by Jody Hedlund
Books by Jody Hedlund
The Preacher’s Bride
The Doctor’s Lady
Unending Devotion
A Noble Groom
Rebellious Heart
Captured by Love
BEACONS OF HOPE
Out of the Storm: A BEACONS OF HOPE Novella
Love Unexpected
Hearts Made Whole
Undaunted Hope
ORPHAN TRAIN
An Awakened Heart: An ORPHAN TRAIN Novella
With You Always
Together Forever
Searching for You
THE BRIDE SHIPS
A Reluctant Bride
The Runaway Bride
A Bride of Convenience
COLORADO COWBOYS
A Cowboy for Keeps
© 2021 by Jody Hedlund
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2999-8
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Kirk DouP once, DogEared Design
Author is represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency
Cast thy burden upon the LORD, and he shall sustain thee: he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved.
—Psalm 55:22
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Jody Hedlund
Title Page
Copright Page
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Chapter 1
COLORADO TERRITORY
AUGUST 1862
“Stop or we’ll shoot!” A dozen feet up Kenosha Pass, three robbers with flour sacks over their heads blocked the way, their revolvers outstretched.
Walking alongside the stagecoach, Greta Nilsson didn’t have to be told twice. She froze—all except her pulse, which sped to a thundering gallop.
Next to her, the Concord jerked to a halt.
“Come out and put your hands up where we can see ’em,” called the lanky robber at the center, peering through unevenly cut holes in his mask.
Greta raised her gloved hands and hoped they weren’t trembling. Likewise, the two gentlemen hiking near her wasted no time in obeying.
Before she’d left Illinois, everyone had warned her of the trouble she might encounter on the route to the west, including the growing problem of stagecoach robberies. Over the past eight weeks of traveling, she’d braced herself for the possibility, had mentally rehearsed such an encounter and what she’d do.
But today, on the last day of the journey, she’d finally allowed herself to relax and believe that for once things might work out in her favor, that she hadn’t made a big mistake in moving to Colorado.
Apparently, she’d assumed too much too soon.
At the rear of the stagecoach, several men had been pushing it the final distance to the top of the pass, and they now eased out into the open, their arms up. The driver sitting on his bench atop the stagecoach set the brake, then released the reins controlling the two teams of horses that had been straining to pull them up the mountain. He, too, cautiously lifted his hands.
She guessed, like her, the other passengers were well aware of the tales of murder and mayhem along the wilderness trails. And they weren’t taking any chances either.
At least Astrid was inside the coach. After trekking uphill for the first hour, the little girl’s poor lungs hadn’t been able to handle the exertion. As much as Astrid had loathed returning to the bumpy conveyance, she’d been able to have a seat to herself since everyone else had gotten out to lighten the load.
Last time Greta had peeked through the open windows, her sister had been sprawled out asleep, and now Greta prayed the precocious child would stay that way.
The middle robber inched toward them, his revolver swinging in a wide arc. His leathery hands and dirt-encrusted fingernails contrasted with the ivory handle of his revolver. “Nobody move.”
Morning sunlight filtered through the aspens, their white bark and green-gold leaves making the trail feel more open and airy than other parts of the mountainous road. A cool, dry breeze rattled the leaves, swishing like ladies’ skirts brushing against grass.
Just minutes ago, Greta had been marveling at how different the dry and cooler climate was from northern Illinois, where oppressive humidity plagued the summers and made every chore feel like a burden. What she wouldn’t give at this moment to be back there shucking corn or snapping beans, even if she was dripping with perspiration.
“Anyone left inside?” one of the other robbers asked.
“No,” Greta said quickly. “Everyone’s out.”
Just then the stagecoach door inched open.
The lanky robber with the uneven eye slits swung his revolver toward the door and clicked the hammer.
“No!” Greta threw herself between the robber and the stagecoach, shoving against Astrid’s strong push.
A short distance away beyond the trees, the mountainside overlooked the sprawling grasslands of South Park, nestled between the Front Range in the east and the Mosquito Range in the west. Their destination was within eyesight. If only it was also within shouting distance so they could call for help.
The bandit shifted the barrel’s aim to Greta, his arm stiff, his fingers taut. “Woman, unless you want to find yourself eating a bullet, you’d best step aside and let that person out.”
Inside, Astrid cried out in protest and once again attempted to open the door. But Greta flattened the full length of her body against it.
“Move on outta the way, woman,” the robber said, louder and more irritably.
“It’s her little sister.” One of the other passengers moved to stand beside Greta, a middle-aged man who’d introduced himself as Landry Steele yesterday morning when they boarded the stagecoach in Denver. He’d spent the majority of the journey conversing with the other gentlemen. However, during the few brief interactions she’d had with him, he’d always been considerate.
“The girl is ill and is of no concern to you.” Beneath the brim of Mr. Steele’s bowler, he shot Greta an apologetic look, as though realizing she’d wanted to keep Astrid hidden away and
out of the conflict.
“That so?” The gunman’s revolver didn’t waver. “If she’s of no concern, then let her on out.”
Greta pressed against the door harder. She hadn’t brought Astrid all this distance to have her die at the hand of a robber. “She’s only eight years old—”
“I’m nine,” came Astrid’s indignant voice.
“Allow her to come out,” Mr. Steele said with a quiet urgency. “You don’t want her to end up an orphan, do you?”
Astrid an orphan? Never in Greta’s plans had she counted on dying before Astrid. The truth was, Astrid’s days were numbered, and Greta hoped to lengthen and make them as pain-free as possible. But she couldn’t do that if she let the robber kill her.
Swallowing hard, Greta stepped away from the stagecoach. The door flew open with a bang, and Astrid tumbled out. She landed with an oomph onto the grassy road but then bounded up as nimbly as a barn cat. Though the consumption had emaciated the girl so that she was thin and petite for her age, somehow she still retained a fresh and vibrant spirit that made up for her physical frailty.
Her big silver blue eyes, so much like Greta’s, took in the scene—the robbers, their guns, and all the passengers standing motionless with hands in the air. Astrid’s hair was also the same color as Greta’s, a golden brown now sun-streaked from so many days of neglecting her bonnet. Astrid had refused to allow Greta to plait her hair when they’d arisen at half past four in the morning for a hasty departure from the stagecoach station, and now it hung in tangled waves.
Even so, Astrid was the picture of perfection. She had dainty porcelain but beautiful features that drew attention everywhere she went. Greta had never considered herself to be a beauty, not like some of the other young women back home and certainly not like Astrid.
But too many people to recall during the journey west had exclaimed how much she and Astrid looked alike. The admiring glances and flattery had been strange but not unwelcome. At times, she wondered if maybe she was prettier than she’d realized, if maybe she’d been hasty in accepting the first mail-order bride proposal that came along.
Astrid took several steps in the direction of the closest robber. “Why are you wearing a sack over your head?”
“Astrid, come here this instant,” Greta whispered in her sternest tone.
The thief’s gaze darted over to the passengers, revealing a crooked, lazy eye that didn’t focus. “It’s what robbers do, kid.”
“W-e-l-l.” Astrid drew the word out and cocked her head. “It makes you look kinda silly, like a scarecrow.”
Greta lunged for Astrid, but the girl dodged away and skipped toward the robber.
His gun wavered, as though he was considering turning the weapon on Astrid.
“Astrid!” Horror rose in Greta’s throat, threatening to strangle her. “Don’t you dare go a step closer.”
Astrid halted and held out her hand. “Here’s some money, Mister. It’s mine, but you can have it since you need it more than me.”
The man’s lazy eye shifted to Astrid again. “Drop it on the ground.”
Astrid released a crumpled wad and a few coins. They bounced in the grass near the robber’s feet. “My sister has more—”
“No!” Greta couldn’t let these bandits discover her secret stash since she’d taken pains to sew the cash into the lining of her coat after the passengers had been warned not to carry valuables.
It was her jam money. Her earnings from picking and preserving the wild berries that grew on the farm. The accumulation of two years of working every spare minute.
Astrid turned her pretty eyes upon Greta. “They have to wear flour sacks instead of hats. Guess that means they need the money more than we do. Right, Mister?”
“Right, kid.” This time the robber’s voice hinted at amusement.
The thieves made quick work of emptying the locked box next to the driver and then divested each of the passengers of anything of value. Within a few minutes they ran off into the woods with their loot.
Greta stood with the others, surveying their belongings strewn over the grass surrounding the stagecoach. Astrid had lost interest in the robbers and was intent on picking a bouquet of wildflowers.
“We got lucky.” The driver broke the silence, his voice shaky as he closed the now-empty box next to him. “Last time the Crooked-Eye Gang struck, they killed three men—”
Mr. Steele cut off the driver with a glare and a curt nod toward Astrid.
The driver clamped his mouth closed, and everyone set to work repacking their bags and trunks.
Greta fingered the frayed coat hem. Although Phineas Hallock, her intended, had informed her he had plenty of money since he was part owner of a gold mine, she couldn’t keep dismay from weighing upon her.
She’d corresponded with Phineas by letter on several occasions last year, and she sensed in him genuine kindness, especially since he’d so readily agreed to take care of Astrid. He also made all the arrangements for the trip, including paying for their fare.
Though the small daguerreotype he’d sent in his last letter the previous autumn had shown him to be a plain-looking and somewhat older man, his face held a look of integrity as well as honesty. Maybe he wasn’t handsome or young, but that didn’t matter. What she needed was a husband who was reliable, dependable, and able to provide for her and Astrid.
Besides, after making up her mind, Greta had wanted to move as quickly as possible to get Astrid to the healing air of the Rockies. Why waste time corresponding with other men when Phineas had been so eager and ready to help her?
Maybe she’d acted rashly. But what was done, was done. She was on her way to marry Phineas. She would, in fact, wed him by the day’s end.
Still, she blinked back tears. All of her savings was gone. If only Astrid knew how to obey better. If only the little girl had a real mother and father to raise her. Instead, she was stuck with a mere half sister who clearly didn’t know how to keep her in line.
Greta sat back on her heels and watched the young girl with a mixture of frustration and helplessness.
“Don’t be too hard on her.” Mr. Steele bent next to Greta and retrieved a shiny leather shoe.
“She’s a handful.”
“She saved us from meeting our Maker today.”
“She did?”
The gentleman removed his bowler and smoothed back his dark hair, which had hints of gray at his temples and streaking his long sideburns and mustache. “The gang leader liked her and showed mercy on us as a result.”
Mercy? Each of the passengers had lost everything of value. But she supposed that was better than losing their lives.
“I have a son about Astrid’s age.” Mr. Steele replaced his hat, watching Astrid wistfully.
“You must be looking forward to seeing him when we arrive in Fairplay.”
He focused on the child a moment longer, his expression filled with sadness. “Unfortunately, I won’t be seeing him anytime soon. He lives in New York with his mother.”
“I’m sorry.” Greta didn’t know what else to say.
Mr. Steele shook his head, as if by doing so he could shake away his morose thoughts. “Tell me again why you’re moving to Fairplay.”
Greta hadn’t told him anything yet, since he hadn’t asked. But she wouldn’t be so impolite as to say so. Instead, she gave him the rehearsed line she’d spouted to everyone else who’d wanted to know. “My fiancé lives in Fairplay, and I’m traveling there to marry him.”
“Your fiancé? Is that so?” Mr. Steele’s eyes lit with interest. “May I ask who the lucky fellow is? I’m mayor and have gotten to know many men in the area.”
All the misgivings she’d had since agreeing to marry Phineas soared. What if she’d made a mistake in coming west and agreeing to marry a stranger? What if he wasn’t who he had claimed to be? What if he mistreated Astrid?
Just as quickly as the doubts assailed her, she tossed them aside. If Phineas wasn’t the man he’d portrayed in his le
tters, then she’d have no obligation to stay with him. In fact, perhaps Mr. Steele would be able to advise her regarding the true nature of Phineas’s character. Then if her fiancé had any glaring faults, she’d be well aware of them before arriving in Fairplay.
She cast a sideways glance at the other passengers, who were in the finishing stages of stowing their belongings and were thankfully heedless of the conversation. “I haven’t actually met my intended.”
Mr. Steele, in the process of picking up another shoe, paused.
“We’ve written to each other.”
He straightened and gave her his full attention. “You wouldn’t happen to be Phineas Hallock’s mail-order bride, would you?”
Something in his tone made the skin at the back of her neck prickle with unease. “Yes, Mr. Hallock is my fiancé. Do you know him?”
The gentleman shook his head, his features creasing. “I knew him well. He was a good man.”
Her heart began to patter fast and hard. “Knew?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Nilsson. Phineas Hallock is dead.”
“The mine owner Phineas Hallock, originally from Connecticut?”
“Yes, he left for California last October. Said he was traveling there to purchase supplies for his new bride and that he planned to be back by late spring. When the thawing came and he didn’t return, we all thought he was delayed. Until a body was discovered on Hoosier Pass.”
“His body?”
“As far as we can tell, after so many months of being exposed to the elements . . .”
She stared at Mr. Steele, but somehow he faded from her vision. All she could see was the black-and-white photograph of Phineas.
In his last letter, he’d mentioned his trip to California and his excitement over picking out additional furniture and items for their home. He expressed his desire to have the newly built house well-stocked and ready for her arrival. She hadn’t heard from him since and assumed he hadn’t had the opportunity to send further correspondence. Even if he had, mail delivery via the Pony Express and stagecoach wasn’t reliable. Letters were sometimes lost or stolen.
Besides, she’d been busy preparing for the trip, sewing clothes for Astrid and her, packing their belongings, and saying good-byes. She’d never in her wildest imagination believed Phineas Hallock hadn’t written again because he was dead.
