Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Gareth shook his head. “I knew you’d be worried sick when Jamie didn’t come back. You must’ve been terrified when Coffee trotted in alone.”

  “Terrified just about covers it.” Though the world was drenched in rain, Evelyn’s mouth was dry as the inside of a flour sack. But she wouldn’t give in to the fear. She would trust.

  Maddie edged close, dug in her pocket, and withdrew a handkerchief. She dabbed the cut on Gareth’s cheek. “I didn’t mean what I said, Pa. I don’t hate you.”

  He reached out and tweaked her braid. “I know, kiddo. I wish you’d come to me and talked it out, but I can see where you couldn’t. I can be awful thick sometimes.” He cupped her head in his big palm. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind. It’ll distract me from this bum leg of mine.” He edged upright and braced himself against the rocky outcropping that formed the back wall of the shelter. Maddie scooted into the corner of his arm.

  “I was so mad.” Maddie jerked her head toward Evelyn. “Letting Jamie ride my horse and call you pa. He did everything with you that I used to do, and I had to stay behind. I couldn’t figure out what was so wrong with me that you had to get a new kid to replace me.”

  Gareth rubbed his chin on the top of her head. “Oh, Maddie, I wasn’t replacing you. There’s not a blessed thing wrong with you, and I don’t want you to ever feel that way.” He squeezed her tight.

  “I was awful bad. Mean to Evelyn and Jamie and you. I thought you didn’t love me anymore. I was all mixed up. Then I figured if I learned all that stuff Evelyn was trying to teach me, maybe you’d love me again.”

  Gareth’s eyes met Evelyn’s over Maddie’s head. Regret filled his expression. “I never stopped loving you, Maddie, and I’m sorry I didn’t show you better.”

  “I know things can’t go back to the way they were, but couldn’t I ride out with you sometimes?”

  “You bet. We’ll work out something. I’ve missed having you with me.”

  She snuggled into his side, careful of his leg. Gareth held out his other arm to Evelyn, and she sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. The security of his embrace, the warmth of his cheek on her hair, the steady beat of his heart under her palm reassured her.

  “Jamie will be all right, won’t he?”

  “Sure he will. He’s quite a boy. Building this shelter, starting the fire, wrapping my leg. A grown man couldn’t have done better. That’s quite a boy you have.”

  “We have. That’s quite a boy we have.”

  His arm tightened. “That’s right. We have quite a family. A son and daughter to be proud of.”

  The rain slackened while they waited, and Evelyn’s thoughts chased one another. Gareth dozed off and on while Maddie gathered wood, fed the fire, and checked on her horse.

  Alone under the shelter, Evelyn rested against Gareth’s shoulder.

  “I’m proud of you, Evelyn.”

  His words drew her away from her scampering thoughts. “You are?”

  “You’re quite a woman. I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do when you put your mind to it. Taming my wild daughter, coming along on a roundup, or riding out in the teeth of a storm to find your son. Nothing seems to daunt you.”

  “You’re wrong there, Gareth. I might seem efficient or capable, but inside, I’m a mass of insecurities and knots. But I’m trying.”

  He brushed a kiss across her temple that sent a shiver up her spine and made her scalp crinkle. “You’ve come a long way since you first got here. I know you worry, but you try not to show it.”

  “I’ve lived with fear for so long. Trying to control everything so I wouldn’t be hurt, forgetting that God is sovereign and that worry is the opposite of faith.” She picked up a pebble and closed her hand around it. “I held everything in a closed fist—like this. When God wanted to remove something, He had to pry my fingers apart, and that hurt.” She opened her hand. “I’m learning that if I hold things on an open palm, not only does it hurt less if He has to take something out, but my hand is also open to receive something He wants to give.” She pressed her lips together and added two more pebbles. “Like you and Maddie. He’s been waiting for me to open my hand and heart to receive you both as His gift to me.”

  Gareth made a low rumbling noise in his chest and raised her chin so he could look into her eyes. “And have you?”

  Waves of love for this man crashed through her, welling up and surging, filling her with warmth. She couldn’t speak, so merely nodded.

  “Finally.” His mouth quirked in a smile before his head descended, and he claimed her lips in a kiss that scorched her enough to dry out all her clothes. He tore his lips away and rested his forehead on hers, taking deep breaths. “I love you, Evelyn Kittrick.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He chuckled. “Trust you to finally admit it when I’m laid up with a twisted knee, stranded on the prairie in the teeth of a thunderstorm, and smack in the middle of spring roundup.”

  She tucked her head under his chin and wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t worry so much. We’ve got all the time God gives us.”

  Three months later, Gareth walked toward the house without a trace of a limp, Jamie swinging from one hand, Maddie from the other. Evelyn sat on the front porch sewing, the wind teasing her pale hair and putting some color in her cheeks. Contentment swelled his heart.

  Stepping up onto the porch, he released the kids’ hands and bent to kiss his wife. She smiled up into his eyes. “What have you three been up to?”

  “Maddie was swinging upside down from the hay hook in the barn, and Jamie was busting broncs for me.”

  The reproving, playful light that he loved came into her eyes. “You’re a tease, Gareth Kittrick.”

  “Actually, we were getting something for you.”

  Maddie and Jamie each pulled a bunch of wildflowers from behind their backs and handed them to her. “Here you go, Ma.” Jamie thrust his bundle at her.

  “These are for you, Ma.” Maddie’s cheeks pinked, and she added her flowers to Jamie’s. The tender look that invaded Evelyn’s eyes told Gareth she cherished being called ma by Maddie more than a million prairie blossoms.

  “Thank you.” She buried her nose in the bouquet. “I have something for you, too, Maddie.” She handed the flowers to Gareth and shook out the fabric on her lap. “It’s a divided skirt, so you can ride astride.”

  Maddie’s mouth opened, and her eyes shone. Without warning, she hurled herself into Evelyn’s arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Evelyn’s eyes locked with Gareth’s, and he mouthed a thank-you of his own. Seemed like it had finally quit raining feathers.

  ERICA VETSCH

  Erica is a transplanted Kansan now residing in Minnesota. She loves books and history, and is blessed to be able to combine the two by writing historical romances. Whenever she’s not following flights of fancy in her fictional world, she’s the company bookkeeper for the family lumber business, mother of two, an avid museum patron, and wife to a man who is her total opposite and soul mate. Erica loves to hear from readers. You can sign up for her quarterly newsletter at www.ericavetsch.com.

  And you can email her at ericavetsch@gmail.com or contact her on her author Facebook page.

  On a White Charger

  by Erica Vetsch

  Chapter 1

  Fire!”

  Reverend Cummings’s shout jarred Emmeline almost off the wagon seat. He’d been silent for hours, ever since ordering Emmeline to say her good-byes to her sister at the last ranch and get into the wagon. A greasy, black cloud of smoke billowed into the late afternoon sky ahead of them. The wagon bucked as Cummings urged the team into a gallop, and she gripped the seat to keep from being hurled to the ground.

  “What’s burning?” The wind whipped the words from her mouth, and she clenched her teeth to keep from biting her tongue as the wagon jolted and swerved.

  “Looks like Barrett’s place!”

  Her heart, lodged in her th
roat from the wild ride, dropped. Barrett’s place. Joseph Barrett. The man she was supposed to marry. Today.

  The prairie thundered by in a blur, all her attention focused on the smoke ahead. She held on tight, fighting to keep her seat, but she spent half her time airborne, the other half wincing as her backside smacked the bench.

  Buildings rushed toward them, a long, low sod affair open on one side, surrounded by fences and gates, and a small board structure engulfed in flames. Sparks and gouts of fire shot skyward, and clouds of angry smoke bellied up and out as if from a steam engine smokestack. Ash filled the air, choking and hot.

  Two men—or one man and a near-grown boy to be precise—ran from a watering trough to the house with buckets, sloshing ineffectively at the raging flames. Steam hissed with each dousing, but the crackle of the hungry inferno made a mockery of their efforts.

  The wagon slewed to a stop safely back from the fire, and the horses hung their heads, heaving and panting. Cummings raced toward the men, his rusty black suit coat flapping and his spindly legs churning. Emmeline found herself clambering down and running after him. She bunched her skirts in her hands, and her feet pounded the ground.

  Without waiting to be asked, she grabbed the pump handle. Water gushed out of the spout into the half-full trough. Reverend Cummings plunged a bucket into the water and hauled it up. The other two barely seemed to notice she was there. After half a dozen more trips, when Emmeline’s arms burned with the unaccustomed effort of wielding the pump handle and her throat and eyes stung from the smoke, Reverend Cummings put his hands out to stop the man and the boy.

  “Give it up. It’s gone.” He wheezed, coughed, and sank onto the edge of the trough.

  The bearded man pitched one last bucket of water through the open doorway onto the angry red flames and with slumped shoulders tossed the bucket aside. The younger man let his bucket fall to the ground, where it tipped and ran its contents over the dry ground, puddling around his boots before disappearing into the earth. His back, ramrod straight, was toward Emmeline, and his posture shouted anger, as did his fisted hands. Hair as orange as a carrot showed at the nape of his neck under his hat brim when he bowed his head.

  She let go of the pump handle. At that moment the slanted roof cracked and plummeted into the house. Glass broke, and the fire gave a muted whump. Heat blasted through the doorway, baking her cheeks, and bits of ash and cinders floated in the air, borne on the breeze.

  Digging her handkerchief from her pocket, she swiped at smoke-induced tears. She coughed and cupped her hand under the few trickles still dribbling from the waterspout. A few sips and her throat cleared a bit.

  The young man turned sharply and kicked at the bucket by his feet. It rocketed into the side of the trough. “Is this enough? Is this enough to make you see reason?” His angry eyes—green as new grass—sparked with all the heat of the house fire behind him. “We’re lucky they did it during the day instead of burning us in our beds.”

  The bearded man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but the boy shrugged it off, moving a few paces away.

  “What are you going to do about this?” The kid spat the words out as if they tasted bad.

  “Sean—”

  “Never mind. I know what you’re going to say. Don’t even start with all that claptrap about turning the other cheek. You’ve been doing that for months and all it gets you is another slap.” He stared at the sky, as if imploring the heavens for strength or patience or both, and stalked away down the fence line.

  Emmeline pressed her lips together and swallowed. She felt as if she’d been pitch-forked into a play halfway through and didn’t know the script. The boy made the fire sound deliberate, but who would set fire to someone’s home on purpose? She rubbed her arms to ward off the sudden tremor that raced across her skin.

  The bearded man stared at the flames, his face streaked with soot and sweat. He removed his hat, revealing hair the color of newly spaded earth, rich and dark; swiped at his forehead with his sleeve; and drew a deep, raspy breath before turning to Reverend Cummings.

  “Thank you for helping.”

  “I wish we could’ve saved it.” Cummings rose, staggered a bit, and steadied himself. Emmeline had the feeling fighting that fire was the most physical exertion he’d had in months. She grabbed the tin ladle hanging on the fence post beside the trough and filled it from the pump. He took it from her with barely a glance but nodded his thanks. When he’d downed it—his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously—he coughed and handed it back to her.

  “Barrett, this here’s your bride.” Cummings righted his suit coat and smoothed his lapels. “Call the boy back to witness the ceremony.”

  Emmeline jerked. In the rush of pitching in to help with the fire, she’d clean forgotten about her reason for being here. This smoky, sweaty man before her was her fiancé.

  Her now-homeless fiancé.

  The day Joe Barrett had been waiting for now for weeks, and this had to happen. He turned his back on the fire to study the woman who had traveled hundreds of miles to be his bride. In the thick of trying to save his home, he’d barely registered that she was there, hauling away at the pump handle.

  Now he studied her face and features, comparing them to the mental image he’d carried since first responding to her advertisement. Her letter had given him a few hints, but the reality—though disheveled from her exertions—was better than his daydreams. Yellow hair framed her face and slipped from under the edge of her bonnet. She’d stuck a brave sprig of wildflowers onto her hat sometime that day, and they’d wilted just a bit. Inside the rim of her bonnet, white lace set off the creaminess of her skin.

  He closed the distance between them, noting her eyes, light blue and fringed with surprisingly dark lashes. She barely came to his shoulder, and when he stood in front of her, he noted the spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  “Emmeline.” He spoke her name, his heart bumping a bit. Now that he was faced with a real-live woman instead of a name on a letter, his blood raced and his breath hitched. A bit of his loneliness slipped away just looking at her.

  “I’m so sorry about the house.” Her eastern accent took him right back to his younger days, growing up in Boston.

  “I’m sorry, too. It’s not much of a welcome for you.”

  Cummings dug into an inner pocket. “No time to waste, Barrett. Let’s get this done so I can move on.”

  Emmeline dabbed her throat with a lacy bit of handkerchief and gave a slight shrug. “He’s got to be in Dellsville tonight, and he’s rushed us—my sisters and I—all day. He’s in an awful hurry, and he won’t quit harping until we do as he says.” Though she smiled, Joe caught a glint of exasperation in her eyes that bespoke the truth of her words.

  Joe lowered his voice. “Old Cummings is a rough stick, and a might crotchety at the best of times. But he isn’t as bad as he seems. More bark than bite.”

  “That’s good, because he’s been barking all day.” A mischievous glint lit her blue eyes, and a smile curved her pink lips.

  “I best call Sean back.” Putting his fingers to his lips, Joe let out a whistle. Emmeline jumped and gasped, but the sound caught up to the boy in a flash and had him loping back.

  Sean. A burden and a blessing all at once. Also responding to Joe’s whistle, Shadow, one of his dogs, crested the brow of the hill and trotted at Sean’s side, her shaggy black-and-white fur shimmering in the sun. The stock had been brought in close to the house, in anticipation of Emmeline’s arrival, and was now grazing less than a half mile away, though out of sight of the house over the hill.

  “I’m sorry to have to rush you like this, but I don’t actually mind getting the ceremony done quickly. We can’t leave the livestock unattended too long, and this”—he waved toward the smoldering ruins of his house—“brought us both running.”

  Sean arrived, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, so much hurt and anger and frustration bound up in his scowl. “What?”

  “This
is Emmeline, Sean. The reverend’s in a bit of a hurry, and I need you to witness our marriage.”

  His orange eyebrows shot toward his hat brim. “You can’t be getting married now? Where’s she going to live? The house is…” He waved to the dying flames.

  Joe ran his hand over his whiskers. “There’s the wagon. We can live in that until we can rebuild the house. It’ll be crowded, but we’ll be outside most of the time.” He shot Emmeline a glance, apprehensive about how an eastern woman would take to the idea of living in a wagon for the summer.

  Sean tugged his sleeve and pulled him a few steps away. As tall as Joe’s own six-foot-two-inch frame but lacking the bulk of a grown man, Sean radiated disapproval. “I knew this mail-order bride idea was a harebrained scheme when you first mentioned it, and the house fire makes it even more so. Now isn’t the time to be getting married. You should be putting your effort into protecting what’s yours. It has to be Randall, and he isn’t going to stop. You’re going to have to fight him, to stand up for what’s yours.”

  “You know my views on that, Sean. Nothing I own is worth killing a man for. You can’t go off half-cocked, making accusations you can’t back up with proof. We have Orla Randall’s word that he’ll leave us alone.”

  Sean snorted. “You might have the old man’s word, but that don’t extend to his son, and you know it. You’re blind if you think he isn’t behind all this. If you don’t fight back, Blake will either run you off the range, or he’ll shoot you in the back some night when you’re on watch. When are you going to grab a gun and fight?”

  “Sean.” Joseph dragged his hands down his face, weary of this argument. “I swore I would never pick up a gun against my fellow man ever again, not after all I went through in the war. I’m not willing to kill over some grass and some animals.”

  A dark look, one that made Joseph sad and caused him not a little worry, passed over Sean’s face. “You might not be willing to kill for them, but are you willing to die for them? Because that’s what’s going to happen.”