Clean Inspirational Romance: Escape to Paradise (Inspirational Happy Sweet First Love Second Chance Romance) (Contemporary New Adult Love Inspired Holiday Short Stories) (35 page)

He takes my hand in his and kisses it once again. Hastily, I insist that my father will be expecting me at home. He offers to walk me back, but I promise that I will be safe alone.

As soon as the Johnson’s farm is out of sight, I pull the letter from my breast pocket. As I look it over once more, I try to think what is best to do.

I know that if I show the letter to my father, he will insist that I forged it out of loyalty to Gideon. If I show it to Gideon, I will have to admit that I broke my promise to him. That is not something I am prepared to do quite yet.

I know Gideon is a man of honor. He will not take a broken promise lightly. Not even from me.

There is only one other option, one more place I can turn. Stuffing the letter back into the folds of my dress, I square my shoulders and head into town.

*****

“This certainly changes things, Miss Porter,” Mr. Baker says, lowering his spectacles and looking at the letter in front of him. He is just slightly younger than my father. His dark hair has silver streaks and his face has the bare beginnings of wrinkles. “May I ask, how it was that you came upon this?”

“Isn’t it enough that I did?” I ask, not quite prepared to reveal the truth of my deception. Even to my father’s lawyer. He looks at me skeptically over his glasses.

“I did not fabricate it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell him defensively.

“No need to put in a defense, Miss Porter,” he says, lifting his hands to still me with an amused smile on his lips. “Besides, even if you had taken it upon yourself to forge such a letter, we would not have gotten far with it. That is one of the first things to be checked in court.”

He picks the letter up from the desk and gazes at it more intently now. As though he is trying to see through it. Even though he has told me that he believes I did not forge the letter, I know he has to be thorough.

“From what I can see here,” he says, “it appears to be genuine. I have seen enough of Ben Johnson’s signature over the years to be reasonably sure of his writing.”

“So, you can prove it was him?” I ask with earnest, sitting forward in my seat.

“Possibly,” he says. “I will need to speak to the Elison’s lawyer. He will be in town from Kansas City for the hearing tomorrow. And I will need to consult with the Johnsons.”

“That doesn’t matter,” I answer. “If you can tell my father about the letter I know he will drop the suit. All you have to do is tell him before the hearing in two days.”

Mr. Baker sits back and looks at me once again.

“Frankly, Miss Porter,” he begins, “I am a little unsure as to why you did not bring this information to your father directly.”

I look down at that. I came to Mr. Baker, in part, because I knew that he would be discreet. He always has been before. He doesn’t usually ask questions and even now, I know that he would not give me away to my father if I asked him not to.

Still, admitting my betrayal is more than a bit difficult. I decide on a compromise.

“I would appreciate it if it could come from you, Mr. Baker,” I say. “I hope we can leave it at that.”

“Is it safe to assume, then, that you will not tell me how you came across this letter?” He asks.

I look away once more and purse my lips. I hear him heave a sigh and I turn back to him just in time to see him wipe a hand across his face.

“Well, it’s not truly important where the evidence came from or who delivered it,” he says. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Then you will bring this to the attention of my father?” I ask anxiously.

“I will call on your farm as soon as I can get the message authenticated,” he answers. “It may take as long as two days.”

“That is still time to drop the suit,” I tell him. “That is what is important.”

With a smile, I stand up from the chair and thank him before heading out the door and up the hill to the farm.

As I do, my elation drops quickly into restlessness. I realize, suddenly, that I have done all I can. There is nothing to do now but wait.

*****

I spend a whole day in anxious waiting as the trial draws nearer. Pa can hardly get out of bed. He claims that it’s his old leg injury acting up again, but I know the truth. The truth is, he is terrified that we will lose the suit, and the farm along with it. He’s given up.

I’ve taken on extra duties. Along with cleaning and cooking, I am also hunting eggs in the hen house. Helping with horse and chicken feed. By the time I move from the hen house into the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner, I am nearly dead on my feet. I know Tom and Jacob must feel the same way.

I can’t help but think that if Mr. Baker does not arrive with good news for us soon, we will not be able to hold out much longer. As I set the oven, I turn to the window, as I have a million times that day, hoping to see figures on the horizon coming towards the farm.

My heart stops in my chest when this time, for the first time today, I see not one figure but five marching towards our door. Putting out the heat on the oven and abandoning my cooking tools, I rush to the front door and pull it open.

Standing on the porch, I can make out the figures who are approaching. Mr. Baker leads the group. He is followed by Ben Johnson, Mr. Johnson, Ben’s father, Gideon and a man, who I assume, must be the Johnson’s lawyer.

As they reach the porch, I slowly descend the steps. I know that if I am to keep up my innocent charade, I must behave as though I am surprised to see them.

After all the waiting, I am not certain this is something I can do effectively. Luckily Mr. Baker speaks before I can address them.

“Miss Porter,” he says gallantly. “We apologize for arriving here unannounced, however, we have a rather pressing matter to discuss with your father. And, I was told he was too ill to leave the farm.”

“Yes, of course,” I answer, trying not to sound too breathless. “Come inside, Gentlemen. I’ll fetch my father for you.”

Mr. Baker smiles and with a nod of thanks, enters our drawing room. He is followed by Ben and Mr. Johnson. Gideon enters last, and before moving past me, takes my arm and pulls me aside.

Remembering the charade I am still engaged in, I try my best to put on an act.

“Gideon, what’s going on?” I ask, trying my best to sound perplexed. It only takes one look to show me that he is not at all fooled.

“I think you know more about what’s happening here than I do,” he says. I feel heat race up my cheeks. If he didn’t know before, then the sudden color in my face has now told him the entire story.

“Emily, what have you done?” he whispers intensely.

“It was the only way to fix this,” I answer fiercely. “Please, Gideon. You have to trust me.”

He heaves a sigh and looks at me again. His expression sits somewhere between exasperation and adoration.

“You do trust me, don’t you?” I ask him one more time, praying that he will heed my advice and not give me away.

Finally, he smiles and my heart breathes a sigh of relief.

“I trust you with my life,” he says. He takes my hand and squeezes it tenderly before smiling at me once more and following the other men into the drawing room.

I fetch my father and bring him out to sit on his chair. He is limping more than slightly, but more concerning is the ashen color of his face and the sadness in his eyes.

I pray that the news Mr. Baker will give us will bring life into him once more.

“Mr. Porter,” Mr. Baker begins. “I needed to speak to you about some new evidence which has come to light in your case. It is evidence which also concerns Mr. Johnson, and of course, the Elison’s.”

Baker tells the story of the letter and even reads it aloud. To my relief, he insists that the letter simply appeared on his front step two days ago. Clearly the source wished to remain anonymous.

As he says this, I pray that I am the only one who notices his sideways glance at me.

“This is ridiculous!” Ben cries. “It’s obviously a forgery. Tell him Father!”

Ben’s high-pitched voice makes him sound like a whining five-year-old asking his father to defeat his bullies for him. As usual, Mr. Johnson, sporting small, gray eyes and a clipped, silver goatee rushes to his son’s defense.

“That’s very possible, Mr. Baker,” Mr. Johnson says. “There are plenty of people in this county who would love to discredit us.”

“I considered that possibility, Mr. Johnson,” Mr. Baker says. “That is why I had your lawyer analyze it against a copy of your son’s handwriting. He claims it to be an exact match.”

“Swift told you that?” Mr. Johnson asks, now looking intently at Mr. Baker.

“I spoke to him myself,” Mr. Baker says. “He could find no evidence of a forgery.”

“Well, then he’s clearly losing his grip,” Ben insists. “I’ve been telling father that we needed a new lawyer for years.”

“And I keep telling you,” Mr. Johnson says fiercely, turning on his son, “Swift has never steered us wrong before.”

Ben stares at his father sullenly for one moment before opening his mouth to speak again. Before another argument leaves his mouth, however, another voice comes to life.

“You are certain the letter is authentic?” My father’s voice croaks from beside me. I turn to look at him as does everyone else in the room.

“As certain as we possibly can be,” Mr. Baker answers.

“Then,” Pa begins slowly, “it appears I owe you an apology, Mr. Elison. Pass my sincerest apologies on to your father as well. Of course, we will drop the suit against you.”

“I’ll be sure to tell my Pa, sir,” Gideon says, “I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

“And Mr. Porter,” Mr. Johnson says, standing, “I hope you will accept my apology to you for my son’s behavior. I also hope you will accept compensation for your damaged property. Whatever amount you think fair.”

Mr. Johnson holds out his hand to Pa. Pa, with great difficulty, stands and shakes the hand held out to him.

“I will speak to Mr. Swift about compensation as soon as possible,” Mr. Baker says.

With his business with us concluded, Mr. Baker bids us good day. Mr. Johnson follows after him and insists that Ben accompany him back to their farm. Before leaving, Ben turns to give Gideon one last glare before his father harshly calls him on.

“I suppose I should take my leave as well sir,” Gideon says to father, standing awkwardly at the door.

“There’s no need for that,” Father says, with a small smile, “in fact, why don’t you and Emily take a turn around the orchard while the sun is still up?”

I feel elated at the prospect. So elated that I don’t quite dare to believe it.

“Pa, I’ve still got supper to make,” I begin.

“I can see that you were planning on soup,” Pa says, “I think I can handle that on my own. Besides, a young engaged couple are entitled to some time on their own.”

I don’t believe it’s possible for my grin to grow wider as Gideon takes my hand and leads me out towards the orchard.

We walk in silence for several minutes. The wide grin has still not left my face. I am uncertain if it ever will. When we stop by our orange tree just as the sun begins to set, I am more than glad that I see that same wide grin on Gideon’s face as well.

“You will never do as you’re told will you?” He asks me, with an amused chuckle.

“Well,” I answer, “where would we be if I had?”

“You have me there,” he admits, taking both my hands in his. “Thank you, Emily. For everything.”

I look into his eyes and I am just as lost as I was the first time he smiled at me.

“You think too highly of me as usual,” I tell him. “I have to admit my actions were completely selfish.”

“How so?” he asks, the amused smile still on his face.

“I simply couldn’t bear the thought of having to spend the rest of my life without you,” I answer honestly.

He lifts his hand and touches my face. I lean into the caress.

“I promise,” he says, “that you will never have to worry about that again.”

And, as his lips meet mine, there, under our orange tree, I am certain he is right. I will spend the rest of my life as Mrs. Gideon Elison. And nothing on earth would make me happier.

THE END

Bonus Story 10 of 10

The town was never quite sleepy or silent, even in the dead of night. Jackrabbits and coyotes came out to tussle in the blue moonlight and tumbleweed traveled on in the dusty swirl of the desert. Occasionally, a drunk cowboy stumbled out onto the wooden deck of the saloon, blindly scrambling around to find his horse, or better yet, his footing.

As the week drew to its close, the town grew busier and louder. The nights grew longer, and the Bandit Kid saloon often found itself submerged in a throng of alcohol and leather hats. The sun had set, its only remnants on the horizon a dying ember orange, and cool night had trickled in to paint the skies cobalt blue.

Raucous laughter and grating voices could be heard beyond the swinging batwing doors as Colin Hayes approached the saloon. The crunch of gravel under his boots seemed obnoxiously loud in the early night, though his footsteps were almost drowned out by the loud music and chorus of voices. He made his way through the batwing doors of the saloon, footsteps causing a few heads to turn his way. A few of the men inside recognized him and hollered their greetings.

Colin returned them somewhat uncertainly – he was no delicate daffodil, but despite having moved in about two months ago, he was still unfamiliar with the ease with which everyone in this small town seemed to relate to each other. He suspected it had something to do with growing up in a merchant family. Or perhaps it was an English trait. It wasn’t as if he was new to America; his family had sailed over just two years ago to expand their trading business. They had remained mainly in the East, though. It hadn’t been until recently that they had thought to expand to the West, where it seemed people were arriving by the hundreds, in the hopes of striking it rich. “It’ll be good business,” his father had insisted. His mother has been less certain, so they had eventually reached a compromise. They would stay in the West for six months to see how business was. If that didn’t work out, they would head back to Europe, where they were certain of the market. As it turned out, things had been going okay for the business in the West. It certainly didn’t turn out a huge profit, but Colin figured it was mostly because of their location. So two months into their six month trial, they packed up and moved over to Copper Creek, where miners had been steadily streaming in for the past couple of months. A large vein of copper had recently been found, it seemed, in addition to some other valuable minerals. Moving to Copper Creek had been a good decision. Business grew steadily, and had recently begun to take off, much to the surprise of his mother and satisfaction of his father.

They had left the shop in his care whilst on a trip out of town for a few weeks. It was the first time Colin had felt quite so alone throughout the entire trip. His older brother had remained behind in Europe to manage the family business there, so aside from the occasional telegram or letter, he was truly and utterly alone.

But he didn’t mind. The solitude was a welcome change from the busy hustle of life in Europe as a merchant family. He’d always preferred keeping to himself, he realized, particularly after being exposed to so many grand dinners and events.

“Connections, Colin, connections,” his mother always reminded him.

But it was difficult for Colin to want to do anything that warranted an excessive amount of talking, smiling, and in general forcing polite conversations with people he knew really didn’t care for small talk. It was part of why he liked the West so much. No one here was afraid to speak exactly what they thought, and physical appearance wasn’t so much a concern as practicality was. The openness of the community – to share, to laugh, to fight, to hate – was something he was unaccustomed to, and indeed, at times it did alarm him.

But it was a good kind of experience. He quite liked it, though he allowed that he would need more time to acclimate to being that open and straightforward with his own emotions and thoughts. 

Back in the Bandit Kid saloon, Colin returned the greetings with a quick smile and word of greeting before glancing around the dingy wooden interiors, worn down over countless raucous meetings. His parents had been quite adamant that he avoid the saloon, particularly at night. Tonight was his first time entering the saloon after sunset.

“Colin!” He heard his name being called from a corner to his left and turned to see two copper miners waving him over.

“Amos, Blaze,” he said, nodding a greeting at the men. They were large with beards that rivaled the size of their personalities, and had crow’s feet around their eyes that spoke of how frequently they laughed.

“How’s business been?” said Amos, waving at Colin to sit down at their table.

“Relatively slow this week,” Colin admitted, taking a seat and clasping his hands in front of him. Blaze had his hands wrapped firmly around his beer bottle, nodding thoughtfully as Colin recounted the week’s sales and customers.

“The amount of residents that are coming in to stay have been slowing down,” Blaze grunted in agreement. “But I’ve heard there’s a wagon train coming down our way, so you should get some good business then. Seems travelers like using our town as a resting post. I know Amy says she’s been having good business with her inn up north.”

Colin nodded. “That’s good – I’ll be looking out for that then. How have you gents been? Has the mining been good?”

Blaze and Amos exchanged glances, then shrugged. “Alright, I suppose,” Amos responded.

“Not much to be celebrating over,” Blaze was quick to clarify, “but wasn’t a complete loss overall. Just far too many wannabe miners that have been squatting on our stake – pesky little varmints, they are,” he scowled.

Colin made a small noise of understanding – the mining scene was often overrun with far too many miners. And they didn’t all follow the rules when it came down to staking claims.

“Did it sort itself out?”

Amos twisted his lips before booming out a loud laugh. “I suppose it did, in a funny way of sorts. Colin leaned forward, intrigued.

“So Blaze and I,” Amos waved at his partner, “were out there mining.” He paused a bit to think. “And we were probably only, say,” he scratched his beard, “a little smidge away from our stake, washing our pots an’ pans an’ things. And boom –” Amos made a huge motion with his hands, nearly taking off Blaze’s leather hat and knocking over his own beer in the process, “soon as we turn around there are these two skinny youngsters – not much older than you, mind – that were tryin’ at our stake.”

“So we hollered at them,” Blaze picked up the story, “and got in a mite bit of a scuffle trying to chase ‘em off our claim, but of course, they wouldn’t leave. Newcomers, most likely,” he scowled. “Never know them rules for staking claims.”

“And so,” Amos cut in, seemingly even more excited to relay the next part of the story, “just as we were about ready to let them have it, the lady herself walks on by.”

Blaze made a noise of disagreement. “She ain’t a lady – toughest cowgirl I ever did see. Walks, talks, and shoots like a man, that one.”

Colin was somewhat lost. He had heard tales of a woman working closely with the sheriff – something previously unheard of, even in all his travels. Copper Creek, it seemed, was legendary for her.

“The one that everyone’s been talking about around town? Recently beat out a couple of miners at their own shooting game?”

Amos and Blaze nodded. Blaze took a swig of his beer and wiped his mouth before replying. “Moonshine Mack, that one.”

Moonshine Mack. The name was only somewhat familiar to Colin – he’d only ever heard the name whispered reverently by men on street corners, or scoffed at in disgust by ladies dressed in their Sunday best.

“Yeah. I’ve been told she’s the best sharpshooter in town?”

“For a girl,” Amos started, but Blaze cut him off.

“Even as a man,” he disagreed. “Can’t nobody shoot as well as Mack.” He paused, looking around as if to see if anyone was eavesdropping, then dropped his voice to a low, coarse whisper. “Legend has it she learned from Calamity Jane herself.”

Colin nodded, mildly impressed. But he hadn’t seen the girl himself, yet. She remained nothing more than a tale, nothing more than a story to him. “See her around often?” he queried.

“Brings me back to our story,” Amos boomed, having nearly forgotten that he was in the middle of relaying a tale. “So as we were arguing with these young, pesky fellas, in walks Moonshine Mack herself. And she warn’t no pretty, blushing daisy either – walked straight up to us –”

“Imagine that,” Blaze chuckled, interrupting Amos, “a tiny little gal like herself walking up to four grown men like us.”

“So she walked straight up to us and asked, all mannerly and the like, ‘Somethin’ wrong here, boys?’” Amos was shaking with amusement, laughter dancing in his eyes as he spoke. “And,” he wagged a finger at Colin, “I reckon those boys ain’t never seen a lady before in their lives, by the way they was reacting.”

“Droppin’ all those ma’ams and misses like hot potatoes,” Blaze laughed at the memory. “But that’s the thing about Mack, y’see – she don’t like being called a lady or missus.”

“Really?” Colin had to say he was completely intrigued now. “All this talk, and I don’t even know the girl.”

“Really?” Amos looked surprised. “Never seen her walkin’ around here? She likes the Bandit Kid. Can hold her beer like a man,” he added admiringly.

“Don’t usually come here,” Colin shrugged. “My mother and father would have a fit.”

“Hmmm, lemme see.” Blaze craned his neck, looking around at the groups of people in the cramped space. Colin twisted around to look as well.

“She’s here?”

“Usually is,” Amos commented, swirling his beer. “Likes to come out with the sheriff and her boys down at the office.”

Blaze tapped Colin with a rough jab in the shoulder. “There. Lookit there. Right near the bar.”

Colin squinted, trying to make out exactly where Blaze was pointing. His gaze landed on a distinctly small figure, garbed in flannel and jeans.

“That’s her? The one in the flannel between two men?” said Colin. Blaze grunted the affirmative. Colin kept looking at the figure. Had she not been so small, he might’ve mistaken her for a man, particularly given the way she dressed. The outfit didn’t outline any of her curves in the way dresses would, and she slouched like no other. The only real giveaway of her gender was her dark brown hair, bound in a neat braid that reached the middle of her back.

He was slightly disappointed at not being able to see her face, but then she turned slightly, to address the man on her left, and he was able to capture a brief glimpse. Her face, too, was small, though her chin was sharp and her cheekbones even sharper.

“She doesn’t look particularly menacing,” Colin commented.

“Wait till you see her,” Amos reassured him. “Dead serious face she has – could scare the pants of a grown man, I tell you.”

“I’ll be looking to that, then,” said Colin. He tucked that information into the back of his mind, nodding, though he was certain he wouldn’t be seeing her face-to-face for a while, if ever.

How wrong he was.

***

It didn’t happen on his watch. Colin Hayes was a lot of things: the son of a wealthy merchant, an adventurer, and a younger brother. But he most certainly wasn’t a murderer. He had done a lot of bad things, most notably setting insects on fire as a young boy, but never something to this degree.

The cold efficiency of the act had shocked him almost as much as finding the body. He had happened on the victim by accident while heading back towards the storage shed to restock the tin sluicing pans.

The stretch of land from the shed to the store wasn’t long, though it was quite wide. And so on his way back from the shed, tin pans stacked high in his arms, he’d noticed an odd sort of lump within a patch of scraggly grass and cacti that normally wasn’t there.

It had piqued his curiosity – and he sincerely wished it hadn’t.

The tin pans he’d been carrying all clattered to the ground when he was close enough to see what it was.

The victim was female, likely no older than her mid-twenties and lying in an ungainly heap. Her clothing was rumpled, disheveled and torn, laced with dirt and dust. But worst of all about the whole thing was the steady iron-red trickle of blood that came from the side of her head. He shivered uncomfortably, cold ice trickling down his spine in unwelcome waves.

Colin had never seen anything like it. It wasn’t as if he was a delicate daisy – he’d seen a dead man before, many years before. But a woman? Women weren’t usually victims, and in the time he’d been in Copper Creek he’d never even heard of anyone getting murdered. Sure, there had been the occasional gunfight, but those had been more for show than anything, and usually nobody got hurt past a little bleeding.

He approached the still figure, inching forward on the tips of his toes. He looked around at the vast open space around him, suddenly struck with the thought that the murderer might still be in the vicinity. He could see nothing but the dust and tumbleweed roiling around him.

“Hello? Miss? Can I help you?” He waved his hand around, hoping to elicit some sort of response, anything, from the girl. There was none. She remained as still and silent as the yawning sky and fear stabbed deeper into Colin’s chest.

Deaths were not uncommon in the Wild West. He knew that. Everyone who had ever made the decision to come out to the West had known. But to be so close to a victim was something he’d never thought to experience himself.