The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier

by Peggy Darty, Darlene Franklin, Sally Laity, Nancy Lavo

  “Sometimes when I’m with you,” he said, “I can believe that life is good, that maybe things do work out. But then…” His voice trailed and he dropped her hand.

  Suzanne held her breath. “Luke, listen to me. Life is good. You can be happy again. You could start a new life here.”

  He shook his head. “Not here. This town is a reminder that we lost him here. I can’t stay.”

  She bit her lip, wondering how far to go with this conversation. She wanted to plead with him to come back with them to the ranch, to let her help him heal. But Luke was his own man, and he would make his own decisions when he was ready. In the meantime, all she could do was offer him the kindness he needed in his life. And her love. When he was ready to accept it.

  Should she tell him that? Wasn’t it fair for him to know?

  “Luke, I have to say something to you. You know I say what I think and…” She glanced at the church, drawing strength. “I want you to know that I love you.”

  Luke caught his breath. For a moment, he looked stunned by her words.

  Suzanne flushed, looking away. She felt like a fool until Luke’s hand cupped her chin, and ever so gently, he placed a kiss upon her lips.

  When she opened her eyes, he was looking down at her with a tenderness that melted her heart.

  “I love you, too, Suzanne. You’re all I could ever want in a woman but…”

  He pulled back from her, dropped his hand, and stared off in the distance.

  “It’s hard for me to get past today,” he finally replied. “Please be patient with me. Maybe, when I can put the past behind me and figure out where I go from here…”

  “Luke, I want you to keep looking for him.”

  He nodded. “Maybe I will. I don’t know where that search will lead me, but somehow I don’t think I can get on with my life until I find him. I promised Ma.”

  She nodded. “I know. You mustn’t give up! You owe it to yourself—and you owe it to him.”

  CHAPTER 18

  When Hank returned to the doctor’s office the next morning for more tests, Suzanne decided to run an errand. She had spotted a library near the doctor’s office, and now she was sauntering among the shelves, looking at books.

  “May I help you, miss?” the librarian called helpfully.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a book on flowers; specifically, the names of all kinds of flowers.”

  The librarian pursed her lips. “We have a new book in from a publishing house in New York.” She reached up on a shelf and pulled down a thick tome. “It lists not only flowers but plants and shrubs. Would you like to check it out?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  It was a shot in the dark, as Pa would say, but why not give it a try?

  Suzanne sat at the kitchen table with Miss Martha, listening as she went on about the challenges of growing roses here in the high country. When finally she stopped to catch her breath, Suzanne cleared her throat and glanced down at the open page of the library book.

  There were so many different kinds of flowers. How could they possibly find the one that matched the woman’s name?

  “Miss Martha,” Suzanne began, “I want to ask you something. You said you never heard of a man named Luke Thomason. Can you think back, fourteen years ago, to a woman who lived here—” She broke off, realizing she had no idea what to ask. “Well, we don’t even know her name, but Luke remembers it was like a flower.”

  Miss Martha looked bewildered. “A flower? My goodness, there’s Rose or Iris or…” Her blue eyes went blank. “That’s all the names I can think of.” Then she smiled warmly. “You really want to help that young man, don’t you?”

  Suzanne nodded. “If I read off some flowers, will you listen to the names and see if you can think of anyone you ever knew or heard of by those names?”

  Suzanne could see by Miss Martha’s amused expression that she believed they were not going to accomplish anything.

  “I’ll try,” she said tolerantly.

  Suzanne started at the beginning of the alphabet. Once or twice, Miss Martha interrupted her, asking her to repeat the name. Then she shook her head.

  “Jasmine and…”

  “Wait!” Miss Martha threw up her little hand. “Jasmine, that’s a flower that blooms in warm climates.”

  Suzanne glanced at her, trying to hide her exasperation. She hoped Miss Martha wouldn’t get back on the subject of which flowers were suited to Colorado’s climate and which ones were not.

  “I don’t know,” Suzanne sighed. “I never heard of it.”

  “Wait a minute.” Miss Martha jumped out of her chair and began to pace the floor. “Tillie!” She snapped her fingers, and hurried toward the back door. “Tillie, my neighbor, owned a dress shop on Pikes Peak Avenue fourteen years ago. Every woman in town wanted a dress from Tillie’s shop. Since then, Tillie got out of the business. When she stood on her feet for long periods of time—”

  “Do you think,” Suzanne interrupted her gently, “you’ve heard your friend mention the name Jasmine?”

  Miss Martha stared into space, her face perplexed. “I don’t know why, but I’m associating that name with Tillie. I’ll run down to her house and see what she has to say.”

  “May I go with you?” Suzanne asked, trailing after her.

  Tillie Ledbetter rarely ventured from her cozy frame house that sat serenely behind a picket fence. The health problem Miss Martha had referred to was apparent to Suzanne at once, for the woman’s feet were so swollen she had dispensed with shoes.

  Tillie was a large woman whose excessive weight had contributed to the swelling of her knees and ankles, but she chose to blame the years she had spent standing on her feet in her fashion shop.

  Miss Martha first posed the question of Luke Thomason—had Tillie ever known a man here by that name?

  Tillie shook her head. “No, don’t recall anyone by that name.”

  “What about the name Jasmine?” Miss Martha prodded.

  Tillie turned her large head sideways, peering at Suzanne.

  “You’re looking for this woman?” she inquired, frowning.

  “Yes, I am. Have you ever heard the name?”

  Tillie nodded her gray head slowly. “’Course I have. She was a good customer many years ago, but then…”

  Suzanne pounced on those words, kneeling beside the chair and looking up into the woman’s face. “It’s very important that I find this woman. Do you know if she’s still here?”

  A look of disapproval sat on Tillie’s face before she replied. “The top drawer of the desk there. The big black book.” She looked at Martha. “I still have a list of my customers.”

  Suzanne quickly retrieved the book and handed it to Tillie. As the woman’s arthritic fingers fumbled with the pages, Suzanne had to fight an urge to grab the book and flip through it herself. She reminded herself the woman was doing her a great favor, that she must be patient.

  An eternity seemed to pass as a Big Ben clock ticked relentlessly from the hallway and Miss Martha flitted about the parlor, examining the withered leaves of an African violet.

  “Needs more water, Tillie,” she scolded. “Last year when I was growing—”

  “Here it is. Jasmine Rogers. I haven’t seen her in years.” She looked at Suzanne. “There’s a pen and pad on the desk so you can write down the address.” She frowned again. “That’s a poor section of town now. Didn’t used to be so bad.”

  Miss Martha flew back to their sides. “Suzanne is trying to help her friend Luke find his father. The man was with this woman—well, maybe not this one.”

  “No, I don’t think Jasmine had a man. I heard she got her heart broken years ago, and never had anything to do with men after that. But I seem to remember something…” The frown deepened, then she shook her head. “My memory isn’t so good anymore.”

  “I think your memory is excellent,” Suzanne said, jotting down the address. “If this should be the woman we’re looking for, I’ll be eternally grateful.”
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  Tillie studied Suzanne curiously. “I don’t know who this young man is, but you must think a great deal of him.”

  “I do,” Suzanne replied, folding the paper carefully and tucking it into her pocket. “I do…”

  Hank seemed ill and out of sorts, Suzanne thought, as they left the livery. She had insisted on leaving a note there for Luke, in case he stopped by to check on the team. Her note explained what she had learned and gave the address of Jasmine Rogers. She’d left a duplicate at home with Miss Martha in case he stopped there.

  Foolishly, she had neglected to find out where he was staying. Now she was worried sick that for some reason he might decide to leave town without a good-bye.

  “Daughter, you’re getting too involved,” Hank snapped, upon hearing her plan.

  “Pa, you know you’re just as anxious as I am to help Luke.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Do you think finding his pa will help him? And what about you?”

  Suzanne stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s already told us, once he settles the score with his pa, he’ll be heading back for Kansas.”

  Suzanne bit her lip, trying not to think of that. “I know, but we have to risk losing him in order to help him.”

  Hank turned and stared at his daughter. “Suzanne, sometimes you amaze me.” A smile softened his grim expression. “I’m proud of you. Maybe I don’t tell you that often enough, but you know I am.”

  “I know, Pa,” she replied.

  She didn’t like words like this, which took her back to the last days she had spent with her mother. Her mother had spoken of pride and love and…

  Suzanne bit her lip. Just because her father seemed tired and out of sorts, and prone to compliment her, didn’t mean he was going to die.

  She stared bleakly at the streets, seeing nothing as she breathed a silent, desperate prayer.

  According to the man at the livery, Luke had just missed Suzanne and her father.

  “She left a note for you in case you stopped by,” the burly blacksmith said, lumbering into a tiny office to retrieve the note that had seemed so important to the pretty woman.

  Puzzled, Luke took the note, already worrying that she was giving him bad news about her father. Quickly, he scanned the neat handwriting, then stared into space.

  Jasmine! That was her name!

  Luke checked the slip of paper again, confirming the address, as the clopping of horse’s hooves broke the sullen stillness in this seedy part of town. He drew rein before the cabin at the end of the street. This was it.

  The wedding band was nestled deep in his pocket. He was glad Suzanne had refused to sell it. The ring would prove his identity to the man who had abandoned him. He was going to feel like a fool, seeking out a father who had run out on him years ago.

  He tried not to think about it, for he might lose his nerve. He’d simply tell him who he was, show him the ring, and admit he was here only because Ma had begged him to come. Even now, he half-regretted making that promise to her. But he had, and he couldn’t bring himself to back down. He’d never broken a promise to his mother when she was alive. And—he glanced idly at the clouds—he suspected she was still watching him.

  He swung down from the horse and stared at the dilapidated cabin, sadly in need of paint. He glanced at the row of cabins he had passed. The others were no better.

  A shutter hung crookedly against a window, covered with cheap cloth. There was no sign of life about the house. Did anyone live here? he wondered.

  Well, he’d come this far, might as well knock on the door.

  He tethered his horse to a sapling and crossed the small patch of yard where no grass dared grow, only weeds interspersed with pebbles and broken twigs from the lone tree at the comer. His boots resounded like a drumbeat on the rickety porch. Beneath his weight, one board shifted, and he quickly sidestepped it. The other boards were loose, warped here and there. As he hurried to the door, something scrambled under the board porch, and he wondered how many rats infested the place.

  The rough wooden door looked as though it had never held a coat of paint. He knocked carelessly, not expecting anyone to respond.

  Faintly, he could hear footsteps moving slowly within. His heart beat faster. What was he going to do if the door opened and he was staring into his father’s face?

  The steps drew nearer, approaching the door. His eyes flew back over the surroundings. No, his father was not here; he and the woman probably had stayed only a short while until…

  The door cracked, then opened wider. He met a pair of dark eyes in a withered face. The woman did not speak; she merely stared at him. She was a pitiful-looking woman. This couldn’t possibly be the woman his father had left them for.

  “Excuse me.” He removed his hat. “I was looking for someone, but I think I’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Who are you looking for?” The voice was faint and labored, as though the woman had a breathing problem.

  He felt more ridiculous by the minute. Still, he remembered the promise and knew he must begin his search here.

  “I’m looking for a woman named Jasmine Rogers.”

  “She moved away.” She was about to slam the door.

  “Did you ever know a Luke Thomason?” he asked, thinking this was his last effort to find them.

  She hesitated. Her dark eyes ran over him curiously. For a moment he thought she wasn’t even going to respond. Then finally she opened her mouth to speak. He regretted coming. She was obviously too ill to be standing at the door.

  “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  He turned to go, fitting his hat to his head again.

  “Luke?” the woman called to him.

  He whirled. “Yes, that was his name. Luke Thomason.”

  “I know. And you must be his son.”

  His knees were suddenly weak, as if he’d been rodeoing for the past twelve hours. Stunned, his eyes flew over her.

  “I thought you were a bill collector.” She sighed.

  “You’re Jasmine?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes. You’d better come in,” she said, opening the door wider.

  He stepped on the board porch, vaguely aware of the scurrying underneath. His eyes swept her, taking in every detail. She was a tall woman whose thin body was wrapped in a worn housecoat. Her feet were bare, her toes gnarled. Her skin was blue, as though she were cold, yet it was a warm spring day.

  He said nothing as his mind groped with the words she had spoken. Now he tried to put meaning behind them.

  “Come back to the kitchen,” she said, closing the door behind him as he stepped into the front room, a cluttered living room with sagging furniture.

  His eyes moved over the room, seeking a clue to the woman as he followed her into the tiny kitchen. This room was even more cluttered than the other one. Every available space on the counter was filled with canned goods, pots and pans, medicine bottles. Still, there was a pleasant aroma of something stewing in a pot on the old stove.

  She motioned him to the tiny table in the center of the room. One chair was pulled back from the table. He spotted another chair against the wall and reached for it. There was no tablecloth, no flowers to grace the center as there had been in his mother’s kitchen. A chipped enamel cup held something dark.

  “I was having a cup of tea. I’ll fix one for you.”

  He couldn’t respond; his tongue had gone thick. This woman obviously was a link to his father, and suddenly he found himself willing to do almost anything to find him. This emotion surprised him, for he had built a wall around his heart, trying to protect it from ever feeling the awful ache he’d felt as a little boy losing the father he adored.

  The woman moved slowly about her tiny kitchen, every movement an obvious effort. She dumped something into a cup, pulled a kettle from the burner, and poured steaming water into the cup. She reached for a spoon, frowning down into the liquid as she stirred. Then she handed him the cup.

  He stared at
her. “How did you know I was his son?” She sighed and sank into the chair, staring at him. She had probably been attractive once upon a time, he decided. Not the gentle prettiness of his mother, a coarser kind of beauty, perhaps. Her hair, like her eyes, was dark, streaked with gray, slightly balding at the crown. Her features were bold, her lips tilted downward.

  “Because you look just like him.”

  His heart was beating faster. “Where is he?” he asked, glancing toward the back door.

  She looked down at her cup for a moment, then looked back at him. “He’s dead,” she replied.

  Luke sank back in the chair. Naturally, he had considered the fact that his father might have died by now, but somehow he was unprepared to hear that announcement spoken in such a direct manner.

  “How long ago did he die?” he asked. His voice sounded scratchy; his throat felt tight.

  She lifted the cup and took a sip of her tea.

  Luke stared at her wrinkled lips, wishing she would hurry and speak the words, tell him what she knew so he could leave.

  “He died fourteen years ago.”

  Luke’s mouth fell open as his mind slowly began to react, counting up the years.

  “Fourteen years?” he repeated, trying to recall just how long it had been. He had just turned twelve when his father had saddled up and ridden off. He was twenty-six now. “He died soon after he came here?” He spoke his thoughts aloud. “Why didn’t you tell us in one of your letters?”

  “I need to tell you the story,” she said, her breath rasping. “The whole story.” She took a deep, labored breath, releasing it slowly. “Maybe then I can die in peace.”

  Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he lifted the mug and took a sip of the tea. It was a strong, heady substance, racing through him, jolting some of the shock from his brain.

  “When your father rode into town, I was working at one of the saloons. That’s right,” she said, observing the look in his eyes. “I was the very opposite of your mother, I’m sure.” Her voice had grown stronger as she tilted her head back, staring at something on the ceiling. She looked at him again, and a faint smile touched her pale lips.