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Emma's Dream
In my first novel Rebecca's Hope, I introduced a western town in the late 19th century filled with colorful characters and innovative young women. Emma's Dream is a continuation of the tale based on Rebecca's best friend. While other young women in the late nineteenth century are reading about proper housekeeping, Emma studies herd improvement and her cooking skills leave a lot to be desired.
Our story begins several months before Rebecca's wedding. Circumstances require Emma to take on the household chores which include taking care of her six-year-old twin cousins. Like a double-edged sword, help arrives in the form of Grandma Tennessee who manages a household with ease but whose colorful stories, old wives’ tales and superstitions flow like a river.
As I researched pioneer life in the late 19th century, I found that superstitions were widely practiced as immigrants migrated and cultures blended. One of my goals as I wrote was to give an accurate account of the period while exposing the inaccuracy of the quotes and beliefs in a humorous way. Hence the birth of the delightful character, Grandma Tennessee.
Emma's Dream is a story of love that's tested by distance and has the perfect combination of history, humor, and romance with an emphasis on faith, friends and good clean fun!
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Lois's Risk
Lois Weaver has been schooled to be polite, lady-like, honest, to clean, cook and sew, so that at the proper age she would marry. As an adult, she surpassed her father’s expectations with her skills and beauty only to shatter them when she opens a dress shop. She risked everything to start her own business.
Now the handsome bank owner has come calling. So why isn’t she happy? And why can’t she forget about a certain farmer with big brown eyes? Daniel Lawrence, former Texas Ranger, gained immense satisfaction when he purchased his farm and livestock. His new way of life is not only a means to make a living but adds a sense of fulfillment. The only thing lacking is a wife and family.
He is just shy of proposing when a family tragedy forces him to open his home to his grieving sister and his niece. How could he bring a new wife home to this? Lois is heartbroken because Daniel is ignoring her. Can she go against the 19th-century rules of how a woman should behave and have the courage to tell Daniel how she feels?
Combining history, humor, and romance with an emphasis on faith, friends, and good clean fun, fans of historical romance set in late 19th-century will enjoy Lois’s Risk a delightful tale of courage and reminds us how God uses adversity to strengthen us and draw us closer to Him.
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About the Author
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Kimberly Grist is married to her high school sweetheart, Nelson, who is a pastor in Griffin, Georgia. She and her husband have three adult sons, one with Down syndrome, and they have a passion for encouraging others with family members with special needs.
Kim has enjoyed writing since she was a young girl, however, began writing her first novel in 2017. Inspired by so many things life has to offer one of which includes her oldest son's diagnosis of cancer she finds it especially gratifying to write a happy ending.
"I believe you should come away refreshed and inspired after reading a book. In my personal life, I wear so many hats working inside and outside the home. I work hard, try harder and then begin again the next day. Despite my best efforts, sometimes life just stinks. Bad things happen. I need and want an outlet, an opportunity to relax and escape to a place where obstacles are met and overcome."
Combining, History, Humor, and Romance with an emphasis on Faith, Friends and Good Clean Fun, Kim's stories are written to remind us how God can use adversity to strengthen us and draw us closer to Him and give us the desires of our heart in ways we may never expect.
A LOVE FOR DELICIOUS by Cynthia Hickey
CHAPTER ONE
D elicious Williams released the handles of the handcart and glanced at the dusty faces of her five stepchildren, ranging in age from two to twelve. A two-day walk on foot had left them all disheveled and exhausted. “Y’all stay here. I’m going to look for your uncle.” She put a hand to her bodice where the deed to land in Oregon, wrapped tight in oiled paper, crackled with promise.
“We’re most likely too late,” Ezra Junior said as he reached to the back of their mule, Old Blue, and helped down his youngest siblings. “Uncle Zeke is probably across the river by now and on the trail.”
“We won’t know unless I ask.” On tiptoes, she surveyed the throng of people converged in the town and spotted the sign to a blacksmith. As good a place as any to inquire about one Ezekiel Williams.
With their father not buried a full two days yet, Delly hated leaving the young’uns behind, even for a minute, but at the age of twelve, Junior was more than capable of keeping an eye on them while she asked some questions.
“Are we going to walk all the way to Oregon?” Ten-year-old Dorcas asked. “Because, we just got to Independence, and the bottoms of my feet are almost worn through. Mabel’s about to keel over dead, not to mention her kid, and Old Blue sounds like he’s been smoking tobacco for too many years.”
“The goat and mule are fine. We’ll walk if we have to.” Delly sympathized with the child, but she’d promised their pa she’d get to Oregon. She never backed down from a promise.
Her feet hurt too, not to mention her back. The blisters on her hands from the cart handles were as big as the Ozark Mountains and not near as pretty. Well, lily white hands were for ladies, something Delly definitely was not. Orphanages weren’t known for making ladies out of the children housed there. “I’ll return shortly.”
She hefted her skirts and dashed into the melee of Main Street. Please, Lord, keep an eye on my babies. So intent was she on her prayer for safety, she didn’t spot the massive horse until almost too late. When it reared, flailing massive hooves, Delly shrieked and jumped back. Her foot caught on the sidewalk, sending her spiraling backward and landing with a splash in a horse trough. Murky water closed over her head, before she came up sputtering.
A large hand engulfed hers and pulled her to her feet. “Are you all right, Ma’am? The road’s a dangerous enough place when someone’s paying attention, much less when they’re off in daydreams.”
“Daydreams!” Delly shoved her wet hair out of her face. “You should control that … that beast.”
Hazel eyes narrowed beneath the brim of a floppy hat. “You frightened Cyclone. He’s as tame as a puppy.”
“Hardly.” Delly wrung out her hair then struggled to repin the wet mass. “But I do thank you for your aid in getting me out of the trough.”
“You’re welcome.” He tipped his hat. “Exercise more caution crossing the street, Ma’am. Good afternoon.”
“Certainly, sir.” With as much of a swish as she could get out of wet cotton, she whirled and traversed down the sidewalk toward her destination. The nerve of the man! The deed! She pulled it from her bodice and unwrapped the paper. Water marks stained the edges. Delly shot a prayer of thanksgiving toward heaven, that the words on the paper were still legible.
She stepped through the open door of the blacksmith. Humidity and heat slammed into her. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Ezekiel Williams. He’s a wagon master.”
A man, bent over a fire, turned and spit a wad of tobacco, barely missing the hem of her skirt. His gaze traveled from the toes of her soaked boots to her dripping form. He raised his eyebrows. “Last train left day before yesterday. Won’t be any more this year.”
“Was it Mr. Williams’s train?” Delly kept her aching hands hidden in the folds of her faded calico.
“Can’t tell ya. Only that they’re gone. Check at the mercantile. Might know more over there.” He motioned his head to the west.
“Thank you.” She turned, glanced in t
he direction the children waited, then marched down the sidewalk and across the street. With a deep breath, she pushed open the mercantile door.
The aroma of pickles and baked bread greeted her. Dust motes danced on sunbeams radiating through a sparkling window. Rows of colorful fabric lined one wall, tools another. Behind a long counter were stacked piles of food stuffs. A plump woman leaned against the counter, elbows propped on the polished wood. She glanced up with a smile. “I’m Mrs. Avery, owner of this fine establishment. You look like you’ve come a fair piece and ended up half drowned.”
“I have.” Delly squared her shoulders. “I’m looking for wagon boss, Ezekiel Williams.”
“You just missed him. He led his train out yesterday, but came back today for some forgotten supplies.”
Delly grinned. They’d catch up with him after all.
The woman straightened. “Most likely they’re still right across the river waiting for the congestion to clear. If you hail the ferry quick, you might catch ‘em. A pretty little thing like you, the ferryman might let cut in front of the wagons.” She peered over Delly’s shoulder. “Got a wagon? Provisions? Where’s your man?”
“I have none of those.”
“Then most likely the wagon train won’t let you join. Single women aren’t exactly welcome.”
Delly rubbed her aching temples. She’d worry about that when the time came. Besides, Mr. Williams couldn’t turn away family. “I’ll take my chances, thank you.”
“Them yours?”
Hands flat against the glass, seven-year-old Ruth and four-year-old Daniel peered through the window. Delly sighed and nodded. Why couldn’t children follow orders? “Two of my five children, anyway. Is there a place I can fill our water jugs?”
“Sure. Well’s out back.” The storekeeper stuck her hand in a jar of licorice sticks and pulled out five pieces of the candy. “Treat the little ones.”
Delly smiled. “I’ve not much money to speak of.”
“No bother. My treat.” The woman cocked her head. “You plan on taking all five to Oregon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“By yourself?”
“If need be.”
“Wait here.” Mrs. Avery ducked behind a curtain.
Delly slid the candy across the counter, then opened the door. “Hand these out to your brothers and sisters. Make ‘em last, and go wait where I told you.” With her heart in her throat, she watched as they scampered back to where she’d asked them to stay, dodging horses and wagons like nimble goats.
“Here you go.” Mrs. Avery set a crate on the counter. “It ain’t much, but a gentleman ordered a few supplies and never returned. They’re bought and paid for. You might as well use them. Just a few crackers, a jar of pickles, sewing kit, some medical things, a guidebook for the trail, stuff like that.”
Delly took a step back. “I don’t cotton to charity, ma’am.”
“No such thing. I’ll just put ‘em back on the shelf. Doesn’t seem right since they were paid for a week ago. If not for yourself, take ‘em for the children.” The woman pushed the crate closer.
Delly nodded, knowing she couldn’t deny the woman meant well. The small crate likely held a week’s worth of supplies, and the sewing kit would come in handy, too. She’d worry about what to do next when the time came. With tears in her eyes, and a whispered “thank you”, she hefted the box and headed back to the cart, uncertain how she’d manage to squeeze in one more thing, and yet grateful she had something to add to their meager possessions.
“Dorcas, help me fill these jugs, then we’ll head for the river. Your uncle’s on the other side.” Delly grabbed one jug and handed the other to the girl.
“Does he know about Pa?” Dorcas’s chin quivered.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Guess she’d be the bearer of bad news along with the deed to the land. Why was it in Ezra’s care anyway? Anybody who knew her husband knew he was a carefree soul who would lose his head if it weren’t attached. And what did Ezra’s warning about a man trying to take control of the precious slip of paper actually mean? Delly glanced around the throng of people. Were she and the children in danger?
She led the way to the offered well, filled the jugs, stored them in the cart, then turned toward the river. By the time they reached the bank, exhaustion weighed her limbs. Fatigue showed in every line of the children’s faces. Across the water a sea of canvas topped wagons crowded the bank. They’d made it. The wagons hadn’t left yet.
Delly handed the ferryman some of their precious coins, then taking a deep breath against the nausea rising in her stomach, pushed the cart onto the wooden ferry. Junior tugged against a reluctant Old Blue who brayed like a bee stung his flanks. Mabel, their goat, followed suit, planting her tiny hooves against the wood. Delly sympathized with the animals. She had no desire to step on the ferry either.
The two youngest children, sitting on top of the mule, let out shrieks of alarm. Delly’s heart thudded. “Dorcas, tie Mabel and her kid to the back of the cart.”
Delly went to Junior’s aide. With quick movements against the fighting mule, she removed the smaller children from the animal’s back and situated them close to the cart. “Now, y’all sit real still and enjoy the ride. Hold on tight.” She caressed the baby’s chubby cheek, then straightened.
She grabbed the mule’s halter and inwardly cheered when he stepped onto the softly swaying ferry. “Good boy.”
With the use of a long pole, the ferry man pushed them slowly away from the bank of the Missouri river. “Hold on, folks. It’s a mite bumpy today.”
Delly turned and glued her gaze to the opposite shore rather than the churning water. There was a reason she was a mountain girl. Babbling brooks were more her style. As long as the water didn’t get deeper than her knees, she didn’t worry about losing her breakfast. She preferred anything other than the brown water swirling around their wooden raft. She tilted her chin to the sun, catching a small fishy smelling breeze as it swept over the river.
A man yelled from behind them. Delly glanced back to see a tall man in city clothes slap his hat against his thigh. A few minutes earlier, and he’d have shared their ride.
Something about the way his gaze seemed glued to her sent shivers down her spine despite the heat of the day, and she gave thanks he’d missed the ferry. He waved his fist and shouted something she couldn’t decipher. Delly shrugged and grasped the taut rope beside her hand.
Halfway across the river, the ferry bucked against a floating log. Sarah screeched. Blue tossed back his head, ripping the reins from Junior’s hand. The boy flailed and fell backward into the rushing water, disappearing into its depths.
Delly turned to the ferryman. “Stop!”
With her heart threatening to burst free from her ribcage, Delly studied the water. Junior’s head broke the surface, his mouth open in a silent scream; unlike his siblings who screeched like a flock of crows. He waved his arms and sunk again, appearing a few yards farther down river.
The ferryman stepped to the edge of the raft, causing it to tilt dangerously. The children’s wails increased. The man stretched his pole as far as possible. With his free hand, he gripped the rope circling the ferry. Another lurch, and his feet slipped on the wet wood.
Delly reached forward and grabbed the back of his shirt. “Please. We need to go back. Maybe he’ll wash ashore down river.”
“No stopping now, miss. Must be rain in the mountains. River’s rising as we speak.” The man pulled his pole back and leaned heavily on it. “I’ll be lucky to make it back myself.”
“Please. Oh, God, help him.” Delly bent, reached between her legs and pulled her skirt forward, tucking it into her waistband. Ignoring the wide-eyed stare of the ferryman, she turned to the children. She couldn’t lose Junior. The children couldn’t lose Junior. Not after the death of their pa. “Dorcas, watch the babies.”
“No, Ma.” She clutched Delly’s arm. “You can’t leave us.”
Delly peered into her d
aughter’s face. The child was right. Without Delly, they’d have no one. But Junior. Delly squelched her fear and leaned over the rope, searching the water for another sign, while the babies continued to scream.
“Look, Miss. That feller’s gonna help.” The ferry man pointed to the bank they approached. “God bless his soul. He needs to be part fish to dive into this river.”
A light-haired man tugged off his boots, tossed his hat on the ground, and dove into the rushing water. He reappeared after several seconds and swam with mighty strokes to where Junior’s head broke the surface.
Delly swallowed against the sobs rising in her throat. She kept her gaze glued to the two bobbing heads in the river and prayed while untucking the skirt of her dress.
~
Zeke spat out the dirty water and shook his head, flinging his long hair out of his face. The boy, about twenty feet down river, continued to bob up and down like a cork. Thank the good Lord, the boy could swim. Zeke increased his efforts and fought to close the distance between them.
“Help, Uncle Zeke!”
Zeke squinted. Junior? He glanced back at the ferry. Where’s Ezra? “Hold on, Junior.” He put his head down and fought harder. When he got close enough, he grabbed the collar of Junior’s shirt and pulled until the boy was close enough to hang onto Zeke’s back.
His muscles screamed in protest as he fought to gain access to the bank. With the added weight of his nephew, he went under several times, gulping in more of the mud-filled river. By the time he got close to shore, several men reached out long sticks for him to grab onto. He gripped a branch, only to have his hand slide free. A long splinter buried itself in his palm. Another man threw a rope to him and Junior. Zeke grabbed hold and the man reeled them in like a big mouthed bass. Exactly what Zeke felt like, gasping for air the way he was.
Maggie's Strength Page 8
