The Trouble with Patience

by Maggie Brendan

  Epilogue

  Patience was playing with baby Emily on a blanket under a sprawling cottonwood tree on her ranch, the Cross Bar, while her toddler son, Cody, yanked at her skirts. She turned the baby over on her tummy, then pulled Cody onto her lap. “Needing a little special attention, I see.” She hugged the toddler tightly.

  Cody grinned up at her with dark, innocent eyes, and her heart melted. She was glad Jedediah had wanted to name his son “Cody,” and it pleased Cody to no end to be their ranch foreman. Patience had maintained the partnership with Emily at Creekside, but as more of a silent partner—especially since Jedediah had turned in his marshal’s badge. Emily had married Judge Clint Chandler and was expecting their first child, but they remained close friends.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, she watched Jedediah walking over with a package in his hand. He knelt on the blanket, kissed Patience, then little Cody, and patted Emily’s head.

  He handed her the parcel. “This was sitting on the porch for you,” he said, reaching to take Cody from her so she could open it. “One of the hands must’ve brought it back from town.”

  When she had removed the wrapping, Patience’s heart lurched. “It’s the first copy of my book!” She ran her hand across the title, Daily Devotions, and her name, “Patience Cavanaugh Jones.” Her heart swelled and hot tears stung her eyes. “It’s been a while,” she whispered as she hugged it to her chest.

  “This is wonderful—my wife, a published author. I’m very proud of you!” Jed circled her shoulders with his arm for a hug. “I probably won’t even have to read it since you’ve been preaching all these good things to me already.” Patience gave him a playful punch, then hugged him back.

  Apparently sensing the spirit of celebration, Cody threw his hands in the air, jumped off his papa’s lap, and danced around the blanket. They both laughed as their son jabbered away.

  Patience opened her book, staring at the dedication, then at Jedediah. “I wonder what my mother will say when she finds out the book is dedicated to her.”

  “I believe she’ll be surprised but quite pleased,” Jed said with a warm smile that still made her heart flutter.

  Patience smiled back at her husband, then gazed down at their children with pride and wonder at how God had continued to bless them.

  Author’s Note

  In the spring of 1863, the discovery of placer gold by Bill Fairweather and Henry Edgar in Alder Gulch began one of Montana’s greatest placer gold rushes in history. Between the years of 1863 and 1866, $30 million in gold bullion was mined from Alder Gulch, a lode that would eventually yield $100 million. By late spring of ’63, ten thousand miners crowded the surrounding hillside near the Tobacco Root Mountains. There were so many settlements that the area was touted as the “Fourteen Mile City.”

  But along with the bustling population of 30,000 by late fall, nefarious characters moved in. And without any established law in Montana Territory, road agents, as they were called, went about robbing and pilfering and causing havoc until the citizens of Virginia City and Bannock formed the Montana Vigilantes—a highly secretive vigilance committee that systematically hunted down and hanged road agents based on the testimony of other men facing execution. My story is loosely based on John Beidler, Vigilante X, who participated in numerous hangings, though people sometimes did actually survive hangings. One of Jedediah’s guns, the Winchester, is on display at the Montana Homeland Gallery in Helena.

  Frank Finney and his wife, Mary, were real historical characters and the last holdouts to keep buildings in Nevada City. He hauled wood from Granite and freighted merchandise. They kept horses and cows, which provided dairy goods, a commodity much in demand.

  The Criterion Saloon, which I write about in my story, is a real structure and is still standing today. An interesting fact I found—the movies Lonesome Dove, The Missouri Breaks, and Thousand Pieces of Gold filmed scenes in the Criterion Saloon.

  The Star Bakery, another original structure, was purchased in 1864 by Patrick McGovern, who lived in Nevada City with his family, but when the bakery closed in 1865, it became their home. I took the liberty to base his daughter, Hannah, as the character who owned the bakery. Wallace Street is still the main street of Nevada City.

  My boardinghouse is purely fictional. I named the Creekside Inn after Shirley and Lloyd Reed’s Creekside B&B in Nebraska, which recently closed its doors.

  Switchel was a real drink and a thirst quencher. Ladies would take this drink out to the field workers. It’s made of water, apple cider vinegar, molasses or honey, and ginger if available.

  The ponderosa pine in the story has a lot of meaning for me. Montana’s state tree, where Jedediah and Patience had their picnic, is a beautiful, grand tree as noted by its massive size. Its strong, tall trunk has a nice fragrant vanilla scent from the bark. These pines can grow up to 165 feet, a process that can take 300 to 400 years. I wanted to mention the ponderosa since a grove of them was planted in my brother’s memory in Glacier National Park after his untimely death while a deputy superintendent there. It was my honor to go to Glacier Park with park ranger officials and with my brother’s widow and daughter to collect the tiny seeds needed from the pine cones for them to plant. I hope to go back soon and see how tall they’ve grown. The ponderosa pine plays an important role in Montana’s ecology and wildlife habitat, providing valuable grazing for wildlife and livestock, as the forests are usually open, park-like areas. Native Americans ate the pine seed, and the Cheyenne Indians used the pine pitch inside whistles and flutes to improve the instruments’ sound.

  The meadowlark singing at the wedding is Montana’s state bird.

  Acknowledgments

  No author takes their writing journey alone, without a team. Many thanks go to my wonderful editors, Andrea Doering and Carol Johnson, and the Revell editorial team for their valuable insight.

  My gratitude to the Revell marketing team—too many to name—who patiently answers all my countless questions. Thanks to Revell’s wonderful design team that creates the best eye-catching covers!

  Much appreciation to Natasha Kern, my agent. I know I can rely on her knowledge and her prayers.

  I’m so grateful for my critique partner and best friend, Kelly Long. We share much laughter during our brainstorming sessions, and so much more.

  To my family, Bruce, Sheri, Bobby, Jared, and Amy, for your constant support and love, but most of all for believing in me.

  Last, but definitely not least, to the One who formed my most inward parts, and in your Book are written all the days that were ordained for me when there was not yet one.

  1

  Then he said to them, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.”

  LUKE 12:15 NIV

  Paradise Valley

  Cottonwood, Montana

  September 1862

  John McIntyre reined in his horse along the ridge above Cottonwood Creek overlooking Paradise Valley below. The vista before him never failed to impress him, and this perfect fall day with its cloudless sky was no exception. He fished inside his leather vest pocket for a piece of paper and read it for the third time.

  I need your help, John. Since I left Paradise Valley, I received a letter from my sister Rachel that has me very disturbed. She is now working in a saloon called the Wild Horse as a dance hall girl. You have to get her out of that situation until I can return. I’m begging you, do what needs to be done—hog-tie her if needed. Knowing her fiery disposition, you might have to. But get her out of there before it’s too late to save her reputation. With all your connections, maybe you can find her a decent job.

  Your friend,

  Preston Matthews

  John sighed, wishing he didn’t have to get tangled up in a situation not of his doing, and stuffed the letter back into his pocket. But he’d known Preston a long time and didn’t want to let him down. He could sense his friend’s anxiety in the letter. A saloon was no place f
or Preston’s sister—John knew firsthand from when he was young and ignorant.

  He hadn’t seen Rachel since she was a gangly adolescent, and he had already graduated from high school when he took over his father’s ranch. He wondered if he would even recognize her now. He remembered a time when they’d argued at a church picnic after he didn’t want to enter the potato sack race with a girl. She could never take no for an answer.

  With a gentle tug of the reins, he turned Cutter in the direction of the trail down to Paradise. He wanted to get this done and get back home, and he only knew of one way to do it.

  As John made his way through dust-filled Main Street, piano music could be heard coming from the saloon long before he stood before the hitching post. Two drunks staggered through the swinging café doors, laughing and cajoling one another with slaps on the back, and John stepped aside to let them pass. The liquor odor was strong, and he wondered how on earth a man could derive any pleasure from imbibing and losing control. He preferred to stay in control—most of the time.

  He strode into the Wild Horse, his senses assaulted with the buzz of activity and music. There were girls dancing on a small stage, twirling about in scanty but gaudy satin outfits, their bare legs kicking high into the air as they kept time with the beat of the piano’s banged-out notes. He scanned the room quickly, seeing men oblivious to the dance hall girls as they concentrated on the cards held close to their chests. John was surprised that it was crowded this early, as it wasn’t even dark yet.

  He looked at the young dancers’ faces, realizing he wasn’t sure which one was Rachel, but then he spotted her. In quick action, he strode forward and in one leap was up on stage in the middle of the dancers. Someone yelled for him to get down. He ignored them, lifted the strawberry blonde off her feet, and tried to move off the stage, but she thrashed about.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” The young girl pushed against his chest.

  “Rachel, you need to come with me now!” he ordered, but she gave him a maniacal look, then wrenched her arms away. “I’m not Rachel, you fool! Let go of me.” As she twisted away, saying, “I doubt Rachel’s gonna let you manhandle her either!” she giggled, covering her mouth in an attempt to hide her missing teeth.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” he said. He stepped back and swung his gaze across the stage floor, peering at each painted face.

  Some of the ladies were still dancing and couldn’t have cared less what was going on, but one stopped with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. She must be Rachel, he thought. In two steps, he reached her and lifted her to his shoulder, despite her pounding her fists on his back and muttering under her breath.

  The music stopped and the piano player stood up. “Where are you going with Rachel?”

  “Move aside, man,” he said, pushing his way through the crowd that stood watching. “Don’t get in the way of a lovers’ quarrel.”

  “I ain’t never seed you here afore,” a snaggletoothed patron sputtered.

  “Let me go, you brute!” the lady yelled, kicking her heels this way and that.

  John continued on past the café doors and straight to his horse. In one swift movement, he straddled Cutter while still holding tightly to Rachel, then settled her behind his back. One swift kick in the side of his horse, and they galloped off, leaving bystanders staring back at a cloud of thick dust.

  Rachel had no choice but to hang on for dear life, but she considered which was worse—jumping off and risking breaking her neck, or waiting until the crazed cowboy came to his senses to rein in his horse, which she hoped would be any moment now. He smelled of sunshine and outdoors mixed with the peculiar smell of his worn leather vest, and despite the predicament, she found herself liking his masculine smell.

  There was something vaguely familiar about him, with his dark looks and penetrating eyes that had held hers briefly before he’d reached for her. Had she met him before? Perhaps he’d been to the saloon. Why couldn’t she remember? Lord, help me get away from this kidnapper! Her heart thumped hard against her ribs.

  The landscape rushed past, and she closed her eyes to keep from getting dizzy as they continued on the wild ride, until finally she felt the horse slowing. She opened her eyes to see they were at someone’s home. Before her sprawled a two-story Victorian ranch house, smoke curling from the chimney. Nearby were an adjoining large barn and corrals, some with horses and cattle being tended by ranch hands. Two dogs rushed up to greet them as the cowboy slid off the horse’s back. Well, at least he didn’t take me to a deserted hideout to be his slave.

  He stared up at her briefly, then held out his hands to assist her down. Instead, Rachel abruptly slid forward onto the saddle and grabbed the reins, then slapped the horse’s flanks and raced out of the front yard, back in the direction they’d come from. She barely glanced back and saw the cowboy with his mouth open.

  Teach him to snatch a lady! She chuckled until she heard a whistle from behind and the horse came to a screeching halt. Despite her pull on the reins and another swift kick in its ribs, the horse wouldn’t budge. She muttered under her breath as she observed two ranch hands on horseback approaching her. There was no way out. The horse obediently turned around and trotted straight back to its master, who stood with his hands on his hips, a dark look of fury directed at her.

  ———

  John sighed, looking up at Rachel’s face, which was red with anger. He knew Cutter would listen to his commands, but he had to give it to her—she had tried, and he supposed if it were him, he would’ve done the same thing.

  He walked over and took the reins, patting Cutter on the head affectionately. “Good boy.” He looked back at Rachel. “Why don’t you let me help you down and then we’ll talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about!” she spat, then turned her nose up in the air like she was the queen of England.

  He laughed out loud. “Suit yourself, but you’re going to get mighty tired sittin’ up there, and I believe supper is being held for us.” By now, more than a few of the ranch hands had strolled over to see what was taking place, staring at the pretty lady in her satin outfit.

  “Meet Rachel Matthews, men. She’ll be staying with us for a while—”

  “I will not!” Rachel slid off the horse, feet apart, thin arms akimbo. She looked rather ridiculous in the frilly purple satin cancan dress and high heels, her hair a mess. “You had no right to bring me here, and I demand that you find a horse to take me back to Cottonwood.” A snicker went through the small bunch of hands, and she glared at them.

  One bowlegged cowboy swept off his hat and bowed slightly. “Pardon me, ma’am, but I don’t think you’re gonna fit in with the bunch here, lessin’ you know how to rope a steer!” The others guffawed and slapped their thighs.

  “No thanks to you loggerheads—none of you are even man enough to stop this cowboy’s kidnapping and rescue me!”

  “Never interfere with a man and his lady when they’re in a spat, is my motto,” another cowpuncher added.

  Rachel rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. John could tell that she was not in the least bit flattered by their attention, and he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her. His eyes flicked over her willowy form and her pretty face covered with all that paint and powder. It was hard to believe she’d grown into such a beautiful young woman. Wonder why Preston never told me what a pretty young lady she is? Probably to keep me away from her.

  He shifted from one leg to the other. “You men go on about your business, now.” The punchers shuffled out of the yard, leaving the two of them to battle it out.

  John stepped forward to take Rachel’s hand, but she snatched it away. “Rachel, if you’ll step inside, I’ll explain everything to you.”

  “How do you know my name?” She tapped her foot in the dirt. “And what do you want from me?” Her eyes snapped in anger. “I demand to know your name and why you’ve kidnapped me!”

  “My name is John McIntyre, and I own this r
anch. Your brother Preston wired and asked me to rescue you from the Wild Horse to protect you from that unscrupulous lifestyle.”

  Her head thrust upward in surprise. “Preston? You’ve heard from Preston?” It was almost a whisper. For a moment her face softened as she seemingly forgot her anger at him.

  “Yes. Now, will you please come inside and we’ll have supper and talk,” he pleaded. What have I gotten myself mixed up with? On any ordinary evening, he would have long been finished with supper and sitting by the fire with a good book, or planning the morrow with Estelle, his grandmother who lived with him. He was beginning to get impatient with this painted lady from the Wild Horse.

  Finally Rachel nodded. “I don’t plan on being here for longer than I must, so you’d better explain what you have to do with my brother.”

  “Fair enough.” John motioned for her to go ahead of him up the steps to the front door, then reached over and opened it for her. A light scent of rosewater tickled his nostrils as she walked past him, and he wondered how many had held her in their arms . . . but he mustn’t think about that now, because what she’d done in the past didn’t involve him one bit!

  Maggie Brendan is a CBA bestselling author and won the 2013 Laurel Wreath Award and the 2014 Book Buyers Best Award in the Inspirational Romance category. She has been a finalist for the 2014 and 2013 Heart of Excellence Readers’ Choice Award, the 2013 Published Maggie Award of Excellence, and the 2012 Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award. She is married, lives in Georgia, and loves all things Western. She has two grown children and four grandchildren. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, researching her next novel, and being with her family.

  Maggie invites you to connect with her at www.MaggieBrendan.com or www.southernbellewriter.blogspot.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/maggiebrendan or on Twitter @MaggieBrendan.