Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Andrea Downing
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Dearest Darling
by
Andrea Downing
Love Letters Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dearest Darling
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Andrea Downing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-566-1
Love Letters Series
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Andrea Downing
“LOVELAND is a story that moves at a good pace and did not let this reader down. The dread and sorrow that Alex endured, with her father, could be shared by this reader. The love Jesse and Alex share shines throughout the story. They are genuine, convincing characters in a tale of romance and heartfelt moments, especially with the many conflicts they faced. Andrea Downing pens a family drama that allows the reader to almost reach out and relate with the players. She fashions some wonderful visualizations which are hard to forget.”
~Cherokee, Coffee Time Romance
~*~
“What a darling short story! Ms. Downing deftly spins an engaging story about love and justice. Set in the mid-1880s, readers are transported to the Old West, where stealing a horse was a hanging offense and resourceful women had to brave the harsh elements. LAWLESS LOVE features a bold heroine tenaciously handling what life has dealt her family. This lovely romance also provides an earnest hero with a steady moral compass who quietly yearns for the seemingly out-of-reach goal of wife and family... Andrea Downing cleverly weaves a unique and fulfilling romance that will have readers seeking more of her talented work!”
~Anna Fitzgerald, InD’Tale Magazine
Dedication
Para Daniel Saffon—
¡Eres muy valiente por amar a mi hija!
Acknowledgments
This story evolved from a visit to the Cunningham Cabin in Grand Teton National Park, a visit I initially made with fellow author Karen Casey Fitzjerrell. I am indebted to Karen for imbuing me with a new enthusiasm for the park, and for helping to make that visit a special one. I am also grateful for her comments and suggestions on an earlier version of this story.
My thanks to my editor, Stacy D. Holmes, who has been able to contend with my sense of humor while giving me exceptional guidance, and has made this author a better one.
As always, I am ever thankful for having my daughter, Cristal, in my life. You continue to inspire, darlin’.
Chapter One
The raft of letters splayed across the door mat, the ink of each running into abstract designs that played havoc with the addresses. Outside, rain continued to hammer heavily on sidewalks, clearing the late spring air and bringing its perfume through the transom above the door.
Emily Darling scooped the letters off the mat, as she did every morning, the silver salver waiting for its cargo, her brother Wilfred waiting for his mail. Her curious study of the addresses told her little of his correspondence—mostly bills and flyers she assumed—but as she reached for the empty tray, a thick brown envelope caught her eye.
This one was different.
This envelope was not clearly addressed to Mr. W. Darling. Splashes of raindrops like tears had distorted the name, although it had clearly commenced with a “Miss.” Yet it wasn’t addressed to her either. The streaked name might have been Miss E. Darton or perhaps Miss B. Derlin as well as Miss E. Darling, but whether or not it was East 83rd Street or West 83rd Street, and which house number, was very difficult to tell. It certainly wasn’t meant for either her brother or herself.
For a brief moment, Emily buffed the rough brown envelope with her thumb, as if she were rubbing a genie out of a bottle. It was thick—the correspondent surely had a lot to say—and it certainly wasn’t meant for her brother. She turned it over. The rain had also loosened the gum.
Curiosity bubbled up within her, anticipation at what the envelope might hold.
That loosened flap opened ever so easily…and, of course, she might discover for whom the letter was actually meant. She read:
April 3, 1891
Lazy S Ranch,
Kelly, Wyoming
Dearest Darling,
I cannot tell you how very happy you have made me in accepting my proposal. Although we have not, as yet, met in person, I look upon your photograph and know in my heart how happy we will be. Riches of a monetary nature will never be ours, I fear, but of riches of the heart we shall have plenty.
Although to your citified eyes this humble ranch may seem pitiful at first, I truly believe you will come to love this land as much as I. Think upon waking each morning to the view of snow-clad mountain peaks piercing a sky that stretches around you and meets the bountiful earth, a variety of blues against the tones of nature’s palette. Think of being able to ride for miles across this landscape with its ever-changing seasons, more unrestricted than the birds in your city. And, dare I say, think of raising our children in this free land, this state that permits your fair sex more equality than any other, and which will value the contributions I know you will make.
Ethel, I cannot wait to embrace you, and I know we will have many happy years together. Your letters have so delighted me these several months I cannot but believe you in person will make me even more glad of heart and soul.
As promised, I am now enclosing herein the train ticket I have purchased on your behalf in order that you may make your way to Cheyenne whence you will find the stagecoach to the new town of Jackson.
Dearest darling, I do so regret being unable to leave the ranch for the period necessary to fetch you in Cheyenne, but I trust you will understand a rancher cannot leave his stock for such a time as this would entail. Be assured you will be safe in Cheyenne, a most civilized city, and I will meet you at the Jackson depot. Please advise as soon as possible as to which train you will take so I may make arrangements accordingly.
In fond affection,
Daniel Saunders
With a small gasp, Emily’s hand went to her heart. A man writing to a sweetheart? Sending for her? A woman he’s never seen?
“Emily!” her brother’s voice bellowed down the hall. “Stop day-dreaming and bring me my mail forthwith! I have no time to wait about while you dawdle, woman.”
Emily quickly shoved the letter back in the envelope, tucked it in her apron pocket, and headed down t
he hall.
Wilfred answered her knock with a peremptory, “Come!” He didn’t bother to look up or acknowledge Emily with anything more than a testy snap of his New York Times.
She glared at his corpulent figure and bald head—the wire-rimmed glasses sitting ‘just so’ on his veiny, bulbous nose—and huffed in a breath so loudly Wilfred actually peered up at her.
“Something?” he enquired.
“No. No, Wilfred. Nothing at all.” With that, she handed him the mail, spun on her heel, and left for her day’s round as his housekeeper.
A servant in her own home.
****
Daniel Saunders surveyed his domain and tried to see it as a young woman might. There was one good-sized, sod-chinked log cabin, which could be expanded as the family grew. There were lengths of buck and rail fences to keep cattle out and make a garden such as Wyoming’s weather would allow. There was the barn, the smokehouse, the icehouse, and the necessary.
He had proved up the one-hundred-sixty acres allowed by the Homestead Act plus an additional one-hundred-forty acres purchased under the Desert Land Act. He had managed to divert mountain streams to water his livestock and his few crops and provide the cabin with water. Best of all, he owned one hundred head of cattle free and clear and, barring another bad winter, would see a good profit on his herd. To top it all off, he had a steady business as a hunt guide with the easterners now coming into the area. He would never be a wealthy man, but with all the wildlife here in Jackson Hole, there would always be food on the table and a roof over their heads. With Ethel to warm his bed, he could foresee a decent life ahead with children to whom he could leave it all, children who would appreciate their proximity to that new Yellowstone Park, the preserved wilderness around them, and the beauty and bounty of this landscape in a brand new state.
Yes, any woman should be pleased as all get-out to be coming to the Equality State—even if she had a name like Ethel.
Daniel strode back into the cabin where the letters from Miss Ethel Darton of New York, a year’s worth, were piled on the table. It had been a difficult decision, but, as he gathered them back up to replace in his satchel, he was certain his proposal had been the right thing to do. Though he had never taken a liking to the name Ethel, he supposed she hadn’t had a choice in the matter.
Certainly, her letters showed an education almost equal to his own from that damned school back east, and her willingness to eschew the city life of New York for the wilds of Kelly, Wyoming, had endeared her to him. That, and the photograph she’d sent, if he were to be honest with himself.
A woman who agreed to be a mail-order bride for whatever reason must not have had good prospects at home, and so he had taken his time before feeling confident about the proposal. But, to his surprise, her correspondence proved her willing to leave her gay social whirl and head west to Wyoming for a new life as a married woman.
Yes, thought Daniel as he snapped the satchel shut and threw it back in his cupboard, the lonely years were over and the future held promise—Ethel would soon be on her way.
Chapter Two
Emily held the letter to the somewhat dim gaslight and read it again for about the fifth time. The rail ticket and stagecoach voucher both lay on her bed where they had fluttered as escaped butterflies. Their presence made her heart pound in her chest like a convict on the run.
Escape!
That was what they promised. And the words of the letter—so moving, so sincere. “Dearest Darling,” he had written, and “I cannot wait to embrace you…Your letters have made me so happy…” And his beautiful descriptions of the place where he lived.
To receive such a letter! To have those words meant for me…
She could hardly breathe with her infatuation for this man, this Daniel Saunders, and had to untie yet another few laces of her corset. His words touched her heart in a way no other man had ever done.
Emily set the letter back down, the sweat of her fingers and palm leaving marks on a corner of the page.
He’s viewed a photograph—he’ll know I’m not this woman. But could it truly matter? A man wanting a wife may not be choosy.
What does he look like? What age might he be? Handsome? Kind? Did he write the letters himself or have someone do it for him?
So much flew through Emily’s mind, she found it difficult to concentrate and consider the matter. Yet, even if she were rejected, even if he spurned her, she could start a new life, find a job, make her way in that different world and, most likely, eventually find a husband.
And most important of all, she would be free of her brother’s tyranny.
Yes, she would book the train, send a wire using some money from her housekeeping, and leave while her brother attended his club.
Chapter Three
Daniel slouched against the wall of the hotel and tugged at his beard, flutters in his chest and blood racing like wildfire. He had meant to shave, but with the branding going on and the last minute rush to tidy the cabin, time had flown. He hadn’t even had a moment to sort the wedding with the minister, and that would be a problem. With no money to put up his bride at the hotel, he might be sleeping in the barn for a spell.
As the stage joggled down the street, he removed his hat and knocked it on his thigh before giving himself a last dust down. The stagecoach jolted to a stop right in front of him.
McCafferty, the driver, jumped down and opened the door. A deluge of mailbags swiftly fell from the interior, followed by an elderly gentleman who had the pale complexion of crumpled paper. As the man limped into the hotel, more mailbags were off-loaded before a petite blonde extracted herself from the carriage. With nervous glances about her, she stood for some moments considering her surroundings before McCafferty gently tapped her aside to fetch more bags.
Puzzled, Daniel stepped up to the driver. “Mac? No more passengers? I’m waiting on…”
“That’s it.” McCafferty answered hoarsely. “Been one helluva ride. Hey, lady,” he continued, facing the blonde’s lost look. “Someone meeting you?”
“I…”
The driver didn’t wait for an answer as he threw her bag at her feet. “Well, I hope they show up soon. Storm’s brewing. You best git inside and wait.”
The lady shook her head apprehensively as Mac gathered up the mailbags and headed down the street, leaving Daniel and the woman eyeing each other.
He suddenly felt grubby—grubby, dirty, and unworthy, even though this was in no way the woman whose photograph he had received. It wasn’t Ethel, that was certain.
“I…” she started. “Mr. Saunders?” she asked at last.
Daniel angled his slouch hat back on his head and ran his gaze over the little lady. She bore no resemblance to the photograph. She was fair where the lady in the picture was dark; her hair was brushed back off her face whereas his betrothed had a fringe, and this lady had a little turned up nose while Ethel Darton’s had been long and straight.
“Who the hell are you?” he blurted out.
The woman took a step back. “My name is Emily Darling—”
“Darling?” His eyes narrowed as his hands went instinctively to his hips.
“I received your letter,” she continued somewhat breathlessly. “I know…”
“Stop. Just tell me where Ethel is.” The blood rushed through his veins, pulling anger and uneasiness with it. “What’s happened to Ethel?”
“I know it wasn’t meant for me,” the blonde continued, “but—”
“But? But. Lady, are you telling me you received a dang letter meant for someone else, and you went and hightailed it out here with a train ticket and stage ticket meant for that someone else?”
This impostor’s eyes widened. Emily’s eyes, not Ethel’s...
“You know how the hell long it took me to save for that trip? You have any idea of the cost of all that?”
“I…I thought—”
“I don’t give a good gosh damn what the heck you thought. That money was meant for…” T
otal disbelief swallowed his tongue. Daniel took some paces and struggled to control his temper before he shot off his gun. “Damn!” he said at last. “Damn!” He stomped back to her. “Well, what the hell do you expect to do now—now that you’re here, may I ask?”
“Well...” Emily visibly gathered herself and straightened up. “Marry you, of course.”
Chapter Four
He smelled. And he was dirty. And unshaven. Worst of all, he had a temper, which, while Emily considered he may have had good cause, made him sullen and uncommunicative.
She sat there on the buckboard trying to take in the enormity of what she had done. Not only had she left a reasonably comfortable—at least in the physical sense—home, but she had journeyed across the country to a person who wasn’t expecting her, to a place of which she had no concept, and to a life for which she was certainly not prepared. Dog-tired and ill after the expedition, right now she only wanted to sleep. And she certainly was not inclined to marry Mr. Daniel Saunders.
“No money,” he growled for at least the fiftieth time. “No money, and you come right across the country on a stolen ticket—”
“I did not steal!” She slapped her knee, indignation rife.
“Coulda fooled me. That ticket was sent to someone else, and you took it. So, what in tarnation do you call it? Borrowing?”
“I’ll repay you. You can have your lovely Ethel and your money back. I simply wanted to get away.”
“From what?”
The westerner reined the horses to a standstill in the middle of a vast expanse of grass. Prairie, Emily supposed. More darned prairie.
“From what, I asked you. What are you running from? I have a right to know whom I’m taking into my house. Even for a short time.”
“I’m running…” She sat and attempted to figure out how to explain, how to describe what she was running from, or running to. How to defend her actions to a stranger—why she had taken the tickets meant for someone else, someone he apparently had come to love, someone not her.
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