An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book

by Lorelei Brogan

  Then her whole posture seemed to stiffen, and her chin jerked up. “I’m sorry for whatever horrors you must have had to endure in the past two years, Mr. Marsden. But surely Jessie can listen to your tale of woe, and pat your shoulder, and soothe your fevered brow. That’s what she’s around for, isn’t it?”

  Sam, shifting position, flushed. “Dunno, ma’am. What you’ve just described sounds like coddlin’, to me, and I have to admit there ain’t been much of that.”

  “Indeed? Well, then, Mr. Marsden, it seems to me you’re missing out on a good thing. Why don’t you go tell your promised wife I said so?”

  He’d walked a long way, and he was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of unpleasant circumstances, tired of having to deal with irascible human beings. A large boulder, about the size of a nice wicker settee, rested nearby. He took a few more steps sideways and sank down upon the unyielding sun-warmed surface; the roughness felt strangely comforting.

  “I disremember you bein’ quite so—quite so—”

  “Sarcastic?” inquired Vickie sweetly. “Tart-tongued? Shrewish? Never fear, Mr. Marsden. I’m simply practicing for my days when I end up as a spinster. I shall make a fine one, don’t you think?”

  “Sorry to say I’m not acquainted with too many spinsters, Miss Clark, but I dunno why you’d think that was your future. You got a lotta—”

  “If you say wonderful qualities,” she hissed like an irate tabby cat, “I swear I shall pound you into smithereens.”

  There was some nasty behind-the-scenes drama going on here, some which poor Sam couldn’t understand and one in which he was definitely coming off the loser. He managed the kind of grunt that most males use when they are forced under fire from upset females, which made no sense and did nothing to placate.

  “Uh. Well. Uh. So, why are you trespassin’ on private property?” he changed the subject in what he considered a brilliant move.

  She gave him an up-and-down look absolutely scathing in its entirety. “You utter fool. You’re the one trespassing. This is Yellowstar land. And we used to—we used to—” She stopped, gulped, and bent to untangle the wet hem of her skirts from one ankle.

  “We used to—what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she rounded on him fiercely. “Absolutely nothing. If you won’t even admit—”

  “Admit what?” Plainly, he was flummoxed.

  And his head was aching with a man-sized killer beat. His hope for a quiet, refreshing time away from the rest of humanity had been dashed; right now, he wanted nothing more than to sneak a teaspoon or so of his mother’s laudanum, get something cold to drink, and sleep a few hours to make up for the sleepless nights he had been enduring.

  She was staring at him with those beautiful, wonder-filled blue gray eyes.

  Which were suddenly bathed by tears.

  Why? What had he done wrong now?

  “Miss Clark…” he began awkwardly.

  “You’re in pain,” she realized. Her mood transformed itself once again, from choler to concern.

  “Just a little leftover.” Not wanting to appear a weakling, he minimized the residual effect. Yet, involuntarily, his hand rose to brush light fingers across the dent and scar at his temple, almost buried beneath the brim of his hat and the new growth of his thick dark hair. “Gives me some problems, sometimes.”

  Moving closer, she inspected him curiously. As a physician might. Or someone affected by his mental and physical state. Or an—an inamorata…

  Whatever that meant. And exactly where, out of the depths of a sketchy memory, had that word come from?

  “We played here, once in a while,” he suddenly remembered. “As kids. Buildin’ mud castles, and skimmin’ flat stones, and huntin’ for crawdads.”

  “Yes, we did. When you weren’t teasing the life out of me.”

  “And Elijah came with us, on occasion. And Jacob.’

  His two middle brothers, gone. He’d never even had a chance to say goodbye to them, before they’d been lost in the smoke and fire of battle, other than a swift “Godspeed” as they’d been hustled away to one more fateful and fatal battle. He’d hardly had time to mourn their tragic end since he’d returned, being taken up with recovery from his own ordeal, his own wounds, his own emotional upheaval.

  Soldiers rarely speak frankly and freely of their war experiences to outsiders who cannot possibly relate on a personal, even a general, level. Sometimes they are ashamed of possible atrocities they’ve been forced to commit, under order from superior officers.

  Sometimes they are relieved to finally be free of the stress and struggle of combat, when less than valiant behavior might have ensued. Sometimes they simply don’t want to remember the bullets they fired, the horrors and screams of dying men and horses that turned their own bowels to water, the words they used, the so-called food they’d had to eat or the utter terror that they’d known under bombardment.

  The camaraderie Sam had appreciated with Beau rested upon some of these scenarios.

  They’d shared a little, after their joint release from Rock Island, once the War Between the States had concluded. Both suffered from recurring nightmares. Both endured occasional fevers, or sudden inexplicable bouts of trembling, or the fight or flight reflex that, in later jargon, would be called a panic attack.

  But, mostly, they just wanted to forget. To pick up the threads of life they’d left behind, and try to adjust to normal behavior.

  “Sam?” Vickie’s gentle voice recalled him from a thousand miles away. “What is it?”

  He dredged up a weak and weary smile. “Oh, nothin’ in particular. Just—stuff. Y’ know.”

  “You weren’t here anymore. You were just—gone…”

  “Yeah. Sometimes it takes me thataway. Nothin’ to worry about, Miss Clark. My ma insists I’m gettin’ better.”

  She looked dubious. “And Mrs. Marsden would know?”

  “Well, sure. She’s a right good herbalist. Took care of this blow to my head when I got home, that had me just about outa my mind with misery. Surely do appreciate you takin’ an interest, though, Miss Clark.”

  “Vickie. Or—Vic.” Her voice sounded wistful. “You used to call me Vic.”

  “I did?”

  He had removed his Stetson and crossed one ankle over the other thigh, completely at his ease and enjoying this time in the sun. In fact, he had lifted his face and closed his eyes, savoring the sweet kiss of warmth. Locked away behind those frozen fences, when so much of Illinois lay hostage to winter’s icy temperatures, he thought he could never get enough sunshine again.

  “So, d’ you want me to go on with that name?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  Sam considered. Although he had decided that his nuptials with Jessica Clark certainly must not take place, his mother’s warning felt like a leaden weight upon his heart. Much as he wanted to be free of his betrothed and her everlasting talk of wedding plans, he was coming to realize that an abrupt revocation would leave her reeling.

  Not that she cared overmuch as to his own feelings in the matter, but being ditched by the man she had proclaimed to be her one true love would cause her to lose face in the whole community. Jessica, with her high-and-mighty airs and her pert little nose stuck straight up to heaven, would end up as a laughingstock.

  And just who would pay the price for that?

  He would, that was who. And his family.

  He hadn’t had time to really reflect upon all possible repercussions. Or to figure out how to disentangle himself from such a delicate situation.

  Did he tell Jess straight off that he had no wish to tie the knot, and risk all sorts of nasty developments? Did he skirt the issue and simply delay, delay, delay until she grew tired of waiting? Did he cast his fate to the winds, leave his home and all he loved for a vagabond’s existence, just to escape her determined clutches?

  He wished some wiser head might prevail and give him advice. Lord knew he wasn’t prepared to take the next step, whatever that might be.


  Then again, what if he presented the notion to Vickie as accomplished fact? Might she answer questions he hadn’t yet dared ask? Might she clear up some of the pieces of patchy memory which sometimes paralyzed his actions?

  Both sisters were pretty beyond belief, with tresses so similar in color, creamy southern belle complexions, and luscious figures. But there the likeness ended.

  Jessica’s golden hair was, at all times, so arranged in such an elaborate coiffure, even for a simple day at home on the ranch, as to make a man afraid to disarrange but a single curl; Vickie’s fine, sun-washed, rather messy style would be more suitable for a day spent mucking out the stable, or tending the vegetable garden. Jessica’s eyes seemed to glare more than glance, filled with ice and condemnation, and a small frown had begun to take up permanent residence between her fair brows. While the blue-gray of Vickie’s straight-on gaze offered an affectionate, almost spiritual scan.

  As for personality—well!

  Sam had already learned, to his chagrin, that any sort of disagreement or confrontation with his bride-to-be resulted in immediate cold fury. Apparently the girl felt no compassion for any being smaller or weaker than she, and her main role in life was to stride straight through it, victorious and vainglorious.

  Whereas Vickie appeared more amenable, taking the opinions of others into consideration, voicing concern for those with whom she came into contact.

  Except, of course, for those rare times he’d fallen into disgrace since he’d been home. Sam’s soft, reminiscent smile recalled a few heated words and display of temper from the girl who could be so loyal but apparently peppery. And her absence from that Sunday dinner table not long ago, when the Marsdens had joined the Clarks for a confab? Now, that had been a true source of amazement.

  Miss Vickie could be a fighter when need be, he realized. What would it be like to have her fight for him?

  “I’m sorry that my gettin’ engaged to your sister has caused some trouble between the families,” he said at last, to test the waters.

  “Trouble?”

  “Well, yeah. My paw is over the moon, ’specially with him bein’ the one to break the news. Your paw, on the other hand—” he shrugged.

  “A wait and see attitude, no doubt.” She sounded scornful. Then wistful. “And your mama?”

  “Gotta admit, she ain’t so sure this is a good idea.”

  Vickie turned away to stare at the water, glittery and golden under the sun, tumbling anyhow through freshet and falls. “I’ve spent time with Mrs. Marsden, now and then. I envy you having a mother. She’s a nice lady.”

  “She is that,” Sam agreed without hesitation. Stretching his muscles wide, shaking his head like a dog just out of the river, he rose and moved to stand beside her. “Ma is the good in my life. She helps to balance out what Paw does and says.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “M’h’m. You told me, once upon a time. You explained all the ins and outs of your family.”

  “Huh. Wish you’d explain ’em to me, then.”

  With a very small sympathetic smile, she looked up at him. As the look, silent but full of unspoken emotion, drew on longer and longer, as if each could somehow see into the soul of the other, she suddenly gave a shiver.

  “Go away, Sam,” she whispered. “Please. Go away. I came here for privacy, for solitude, for a chance to get my thoughts together. Your being here just—it just complicates things.”

  “Miss Clark. Vickie.” Since she seemed distressed, he laid a light but friendly hand on her slender shoulder. “Can we—can we at least be friends?”

  “Friends?” At this, her countenance blurred just a bit, like a photograph skewed somewhat off-kilter. “I don’t have—”

  “It would mean so much to Jessie, if we could all get along, without more fightin’. A couple at times she’s mentioned keepin’ everybody happy.”

  Of course she had done nothing of the sort; she didn’t care two hoots what was going on between Marsdens and Clarks, whether this one or that one was at another’s throat. She had no interest in whether anyone else was happy, as long as she was. Why had he told such an untruth?

  Her eyes narrowed. “Keeping everybody happy?”

  “Well, yeah. Peace and harmony, y’ know.”

  He could almost see the hackles rising at the nape of her neck, like a cat, fur rubbed the wrong way, is getting ready to attack. “Peace and harmony? Peace? While my thief of a sister commits murder and mayhem? A lot you know about anything, you complete nincompoop!”

  Her voice dripping with contempt, she stared him up and then. And then the furious cat struck.

  Before he could get clear, she had slapped both hands upon the middle of his back.

  And pushed.

  With an astonished yell, Sam flew face down and flat into the rushing water below, arms flailing as he fought for purchase against a tidal pool of leaves and rocks and swirling currents. Finally he got himself turned over, like a turtle dislodged, and managed to sit up. Half-swimming, half-floundering, he spat out unmentionable detritus and a mouthful of dank river.

  Clearly horrified by her own incredible and inexcusable deed, Vickie stood staring down at what she had wrought in a fit of temper.

  “What—glub—what in tarnation—glub—was that for?” Sam demanded, irate. Thrashing and threshing, he managed to climb to his feet and lurch his way to the bank, where he dragged his sodden, soggy self onto shore.

  Her traitorous hands covered her traitorous mouth in shock. “I—I don’t know,” she whispered. “I truly don’t know why I shoved you in. Except that you made me so—darned—mad—!”

  “Fine thing,” Sam grumbled.

  Climbing upward through grass and assorted stones, he got to his original boulder, collapsed in a squelchy heap upon it, and began working to yank off his boots. One at a time, he turned both upside down to empty out the water.

  “My best pair,” he mourned. “Dang. Come to think of it, my only pair.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I guess you didn’t deserve that.”

  “Think not?” Standing stocking-footed, he began to unbutton the blue-checked shirt that had found such favor in his mother’s eyes.

  Vickie’s startled gaze followed every movement of his fingers. “What are you doing?”

  “Plannin’ to undress as far as I can go so’s I can dry off. You still got that towel handy?” Unabashed, he kept at it. Shirt open down the front, cuffs undone, first sleeve off, second sleeve off.

  “Uh. You. Well.”

  Embarrassed, she cleared her throat and turned slightly away. His cream-colored cotton underwear left nothing to the imagination: even depleted though his body had become, every muscle, every sinew, every ripple of abdomen showed plainly through the sopping fabric.

  He might as well have been wearing nothing at all.

  Deep color stained Vickie’s complexion, from collarbones to roots of hair.

  Sam stripped off the shirt and spread it out over the boulder in some vain hope that the sun’s heat might give him rescue by absorbing some of the moisture. Then, suddenly, because she was paying no attention, he made his move.