireland. A tightly strung rope served a dual purpose, providing a place to hang clothes and a small measure of privacy.
The tent was patched and the canvas badly stained, but unlike the expensive homes on Strathern Avenue, their humble dwelling remained intact. At least for now. But if the wind changed . . .
No, no, mustn’t think about what might happen or could
happen. Donny was safe. That’s all that mattered, though she feared for his lungs.
Dynamite blasts in the distance kept her on edge but she tried not to show it.
Donny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They’re g-ggetting closer.”
“It just sounds that way,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her shaking hands. No sense them both worrying. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
It was just the two of them. Their papa had died three years earlier from miner’s consumption, but never before had she felt as alone as she did at that moment. Even God seemed a distance away, though she prayed.
Trembling, she stoked up the fire in the oven with more vigor than it required and put water on to boil. Donny’s chest rose and fell with each wheezing breath and she hoped the steam would help him.
She reached for his medicine. Careful to pour only three drops on a handkerchief, she held it to his nose. Within seconds his breathing improved. She covered him with a blanket and wrapped her blistered hands in a wet cloth.
If Donny so much as suspected how very close she was to panicking, it would frighten him even more and make his asthma worse. For him, she had to be brave.
She shivered. It was cold—so cold—and the flapping of the canvas walls indicated a worrisome wind change.
The thunderous sound of hooves followed by shouts made her mouth go dry. She ripped open the canvas flap and froze; a wall of orange flames was heading straight for the tent they called home.
Chapter 2
ARIZONA TERRITORY—THREE WEEKS LATER
Never could Molly imagine a more sorrowful excuse for a horse. No amount of whip cracking made the swayback dapple go one whit faster. Patience spent, she swiped a wayward strand of hair from her face.
“He walks like he’s wearing hobbles,” she muttered.
Her brother sat on the wagon seat next to her in stony-faced silence. No surprises there. Donny had hardly spoken a word since they’d left Colorado. Punishing her, no doubt, for dragging him to this godforsaken desert. Well, she had news for him; she didn’t want to be here either.
Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Page 1
