Her lungs constricted. “I believe we did. You asked to come calling, and I answered.”
His expression faltered, and she looked away. Lord, I don’t want to hurt him.
“Can I ask why you said no? Is it because of what your intended did to you, or something else?”
Hannah’s jaw went slack, and she glanced heavenward. Didn’t I ask You to make him forget that conversation, Lord? How on earth had he remembered it, as much pain as he was in?
A pair of women walked by, nodding hello as they passed. Finn greeted them, touching his hat brim. Travis mimicked his gesture.
When Finn’s attention returned to her, she motioned toward the gate. “I’d prefer not to have this conversation on the street. We can use one of the schoolrooms, if you’d like.”
At his nod, Hannah herded Travis back into the schoolyard. She explained to Mr. Crandall that Finn was a friend and they needed a moment to talk, then asked Travis to wait outside. She led Finn inside to the main classroom, lit the lamp on the teacher’s desk, and closed the door partway.
“So did you turn me down because of what he did? If so, you need to know that I’m not him. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
The man didn’t waste time. She’d barely regained her bearings from his surprise appearance, and he was pressing the issue.
Hannah folded her arms. “I wish I could believe that, but I don’t.”
“Why?” He hobbled toward her. “Hannah, what am I fighting here? Are you resisting me because of something I did, or have his actions colored all men as traitors in your mind?”
Her eyes stung. Any man interested in her would have to overcome her fears after Andrew’s betrayal, but that should hardly concern Finn McCaffrey. “I overheard the young woman in Virginia City tell you she was with child.”
He considered the statement then cocked his head. “That’s why you left?”
She nodded.
“Because you think the baby’s mine.”
“What should I think? I heard your response. The impression I got was the baby wasn’t expected, nor was the news well received.”
A wry smile broke across his face. “You’re right on both points, but that’s not because I got Sam Foster in the family way. That’s her scoundrel husband’s doing.” He paused. “Hannah, Sam’s my sister. She came to tell me the news of her condition before I rolled outta town.”
His sister? Once the words registered, her legs grew so shaky she leaned heavily on the nearest desk. “Oh.”
He settled his hands on her shoulders. “You all right there?”
Mortified, Hannah buried her face in her hands. “I’m such a fool. I owe you an apology.”
“Well, in your defense, you didn’t know either of us, and I herded her outside when I saw where the conversation was going. Easy mistake to make.”
She risked a look at him. Dancing blue eyes peered back. “You’re too kind. I assumed terrible things about you both. How can you dismiss that?”
“You don’t understand, Hannah Rose.”
Her breath caught at his use of her papa’s pet name, and she hung on his next words.
“You and Travis have been echoing in my mind and heart ever since we left those mountains. There ain’t been a day I haven’t thought about or prayed for you both. I’ve begged God for another chance to get to know you. If dismissing a silly misunderstanding gives me that chance, I’ll take it. I’m asking you again, Hannah Rose. Can I come callin’?”
Her belly fluttered so furiously she pressed her hands to it. She’d lain awake every night praying for him, trying to tell herself the concern was due to his injuries. Such lies. Loneliness for him had nearly suffocated her at times. It had made little sense, given they barely knew each other, but when Travis began begging to take the stagecoach to see him, she’d known there was more to both their feelings than she cared to admit. He’d echoed in their hearts and minds also.
“Well?”
She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and gave a hesitant nod. “Yes.”
A work-roughened hand cupped her cheek and tipped her head back. Warm lips pressed hers, gently at first then with more intensity. Hannah’s heart pounded as she fought the conflicting urges to pull away and to press in.
Loud footsteps intruded on their moment, and they broke the kiss as Travis slammed into them, wrapping his arms around their waists. She and Finn burst into laughter at his beaming grin.
“Are you two getting married?”
Finn looked at him then shifted his gaze to her. “Tell him…iffen I have my way, the answer’s yes. Real soon.”
Epilogue
Early June 1863
Finn paced the front porch, hands shoved in his pockets. Travis watched his movements from the chair nearby. Another torturous scream emanated from inside the house, and Finn stalled, chills racing along his spine. He held his breath until the unnerving sound ended.
Lord, please be merciful. How long is this gonna take?
He leaned against the railing, staring in the direction of McCaffrey’s Livery next door. He was losing a day of work, but he didn’t mind. How could he when the baby was coming?
When the next scream started, Finn gripped the porch railing and puffed out his cheeks as he waited for it to end. The cry crescendoed then dropped off suddenly, replaced with joyful, if muffled, laughter. Hope flooded his thoughts. Unable to resist, he climbed onto the railing and peeked over the porch roof toward the second-story window.
“Hannah?” He hollered her name, not caring who heard. “Hannah Rose!”
The window slid open, and his bride of one week leaned out, grinning. From inside, a thin wail rose. “Congratulations. You’re an uncle. Mama and baby are both fine.”
Tension drained from his body. “That’s good.”
“Once they’re both cleaned up, you and Travis can come in. It shouldn’t be long.” She ducked back in the window.
“Wait. Boy or girl?”
Too late. The window closed.
Finn glanced heavenward. “Thank You, Lord.”
He ducked under the porch roof and stepped down. Travis stared wide-eyed, trepidation etching his features.
“The baby’s here.” Finn signed the statement.
Travis bolted to his feet. “Is it a boy?” At Finn’s shrug, he spun toward the door. “Let’s find out.”
Finn clamped a hand on his shoulder and signed, “Hold on there, kid. We have to wait.”
With a roll of his eyes, Travis slumped into the chair again. “More waiting?”
Finn couldn’t help but laugh at the boy he’d come to think of as a son. In two weeks, they’d see the judge to make his adoption legal. The days couldn’t go fast enough.
“A little wait.” He held his fingers close together to indicate small.
“Why’d we send the other kids home if all we’re gonna do is sit around for hours?”
He hadn’t wanted to return the deaf students to the school before their riding lessons were complete. Teaching the children to become competent horsemen had become one of the highlights of his week, and they all seemed to love it, as well. “Because I needed to focus on Aunt Sam having her baby.”
Finally, the midwife invited them in, though she warned they could stay only a moment before Sam would need to feed the baby. They raced upstairs to Sam’s room, slowing themselves half a step before reaching the door. Finn looped an arm around Travis’s shoulders and pushed the door open.
Sam smiled, her hair matted with sweat and fatigue lining her face. By the window, Hannah cradled the new babe. Travis beat a path to see his new cousin, but Finn stood a moment, drinking in the scene before heading to Sam’s side. Pushing her hair back, he kissed her forehead. “How you doing, sis?”
“I’m good.”
“What’d you have?”
“A girl. Charlotte Anne.”
His gaze strayed toward Hannah as Travis craned to see the baby. “Named her for your ma, huh?”
Sam nodded. “She’
s so pretty, Finn. You gotta see her.”
She didn’t need to ask twice. He hurried toward his bride.
Sunlight fell across Hannah’s shoulders, making her red locks glow. As he approached, she glanced up, pure contentment on her face. He eased an arm around her waist, and Hannah smoothed the blanket away from Charlotte’s face. The wee girl turned toward the touch, her lips working.
“You’re right. She’s beautiful, sis.”
“Can I hold her?” Travis asked.
The midwife cleared her throat.
Finn looked at Travis. “Later, Squirt. Aunt Sam needs time with the baby.” He stumbled through the signs then herded the boy out the door, Travis grumbling about more waiting.
Hannah handed the baby over and slipped out, grinning as she joined him. “She truly is beautiful.”
“Reckon so, but I was having a hard time focusing.”
“Why on earth?”
He drew her to a halt as Travis headed downstairs. “Didn’t I tell you? I had a dream the other night.”
Worry creased her features. “About your father?”
Finn shook his head. “I haven’t dreamed about him since that day in the mountains.”
“Then what?”
Pulling her to him, he settled his mouth near her ear. “That we had a baby of our own. Seeing you holding Charlotte got me to woolgathering about the day that might come true.”
She pulled back, her cheeks flushing. “I hope it’s soon.”
“Well, iffen I have my way—” He claimed her lips.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
When I began brainstorming this story and realized I wanted to include a deaf child as a main character, I researched historic deaf schools in the western states and territories. I was pleasantly surprised to discover the California Institution for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb and Blind in San Francisco.
The school opened in 1860 due to the efforts of twenty-three influential ladies who wanted to ensure that deaf and blind children of California were not left to sleep and beg on the streets. Instead, these children were given a healthy environment in which to live and learn.
The day the school opened, they had three students—two deaf and one blind. Within months, their numbers grew to double digits. By 1865, the school building and property had become cramped, and they searched for a new, larger location. It took until 1869 before they opened a new facility in Berkeley, California, where the school continued to grow. In the early 1900s, they separated the school into two—one for the deaf and one for the blind. Both schools live on today. They are now known as the California School for the Deaf and the California School for the Blind.
I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I did! Thanks for reading.
Jennifer Uhlarik
Jennifer Uhlarik discovered the western genre as a preteen, when she swiped the only “horse” book she found on her older brother’s bookshelf. A new love was born. Across the next ten years, she devoured Louis L’Amour westerns and fell in love with the genre. In college at the University of Tampa, she began penning her own story of the Old West. Armed with a BA in writing, she has won five writing competitions and was a finalist in two others. In addition to writing, she has held jobs as a private business owner, a schoolteacher, a marketing director, and her favorite—a full-time homemaker. Jennifer is active in American Christian Fiction Writers and is a lifetime member of the Florida Writers Association. She lives near Tampa, Florida, with her husband, teenage son, and four fur children.
Letters from Lucy
by Jenness Walker
Chapter One
Texas
Lucy Frederick had lived in western Texas for a whole month and hadn’t caught sight of a single rattlesnake, much less a robbery, saloon fight, or range war. Aunt Margret’s town of Ripple saw less action than a sewing circle.
The dime novels lied. Novelists must be failed journalists—writers who came west at the promise of adventure and instead landed in a sleepy town. With nothing noteworthy to write about, they had to use their skills somehow. So they lied. Thus the beginning of the dime novel.
Lucy was certain that was the way it happened, because her life was following that same wretched path.
With a sigh, she swept up the envelope holding her latest imagined news article and flounced down the stairs of her aunt’s boardinghouse. She’d send the letter back home to her friend Amelia and try not to be bitter at her father. Newspaper mogul Henry Frederick had either been deceived the same as Lucy, or, after the fire fiasco, he’d finally found a way to keep his inquisitive daughter out of trouble.
Father was never deceived.
Since Lucy hadn’t yet developed his instincts, when he’d proposed the trip—or banishment—from Boston to Texas, she’d been gullible once again. Maybe Father was right: she wasn’t cut out to be a journalist.
Outside on the boardwalk, she strolled toward the mercantile, giving her high collar a discreet tug as she skimmed through her fake article again.
On Tuesday, just outside this particular Texas town, the clouds blew in a hint of rain. However, the welcome overcast skies failed to dampen the spirits of an unnamed resident. A fight over a mere trifle sent him out into the hills on the wild ride of a lifetime. Said resident and his lady had words over burnt beans, and his horse lit out with all the fury of a woman’s wrath licking at its hooves.
Then the front hoof sank into a prairie dog hole, and though the horse survived the incident with only a swollen knee, the owner’s life and fortunes changed in a serendipitous moment.
For through the unlikely event of burnt beans, a fight with the cook, an escape to sulk, an industrious rodent, an ill-timed step, a sudden downpour, and a need for cover, this unnamed resident discovered a stash of stolen gold.
“Mornin’, Miss Lucy.”
She caught the scent of pipe tobacco, gun powder, and magnolias. “Good morning, Sheriff,” she answered, flipping through the rest of the pages without looking up. Her feet knew this path to the post office very well, and she wanted to read the part about the heroic cowboy Sam Brazos once again.
“Aunt Margret is in her garden,” Lucy said after a moment. “But if you’re still set on courting her, I’d suggest tossing the bouquet and offering peaches instead.”
“Aw shucks.” Groaning, he fell in beside her, his steps almost as heavy as his jowls. “Is she still offended at my coon dog eating her pie while y’all were at church Sunday?”
“Yes, sir. And the cake, too.”
“Now, now, the cake wasn’t Rufus.”
“Same size paw prints in the flour. The scent of skunk lingered the entire day, and everyone knows Rufus tangled with one.”
“Well, now, Miss Lucy. You need to come work for me!” The sheriff clapped her on the back.
As she lurched forward, she felt fit for the journalism world after all. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t noticed the clues until after she’d witnessed the four-legged culprit’s escape.
“Next time I have a murder investigation, I’ll come callin’.”
Lucy’s ears perked up as she searched out his face for the first time. “When was your last one?”
He scratched his head. “I don’t rightly know. Four years ago? Naw, I was back in Kentucky. Tell the truth, we haven’t seen a single murder here since I came to town. Would you believe it?”
“Yes, Sheriff.” Her shoulders sagged as she folded her letter and tucked it inside the envelope. “Yes, I would.”
The sheriff tipped his hat and retraced his steps as Lucy stopped in front of the entrance to the post office—a small booth partitioned off the mercantile. What she wouldn’t give for something interesting to happen in this insufferably dull town. For an outlaw to come bursting out of this very building, or—
The heavy door creaked open, and a tall, lean cowboy stepped through, his smoky-blue eyes smoldering below the rim of his black Stetson.
“Miss Lucy.” The man held the door wid
e, his demeanor aloof as always.
Sam Brazos—the genuine but still oh-so-swoon-worthy version—was the one redeeming factor of her father shipping her off to her aunt’s. Lucy was sure the boardinghouse guest had a million stories to tell, but around her his lips were sealed, the expression on his clean-shaven face impossible to read.
So she dreamed up the stories and sent them to Amelia. And then she dreamed of him.
Reaching into her hidden pocket, Lucy clutched her lucky pen and breezed by Sam, trying not to be the bother he seemed to believe she was. Then he leaned closer, and she caught a whiff of leather and the woods and the strong, sweet smell of grape, which was pretty remarkable, considering there were no vineyards in the area. There were, however, Texas mountain laurels, and they’d covered the Rocking R Ranch last time she’d been out there.
What business did Sam Brazos have at the Rocking R?
“Something wrong with Gus?” he asked quietly, stopping Lucy in her tracks.
She forced her gaze away from the stubble darkening his strong jaw and glanced toward the postmaster. Gus cast anxious looks out the window while attending Mrs. Thorp and Widow Aurilla.
“What time is it?” Lucy asked.
“Half past noon.”
Relaxing, she answered, “Polly delivers his lunch on Thursdays. She must be late.”
Sam’s brow furrowed, and Lucy filed away the confused expression for use in her next article. Or, just because.
“Everyone knows Gus Wiley turns into an ogre when he’s hungry,” she explained. “Usually I avoid him during the dinner hour, but I ran late.”
Sam nodded toward the letter. “Working on that?”
“A little article I’m sending back to Boston.” She hid the envelope from view.
He didn’t need to know it was a pointless exercise—only something she penned for her friend’s amusement and to keep her writing skills intact. And he definitely didn’t need to know that, since he’d galloped into town a week after her own woefully uneventful arrival, most of the articles revolved around him.
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