Crossings

WEEPING ANGEL

“Exciting. . . . Memorable characters. . . . Stef Ann Holm's incredible talent for re-creating romantic Americana makes this novel a simply marvelous work of fiction.”

—Harriet Klausner,
Affaire de Coeur

“Light-hearted romance at its very best! Ms. Holm has written a charming story as fresh as a summer's day. . . . Sweet and witty. . . . Entertaining. . . . It's not often that an author can make your heart beat a little faster and leave you smiling—Stef Ann Holm is one of the gifted few!”

—Kristina Wright,
The Literary Times

“From the very first chapter you know you're going to be swept away with love and laughter.
Weeping Angel
had me chuckling long into the night. . . .

—Sharon Kosick, Annie's Book Stop

“Weeping Angel
is a treasure! I loved every minute of this delightful story.”

—Mary Bracken, Book Depot

“Funny, tender, and completely enjoyable. . . .”

—Adene Beal, House of Books

“An enchanting read. It's nice to know people still believe in heroes.”

—Koren K. Schrand, K&S Paperback Exchange

“Weeping Angel
has a warmth and charm reminiscent of the early works of LaVryle Spencer. . . . A delightful, well-written tale of love.”

—Denise Smith, Aunt Dee's Paperback Exchange

“A funny and endearing romance. . . . It makes you want to smile.”

—Trudy Audette, Raintree Books

“Stef Ann Holm has a great book here. . . . I loved it!”

—Donita Lawrence, Bell Book & Candle

“Warmhearted, homespun, charming. . . .”

—Karen Wantz, Willow Tree Books

“This is a great story. I loved the plot, the characters . . . the setting, everything!

—Cynthia Lee, Court's Book

“[A] delightfully entertaining tale. Ms. Holm has done it again.”

—Monika Schneider, The Paper Pad Bookstore

“A good old-fashioned romance—I couldn't stop chuckling!”

—Dawn Acosta, Cover to Cover Bookstore

“A truly romantic and delightfully enchanting story. . . .”

—Joan Adis and Nikki Cranditte, Paperbacks & Things

“Stef Ann Holm is a true voice in . . . western romance.
Weeping Angel
grips the reader's attention from the first page and doesn't let go.”

—Sharon Walters, Paperback Place

“Weeping Angel
had me spellbound. . . . I couldn't put it down. . . . I thought it was wonderful.”

—Donna Nickodan, Books Galore “N” More

Fondly for Joe, Michele, and Tara Smaltz, whose century-old farmhouse in modern-day Genoa is shared by two mischievous ghosts who sometimes call Michele's name and have a penchant for making dishes disappear.

Genoa was the first town established in Nevada, and much has been written about its history. Since facts vary, I've altered some names, events, and the years in which they occurred. For the sake of my story, I've delayed the town's founding to coincide more closely with the Pony Express. This is fiction, after all, and in fiction the truth sometimes has a way of stretching to suit the writer's needs. . . .

1

Genoa, Nevada Territory

April 1860

H
e called himself Carrigan, and everyone in Genoa figured his mind had to be one cartridge short of a full load for him to prefer a solitary life. Those rare times he came into town with that massive Walker Colt he kept at his side, his eyes were flat and unemotional, leaving to wonder if he'd ever cracked a smile.

Rumors about him abounded, tumbling through Main Street with the sagebrush. Some claimed he'd killed at least two dozen men and was the fastest draw west of anyplace east. Others said he'd earned a haphazard living as a cowboy, a gambler, and an extractor of venom from rattlesnakes before coming to the Carson Valley. However, the tapestry of known facts concerning these professions was threadbare.

All agreed he was unfriendly. For he had chosen to live as a hermit on the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada, where gold was scattered like raisins on a cake. Carrigan had been holed up there prior to the town's founding. A party of the new pioneers had ridden to his cabin to make his acquaintance, but they had been welcomed with the whine of a bullet. The
group left posthaste, and no one who knew he was there had ventured up his mountain since.

Until Helena Gray.

Helena had heard his cabin was built above the northeast section of town where dusk was premature. Ascending the incline spiked with Jeffrey pines, she kept her woolen hem lifted and her gaze downward to concentrate on footholds in the damp ground. She made no effort to keep her approach silent. Talebearers eager to enlighten said Carrigan greeted trespassers with the steel nose of his he-man gun. She had no desire to test that theory.

As she climbed, she recalled their first meeting a year ago. He'd come to her father's general store to trade some pelts for tobacco, a basket of eggs, and a copy of the
Territorial Enterprise.
Impressively tall and broad in the shoulders, he'd been as quiet as a stone wall when she'd waited on him. She hadn't been able to dispute the fact he was an imposing character. Why she hadn't been apprehensive about his presence, she couldn't quite say. Perhaps it was because she understood his need to go off alone. She might have done the same thing had it not been for her mother. Instead, Helena had stayed with her family and knit her torn life into a thin but serviceable fabric.

The smoky scent of a campfire and the aroma of cooking meat wafted through the cool air. Despite her resolution, Helena's heart pounded an uneven rhythm. She stopped abruptly to listen. The faraway squawk of a blue jay and the wind filled her ears. A tin utensil scraping the bottom of a pan pulled her attention in the direction of the sound. She tried to gauge the distance. The breeze through the pine boughs played an eerie tune, and she caught herself glancing uneasily over her shoulder. She wished she could have come before evening, but she'd worried about leaving her sister alone to tend the store. Waiting until after closing hadn't left Helena with
much light to guide her way. Inching the woven check shawl higher on her neck to ward off the chill in her spine, she proceeded.

It had rained for a short time in the afternoon, and the woolly violets that littered the bank felt slippery beneath the soles of her shoes as her thoughts drifted back to the past. Now and then, Carrigan had returned to the store to keep up his mild smoking and liquor habit. He never said hello to a stranger—the entire population of Genoa consisting of nothing but, to a recluse like him. The only person he swapped enough words with to be called a conversation was her father. Both men shared a mutual respect for animals. In later months, they'd made arrangements for Carrigan to supply Gray's stockyard with swift horses for their Pony Express station. Few could deny there had ever been a more impressive sight than Carrigan parading that string of high-spirited mustangs down Nixon Street.

Though Helena doubted Carrigan's receptiveness, there might have come a time when he would have shared a supper table with her father. But she would never know. Five days ago, someone killed him. Since then, the fate of Helena and her younger sister, Emilie, had been openly discussed as if they were incapable of thinking for themselves. There was no shortage of eligible men, and she had had several marriage proposals, most of which were based on strong sentiments against their running the station, stockyard, and store alone. Helena had been fending off the bachelors until today. Today the men had done the unthinkable. They'd backed Helena into a situation that forced her to make a decision about her and Emilie's future.

Helena chose to go see Carrigan.

Twirling poplar leaves disguised the noise she made as she came to a copse of saplings, their density screening her. Embers from low flames glowed in the gray sky, illuminating the big and muscular figure of a
man. Carrigan sat in an open-sided shelter, its roof sagging in the middle like an old mare's back. There were no chinked walls to hold off the weather, nor embrace the heat and keep warmth cloaked around him. Only the bulky mackinaw jacket covering his torso. He rested a run-down bootheel on the edge of a crate. The crude table at his elbow was low and cluttered with objects—most notably the Walker Colt. He held a bottle of Snakehead whiskey between his thighs, one hand loosely wrapped around the neck. A cigarette relaxed in the corner of his mouth, and he squinted against the smoke to watch his supper cook.

An air of wild and dangerous isolation hung around him, and she sensed the power coiled in his body. When he leaned forward to turn the skewered haunch of some small game, his movements were filled with a restless energy that had Helena's heartbeat thumping madly.

A dog's low growl came from the shadows. Before she could announce herself, Carrigan had picked up the huge revolver and pointed its gleaming barrel directly at her.

“I'll kill you where you stand unless you show me your hands.”

Helena's blood ran cold, and she couldn't move or speak as a big black dog appeared with its ears thrown back and teeth bared. The click of the gun's hammer echoed inside her head, loud and reverberating with serious intent. She opened her mouth, and words tumbled forth in a low volume. Her scratchy plea not to shoot was lost on the wind. Somehow, she managed to lift her fingertips skyward before Carrigan made good on his threat.