The Heart Answers (Wyoming Series Book 3) Read online

  The Heart Answers

  by Colleen Coble

  “Coble’s books have it all, romance, sass, suspense, action. I’m content to read a book that has any one of those but to find an author like Coble who does all four so well is my definition of bliss.”

  Mary Connealy, author of Doctor in Petticoats

  Copyright © 2012 by Colleen Coble

  First published in the United States by Barbour 1999

  THE HEART ANSWERS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The Publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design by Kim Killion

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  DEAR READER,

  I’m excited to be able to share my first series with you! This is the 3rd book in my Wyoming series. I so enjoyed Jessica’s transformation from selfish debutante to strong woman. Some of the books that have stayed with me the longest have been ones where the character growth is wide, and this is one of my favorites. Drop me a note at [email protected] and let me know what you think. I love hearing from my readers!

  Love, Colleen

  For my parents, George and Peggy Rhoads, who have always believed I could do anything. Thanks for always being there for me.

  Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  epilogue

  one

  “You’re what?!” Jessica DuBois raised her normally well-modulated voice to a near shriek.

  “A lady never raises her voice, dear,” her mother admonished. She dotted a few crumbs of toast and jam from her lips and rose to her feet. “Your Uncle Samuel is alone with three young children who need a mother. You and I need a home, and Samuel has graciously offered us one. I haven’t wanted to worry you, but I really was at my wits’ end when I learned there would be so little money for us to live on.”

  “But what about Boston?” Jessica jumped to her feet and nearly tripped over her blue wool gown. She tugged at it, impatient with her unaccustomed clumsiness. “Papa has only been dead a month! How can you even think about marrying another man so quickly? What would Papa say?” In truth, she cared less about what her father would say than about her spoiled plans.

  “He would be glad you and I were provided for,” her mother said gently. “Now I really must begin to pack. The troop leaves in two days, and I promised Samuel we would get to Fort Bridger as quickly as we could.”

  Jessica watched in disbelief as her mother gathered her skirt in her hand and swished from the room. Fort Bridger! She wanted the bright lights of Boston, concerts, social life, and teas with her friends.

  What friends? She shrugged the thought away. Her mother couldn’t do this to her! She didn’t want to be buried in some backwater ever again. She’d had all she could stand of soldiers and dust and months-old news. And humiliation. Until coming to this wilderness, she’d had no shortage of admirers all fighting for the chance to spend some time with her. Not that there was a shortage now. But until coming west, no man had ever rejected her. Her lips tightened at the unpleasant memories.

  Men were so gullible. First Rand Campbell, then Isaac Liddle had thrown her over for some namby-pamby woman. Why couldn’t they see how much more beautiful and desirable she was? Jessica tossed her red curls and scowled.

  She walked restlessly to the front window and looked out on Fort Phil Kearney’s snow-covered parade ground. The March sunshine was beginning to melt some of the snow, but the incessant wind still poked icy fingers into everything. A few soldiers bent into the gale as they hurried to the warmth of the sutler’s store across the way.

  She would be glad to get out of this place. She didn’t want to run into Rand or Isaac ever again. And she hated the pity in their wives’ eyes whenever they met. Emmie Liddle, in particular, irritated her beyond all reason.

  A new thought occurred to her, and her eyes widened. Why couldn’t she go to Boston without her mother? She could stay with her aunt, as distasteful as that might be.

  She hurried across the hall and interrupted her mother’s packing. “I’m going to stay with Aunt Penelope,” she announced without preamble.

  Her mother sighed and turned to face her. “I’m sorry, dear, but that just is not possible.”

  “Why not?” Jessica allowed her lower lip to tremble, a technique that usually worked wonders on her parents. A single tear escaped from her lashes. She saw her mother wince, and Jessica suppressed a smile of triumph.

  Her mother bit her lip. “There just isn’t enough money to send you back to Boston. I’m afraid your father—” She put her hand to her mouth. “Perhaps by spring I can save enough from your father’s pension to purchase a stage ticket.”

  Jessica stamped her foot. “I can’t go to Fort Bridger, Mama! I just can’t!” She felt near panic at the thought of continuing to live in this desert.

  Her mother put out a placating hand. “I’m sure it won’t be for long, darling. And Samuel says Fort Bridger is very pleasant. Lovely mountains, clear streams, and no dangerous natives. The only Indians he has seen since he arrived are friendly Shoshone. Please try to make the best of it.”

  But Jessica wasn’t about to give in graciously. “Well, don’t expect me to help with those brats of Uncle Samuel’s! Especially Miriam. I told you and Papa years ago I didn’t want to ever see her again!” She whirled and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. How dare her mother force her to go even further west than this desolate place? What could have possessed her to agree to such a harebrained scheme?

  Jessica remembered the last time she had seen Uncle Samuel and his family. His three children had teased her unmercifully, especially Miriam. She knew Jessica had been adopted, and Miriam had poked fun at her.

  Jessica flinched at the painful memories, the nightmares that had plagued her for years. She would never forget the years of cold and hunger in the small shanty with her brother Jasper. One cold December night her mother had gone out partying and never returned. The police had come and taken her and Jasper away to an orphanage. She’d never seen her brother or her mother again.

  Then her adoptive parents had arrived, taken one look at her beautiful face and red curls, and claimed her as their own. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Papa had always told her he was a sucker for a beautiful woman. He’d made such a big thing of her beauty that she had always wondered if he would have picked her if she were plain.

  Jessica threw herself across her bed and buried her face in her arms. She wanted to go to Boston! She needed activity to keep the memories at bay. Her father had always told her she was beautiful, and now she needed to find someone else to tell her. She had to think of a way to get out of this place. Surely she would be able to get around her mother; she had always been able to get her mother to give in to her wishes in the past. She would surely think of something.

  §

  But two days later J
essica found herself standing outside an army ambulance wagon with the wind and snow blowing about their little, well-guarded convoy. The trip would be long and dangerous. Several of the wives and daughters had gathered to say good-bye to them.

  Jessica glimpsed Sarah Campbell and Emmie Liddle and turned her head. She didn’t want to have to speak to them, but she didn’t have any choice. Sarah touched her arm, and she steeled herself to face them. Both Sarah and Emmie wore identical expressions of concern on their faces.

  “Jessica, I just wanted to ask you to forgive me for any hurt I’ve caused you in the past,” Sarah said gently.

  “Me, too,” Emmie put in. “We don’t want to part as enemies. We just want you to know that we’ll be praying for you.”

  Jessica narrowed her eyes and stared at them. Pray for her? What made them think she needed their prayers? Did they think they were so much better than an orphanage foundling that their prayers mattered more than her own? “I don’t need your prayers,” she spat. “I’ll be just fine.” She pointedly turned away from them as other ladies came to say good-bye.

  When she turned around, she was relieved to see that they had gone. The nerve of those two! How dare they sit in judgment on her! Pray for her, indeed. She didn’t need any prayers, especially from them. She was beautiful, and she would make her own way in the world. She swallowed hard past a sudden lump in her throat, then gathered her skirts and climbed into the ambulance.

  §

  Clay Cole reined in Misty, his bay mare, and looked back over the trail he had just covered. The wind tried to tease his wide-brimmed hat from his head, but it was jammed on too tightly. He took out his red bandanna and wiped his face and neck. After traveling mostly at night, he was nearly to Fort Casper; now he could finally begin to travel in the light of day. Most of the Sioux were north, terrorizing the forts along the Bozeman trail. Throughout the entire year of 1866, they had carried out a war against forts like Fort Phil Kearney and Fort C. F. Smith further north into Montana. The region had buzzed with the news of over eighty men slaughtered at Fort Phil Kearney two and a half months ago.

  He yawned mightily and stretched his cramped muscles, then turned his mare’s head into the wind and started down the trail again. At least the spring thaw had set in early this year. A few days ago, the snow had begun to melt, though the wind still blew. He rounded a curve and came to a sudden halt.

  The sound of shots and shrieks made him dig his heels into his mare’s flank and pull his rifle loose. About a dozen Indians circled an army train just ahead. The soldiers had formed a protective circle and were firing methodically at the war tribe. Clay let out a whoop of his own and shot his rifle into the air.

  A fearsomely painted Sioux turned. When he saw Clay’s thundering approach, he wheeled, signaling to his band to retreat. Clay knew they thought he was bringing reinforcements. He howled again, and his charge scattered the last of the Sioux. He reined in Misty and cantered on into the circle of wagons.

  A woman with red curls peered fearfully from the back of an ambulance, and he waved at her. After a moment, she waved hesitantly and withdrew back inside the ambulance.

  A young lieutenant with thin brown hair cantered up to him. “Howdy, Preacher. You showed up in the nick of time. I was a bit surprised you fired on them, though. I thought you didn’t believe in violence.”

  Clay grinned. “I can fight when I have to, Tom. Today wasn’t one of those times, though. I just gave them a good excuse to leave.”

  The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. “Whatever you did worked. Thanks.”

  “Thank God, Tom.”

  Tom reddened and cut his gaze to the left of Clay’s ear. “You can do the praying, Preacher. I don’t have the knack for it.” He turned his horse’s head and galloped back to the front of the wagon train.

  Clay watched him go with a rueful grin. He’d been witnessing to young Tom Harris for over a year now. He was discouraged that he wasn’t seeing more fruit from his ministry yet. But here was where the Lord had called him, and here he would stay unless God decreed otherwise.

  He fell into line with the convoy, and the remainder of the trip into Fort Casper was uneventful. The wind cut through his coat in spite of the weak sunshine, and Clay longed for the warmth of a fire and a hot cup of coffee.

  Just before dusk, he saw the smoke from Fort Casper ahead and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew the soldiers felt the same. He wondered briefly about the young woman he’d seen in the ambulance. What was she doing traveling in the middle of March? Perhaps she’d lost a husband recently; he made a mental note to check on her tomorrow and offer her some comfort from God’s Word.

  The mess hall was crowded when he made his way inside. He heard a shout and turned to see a young tornado running across the room. “Uncle Clay!” Three-year-old Franny hurtled toward him. She always called him uncle, although they were actually cousins.

  He swung her into his arms and turned to look for Franny’s parents, Ellen and Martin, his closest friends. He saw Ellen seated near the stove and made his way to her side, with Franny clinging to his neck.

  Ellen rose with a gentle smile as he neared. “I didn’t expect to see you back from Montana so quickly, Clay. But I’m glad you’re here.” Her words were low and choked with emotion.

  Clay searched her eyes, and his heart jumped at the grief he found there. “What’s happened?” He didn’t think he really wanted to hear the answer.

  Ellen swallowed hard, and her lips trembled. “Martin was killed in a skirmish last week.”

  Clay went very still. He and Martin were first cousins, but their relationship had always been that of brothers. He tried to speak past the lump in his throat, but all that came out was a clicking sound.

  Ellen touched his arm. “Let’s go to our quarters. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”

  A few minutes later he was seated at their kitchen table with a cup of steaming coffee in his trembling hand and Franny on his knee. His eyes blurring, he stared into the dark liquid and tried to get his thoughts around the fact of Martin’s death. He would never see Martin’s gap-toothed smile again, or the way his hair stuck up in a funny cowlick. He raised his head and looked into Ellen’s grief-stricken eyes. “What will you and Franny do now?”

  She sighed heavily. “I really don’t know. I have to vacate these quarters next week. I suppose I could go home, but I love it out here. I can’t quite bear the thought of going back to Indiana and leaving Martin in the cemetery on the hill. If I could just find some kind of job, I’d stay.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I even asked about taking on the post laundry, but Major Larson wouldn’t hear of it. Maybe at another fort where no one knew Martin I’d have better luck.”

  “I could get you on at Bridger,” Clay said impulsively. He hated to see her take on such a hard task, but he knew there weren’t many jobs around for a woman. Not decent women, anyway. At least at Bridger he could check on Ellen and Franny occasionally.

  Ellen immediately brightened. “Oh, Clay, that would be wonderful!”

  Before he could respond, someone knocked on the door. Ellen rose and hurried to see who it was. The wind howled through the open door and nearly knocked over the two women standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, you poor dears.” Ellen’s soft voice was full of concern. “Come in by the fire.” She ushered them inside and took their wraps.

  Clay raised his eyebrows at the sight of the young woman he’d seen in the back of the ambulance. Big blue eyes shone from a face with skin so translucent it looked like porcelain. But Clay was immune to her lustrous red curls and shapely figure. His five sisters had plagued him with their constant preoccupation with their looks, and now he found himself more drawn to a beautiful inner character than to outward looks. Still, there was something about the beautiful redhead that was intriguing.

  §

  Jessica was so glad to be out of the ambulance with her feet on solid ground, she didn’t even mind the rude accommodations. The ti
ny cabin was hardly any bigger than her bedroom back in Fort Phil Kearney, but it was warm and homey and smelled wonderfully of coffee and yeast from the fresh bread on the table. Her mouth watered at the smell.

  Her gaze traveled to the figure standing behind their hostess, and her eyes widened when she realized it was the same man who had driven off the Indians earlier in the day. Now there was a man! He was very tall, with massive arms, broad shoulders, and a narrowed waist, dark hair, and hazel eyes above a Roman nose. He held a tiny blond girl in his arms, and she felt a pang of disappointment at the thought that the child might be his. If he was unattached, he might be a pleasant diversion for the evening. She sent him a tiny smile, but he just nodded politely.

  Her mother fluttered her hands. “My dear Mrs. Branson, we do so apologize for barging in this way. The commanding officer, Major Larson, assured us that you were used to taking in strays. We do beg your hospitality. I’m Letty DuBois, and this is my daughter Jessica.”

  Jessica fixed her blue eyes on Ellen and tossed her head imperiously. “I wouldn’t turn down some of that coffee I smell.” Why did her mother always sound so apologetic? One must take charge of a situation or be taken advantage of. And Jessica wasn’t about to let anyone take advantage of her. She was used to having the best of everything.

  Letty colored at her daughter’s tone, then bobbed her head. “Your coffee does smell wonderful,” she admitted. “We could smell it from the porch.”

  Ellen smiled. “Sit down at the table, and I’ll bring you both a cup of coffee and some bread. It’s still warm.” She led the way to the kitchen and grabbed two coffee cups. “This is Clay Cole and my daughter Franny. Say hello, Franny.”

  “ ’Lo,” the little girl mumbled. Her eyes were round with astonishment as she gazed at Jessica. She wiggled, and Clay set her on the floor. She hesitantly drew closer to Jessica and touched the soft material of her gown. “You’re pretty,” she announced.