A Timeless Romance Anthology: Old West Collection

by Carla Kelly

  But Joseph would be disappointed. That thought made her stomach feel like lead.

  What to do? Dread and an uneasy anxious feeling overcame her until she spotted a book shop.

  “Oh, Max,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “Look!” She hurried ahead of him, only vaguely aware that running off was a way to remove his arm from her waist. She stood before the window, admiring the volumes on display and the shelves and shelves of books deeper inside. She didn’t recognize most of the authors’ names, and she felt entirely ignorant and uncultured at that fact. L. Frank Baum? Joseph Conrad? And then there it was— Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.

  “Do you like Mark Twain?” she asked. “I haven’t read this one, but I thoroughly enjoyed his book about Huckleberry Finn, and his short stories are the funniest thing you’ll ever hear. I could read ‘The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg’ every day of my life and never tire of it.”

  Max gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I prefer reading newspapers and magazines.” She must have looked crestfallen, because he quickly followed that up with, “But a story about man corrupting a town?” He nodded as if he was impressed. “I’m sure I’d enjoy such a story very much if you do. Here, I’ll buy it for you.”

  Della’s eyes widened, and the butterflies came to life again. “Would you?” she said, a hand going to her chest.

  He nodded. “I’m happy to.” Max led her inside by one hand. Her other one still rested on her chest, beside her necklace from Joseph. She couldn’t help but look at Max and wish he’d read at least a bit of Tom Sawyer.

  A few minutes later, she patted the necklace to push it out of her thoughts as Max handed her the book, newly wrapped in paper with string.

  “Now,” he said holding the door for her as they went back outside. “I have a wonderful thought. That story you mentioned gave me the idea.”

  “Oh?” Della clutched the book, eager now to get back to her room to read it— or at least, she would tonight, even if it meant staying up late and losing some sleep on her last hours of freedom before she had to work again. She could stay up late now that the worry of using up candles wasn’t a concern. She wasn’t entirely sure what electricity cost, but Mrs. Baker hadn’t said a word about conserving it, so Della didn’t intend to, at least not tonight.

  “There’s a delightful little vaudeville show around the corner that is just up your alley; I’m sure of it.” He looked over and winked then wrapped her hand around his arm again. “Care to?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Della said, and they were off. She would attend a theater her first day off. Perfect!

  At the ticket office, a sign was posted in the window. Della pointed to it. “What is a blue show?”

  “You’ll see,” Max said with a mischievous grin. He took their tickets and led her inside.

  Most of those in attendance were men, which made Della a little uneasy. She took her seat beside Max and looked about for friendly faces of other women. Few would acknowledge her. Perhaps some of that was because she was still quite obviously a newcomer. But some of the women were simply preoccupied with the men they were with, snuggling close and even kissing— something Della looked away from in shock more than once. She tried to keep the images of the women out of her mind— their low-cut dresses and painted faces, which look nothing short of garish. But perhaps the electric lights made them look so.

  She still decided to keep her gaze on the stage, even though the show had yet to begin. Max took her hand in his, looked over, and winked, which put her more at ease. She took a deep breath and settled in as a man appeared from behind the curtain and introduced the show with a booming bass voice and broad hand gestures. The crowd applauded, and Della sat straighter, eager to see her first real vaudeville show.

  Over the next twenty minutes, Della’s jaw went slack again and again at the off-color jokes and disgusting lyrics. Every time one act ended, she breathed a sigh of relief, certain that the next one couldn’t be as bad, that surely the crudeness would be over, and she’d feel comfortable again.

  But the next act was even worse— bawdy and vulgar and oh, so awful.

  Della’s eyes burned, but she refused to cry. When two women came on stage wearing practically nothing, it was the final straw. She could not bear sitting there, viewing and hearing such filth.

  She leaned toward Max and said, “I have to go.”

  Then, before he could respond, she hopped out of her seat and raced up the aisle toward the back of the theater. She ran as fast as she could, caring nothing for stares and snickers aimed her way. She simply had to get out, now.

  Finally outside the theater, she walked to a corner and crossed the street, needing distance from the horrid affair she’d just escaped. She found a bench and sat on it, trying to calm to unsteady heart.

  What a fool she’d been! She’d trusted a total stranger with her day. Let him guide her around the city. She’d let him put his arm around her waist. She shuddered at the latter, her lower back now feeling as if a snake had been wrapped there instead.

  When she’d managed to calm down, she looked about and realized she had no idea where she was. She asked a pleasant-looking woman for help, not caring the least bit if she looked like a backwater girl anymore.

  She took a trolley most of the way back, but the ride held none of the romance or fascination she’d anticipated. She overheard two women across the aisle talking about how something needed to be done about the expansion of shows with blue content.

  Blue? She listened, even though she’d been taught that eavesdropping was wicked. When the women didn’t define the term, Della steeled herself and asked. She had to know.

  “Excuse me,” she said, her voice sounding timid. “I heard you talking about blue shows. What does that mean?”

  One of the women huffed and shook her head in disgust. The other answered Della’s question. “There was a time when theater owners gave notes to actors in blue envelopes giving them firm orders to take out unseemly parts of their acts, or they’d be fired.”

  The first woman filled in the rest. “But in recent years, the term has become a marketing ploy. Some theater goers look for shows advertised as being so atrocious that they would have gotten plenty of blue envelopes.” She tsked and shook her head. “And by the looks of things, the advertising works. Those shows are always full, it seems. Disgraceful.”

  “I see,” Della said. “Thank you.”

  She rode the rest of the way in silence, thinking through her time in Los Angeles. Thinking of how miserable she’d been. Part of it was due to being a stranger, and those things— even things like walking into a blue vaudeville act without knowing any better— would change over time, as she gained experience.

  She could find someone else to court her who wasn’t like Max at all. He’d been handsome, sure, and charming, in his way. But as she remembered her day, small moments stood out, things she’d brushed off at the time but which now seemed to be all that her day had consisted of.

  Joseph would have looked for the chicken in the cloud. He would have laughed and laughed over Twain and “Hadleyburg.” And he most certainly wouldn’t have kicked a poor stray dog.

  The trolley reached her stop, and she got off, walking the rest of the way to the townhouse. With every step, the feeling of utter wretchedness only increased. Everything was different here. She would have given much for proper mashed potatoes or an apple from her father’s tree.

  But her feelings were from more than homesickness, too. Somehow, even if she met a good man here, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t be Joseph.

  As she put her hand on the front doorknob, the realization washed over her. Everything always returned to Joseph. Every experience she had here, every hope and dream. Always Joseph. She stepped inside and walked to her room, where she sat on her bed and thought some more.

  She pictured her life in five years’ time there in California. Saw herself wearing stylish clothing. Knowing exactly where she was headed
and how to get there. She would have a new job and a new place to live. But somehow, her mind always included details from Shelley.

  And more, Joseph kept appearing at her side.

  No matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn’t imagine her life anywhere but in Idaho. And she simply had no future worth living if it wasn’t shared with Joseph.

  Even if that meant living with chickens and cows and horses and all of the work they entailed. She wanted to live with those things if it meant being home.

  And home means Joseph.

  With new determination, she stood and strode out of her room to find Mrs. Baker. The girls she’d once been would have quaked at the prospect, but no longer. She found her employer writing a letter in the parlor.

  Della straightened, lifted her chin, and stepped inside. “Mrs. Baker, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  The woman raised her face and removed her reading glasses. “Della? Is something wrong?”

  Everything was so very wrong. But all could be made right. All she had to do was speak, yet her knees trembled.

  Joseph. Think of Joseph. His image came to mind: his warm eyes, his playful smile, his tender embrace. Once more, Della was strong. She squared her shoulders and began.

  “Mrs. Baker, I am very grateful for all you have done for me, so I regret that I must tender my resignation, effective immediately.”

  Chapter Seven

  Somehow Della survived the trip back to Idaho. She knew how to buy a ticket and which line to take to go home. She didn’t need Mrs. Baker to do those things for her anymore.

  She arrived at the rail spur in Shelley just as the sun was dipping into the horizon. She left her trunk on the platform, knowing one of her brothers or her father could pick it up tomorrow. No one knew she was coming back yet.

  Not even Joseph.

  From the spur station, she walked to Joseph’s farm, a full mile away. The violet gray of twilight had fallen by the time she’d reached the lane leading to his small house. The house he wanted her to be mistress of. The house she now wanted to live in, with her dear Joseph, if he’d still have her.

  As she stood there, worry gripped her heart. What if one of the other girls in town had swooped in to win over her Joseph? He’d need a wife, surely. He could have moved on already. It had been only two weeks, but she couldn’t expect him to light a candle for her indefinitely.

  There was only one way to find out— and that was why she was here.

  Della reached up to touch the pendant again to make sure it was visible and to feel a connection to Joseph before she saw him again. The cool metal against her fingers gave her a renewed sense of courage.

  She stepped onto the lane and hurried up it, her boots crunching gravel as she went. At last she reached his door. Her hand hesitated only a moment before she knocked three times in succession— and then had to wait.

  No sounds came from inside. Perhaps he wasn’t home after all. But no, the upstairs bedroom window was lit up by the glow of a candle. Della knocked again and waited some more.

  At long last, the door opened to reveal Joseph, tired and weary, his suspenders hanging at his sides, his hair mussed up. When he realized who stood on his front stoop, he startled. “Della, what are you— how—” His voice cut off, and he lapsed into silence.

  They gazed into each other’s eyes for several moments as Della called on her last shred of courage. What she was about to do didn’t fit the label of being ladylike, but it had to be done. And if the look in his eyes was any indication, he still cared.

  Della swallowed, took a deep breath, and then she managed to speak.

  “We both see pictures in clouds,” she said.

  Joseph’s eyes narrowed as if she didn’t know what she meant. He would understand. He had to.

  Not dissuaded, she continued. “We both laugh reading Mark Twain.”

  The corners of Joseph’s lips twitched as if he was ready to smile. She took that as encouragement.

  “We both love strawberries just picked. And neither of us can stand to see an animal suffer. And we both want to be happy.” She licked her lips and finished. “So you see, we’re not so different after all. And I know I’d be happiest with you, right here in Shelley. For the rest of my life.”

  Her speech completed, she pressed her lips together and hoped for the best. He didn’t reply right away, and although it might have taken only two or three seconds, the wait felt like a lifetime.

  Joseph finally spoke, just a single word. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I’m back. For good. This is where I belong. I just didn’t know it before.”

  His eyes were soft and warm as he reached for her hands. At his warm touch, Della’s heart pounded out of her chest. His hands weren’t enough. She stepped in and threw her arms around his neck, holding him tight.

  He held her in return, and she could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “Della, I’ve always loved you.”

  “And I, you,” she said. “But I didn’t see it before.”

  Joseph pulled back and looked into her eyes. Then, with his thumb, he gently stroked her jawline. He slowly moved closer and pressed his lips against hers.

  His kiss was far better than any California orange, or even a Shelley strawberry. She was in his arms. She was home. And she’d never leave again.

  Click on the covers to visit the Amazon page:

  Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, a two-time recipient of Utah’s Best in State medal for fiction, and a Silver Quill recipient from the League of Utah Writers, as well as a cum laude graduate from Brigham Young University with a degree in English. She writes historical fiction, romance, and women’s fiction, and has also published several nonfiction titles, including a grammar guide and a coauthored book on being productive and reaching your goals. When she’s not writing, editing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor.

  Find her online:

  Website: http://AnnetteLyon.com

  Blog: http://blog.AnnetteLyon.com

  Twitter: @AnnetteLyon

  Facebook: http://Facebook.com/AnnetteLyon

  Chapter One

  A bell jangled on the horse-drawn street car outside as Faith Bannister folded the letter she’d been reading and rose to pace the room. After two circuits, she stopped before her cousin. “I am ruined.”

  Clarissa Pembroke looked up from the bandage she was knitting and shook her head. “The news can’t be all that bad, dear. We’ve managed to survive the bank crisis fairly well thus far.”

  Faith waved the letter. “The interest on my stocks is practically zero.”

  “You should have told me. I must try harder to find employment.” Clarissa breathed heavily. “I can’t believe my usefulness as a nurse is over because of a few gray hairs.” She straightened her back as though in denial of her age. “I’m going to Doctor Harley’s lecture tonight on treating poisons. It could be useful to learn about medical advances.”

  “You shouldn’t have to support me,” Faith said. “I’ll sell the house to that fat banker who lusts after it.”

  “Faith! Mind your language.”

  “Mr. Spencer has wanted it ever since Poppa and Mama got killed.” She bit a fingernail, then, at Clarissa’s continuing reproachful look, removed her finger from her teeth. “I know. Mama tried so hard to break me of that.” She brushed a blonde curl out of her misty eye and whispered, “Stocks and bonds are no replacement for one’s family. I’m most grateful for your companionship.”

  Clarissa wiped her own tearing eyes.

  Faith turned away. “Perhaps I can enter the nursing school at Bellevue Hospital. Mr. Spencer offered a price sufficient for me to pay tuition and rent us an apartment.” She shrugged. “I’ll have to let the servants go. If it appears I don’t have time to train as a nurse before we’re destitute, I’ll become a governess or a shop clerk.”

  Clarissa shook herself as though to restore a cheerful outlook. “Let’s not
fret about finances now, dear. Come with me tonight and enjoy the lecture.” She held up her knitting. “This bandage will be finished by then, and I have another eleven for the good doctor.”

  “Slim! Slim McHenry!”

  When Amos Ramsey bellowed his name, Slim changed direction from going toward the bunkhouse to heading for the boss. What did he do to make Mr. Ramsey so angry? He couldn’t recall any slip-up today. “Yes, sir?” he said, hoping he still had a job.

  “Dan Crowley is leaving. After ten years!” Amos glowered at Slim. “His wife claims he’s too busted up to cowboy anymore. She’s taking him off to Tucson.”

  “That’s bad news, boss. He’s a good foreman.”

  “You’re takin’ his place. Ask Dan what to do.”

  Mr. Ramsey walked off, leaving Slim with his jaw hanging open. Foreman! He wants me to be foreman? He whistled in surprise, struck by the man’s abrupt manner. Usually Ol’ Amos enjoyed conversing with his cowhands, but not tonight. Could be he’s upset about Dan quitting, but he could’ve been more forthcoming with the details of the job. He hoped Hoosier Dan was of a mind to enlighten him.

  Slim started toward the foreman’s little bungalow in back of the main house. If Dan wasn’t at supper, Mrs. Crowley would know where he was. Dan was sitting down to eat, but he took time to shake Slim’s hand and give him a rundown on his new responsibilities.

  Half an hour later, Slim left, his head swimming and his hand sore from Dan’s enthusiastic congratulations. Each night I check with Ol’ Amos about the next day’s work, then parcel out the tasks in the morning. I fancy I’m up to the job. Maybe. Before trepidation took over, he went to eat his own supper, wondering how the cowhands would receive the news.

  He supposed he could count on Curly Price to offer congratulations. He and Curly had ridden together for several years and were good friends. Baldy Babbitt would most likely put on a pout, but he wouldn’t want the job either. Too much responsibility.