Hope (2 page)

The general clapped him on the back affectionately. “Gonna miss you, boy. Sure you won’t reconsider and stay on? I can arrange for a desk job if that’s what you want.”

“No, thanks. I’m going to simplify my life.”

“Simplify your life, huh?” Franklin grinned.

Dan didn’t know what the general found so amusing. One last job, and Dan Sullivan’s life was going to be dull as dishwater.

“I’m tired of moving around, Frank. From now on, I’m going to live a quiet, uncomplicated life, alone—with a few head of cattle on my own piece of land with nobody telling me where to go or what to do.”

Franklin’s grin widened.

Dan eyed him sourly. “What’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Got your life all planned out, do you?”

“Sure. Why not?” Dan prided himself on control. Control of his life and his actions. God took care of the big picture; he took care of the details. “What’s so odd about that?”

Franklin shrugged. “My mother, God rest her soul, had a saying: ‘Want to hear God laugh? Tell him what you got planned for your life.’” He winked. “You take care of yourself, son. It’s going to be real interesting to see if God agrees with you.”

Chapter One

Hope Kallahan pressed a plain cotton handkerchief to her upper lip and shifted wearily on the hard wooden seat, bracing herself against the wall of the coach.

Her bones ached.

She’d have given all she owned for a pillow to cushion her backside. Never had she sat for so long on such a hard wooden bench, not even in church. The pews in Papa’s house of worship were softer than this device of torture.

“Are you feeling poorly, Miss Della?”

The young woman sitting opposite Hope peered anxiously into the sickly face of her elderly companion.

“I’ll be fine, dear. Just having some mild discomfort. Don’t worry your pretty head, Miss Anne. I’ll be just fine.”

Della DeMarco, the young woman’s escort, fanned her flushed face. The poor woman had taken ill the moment she boarded the coach, but she insisted on continuing the journey. Her charge, Miss Anne Ferry, daughter of Thomas White Ferry, U.S. senator from Michigan, was traveling to Louisville to visit friends.

Pressing back against the seat, Hope counted the tall trees lining the road. Miles of countryside rolled by, bringing her closer and closer to her new home.

And a new husband. To think that a man like John Jacobs wanted her as a mail-order bride—well, it was answered prayer. After Papa died, Hope and her sisters, Faith and June, were in desperate straits. They knew Aunt Thalia couldn’t afford to feed another mouth, much less three. With no resources of their own, the girls felt they had no other choice but to find suitable mates. And since Cold Water had no likely prospects, they were forced to look elsewhere.

Faith had moved to Texas to marry Nicholas Shepherd, a fine upstanding rancher; June would soon travel to Seattle to marry Eli Messenger, an understudy to the powerful evangelist Isaac Inman of the Isaac Inman Crusade.

Of course it was too soon for Hope to have heard from either Faith or June, but she hoped to very soon. She was anxious to see how each sister fared with her new husband.

Ordinarily, Hope would be frightened by such a long and perilous journey undertaken without the security of her sisters’ companionship, but she was resigned in the knowledge that she was doing the right thing. She simply had to trust that God had ordained this marriage. Soon she would marry John, and they would live happily ever after.

Would she be a good wife, one John would be proud to claim? Papa had spoiled her shamelessly, but she was perfectly capable of being a dutiful wife. She reached up to pat her ebony hair into place.

If matrimony wasn’t too demanding—and Medford had a decent hairdresser.

Anne Ferry edged forward in her seat. Large brown eyes saved the petite blonde from being plain. “I just don’t know what to do. Miss Della shouldn’t be traveling, but she insists.”

“Well—she’s the best judge of that,” Hope murmured, but she uttered a silent prayer for the woman’s impediment anyway. Papa always said that folks sometimes weren’t the best judges of their own resources, meaning that they depended upon themselves far too much and not enough on the Lord.

Papa. She sighed, still feeling his loss. So much had changed since his death. One moment he had been preaching a fiery lesson, and the next, he was lying cold and unresponsive in the pulpit. Now she was leaving everything and everyone she knew to marry a man she didn’t know.

She closed her eyes, her forced enthusiasm waning. From now on her life would be just plain dull. She’d be a tired old married woman with three or four young ones hanging on her skirts. She sighed.

She knew little about this man she was about to marry. They’d become briefly acquainted through letters exchanged over a few short weeks. John’s picture depicted a rather plain face, dark hair neatly trimmed and parted on one side, a handlebar mustache. She’d never cared for mustaches, but then perhaps she’d learn to like one. John looked a bit uncomfortable in the photo, as if his collar were too tight or his britches too snug in the get-a-long.

Sitting up, Hope opened her compact and peered at her image in the mirror. Everyone said she was beautiful, but Papa said that was the Lord’s doing, not hers. She studied her violet-colored eyes and dark hair gleaming like black coal in the sunlight. Indeed, she had been given high cheekbones and a rosy, full mouth. Lots of people were pretty . . . but maybe she was extraordinarily blessed. . . . She snapped the compact closed. Papa had warned her about being vain.

“Ohhhh, who would have ever thought this would happen?” Anne glanced at her chaperone. “Miss Della was in blooming health when we left.”

“One can’t always anticipate these things.” Hope was more concerned about the slightly green tinge that had come on Anne’s companion than about her persistent cough. The old woman was dozing, her head bouncing against the rolled upholstery.

“Have I told you that I’m visiting old friends from the Ladies’ Seminary?” Anne asked. “We share such wonderful times together in Bible study and discussion.” She leaned closer. “There are very few, you know, who can discuss the Scriptures intelligently. Most are inclined to frivolous things, parties and such. Even Father. Why, there’s this one man on our staff who is positively decadent. He dresses well, but his hair is much too long and he has this, well, this ‘look’ to him.” She shivered. “He’s taken a shine to me, but I fear he hasn’t much interest in Scripture.” She glanced at Miss Della, whose dry snores resonated off the coach walls.

“I’ve wanted to visit friends for some time now, and now Miss Della has taken ill.” She fanned her face with a small fan she kept in the turquoise bag in her lap. She glanced back, her pretty blonde curls bobbing with each jolt. “But it’s been a joy to travel with you. I do hope that your Mr. Jacobs isn’t too far from Louisville, so that we might see each other often while I’m in Kentucky. I want you to meet all my acquaintances, perhaps even join our Bible studies.”

“That would be nice, but Mr. Jacobs said Medford is some fifty miles from Louisville.” Hope shifted, trying to get more comfortable. The miles seemed endless now. She’d been traveling for over a week, and she was anxious now to reach her destination.

Though she had little in common with Anne, she had been excited to have someone her age on the long journey. Papa had been a preacher, and she’d heard whole chapters of Scripture every day of her life, but she wasn’t as dedicated to Bible study as Anne.

And her memory was just awful. She couldn’t remember a thing she read.

June was more to Papa’s liking when it came to spiritual matters—and Faith, too. They recalled every single thing they read. It seemed a natural thing for her sisters to accurately quote Scripture, but though she tried, she got hopelessly confused.

Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall . . . they shall . . . find peace?
No, they would be called something, but she wasn’t sure what.

She studied serious young Anne Ferry. She bet Anne would know—she’d quoted the Bible since boarding the stage, and it all sounded perfectly flawless to Hope.

The coach slowed noticeably, and Hope straightened to look out the window.

“We’re coming to a way station.”

“Thank goodness,” Anne breathed. “I am so weary of all this lurching—and the dust. Perhaps a stop will make Miss Della feel better.”

Hope doubted it, but then, as bad as Miss Della was looking, most anything was likely to help. She automatically braced herself as the stage drew to a swaying halt. Miss Della jarred awake, looking around dazedly. Her small round face was flushed with heat. Hope feared she was feverish.

The driver’s face appeared briefly in the coach window before he swung open the door. “We’ll be stopping to change teams and eat a bite, ladies.”

Hope settled her hat more firmly on her head. “Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” She clambered out of the coach, then turned to assist Anne with Miss Della.

“Oh, my,” Miss Della whispered, her considerable bulk sagging against the two young women. “I don’t feel well at all.”

Hope gently steadied her. “Perhaps you can lie down until we’re ready to leave.”

“Thank you—yes, that would be nice. Oh, my. My head is reeling!”

With Anne on one side and Hope on the other, they supported the elderly woman’s bulk inside the way station. The log building had a low ceiling and only one window. The interior was dim and unappealing, but the tempting aroma of stew and corn bread caught Hope’s attention. Breakfast had been some time ago.

Anne waited with Miss Della while Hope asked the stationmaster if there was a place for the woman to rest. The tall, thin man pointed to a narrow cot that didn’t appear to be all that clean. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

When Della was gently settled on the small bed, Anne and Hope sat down at a long wooden table. A haggard-looking woman wearing a dirty apron set bowls of steaming hot stew and squares of corn bread before them.

Hope cast glances at the cot, concerned for Della’s comfort. “She seems very ill.”

“Yes—if only she could see a physician. . . . Sir!” Anne called.

The stationmaster paused in the middle of refilling the drivers’ coffee cups.

“Is it possible that a physician might look after my chaperone? I fear she’s running a fever.”

“Sorry, lady. Ain’t no doctor around here.”

“How far is the nearest one?”

“Twenty miles—maybe more.”

Anne met Hope’s eyes anxiously. Picking up her spoon, Hope began to eat.

It seemed like only moments had passed when the two drivers pushed back from the table and announced they would be leaving shortly.

Della thrashed about on the cot, moaning.

“She isn’t able to go on,” Anne said. “We’ll have to return home.”

“Might be for the best,” one of the drivers observed. “I got to stay on schedule.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Hope said quietly. “You just see to Miss Della. I suggest that you send for a doctor immediately.”

Anne looked uncertain about her new role—that of caregiver rather than receiver. “Yes—I’ll have to forgo my trip—but there will be others. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to Della. The moment she’s able, we’ll return home and have our family doctor assume her care.”

“Got to get back on the road.” Mr. Barnes picked up his hat and left.

“I’m coming.” Hope rose and embraced Anne, then touched Miss Della’s unresponsive hand. With a final glance over her shoulder, she returned to the stage.

Dear Lord, please restore Miss Della to health. And please watch over Anne and keep her from harm.

The coach lurched forward, and Hope’s gaze fell on Anne’s turquoise bag lying on the seat. Picking it up, she moved to call out the window for Mr. Barnes to stop the stage but then realized that she could arrange for the purse to be returned. The driver had made it clear that he intended to stay on time. Hope opened the turquoise tote. Inside were a few of Anne’s calling cards, some spare hairpins, a gold locket engraved with Anne’s initials, and a small mirror, also engraved. Valuable treasures, but nothing Anne couldn’t do without for a few weeks.

The day seemed endless without the senator’s daughter’s conversation to break the monotony. Hope’s clothing was covered in dust, and she’d have given nearly everything she owned to be able to take her hair down and brush it out. A headache pounded between her eyes.

In spite of the discomfort, she finally dozed, dreaming of Kentucky, a hot bath, and a bed that didn’t rock.

Dan Sullivan wearily urged his horse down the steep incline. Up ahead, the Davidson gang wound their way through the narrow pass. Four months. He never planned on this assignment taking four long months. Was Franklin nuts, sending him on this wild-goose chase? The Davidson gang was a threat, all right—to anyone who came near them. How they’d managed to lift twenty thousand dollars in army payroll he’d never know. They moved at a whim, choosing a target by chance, never with apparent forethought. Yet their luck was uncanny. Or else someone was feeding them information. But if this was the case, Dan had been unable to identify the source.