Plains of Promise (Wyoming Series Book 2)

  Plains of Promise

  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

  PLAINS OF PROMISE 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 2nd book in my Wyoming series. The series is a favorite of mine, and I loved Emma’s courage in the face of such disgrace. Isaac is the kind of man most of us long to meet. Drop me a note at colleen@colleencoble.com and let me know what you think. I love to hear from my readers!

  Love, Colleen

  For my brother, Rick Rhoads, who never let me lose faith in myself.

  Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  epilogue

  one

  The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway echoed in the shrouded darkness of the parlor. Emmie Courtney sat on the black horsehair sofa, her hands clasped in the folds of her silk skirt. Her violet eyes stared into space as she desperately tried to imagine she was some other place, that the reason her friends and neighbors were gathered here in her house on this sultry August day was something else entirely. The clatter of carriage wheels on the fine plank streets outside the open window thumped in time with the beat of her heart pounding in her ears.

  He can’t be dead. I have to wake up. This is just a nightmare. A nightmare. She repeated the litany over and over to herself as she closed her eyes to avoid the pitying eyes of her friends. Only last week her life had been perfect. Married to a handsome, up-and-coming lawyer in the rapidly burgeoning town of Wabash, Indiana, her life seemed like a fairy tale come true. The War Between the States was over, and parties and gay life were everywhere. But now her dashing husband lay newly buried in a grave under the steamy rain drizzling down outside. The nearly overpowering scent of the flowers massed around the room couldn’t quite cover the stench of decay that had wafted up from the casket and permeated the room for the last few days. That undeniable smell told her quite clearly that this wasn’t just a nightmare.

  Her neighbor, Lally Saylors, touched her shoulder gently, and Emmie looked up. “Do try to eat a bit, Emmie, dear,” Lally said with a coaxing smile. She handed her a cup of tea and a small plate with potato salad and a ham sandwich on it, then sat beside her.

  Emmie took it and forced a sip of tea down her tight throat. “I still can’t quite grasp it, you know. I keep expecting Monroe to come bursting in the door shouting for me to get my cloak and go for a drive or something. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of the horses screaming as the carriage rolled over.”

  “You were lucky to get off with only a concussion,” Lally said gently.

  “But Monroe—” Emmie broke off, too choked to continue.

  Her eyes misting with tears, Lally patted Emmie’s hand. “I know, dear.”

  It had been three marvelous months. Emmie had lived securely in a love that she’d never before experienced, a love that shone out of Monroe’s laughing brown eyes whenever he looked at her.

  “Have you thought yet about what you will do?” Lally asked.

  Emmie shook her head. “I haven’t heard from Ben and Labe since they left for the Dakota Territory six months ago. I don’t have any other family.”

  “I just hate it that you’re here all alone so far from your kin at a time like this.”

  Emmie nodded wearily. She was used to it, though. She and her brother Ben had never been close; and after her mother died when she was twelve, her father was almost always drunk until his death three years ago. She’d grown up isolated and shy in a ramshackle country home just outside town, with the animals for friends. Her brother Labe had given her sporadic attention, but Ben ignored her except when he wanted something. He had always had dreams of making the name Croftner stand for something except the town drunk. He would have approved of Monroe.

  She’d never even had a best friend and didn’t really know how to have fun until Monroe swept into her life like a whirlwind. They’d married after a courtship of only six weeks, and after three months of marriage, she still felt she hadn’t even begun to know her fascinating husband. Now she never would.

  “I’ll probably stay here at least for a while,” she told Lally. “The house is paid for and we never seemed to want for money. Surely there is enough to live on for a while if I’m careful. James is supposed to come out tomorrow to discuss my financial affairs.” She cringed at the thought of facing Monroe’s employer and his sympathy. All she wanted was to curl up here in the dark house and be left to probe her wounds alone.

  Somehow she got through the funeral and the burial until all the well-meaning friends and neighbors left with promises to call again. She shut the front door wearily, then lay down on the sofa. Through the open window she heard the happy shouts of children playing hopscotch across the street and the gentle hum of the bees in the honeysuckle just under the window. The fecund scent of the Wabash River, just down the hill, wafted in with poignant memories of happy picnics with Monroe beside its placid waters. How could things seem so normal? She bit her lip as the hot tears coursed down her cheeks, then pulled the afghan down off the back of the sofa onto her shivering body. It was hot, but she couldn’t stop shaking, a reaction to the trauma of seeing Monroe’s casket lowered into that dark, forbidding hole in the ground.

  She hadn’t been able to sleep since the accident, but now she was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open. The creaks and rattles of carriages outside on the busy street faded as she fell asleep, dreaming of Monroe’s laughing brown eyes.

  The parlor was deep in shadow when she awoke. She gazed around her in bewilderment, not sure what had awakened her. The clock still ticked in the hallway and carriages still rattled over the street outside. Then someone on the front porch banged the knocker again, and brushing at the wrinkles in her silk skirt, she lurched to the door. She felt disoriented and fuzzy-headed as she pulled the door open.

  “Emmiline Courtney?” A young woman stood on the porch with a small boy of about two in her arms. She was neatly dressed in a dark-blue serge dress with a demure white collar. Gentle brown eyes looked out from beneath a stylish though modest bonnet with a single, drooping ostrich feather.

  “Yes. May I help you?” The child reminded her of someone, but she was still too groggy from sleep and sorrow to place who it was h
e looked like. And the woman’s calm appraisal put her hackles up in some indefinable way.

  The woman looked away from her inquiring eyes, then set her small chin and looked straight into Emmie’s eyes. “May I come in? I have something of the utmost importance to discuss with you. It’s about Monroe.”

  Puzzled over the identity of her caller, Emmie nodded and led the way into the parlor. She lit two more lamps, seated the young woman on the sofa, and sank into the matching armchair facing her guest. Discarded china from the funeral dinner still littered the smooth walnut tables.

  “I’m sorry for the mess,” Emmie stammered. “The funeral and all—” She broke off on a choked sob and drew a ragged breath.

  Her visitor nodded as she settled the little boy on her lap and drew off her gloves.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Emmie’s gaze was caught by the pity in the woman’s eyes. She caught a whiff of a faint lilac sachet as the woman pleated the folds of her dress nervously. She used to wear the scent herself, but Monroe didn’t like it, so she’d switched to lily of the valley.

  The young woman drew a deep breath. “This is going to come as quite a shock to you, and I’m truly sorry for that. I’m Mrs. Monroe Courtney. Catherine Courtney. Monroe was my childhood sweetheart. We were married three years ago in Cleveland.”

  Emmie just looked at her in puzzlement. The words had no meaning to her. How odd that they were married to someone with the same name. Then the pity in the woman’s gaze penetrated her stupor. Surely the woman didn’t mean she was Monroe’s wife! Beginning to tremble with an awful premonition, she stared at the woman.

  “Surely you wondered why he never brought you to meet his family?”

  “He said they were all dead. That they died in a train accident when he was seventeen.” Emmie’s lips barely moved as she spoke in a whisper.

  Catherine’s lips tightened, and a flush stained her pale cheeks. “He has four brothers and three sisters. His mother and father are both in excellent health. They’ve been very hurt by his silence.” She opened her reticule and drew out a picture. “Here’s a family portrait of Monroe with his father and the rest of the family. It was taken just before he disappeared.”

  Emmie took the picture and stared down into Monroe’s familiar laughing eyes. An older man with a curling handlebar mustache sat in the middle of a group of young adults. There was a marked resemblance between him and the other people in the photograph. They all had the strong jawline that made Monroe so attractive, the same large, expressive eyes.

  Catherine drew a deep breath and continued with her story. “We had an argument one day. It was silly—over nothing, really. But he’d been acting restless and short tempered for several weeks. He took off, and I never heard from him again until I saw his obituary in the Cleveland Plain Dealer. He didn’t even know about Richard here.” She indicated the little boy, who had his thumb corked in his mouth. “He was never very good at responsibility. Even as a child he enjoyed pretending to be someone he wasn’t. There were spells when he’d take off, but he always returned in a few weeks. This was the longest he’d ever been gone. I heard he passed himself off as a lawyer here, too. Actually he only got about halfway through law school before he grew bored and quit.”

  “You have proof of this?” Emmie asked, the numbness beginning to wear off. Monroe already married? Where did that leave her? She couldn’t seem to take in the horror of her situation. Bigamy. The very word brought a wave of shame and nausea. Monroe had always seemed mysterious. That had been part of his magnetism. And it was true he was easily bored. But his eagerness for new adventure was part of his charm.

  “I have an affidavit from his father and my marriage lines, of course. I will present them to your lawyer tomorrow.”

  “Then this house, his possessions, it all belongs to you,” Emmie said numbly.

  Catherine nodded gently. “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for Richard. But my family is poor and Monroe’s father has been supporting me and Richard. But he’s struggling, too. I heard that Monroe had amassed a small holding here. It’s only Richard’s due that he inherit his father’s possessions. You’re young, and you don’t have a baby to worry about. And you can always go home to your family.”

  Emmie wanted to burst into tears and wail aloud. But she was too numb to react. There was a certain contempt mixed in with the pity in the woman’s face. Emmie was sure Catherine thought she was a fool for believing Monroe’s lies.

  And I was, she thought with self-contempt.

  Catherine stood and pulled her gloves back on. “I’ll leave you to consider all I’ve told you. If you need to contact me, I’ll be at the Blue Goose Inn.” She stared down at Emmie’s face, mute with anguish and disbelief. “I’m truly sorry.”

  The blood thundering in her ears, Emmie watched Catherine gather her son into her arms and leave with a last, pitying look. That’s who the child looked like, she realized with a final horror. He was a younger version of Monroe right down to the pouting upper lip. She sat rigidly in the chair with her hands clenched. What was she going to do now? There was no way to contact Ben and Labe. No one to take her in. The townspeople were kind enough, but times were too hard in the aftermath of the war for one of them to consider taking on a new burden. She couldn’t ask it. This was just another instance of the feckless Croftners. She shuddered in shame. What a heyday the gossips would have with this.

  Well, it was too late to do anything tonight. Tomorrow she would talk to James about her options. She blew out the lamps and climbed the open stairway to the room she’d shared with Monroe. Repugnance overwhelmed her as she stepped into the familiar room and smelled the faint, sweet scent of Monroe’s hair tonic. The big four-poster bed with its lace coverlet looked cold and alien. She couldn’t sleep there, she decided. She took her nightgown and went down the hall to one of the spare rooms. The realization that she was ruined was beginning to sink in. But she couldn’t think about it tonight. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

  §

  Two days later, as she sat in the overstuffed chair in the law office of Taylor and Eddingfield, Emmie felt as though she couldn’t handle any more shocks. Catherine had left her documents with James Eddingfield, Monroe’s employer, to check. James looked through his wire-rimmed glasses and pursed his thin lips as he studied the documents.

  “These seem to all be in order,” he said grudgingly.

  “Do I have any rights at all?” Emmie asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Only what you brought into the so-called marriage. Your personal belongings and any dowry.”

  “I didn’t have a dowry yet. When Ben’s bills were settled, he told Monroe he could have what was left. The house Ben promised us as my dowry is still tied up until his debts are paid. I don’t have any money until then.” Ben had fled town after Rand Campbell had returned from the War Between the States and everyone discovered he had lied when he claimed Rand had died. Ben had wanted to marry Rand’s fiancée, Sarah Montgomery. When the townspeople found out about his deceit, all his debts had been called in. Rather than face what he’d done, he had taken off out west.

  “The law, unfortunately, is all on Catherine’s side. And she does have a child to consider.”

  For just a moment Emmie wondered what she would do if she discovered she were pregnant also. But the thought was too shameful to consider, so she pushed it away.

  James took her hand. “Is there no one who would take you in? Your brothers, perhaps?”

  She didn’t like the feel of his moist hand or the way he was looking at her, and she tried to discreetly pull her hand away. “No one. I don’t even know where Ben and Labe are.”

  James squeezed her hand tighter, then lifted it to his lips. “I’ve always admired you, my dear Emmie. And, uh, tendered a certain regard for you. I would consider it an honor to be allowed to take care of you. There’s a lovely little house on Sherman Street I own. Secluded and private. I could visit you there and see to all your needs.�
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  The meaning of his words eluded Emmie for a few moments, but the greedy look in his eyes didn’t. She gasped when she realized at last what he meant. She dragged her hand out of his grasp and rose shakily. “I thought you were Monroe’s friend—and mine!”

  “You’re soiled goods now, my dear. What I offer is the best you can hope for once everyone knows you lived with Monroe without benefit of marriage.”

  “That’s not my fault—I thought I was married,” she whispered. She felt shamed and unclean. Was there something about her looks that made men think she was a loose woman? She’d always wondered if she was truly a Croftner. Her raven black hair and violet eyes were so very different from her brothers’ fair hair and eyes.

  “Perhaps. Who can say for sure what you really believed? At least that’s what people will say,” he said with a tight smile.

  She gathered up her reticule, nausea rising in her throat, and stumbled toward the door. She had to get out of here. “I’d scrub clothes before I degraded myself like that,” she whispered.

  “You’ll come crawling back when you see no one in polite society will accept you,” he shouted as she closed the door behind her.

  A half hour later, drained and disheartened, she let herself inside the cool, dark house she’d called home for three months. Mrs. Matthew must have been here while she was gone—she could smell the faint scent of lemon and wax, and the house shone as it always did after her part-time housekeeper’s ministrations. It would probably be the last time Mrs. Matthew deigned to work for her once the town knew about her shame, she thought. Not that she could afford her now, of course. Her steps echoed on the oak floor as she took off her bonnet and walked wearily to the parlor. The house seemed so empty and desolate. Was it just a week ago that the house rang with voices and laughter at the elegant dinner party they’d had?

  She looked around at her home. She’d brought so few personal belongings. She wouldn’t even be allowed to take enough to set up housekeeping elsewhere. Just her mother’s cedar chest packed with a few linens, her own clothing, and a chipped Chippendale tea set that had belonged to her grandmother.