by Megan Besing
Delia giggled.
The reverend cleared his throat with a harried grimace. “I now pronounce you husbands and wives.”
Tears of joy filled her eyes. During that awful moment when she thought she might lose him, she’d gotten a glimpse at how bleak and miserable life would be without him by her side. In that instant she’d understood that being loved by the right person was better than being adored by a bevy of strangers.
She still wanted to write stories, and she’d begun a series of articles about the plight of orphan children in the West. She’d even talked her mother into serving as the town midwife, now that all of her daughters were married. Her mother hadn’t abandoned her career for her family; she’d simply taken a leave of absence.
Things hadn’t turned out the way Delia had planned. They’d turned out infinitely better.
Sean cupped her cheeks. “Do you still think you love me?”
“No.” She paused. “I know so.”
“What am I going to do with you, Mrs. Morgan?”
“Love me,” she said. “Just love me.”
Since her debut in 2011, Sherri Shackelford has become a highly acclaimed author of nine novels published with Love Inspired Historical. Her debut novel was a finalist in the ACFW Genesis Awards. Her books have earned a Readers’ Choice nomination from Romantic Times magazine, as well as placing in the National Readers’ Choice Awards. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America and the Faith, Hope and Love Chapter. A wife and mother of three, Sherri’s hobbies include collecting mismatched socks, discovering new ways to avoid cleaning, and standing in the middle of the room while thinking, Why did I just come in here? A reformed pessimist and recent hopeful romantic, Sherri has a passion for writing. Her books are fun and fast-paced with plenty of heart and soul.
To Heal Thy Heart
by Michelle Shocklee
Dedication
For my mother-in-law Shirley Shocklee, a woman of beauty and grace
Chapter 1
Carson Springs, New Mexico Territory
May 1866
A 30-year-old doctor of medicine seeks woman of similar age and aptitude willing to share life and adventure in the rugged landscape of the New Mexico Territory. Sympathetic toward natives and free Negroes. Confederate widows need not apply.
Phoebe Wagner refolded the square of newspaper, its corners worn from her anxious attention throughout the long journey from Kansas City to the northern New Mexico Territory. Had her nerves not been as taut as a grandpa’s fiddle strings, she might have enjoyed the breathtaking view from the stage depot platform, where majestic, snowcapped mountains surrounded the tiny village of Carson Springs, set in a pretty valley alive with pine and aspen trees. But as it was, her stomach churned with nervousness—and her deceit—making her ill.
“You sure your intended is coming to meet you, miss? I don’t like leaving you here alone.”
The stage driver, Mr. Howard, eyed her suspiciously. He’d picked her up in Santa Fe, none too happy to transport a woman traveling alone into what he described as a wilderness only fit for Indians and men like Kit Carson, the famed Union general and frontiersman whose colorful life was depicted in sensational dime novels.
“I’m sure Dr. Preston will arrive posthaste, sir. You needn’t concern yourself, although I appreciate it. I’ll be fine.”
Phoebe hoped the confident smile she forced to her lips convinced the aging man all was well. She needed him to leave before she changed her mind and climbed back into the coach. Mounting doubts that she’d done the right thing by coming piled up like a logjam in the Cimarron River, yet she’d had no other choice.
Mr. Howard checked his watch again. With one last look around the deserted depot, he huffed in resignation. “Well, good luck to you, miss. ’Tis a lucky man you’re marrying.”
The kind words stabbed Phoebe with shame as she watched him climb onto the stage. Would he declare Dr. Luke Preston lucky if he knew she hadn’t been completely honest in her correspondence with the man?
Once settled on the high seat, the driver tipped his hat, slapped the team of horses with the reins, and set off in a cloud of dust. A mixture of regret and relief swept through her, watching the back end of the coach disappear into the thick forest from whence they’d come. Any thoughts of returning to Kansas City vanished with the conveyance, forcing her to continue with the plan she’d set into motion two months earlier when she responded to Dr. Preston’s ad. In a matter of hours, she would marry a man she’d never met.
Tears stung her eyes, and she touched the cameo brooch at her collar, her throat thick with remembrance. Danny had looked so handsome in his gray uniform the day he left for war. He’d surprised her with the brooch at the train station, promising to pin it on her dress himself on their wedding day as soon as he returned. How could she have known she’d never see Danny again?
Sniffling, she tucked the bittersweet memories away. To dwell on all she’d lost served no purpose.
“Miss Wagner?”
She looked up to find an older gentleman approach, his white beard reminding her of a drawing she’d seen of Saint Nicholas years ago. Surely this was not Dr. Preston.
“Yes?”
A warm smile crinkled his blue eyes. “My, aren’t you a pretty little thing.” He nodded with approval. “I’m Reverend Whitaker. Dr. Luke asked me to come in his stead and offer his sincere apology for not meeting you himself. There was a mining accident in the hills earlier with several men injured. He’s gone to attend them.”
“Oh dear, I do hope the injuries aren’t serious.”
“I’m afraid it comes with the territory, so to speak. But”—he waved his hand as though to wipe away any unpleasant thoughts—“I’m certain you’re quite weary from your travels. Let’s get you settled. Eula, my dear wife, left a pot of venison stew simmering in the doctor’s cabin as a sort of wedding supper.”
The reverend glanced at the two faded carpetbags sitting on the platform next to her. His gaze searched the area. “Is this all your baggage?”
“It is.” She was unable to keep embarrassment from staining her cheeks. She needn’t tell the kind man how she’d been forced to sell nearly all her possessions after Papa died and the war raged on. The gowns, the silver and china…everything. It was all gone.
Reverend Whitaker seemed to sense her discomfort. “I believe that might be the best way to begin a new life. Unencumbered with the past.”
She offered a weak smile. The past most definitely encumbered her, but she kept that to herself.
With her bags in hand, Reverend Whitaker led the way to an open carriage harnessed to a mule. “Dr. Luke’s cabin isn’t far from my own. Eula and I came to the area before the war, hoping to deliver the Gospel message to the natives.” He stored her bags behind the seat and helped her up. “Now, with so many former soldiers coming to the mountains to try their hand at mining, we find our mission has changed. Ministering to the hurting hearts of men from both sides seems to be what God has called us to.”
A yearning for some of that ministering set an ache in her own heart. While she’d never claim to possess the same soul wounds as a soldier who’d seen and done despicable things, the war and its repercussions had inflicted injury on her, too.
They traveled north through the tiny village with Phoebe giving little notice to the few shops and log buildings lining the rain-rutted street. The nervous flutter in her stomach demanded all her attention. With each beat of her heart and turn of the carriage wheels, her trepidation mounted. Was she truly going through with this? Even now, she was headed to the cabin she would share with a man she’d never before laid eyes on.
Oh, what have I done?
She didn’t dare ask for divine help, being that she’d already committed a sin against the man who’d soon become her husband. Not until their vows were spoken would she consider confession. Even then it was doubtful she’d reveal the truth.
As the town gave way to thick forest, the words from Dr. Preston
’s ad flitted across her mind’s eye. She could see them clearly, as though written in big, bold lettering.
Confederate widows need not apply.
I’m not a widow, she reminded herself sternly. But even as the admonition echoed in her conscience, she wished it wasn’t true. She longed to be a widow. Danny’s widow. If God had given the slightest hint that Danny wouldn’t come home, Phoebe wouldn’t have let him leave for war without taking his name and knowing him as her husband.
Moisture sprang to her eyes, and she turned so the reverend wouldn’t see. With a hand on her empty womb and a deep longing for Danny’s child, whom she would never have, she steeled herself against the guilt a few lines in a letter might initiate. She wasn’t a widow, therefore she hadn’t lied when she stated her marital status. The deception came, however, when Dr. Preston wrote back with an offer for marriage. His words burned into her memory.
I served with the Union Army as a surgeon, seeing firsthand the carnage wrought by the savage Rebels. As I am certain you can understand, the woman I marry must share my opinion on the war and its outcome.
Phoebe worried her bottom lip, recalling how torn she’d been reading that last line. Could she marry a man whose heart was so hardened toward Southerners? Though she’d replied to every ad for marriage in the Kansas City Gazette, Dr. Preston was the only one who’d made an offer. With no money and no prospects, she couldn’t impose on her father’s sister any longer. Aunt Augusta was herself in dire straits, with Confederate currency worthless, her husband long dead, and northern partisans with revenge in their hearts in power. Marriage, Augusta regretfully declared, was the only solution available to Phoebe, and Dr. Preston the only willing groom. With a heaviness that continued to weigh on her, she’d written to accept his proposal, allowing him to assume her sympathies were indeed aligned with his own.
“There’s Dr. Luke’s cabin.”
The reverend’s voice returned her to the present. Phoebe took in the log structure with one quick sweep of her eye. To say it was small would be generous. The churning in her stomach intensified, knowing she would share the cramped space with a stranger.
If Reverend Whitaker expected her to comment on her new home, he didn’t dwell on her silence. He helped her down then proceeded to carry her bags inside. The delicious aroma of venison stew welcomed them, but under the present circumstances Phoebe wasn’t able to appreciate Mrs. Whitaker’s labor.
“I’ll stir the fire to life.” The parson went directly to the rock fireplace and picked up a poker. “Though it’s pleasant outside now, once the sun sets, the temperature drops quickly here in the mountains. It’s best to get one’s chores done early in order to enjoy a quiet evening around a toasty fire.”
Phoebe watched all this from her place inside the open door. While the reverend poked around the banked embers, her eyes scanned the tidy but small room. A large bed with a colorful quilt took up considerable space in the far corner. Warmth spread up her neck seeing it there, and she quickly moved her attention elsewhere. In front of the stone hearth sat a bulky overstuffed chair, its arms worn from use. A smaller one, appearing to be brand new, sat beside it. Noting the floral pattern on the fabric, it occurred to her Dr. Preston had probably purchased it for her.
“Dr. Luke said he’d come by my cabin on his way down the mountain,” the reverend said, straightening. “Eula and I will be pleased to come over for the ceremony.”
Phoebe felt the blood drain from her face. The mere mention of a marriage ceremony was more than her unsettled stomach could take. She whirled out the door and lunged for the clump of foliage beyond the cabin as her stomach emptied itself of the meager meal she’d eaten at the last stage stop.
When her heaves ceased, mortification set in. What must the reverend think? She turned, a ready apology on her lips. But instead of finding disapproval on his weathered face as he stood in the doorway, sympathy shone in his eyes. She accepted the damp cloth he handed her.
“I don’t pretend to know your situation, Miss Wagner,” he said, kindness in his voice, “but I know the One who does. You and Dr. Luke will be in my prayers as you forge ahead in this new life you’ve chosen.”
Phoebe pressed the cloth to her hot cheek, fighting tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She watched the reverend drive away, a wave of loneliness engulfing her. He reminded her of Papa. Though nearly two years had passed since her father was killed by Union militants, his voice and words of wisdom often repeated in her mind. What advice would he give her now as she stood in an unfamiliar place, waiting to wed an unknown man? She closed her eyes, straining to listen.
Only the trill of a bird from atop a tall pine filled the silence.
She sighed. Papa could’ve never imagined her acting in such desperation. But then he couldn’t have imagined many of the things that happened during and after the war.
Glancing about the small cabin, she wondered if she should sit and wait for Dr. Preston to arrive. The chair near the fire looked comfortable, but—she cast a longing look to the big bed in the corner—the promise of a soft mattress and pillow seemed far more inviting.
Giving in to her exhaustion, Phoebe closed the door, removed her boots, and crawled onto the quilt. It felt scandalous lying on a bed belonging to a strange man, his masculine scent lingering on the pillow. But as her eyes drifted closed, she reminded herself that man would soon be her husband.
Chapter 2
Luke patted the coarse coat of his mule’s thick neck, the sinking sun sending shadows into the small, hay-strewn lean-to behind the cabin. Even with the promise of summer in the lengthening days, a chill had settled over the valley as he rode down the mountain from the mining camp. A warm fire and a belly full of Eula’s venison stew sounded good.
“You did well today, ol’ boy.”
Ulysses munched from the pail of oats Luke held. They’d had a long afternoon, climbing up and down steep mountain trails to get to the injured miners. After a shaft caved in, the four men were fortunate to only have a few broken bones.
Luke watched the animal eat. Despite his longing to settle in for the night, one inescapable obstacle kept him practically hiding out in the musty stall: a strange woman now occupied his home.
He blew out a breath. “What am I supposed to do with a wife I know nothing about?” The mule looked at him. Was that sympathy reflected in its big eyes? “How did I let Reverend Whit talk me into this crazy scheme?”
He shook his head, thinking back to the day he received a letter from Miss Phoebe Wagner in answer to the ad Reverend Whit convinced him to place in the Kansas City newspaper. Hers was the only response that came, and Luke surmised that was due to his stipulation that no Confederate widows need apply. He’d nearly changed his mind about the whole thing, but Reverend Whit reminded him of the benefits of marriage, the least of which were regular meals and warm companionship.
But with Miss Wagner ensconced in his cabin at this very moment, the doubts that had plagued him the past few weeks crept in and made themselves at home in his mind. He didn’t possess what it took to be a good husband. Not anymore. Perhaps before the war he might’ve found happiness in sharing his life with a woman he loved. But the carnage he witnessed on the battlefields and in the surgical tents destroyed any aspirations for peace and contentment in his future for years to come. The nightmares and flashbacks he experienced saw to that. What would Miss Wagner think when he woke her in the middle of the night with his screams?
Ulysses finished the oats. Luke set the empty pail on a shelf, wishing for some other chore that required his attention, but he couldn’t delay going inside much longer. Reverend Whit and Eula would arrive within the hour for the ceremony. It seemed best that Luke at least meet his bride before they exchanged vows.
He gave Ulysses one last pat, picked up his medical bag, and exited the lean-to. A basin of cold water and a sliver of lye soap sat on a stand outside the cabin door. Luke put them to use washing his hands and face, noting that no lant
ern light shone from the small window despite the waning day. He wondered why Miss Wagner sat alone in the darkening room.
Drying his hands on a towel, he glanced about the yard. Had she left the cabin after Reverend Whit dropped her off? The woods weren’t a safe place for a woman unfamiliar with the area, especially with evening coming on. Curious, he eased the door open. The delicious aroma of venison stew and an ebbing fire greeted him, but otherwise the cabin appeared deserted. Two carpetbags sat near the door, however, advising him his missing bride hadn’t vanished.
He closed the door and moved to light a kerosene lantern. What should he do now? He had no idea where to look for Miss Wagner. He didn’t even know what she looked like. Should he check the outhouse? The road to town?
A soft sound came from the bed. Luke whirled around and swallowed hard. There on top of the covers, curled into a ball, slept his bride-to-be. Yellow lantern light touched the smooth planes of her face, highlighting a rosebud mouth and thick lashes lying against pale cheeks.
Luke’s gaze traveled unchecked from the top of her golden-haired head, over gentle curves that dipped and rose, down to her stocking-clad feet. His heart thundered in his chest when his gaze arrived at her face again. When he’d stopped at the Whitakers, Reverend Whit assured him Miss Wagner was quite comely. Luke thought the older man was simply being kind, but staring at the woman asleep on his bed, he was certain he’d never seen a lovelier lady in all his born days.
The object of his gawking stirred.
Panicking, Luke looked around the cramped space for…for what? A place to hide? Certainly not. This was his home. His cabin. He leaped into his armchair as her eyes opened. From his vantage point by the fire, he watched her frown, her confused expression revealing her disorientation. After a moment, her body sagged back into the mattress, and she squeezed her eyes shut, clutching a brooch at her throat.
