A Fugitive Heart on the Trail to Love (Preview)

Chapter One

June 3, 1853 – Red Hollow, Arkansas

“It’s a chicken.”

Clara’s jaw dropped open. She looked from her stepmother to her half-burnt creation, still warm and smelling faintly of scorched butter. “It’s a duck!” she defended the small mound.

“It may be, but mine is still clearly a cloud.” Rose smiled proudly down at her own perfectly round biscuit.

“Of course it still looks like a cloud, clouds are shapeless. Even if mine is a chicken, it still took more skill than a cloud.” Clara crossed her arms, looking at her stepmother with annoyed amusement.

Though she had been her stepmother since Clara was a teenager, Rose was only a handful of years older, with dark tresses Clara had always envied. Rose had guided her through adolescence, and over the past twelve years had slowly grown into her closest friend.

“I don’t know who made you the judge, anyway. You may think you won, but I’ve decided that I’m the winner,” Clara asserted.

“We need someone to break the tie, then,” Rose said. “Jonah?”

They both looked at the small bundle in the basin next to the table.

“Gah,” Jonah said, sensing the attention.

The gravity of the matter melted into laughter at the tiny babble.

“That’s right,” Clara agreed with her infant half-brother. “I did win.”

“Alright, I’ll give it to you this time,” Rose relented. ”But the rules are changing starting tomorrow.

The biscuits have to look like what you intended—no accidental creations.”

“Fine, then shapeless objects are banned too.”

“Fine,” Rose parroted.

Plopping in the high-backed chair positioned next to Jonah’s basin, Clara peered into the knitted blue blankets.

“Gaaaah,” Jonah said, his tiny face puckered with curiosity and a bit of irritation. Hair as dark as his mother’s tufted from his head in gentle disarray, but it was Clara’s own sharp green eyes that stared up at her.

“Gah,” Clara threw back to him.

“You know, if you spoke actual words, he might learn to talk faster. He’s almost a year, he’ll be talking any day now,” Rose advised, scrubbing the pan they’d used for the biscuits.

“But then how would I learn his language?”

Rose shook her head, then put her hand to her temple.

“Is it another fit?” Clara asked, concerned.Rose waved her away. “My eyes have been poor today. Just a headache, like any of the others since Jonah’s birth.”

The clatter of carriage wheels sounded out the window and Rose’s relaxed expression vanished.

Clara and Rose looked at each other. Dropping the pan and picking up Jonah, Rose called for the maid while Clara hid away the misshapen biscuits in a covered basket on top of the ice box. Rose handed the baby off to the maid with instructions to put him down for a nap as Clara laid out the round biscuits prettily on the table.

They had just sat down and straightened their skirts when the door opened.

“Ah. Welcome home, darling,” Rose said, smiling warmly.

Clara’s father gave his daughter and wife a cursory glance, placing his hat on the rack.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Silas McGraw was as burly as his name portended. He had a thick upper body, a wiry mustache and skin leathered by his years under the sun. Clara took after her father, but a sturdy build settled into pleasing, capable curves on a young woman who barely spent any time at all under the sun.

“Pa, we’ve just finished baking some biscuits. You want one?”

Silas ignored his daughter and spoke to his wife. “I thought I told you the boys dirtied the porch while smoking last night. It’s still covered in mud.”

“Yes, I was just about to get to that,” Rose assured him. “The maid has been busy making up Jonah’s new crib. He should be able to sleep on his own soon.” When her husband didn’t bother sharing in her excitement, Rose turned to her stepdaughter and Clara grinned back in solidarity.

“Well, get to it soon,” Silas instructed. “No man likes coming home to a messy house.”

“Yes, dear,” Rose said, her unbothered smile still in place after years of practice. “How are your men today?”

“Don’t mind my men.” Silas looked around the room. The kitchen was a tall, open room at the east end of the sprawling McGraw ranch house. Morning sunlight filtered through the propped windows, illuminating the tidy space and the warm scent of freshly cooked bread.

Seeing the room the same as he did, Clara couldn’t imagine what he could find to complain about. “Rose is having trouble with her head again,” she said as a distraction.

Silas leveled a glare at his daughter. “Stop pestering me about the headaches. You heard the doctor the first time. Women get headaches after birthing. It’s natural.”

“He also said to let him know if they persisted,” Clara said, biting down on a sharper response.

“They’re persisting.”

“Don’t talk back to me, girl. Rose is fine. Rose?”

Rose put her hand placatingly on Clara’s, steady but cold, a warning more than comfort. “I’m fine. Don’t I look fine today, Clara?”

Clara pinched her lips together.

Silas sniffed. “Make sure you’re wearing something presentable tomorrow,” he said, addressing Clara. “I’ve just signed a contract with Eli. You’re gonna be a married woman by Sunday evening.”

Rose looked up, her face going pale. Slowly Clara lowered her biscuit, gathering her sanity as she did so. “Sorry?”

“Don’t play deaf now, I don’t want trouble over this. Eli’s loyal, been a son to me, so you’ll be marrying him and making him one.”

Clara took a slow breath. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t want to trouble you over something as trivial as my life changing completely by tomorrow.”

“Watch your tone, girl.” Silas glared at her and Clara fought a battle to contain her own.

“I would just like to talk about it,” Clara managed to say civilly.

“We did. I told you it was gonna happen. Now get to making it happen.” Silas looked at her, his eyes sparking.

Clara held his gaze. “Yes, Pa,” she said finally, without inflection.

Silas grunted approval. His boot steps echoed on his way to his study.

He would call it proper submission. But Clara knew it to be survival, passed down from mother-to-daughter for as long as men had been cruel.

She looked at Rose. Her stepmother’s complexion had gone from pale to a familiar sickly sheen. Rushing to her side, Clara knelt by her chair, clasping her hands.

“Rose, you need to be laying down. I’ll call for the maid.”

“No, Clara, listen to me.” There was urgency in Rose’s dark eyes. “You can’t marry Eli.”

“Of course I’m not going to marry Eli. The man’s a rat, no better than Pa. I’ll tell him so tomorrow.”

“He won’t listen. Neither of them will.”

“Then I’ll figure something out. Rose, don’t you worry about me, I’ve survived this long. Been through worse,” Clara laughed with poor humor. “Really, you don’t look well. Please, go lay down, I’ll take care of everything.”

Rose shook her head. “No, this has gone on too long. And Jonah is big enough now. Clara.” She lowered her voice, and Clara leaned in.

Rose’s eyes cast around the room. Leaving Clara sitting there, Rose rummaged through one cupboard before coming back to sit. Surreptitiously, she showed Clara the three crinkled papers in her hands.

Clara gasped. “Are those—”

“Clara.” Rose glanced at the door again. “These are for the stagecoach. In two days, it’s headed Southwest.”

“Me, you, and Jonah?” Clara whispered, her heart beating with a new intensity.

Rose nodded with a true smile that had survived her decade as Silas McGraw’s wife. “You, me, and Jonah,” she whispered back. “You don’t have to convince your pa out of the marriage, you only have to ask for a week to get used to the idea. But we’ll be gone by then.”

“I can do that,” Clara said breathlessly.

“My sister is in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Caroline will take us in; her new husband is the mayor’s attorney. They’ll be able to protect us, if your pa follows us.”

“If he even cares enough to.”

Rose pursed her lips, her breathing long and deep, and Clara knew she was struggling to remain upright.

“Okay, Rose. I’m with you. In two days, we’ll get on that stage and we’ll never see this cursed place again.” Clara smiled at her stepmother. Unable to resist, she leaned over and gave her a long hug. “Rest, now, you hear? Save your strength.”

Rose nodded again, too fatigued to reply.

“Rose!”

The call wasn’t angry, but the expectation was immediacy.

“I’ll rest in a bit,” Rose said, standing. “And Clara, if anything happens to me—”

“Don’t be silly,” Clara interrupted.

“If anything happens to me,” Rose repeated, “take Jonah and run.”

“Rose,” Clara muttered.

“Rose!” The call came again with growing impatience.

“Promise me.”

“Fine,” Clara snapped. “If you kick it early, then I’ll grab the baby and never, never look back. You can trust that if you never trust another thing again. Happy?”

“Yes,” Rose smiled, “I am.”

“Rose!”

Placing a quick kiss on her stepdaughter’s forehead, Rose picked up her skirts and walked steadily to the door while calling out a placating response.

Left alone, Clara wiped the back of her hand to her eyes, not appreciating the unease Rose forced onto her.

Nothing would happen to Rose, the woman who had held Clara’s hand through scraped knees, and learning how to be a woman, while still doing some growing up herself.

Clara dropped her head into her hands. She had a lot to think over, and it seemed she had two days to do it.

But first, she had to ask for a reprieve from the wedding. The wedding that’s tomorrow!

Clara pressed her lips together until the anger settled into something colder. She would think of a way that a delay might sound beneficial to Silas McGraw.

Chapter 2

June 3, 1853 – Red Hollow, Arkansas

“Lydia! Damn it. Lydia!”

People were staring, but Caleb Hart couldn’t care less. His wayward daughter had disappeared again, and all of the onlookers could either give him a hand, or get out of his way. The wagon train had only been unhitched in Red Hollow for a few hours, and already she had wandered away.

Or snuck away, was more like it. If Caleb told his daughter to sit for supper, she’d be sure to stand. She was only twelve. Too young to be this much trouble. Too young to be in a strange town by herself.

He put his hand to his hat as sweat prickled under the August sun. He’d learned long ago not to panic when she took off; he didn’t have enough energy for it anyway. He was tired. Lydia had spent most of the last leg of the wagon train’s journey content, playing with some of the smaller girls. He’d thought maybe she was finding some sort of peace.

Obviously, he was wrong.

Once again he cursed the federal surveyors that insisted the wagon train travel so far east of the Indian Territory. He always felt more comfortable guiding the train though the small, mixed settlements near the border rather than venturing deeper into Arkansas.

He spotted a pair of dark braids through a window and relief swept through him. The sign above the door read BAKER’S.

“Lydia Hart,” Caleb ground out, the scent of fresh bread and sugar hit him as he entered.

Lydia swung around, her braids flying over her shoulder. Her surprised expression turned sour upon seeing him.

Caleb started for her, grabbing her arm, ready to dangle her upside down to empty her pockets if he had to.

Before he could say a word, a hand came between them. “Excuse me,” came a woman’s voice.

To Caleb’s shock, he was forced to let her go as someone squeezed between him and his recalcitrant offspring.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman demanded.

She was a handful of years younger than him in a simple working dress, sleeves rolled to the elbows, copper hair catching the sunlight. But it was her eyes that caught his attention. Sharp green eyes, alert and unflinching, stared up at him.

“Who the hell am I?”

“That’s right. Who the hell are you. And I better like your answer else you’ll be wishing it was the sheriff’s office you stomped into with that chip on your shoulder.”

Caleb stared down at the woman in the apron, having been completely caught off guard. Lydia looked just as taken aback as he, gazing up at the interfering shopwoman. As he realized what the situation was, Caleb sighed, backing up a step.

My name’s Caleb Hart,” he said, taking off his hat politely. “I’m the wagon master with a train camped in the east valley. Lydia’s my daughter. I’m sorry to charge in here like this—she has a nasty habit of running off when she’s not supposed to.”

From behind the woman, Lydia’s jaw pushed out defiantly. If he thought that his words would close the matter, he would’ve been wrong again.

The woman didn’t move, nor did she soften. “And why does she find it necessary to run off so often?”

Caleb understood her concern, but the accusation that Lydia had reason to run away was another stuck pin in his bad morning.

“I’m not the one that ran away. If you want to ask the girl, then she’s right here now isn’t she?”
Both he and the woman turned to Lydia. She shuffled her feet, eyes flicking from Caleb to the shopwoman, hands clutching the hem of her dress.

During the tense moment, Caleb’s jaw clenched and fingers twitched at his side as he ran through the defense he’d give if the sheriff were summoned.

“Yeah, he’s my pa,” Lydia finally said reluctantly. She stepped out from behind the woman and stood next to him, looking unhappy.

The shopwoman didn’t look satisfied either, but before she could say anything, Caleb turned to Lydia. “Turn your pockets out.”

To his amazement, Lydia didn’t argue. She reached into the pockets sewn into her dress, fingers fumbling as she handed over the pile of confectionaries. Her chin dipped, gaze fixed on the worn floorboards as she muttered, “I’m sorry.”

She was feeling shame, Caleb realized. The shopwoman had defended Lydia, yet Lydia had stolen from her. A small, proud curve came to Caleb’s lips. He pulled his daughter into him by the side of her head, ruffling her neat braids as her warm head pressed against his side. Lydia squeaked and ducked away, though she didn’t move from his side.

The shopwoman’s green eyes narrowed slightly as she watched them, lips pursed. For a heartbeat, Caleb thought he saw a flicker of confusion cross her face before it vanished.

“Well, I know when I’ve been beat,” the woman said, bustling behind the counter. Laying the pile of confections out, she picked up one and tossed it to Lydia.

“Thank you for returning them,” the shopwoman said, sharing a smile with the girl. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, mister,” she addressed Caleb.

The woman moved with a confident ease. Despite the fact that he had been her adversary, Caleb couldn’t help respecting it. Rarely did people make a scene for nothing but the benefit of a stranger. It was admirable in man or woman.

Caleb took the confection from Lydia’s hands, ignoring her cry of protest. “Thank you, but I don’t reward thieves.”

The shopwoman took the treat when he handed it back, but she didn’t put it away. Instead, Caleb found himself the recipient of a powerfully curious green-eyed stare.

“With all due respect, mister,” she began in a tone that told Caleb she was about to stick her pretty nose where it didn’t belong, “if your aim is that she knows she did wrong, then you succeeded.”

She held the confection back out to him.

Normally, criticism of his parenting would’ve sent Caleb into a black mood, but the sure way the woman spoke had him hesitating. He looked at his daughter, who already had familiar angry tears in her eyes. Hadn’t he just admitted she felt shame? Lydia knew she was wrong, and he so rarely seemed to make her happy these days.

“Just this once,” he said sternly, taking the confection and handing it to Lydia.

His daughter took it as if she didn’t believe it. She blinked rapidly, then turned to the woman and offered her a little, “Thank you.”

The woman leaned on the worn wood of the counter, elbows planted, her green eyes crinkling at the edges as she returned the smile.

Caleb set his hat on his head, taking a long look at the woman. She saw him looking and she didn’t shy away. Inch for inch, she gave him the same once-over that he gave her.

His first impression had been right. In her early twenties, she wore a working dress with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and wielded a gaze as bold as brass. She didn’t have a ring on her finger, but somehow, as beautiful as she was, that didn’t surprise him.

He imagined she put many men off, and that thought made the corner of his mouth lift almost imperceptibly.

Caleb tilted his hat in his own thank you and she nodded graciously in return, understanding.

“Come on, Lydie,” he said, urging his daughter out with a hand on her back. She grumbled at the diminutive, but followed him willingly enough.

As the door to the bakery closed behind them, Lydia turned to him. “I need some more thread. My sleeping roll’s got a hole in it.” She wasn’t looking him in the eye, but he thought that was more out of embarrassment than because she was lying.

Caleb glanced at the general store across the way, then at his daughter, feeling a flicker of leniency. He nodded toward it, and Lydia took off without a word.

“Keep your hands clean!” he yelled, stepping more leisurely after.

Before he even moved off the baker’s porch, the door opened again. Looking back, Caleb found the shopwoman moving purposefully toward him.

“Here,” she said, holding out a small, round cake. Caleb’s fingers twitched but stayed at his sides. With a small sigh, she pressed it into his palm, her hand warm against his.

“I didn’t buy—”

“It’s for your daughter,” the woman said. “She was eyeing this one up and down. I know you don’t want to reward her, but she seems like a good child, and little girls have it hard enough.” Her brow arched slightly, lips pressed in a thin line, a hint of annoyance softening as her green eyes held his. Reluctantly, she added, “And you seem like you love your daughter.”

Caleb didn’t protest, thinking she probably wouldn’t allow him to even if he had a mind to.

This was a woman that could be fascinating to get to know. If he planned to stay in town, he’d be tempted to see that he did. Rarely did the urge take him. Fortunately, he’d be gone tomorrow with the dawn and there was no question of it.

He opened his mouth, but at that moment a crash came from inside the general store. “Silas McGraw ain’t nothin!” one man was yelling, his back visible through the store window.

Caleb was already moving toward the other porch, tucking the wrapped cake in his coat. His last impression of the woman was a shuttered expression as she stared at the general store. The commotion hadn’t seemed to alarm her, which gave Caleb a small peace of mind as he slammed his way into yet another of Red Hollow’s storefronts.

The cramped store smelled faintly of flour and oil; barrels lined the walls. Two men blocked the door, shoulders squared, while a short, bespectacled man, who Caleb took for the clerk, hovered near a shelf of goods, frowning at Caleb’s sudden entrance.

One glance around the small room told him Lydia was hiding.

“What’s going on here?” Caleb asked, ignoring the clerk and addressing the other two. One was a beefy farmer, red in the face with anger. The other was skinny, squirrelly, and looked ready and willing to shoot.

“None of your business, mister,” growled the latter.

“Well, if it’s none of my business, then take it where I can’t hear it,” Caleb suggested, voice low and steady.

The man glared back, but didn’t bother pushing it. He looked back at the farmer. “I’m done with you anyway. McGraw won’t be pleased,” he spat.

“You okay?” Caleb asked the clerk as the door slammed behind the skinny man. He was glad the confrontation had been over quick.

“I am. Thank you, sir.” The clerk wiped a hand over his forehead before offering it to Caleb. After shaking it, the clerk went over to talk in muted tones with the remaining red-faced man.

As the men had their private conversation, Caleb’s eyes searched the crowded store, most of its racks piling over with various supplies. “Lydia!” He just wanted to find his daughter and get back to camp.

From behind a bag of feed, high on a back shelf, a couple of black braids sprang forward. Relieved, Caleb shook his head, wondering how she had thought to climb the shelving.

He lifted her down by her arms, grunting at how heavy his twelve-year-old had gotten. “Are you okay?”

“Fine as silk,” she assured him, wide-eyed, searching for the mean, squirrelly man. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. See that crowbar over there? Next time, grab it first and then hide.”

“He just came out of nowhere, Pa. Screaming and threatening and big.”

Caleb wouldn’t have called him big, but he didn’t dampen her thrilling story. “You did the right thing, hiding. Did you get your thread?”

“Yeah. Did you see his pants? I think he had a gun!”

Caleb tried to pay, but the clerk insisted they have the thread for free, more than grateful for Caleb’s assistance.

“Come on, Harlan’s gonna want your help setting up his wagon for camp,” Caleb said, leading his daughter out of the general store.

“The guy came in yelling. ‘Silas McGraw got a problem with you, Frank,’” she intoned. “And then Frank got something mad. Did you see him?”

“Yeah.” Seeing the BAKER’S sign across the way, Caleb remembered the thread wasn’t the only free loot they’d collected today. Pulling the cake out, he gave it to Lydia, enjoying the delight that came across her face.

“This is for me, Pa?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly shy.

He knew he should give credit to the shopwoman, but he too rarely was the reason for his daughter’s smiles. He hugged her sideways to him as they walked, happy when she didn’t pull away.

After the scuffle and nearly losing her again, he was ready to kiss Red Hollow goodbye.