by Jillian Hart
“This ain’t ’Frisco, Marshal. In these parts, what ya can’t heal, ya cut off ’fore it kills you.”
“Not today,” he said, his gun still trained on the older man. “I’m going to send a wire to my cousin.You touch that saw before I get back and I swear I’ll put a bullet through your bald head.”
The doc took a step back and raised his hands.
Through the heavy darkness of her mind, Constance Pauley tried to make out the gruff voices talking around her. Pain throbbed through her legs, distracting from the sting in her fingers. Men continued to talk around her.
Where am I? Visions swirled in her mind, frightening faces, cold laughter, the sound of gunfire as flames lashed, biting at her flesh.
The fire!
Her eyes flew open, widening as a dizzying blur of faces wavered before her. She lunged up, but a sturdy hand on her shoulder prevented her attempt to sit.
“Easy now, Connie. Try to lie still.”
Her gaze snapped up to the flushed, round face of Doc Mason.
Light reflecting off his spectacles increased the kaleidoscope effect of her vision.
“My legs hurt,” she whispered. Her voice didn’t sound at all like her own. “My head feels…strange.”
“It’s the laudanum. Lie still, now. You’ve suffered serious burns. We’ve found a doctor who can help you. Nurse Winslow will accompany you and continue to administer the laudanum.”
A pinch-faced woman appeared before her with a brown bottle and a spoon. Doc Mason continued to talk as the woman shoved the spoon into her mouth, banging her teeth. Constance winced as the liquid clawed its way down her tender throat.
“When you arrive in California—”
“California?” she croaked. She sat up in a rush, looking wildly at the faces around her. She couldn’t be shipped away, not again. She’d finally found a job, a life of her own. “I didn’t start the fire!”
“You’re not in trouble, child.” Doc Mason smiled warmly. He eased her down and tucked the blanket over her shoulders. “We found a doctor who can treat your burns.”
Burns? She knocked the blanket back again and stared in horror at her bandaged hands. She’d been burned. How could she find work?
“We’re ready, Doc,” another voice shouted.
Ready? Ready for what?
“Very good,” Doc Mason called back. “Everyone grab ahold.”
Constance screamed as she was hoisted up, realizing only then that she was lying on a stretcher.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Doc Mason said, staying beside her as the men carried her outside. Sunlight blinded her. A whistle pierced the air.
They were at the train station. They were putting her on a train!
“No,” she pleaded, the weeks she’d spent on an orphan train still fresh in her mind.
“They’ll take good care of you in San Francisco. Don’t be frightened, Connie.”
Don’t be frightened? She’d finally found her own life and they were sending her away! She knew what the train brought…more strangers, new hardships, another place to feel unwanted.
Darkness swirled around her, easing her fright, drawing her away from the noise, commotion and chaos.
Please, let this be a bad dream.
Hours later, pain pulsed through her shins with each beat of her heart. The train trundled along, rattling her head against her makeshift bed. The standard car offered no sleeping compartments. A board had been placed between two bench seats, the hard surface unforgiving, emphasizing every grain of sand on the track. Curls continually bobbled across her face, adding irritation to torture.
“Are we in California yet?”
“Barely a quarter of the way.” Nurse Winslow, sitting on a bench in front of her, peered over her shoulder. “Don’t bother asking for more medicine. You need to wait at least another hour, and I won’t be swayed by your impertinence.”
Since when was openly praying for mercy and deliverance considered impertinent? Her teeth rattled and the back of her head felt as though it was being repeatedly struck.
“Damnation, but the wheels of this train must be square.”
“Mind your tongue,” snipped Nurse Winslow.
She couldn’t think beyond the pain Nurse Winslow refused to dull. She lifted narrowed eyes, meeting the woman’s stern gaze. “I’m cold.”
“Doc said burns like yours are inclined to give shivers and you already have two blankets.”
Perspiration dripped from her temples, yet still she shivered.
Never had she hurt so. “Dear God,” she whispered, “please help me.” Anything to ease this pain.
Brakes squealed as the train jerked forward. Thank you, Lord.
The rattling in her head would stop, if only temporarily.
When the train finally stilled, Constance let out a long sigh of utter relief.
“Twenty-minute stop,” a porter called from out on the platform.
“Sweet mercy,” exclaimed Nurse Winslow, in the brightest voice Constance had heard out of the stingy old bag. She stood and scuttled out of view.
“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” she muttered to herself.
A soft rumble of laughter suggested her whispered words had been overheard. A lash of fear tensed her aching body. She hadn’t been aware of anyone else in the car. Of course, she couldn’t hear anything over the rattling of her skull.
“Nurse Joy could use schooling on that term,” agreed a sonorous voice.
His voice. The man who’d rescued her, saving her from the fire.
Fear squeezed her chest as she listened to his approaching footsteps. The fire hadn’t burned away the memory of being pinned to the bed, a rope burning across her wrists as those horrible men told her all the vile things they intended to do. Had gunfire not erupted, she held no doubt they’d have followed through with their threats.
Warm blue eyes came into view; indigo eyes, which happened to be set in a quite handsome face.
“Good afternoon.” His lips eased into a slight smile.
“Not really,” she replied in her scratchy voice.
His eyes widened. “Those yahoos didn’t even put a blanket under you?”
She gasped as his large hands moved to the sides of her head.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said in his smooth, hypnotic tone.
“I’m putting my coat under your head.”
Relief eased her tension as he lifted her head from the hard wood then gently eased her upon a soft cushion. She turned to peer at the fluffy lamb’s-wool lining of his heavy coat.
“It may not be too clean, but it’s soft. I hope you won’t be offended by unpleasant odors.”
It did smell—like a cowboy. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the masculine scent. Sunshine, tobacco and horses.
A tender touch trailed across her forehead, forcing her eyes open. He brushed her unruly curls away from her face, his smile compassionate as he sat next to her feet on the small portion of bench not covered by the board.
He looks like a cowboy, she thought as she stared up at his tanned face. Dark stubble shadowed his sharp jawline. Straight brown hair, tucked behind his ears, rested against the ivory cotton covering his broad shoulders.
“You saved me from the fire.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.”
“I’m grateful.”
“If there’s anything else I can do to ease your discomfort, say the word.”
Knowing she shouldn’t, unable to resist the chance to dull the sharp pain ravaging her body, she said, “If there’s a black bag—”
“Have it,” he said, reaching over the bench and lifting the medical bag. He pulled out the brown bottle. “A spoonful?”
“Posh on the spoon. Pull out the cork and pour it into my mouth.”
He smiled and warmth spread through her like a soothing balm, easing the throbbing ache of her burns. Glory be. She’d never seen such a handsome face. Such nice teeth, she thought, certain she’d never seen
such straight, white teeth. He pulled the cork out, his long arm easily reaching her as he set the glass rim against her lips.
“Just a sip,” he said as he tilted the bottle. “I don’t want to overdose you on the stuff.”
Anxious for the relief of sleep, she swallowed deeply. As he drew the bottle away, she sought the warmth of his gaze, the comfort in his smile.
“Are all cowboys angels in disguise?” she whispered.
“Believe me, I’m no angel.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Not usually. I have a soft spot for pretty girls with honey-colored eyes and dark curls.”
His tender tone and gentle gaze caressed her senses, dissolving her fear and pain for the longest, sweetest moments.
“Rest,” he said at last. “I’ll watch over you.” His fingers brushed across her forehead and her eyes drifted shut. “Keep your spirit bright. You’re going to be just fine.”
She wanted to thank him for easing her pain, to ask his name, but found she could no more lift her eyelids than she could force her lips to form a single word. As a peaceful darkness settled over her, she thought of her cowboy sitting nearby, his velvety voice and tender touch…
Chapter Two
California, 1885
For two years he’d dwelled in her thoughts and her dreams: the man who’d come to her rescue, a cowboy with warm indigo eyes and a gentle smile. Had it not been for the coat he’d left behind, Constance would have thought him to be a laudanum-induced dream.
Again, she lifted her hand toward the window, angling her wrist until a stream of sunlight transformed the clear stone into a splintering array of brightness—her own personal star. Such treasures she’d found hidden in the pockets of her cowboy’s coat. She often wondered what type of woman would inspire a man to buy such a precious and expensive ring. She must be beautiful, this bride of her cowboy.
Beyond the window an expanse of green and gold rolled by as the train rattled along the tracks. Grass-covered hills rippled toward the tall peaks of the Sierra Mountains. Constance sucked in another deep breath, trying to quell the excitement building inside her.
Soon she’d begin her new life as the schoolteacher of Pine Ridge.
Finally, she’d been given a chance to start fresh with a new life in a new town where no one knew of her past or her burns.
A couple shuffled past in the narrow aisle. She smiled at their perplexed expressions. She didn’t care if she looked odd. She liked the feel of the oversize work coat. The weight of the heavy leather and sheep’s wool felt like a warm embrace reaching from her chin to her knees. Dipping her hand into the breast pocket, she pulled out the silver cigar case. She ran her fingers across the letters engraved on top. K.D.
The initials of my cowboy. She pressed the small button on the end, letting the rectangular lid pop up. Smiling at the thin brown rolls, she inhaled the calming scent of stale tobacco. His warm smile flashed in her mind. He was her last memory before waking in San Francisco with Dr. Norwood’s narrow face leaning over her. Her cowboy had departed sometime before, or so Nurse Winslow had stated as she ranted about the beastly treatment she received by the ruffian who had muscled her out of the way as he sat beside her patient, administering laudanum whenever she roused.
He had protected her while she slept, keeping the pain at bay.
The very thought always moved Constance to tears. Her cowboy’s forgotten jacket had been her only source of comfort and courage during those long, painful months of treatment.
Doctors had scraped, poked and prodded at her burns until she thought the painful torture would never end. After several agonizing months she had been dumped off at the nearest mission where the nuns had tended the rest of her recovery, a debt she had repaid by working in their school.
A whistle sounded as the train rocked forward. Clusters of buildings came into view. By this evening she’d be in the mountain town of Pine Ridge.
Passengers gathered belongings as Constance slipped the cigar case back into the leather pocket. She shrugged off her coat and safely tucked the ring into the deep pocket of her skirt. She opened the carpetbag on the seat beside her to retrieve her white gloves and quickly pulled them on, covering patches of shiny pink skin. While the others bustled past she made her way down the center aisle. She brushed the heavy wrinkles from her faded floral skirt. A hideous pattern of brown and orange flowers, the dress was the nicest of the three Sister Agnes had given her. By the end of the month she would be able to buy clothes of her own.
No longer the clumsy orphan, she was a schoolteacher.
The platform had nearly cleared by the time she emerged from the car. She hadn’t been told who would be greeting her to take her up to Pine Ridge. She’d only been told to arrive on the morning train. Nearing the station house, a young lady in a lavender dress caught her attention. Tall and slender and strikingly pretty, she drew many gazes. Constance couldn’t help but notice the fine cut of her dress. Her bonnet of lavender and white matched the fancy outfit perfectly. Tiny golden ringlets lined her naturally rosy cheeks. Her blue eyes searched the departing passengers. Catching her gaze, a smile brightened the young lady’s face.
“Miss Pauley?”
Oh, dear. “Yes.”
“I’m Stella Darby,” she said, rushing forward. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’m to be your assistant at the school.”
Her assistant? “How wonderful.”
“Kyle intended to be here, but he’s been detained in the stockyards. He said to give his apologies.”
“Kyle Darby,” she said, realizing this must be his pretty young wife. “I didn’t realize he’d be meeting me here in the valley.”
“We’ve actually been here for a few days. Your arrival coincided with my family’s spring drive. They had trouble in the stockyard this morning, but he’ll be along shortly. Should we get one of the porters to unload your luggage?”
Heat crept into her cheeks as she glanced at her carpetbag.
“This is all I have.”
“Oh.” To Stella Darby’s credit a smile quickly replaced her surprise. “Of course. Can I carry your belongings?”
Constance tightened her hold on her coat. “No. Thank you. I don’t mind carrying them.”
“Then we’d best get you to the wagon. We have a long ride ahead of us, which will give me time to tell you about the school.”
Following her pleasant hostess through the station house, she felt tattered and underdressed. Nothing new there, she’d never been otherwise.
Confident and capable, she reminded herself. This was her fresh start.
“The community has been anxious for your arrival,” Stella said as they reached the boardwalk outside. “So far we have eighteen students, many who’ve never had the opportunity to attend a school.”
“The schoolhouse is new?”
“Yes, ma’am. Pine Ridge is newly founded, not quite two years ago. Kyle has been overseeing much of the construction.
My mother and I spent weeks organizing the classroom, but you’re welcome to change anything you like.”
A brand-new school all her own. What a wonderful surprise.
As they followed a line of fencing to the next boardwalk, hoots and hollers of male voices grew louder. Dust clouded the air above a maze of fencing. Men on horseback were scattered throughout the large stockyard. Others straddled fences around the many holding pens.
Something clanked against her boot. Constance glanced down at her cigar case lying in the dirt. She set her carpetbag down and quickly picked up the silver box. She brushed off the dust before tucking it into her skirt pocket.
“Runaways!” someone shouted—just as the ground beneath her feet began to tremble. “Clear the road!” A rush of profanities followed the coarse shout.
Standing in the center of the heavily rutted road, her gaze locked on a steer barreling down on her. A herd of the giant horned beasts charged in a cloud of dust and thunder. Frozen by fear, she faintly heard Stella call her na
me. Someone grabbed her from behind and hoisted her up. Her back slammed against a hard surface, knocking her breath from her lungs. She glimpsed a blue shirt before he pressed against her with crushing force, shielding her.
Shouts and rumbling moved past and she tried to catch her breath. She opened her eyes and was partially blinded by her fallen hair. A man held her imprisoned between his hard body and the fence. Her feet dangled aimlessly above the ground. She instantly struggled against his hold on her waist.
“Sir,” she called in a weak breath, and batted at the loose curls dangling in her face.
He set her onto her feet, easing back enough for her to see a firm wall of brown leather and blue cotton, but he didn’t release her. He held her pinned to the fence, trapped.
“Let me go!” she shouted, shoving at his chest.
“Connie?” whispered the rich voice from her dreams.
Constance peered up through her tangled hair. Wide indigo eyes stared down at her. She wondered if she’d actually been trampled and knocked unconscious. “It’s you. My cowboy. ”
His gaping expression eased into a slanted grin.
“I mean, no, ” she shouted, realizing what she had said to a man of true flesh and bone, and muscle. “Not mine, ” she corrected. “The— A. A cowboy. ”
His smile widened and a blush sizzled into her cheeks.
“My name is Kyle.”
It hadn’t been the laudanum. He was truly handsome. His height and powerful shoulders completely shadowed her from the mid-morning sun.
“Kyle Darby,” he said, pulling off his brown hat to shove his hand through fallen strands of straight dark hair before tugging the hat back on. “That was a close shave. Are you okay?”
Kyle Darby? The name she had been reading and rereading on her acceptance letter for the past month was the name of her cowboy?
The initials on the cigar case, K.D.…Kyle Darby. Her new employer?
“Connie?” His brow creased in concern. “Are you hurt?”
“You are Kyle Darby?”
“My whole life,” he said with a wink and a nod, and there it was: the easy charm that had captivated her on the train.
