Chasing the Sun
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Epilogue
PRAISE FOR
PIECES OF SKY
“Readers may need a big box of Kleenex while reading this emotionally compelling, subtly nuanced tale of revenge, redemption, and romance, but this flawlessly written book is worth every tear.”—Chicago Tribune
“In her auspicious debut, Warner kicks off the Blood Rose Trilogy ... Warner develops [the] romance with well-paced finesse and great character work ... Warner makes great use of the vivid Old West setting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Romance, passion, and thrilling adventure fill the pages of this unforgettable saga that sweeps the reader from England to the Old West. Jessy and Brady are truly lovers for the ages!”—Rosemary Rogers
“Pieces of Sky reminds us why New Mexico is called the land of enchantment.” —Jodi Thomas, New York Times bestselling author
“Generates enough heat to light the old New Mexico sky. A sharp, sweet love story of two opposites, a beautifully observed setting, and voilà—a romance you won’t soon forget.”
—Sara Donati, author of Into the Wilderness
“From the first page, it’s clear why debut author Warner has won several awards. Her western romance is a striking portrait of the territory in all its reality, harshness, and beauty. Like Francine Rivers, Warner creates a novel of the human spirit’s ability to conquer emotional and physical obstacles. She conveys her characters perfectly, giving them lives of their own. Readers will be waiting breathlessly for the next book in the Blood Rose Trilogy.”—Romantic Times
“A very good book.”—All About Romance
“It’s been a very long time since I read an engaging and sweet historical romance such as Pieces of Sky ... I absolutely loved Kaki Warner’s writing.” —Babbling About Books
“I loved everything about this book.”—Roundtable Reviews
Berkley Sensation titles by Kaki Warner
PIECES OF SKY
OPEN COUNTRY
CHASING THE SUN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2011 by Kathleen Warner.
Excerpt from Heartbreak Creek by Kaki Warner copyright © by Kathleen Warner.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / January 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Warner, Kaki.
Chasing the sun / Kaki Warner.—Berkley Sensation trade pbk. ed. p. cm.
eISBN: 9781101482391
1. Single mothers—Fiction. 2. Ranchers—Fiction. 3. Ranch life—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.A8633C47 2011
813’.6—dc22 2010037077
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Jason—brave, brilliant, bodacious.
And to Carlee, the beautiful lady who loves him anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This trilogy wouldn’t have been possible without a vision, a lot of luck, and many hours of hard work by people too numerous to list. And it wouldn’t have become a success without people who were willing to take a chance on a new author. So I thank you, dear readers—for your support, for your lovely e-mails and kind words, and for welcoming the Wilkins family and me to your bookshelves.
Bless you all.
One
March 1873, San Francisco
“DESIRE ETHERIDGE.” MR. MARKHAM FROWNED AT THE paper atop his desk in the tiny manager’s office behind the stage. “That’s an odd name. Desire.”
“Desiree,” Daisy corrected, pronouncing it Dez-a-ray. She pointed to the paper. “If you’ll notice, there are two e’s on the end.”
He squinted up at her, rolling an unlit, well-chewed cigar stub from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You French or something?”
“I try not to be,” she quipped.
His teeth clamped down, snapping the cigar stub to attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“N-Nothing,” she stammered, taken aback by his challenging tone.
“My mama was French.”
That explained a great deal. “I didn’t know that.”
“If you got something against the French, missy, then you can just march your skinny ass out of here right now.”
Mortified by the reprimand, yet pleased that he thought her backside skinny, she forced a smile. “It was a poor joke, Mr. Markham. I like the French. Truly.”
The stub relaxed, rolled to the left side of his mouth and settled between his gum and cheek like a damp little rodent sliding back into its burrow. He returned to his perusal of her application. “Says here you been singing at the Silver Spur. That in the red light district?”
“No.” But it was near enough to open the eyes of a farm girl from Quebec who had to walk past those busy doorways every night after work.
“Still, it’s a saloon,” Markham went on without looking up.
Since it wasn’t a question, Daisy didn’t respond. Besides, it seemed every time she opened her mouth lately it got her into trouble. How was she to know that the drunken lout who had tri
ed to stick his hand down her dress during last night’s chorus of “Bridget’s Lament” was the mayor’s wife’s second cousin’s son? The nitwit.
She studied the man before her, wondering if he was any better.
He was old, at least double her twenty-one years, judging by the gray in his whiskers and in the curly sideburns showing beneath his bowler hat. He seemed fit enough, but there was a weary slump to his shoulders. He reminded her of a sour old draft horse that kept plugging along, no longer caring where it was headed or where it had been, just getting through the day.
When she didn’t respond, his head came up, a challenging thrust to his chin, the cigar stub battle-ready. She watched his gaze slide over her, coming to rest on the bosom that always seemed to draw attention no matter how tightly she corseted. “You’re not a whore, are you?”
“Of course not,” Daisy sputtered, addled that he would say such a thing. Nervously she pressed a hand to her chest, wondering if a button had come undone and a breast had escaped, but both dress and breast were securely corralled.
“This is a legitimate theater company, missy. We don’t take on whores.”
“I am not a whore,” she said with stringent emphasis. An unwed mother, perhaps, but not a whore. There was a big difference.
An oddly disappointed look came into his dark eyes. “You sure?”
“That I’m not a whore? Of course I’m sure.” The very idea.
The stub drooped. With a sigh, he turned back to her application.
As Daisy waited, she tried to regain her composure by studying the old playbills pinned to the wall behind the desk. Some of the names she recognized from earlier times when her mother, a frustrated singer herself, would declare a holiday from farm chores and take her to nearby Quebec City to see the latest theatrical productions passing through.
“Someday it will be you up on that stage, ma petite cherie,” her mother would say. “It will be the name ‘Desiree Etheridge’ on the posters out front.”
Daisy smiled, filling her mind with the lovely images her mother had painted so many years ago—the flickering light and oily smoke from the lamps along the front of the stage, the rapt faces of the audience staring up at her, the musicians poised, instruments ready, that hush of expectancy as she opened her mouth and the first glorious notes—
“Says here you got a kid.”
Daisy blinked. The images dissolved. Reality pressed like a weight against her throat. “Yes, a daughter.”
“Where’s her pa?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“West.”
That narrow-eyed look again. “We are west, missy. It don’t get any more west than San Francisco.”
Reminding herself how much she wanted—needed—this chance, especially since that scene last night with the mayor’s wife’s second cousin’s son had gotten her fired from the Spur, Daisy hid her irritation behind a smile. “Australia.” At least that was where the bounder had been headed when he’d left over two-and-a-half years ago. Afraid her patience would stretch to the point of snapping if these useless questions didn’t end soon, she said forcefully, “I am a vocalist, Mr. Markham. A good one. I can read music, I play the piano fairly well, and I also have a four-octave range and a—”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Never mind all that. Can you sing, girl, and loud enough to reach the back row of the balcony?”
Daisy let out a deep breath. “Yes, Mr. Markham. I can sing.” And she showed him—right there in his tiny office, without music, accompaniment, or proper acoustics—just how powerful her voice was.
She got the role.
A role anyway. She wouldn’t know which until she returned the next day to audition for the director and the owner of the theater. But it was a start. Hopefully it would pay well enough to support her and her daughter and cover the raise in pay Edna Tidwell demanded to watch Kate while Daisy was working. If she needed more, Mr. Markham said she could help with the sewing chores in wardrobe.
A few minutes later she left the Elysium Theater, a bounce in her step. Mr. Markham turned out to be a nice man after all, in a middle-aged, cranky sort of way. And he seemed to like her voice. Daisy smiled, remembering the astonished look on his face when she hit her high notes. That nasty stub had almost fallen from his mouth. And he had been most insistent that she return the next day, making her promise twice before he let her leave. It would feel good to be singing real music again. Saloon songs had been no challenge at all.
It’s really happening, she thought as she turned off Broadway onto Powell Street, taking the long way back to the boardinghouse to avoid the dangerous waterfront area. I’ll be singing on a real stage!
She giggled then laughed out loud, startling a drunk dozing behind a refuse bin outside a garment maker’s shop. “I’m going to be a star,” she called gaily to him as she hurried by.
She had dreamed of it, prayed for it every day since she had seen her first musical puppet show at a traveling fair fifteen years ago. To be able to sing arias rather than lewd ditties or maudlin ballads, to fill a hall with her own voice, singing music composed by the masters ... she still couldn’t believe it.
At Commercial Street, she turned left, hoping it was still too early in the day to bring out the worst of the criminals that prowled the shadowed alleys like rats hunting fresh meat. A few blocks farther, she turned onto her street and breathed easier. Here on the fringes of the red light district, the saloons and gambling dens catered to a richer, cleaner clientele and the brothels were a little more discreet. Dirt and mud gave way to cobblestones, and the row houses were less shabby, although each year more of them boasted the red-painted doors and lamps that identified them as houses of ill repute. Perhaps if she did well in the theater company, she could land a bigger role that would bring in enough money to move Kate to a safer neighborhood, maybe one with parks and other children to play with.
“Daisy,” a woman’s voice called.
Looking over, she saw Lucy Frisk waving from the front stoop of a narrow four-story building that rented rooms by the hour—a bordello, although a clean one, run by a nattily dressed Southern gentleman named Stump Heffington, who had lost everything in the Rebellion, including the greater portion of his left leg. As procurers went, he was benign. Having learned the value of contented workers during his slave-owning years, he treated his girls passably well. They considered themselves lucky to be in his employ and, by and large, were a clean, friendly lot. Lucy, in her early twenties and nearest in age to Daisy, always had a kind word for Baby Kate whenever they passed by.
“Hello, Lucy,” Daisy called back, angling across the street, delighted to have someone with whom to share her wonderful news.
Five years ago, when she had first arrived in San Francisco with her parents, she would have been shocked to find herself on such friendly terms with a harlot. But since then, she had lost both parents to a mudslide, fallen in love, had her heart broken, and borne a child. In other words, she had grown up. And although she might still be a farm girl from Quebec, she had learned to value friends whenever and wherever she found them.
“You hear about Red Amy?” Lucy asked as Daisy neared the steps.
Daisy could see she had been crying. “No. What?”
“The Indian got her. Took all that pretty red hair clean off her head then stabbed her twice through the neck. Damn bastard scalp-snatching sonofabitch.”
Daisy pressed a hand to her throat. “She ... she’s ... ?”
Lucy nodded and swiped at a tear. “Deader ’n a carp. Third this month.”
Daisy stood in stunned silence. Red Amy was the youngest in the house and one of her favorites, mainly because Daisy often saw a shadow of herself in the trusting, hopeful look behind the girl’s lovely brown eyes.
“I’m thinking of dyeing mine.” Lucy fingered the flowing, straw-colored tresses that were her best feature. “He don’t seem to like dark hair as much as blond or red. The Indian in him, I guess.
Yours ain’t as light as mine, but I’d keep an eye out anyway, since he seems partial to young, pretty ones like you. Watch out for Kate, too, with those blond curls of hers.”
“But she’s just a baby,” Daisy protested, fear coiling in her chest. “Why would he go after a baby?”
“Probably wouldn’t,” Lucy said quickly, giving Daisy’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “I’m just saying keep her close, is all. And keep an eye on that Widow Tidwell while you’re at it. There’s something about that woman ... something that ain’t right.”
Daisy needed no warning on that score. When she had first taken a room in Edna Tidwell’s boardinghouse, the woman had seemed kindly enough. Having lost her own daughter to smallpox, she had been almost heartbreakingly grateful to have an infant to take care of again. But over the last months as Kate neared her second birthday, which was the same age as Edna’s daughter when she’d died, the woman had started acting strange ... almost angry that Kate had survived while her own child hadn’t. She’d upped her price several times, even though her care of Kate had grown sloppier and sloppier. Daisy suspected she might be drinking. Plus, Edna had started keeping company with a man Daisy didn’t altogether trust. Bill Johnson seemed friendly enough, but there was a coldness about him ...
Daisy shook off that worrisome thought. “Don’t worry.” She patted her coat pocket. “I’ve got my Remington Double Derringer, remember.” Kate’s father had won the palm-sized, double-barreled .41-caliber rim fire pistol in a poker game. Considering it more of a toy than a weapon, he’d given it to Daisy. Now she carried it everywhere she went—as much for protection as sentimentality. It was the only thing he’d given her, except for Kate.
“Thing’s useless unless you’re up close,” Lucy said. “Does Edna know you’re looking for someone else to watch Baby Kate?”