New Beginnings Spring 20 Book Box Set

by Hope Sinclair

  Jane smiled. She had grown more and more affectionate toward Wyatt as they spent more time together. An entire week had passed since she had first arrived in Silver City, but not one day had gone by—in fact, not one waking hour had gone by—that they hadn’t spent together, engrained in deep conversation.

  She had learned a lot about Wyatt. After returning from the Apache War, he had been forced to sell his ranch off. He had done so at auction, only to be under-bid by an anonymous rancher. Wyatt knew he was taking a great loss on the sale, but at the time he had no choice… so he had reluctantly taken the low bid. It was only after drawing up the deed to transfer the ranch that he learned the identity of the anonymous bidder. It had been his very own brother, Harold!

  Their relationship had always been tense—particularly because Harold had abandoned his duty to fight in the war and instead had gone missing for several months under the guise of searching for gold. When he came home months later with a modest fortune, he hadn’t bothered seeking out his injured brother, or trying to rectify the wrongs of the past. Instead, he had done the opposite. He had capitalized on his brother’s hardship and turned Wyatt’s loss into his own sick gain.

  Getting swindled out of the ranch at a loss to his own brother was, in Wyatt’s opinion, just the final nail in the coffin, the final detrimental blow to the already-broken binds of brotherhood.

  Wyatt had been devastated by the revelation. As far as he was concerned, that was the day that he lost his brother, the last living member of his family. That was the day he became truly alone in the world.

  Wyatt had turned the loss into motivation. He doubled down efforts to rebuild the general store his father had left behind. The funds that Harold had paid for the ranch, while certainly insulting, provided the means for Wyatt to finance the rebuild.

  It took time… a lot of time, and even more patience. But he reopened the store, and in doing so, he finally found something that he could be proud of.

  Wyatt had explained all of this to Jane in one of their many conversations. They spoke over tea, then over supper, then as they took long walks down the winding roads. Jane was apprehensive at first, but Wyatt never failed to keep pace, never so much as stumbled.

  It didn’t take long at all until she was completely oblivious to the very injury that had once stood out as so glaringly obvious. It became just a small part of who Wyatt was… just one characteristic among many that compromised the man she was falling in love with.

  Through new eyes, Jane realized that the injury wasn’t a defining characteristic. In fact, it was hardly worth noting at all, compared to the other, far more remarkable traits that took precedence: his loyalty, his sense of humor, his compassion for life—all life—his sensitivity. Those were the things that defined Wyatt the most, not his injury.

  Unfortunately, not everyone had learned how to turn a blind eye to the man’s missing leg. And this was a fact that Jane was rudely reminded of, that very afternoon.

  She and Wyatt had walked to the store together. It was her first time seeing the store, and she had eagerly offered to keep him company throughout the business day. He had been hesitant. Though Jane believed that Wyatt had come to greatly appreciate her company, it seemed that there was something holding him back… something making him reluctant to let her join him at the store.

  She ignored this sense, and when he finally accepted her invitation, she had practically brimmed with joy. He spoke so fondly of the store, and she was excited to finally see it for herself… to finally understand this piece of Wyatt’s history, and to feel his enduring connection to his late father.

  The day had gotten off to a fine start. Wyatt had showed her the store, and Jane had responded as she saw fit: with genuine awe. She was so impressed with Wyatt’s success, with the fruits of his labor. He had faced countless hardships, and he had made the best of it… had risen above it all and forged a greater existence for himself. For that alone, she admired the man.

  But when the door jangled open and a customer came in, Jane immediately noticed that the mood changed. Much like a candle that has been extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, Wyatt’s face deflated and his shoulders sunk.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Loyola,” he greeted the customer dutifully, offering a warm smile. The customer—a woman dressed haughtily in a bright green abomination of a dress—snipped her nose up and went about her business, inspecting the items available for sale in the shop.

  Jane turned to Wyatt, hoping to derive some understanding from his face, but he kept his chin angled downward so she couldn’t read his expression. She recognized his posture at once, though. It was shame, the same sulking shame that he had worn when he first recounted the truth about his past, all those days ago.

  Jane wondered what had inspired this response. The customer seemed snooty, but certainly she wasn’t worthy of such a remarkable shift in demeanor? She wondered if there was more to the story… something she didn’t understand yet, something she wasn't privy to.

  And so she watched silently.

  “Larson,” the woman snapped suddenly, her voice so shrill and sharp that even Jane’s shoulders bunched together in response. “Assist me, please.”

  Wyatt obediently crossed the store to reach the customer, his cane creaking on the wooden floorboards. Jane’s brow furrowed as she watched.

  “I’d like three satchels of sugar,” the woman said, pointing her chin to a pile of burlap sacks piled high. The sacks must weigh at least ten pounds apiece. Three satchels… why, that was the same weight as a small child! To a normal man, the weight might seem insignificant… but to Wyatt! Why, it could be enough to cost him his balance!

  Jane was horrified but equally helpless as she looked on, watching Miss Loyola plant her hands on her hips as she glared at Wyatt expectantly.

  Wyatt didn’t hesitate, though. He bent over carefully, shifting his weight onto the cane and using his free arm to hoist three bags at a time. The effort was clearly taxing on the man, and even from her vantage point across the room, Jane could see his muscles quiver with strain.

  Miss Loyola was indifferent, watching with what appeared to be the growing glow of pride on her face… pride for her own malicious bidding. Jane was disgusted, and she realized suddenly that she could be silent no longer.

  “You’re perfectly capable of carrying those yourself,” she pointed out, the pristine pitch of her own voice startling her.

  Miss Loyola spun around, causing the fabric in her dress to flutter with the sudden movement. Her face looked bee-stung in a pained wince as she studied Jane. “I beg your pardon?” she asked stupidly.

  “I said,” Jane found her voice even more firm and resolute this time, “that you’re perfectly capable of carrying those bags yourself.”

  The woman appeared every bit as stunned as she would have been had Jane reached out and slapped her straight across the face. She even recoiled dramatically, her face melted into a disgusted grimace. “Who is this?” she snapped suddenly, turning her attention to Wyatt.

  “This is my fiancée,” Wyatt said without hesitation, keeping his face firm.

  “Your fiancée?” Miss Loyola scoffed, and she turned back to Jane. “You agreed to marry this man? Didn’t you see he’s one leg short?” The woman laughed at her own remark, and Jane felt the heat of rage creep up her cheeks, filling her face with a pink flush.

  “Of course I agreed to marry him,” Jane said pointedly. “And I happen to think it’s noble that he lost his leg fighting to protect this town.”

  “Noble,” the woman looked amused, shaking her head. “You can call it anything you like. I personally find it repulsive, and that’s why I declined his marriage proposal when Mr. Larson asked me to be his bride. But I suppose I should be congratulating you… It’s nice to see that Wyatt has finally found someone with lower standards for a husband.”

  Jane was practically seething, and it took every ounce of self-control she had to remain silent. She was waiting for Wyatt to say somet
hing… to defend her, to defend himself. But he said nothing.

  Finally, it was Miss Loyola who broke the silence. “Never mind the sugar,” she said stiffly. “I’ll buy it somewhere else. I was only buying it from you as a favor, a gesture of sympathy.”

  “We don’t need your sympathy,” Jane said, glaring at the woman. At this point, she was equally annoyed with Miss Loyola’s barbs and with Mr. Larson’s silence.

  Why isn’t he saying anything? she wondered. Why isn’t he defending himself?

  Miss Loyola stormed out of the shop, leaving Wyatt and Jane to stand there alone in silence. As soon as the door fluttered shut, the heavy sacks of sugar weighing heavily on Wyatt’s arms spilled back toward the floor, and he groaned in relief as he let the burden slip from his grasp.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Jane demanded, turning to face him.

  “What was there to say?”

  “Anything!” Jane balked. “No man should tolerate being spoken to that way! And no man should allow his bride to be addressed in such a manner, either!”

  She meant it. More than anything, she wished that Wyatt had defended her, that he had stood up and silenced Miss Loyola.

  Why hadn’t he? Was it his lack of confidence? His own insecurity?

  “Was it true, what she said?” Jane asked, her tone softening slightly as she remembered the most devastating comment that Miss Loyola had made, her assertion that Mr. Larson had proposed to her.

  “What?” Mr. Larson asked.

  “That you asked her to marry you,” Jane said, annoyed that she even had to repeat the words. She knew that Mr. Larson knew what she was referring to.

  “It’s true,” Wyatt confirmed with a solemn nod. “A year ago, I did. I was desperate… lonely… and there was a time, believe it or not, when she was kind to me…”

  “Yet another omission,” Jane shook her head, hurt. “What else are you hiding from me, Wyatt? What other secrets will I uncover in time?”

  “Nothing,” Wyatt insisted earnestly. “I swear to you, nothing.”

  “I need to think,” Jane said, shaking her head. And when Wyatt failed to respond—when he failed to protest to her leaving—she realized that her mind had already been made up.

  She walked out of the store, and Wyatt didn’t even try to stop her. And in Jane’s mind, that solidified it: the courtship was over.

  EIGHT

  Silver City was a small town, and that meant it was a short walk from Wyatt Larson’s general merchandise store back to the hotel where Jane was staying. In fact, the walk was too short. After storming out of the store, it seemed to take no time at all for Jane to wind up outside the doors of the guesthouse.

  She wasn’t ready to go inside… to be trapped within the confines of her guestroom, left alone with her thoughts. She wanted to walk a while, let her mind roam free while she aimlessly explored the foreign New Mexico landscape. And so that’s exactly what she did.

  She turned away from the guesthouse and continued walking… She walked down the street and toward the edge of town, until she found a place where the road split. On one side, the road continued on, leading toward Mr. Larson’s home. On the other side, it branched into a narrow pathway—barely wide enough for a horse, never mind a cart or wagon. It was clearly a footpath, and the prospect of a walk through the dry shrubbery intrigued Jane. Her curiosity weighed heavier than any apprehension, and she took the first step toward the trail.

  It was gray and dry, and she found the sights to be uninviting as she walked deeper down the trail. Thorny, withered bushes lined the path in place of lush greenery, and instead of vibrant scenes of nature or fauna, there was merely the sight of trees that had lost their leaves for New Mexico’s version of winter.

  The sky was clear that day, but even the turquoise blue hue seemed less vibrant, as if she were viewing it through the lens of her own broken spirit. The ripple of gray mountains in the distance seemed less majestic and instead appeared somehow ominous, like a blanket of ragged smoke settling over the land, appearing to inch closer and closer to civilization.

  Altogether, it made Jane feel entirely alone and entirely isolated. She was so far from home, and yet… home was nowhere.

  The gray, dull vistas made Jane feel even more hopeless about her situation. She had no idea what she would do next. What could she do? Request a ticket for passage home to Chicago? Go back to renting a lonely room on a lonely street? Beg Mr. Bosko for her job back at the restaurant? Go back to entertaining the likes of Mr. Larrabee?

  She wondered what Emily would say… what Emily would do, should she herself face such a predicament. Would Emily have married Mr. Larson? Or would Emily have laughed at the very suggestion, having a similar reaction to Miss Loyola?

  Jane wondered if Mr. Larson would even see the difference between a woman like Miss Loyola, compared to her. Would he understand that she truly did love him? That it wasn’t his injury, nor his profession, that had dictated her decision to leave… but rather his inability to defend her? Would he understand, or would he just assume that she was like all the others… just another woman who couldn’t come to terms with his injury, with his physical imperfection?

  These thoughts dominated Jane’s mind as she walked onward, and she became so ingrained in her own thought process that she failed to notice the soft snap of twigs behind her, the crunch of a second pair of footsteps that were rapidly approaching.

  She never heard it… never expected what happened next. One moment she was entirely immersed in her own coiled, chaotic thoughts… and the next, she suddenly felt a pair of arms wrap around her from behind.

  Jane’s first response was to scream, but as soon as she spread her lips apart to cry out, she felt a heavy hand clamp over her mouth to silence her.

  She tried to resist. She squirmed, she flailed her arms, she grunted with the effort and felt tears of frustration sting her eyes. But the more she fought back, the tighter the pair of arms around her became.

  And then she felt a dull thud on the back of her head, and suddenly everything faded to black…

  NINE

  Jane’s eyes fluttered open. Her head was pounding terribly, and she felt that she might be sick. She swallowed and found her throat parched, and she opened her blurry eyes, willing them to adjust so that she might take in her surroundings.

  She was momentarily blinded by the sharp white shards of light that streamed in through the cracks in the wall, but once her eyes adjusted, she was able to distinguish the ruggedly nailed together wooden walls of a shack.

  She was in a shed or a hut of some sort, and the place was filthy. Her eyes wandered around, noticing the table laden with tools, various instruments used for managing a farm or ranch. Under innocent circumstances, she might not afford the tools a second glance, but in her predicament, Jane decided that they might be useful, that it might be necessary to arm herself with a weapon for defense.

  She spotted the rusty glint of a sickle on the table beside her, and she might have reached for it, but as soon as she made the effort to extend her arm toward it, she felt the pressure of the tight rope that bound her wrists together.

  The sudden realization that she was bound to a chair sent her head spinning. She had no means to defend herself… no way to protect herself from whatever—whomever—had put her here.

  She pinched her eyes shut, trying desperately to search her memory for clues on how she had gotten here… on the circumstances that had led to her waking up in this place. Her head was pounding with pain, originating from the soft spot on the back of her head where she had been struck. She wanted to cry, but her eyes were too dry to produce tears.

  She traced through her memory, working against the pounding of her headache, struggling to remember… a sound, a smell, a feeling, anything that would give her some sort of clue, some sort of hint at how she had gotten here.

  She was walking!

  She remembered that she was following the narrow footpath that branched off of the main road.
She was walking… she remembered now. She remembered the fat, dry tree roots that protruded from the earth, she remembered the gray smoky mountains in the distance, she remembered being so lost in thought that she hadn’t even realized that she wasn’t alone, until she felt the hands grip her from behind and cover her mouth firmly…

  Before she could think anymore—before she could stretch the bounds of her memory any further—the door to the shack creaked open. A heavy foot stomped inside, the metal spurs on its heels rattling, and then a second foot stamped into the earth.

  Jane’s eyes went wide as she watched the tall figure emerge from the shadows and stride into the room, and all at once she knew who it was.

  “You!” she gasped.

  “Surprised?” he asked, grinning menacingly.

  It was Harold Larson, she recognized him right away. The familiar face… his bone structure was almost like Wyatt’s, but without the warmth and depth. It just appeared cold and rigid, like a face carved from cold, stiff gray stone rather than warm, solid wood.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about that conversation you and I had the other day,” Harold said, breathing heavily through his mouth. “About the way you spoke to me… the things you said.”

  “Why did you take me here?” she demanded, even though she wasn’t entirely sure where “here” was… All she knew was that she was in a shed. She traced her memory, looking back at everything that Wyatt had said about his brother, and she wondered if they were on the ranch…

  “Shut up!” Harold bellowed. “I speak, you listen. Do you understand?”

  Jane swallowed heavily but willed herself to keep quiet. She didn’t want Harold to see how weak she felt… didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching her squirm in the seat.