“I’m not an outlaw. A rebel at times, but not on the wrong side of the law.” He smiled, and Hope was reminded how sorely tempted she was to like him.
Closing her eyes, she thanked God for placing her in Grunt’s hands. “I’m glad. I knew you were different.”
A smile touched his eyes. “How could you tell? I’ve treated you badly. I hope you understand—”
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “You were trying to protect me.”
“Speaking of which—exactly whom am I protecting?”
“My name is Hope Kallahan. I was traveling to Medford to meet my husband-to-be, John Jacobs, when the stage was attacked. Mr. Jacobs and I are to be married soon.”
“You’re promised to this man?”
Was there disappointment in his voice? Her heart soared, then plunged. Or did she only want to hear it? Nodding, she motioned toward the cup. He brought the water back to her lips, and she drank thirstily. She pushed the tin aside and met his gaze. “What do we do now?”
“We wait here until you’re stronger, then we’ll move out under cover of darkness.”
“And then?”
“Then I’ll escort you to your fiancé in Medford, and I’ll return to Washington. My cover is blown; there’s nothing more I can do here. Until you’re better, I’ll sleep just outside the doorway. You’ll be safe, for now.”
“I can’t ask you to bother with me.” He’d protected her these past weeks, kept her from certain harm. She couldn’t impose on his generosity any longer. “I’ve inconvenienced you quite enough. If you’ll be so kind as to see me to the next town, I’ll catch a stage.”
“No. No stage.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t safe. Big Joe is still in the area. He’ll be bent on taking you hostage again.”
“But why? I’m worth nothing to him. I’m not Anne Ferry; they’ll get no ransom for me.”
“You’re still of great benefit to these men, Hope. Trust me.”
She pulled the blanket tighter around her. At the moment she had no choice but to trust him with her very life. “They’ll be after you too,” she murmured sleepily, feeling her strength drain. “And they’ll be angry that you took me away from them—furious, should they learn that you’re working for the government.”
He shrugged. “Their anger doesn’t concern me as much as getting you safely to Medford. As far as I can tell, Medford’s still a good fifty miles away. A lot can happen in fifty miles.”
Hope closed her eyes; fatigue was beginning to overtake her. Her mind refused to absorb what he was saying. An incredible peace came over her. Grunt was here, offering to help her. Could she trust him? Was he actually a government official, or was this just another cruel hoax? She sighed. Whether she believed him or not made little difference. God had seen fit to place her earthly life in this man’s hands. They were both in danger from Big Joe, Frog, and Boris. If only she could believe that God would deliver her …
The absurd situation suddenly struck her funny, and she burst into laughter.
Grunt glanced at her, frowning. “I’m glad to see that you still have your sense of humor—but what’s funny about our situation?”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I’ve spent a month in your company, my life is in your hands at the moment, and I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Grunt.”
Her merriment increased, causing her to break into another fit of coughing. Grunt gently lifted her to a sitting position.
When the spasm subsided, she lay weakly back against his chest. “I’m reasonably sure your name isn’t Grunt. I doubt any mother would do that to her poor, helpless newborn.”
“No?” He grinned. “You don’t like the name Grunt?”
She shook her head. “It’s truly inappropriate.”
He carefully settled her back on the pallet, and she sighed. His blanket smelled of woodsmoke and lye soap. “My name is Dan Sullivan.”
“Dan.” She closed her eyes, testing the feel of his name on her tongue. “Daniel?”
“Daniel.”
It was a good, strong biblical name. And they’d surely both been in the lions’ den.
“How did you know I wasn’t Anne Ferry?”
He reached for a stick of wood and laid it on the fire. “I met Anne Ferry at a Christmas soiree a few years back. Thomas Ferry is a personal friend of my commander.” He moved back to the pallet and knelt beside her, gently smoothing hair back from her face with the cloth. “I knew the moment I saw you that you weren’t Thomas’s daughter. You’re prettier than Anne.”
Prettier than Anne. She felt a pang of envy for Anne, who had probably danced with this handsome man, been held in his arms. She wanted to hold his words close to her heart, but she was so weary she couldn’t think at all. She couldn’t imagine why Dan Sullivan’s flattery meant so much to her. She was betrothed to John Jacobs, and Mr. Jacobs must be worried sick about her whereabouts.
Dan’s voice was solemn now. “Hope, what were you doing with Anne’s bags and her personal effects?”
When she heard uneasiness in his voice, she smiled. “Anne and her companion, Della DeMarco, had been traveling with me earlier. Miss DeMarco took ill, and Anne returned home in order for Miss Della to have the proper care. They left so suddenly that Anne forgot to get her things.”
Hope smiled when she heard him exhale with relief. A moment later, she drifted off, his words tucked neatly inside her heart: “You’re prettier than Anne.”
She awoke later, aware that she was alone now. Dan? Had he left? Please, Dan … no … stay with me. If he left her, there would be nothing she could do. She had no idea where she was nor one single way to care for herself. He’d surely take the horse.
She lay in the light of the flickering fire, waiting, listening, and praying that he wouldn’t abandon her. He was, after all, a government agent … now she was part of that job.
Hot tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Her thoughts—about God, about Dan Sullivan—were confused and jumbled. Lord, please help me trust you like Papa did. Help me to believe—
A sound caught her attention, and she opened her eyes. For one brief, elated moment, she saw Dan standing at the cave’s entrance with two fat rabbits in his hand.
“You’re back.”
“Sorry it took so long. Game’s scarce.”
“It’s okay.” Giving him a smile, she closed her eyes again. Dan hadn’t left her. Perhaps God was still watching out for her after all.
“Dan?”
“Yes, Hope?” His voice seemed to come from a long way off.
“Do you honestly think I’m prettier than Anne?”
The soft, masculine chuckle made her blush. “Well, Miss Kallahan, if I were to say who’s the prettiest …”
She drifted off without ever hearing him finish the sentence.
Chapter Five
John Jacobs teetered on a wooden ladder propped against the wall case of the Jacobs Mercantile, straining to reach the top shelves with the feather duster. No one could ever say they’d purchased a single item from Jacobs Mercantile that was the least bit neglected.
No sir. When one bought from Jacobs, one got quality product, down to the last needle and spool of thread. He paused on his perch to glance around the store, mentally cataloging each aisle of merchandise. Fresh goods and perishables were toward the front, where people could see for themselves that Jacobs had nothing but the freshest. Of course, part of his strategy was moving the stock around a bit each day, but that never detracted from quality.
Canned goods were centered on the right; material, spools of thread, cards of ribbons and the finest laces neatly piled on tables—center aisle. Ready-made dresses to the left. Hand tools, men’s pants and shirts were at the back, near the stove, where men were prone to gather while their wives shopped.
Stepping off the ladder, John nodded absently to him
self. Yes, he ran a tight ship. He was proud of his accomplishments, and rightfully so. It was a solid start for his soon-to-be family. The family he hoped to build with Hope Kallahan.
Hope. How often he thought about his mail-order bride. Concerns whether she’d like him or could ever care deeply for him were never far from his mind. Betrothal to a man she’d never seen, had only seen a poor likeness of, must be a matter of discomfiture. Nevertheless—and the fact was of no small satisfaction to him—she had answered his ad.
The ad.
Wonder filled him anew. Placing that want ad in the Heart-and-Hand column of the Kentucky Monthly—then having that journal miraculously make its way to Michigan and into Miss Kallahan’s possession… . He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Well, it was just a miracle, that’s what it was. Just one more of God’s abundant blessings, and there had been many of those in John Jacobs’s life.
The moment he’d placed the ad, he’d been assailed with doubt. What madness had driven him to do so? He was reasonably happy with his life, though admittedly lonely since Mother had passed on two years ago. But life had settled into a comfortable routine. He went to work each morning. Then at night, with his trusty hound, Oliver, he climbed the stairway to his apartment above the store.
He’d told no one about the ad. In fact, he’d been so abashed about having put his private life in the public eye that he’d tried to forget about his impetuosity. But then Hope’s letter arrived.
John shook his head in wonder. He’d been so taken aback by the letter, by the delicate spidery script on the envelope, that he’d waited a whole day and a half to open it. Hope had introduced herself, telling him about her aunt Thalia and about her sisters embarking upon their own mail-order-bride adventures. John had felt encouraged. It took him another two days to compose a letter in return. With mail service between Michigan and Kentucky so slow, it took forever, or so it seemed, to receive her reply to his letter.
If Hope were nearly as beautiful as the picture that had accompanied her third letter, then he was the most fortunate man on earth! That is, unless she took one look at him and got back on the stage.
The picture he’d sent to her had been a poor image, but he wasn’t a handsome man. He was a loyal man, moral, read the Good Book and did his best to live by it. But by no stretch of the imagination was he a handsome swain.
Oh, he knew full well the gamble he was taking, hoping that a woman of Miss Kallahan’s exceptional beauty would agree to travel all the way to Medford to form a union with him, John Jacobs.
John stepped to the front window of the store, trying to see the town as Hope might perceive it. Medford had fared well during the war, with minimal damage from marauders. Like most towns of its size, Medford had a main street with two crossroads. The Basin River ran the length of the community. During heavy rains, it overflowed its banks and caused more than its share of headaches for the townspeople. Most, if not all, of the shop owners in town lived above their businesses. A spattering of town residents, generally the elderly or widowed, resided in small two-or three-room dwellings interspersed between storefronts. The larger portion of the population lived on the outskirts and ventured into town once a month for supplies.
Would Hope find Medford too … dull? too confining? There wasn’t much here. Besides the mercantile there were Pierson’s Hotel, Hattie’s Millinery and Sewing, Porter’s Feed and Grain, Grant’s Smithy, the livery where he boarded his own team and buggy, the church, and, of course, the school. Townsfolk took great pride that the school went to the eighth grade.
It was a simple, unassuming, friendly town. He was a simple, unassuming, friendly man. Would Hope find it in her heart to make her home here with him? Father, I pray you will send a woman whom I can make happy, for indeed I will do my best to be a good husband.
With both hope and trepidation, John stored the duster under the counter, then bent to retrieve a new roll of wrapping paper from the bottom shelf. About to heave it onto the countertop, he spied Veda Fletcher crossing the street, scurrying toward the mercantile. Tucked beneath her arm was a familiar package. Even from this distance, he knew it was a towel-wrapped, glass casserole dish. He’d seen that particular sight many times.
“Oh no,” he muttered, quickly ducking down behind the counter. He dropped to his knees, lifting his head for an occasional peek over the countertop. Veda was still on target, her plump, rouged cheeks puffing with exertion.
The spunky, rotund widow had lost her husband some years back, and she now spent most of her time officiating as town matchmaker. Veda was just one of a whole list of town “mothers” who tried to initiate a match between John and their daughters or, in Veda’s case, her spinster niece.
Attending town social functions had become more of a burden than a joy, what with mothers plying him with food while parading eligible daughters in front of him like prize mares. Why, at the church picnic, he’d ended up with no less than nine pieces of dried-apple pie after Mrs. Baker discovered it was his favorite. He’d taken to eluding any community gathering whenever he could to avoid being up all night, gulping down soda water for indigestion.
For the past couple of years, Veda had been fixated on John carrying on a long-distance courtship with that niece of hers. Fortunately, Ginger lived in San Antonio. Unfortunately, Veda lived at the edge of town.
Being a social swan herself, Veda made her way to the store at least twice a week, each time managing to drag Ginger’s name into the conversation. John had explained no less than a hundred times in the last few weeks that he was betrothed, but Veda didn’t listen.
It was his fervent prayer that with Hope due to arrive any moment, the campaign—no, outright war—waged by the mothers of Medford to get him married off could end. True, Hope was a month overdue, but surely she was en route. He clung to the hope much like a drowning victim clings to driftwood.
Attempting to avoid another “visit” with Veda, John crept on his hands and knees toward the front door, pushing a sleeping Oliver out of the way. He didn’t want to hurt the woman’s feelings, but he just couldn’t face her again. Not today.
Just as John peeked from his hiding place, Veda put on the brakes and stopped to peer in the window of Hattie’s shop. Seizing his chance, he bounded to his feet and slipped the lock on the front door, then hurriedly crept back behind the counter.
Shortly, he heard the doorknob turn and the door rattle. A moment later someone pecked on the front window. John wished she’d just go away. But not Veda. She knocked, rapped, and jiggled the knob loudly. John peeked around the edge of the counter, only to glimpse her cupping her hands on the glass to peer inside, her parcel tucked securely beneath her elbow.
John held his breath. Go away, Veda.
“John? The door is locked!” She tapped again. “John?”
He heard her mutter something; then it was quiet. When he thought it was safe, he again peered around the edge of the counter.
Veda was gone.
Thank you, God.
He rose a fraction—not much—just enough to glance out the front window and see her plump backside hurrying down the street, apparently heading for home.
Releasing a sigh of relief, he sat down flat on the floor. He liked Veda. He really did. But he just couldn’t force down another forkful of chicken casserole. At least, not the way Veda fixed it with all that stuff in it. It had been a sad day indeed when Veda accidentally overheard John telling old Mrs. Brandstetter that his favorite dish was chicken casserole. Unfortunately, Mrs. Brandstetter died the next year, and when they buried her, they also buried the only recipe for a decent chicken casserole in the whole town.
He thought about Mae Brandstetter’s casserole, and his mouth watered. Though he was quite adept at keeping his living quarters tidy, he’d never mastered the kitchen. His meals were quite inedible—suicide on a plate, his friends were wont to remind him. In order to keep from poisoning himself, he took most of his meals at the Pierson Hotel. Unfortunately, doing so exposed him to the
cunning devices of the mothers of Medford. So much so that he’d taken to eating at odd hours. As a matter of fact, he’d missed lunch today.
A noise at the back door caught his attention. Straightening, his heart sank when he saw the door open and Veda Fletcher elbow her way inside.
“John, did you know your front door is locked?”
“Mrs. Fletcher—” His eyes focused on the casserole dish in her hand. Dear God. He would be up half the night. “Door locked? Now how did that happen?”
“Who knows—it’s fortunate I came along.” She set the bowl on the counter, eyeing him slyly. “Now let me guess: you missed lunch.”
“I had a large breakfast—”
“Breakfast! That was hours ago.” Beaming, she whisked the lid off the bowl. “Look, John. I brought you one of my chicken casseroles.”
She looked so proud of herself, he couldn’t think of hurting her feelings.
“Why, that’s very nice of you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“No trouble at all. I enjoy doing for people. It’s a family trait, you know. The Fletchers are all nurturing people. Why, you remember my niece, Ginger? She’s exactly like me—chip off the old block. Just doing for someone all the time. Everyone who knows Ginger says—”
John reached for the dish. “You’re right; I did miss lunch.” He lifted the lid and sniffed, rolling his eyes with feigned pleasure. “This will certainly hit the spot.”
Veda’s smile was so genuine, John’s guilt lessened at his insincere show of appreciation. If something this simple gave Veda so much pleasure, who was he to complain?
“Thank you again, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Veda. Everyone calls me Veda, John, and you’ve known me since before your mother died. Why, I feel like you’re part of the family.” She giggled like a small girl. “And maybe one day you will be. Well, I’ll run along now and let you eat. Laundry waiting on the line.”
If nothing else, John knew Veda Fletcher was a good housekeeper. Like clockwork, her laundry was on the line by nine o’clock every Monday. She was proud to remind her friends and neighbors that she ironed on Tuesdays, baked on Saturdays, and sat third row from the front at church on Sundays. Likely as not, she would invite Pastor Elrod and his family home for dinner and generally add another family or two as well. Generous to a fault—that was Veda. He couldn’t help liking her, even if she did drive him to distraction with her tasteless chicken casseroles and constant hints about her niece, Ginger.
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