A Healing Love for the Broken Cowboy: A Historical Western Romance Book

by Cassidy Hanton

  But there were times when his grief over his lost wife was overwhelming.

  With a sigh, he went back into the house, closing the door softly behind him and set his coffee mug down on the table as he made his way back to Charley’s room. When he stepped through the door though, he found his maid Chenoa, a Native woman from the Crow Tribe, with Charley in her arms.

  She was a tall, lean woman with hair blacker than night that spilled to the middle of her back, tawny skin, and dark eyes that felt like they pierced your very soul. She was a fiercely intelligent woman, and one who did not hesitate to speak her mind. She held nothing back and he appreciated that about her.

  He’d met Chenoa by chance in town one day. She needed a job and a place to live at a time when he needed help taming the chaos that his house had fallen into in the wake of Amy’s death. And he had more than enough room to give her a place of her own. It was a win-win and she had been a Godsend as far as he was concerned.

  His baby fussed about but his cries were already giving way to a contented burbling. Harvey leaned against the doorway and watched for a moment, staring at his child and feeling the love he carried for Charley flowing through him.

  “You’re really good with him,” he said.

  She turned and faced him, giving Harvey a gentle smile as she bounced the baby.

  “He is a good boy,” she replied, her tone surprisingly deep for such a feminine woman.

  “I can take him −”

  “I have him,” she said. “It’s what you pay me for.”

  “You do a lot of things around here,” he replied. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help out.”

  “You’re right. I do a lot of things around here,” she said. “You should give me a raise.”

  She laughed softly and placed a gentle kiss on the top of Charley’s head. She often joked about getting a raise and he had offered on more than one occasion, only to be turned down every time.

  Chenoa said she was a woman of simple means and between what he paid her and the fact that he put a roof over her head, she did not need more. Her humbleness and lack of greed had surprised him. But he’d come to learn that she was a woman of high character and morality. She was just the sort of influence he wanted to help shape and mold Charley as he grew.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  “No, we’ll be fine.” she replied.

  Harvey gave her a smile and a nod. “Thank you Chenoa,” he said. “If you need me −”

  “I won’t. But I know where to find you if I do.”

  They shared a laugh as Harvey turned and walked back out to the front porch, picking up his coffee on the way. He watched the sky grow lighter, the soft but vibrant colors of the early dawn giving way to the golden light of day, relishing those last few moments of peace and silence as he sipped his coffee.

  The sound of Chenoa’s soft singing echoed to him from deeper in the house. She had an absolutely lovely voice − the voice of an angel, Amy would have called it − and it always seemed to soothe Charley.

  Along with singing well, being able to soothe his son was not a talent Harvey possessed. He didn’t know what it was but he could never get his son to calm down the way Chenoa could. Charley never stopped moving and squirmed in his arms relentlessly, acting as if he wanted nothing more than to be away from him.

  Harvey didn’t know why Charley was so uncomfortable around him − or why he was so uncomfortable around his son. But it made things strained and awkward, and he didn’t like it.

  Chenoa said it wasn’t nearly as bad as he feared and that awkwardness was normal for a first-time father − especially a new father without a wife. She said the relationship he had with Charley would smooth out and develop with time, but also said he would probably feel inadequate forever − which did little to soothe him. Apparently, her skill at soothing and calming didn’t extend to anybody but the very young.

  For both of their sakes, Harvey hoped she was right.

  Down the hill, Harvey spotted his neighbor, Mark Logan, already hard at work. Mark had moved to the area a little more than a year ago and at first, he didn’t think Mark had what it took to make a go of it in a place like Stephill.

  To Harvey, he seemed the type who was more comfortable reading books and sipping brandy by the fire. Highly book smart and articulate, Mark seemed to be a man with a proper formal education − not somebody used to working fourteen hour days in the fields.

  But he’d been pleasantly surprised. Mark worked hard − harder than most anybody he knew. He learned everything Harvey had taught him about the horse and cattle ranching business quickly. He soaked it up like a sponge.

  Mark had socked away nearly every penny he earned and eventually bought the parcel of land that butted up against Harvey’s and splintered off to do his own thing. In such a short span of time, he’d watched Mark grow from hired field hand to full partner in his business, to something more than all of that.

  Harvey loved having Mark as a business partner and hated to see him leave. At the same time though, he was fiercely proud of how far Mark had come and how high he’d climbed. Mark had started with nothing and was now building an agricultural empire in his own right, second only to Elmer Alford in the growing town of Stephill.

  On a more personal note, in the time Mark had been living next door, he’d become Harvey’s best friend. They were closer than brothers. Mark was a good man, maybe the best Harvey had ever known, and he’d never had a better friend in his life. Mark was his reliable adviser, most trusted confidant, and had helped − was still helping − Harvey through the darkest period of his life.

  He drained the last of his coffee and set the mug on the railing that surrounded the porch before descending the four stairs that took him down to the path that led to the yard. He cut across the hard packed earth, passed his barn, and leaned against the split rail fence. Mark saw him and smiled before coming over.

  “You just now rolling out of your bunk, old man?” Mark grinned.

  They shared a laugh at their inside joke. At twenty-five, Mark was just five years Harvey’s junior. Not much, but it was enough for Mark to justify calling him an old man. Harvey didn’t mind since he himself had plenty of colorful nicknames for Mark.

  “Hey, I have a kid now,” Harvey replied.

  “How long are you gonna use that excuse?”

  “As long as I can,” Harvey fired back. “So seriously, you’re up abnormally early and are very abnormally chipper this morning. What gives?”

  “I need to get some chores in and get the men in the field working,” Mark said. “My sister is coming in on the coach today.”

  “Oh really?”

  Mark nodded. “Should be here early this afternoon.”

  “And here I thought your sister was just a figment of your imagination,” he said. “I thought anybody who’d claim to be a relation to you couldn’t possibly exist in the real world.”

  They shared a laugh but Harvey could tell Mark was genuinely excited about his sister coming in. It was part of why he’d worked himself near to death over the last year. He wanted to make sure he built a nice home for her before he brought her in. He admired Mark for wanting to care for his family the way he did.

  “I’m having the big room upstairs cleared out and freshened up for her,” Mark noted.

  “It’s a good room with a great view. I’m sure she’ll love it,” Harvey told him. “I’m sure she’s going to love it here in Stephill.”

  A wry laugh passed his lips. “Believe me, this is a giant step up from Grimepass.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Harvey asked.

  Mark shook his head. “I think I’ve got it covered. Appreciate the offer though.”

  “Well, if you need a hand, just let me know. I and my guys will be more than happy to chip in.”

  Mark nodded. “Appreciate it,” he said. “And make sure you’re available at some point to meet her.”

  “I’ll do that.”

 
“Good. Talk to you soon, old man.”

  Mark tipped his hat and walked off, whistling a tune to himself. He knew how much he missed his sister and he was happy that he was finally in a position to bring her in. He liked seeing his friend happy. It looked good on him.

  Harvey turned and walked back up the path to his house with a sigh, knowing he had a full day ahead of him. He had to move the cattle to the adjacent field and gather together the gear he needed for today’s training sessions − he had half a dozen new horses he’d been hired to start breaking. After that, he needed to help some of his guys in the fields − there was plowing and seeding that needed to be done.

  He felt like having another cup of coffee before he got started on his endless list of chores for the day.

  Chapter Six

  The train rolled along, and with every mile down the tracks, Isabelle grew more excited. She’d never been out of Grimepass before so to be rolling along, leaving the desolation of her hometown behind and heading for a new life in a vibrant, growing town filled her with a sense of wonder and joy she’d never experienced before.

  The land rushed by outside, the dirty, dusty landscape of Montana giving way to the lush greenery of Wyoming. High, craggy peaks stood out against the azure sky in the distance, herds of wild horses and buffalo ran and grazed in the open fields, thick, fluffy white clouds drifted listlessly along on the high breezes.

  There was a charm, a wild and untamed beauty in the land around her that filled her soul with a lightness she recognized as true happiness. It was the first time she’d felt it since her parents had passed.

  As she watched her old world fall further behind and the train plunged her deeper into the new, Isabelle felt like she imagined a butterfly must feel as it wriggled free of its cocoon − sloughing off her old life and stepping into a beautiful, new, grand one.

  It would be a metamorphosis for her. Isabelle looked down to the bag that sat between her feet. Saw the handle of her old hickory stick that Mr. Turley had insisted she keep for her protection, protruding out of the main compartment and smiled.

  No more need for this. No more having to fend off the grabby, handsy men on the street, thank God.

  “Must be an awful good memory,” he said. “Good memory of a special fella?”

  She looked up and her smile immediately fell away. A tall man with thinning gray hair, sallow skin, and a thick stench of body odor dropped down into the seat across from her. Doing her best to avoid being rude, Isabelle subtly put her hand over her nose, taking short, shallow breaths through her mouth to help mitigate the smell wafting off the man. She gave him a small smile and turned her face to look out the window again.

  Please take the hint and go away. Please leave me alone.

  But he didn’t leave her alone. He sat back in his seat, openly leering at her. Isabelle knew his type well. She’d seen enough like him at the saloon. His clothes were filthy, stained with a wide array of dark spots of only God knew what. His hair was greasy, his face heavily pocked, teeth − those that remained in his mouth anyway − were colored in various shades of brown and yellow. He was rail thin and had a sickly look about him.

  He carried the attitude of somebody who thought he was entitled to something. Isabelle had dealt with his kind before. He wasn’t like the men back in Grimepass who thought they were entitled to a slap, a pinch on the backside, or her response to some crude comment. No, men like this thought they were entitled to a lot more than that. They thought they were entitled to anything they wanted simply because they were men and she was not.

  Men like him were rough, hard, and most of all, they were dangerous. She could tell he was the sort who had a wicked temper that could turn to violence and bloodshed in a heartbeat. She cut a glance around the train compartment and saw that it was only half-full and the people in the car weren’t paying attention to her or what was unfolding.

  “So was it?” he sneered. “A special guy you was just thinkin’ of that got you smilin’ like that?”

  “Y - yes,” the lie rolled smoothly out of her mouth. “In fact, he’ll be waiting for me at the station.”

  “That right?”

  Isabelle nodded eagerly, almost appalled at how easily the lie came to her lips and her willingness to push it. Almost. She’d been told that she was sometimes too virtuous for her own good. But the truth was, Isabelle didn’t like lying. But the lie was out there now and all she could do was hope he accepted it and moved on.

  He didn’t move on though. He seemed to settle deeper into his seat and pulled a small silver flask from his coat pocket. His eyes remained on her, filling her with a profound sense of discomfort, as he unscrewed the cap of the flask and took a long swallow.

  “So what’s this special man’s name?” he surprised her by asking.

  “M - Mark,” she replied. “His name is Mark.”

  “That right?”

  Isabelle nodded again, her eyes frantically searching for somebody willing to step forward and help her. The man flashed her a dangerous smirk then took a long pull from his flask, his eyes still fixed on hers. The way he looked at her sent a wave of revulsion crawling along her skin. It felt like hundreds, if not thousands, of ants marching up her arms and down her back and she shuddered. And all she wanted to do in that moment was get out of there and away from the man.

  “Please,” she said. “I’m not really looking for conversation.”

  “What, you too good to talk to me or somethin’?”

  “That’s not what I said,” she replied. “Only that I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”

  “And what if I don’t wanna go nowhere?” he hissed as he leaned forward, the stench of whiskey thick on his breath. “And what if I wanna talk to you?”

  Isabelle stiffened her spine and did her best to shove her fears to the side. She met the man’s gaze and held it as firmly as she could as she glanced at the handle of the hickory stick that was comfortingly close at hand.

  “I am not required to speak with you. I don’t know you nor do I owe you anything,” Isabelle spat right back. “Now, if you’ll please leave, I have more interesting things to do − like staring out of the window.”

  The whispered threat of violence that had hung in the air between them grew to a full-throated roar as the man started digging beneath his coat − probably for a weapon of some kind. Whether it was a knife or gun, Isabelle didn’t want to wait to find out so she reached for her hickory stick.

  “Excuse me miss, is this man bothering you?”

  She looked up at the sound of another newcomer. He was tall − likely taller than the man across from her − and well built. He had dark hair and eyes, and was wearing a very well-tailored dark suit with a dark vest beneath a darker coat.

  A gold chain, no doubt attached to a fancy pocketwatch, hung upon his vest and he wore a dark felt derby atop his head. A mustache and beard, both very neatly trimmed, adorned his face but he still somehow managed to look boyish anyway.

  “This ain’t your business, friend,” the man across from Isabelle said. “Me and the lady is just havin’ a nice conversation. A nice, private conversation.”

  Isabelle looked up at the man, pleading with her eyes. The well-dressed man gave her a small smile of reassurance.

  “It doesn’t look to me as if the lady is enjoying your company −”

  “That’s too bad,” the dirty man hissed. “This ain’t your business, so move on.”

  A rueful smile crossed the man’s lips. “Technically no, it’s not my business,” he said. “But I try to make it a habit of not letting scum like you make a proper lady uncomfortable.”

  The dirty man was on his feet in the blink of an eye. But the well-dressed man was even quicker. The sudden blur of movement was so fluid and fast, it took Isabelle a moment to catch up with what happened. And when she did, her heart fell into the pit of her stomach and fear surged through her veins like fire.

  As fast as the dirty man had been, the well-dressed man had somehow
still managed to draw a pistol hidden beneath his coat. The barrel of it was pressed to the center of the dirty man’s forehead. His eyes were wide and an expression of consternation − not to mention a barely controlled dark rage − was etched into his features.

  All around them, Isabelle saw the faces of the other passengers turning to stare. She saw fear in the faces of some and a morbid, ghoulish fascination in others − some people just want to see others get shot. That’s why there’s always a crowd at a gunfight, and it was something that never failed to disgust her.

  “Now, here’s what’s going to happen,” the well-dressed man started. “You are going to go back to the car in which you belong. Judging by the smell of you, it would be near the rear of the train. With the livestock.”