by Annie Boone
He raised an eyebrow. “You women never cease to amaze me.” She winked and he chuckled. “And how is our little one today?”
Beaming, Olivia pressed her hands against her stomach, still flat because it was so early. She was tall and lithe, graceful as the wind, but soon she wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that she was with child. “Very good. Our babe is very, very good. Oh, I can’t wait to just hold him in my arms. Or her,” she added quickly. “I’ll be happy either way.”
Pulling her over to the table, he nodded. “As would I. Now rest for a bit, would you? I don’t want you tiring yourself out.” She gave him a look but did so all the same. Except when he moved to go, she pulled him back with a hand. “Yes?”
“It doesn’t mean you should be tiring yourself out either,” she reminded him. “Come sit with me for a minute. Besides, you have something on your face. Come here.” When he leaned forward, she rubbed across his chin with her warm hand. “There we go. How were the trains today?”
He shrugged. “A few tracks needed to be reset, and I spent some time with the officials since they’re considering putting down another path. It wouldn’t be for a few years, but they’d like me to head up the project.”
She beamed at him, clutching his hand. “That’s wonderful! Simon, I’m so proud of you. You’ll do such a wonderful job. Where are the tracks leading this time? Will it take a long time? How far are you going to need to travel, or can you stay here? Do you think—”
“Whoa,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Even I don’t have all the answers. But all in good time, all right? We can focus on one thing at a time. Like that pie,” he pointed out. “And tomorrow, we’re going to supper with the Jessups. I passed Lucas on my way back here.”
A thought crossed her mind as she turned to the pie. “Perhaps we should save that, then.”
His stomach rumbled. “Definitely not,” he disagreed. “I think it’s just asking to be eaten. Now, right now, actually. I’m pretty certain of that.”
“Oh really?” She raised her eyebrow. “I’m not so convinced.”
“I wonder how I might fix that,” he pretended to think about it, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and staring up at the ceiling. After a moment, he turned back to Olivia who was eyeing him warily, and she didn’t move fast enough to escape a kiss. Grasping her chin, he pressed their lips together and caught her by surprise.
Why would anyone want to hurt this innocent woman? Simon thanked God and his lucky stars once again that he was with her and that she’d not run farther away.
But those people in her past could touch her no more, he reminded himself. There would be no nonsense of being sold into marriage or anything else. On their ride back to Rocky Ridge, Olivia had hesitantly shared the additional details of her past, of how good Jack was but how his family clearly struggled to do the right thing. She held little bitterness against them, and it was a lesson to him on kindness and forgiveness, one that he hadn’t known he had needed.
After all, he’d blamed himself for over two years for what had happened to Jane. There’d been so many mornings when he woke up with the stabbing pain of realizing she wasn’t coming back, and then the ache in the evenings that he hadn’t been able to protect her in the end. Yet Olivia was there for him through his struggles, in coming to terms with forgiving himself and no longer placing the blame on him, or anyone else.
She truly was a miracle, Simon decided.
She smiled against him, pulling him closer. Simon sat on the edge of his seat, kissing her until Olivia gave way to giggles, and finally moved back. “All right,” she agreed. “I suppose I can make another pie tomorrow, then.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You have such a way of convincing me. Come on, then. I’ll let you cut it, shall I?”
Simon took the knife and hovered above the pie just as he looked out the window. That’s when he paused at the sight of the two trees recently planted beside the garden. One was a small aspen, swaying in the breeze. The second was an apple tree, young but already full of blossoms. On their wedding day, after the ceremony and reception, the couple had come to their new home and planted those two trees for those they had lost. A sweet reminder of their past.
“Simon?” Olivia brought him back and he turned to her. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, and smiled at her. Her hair was messy and she looked tired, but his wife was glowing and she was clearly happy. Simon could have never imagined that he would be standing there today, but he was. And he was a better man for it.
“I’m wonderful, my love. Truly, undeniably wonderful.”
It’s not quite the end!
* * *
Did you enjoy Olivia and Simon’s love story? There was a time when it looked like their love might be broken. If Simon hadn’t had the will to go find her, what might have happened to her? God had His hand in making sure they ended up together.
If you want to find out how Susannah helps another young woman change her life and meet the man of her dreams, turn the page for a sneak peek!
Preview - Selina and Wyatt
Wyatt, 1872
“I can do it!” He stamped his foot, only realizing too late that he sounded like he was six years old, not sixteen. But in a world like this, he could already be considered a man. And he should be considered a man. Balling up his fists, he glared at the man squinting at him from his high horse.
Clearing his throat, the young boy set his shoulders back and gathered his pride. “I can do it,” he stated more calmly. The other man had hardly twitched during their conversation, and Wyatt Thomas wondered how a man could act so calm and collected. Even after what he had seen the man do, Louis the Sixer hardly looked phased. And that’s what Wyatt wanted. “Whatever you need me to do, I can do it. I know how to shoot, how to throw a punch. I can even do the laundry and cook,” he added, a hint of desperation in his voice now. “I need to get out of here, I need to learn to do what you do.”
Louis the Sixer stared at him coldly for a good minute. His handlebar mustache never budged, though he could hear the man’s nose whistling as he breathed. A hand on his pommel, the other was hidden beneath his jacket. A knee jerk reaction, surely, since Wyatt had stepped out from behind the barn and caught him off guard.
His was an old jacket, too, one made of animal hide. He didn’t know what sort of animal, but clearly a dead one. There were two bullet holes on the left shoulder, but Louis didn’t act like it had happened recently. Louis hid his face beneath a wide brimmed hat, but that part was ridiculous since it didn’t really matter who saw him. He was a bounty hunter and he went after the hunted, a strong man who could beat a man unconscious and shoot another when necessary. This was evident to the two men tied down to Louis the Sixer’s pack horse.
“What’s your name, boy?”
Swallowing, Wyatt tried to stop his hands from shaking. It wasn’t fear in his fists, after all, but the madness of not being in control. “Wyatt Thomas. And I’m not a just a boy anymore.” He just prayed that he’d get it back in a minute, before the anger took over.
“It’s a hard life, Thomas. Some nights you won’t sleep, and most nights you won’t even have a proper bed. It’s a beautiful life of seeing the different towns and land, but it’s hard and it’s long and far from cozy. You think you have what it takes, boy?”
“I do,” he held his head high. “I have it.”
The hand came out from beneath his jacket holding nothing and he stroked the big black mustache. “Can you shoot?”
“Real well.”
“Oh yeah?” He could feel the hardness of the gaze and Wyatt hesitated.
“Well, some. I hit my target as long as they stand still.”
The man snorted. “That won’t be your targets.” The hope that had been building within his chest began to fade, and Louis’ horse stamped his feet as though they were ready to be on their way. Without him. Gritting his teeth, he stared at the ground angrily, wishing the man would just make up his mind already. It was humiliating.
“Fine.” The bounty hunter had to say it again for Wyatt to understand. “Fine. Get your stuff. You got a horse?”
Grinning, Wyatt nodded and jabbed his thumb behind him. “I do. That one.” It had been his father’s horse from ten years ago. A beautiful creature, even in his older age. While he most likely wouldn’t last more than the next few years, Wyatt had still treated him well enough to keep going and stay strong. A big black horse, nearly twenty hands high, and so persnickety that no one else could ride him.
Louis whistled. “All righty, then, boy. Let’s get going.” Wyatt could feel the man’s gaze on him as he grabbed his pack and strapped the horse up, ready to go. In his haste, he had to redo the straps twice on his stirrups before finally getting everything as tight as it needed to be. He was red in the face, scowling by the time he climbed on to the horse.
And they started off.
That evening, they rode for several miles before settling down in their own campsite on the edge of West Virginia. The men on the packhorse were taken off the animal and tied to a tree by Louis as Wyatt tried to get the fire going.
He had done it before, and he knew how to do it. But the sticks he rubbed together weren’t doing what he wanted. If anything, they were only splintering. Sweat dripped down his forehead and Wyatt scowled at the setup before him, angrily trying to make the flames come to life. “Come on,” he muttered. “Spark!” Giving up, he flung the branches out in front of him.
Only for Louis to appear from the shadows and catch the one pointed at his chest. Wyatt leaped back, having thought he was still alone. “Watch it,” the older man glared at him. “You’re not the only quiet footer here. Don’t ever think you’re alone, kid. And don’t think we’re about to eat this raw.” In his other hand he held a bird he had caught, the neck already wrung. “Try it until you get it.”
“It’s not working,” Wyatt frowned. “It won’t work. It won’t spark.”
Louis scoffed, eyeing him. “It ain’t wet so nothing’s wrong with the stick.” He took a seat on the rock after flinging the stick at Wyatt. He had caught without even glancing at it, glaring still at the man before him. It was more arrogant than impressive. He talked with such ease, mocking the younger man. Mocking him for his efforts? Wyatt was trying to help and that was the thanks he got?
“What do you mean by that?” He gritted his teeth and stood. “Huh? You think I’m good for nothin’?”
But the man hardly cared to look his way, tending to the feathers on the bird. He plucked them lazily, one by one as he gnawed on his pipe. “I didn’t say that, boy. Why? Do you think you’re good for nothing?”
“Why you lousy—” His hands clenched. Wyatt went in for a punch, the adrenaline pushing him hard and the anger steaming from every pore in his body. After all, it was the better move to be the one to throw the first punch. It had been affective in the majority of his fights, sometimes even knocking the other person unconscious in that first round.
But Louis raised a hand and deflected it as though the young man were only a fly. Unphased, he pulled out another feather as Wyatt nearly fell forward, catching himself just in time before trying to throw a second punch, this time with his left.
With a sigh, Louis stood and grabbed Wyatt’s left wrist, twisting it away in one motion that immediately caused a burning sensation along the muscles from his fingers to his shoulder. Wyatt cried out, falling to his knees helplessly. “You ain’t getting nowhere with an attitude like that, boy,” Louis gritted his teeth, using a tone that instantly quieted the young man. “Especially out here with me. Men that talk like that are likely to disappear, you get what I’m sayin’?”
Wyatt looked at him with contempt, but kept his tongue.
“Now you’re going to get up, pick up those sticks, and try again. I don’t care how long it takes you, but you’ll get that fire going so we can eat. Thomas, you are not to say another word this evening or even look my way if you want some of this supper. Then you’ll go to your bedroll, and wait for tomorrow. If you want to make it to tomorrow, you’re going to have to rethink your strategy. Nod if you understand me.”
Locking his jaw, Wyatt angrily tested moving his arm, only for more pain to shoot up through his shoulder. He couldn’t escape this hold no matter how he tried, and grudgingly knew there was only one option out. For a minute he glared down at his other hand, still in a fist, unable to accept how helpless he was in such a sparse amount of time. Red-faced and panting, he finally nodded since he didn’t have another choice.
“Good.” Louis pushed him away. Wyatt fell on his other arm, getting that whole side of him filthy in the dirt. Stumbling up, he tried to clean up and turned to Louis while thinking up every mean thing he could think, but remembered what he’d agreed to. He hesitated.
He couldn’t beat the man, he knew that. Swallowing, he went back to his spot to obey and tried to consider his options. But he wasn’t a liar, Wyatt told himself, and shouldn’t start now. It was one of the longest evenings of his life, trying to get that first fire going. But eventually it worked, and he ate and he went to bed.
At night, he had the same dream all over again. A memory that had lately turned into a nightmare, the dream that sent the rage coursing through his body and constantly woke him up. Ten years ago, his parents had went into the bank and were followed by six men who were the only ones to come out, running off with everyone’s money. And their lives.
It hadn’t helped, of course, that Wyatt Thomas was taken to his brother’s brother and wife on the outskirts of Philadelphia. Louis was easier to handle than they had been, and that was one of the reasons he had just left them for good that morning.
But Wyatt was right, and he could do it. He learned to skin the animals and light the fire in record time. Louis made sure he could take a punch and give a better one, and taught him how to fire on a moving target. While his father’s horse only lasted another year after riding all over the countryside, Wyatt Thomas worked hard to bring justice to the world and became a bounty hunter. The anger that had spent years building up inside of him was finally used for good.
Selina, 1882
The shout made her jump. “Stop looking at yourself and get back to work!” Glancing behind her, she found Aunt Mary glaring from the back porch. Mary was a short woman, frumpy with too much hair piled on top her head. Her skirt and apron were covered in flour, having been cooking in the kitchen. And as usual, she was in a huffy mood. “You heard me! Stop wasting your time! Don’t let the laundry get ruined.” Then she disappeared through the door.
Sighing, Selina wished it were the other way around. Glancing at her wet raw hands, she wondered if they could possibly be any redder. Most likely not. Pursing her lips, she curled them into balls and hoped they would heal faster than they did last week.
She gave her reflection in the river one more look before grabbing the basket of laundry. It wasn’t that she was looking at herself, but rather looking for a glimpse of her mother. Having lost her nearly fifteen years ago, Selina Carlson knew the memories of her parents were dim but she hoped that by squinting at every corner of her own reflection, she might be able to see either of her parents. Just to remember them better. It was her grandmother who’d said she was the spitting image of her mother, with her father’s eyes. But the woman had told her little else.
But this wasn’t a good idea, she knew, to dwell on dreams and one what couldn’t be. The last eight years with her aunt and uncle had taught her that it was a cruel world.
Her arms ached as she carried the wet laundry back up the hill to the house, wondering once again why the path wasn’t good and flat. She certainly walked it enough, bringing the water buckets for the house every day and for the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning. It required a couple of trips, and never felt like it grew easier.
“Don’t hang it so crookedly! If you do that again, I’ll make you start all over!” The threat was a good one, and had happened before. Several times before. Selina no longer wince
d at the shouting but frowned at the job she was doing so far on hanging the clothes on the wire. What was she talking about? After years of practice, she knew not to hang anything crookedly.
Just for good measure, she took down the last three shirts she had hung up so far, and rehung them. They were exactly the same, but this time didn’t garner a shout from the kitchen window. Selina shrugged it off and focused on completing her task. Picking up the pile of damp hand towels, she set them on her shoulder so that she wouldn’t need to keep bending over, and carefully picked out the clothespins from her apron pocket. She’d only hung one of them up when a tingling sensation ran up her spine. Something felt off.
Biting her lip, Selina glanced about, wondering if someone was looking her way. But she couldn’t see anyone and unnerved as she felt, she turned back and hung up another towel before looking around again. The nagging sensation of being watched bugged her incessantly, making her hair stand up on end. She was looking around once more when someone finally spoke.
“Your blouse is wet.”
Jumping, she stifled a scream by clasping both hands over her mouth. There, between the other two clothe wires, standing between the shirts, was her uncle James Robinson. He was a tall man, one who had once been very strong but now spent more time eating and the softness showed. Hunched with dark brooding eyes, he looked worn down like the devil was on his back. Her heart hammered as he came over, eyeing her.
“Excuse me? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she murmured, dropping her gaze from his uncomfortable stare. He did that a lot lately, that staring and watching. She should have known it was him. Since their foster son, Ben, had left to work on the railways four years ago, things had been different. Without Ben around, the shouting had grown into a daily event, and tension filled the house from dawn to dusk.
He gestured towards her chest. “You’re wet. The towels.” Stepping closer, soon he was right before her, but still eyeing her. Wondering what intrigued him so much, she glanced down and found he was right. The damp hand towels had, as he mentioned, made her blouse rather wet. It stuck to her skin now, showing more of her curvature than any decent woman would have ever intended. Instantly she turned bright red and grabbed the towels, holding them in front of herself.
