Jolie’s heart crimped. “I’m a burden?”

  “Hmm, well, all you orphans are a huge responsibility.” Miss Tuttle said orphans as if it were a nasty word.

  Jolie sifted through her confusing thoughts. She hadn’t asked to be an orphan. And hadn’t she earned her keep by working from sunup to well past dark? Hadn’t Miss Tuttle earned a salary for heading up the children’s home? And what did Jolie’s age have to do with Mr. Richter adopting Deborah?

  She peeked sideways and caught him watching her. His upper lip lifted into more of a snarl than a grin, revealing crooked yellow teeth and crinkled lips. He smelled of medicinal liniment. White hair hung out from his nose, and the hair on his bushy eyebrows looked an inch long. Liver spots dotted his wrinkled skin. Bile seared Jolie’s throat, matching the burning in her stomach.

  Miss Tuttle ran her tongue over her upper teeth and made a sucking noise, drawing Jolie’s gaze back to her. “Mr. Richter is in need of another housemaid and has requested your services. Pack your things. You leave with him today.”

  Jolie’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly snapped it shut. Her heart stampeded, and she gripped the arms of the chair with white fists. “W–what happened to Eloise? Isn’t she still Mr. Richter’s maid?”

  Miss Tuttle’s mouth swerved upward to one side. “Miss Flannery is no longer working at the Richter Estate. You will take her place.”

  A fog surrounded Jolie’s head. She was to leave? Today? “B–but what about the babies? If I go suddenly, they’ll all be distraught and will cry, and you know how that disturbs you.”

  “Hmm … that is true. I suppose you’ll need to train someone to take your place.” Miss Tuttle rested her chin in her hand with the index finger framing her cheek. Her eyes lifted upward, and her mouth pulled up on one side. “I suppose Helena will do. I’ll give you a week to train her.”

  Jolie’s mind raced. “I … uh … need more time. There’s much involved, and the babies need to get familiar with her.”

  “Now see here. I’m in need of a maid right away.” Mr. Richter rapped his cane on the floor.

  Miss Tuttle studied the man. “Yes, I’m aware of that. Perhaps you could find some temporary help by some other means.”

  Mr. Richter scratched his balding head. “I suppose I could do that, although it is quite inconvenient.”

  Miss Tuttle nodded, and her gaze swerved back to Jolie. “Miss Addams, I’ll give you until your birthday to train Miss Carver to take your place with the infants, but on that day, you’ll be expected to move to Mr. Richter’s estate.”

  “W–what happened to Eloise?” Jolie remembered Eloise crying in the night because she was being sent to work for Mr. Richter. She’d been afraid and uneasy to leave the children’s home, but Jolie figured that was a normal reaction to such a big change in her life. Now, she understood what Eloise had felt. Something wasn’t right about the wealthy man sitting beside her. Yes, he donated large sums of money to keep the orphanage running, but one young woman after another had gone to work for him and was never heard of again. She swallowed hard and stared out the large picture window, the gloomy room’s only redeeming quality. What had happened to her four friends who’d worked for Mr. Richter over the past few years?

  Miss Tuttle waved her thin hand in the air. “Never you mind about her. The girl’s work was … unsatisfactory, but I’m sure you will do much better.”

  Mr. Richter cackled and bounced his head, sending chills charging up Jolie’s spine. She’d never work for this man. She had several weeks to come up with another plan, but the one she’d already set into motion was her best option. “May I be dismissed, ma’am? I don’t like to leave the little ones alone too long.”

  Miss Tuttle nodded, and Jolie shot to her feet. “Just you be ready come your birthday. Mr. Richter will send a carriage to collect you.”

  Jolie nodded and hurried from the room without looking at the man again. Still trembling, she peeked in on the sleeping babes and then scurried upstairs to the large room where the older girls slept. With the school-age children in class at the local schoolhouse and the few other older girls engaged in their duties, nobody was in the bedchamber.

  Jolie pulled out a loose brick behind her bed and stuck her hand in the small cavity she’d discovered one night. She removed two letters from the wall and held them to her chest. They were her only hope for a new life, and though she’d wavered in her decision, her mind was now made up. She’d written to Mrs. Mayberry’s Matrimonial Society for Christians of Moral Character, offering herself as a mail-order bride.

  Rebekah, a close friend who’d gone to work for a kind widow, had mailed the letters for her and received the response. Miss Tuttle would never have allowed Jolie to communicate with Mrs. Mayberry. The first letter she’d received gloriously stated the benefits of using such a screening society. Only the most upright gentlemen were allowed to solicit for brides. Most lived in Western states and were ranchers or businessmen looking to marry and raise a family.

  She shuddered. How could one marry a stranger? What if he turned out to be someone like Mr. Richter? Her stomach swirled at the thought. And yet, wouldn’t the unknown be better than being in that slimy, lecherous old man’s clutches day after day?

  Spreading out the crumpled letters, she reread Mrs. Mayberry’s scrolling script. She listed four men who were looking to marry: two California ranchers, a widower with three small children who lived in Wyoming, and a store owner from Nevada. Such faraway places, and yet the thought of traveling out West tickled her adventure bone.

  She’d never been around animals of any kind, especially big ones, such as cows and horses. She scratched through the ranchers’ names and stared at the other two. A man with children or a store owner? She loved children. But was she ready to be a mother? She slowly circled the store owner’s name—Hiram Peavey. Maybe if she married him, he’d let her have nice things—a ready-made dress and new shoes. And even if he didn’t, she’d surely help him out at the store and would get to handle all those lovely things. She drew another circle around his name. At the very least, she’d be married, tending her own home and not someone else’s.

  Jolie stood and walked to the window, staring down at the bare yard where the children too young to attend school were raking leaves and stacking kindling. She could do this. Marrying a stranger was preferable to working for Mr. Richter. Her gaze lifted to the heavens. Lord, show me what to do. Mr. Richter frightens me half to death. Surely, it’s not Your will for me to work for him. Is marrying this store owner Your way of escape?

  She watched the children below, working, toiling, instead of playing like three- and four-year-olds should. All her life she’d worked hard, scrubbing dishes, raking leaves, weeding gardens, and tending orphans. Was it too much to hope to have a place of her own?

  December, 1882

  Clay Jackson studied the young woman sitting across from him on the stagecoach.

  When they’d first left Elko, Nevada, she’d tried to read but had soon given up. The stage bounced and jostled so badly on the rough trails that the woman had a hard time staying on her seat, much less keeping a novel steady. Every once in a while her big, brown eyes met his, and she’d turn away, a becoming pink coloring her cheeks.

  “I’d offer to sit beside you and help you hold on, but I doubt you’d agree.”

  Her eyes widened, and her gaze darted away like a spooked hummingbird.

  He chuckled and was tempted to tease her some more, but he was a changed man. Given another day and time, alone with a pretty young woman like her, he’d have pressed his interest. But no more. He lifted his chin and stared out at the barren countryside. God had come into his heart and changed his life. He wasn’t the wild child who’d left home three years ago. He was a new man. He only hoped his father would give him a second chance like his heavenly Father had.

  He glanced at the woman again and decided she couldn’t be all that old. He doubted she’d even reached her twentieth birthday. Why would she be traveling alone out here in the wilds of Nevada?

  “My name’s Clay Jackson.”

  She flashed him a half-smile and dropped her gaze.

  “We haven’t even reached the midway point yet. It’ll be a long trip without conversation.”

  “You mean it will take another six hours? Why, we won’t even arrive in Cedar Springs before dark.”

  “Probably not, since the sun sets so early these days.”

  She pulled her worn travel coat tighter. “But how can the stage travel at night?”

  He shook his head. “Normally, it can’t.”

  She opened her mouth and shut it several times. “But … nobody told me that. I can’t—uh, I can’t stay alone overnight with …”

  Strange men. He finished her sentence in his mind. “I said normally it couldn’t, but I wouldn’t worry none. There’s a full moon tonight, and by the time the sun sets, we’ll be close to town. We should make it fine.”

  He hoped for her sake they did. Where was her father or escort? Didn’t she know how much danger she was putting herself in traveling alone in this rugged country?

  He shook his head. She wasn’t his concern, but at least she had nothing to fear from him. He leaned back, pulled his hat over his eyes, and crossed his arms, determined to put the lovely vision from his mind. He had his own worries. Would Pa grab the nearest rifle and shoot him for coming home? Or would he do as the father in the Bible had done when his prodigal son had returned home—kill the fatted calf and rejoice?

  Clay huffed. Not likely.

  Chapter 2

  Jolie breathed a sigh of relief when the man across from her covered his face with his hat and went to sleep. How he could rest with all the shaking and shimmying, she didn’t know, but at least he no longer watched her with those engaging eyes.

  Odd how his stare made her feel all warm inside, instead of frigid and frightened like Mr. Richter’s had. Perhaps it had to do with his being a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes the color of blueberries. Her heart had startled when she’d first glimpsed their vividness.

  She stared out the window at the barren Nevada landscape so different from the flatlands of Iowa. She’d been delighted to catch her first glimpse of the snow-covered mountains as she rode the transcontinental railroad west. She relished the pine-scented air, and even the birds were different here. She laid her head back like the other passenger, but it bounced and rocked to the left and back. Weariness made her limbs heavy, but sleep wouldn’t come. Her nerves were on fire.

  Would Mr. Peavey be at the depot in Cedar Springs to meet her? Would he be young or old? Tall or thin? How would she recognize him? What would he expect of her?

  She took a deep breath. “Stop being a ninny,” she whispered to herself. The road leveled out and became smoother. Jolie laid back her head again, and this time it wasn’t shaken half off her neck. Her eyelids closed, and her body relaxed.

  A loud noise jolted her awake. At the blast of gunfire, she sprang to the window and peered out, her breath coming in quick bursts.

  “Robbers!” The coach driver yelled.

  “Fool woman. You want to get shot?” Mr. Jackson, now in her seat, yanked her backward.

  She fell into his lap, arms flailing. “Unhand me.”

  He grabbed her arms, pinning them to her side. “Stop it. I’m trying to help.”

  A bullet ricocheted off the doorframe, sending splinters of wood flying. Her captor threw her to the dirty floor between the seats. Gunfire erupted from inside the stage as Mr. Jackson fired his revolver at their attackers. She covered her head. The odor of gunpowder mixed with the scent of dirt and wood.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  The stage seemed to pick up speed, and Jolie was jostled in all directions, unable to regain her balance enough to even sit. Mr. Jackson stepped on her leg, and she jerked, nearly knocking him on top of her.

  “Lie still,” he snapped.

  Shots fired all around. She peered up and saw light shining through a hole in the door. Glory be, it must have just missed her head. Would she even live long enough to meet her husband-to-be? “Father in heaven, help us.”

  “Amen,” Mr. Jackson yelled.

  His gun fell silent, and Jolie peeked up again. He wrestled to stay on the seat and reload his weapon at the same time. His bullets suddenly flipped out of his hand and showered down on top of her. The carriage bounced and shook as if a madman drove it.

  “Hold on,” yelled the driver.

  Jolie glanced at the window. Trees whipped past in a blur, and her heart flew up to her throat. The horses’ hooves thundered down the road, and the carriage creaked and groaned.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” the driver yelled.

  The floor slanted as the coach careened down a steep hill. Mr. Jackson slid off the seat and landed on top of her, pinning her down.

  She pressed her hand against the door, trying to brace herself. The stage rocked viciously back and forth then gradually slowed and rolled to a halt. Jolie dared to breathe again. Dared to move. But she could hardly catch a breath or budge with Mr. Jackson’s large body weighing her down. She pushed against his back, trying to lift him up, but he was too big. Too heavy. Why didn’t he move?

  “Mr. Jackson, could you please get off of me.” She jerked her legs and shoved his shoulder, but when she got no response, she lifted her head up. A large red circle stained the left shoulder of Mr. Jackson’s shirt.

  “You folks all right?” the driver asked.

  “I’m fine, but Mr. Jackson looks to have been shot. And I’m unable to move.”

  The coach creaked as the driver shook the door and finally jerked it open. He peered in, rubbing his scruffy beard. “Looks like you two had a rough ride.”

  “We’ve got to get Mr. Jackson out and see if he’s still alive.” Jolie tugged at her skirt, but it was firmly held in place by the man’s body. “Are the robbers gone?”

  The driver nodded. “Shot two of ‘em, and the other rode off like he was chasin’ the wind.” The man shook his head. “They killed my shotgun rider, Fred. Don’t know what they were after. I ain’t hauling no payroll this trip.”

  He slapped his hat against his leg. “M’name’s Bill, in case you was wonderin’.”

  “I’m Jolie Addams. Do you think you could get Mr. Jackson off my legs so I can check his wound?”

  “Reckon I could do that.” He put his arms under the wounded man’s and pulled him out the door, dragging his feet behind. Jolie sat up and reached to help, but the unconscious man’s feet dropped to the ground with a jarring thud. Mr. Jackson didn’t even blink.

  Fearing for his life, she hurried out of the stage and glanced around. Not so much as a house met her gaze. A light breeze whipped at her thin coat, sending a chill into her bones. At least the ground wasn’t dampened with snow.

  She turned her attention to Mr. Jackson, who now lay under the wide arms of a tall pine. Grimacing, Bill flexed his arm. He tugged his sleeve tight, and Jolie noticed a blood stain. “Oh, you’re hurt, too.”

  He waved his hand in the air. “‘Tain’t nothin’. Just got grazed a bit.” He stood with his hands on his hips studying the area. “It’s just about as far back to Elko as it is to Cedar Springs. And we got us a problem.”

  Jolie glanced up. “What kind of problem?”

  “One horse has a gash on its leg, and another is limping. We could ride to town, but it’s a far piece for you and him. Too bad he had to get himself shot. I’ll have to go for help.”

  “Y–you mean you’d leave us here alone?” Jolie’s gaze skittered around the tree-lined valley surrounded by tall, snowcapped mountains. “Aren’t there wild animals out here?”

  Bill shrugged. “Some, but they shouldn’t bother you. I can leave my pistol if ‘n yer worried.”

  Jolie glanced toward the stage. “Mr. Jackson had one, but I think he dropped it when he got shot.”

  Bill strode toward the coach and leaned into it. He pulled out the gun and held it up. “Found it. Same caliber as mine. That’s good.” He removed some bullets from his pocket and loaded the gun then handed it to her.

  She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know how to shoot a weapon.”

  Bill scratched his chin. “Just aim and pull the trigger. It ain’t hard.”

  Jolie eyed the gun, doubting she’d have the nerve to shoot anything. “You wouldn’t have a medical kit, would you?”

  Bill grinned, his leathery face creasing at the sides of his eyes. “We do indeed, but there ain’t much in it.” He turned and limped back toward the stage.

  Mr. Jackson moaned, drawing Jolie’s gaze to him. She reached toward him then pulled her hand back. She’d never touched a man before, other than to allow one to help her onto the stage or up steps.

  Bill returned and dropped a small weathered box beside her. He lifted the lid, and she peered inside. Just a few rolls of bandages, but that would save her from tearing up her only nightgown.

  “I … uh … do you suppose you could help me get Mr. Jackson’s arm out of his shirt?”

  Bill nodded and did as requested, and then he stood. “He’s gonna need a doctor … unless you can dig out that bullet yerself.”

  Jolie felt her eyes go wide and shook her head. “I’d only thought to bandage the wound in hopes of stopping the bleeding.”

  Bill scratched his chin. “I’ve gotta go fetch help.”

  Jolie tossed her loose hair over her shoulder and watched him stride toward the coach.

  He climbed up and then back down with a canteen and a coat in his hand. He slipped the coat on and handed her the canteen. “You two will need this more’n me. I’ll do my best to get back soon, but it may be morning. Once he comes to, y’all ought to get back in the coach. Might be a bit warmer than out here after the sun sets—and uh”—he rubbed his chin and gazed at her—”it could protect you from varmints, too. I’ll unhitch the horses then head out.”

  A million questions formed in Jolie’s mind as she laid down the canteen and gun Bill had handed her. He quickly unhitched the horses, but the stage driver was mounted and gone before she thought to voice any.

 

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