The Brides of Evergreen Box Set

by Heather Blanton

  She rose and paced to the window, hugging herself. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sure your father would be glad to be rid of a cripple. Then, once things settle down, when you feel comfortable he won’t put you out, you could tell him the truth.”

  “The truth. I don’t know if he’ll ever be ready for that.”

  She turned to him, searched his face with desperate eyes. “It wouldn’t be easy. He can be cruel.” He heard the unspoken can you bear it?

  Joel spun his wedding ring on his finger. “Some people do have that gift.”

  5

  A day later, Joel was strong enough to travel.

  And to send word to Ruth of his whereabouts.

  He tapped the pencil on the Western Union form, trying to determine how much to write. He believed it a safe assumption his wife did not care where he was so long as he was not in her presence.

  His time away with the cavalry had changed Ruth. Her letters had grown colder, her thoughts more succinct. Coming home minus a limb had only served to deepen the divide between them.

  What exactly was the state of their relationship now? Dead? Dying? How did one resuscitate a marriage in this condition? Prayer. Ask God for a miracle to revive their love?

  He had prayed for revival, but without any passion behind the request. He knew he should care, be desperate to save their marriage. Yet, desperation had died with every brief, emotionless letter from her, every repulsed look she had revealed, and every touch from which she had recoiled. The guilt of his growing apathy weighed on him. He suspected Ruth had reasons for some guilt as well, but Joel had no proof. Without proof, suspicions were merely that—suspicions.

  Finally, tired of debating, he wrote, Delayed in Evergreen, Wy. Will notify you when I proceed to South Dak. He pondered adding love, Joel. In the end, he didn’t and slid the paper over to the clerk.

  The Bar FB sat in a long, flat valley, ringed with hills that alternated between open pastures thigh-high with brittle, fall grass, and deep, dark-green forests of Scotch and Blue Spruces. White-faced Hereford cattle milled about everywhere.

  Various log buildings such as the barn and bunkhouse surrounded the imposing main house at strategic distances. Surprising Joel, the home was a white-washed antebellum structure with a cupola on the top. From it, he imagined a man could sit up there and see the whole valley in any direction.

  King of all he surveys, eh?

  “You could still back out,” Angela said from beside him, hunching her shoulders and rubbing her arms. Joel assumed she was cold, but the action could have also just as easily expressed her fears at this homecoming.

  He tapped the reins across the horses’ rear ends to maintain their speed. “Not much of an option right now.”

  “You could drop me off and keep riding.”

  A cowardly act he couldn’t fathom. He was here now and he was committed to the cause.

  “You’re an honorable man, aren’t you, Captain Chapman?”

  “I used to think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t like lying. Normally I wouldn’t have fallen into something like this. I believe almost any man can be reasoned with.” He cut his eyes at her. “You’ve made me believe your father may be the exception and this subterfuge is necessary. I hope I have not misjudged.”

  She heaved a great sigh. “I understand your concern. Two seconds with my father, though, and you’ll understand mine.”

  They rolled beneath the gate that proudly displayed the Bar FB encircled in barbed wire, and then into the main yard. A few ranch hands nodded and tipped their hats. One, a large fellow with a silvery-yellow beard, paused, allowed his smile to widen, and approached the buggy. Joel pulled it to a stop.

  “Miss Angela.” The cowboy swiped his hat off. “What a surprise. Your father said you was back East, still in school. He didn’t say anything about you coming for a visit.”

  “Howdy, Glenn, it’s nice to see you. I’ve missed your saucy jokes.”

  The man blushed from his neck up—the color disappearing into his beard—then stole a quick glance at Joel. A glint of disapproval flashed across his face, but vanished quickly. Joel saw it, nonetheless, and wondered if the man was as friendly as he seemed.

  “Oh.” Angela squared her shoulders. “Glenn, this is my husband, Joel Chapman. Joel, my father’s foreman, Glenn Leary.”

  Joel reached across Angela and the two shook hands. Glenn was clearly shocked by the news, judging from his slack jaw. “Husband, huh? Yeah, your father didn’t mention that either.”

  “I imagine there’s a lot he hasn’t mentioned about me since I left.”

  The man pursed his lips, as if acknowledging a secret. “Yeah, he hasn’t said too much since you’ve been gone this time.” He replaced the Stetson. “And he has been in one continual sour mood. Now that you’re back, maybe he’ll quit yellin’ so much.”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t sound like she believed it. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Angela touched Joel’s arm and he drove the rig up to the front of the house. “Well, here goes nothing.” Her voice wiggled and Joel wished he could give her a reassuring hug.

  In lieu of that, he said, “I’ve faced a hundred screaming Indians, dodged a hail storm of fiery arrows, and a blizzard of bullets. I’m not afraid of your father.” He smiled, hoping he had reassured her some.

  Instead, her smile was pitying. “That doesn’t mean he can’t hurt you.”

  6

  They let themselves into the house and paused. A finely appointed home, it was quiet as a mausoleum. Joel snatched his hat from his head and tucked it under one arm, the cavalry pin catching for a moment on his sleeve’s braiding. He straightened to his full height and followed Angela across the foyer into a library, tapping his cane quietly on the pine floor as he stepped. On his way in, he didn’t fail to notice the framed battle-scarred Confederate flag hanging on the wall.

  Joel knew the man standing at the empty fireplace instantly. He was tall, commanding, and stood erectly, even lost in thought. His silver hair shined like a beacon, and he had traded the gray uniform of the Confederacy for somber black garb that contrasted with glinting, ostentatious silver conchos on his gun belt.

  Joel had seen photos of the Civil War General Jessemon E. Fairbanks on numerous occasions at school. More clean-shaven and certainly older now than the pictures from over ten years ago, Fairbanks was still commanding, unmistakable.

  Apparently sensing their presence, the famous general slowly turned a bony, sinister face to his daughter and her husband. His expression darkened, hardening into a scowl. “You couldn’t even have the decency to wire and let us know you’d be coming?” A heavy Texas drawl slathered his words as he scanned Joel and sneered. “With a husband in tow?”

  Joel prayed a silent prayer and limped across the room, hand outstretched. “General Fairbanks, it is an honor. I have studied your Maryland Campaign in great detail. I stand in awe of its genius.”

  Fairbanks’s face did not change, nor did he take Joel’s hand. “A Yankee. God help me, on top of everything else,” he tossed his hands in the air and turned his back to them, his voice rising with anger. “On top of everything else, my disobedient, disgraceful daughter has gone and married a Yankee.”

  Joel lowered his hand. “The war is over, sir. As a member of the Seventh Cavalry, I discharged my duties for one united nation.”

  Fairbanks rounded, his searing gaze sweeping to Joel’s leg. “None too successfully, by the looks of things.”

  “Father,” Angela stomped forward. “Please…”

  “Wait.” His finger shot up. “I know a Chapman.”

  Joel tried to head off where that train of thought might be taking the general. “My father was the senator from Missouri for two terms.”

  Fairbanks’s face mottled. An artery pounded wildly in his neck. Teeth clenched, he said, “I knew him as General Chapman.”

  He certainl
y did. The two Titans had met in battle at Chancellorsville. Fairbanks’s second-biggest defeat of the war. Joel swallowed, sure he couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t pour salt in the wound.

  “And you,” he pivoted on his daughter, “you married his son.” The old man’s voice boomed like thunder. “Just like everything else in your life, you run off, half-cocked, doing what you please. No thought to how you dishonor this family name or me.” He ricocheted back to Joel. “I run a ranch here. A successful one. You’re only half a man, and even less of a cowboy, without that leg—”

  “What is going on in here?” A petite, gray-haired woman pushed through a swinging door, hair pulled back in a bun, dish cloth in her hands. “They can hear you, General, up in Helena—” Her eyes landed on Angela and at once her face shone with joy. “Angie,” the woman cried, raising her hands to heaven, “What a glorious surprise.” She rushed to Angela, Joel moving a step back to avoid being run over, and the two women embraced warmly.

  Fairbanks growled and clenched his hands into tight fists. “See to their room, Martha.” He stormed from the library, shooting a departing glare at Joel.

  When the front door slammed, Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The ladies, clutching hands now, stared at the entrance. Martha shook her head. “He’s been raging like that since you left.” She shifted to Joel. “He’s not usually quite that loud.”

  “No, but close.” Angela led Martha over to Joel. “Martha, I’d like you to meet my husband, Captain Joel Chapman.”

  Martha gasped and clutched her hands to her breast, her face glowing with an astonished grin. “Husband? Captain?”

  “Well, former. I’m not in the army anymore.” He offered his hand to the woman who promptly pushed past it and hugged him. Startled, Joel looked over at Angela who shrugged, as if to say that’s Martha. He patted the little woman, no taller than a ten-year-old, on the back but shortly acquiesced and gave her an awkward hug as well.

  “This is wonderful.” She stepped back, clutching both Joel’s hand and Angela’s. “You running off the way you did infuriated your pa and broke my heart, but now you’re back. All is forgiven. I’ll get you settled and whip up a fine steak dinner and my prize pie.”

  Joel’s stomach growled like a raging bear. Martha’s eyes widened. “That meets with your approval, I take it?”

  He patted his gut, trying to laugh off his embarrassment. “You have no idea.”

  Humiliated, embarrassed—both for herself and Joel—Angela wandered over to the window and stared out at the bustling ranch below while Martha fussed behind her.

  “Your things’ll be up in a jif. Can I send up water for a bath?”

  Angela stiffened. How were she and Joel going to do this? She couldn’t bathe in front of him. She shouldn’t be sharing a room with him. Sick with fear, she realized she hadn’t thought any of this out.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Joel said, wandering, by the sound of his voice, to the fireplace. “I think Angela there would appreciate a bath. I can take a look around while she does that. After I build a fire for her.”

  “All righty.”

  Angela heard a pause, then the door closing, followed by bed springs squeaking. Sighing, she turned to Joel. He sat on the bed, massaging his leg, staring at nothing.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  At first, he didn’t respond, then a frown creased his brow and he shook his head. “Not your fault. Your father is a bitter man. Proud. And afraid, I think, of losing control. But he loves you.”

  She wasn’t so sure. Weary already of the war, she ambled over and sat beside her husband. “When do you want to leave?”

  He splayed his hands. “I’ll pray about it, but I guess I’ll slip out tomorrow morning before daybreak.”

  Sadness curled up tight in her stomach. She hated to see him go, though she knew, of course, he had to. “I want you to stay as long as you want, Joel.” She touched his arm and their eyes met. Her heart sped up a bit and she had the desire to again touch his face, move a curl off his forehead. She entertained the thought a moment longer, but then moved her hand to her lap. He would be so easy to fall in love with. “Stay as long as you can stand it.”

  7

  You’re only half a man—and even less of a cowboy—without that leg.

  Joel hiked his wooden leg up on the bottom rail of the corral and leaned on the fence. He had to admit, the old man knew how to draw blood.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the bawling cattle and yips and hollers of cowboys up on the hills. Sound carried a long ways out here. A rooster crowed from the hayloft of the barn. Joel tracked the noise and spotted the cocky Leghorn perched arrogantly at the opening. King of all he surveyed.

  Yet, Lord of nothing. And he, like Fairbanks, didn’t know it.

  Joel prayed the man would have enough sense to love his daughter, forgive her, and move on. She would be so easy to love.

  A neigh and snort brought him back to the corral. A tall Indian, middle-aged, easily over six foot, in a flowered shirt and leather breeches, led a dapple gray into the circle. He tucked a strand of long, black hair behind his ear and peered at Joel with open curiosity. “Mr. Fairbanks said to saddle this one for you.”

  Joel’s mouth went dry. Somewhere, Fairbanks was watching. He felt it. From the cupola atop the house? No doubt he wanted proof his son-in-law was only half a man. Maybe Joel could surprise him. Maybe not. He’d only been in the saddle once since getting out of the hospital. And he’d merely sat there, wondering if he’d ever ride again.

  “I guess he’s watching, huh?”

  The Indian pulled a saddle blanket and bridle from the fence. “That would be my guess.” He tossed the blanket over the mare and worked the bridle on her.

  Not a helpless invalid, Joel leaned his cane against the fence, slipped through the rails, hobbled over and grabbed the saddle from the Indian. “If I have to ride her, I’ll saddle her.” The man gave him no argument and stepped back.

  The task was certainly easier before, when he had two feet planted on the ground, but it was not insurmountable now. The doctor had told him not to depend on the good leg too much but make the prosthetic as much a part of his body as possible.

  He was a bit wobbly. No ballerina for sure. He could do this, though. He gripped the saddle, swung, and dropped it on the horse. The sudden shift in weight jerked Joel into the horse’s side, but he righted himself quickly.

  “How long has it been?” the Indian asked.

  “Since I rode?” Joel started saddling up without any thought to the routine movements.

  “Since you lost your leg.”

  Joel reached under the horse for the cinch. “Few months shy of a year. Been out of the hospital for four months.”

  “You were cavalry?”

  Joel remembered he was wearing his uniform. “Yes.”

  “Did the army teach you to ride or did your father?”

  Joel liked the man’s cadence. He spoke in a measured way. Not slow, but thoughtful, like he wanted his words to matter. “My father taught me.”

  The Indian grunted in approval. “Good. Then you will ride again and ride well.”

  Joel believed that. At least he wanted to. He turned and offered the man his hand. “I’m Joel Chapman.”

  The Indian grabbed Joel’s wrist in a traditional Indian handshake. “I am called Henry Long Feather.” The two men, nearly identical in height, shook. “Ride well, Joel Chapman.”

  “Let’s give it a go.” Joel swung up into the saddle. That went well, but it took several seconds for his foot to find the stirrup and he had to guide it in with his hand. Once settled, Joel stood up, testing his weight. He felt lopsided, with the weight of a half-leg resting in the knee cup of his prosthetic.

  “Forget you have legs from the knees down,” Long Feather said.

  “That shouldn’t be too hard. I’m half-way there.”

  The Indian didn’t crack a smile. “Use your thighs. They are equal.
”

  Joel nodded and nudged the horse forward with a squeeze. She lazily circled the corral a few times while he got the feel of the saddle again and his skewed balance. His hips shifted with the horse’s motion, his body flowed with her. The rhythm was peaceful, calming, like slipping into a tub of warm water at the end of a long day. He was at home in the saddle.

  And he had a good horse beneath him. She was willing and responsive to even the lightest touches. “What’s her name?”

  “Celia,” Long Feather answered from his seat on the fence.

  “Someone likes Shakespeare,” Joel whispered as he stopped the horse, pressed his right thigh into her ribs and tugged the reins. Celia obediently turned left. “She’s a fine mount. Well-trained.”

  “Yes.”

  Joel narrowed his eyes at the man. “I suppose you trained her.”

  “It is my job on the ranch.”

  Joel wasn’t surprised. He could tell Long Feather had a gift with horses. A calm, confident manner usually brought out the best in an animal.

  “Show me you can trot and maybe I will let you out of this cage.”

  The offer surprised Joel. “Will that be all right with General Fairbanks?”

  “Let us find out.” Long Feather almost smiled. And Joel got the distinct impression the Indian didn’t work here as much as he deigned to spend time on the Bar FB.

  The warm water of the tub embraced Angela. She sighed with deep contentment, aware it wouldn’t last. She sunk in up to her chin and closed her eyes. “This is wonderful, Martha, thank you. It’s been so long since anyone waited on me.”

  Martha poured in another bucket of hot water. “That husband of yours strikes me as the kind who might bring you breakfast in bed now and again.”

  Angela’s eyes flew open. “My husband. Joel. Yes.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  Angela and Joel had discussed this on the way out here. “I was performing at the Ford Theater in Washington. He sent me flowers after the show.”