Rescuing a Widow’s Heart (Preview)

Prologue

Billings, Montana

August 1867

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” The words washed over the mourners as torrents of rain gushed from the dreary gray sky. The preacher, standing beneath a black umbrella spoke words of comfort as his voice murmured on and on. The words were just empty sounds, meaningless to Claire Robertson. Although she supposed they were meant to offer solace.

How can anyone understand? I’m burying my husband! My world has ended too. I might as well be lying in the same grave.

The young widow stood beside the open grave, her green eyes red rimmed and swollen as she stared at the simple pine box. Such a small container to hold all her hopes, dreams and plans. Chilling droplets of rain drizzled down her neck, dripping from the umbrella she held clenched in one tight fist.

Why? Why? Why?

Her other hand clutched the long skirt of her damp black mourning dress. Claire wanted to scream, to shake her fist at the sky and demand God give her a reason. The rain had drenched her brown hair, and it hung in limp tendrils along her tear damp cheeks. A borrowed black hat, with a ridiculous coiled feather, pinched her head, but Claire did not dare take it off. Not with everyone watching her, studying her as if she might take off screaming and cause a disturbance.

Heartbroken weeping and restrained sniffles came from the large crowd gathered around the deep hole in the ground. Despite the agony in her heart, Claire found a tiny wisp of gratitude to see so many people had come to pay their last respects to Grant. No one loved him as I did, but they did respect him. He was the best deputy Billings ever had.

Grant’s mother, Mother Robertson, wailed in anguish, her loud, strident voice smothering Claire’s quieter tears.

A loud clap of thunder jolted the crowd. Women gasped as a bright flash of lightning lit up sky and the preacher hastily closed his well-worn Bible. In the distance, a dog barked, and a harness jingled. Perhaps to remind the mourners life awaited beyond this sad morning. Life went on… but Grant would not be there.

“Shall we conclude with a hymn?” The preacher spoke softly. In a misplaced irony, his tenor voice began, “Shall we gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river… that flows by the throne of God.”

Several men, in Sunday suits, lowered Grant’s mortal remains into the deep hole. The two gravediggers leaned on their shovels and eyed the muddy ground with displeasure. Already rivulets of water cascaded into the open grave, pooling at the bottom. Raindrops beat steadily on the pine lid. Beginning with Mother Robertson, everyone took a fistful of the mud and tossed it down on the casket’s lid. Claire held tight to her umbrella and skirt, she could not, would not help bury the man she’d loved above all others. Her mother-in-law gave her a mean glare as she passed the grave. The look an obvious warning that Claire was not acting in what she deemed proper behavior.

Each clod of mud balls that landed on top of Grant’s casket squeezed Claire’s heart tighter. To her mother-in-law’s obvious disgust, Claire sank to her knees in the muck and sobbed in agony. One word echoed in her brain over and over.

No!

***

Seattle, Washington

September 1867

“No!”

Heath Bradford thundered down the wooden steps outside of Axel’s Mercantile. His hand clenched a Winchester rifle, ready to point and shoot if necessary. With his heart pumping like a runaway stallion in his chest, he swallowed a lump in his throat.

Not Pa. Don’t let Pa be hurt.

Rounding the corner of the courthouse, the young deputy ran in hurried strides down the alley by the bank. The sound of gunfire beat at his ears. Each report made his breath freeze in his chest. Heath could only watch, horrified, as the scene before him unfolded… his blue eyes widened in numbed horror. The blood drained from his face and his knees quaked. A cold fist squeezed his heart.

No, no, no!

In the shadowed alley, Pa and an older man with a wild sheaf of coal black hair wrestled in a fierce standoff. The other man held one hand over a shoulder wound in his black frock coat. Blood also oozed from a gaping wound in his stomach, the white linen shirt torn in a shredded hole. His short, stocky legs rocked back and forth. The hand not on his shoulder held a deadly, sawed-off shotgun aimed point blank at the shiny silver star on Pa’s leather vest.

Heath managed only one strangled cry as the man aimed and fired.

Chapter One

Two Years Later

Billings, Montana

May 1869

I must leave here. I must!

Anyone who walked by the snug frame house and noticed the young woman rocking gently in a chair might think she was at peace. But twenty-four-year-old Claire Robertson seethed beneath the bodice of her rosebud sprigged calico. The froth of lace around her neck rose up and down with her anxious breathing. The shiny black boots rocked the chair in a fast thump thump as she tried to still her anger.

Inside the house came the sounds of her mother-in-law, Mother Robertson, as she insisted on being called. The older woman banged open a cabinet door. Clattered a bowl on the table and muttered under her breath. Each sound clenched Claire’s heart in anxiety.

Why Grant why? Why did you die and leave me here alone?

It had been almost two years since Grant’s untimely death. A senseless, unnecessary death.

In the months since Grant’s death, Claire found little time to sit and mourn her husband. Not with Grant’s mother around. This afternoon, after yet another argument with the older woman, Claire had come outside, unable to tolerate the woman’s judgmental attitude, her constant nagging. She’d made it clear that Claire was a burden. Today, Claire had offered to leave, to return to Chicago and her parent’s home. Mother Robertson did not like that idea at all. According to her, it was now Claire’s duty to stay on.

I’m sure she blames me somehow for Grant dying. But how is it my fault? He wanted to be a deputy so much and I did encourage him, when the sheriff hired him. But the choice was Grant’s. Just as it was his choice to marry me.

Another fact Mother Robertson had never liked. She made it known often enough with her bitter tongue, usually when Grant wasn’t around.

As she rocked, Claire let him mind drift back a few years when her parents had arranged a marriage to Grant though mutual friends.

“Claire, my dear,” Papa had broached the subject, “do you remember Willy Davis? He used to work at the flour mill a few years ago.”

“Yes, of course! He had a white mustache and always looked as if he’d fallen into a sack of flour.”

Papa’s broad cheeks widened in a smile. “That’s Willy. He has a friend, a young man named Grant Robertson, who lives in Montana. Remember when Willy moved there about a year ago?” At Claire’s nod, Papa continued. “This man, Grant, hasn’t been able to find a wife. He’s a good man, a decent one. I knew his family years ago. According to Willy, he’s been advertising for a bride in the newspaper. I’d wondered, my dear, would you consider writing to him? You know Mama and I would like nothing more than to see you settled in your own home.”

Claire knew that her parents struggled to keep their small hardware store profitable. The big city of Chicago teemed with shops, stores and vendors on every corner. It was difficult to put food on the table and to supply all their needs. If Claire were to marry, that would ease the family’s budget and give her a future. Something sadly lacking in Illinois. Chicago might be a big city, but the opportunities for a young, unmarried female were few.

With her parents’ urging, Claire began a correspondence with Grant. He proposed after the first month, but wisely suggested she come to Montana and let him ‘court’ her. So, Claire made the long journey to Montana. Those months when she stayed in the hotel while Grant ‘courted’ her were some of the happiest she could ever remember.

Until she became his wife.

Claire had fallen deeply in love with the tall, brown haired man with gentle manners and love of Shakespeare. She could still hear his solemn voice reading aloud with the firelight flickering off his rugged face. The clasp of his calloused hand, the thumb on his right hand twisted from a fall as a child. His lips pressed to hers as he twined his fingers through her long, brown hair. They had hoped to grow old together, to have children. It was not to be.

Even though Claire felt her faith in God was strong, losing Grant had been difficult. Each day after the funeral she struggled to put her life back together. Suddenly, she was no longer Grant’s wife with a purpose and plan. Now she was a widow, stuck in a home that grieved her more each day.

When Grant was alive, Mother Robertson, while never pleasant, had been tolerable. Grant made excuses for his mother’s testy attitude and barbed remarks.

“She’s had a difficult life,” he’d apologize, as they snuggled in bed together. “If she bothers you too much, I’ll speak to her again.”

“No, don’t do that,” Claire pressed closer to Grant’s warm chest. If she had Grant by her side, nothing his mother said or did could dim her joy too badly.

Oh, there were jibes here and there under her breath, when Grant was at work. Sometimes if Claire set the table the older woman would come along behind and rearrange things. If Claire cooked a meal for Grant and he praised it, his mother would refuse to eat it because it was too “spicy” or “tasteless.”

Claire had sewn a lovely doily for the lamp table. It had taken months to embroider a picture of violets, ivy and a blue bird. Grant had praised it, and Claire delighted in the lovely addition to their home.

Later, Claire realized the plain, white muslin doily had been placed back under the lamp. “What happened to my doily?”

Mother Robertson shrugged. “Plain’s good enough for me.”

It had taken Claire a few days to discover the remains of the doily, ripped to shreds, stuffed in her sewing box. When she confronted her mother-in-law, the woman expressed disbelief. “Why would I do such a thing? I can’t believe you’d accuse me. Probably some animal tore it apart.”

And hid it in my sewing box where I’d be sure to find it?

She said nothing to Grant. When he asked her what had happened to her pretty doily, she made some feeble excuse about a stain. But Mother Robertson wore a smirk at having her way. When Grant wasn’t around, she missed no chance to berate Claire as a wife, cook, and housekeeper.

No sooner had the dirt covered the mound of Grant’s casket than Mother Robertson’s spite came out in a daily round of bullying. She made life insufferable. Many days, Claire’s red swollen eyes ached from crying so much at her grief and the attacks. A couple of times, she hid in the stable to sob in the middle of the night. Once, she’d been so desperate she’d written to her parents begging for the funds to return to Chicago. The next morning, aware of how a summons might burden Mama and Papa, she tore the letter to shreds and fed it to the morning fire.

I will make it through this somehow. I must!

Ten months after Grant’s death, Mrs. Abernathy, who ran a millinery and dressmaking shop had offered Claire a position. The idea of being able to leave Mother Robertson for hours each day filled Claire with hope. To her surprise, her mother-in-law agreed to allow her to take the job. Leaving the house each morning, a bright smile on her face, Claire did any sewing willingly and happily. She loved the bright, bustling shop and all the lovely fabrics and trims for the hats. Even having Mother Robertson demand almost all her pay wasn’t enough to dim Claire’s happiness. Finally, she felt as if her life had purpose again.

Mama and Papa had always encouraged her to trust in God, to move forward.

In Mama’s latest letter she had written: Don’t let Grant’s death cause you to dry up inside like a prune, Claire. There is a future still to live and perhaps God has someone else for you to marry down the road.

Claire had begun to believe Mama might be right. She’d loved Grant deeply, but now might be the time to move on.

The screened door banged open. Claire sighed; her remembrances ended.

Mother Robertson lumbered outside, a bowl perched on her wide hip. Her thin face and pursed lips glared at Claire. She plunked down in the other rocking chair, put the bowl on the lap of her dark apron and tsked under her breath. A few mutters came past her lips, scornful as usual. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Lots of idle hands around here.”

Claire clenched the arms of the rocking chair and rocked harder. Eyes forward, she refused to look at the older woman.

Oh, God, where are you? How long must I listen to her harp and chastise me for every little thing I do?

Claire had hoped to save her earnings at the millinery shop to go back to Chicago. She had no idea what she’d do once she got there. Certainly, she would have to earn something to help her parents. But the idea of leaving Grant behind in the cemetery filled her soul with dread.

She thought of Grant’s plaid shirt, the one he’d worn the day before he died. It had been in the basket of laundry, all set to scrub on a washboard, when she heard the news.

In her grief, she had taken the shirt which still gave off Grant’s masculine scent—a mix of gun oil, sweat and saddle soap—and kept it under her pillow. Over time, the scents faded away, but Claire could never part with the shirt. Many nights she slept with it tucked in her arms like a child with a favorite blanket. It helped soothe her when life became too difficult.

I miss you so much, Grant. Why did you have to die?

“Idle hands,” Mother Robertson sing-songed as she rocked back and forth, shelling peas. “Nothing worse than idle hands unless it’s a loose woman.”

Claire ground her teeth to speak from answering.

I must get away from here! I must!

Chapter Two

Seattle, Washington

September 1869

I wish I could leave here.

Heath Bradford sat back in his sturdy wooden chair and stared at the ceiling. A stray cobweb swayed in the breeze coming through the open windows of the jail.

He sighed. Some days he felt just like the cobweb, stuck in one place and never going anywhere else. Or trapped like the fly inside.

I should have done something.

It had been two years, but there wasn’t a day when he didn’t relive that last agonizing moment before Pa’s death.

We should never have split up! If I’d been there, I might have saved him.

The jail door banged open and his youngest sister, Bessie, came through with a tray in her hands. A red checked napkin covered the fragrant, steaming meal Ma had sent for lunch. “Here you go Mr. Grumpy Gus,” Bessie trilled as she placed the wooden tray on the neat desktop and pulled off the napkin with a flourish. “Ma made your favorite… chicken and dumplings today. There’s peach cobbler too. Even though you sat through breakfast like a thundercloud.”

“Thanks.”

As usual, his chatty sister nodded and began her exploration around the cramped sheriff’s office. “You need me to sweep up or anything? Change the blankets in the cells?” Bessie spotted the cobweb, jumped and swiped it down with her hand. She rubbed the fingers along the skirt of her yellow striped dress. “Cobwebs make a house look dirty… or a jail.” She giggled.

“No.” Heath scooted forward, picked up a spoon and dug into the meal. Even though he wasn’t hungry, he wouldn’t hurt Ma’s feelings. Not that day, of all days. A glance at the feed store calendar hanging on the rough, log walls reminded him of the date.

Like I’d forget.

His mind came back to the present as Bessie kept talking, taking him away from his haunted memories.

As if zeroing in on his thoughts, Bessie perched on the edge of the desk, swinging her gangly legs in worn shoes. “Ma said maybe tonight we can all walk on over to the graveyard and maybe… I don’t know… remember Pa. Since today’s…”

“I know what day it is, Bessie.” His voice came out sharper than he’d planned. A hurt look crossed his little sister’s face, and her blue eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, honey, it’s just today’s a hard day for all of us. Especially me. I just wish… I wish I could have done more.”

Bessie blinked, then came back with her usual spunky self, “You can’t blame yourself, Ma always says. I sure wish those old Frontier Raiders had never come to town. Then Pa would still be alive.”

“Maybe.” Heath laid down the spoon, stomach churning. His throat closed tight over his own unshed tears. “I guess we all wish things had happened different, but Pa died doing what he loved best. Why don’t you run along now and help Ma.”

“Okay, if you don’t want me to hang around. I could put up your wanted posters. Or sweep out the cells.”

Bessie loved nothing better than hanging around the jail. Just like me when I was young. Heath remembered Pa’s patience. His careful mentoring. Every time he thought of Pa, the grief washed over him just like the day he died.

“No, but you could take these letters down to the post office for me.” He handed Bessie a sheaf of letters. “I was going to walk down later, but you can save me some steps. And maybe you can run by the telegraph office and see if there’s anything I should know.”

“Sure, Heath!”

He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a nickel. “Why don’t you buy yourself some candy and maybe a pretty hanky for Ma. Something to brighten her day.”

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Thank you!”

After she left, Heath pushed away the food, unable to stomach another bite.

I’m sorry, Pa.

They weren’t words he’d be able to say when they visited Pa’s tombstone later that night. Like last year, Ma would want them each to tell a happy or funny story about Pa. They’d say a prayer and sing a hymn. Ma said it helped her sorrow. But then, none of it had been Ma’s fault.

Ma’s not the one who let Pa get killed. I am.

Heath knew the guilt would eat him alive if he let it, and most days he didn’t let it. But in his heart, he figured someday it would all be too much. Someday, he figured he’d drown in his tears.

If I hadn’t let Pa go alone.

Every second of that fateful day was carved into Heath’s mind. Heath had only been a deputy for a few years, working beside Pa, learning to be a good lawman. For the most part the days were more boring than he’d imagined. Helping a neighbor find a lost horse. Taking groceries to a sick widow on a farm. Collecting taxes. Wrestling a drunk away from his bottle and tossing his stinking, heaving body into a cell. Mopping up puke from the floor of the jail. There was only one blight on an otherwise humdrum life in the bawdy town of Seattle—the Frontier Rangers.

“Who are they, Pa?” Heath once asked, in his innocence, the first time he heard the name.

Heath had ridden his first posse after the Frontier Rangers burned out a farm in a nearby town. They’d helped themselves to the farmer’s cattle, pigs and chickens. Raided the root cellar and then just to be mean, set fire to a ready-to-harvest field of wheat. The posse had found no tracks to guide them when the outlaws vanished in the deep forest of pines and hemlocks.

Pa sighed. “Well, Son, as near as we can figure it’s a father and son. Nobody knows a lot about them. About a year ago, they started robbing banks, stagecoaches, and a couple of wealthy farms over near Olympia. Since then, they moved to other places. We won’t get worried until it looks like they’re headed our way.”

On the morning Pa would breathe his last, he hurried into the jail where Heath swept the floor. Tall, broad shouldered, his jaw clenched tight, Pa grabbed his gun belt from the peg beside the door. Tightened it around his waist. “Heath, arm yourself and follow me. I just got word the Frontier Rangers plan to come here and rob someone. Today.”

“Who?” Excitement pumped through Heath’s veins as he tossed down the broom and grabbed his own gun belt. He’d had no cause yet to fire the new Colt Revolver Pa had given him for his birthday. Except at targets. The idea of shooting at a person both thrilled and sobered him.

Pa shook his head, pulled open the desk drawer and sorted out extra ammunition. “I’m not sure. Tyler Morgan heard rumors from someone over at the livery. I’m afraid they might be going after Mayor Stone.”

“Why him?”

“He just put in that new safe over in the courthouse. You know how people talk in this town. He’s got gold bullion in there from the lumber mill right now. Wells Fargo is supposed to take it out when the stage comes through on Friday. It would net a robber a hefty payoff.”

“I didn’t know that.” Heath tightened his own gun belt with shaky hands.

He and Pa headed to the courthouse to protect Mayor Stone and the gold bullion. Pa sent Heath to the roof of Axel’s Mercantile as lookout, while he hid behind some crates near the courthouse back door. It was a long wait. About an hour later, the rapid rat tat tat of gunfire indicated the rumors had been wrong. The Frontier Rangers weren’t after the mayor’s safe at all.

“The Bank!” Pa’s shout alerted Heath, perched on the roof with his Colt aimed at Mayor Stone’s office. He raced down the stairs at the side of the mercantile, the sound of gunshots ringing out.

It was all my fault. If I’d just been a few minutes sooner.

I wish I didn’t have to stay in this town with all these reminders.

Chapter Three

September 1869

Billings, Montana

Claire laid down the child’s Sunday bonnet she’d been trimming with lace and reached for her silver scissors. A quick glance at the clock on a nearby shelf told her it was almost time for Mrs. Abernathy to close the shop for the day. It was the saddest time of the day for Claire.

It’s back to Mother Robertson and her constant spite.

Just the thought of returning home filled Claire with dread.

Not much longer, I hope.

The plans she’d been making for the past six months filled Claire with both hope and fear.

I must decide soon.

“Is something wrong, Claire?” Mrs. Abernathy came from the stockroom with a pile of fabric in her arms. The tottering bolts of silks, satins, and cotton threatened to topple at each step.

“Here, let me help you.” Claire jumped up and took some of the bulky load from her friend’s arms and helped stack it on the sturdy wooden shelves. “Oh, look at this lovely burgundy crepe de chine. Wouldn’t it make a stunning dress?”

“It would indeed, but you’re ignoring my question. I saw your face just now. Something’s bothering you and I want you to tell me.”

Claire sighed. Her fingers stroked the soft, satiny fabric and she thought of how wonderful it would have been to sew up a dress. How Grant’s brown eyes would have lit up at the sight of her in such pretty clothes. “Oh, I suppose I was frowning, wasn’t I? It’s just…”

“Yes?”

Before Claire could answer, Mrs. Abernathy gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s Mrs. Robertson, isn’t it? I ran into her at the mercantile the other day. She was… let’s just say, her words were not complimentary about you.”

“What did she say? You must tell me.”

Word had come to Claire on several occasions about Mother Robertson spreading rumors about her around town. Nasty, spiteful things that had not a shred of truth. Her most recent one had been about how Claire had destroyed the relationship between her and Grant.

Mrs. Abernathy’s gentle face softened, and her hazel eyes gave Claire a look of such sympathy the younger woman wanted to cry. I’d like to throw myself in those matronly arms and sob my heart out. She’s so kind!

“You know I dislike repeating gossip and mind you; I know none of this is true, but you should know.”

Claire braced herself for the latest revelation.

“Mrs. Robertson complained you do nothing around the house. That she does all the cleaning, cooking and laundry. She says you are lazy and that you’ve taken to staying up all hours writing letters. When I spoke up in your defense, she turned on me like a spitting cougar.”

“How dare she! I slave for that woman!” Claire’s face suffused with red blotches of anger. “I’m up at 4 o’clock every Monday to do the wash before I come here to work. Surely others have seen me outside hanging the laundry on the clothesline. Our house is right in the middle of town. Does anyone believe her? All the rest are lies too. She does cook, yes, but I do all the washing up, scrubbing the floors, making the beds… what right has she to complain about me?”

A gentle hand on her arm calmed Claire’s thumping heart and eased the knots churning in her stomach. “I was quick to defend you, my dear. But I just thought you should know the woman is still trying to tarnish your reputation. And there are some who do believe her.”

Tears slipped out before Claire could stop them. “The other day she told me I don’t deserve either kindness or understanding. She told me I’d ruined Grant’s love for her, that I turned him against her. The other night she called me a ‘loose’ woman. Saying I hadn’t even waited for Grant to turn cold in his grave before I took up with other men. How can she say that?” Claire swiped furiously at her eyes, trying to stem the tears. “I wore mourning and grieved for Grant more than a year. I still miss him.”

“Well…” Mrs. Abernathy hesitated almost as if she didn’t want to tell Claire more.

“Tell me. It can’t be any worse than the things she says to me in private.”

“Mr. Duval mentioned to someone that you have been posting letters to a man in Washington. I suppose the word got back to her… it does give credence to her comment… oh, not that I believe there is anything wrong with your doing so. Perhaps he’s a friend? Or family?”

Her shaky legs could no longer hold her up. Claire dropped back into a straight-backed chair and laid her trembling hands in her lap. She looked up at her employer, chin up, green eyes simmering with anger.

I have nothing to be ashamed about.

“Mr. Duval is not a trustworthy postmaster if he can’t keep people’s letters private, but yes, I have been corresponding with a Mr. Benjamin Clark in Washington. I’m glad I can confide in you because I’ve almost made up my mind to become his bride. Grant has been dead for over two years, and I simply must go on with my life. Mother Robertson has made my life a living hell… if you will pardon my frankness.”

“Claire that’s wonderful news! I’m so happy for you. I’ll miss you dreadfully, of course, but I’m delighted for you to get away from this town. You’re young and Grant would want you to find love again. He would want your happiness.”

“I wish I was as certain as you.” Claire clenched her hands and looked through blurry tears at the skirt of her dark blue dress. Stray threads dotted the lap, and she plucked them off in intense concentration. “I’ve been corresponding with Mr. Clark for a few months now. I answered his advertisement for a bride. He seems a very pleasant man.”

Mrs. Abernathy placed her strong, warm hands over Claire’s and squeezed. “If you are certain, my dear, I wish you all the best. When did you plan to leave?”

“Soon, I hope… it’s just… am I doing the right thing?”

“You’re the only one who can answer that.”