For a Sister's Love

by Paty Jager

  For a Sister’s Love

  By

  Lauri Robinson

  and

  Paty Jager

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  For a Sister’s Love

  Copyright© 2011 by Lauri Robinson

  Copyright© 2011 by Patricia Jager

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at patyjag@gmail.com.

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com

  www.patyjager.net

  Prologue

  Western Nebraska, 1864

  “Let me go!” Loralei dug her nails into the hard ground as firm hands tugged her backwards.

  “Hush, child!” Mrs. Baumgartner hoisted her off the ground.

  “Mommy!” Mommy and Daddy weren’t near the wagon, but Maggie was.

  “Maggie! Maggie!” Loralei yelled until the back of her throat burned, but the air was too full of screams for Maggie to hear. Another woman—Mrs. Freeman—pulled Maggie in the other direction. Loralei kicked with all her might, but her sister didn’t turn around and Mrs. Baumgartner didn’t let her loose.

  Mrs. Baumgartner shoved her under another wagon and crawled in behind her. “Hush, now, child,” she said, not unkindly.

  Loralei peered between the spokes of the wheels. Dust and smoke filled the air and the men fired long guns. The loud blasts, along with the yelling and screaming, made the ground tremble. Mrs. Baumgartner pulled her away from the wheel and made cooing noises like Mama did when her stomach hurt. Sobbing, Loralei buried her face into the woman’s dress.

  After the noises died down, Mrs. Baumgartner hoisted Loralei in the back of the wagon, insisting she stay put. The noises were still so loud Loralei covered her ears with both hands.

  When the flap opened, Maggie appeared and Loralei jumped to climb over the tailgate. Maggie held up her hands. “No, Lora Beth, you need to stay there.”

  “Why? Why can’t I get out? Where’s Mama and Papa?”

  Maggie slipped something over Loralei’s head. “You remember where we were headed?”

  Loralei nodded. “Idaho.” She grasped the locket hanging around her neck. It was the one Mama always wore. Tears rolled out of Maggie’s eyes. “Why, Maggie, did you forget where we’re headed? Did Mama and Papa forget?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, no one forgot. And don’t you forget, either.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good,” Maggie said, sounding old. She was ten though, and Loralei only eight. “I’ll meet you in Silver City.”

  “What do you mean, Maggie? Aren’t you coming with us? With me and Mama and Papa?”

  “No, Lora Beth. I’m not coming with you and neither are Mama and Papa. There was an Indian attack last night. Mama and Papa are dead. You have to go with the Baumgartners. Mr. Freeman was killed, too, and Mrs. Freeman is in an odd way, I gotta take care of her.” Maggie glanced about before she said, “The Baumgartners are leaving the train, taking the south trail, but don’t fret. I’ll find you.”

  Tears trickled into her mouth, stinging Loralei’s tongue. “No, Maggie. I don’t want to go with the Baumgartners.”

  “You haveta, Lora Beth, we don’t have a choice.” Maggie reached in and wrapped both arms around her. “I promise I’ll be there. I promise.”

  Part One: Loralei

  By Lauri Robinson

  Ten years later.

  Chapter One

  Loralei Elizabeth Holmes laid the bunch of wild flowers, spring daisies and dainty purple jump-ups tied together with a scrap of blue ribbon, onto the mound of earth. The grave was barely six weeks old, but the dry air left the dirt crusted, as if it had been there for years. A sting tugged at her chest, not the full-fledged pain of death, but a loneliness of what had been and would never be again.

  The wind slid the flowers off the mound. Loralei dug a hand-sized stone out of the dirt and repositioned the flowers, using the rock to hold them in place. Her eyes settled on the wooden cross. Baumgartner. No first name, no dates, just Baumgartner. Her gaze went to the second mound. It was fresh, less than two days old. A tight knot formed in her stomach. She stood and walked away from the graves, not willing to take a chance the sight of Orson Baumgartner’s final resting place would ease her ire.

  He got his due, she surmised, walking toward Raindrop, her black and white paint. Once in the saddle, she slapped her thigh, signaling Ruth. After a doggy shake that created a small cloud of dry dirt, and a good stretch, the dog ambled alongside Raindrop.

  They rode down the hill, the horse, rider, and dog, just as they had done a million times over the past few years, but this time was different. They wouldn’t stop at the barn or the sod shanty dug deep into the earth. She’d packed everything this morning, carefully weighing every bag so the bulky packages wouldn’t be too heavy for her, Raindrop, or Ruth.

  They were set to travel.

  Loralei’s hand went to her throat and her palm formed a fist, almost feeling the necklace that had hung around her neck for ten years. Almost felt it, because it was no longer there. The absence made her lips pinch together. Orson Baumgartner had gotten his due. That necklace had been all she’d had left of her family, and he’d stolen it. Then lost it in a card game, the same way he’d lost every ounce of gold he found in the creek tumbling out of the mountain peaks.

  Ruth’s bark had Loralei lifting her chin to see beyond the rim of her hat. A man sat on a big roan horse in the middle of the yard. He stared at the sod shanty like he expected it to up and talk to him. Loralei nudged Raindrop with her heels. They trotted around the dilapidated shed Orson Baumgartner called a barn. There was no time for visitors today.

  “You lookin’ for someone?” she asked.

  The man’s confused gaze roamed from her to Raindrop to Ruth and back to her. “I’m looking for Orson Baumgartner. I was told this is his place.”

  Her heart made a little flip in her chest. He looked like he’d just stepped out of one of the catalogs she dreamed over. Something in the way the tiny golden stripes in his brown suit and the red silk vest beneath the jacket sparkled in the early morning sun hitched her ire a notch.

  “You a gambler?” she asked, not even attempting to hide the contempt tightening the muscles in her throat.

  “No, I’m an attorney.”

  “An attorney?”

  “Yes. I’m a lawyer. I practice the law.” His gaze went back to the crumbled sod blocks on the shanty and then to the loose boards of the barn creaking in the wind. “Is this Orson Baumgartner’s place?”

  She hesitated. Was he a lawyer, or was he the gambler who’d won her necklace, wanting more of the likes.

  His brows arched as he waited for her to answer.

  He most likely was a lawyer, probably from Denver or somewhere, looking for the deed to the property. Any gambler with a wit knew Baumgartner didn’t have a pot to spit in. “Yes, it’s his place.”

  “Is he here?” he asked, somewhat tentatively.

  Squaring her shoulders, she tightened her hold on the bridle reins. “Yup.” Nodding toward the hill, she said, “He’s up there, near that grove of aspen.”

  He glanced in the general direction of the hill, but of course couldn’t see anything beyond the
barn, except the tops of a few trees. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Glancing toward the ground she added, “Ruth.” The dog leaped forward and without a backward glance at the attorney staring at them, Loralei rode away from the place she’d called home for the past ten years. Her, her pony, and her dog.

  Samson Gerard McDonald, Sam to most everyone who knows him, watched the unusual trio ride away. He’d never seen anything quite like it. The girl had on a dress, or leastwise a gray-colored skirt over the top of wool pants, which he’d seen because the skirt was pushed up around her thighs as she sat in the saddle. She also had a man’s flannel jacket, and the biggest, floppiest leather hat he’d ever seen. The side rims practically touched her narrow shoulders.

  The eyes she’d settled on him, though they looked as cold as ice, where startlingly remarkable. They were slanted, like those of an oriental girl, and an extremely unique color. Purple. Not the deep purple of a Colorado sunset nor the wild violets growing on the hillsides, but a pale color, like the spring lilacs blooming along the driveway of his family’s home in New Orleans.

  A billowing cloud hung in the air behind the black and white pony. Even the little paws of the collie kicked up dust. Sam watched a bit longer, unable to pull his gaze away from the trio for some unknown reason. When they became little more than dots, he turned about and spurred King into a trot and shook his head to rid the questions forming.

  King ambled up the small slope. Sam searched the grove of leafy aspens. He hoped Orson Baumgartner would be able to tell him where to find Ty Bancroft. The gambler was supposedly on his way back to Oregon, and Sam wanted to catch him in route. He didn’t relish the thought of trekking all the way to the west coast.

  They topped the hill. The landscape held that barren plain look of many other deltas nestled in the Rockies. A few pines, some brush, and small clusters of white-barked trees. Back down the hill, the ram-shackled homestead stood. Even from here he saw the weathered boards swaying in the wind, ready to fall off the barn at any moment. The house—if that’s what you could call it—was nothing more than a couple rows of sod squares covered with gray boards and a canvas tarp.

  He searched the eastern horizon. The tiny dots of the girl, her horse, and dog and the plume of dust had disappeared. He turned back to the aspens. Something in the center of the grove caught his attention. Swinging off King, he dropped the reins and moved forward.

  A single wooden cross bearing the name Baumgartner and two graves, one new, one a few weeks older, sat beneath the trees.

  He walked back to King. “It appears we’ve been duped, my friend.” Gathering the reins in one hand, he added, “By both the girl and the bartender. Neither one bothered to tell us Orson Baumgartner’s dead.”

  Sam spent a few minutes at the homestead checking to see if anyone was in the house or barn, but just as he thought, they were as empty as the whiskey bottles he’d seen along the trail. But, they hadn’t been that way for long. The two tiny beds in the house had been neatly made before the last occupant left. Exiting the building, he shook his head at the crumbling, crude blocks, amazed it had held up as long as it had. Soddies covered the plains, but he had no idea they built them in the mountains. The ground here was rocky, therefore the mud didn’t hold together well enough to build with. But pioneers were resourceful and did what they could with what they had and who was he to condemn them for trying. He mounted King and set a slow pace following the trail to Timberland, the same route the girl had taken.

  Had she gone to town to get supplies? There weren’t any at the house, not even a tin of flour. He could have sworn he saw a bedroll tied to the back of the horse and her saddled bags bulged. Baumgartner’s daughter perhaps, moving into town now that both of her parents had died.

  He’d spent last night in Timberland. The little town perched on the side of the mountain slope like an eagle had set it there. The bartender at the saloon had told him where to find Baumgartner. He’d also said Ty had been in town last winter and gambled a game or two with the miner. Of course, Sam had paid to get the information. The man hadn’t offered it up for nothing. Apparently he would have had to pay more to learn the man had a daughter. A cute little thing with lilac eyes.

  Five miles later, he determined, there really had been no need for him to wonder if he’d see her again. The painted pony and almost matching dog, stood outside the building with a faded red sign claiming it to be Mert’s Dry Goods. It was a tall building, two stories of boards that had turned white over the years. The store sat in the middle of the block, connected to several other shorter, but just as weathered buildings. A few new boards, looking completely out of place, had been nailed on the awning that stretched out over the boardwalk connecting the establishments.

  Sam dismounted and looped King’s reins around the post outside the saloon. The big roan blended in with the half a dozen other horses waiting there. Sam eased his way down the narrow boardwalk to the store’s front door. A broom handle propped the door open, and hearing voices, he stopped shy of entering, choosing instead to eavesdrop for a moment.

  “Don’t worry ’bout me, Mert,” she was saying. “I got Raindrop and Ruth. We’ll be just fine.”

  “It’s still spring in the High Country, Loralei, you should wait a few more weeks, maybe a wagon train or the likes will come along and you can follow them. Idaho’s a long way from here,” Mert said.

  “I can’t wait, Mert. I’ve been needing to meet up with my sister for years. I just couldn’t leave Mrs. Baumgartner alone,” she replied.

  “I hear-tell Two Buttes brought Orson’s body home, helped you bury him,” Mert said.

  “Yes, a couple of braves found him in the creek up the hill a ways. His flume had collapsed on him.”

  “Hard-headed old fool.”

  A single bark jolted Sam from his ear-to-the-wall stance. Tail wagging, the little black and white collie with an odd knapsack on its back stood near his feet. Big brown eyes dancing with friendliness gazed up at him.

  Sam waved a hand to shoo the dog away, he hadn’t heard enough yet. The dog let out another bark. It wasn’t a snarl of anger, more like a friendly greeting that said, ’Hello, I see you.’

  Hearing footsteps, Sam shot into the door beside the mercantile. It turned out to be the assayer’s office, and very curious about the young woman, he took the opportunity to learn more.

  Loralei glanced up and down the empty boardwalk. “Stop that,” she instructed Ruth before walking back into Mert’s. “You’ll remember where you put my letter, won’t you Mert? If my sister comes looking for me, she’ll need that letter.”

  Mert, the six-and-a-half-foot German who owned the store for as long as Timberland had been there—more than twenty years—nodded his big head. “Yes, Loralei, I’ll remember where I put it. It’ll be in the safe, don’t worry. But I wish you’d wait a few more weeks before heading out. You could stay with Myrtle and me.” He set both hands on her shoulders.

  The heavy weight was enough to make her slump, but she didn’t. For the past ten years she’d wished more than once she could live with Mert and Myrtle, she loved the old couple as if they were her long lost grandparents. Hiding the ache in her heart behind a bright smile, she assured him, “I wish I could, Mert. But I can’t. Maggie’s waiting for me, I know she is. When our wagon train was attacked she went with another family, they stayed on the Oregon Trail. I went with the Baumgartners, and we took the Denver Road. We promised to meet up in Idaho. That’s where we were headed, Silver City. Papa was going to preach there.”

  “I know, Loralei, you’ve told me the story before. And I don’t blame you for wanting to find your kin. I just wish you’d wait until we know the snow is over for sure.” Sadness shone in his eyes.

  “I’ve waited too long as it is. Maggie’s twenty now. She’ll soon tire of waiting for me.” Loralei bit her lips, saying a silent prayer that Maggie hadn’t given up. The thought of Maggie made her think of the necklace, and that made her think of the
dapperly dressed lawyer she’d left back at the soddy. “Mert,” she said, glancing around to assure their privacy.

  The store had been empty when she entered, and no one had come in after her, but she scanned the cluttered space just to make sure. No one was crouched behind the pickle barrel, nor was anyone riffling through the bolts of cloth on the long, narrow table. “Mert, do you know anything about an att-lawyer being in town?”

  “No,” he shook his head, “can’t say I do. Why?”

  “’Cause there was one out at the farm, looking for Mr. Baumgartner. He was dressed in a catalog suit.”

  “A catalog suit?”

  “Yeah, you know, one of those books you can order stuff out of?”

  Mert’s face drew into a frown. “A brown suit with gold pin-stripping and a red vest?”

  “Yeah,” she said, heart pounding.

  “Aw, ya,” he said with a trace of his thick accent, “that would be Samson McDonald. He stopped in here. I didn’t know he was a lawyer. He’s looking for that gambler that was here last fall. Ty Bancroft.”

  Her heart stopped mid-beat, making her gasp for air. “He is?”

  “Ya, sometin’ ’bout a family matter.”

  “Family matter?”

  Doris Sutherland chose that moment to walk into the store. “Good morning, Loralei, I thought I recognized that painted pony of yours.” The woman patted Loralei’s cheek. “How are you, child?” she asked before frowning at Loralei’s layers of clothing. “I heard about Mr. Baumgartner. It’s not safe for you to be out on that place all by yourself. Why don’t you come live with me and Mr. Sutherland? We’d love to have you.”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Sutherland. How is Mr. Sutherland? No reoccurrence of his pneumonia, I hope,” Loralei answered, staying away from the woman’s other questions. The Sutherland’s owned the hotel, and though they were wonderful people, Loralei didn’t want any more folks knowing she was leaving town than Mert and Myrtle. Word would get out soon enough, and she knew the kind residents of the town would most likely send out a search party to make her return as soon as they’d heard she’d left.