Finding Love’s Sanctuary (Preview)

1875, A Little Town In the Middle of Nowhere 

One of the first lessons James had ever learned was to pick a seat that faced the way in and out. That meant that he saw the kid coming long before he barged in through the saloon doors. It wasn’t a surprise, not really. He’d wondered, in a disinterested sort of way, whether the kid would summon up the courage to confront him or not. 

Well, he had. Interesting. 

James briefly reassessed his opinion of the kid. It still wasn’t a good opinion, but the kid had earned himself a few more points in James’ estimation. He’d still kick the kid into next week if he had to, though. 

“I’m looking for James Wheeler,” the kid demanded, slapping a hand down on the barman’s counter. It might have been a dramatic move if he hadn’t winced immediately, curling his now sore hand into a fist. And, of course, nobody flinched or glanced at him twice. It was difficult to be impressed by a kid who nobody else thought much about. He was a nervy kind of young man, not a day older than eighteen, with the spots and greasy skin to prove it. He’d dressed up, if James wasn’t mistaken, in a good, clean shirt, an expensive-looking leather belt slung around his too-slim hips, and a nice little pearl-handled pistol sticking out of the holster. 

James eyed the gun thoughtfully, swigging back the last of his whiskey. It was nasty stuff, too watery and with a bitter aftertaste that made your throat sting, but it was better than nothing. You never got good booze in end-of-the-world towns like this. He was surprised they weren’t serving moonshine, and not even the passably drinkable stuff. 

“Looking for me, kid?” James raised his voice, and the kid flinched. He steeled himself visibly, straightening his spine and stalking over to him. 

James didn’t bother to get to his feet. He was at a card table, with greasy tokens and a little money in play. They weren’t using his own personal pack of cards—that was safely in his breast pocket, with its neatly marked corners. Aside from that, the stakes weren’t high—it was too early in the day for high stakes—and he wasn’t paying much attention to the game. 

“My name is Marius Von Hasse,” the kid announced, and James snorted. 

“That’s a piece of bad luck for you.”

That earned him a chuckle from the others. The kid—Marius—reddened, but kept his chin held high. He had a rabbity kind of look about him, with protruding teeth and a habit of twitching his nose. James didn’t let his guard down, though. Rabbits could bite and scratch like anything when the situation called for it. 

Never underestimate a rabbit. He’d learned that long ago, when he tried stealing rabbits from a farm to feed himself. Those things could do damage.

“I’m here for the money you stole from my brother, Jerry,” Marius said shortly. 

James remembered Jerry, an older version of Marius with a nose already reddened from too much drink. He was none too smart, and too dumb to notice James fleecing him. 

“I didn’t steal anything,” James responded smoothly. “I won it from him at cards. Gambling’s a sin, they say, but your brother decided to play, and that isn’t my fault.”

“You cheated,” Marius shot back. “You cheated, and you stole a silver pocket watch from him after, when he was too drunk to stop you. I want it all back.”

A hush ran round the saloon at that. Accusations of cheating and thievery were no laughing matter. If they were true—or even believed to be true—James could find himself excluded from this little no-name town. 

Of course, he wasn’t planning to settle there, but you never knew when you’d need to come back. And, of course, cheating rumors were troublesome. They tended to linger, and made it difficult to cheat elsewhere. 

James’ pack of cards, skillfully marked, sat heavy in his pocket, while in the other pocket was the money he’d gotten from pawning the silver pocket watch. He didn’t move to touch either of them. Getting slowly to his feet, he flipped back his jacket to reveal a pair of new Colt revolvers at his sides, already well used and broken in. 

“That’s a serious accusation, boy,” James said, his voice low and soft. “You’d better take that back, right here and now, in front of all these fine gentlemen.”

Marius tilted up his chin. “No.”

Wretched, stubborn kid. 

“Well, then we find ourselves at an impasse,” James responded. “I say you’re lying.”

“And I say I’m not.”

“How about we settle this the old-fashioned way? You any good with that gun, kid?”

“Yeah,” Marius responded quickly. Too quickly. There was a fraction of hesitation, a flicker around the eyes that told James that he was lying. 

Shooting was a part of life in these places, but most folks used ancient, long-barreled shotguns to handle pests, not feisty little pearl-handled pistols. 

And, if he wasn’t mistaken, Marius was just a clerk. Not a lot of shooting to do in a clerk’s office. 

But pride and stubbornness had won out, and Marius had just said in front of everyone that he was a good shot. Perfect. 

“Then shall we go outside, and settle this like gentlemen?” James suggested brightly. 

The men in the saloon began to murmur between each other, excitement rising. James guessed you’d call the whole business a duel. In a bigger town, a more civilized one, this would never be allowed. They’d barely have gotten through their paces before the sheriff and some deputies would have arrived to break it up. 

But this wasn’t civilization, not really. The barman leaned on the counter, clearly interested, and a few voices piped up, offering the services of a surgeon, offering to check the weapons and call out the paces. 

The color was draining from Marius’ face. To his credit, however, his gaze never wavered. 

“Fine,” he said curtly. “I’m guessing that pistols are your weapon of choice, Mr. Wheeler?”

James, who was an excellent shot, smiled happily. “They sure are, kid.”

“My name is Marius.”

“I know what your name is, kid.”

Suddenly the doors swung open, and a woman came stumbling in. Women in a saloon, unless they were working ladies, of course, were an unfamiliar sight, and everyone turned to stare. 

The woman was out of breath and disheveled, as if she’d run the whole way, and had enough of the pasty, rabbity look about her to mark her out as Marius’ sister. Some faint memory stirred, and James remembered that they were in fact twins. 

She glanced at them both, visibly paling at the sight of James. Dashing over, she pointedly turned her back to him. 

“This ain’t worth it, Marius,” she whispered. “Come on, let’s go home. Jerry’s sorry, he won’t gamble no more. It doesn’t matter about the money.”

“The watch matters,” Marius hissed back. “That was Grandpa’s watch, and I intend to get it back.”

Lifting his voice, he addressed James again. 

“If I win, I want all the money you took from Jeremiah, and I want the watch back.”

James grinned. “Sure. But if I win, I want that little pearl-handled gun you have there.”

The girl sucked in a breath, and Marius pressed his lips together. 

“Marius, no!” she whispered, but he shook her off. 

“Fine,” he said shortly. “You already have Grandpa’s watch, you might as well have his gun, too. Now, are we going to get started, or are we going to just stand here and talk about it?”

Outside, a decently sized crowd had gathered to watch. Already the tide of public opinion had Marius laid out on the ground, bleeding into the dirt. They knew James was a good shot, and an unflinching one too. 

Marius and James stood face to face. The girl, who somebody had called Jane, or Jean, or maybe Jeannie or something, was standing in the crowd beside the surgeon, ashen-faced. 

James grinned down at the boy. Physically, Marius looked pathetic beside him. He was scrawny and short, with a mop of dirty-blond hair. James was tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of dark curls and a pair of hazel eyes which had occasionally been described as ‘flashing’, whatever that meant. He had olive skin, which served him well in the heat and unrelenting sunshine of Texas. He knew he was handsome, and he knew he was clever. That made him confident, and that was something that people noticed, too. 

Marius didn’t really seem to have anything going for him. Except, of course, for his iron determination. And his sister, standing off in the crowd, eyes fixed on him. 

James had a moment of regret that there was nobody in the crowd rooting for him, not really. They were all here for the excitement, but the fact remained that he didn’t really have friends in this town. Or any town, really. 

Doesn’t matter, he told himself firmly. Doesn’t matter. Friends aren’t worth much, not really. 

A man on the sidelines called out the paces. Marius and James turned and began to stride away from each other, all the way up to a count of twelve, guns poised and ready. 

James didn’t feel any anxiety. He’d done dozens of these duels, to say nothing of the shootouts and various other incidents, all with more skilled fighters than Marius. 

“Eleven… twelve… shoot!”

The men whirled, aiming at each other. Marius’ hand wobbled. A shot rang out, winging wide of James and burying itself into the dirt, raising a cloud of dust. 

James grinned. Marius had wasted his one shot. Whether he’d deliberately shot wide or just shot badly, James didn’t know, and it hardly mattered. 

Marius blinked, fear creeping into his face as he realized that James had not shot his shoot. 

Now what, eh, kid? James thought spitefully. Gonna run? 

To his credit, Marius did not run. He stayed where he was, back straight, head held high. 

James grinned wider and pulled the trigger. 

Marius gave a scream of pain, spinning around and landing in a crumpled heap on the ground. The girl shrieked, tearing away from the surgeon, and rushing over to her brother. The surgeon followed at her heels, clutching his black doctor’s bag, grim-faced. 

“He killed him! He killed him!” she screamed, tears running down her cheeks. 

James rolled his eyes, reloading his gun and sliding it back into his holster. 

“He’s not dead,” the surgeon reassured her. “See, his arm is just gashed.”

Marius struggled into a sitting position, face bone-white, hand clamped over his wounded arm. 

James knew what he was doing. He wasn’t going to put a bullet in the young idiot’s head. A shot to the upper arm would scar, would hurt, would bleed plenty, but it wouldn’t kill him. The bullet wouldn’t even have lodged in, it would have gone straight through.

All he wanted to do was teach the kid a lesson, shut him up, and put to rest the rumors of cheating. 

Oh, and get himself that pretty pearl-handled gun. 

A few other folks came out of the crowd and crouched around the kid. The girl had her arms wrapped around her brother, cradling him close and whispering to him. 

“Don’t do that again, Marius,” she was whispering. “It’s not worth losing you. Not for all the gold and silver in Texas.”

“I’m sorry, Jeanie,” Marius said, his voice muffled. He might have been crying, but he was shielded by his sister’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. We all love you, Marius, even though you’re so dumb.”

Marius gave a tearful snort of laughter at that. 

James stood back, watching the scene unfold. Unbidden, his hand climbed to a nasty scar on the outside of his upper left arm, where he’d been taught a lesson just like Marius had, around eight years ago. 

Only, he’d been around fourteen to Marius’ eighteen, with no sister to comfort him and tell him he mattered more than gold or silver. No family friends to cluster around him. 

He’d been alone, sleeping rough in somebody’s barn with a filthy bandage tied around the wound until it scabbed over. 

Unconsciously, James took a step closer. The sister glanced up sharply, head snapping in his direction. Her eyes were so full of hate that James had to back away. 

“We know you cheated,” she hissed. “We know you stole from our brother. We can’t prove it, and I won’t let Marius go up against you again. You’re stronger than us, aren’t you? I expect you think you’re cleverer, too. But that doesn’t make you right. We’ll make rent, somehow or other, even with the money you stole. But you… you’ll always be like this, a nasty thief, a liar, a cheat, with no one to love you, no home to go to. You’ll die alone and nobody will care, and I’m glad. I’m glad!”

“Jeanie! Stop it!” Marius hissed, eyes wide with fright, tugging at his sister’s sleeve. 

James lifted his eyebrows, trying not to look rattled. The whole crowd had gone quiet, hanging on Jeanie’s words. 

“I don’t shoot women,” he said bluntly. “Not unless they’re trying to kill me, of course.”

It was a half-hearted joke, but nobody laughed. 

If I was wondering whether it was time to leave town, I think I’ve got my answer, James thought to himself, shooting a quick glance at the crowd. The mood had changed when Marius’ blood splattered in the dirt. The reality of the situation was not what the crowd had expected, and public opinion was rapidly turning against James, who was the stranger, whereas Marius was a local. One of them. He dreaded to think what they would have done to him if he had killed the kid. 

Jeanie got unsteadily to her feet, the pearl-handled gun glinting in her hand. She held it out to him. 

“Here you go. This is what you’re looking for, ain’t it? Your winnings. Take it and go.” 

James felt moderately queasy, although that could have been the bad whiskey. 

“It’s not about the gun. I don’t want it.” He tried to say, but Jeanie shook her head. She threw the gun at him, and it clattered across the ground, throwing up small clouds of dust. It came to rest only a few inches from the toe of his boot. 

“You take that gun, and maybe it’ll remind you that you’re a liar and a cheat, that you’re a bully, and nobody loves you but yourself, and not even then, I reckon. Who do you think you are? Jeanie pressed; teeth gritted. 

The surgeon glanced nervously between the girl and James. 

“Now, Jeanie, let’s not get carried away. No harm is done in the end. Marius will be fine, I promise.”

Jeanie’s eyes, an icy gray color, seemed to burn into James’ soul. He didn’t dare look away but felt as though he couldn’t meet her eye for much longer, either. 

“You better pray for redemption, James Wheeler,” Jeanie said, hissing. “You better pray real hard.”

Chapter One

1880, Redemption Springs

The ranch foreman, a burly man with a slab of a face and a mop of blond curls which didn’t match the rest of him, leaned against a paddock fence and surveyed her closely. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Sarah placed her hands on her hips and surveyed her new home. Lots of words came to mind, but judging by the expectant and proud face of her foreman, none of them were the words he wanted to hear.

“It’s nice,” she said at last. 

The foreman scowled. He’d obviously been expecting something a little more flowery than nice. 

Sarah turned again to look at her land, and tried to think of something more helpful. They were fields, neatly fenced off, some with clusters of animals. It wasn’t an awful place, but she’d never seen beauty in endless fields of crops or animals or whatever. She couldn’t tell the different between crops and weeds, and she guessed her ignorance wouldn’t be well received in a place like this. 

I’m not a country girl, Sarah thought wistfully. Maybe it would be better if I was. I can learn, I guess. I like to learn things. I’m a quick study. Why shouldn’t I make a decent go of this place?

“I’m looking forward to running the ranch?” she offered. It was the best she could do. It felt like haggling over praise. 

Do people haggle a lot here? It’s not like that in the city. They tell you a price and you pay it. What if I offend someone? What if I end up paying twice as much as a thing is worth, because they expected me to haggle them down to a reasonable price, and I just… just didn’t? 

It didn’t seem like the time to say that now. 

“I’m a quick learner,” Sarah heard herself say. “It won’t surprise you to know that I’m not a country girl, but I want to be here. I chose to be here. I’ll learn. I want to make this place good.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Well, so do I. I won’t lie; there’s work to do. The herds are dwindling, and the few crop fields we keep have had trouble with blight, and bad weather, and that sort of thing. A place like this always has a thousand and one things that need doing to it. Old Mrs. Sixsmith, God rest her soul, couldn’t be bothered much with managing the ranch in her later years. It’s to be expected, of course. Pity she never really had any more help. Pa could never do much, and she wasn’t the sort of lady to let him go for someone younger. She could have done that.”

Sarah flinched, glancing sharply at him. He avoided her glare, and she couldn’t help but think that the last sentences were meant for her. 

Old Mrs. Sixsmith—the Mrs. seemed to be an honorary title, since she’d never married—had lived and died in the small town of Redemption Springs, and Sarah had barely known her. She’d known of her great-aunt, of course, who’d never left her hometown and ranch, but life in Chicago kept Sarah busy, and she was entirely happy there. 

Until, of course, everything went wrong, but it was best not to think of that now. News that her great-aunt was dead had reached her, and news that she had inherited a ranch and a house in a place called Redemption Springs followed quickly. It had all happened so quickly, in what she thought was either a blinding piece of good luck or… well, she wasn’t sure what else it might be. 

Think of it as luck. That’s for the best. Good luck, an opportunity, if you can make something of it. And you can make something of it. Great-Aunt Sixsmith thought so, clearly, or else she’d have sold it or left it to a local. 

In truth, she wasn’t sure what to expect when she arrived. A dilapidated old cabin, perhaps, and a few measly fields. To her shock, there were acres and acres of land with her name on it, with plenty of water, crops, and a good-sized house. Sure, there was work to be done, as the foreman had said, but Sarah couldn’t see any obvious problems. 

The wizened old man who’d been the foreman while Mrs. Sixsmith was alive was all too happy to retire, and his strapping son, a man of about thirty-five, had taken over, by the name of Ezekiel. 

That was how Sarah came to be standing on a hill overlooking her new farm, with the foreman, Ezekiel, by her side. 

It felt like a dream, like at any moment she might wake up in her narrow pallet bed in her Chicago apartment, with debt collectors banging on the door. Or the landlady, angry because the rent was late, angry that Sarah couldn’t even afford the measly rent she was paying for her flea-bitten room. 

“Miss?” Ezekiel prompted. “I said, do you have much interest in horse breeding?”

She winced. “Not really.”

“That’s a pity. There’s a great deal of money to be had in it. I was reading an article just the other week that said…”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ezekiel, but are those people down there coming to my house?”

A narrow path snaked around the foot of the hills, weaving its way up to the ranch house behind them. It was barely wide enough for a cart to pass by, and the road was rocky and uneven. Sarah wasn’t looking forward to driving the cart into town for groceries. Although perhaps she would be able to walk. 

A man and woman, arm in arm, were making their slow way up the path, deep in conversation. 

Ezekiel pushed back his hat, scratching his head. 

“Well, now, I reckon that’s the Reverend and his sister, come to welcome you to town.” 

Sarah bit off a curse. “And the house is a mess. I’m sorry, Ezekiel, I must go.”

“Not at all, miss. Leave all this to me. I know what I’m doing.”

Hitching up her skirts around her knees, Sarah raced all the way down to the house, and arrived breathless and hot. 

They were still a little way off, but close enough that there was no point in cleaning up the house, so Sarah attacked her own appearance instead. There was a large, well-polished mirror hanging in the hallway, near the coat rack and umbrella stand, presumably so a person could take a look at their appearance before venturing in or out. 

Sarah’s appearance was a little wind-swept, to say the least. 

She had long, flax-colored hair that hung to her waist, and while she’d always been proud of it, it seemed that the length would not be ideal out here. Her hair hung heavy and hot around her neck and was already beginning to frizz up in the heat. Her skin, normally prettily fair, was breaking out in freckles. If she wasn’t careful, she’d burn. A flush of red was already spreading across her nose and cheeks. It was kind of cute, but it would stop being cute when her skin blistered up and started peeling. 

Sarah boasted a pair of large green eyes, long golden-brown eyelashes, and a well-shaped face and form. She was pleased enough with her looks—not enough to be vain, of course, but enough to be reasonably confident in herself. People liked beauty, and they liked it in other people just as much. 

It was easier to be confident in Chicago, however, when the oppressive heat didn’t make her drip with sweat, and clouds of dust didn’t billow up everywhere and stick to her skin, turning her powder-blue dress a dusty shade of beige instead. 

She eyed her reflection in the mirror and sighed. Smoothing her hair out with her fingers got rid of some of the tangles, and a good shake got the worst of the dust out of her dress. After a moment’s thought, she untied her braid, running her fingers through from root to tip, getting out the worst of the tangles. She braided it again in a smooth, heavy rope, and felt a little tidier, a little more put together. She briefly considered changing into a pink dress with bows that suited her nicely, and probably wouldn’t be suited for wearing outside much, but there really wasn’t enough time for that. 

That’ll have to do, I guess. They’ll have to take me as they find me. Not that ‘take me as you find me’ is a great thing to say when it comes to first impressions. I want people to like me in this town. Life’s lonely when people don’t like you, sure enough. 

On cue, the doorbell rang. Sarah smoothed down her bodice and shook out her skirts one last time, then pasted a smile on her face and went to answer the door. 

“Why, hello!” Sarah said, opening the door to a man of about twenty-eight and a woman a few years younger, acting surprised as if she hadn’t seen them coming. 

The man was round-faced and red-haired, with a crooked smile and a hat that was ever so slightly too large for him. The woman looked much the same, except her smile was more reserved, and her hair was long and curly, knotted up in a tight bun. 

“I’m Reverend Thomas Harris,” the man said, extending a hand. “This here is my sister, Grace. We heard you moved in, and we simply had to come and welcome you to town, We don’t get a lot of permanent newcomers here. Drifters don’t tend to be too friendly, and they move on when the work dries up. But you might be here for a good long while, and since you’re just up the road, that makes us even more neighborly than usual!”

There was a vibrant cheerfulness in his voice that might sound insincere coming from somebody else but was more palatable in him. It was hard to explain why, but Sarah had a powerful good feeling coming from the two. 

That was more than she could say about some other reverends, and their nosy, interfering wives and sisters. He was young for a reverend, too, as far as she could tell. 

“I brought some pies and things,” Grace chipped in, holding up a basket with a smile. “All fresh baked. I don’t know what you like, so I brought a bit of everything. I hope that’s okay.” 

Sarah hesitated a moment before realizing she should invite them in. 

“Oh, how kind. Um, come in. I haven’t had much time to tackle the house, but if you’ll take it as you find it…”

“Of course, of course,” Reverend Thomas said, stepping comfortably inside. “Old Mrs. Sixsmith didn’t hold with excessive cleaning, you know. She said it was a waste of time, and there were better things to be doing.”

Sarah suppressed a smile. 

She sounds like my kind of woman, she thought, and immediately felt a surge of guilt that she hadn’t gone to see her great-aunt as often as she should. 

The house was large; larger than anything than Sarah and her family had had in Chicago. The front door opened into a narrow hall, with coat pegs up on the wall and a rack at the bottom for shoes and boots. There was a door at either side and a staircase at the end. The door on the left opened up into the kitchen, which had a good-sized table in it, and other doors that led into a scullery, a pantry, a little storeroom, and what looked like a small servant’s room. The other door opened onto a neat little parlor, and this was where Sarah led her guests. 

“It must be a real shock for you, losing your great-aunt so suddenly like that,” Reverend Thomas said, settling himself in an armchair. 

Sarah sank down on the sofa, beside Grace, who held the basket perched on her knee. It occurred to Sarah that she should have taken the basket and put it in the kitchen. 

I’m not a very good host, Sarah thought unhappily. She cleared her throat, aware that the reverend and his sister were waiting patiently for her reply. 

“I… I wasn’t close to my great-aunt. She was my father’s aunt, and once he was gone, we had little to do with her. The distance…” she trailed off, red-faced, aware that she was making excuses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here at the end,” Sarah finished at last, quietly. 

“Well, I was, and it was peaceful and very quick,” Grace said, reaching out to take Sarah’s hand. “Mrs. Sixsmith was a well-liked woman in this town, and she wanted for nothing at the end. She was entirely comfortable, and if she hadn’t been, I can assure you she would have told us.”

Sarah smiled weakly at that. “That sounds like Auntie Sophia, sure enough. Um, can I fetch you a drink? Tea, coffee, maybe?”

“We’ll not trouble you,” Reverend Thomas said comfortably. “This is just an informal little call. Grace and I just live down the road, in fact, less than fifteen minutes’ walk. We thought we should call on you, seeing as you’re a young lady alone, in a new place. It’s good to know your neighbors in a place like this.” 

Sarah felt herself beginning to relax. They seemed kind enough, friendly but without being too nosy. No awkward questions to answer. 

“I made a few different things,” Grace said, handing over the basket, “as I wasn’t sure what you’d like. There’s a chicken pie, a strawberry tart, some bread rolls…”

Sarah pulled back the cloth covering the basket, and a rich scent of cooked pastry and pie wafted up. She breathed in with a smile. 

“It all smells delicious,” she confessed. “I’m not much of a baker, but I do appreciate baked goods.”

Grace beamed. “Well, I run the local bakery—there’s a lot of folks don’t have the time to bake for themselves, and I do meat pies and such for the ranch hands and farm workers during the day. Business is good, and I like to pass out unsold things to the locals for free. I can’t stand waste, you know. So, if you’re around at the end of the day, come on into my bakery, and help yourself!”

Sarah blinked. That was a generous offer, and one she hadn’t been expecting. 

Perhaps things really would be different here in Redemption Springs. The name, after all, was pretty fortuitous. She’d read the name of the town in the will several times and struggled not to laugh. It was just too perfect, and exactly what she needed. 

“Thank you. That’s kind of you,” she managed, and smiled weakly at her new acquaintances. They smiled back, blithe, and comfortable. 

“The bakery manages fine, but the church is sadly dilapidated,” Grace confided. “If you find gold in your rivers, feel free to donate it… it would be appreciated!”

It was a joke, of course, and Sarah smiled dutifully. The idea of finding gold on her land was too ridiculous to even contemplate. 

I need friends, Sarah reminded herself. I need them badly. They came all the way out here to welcome here. They seem like good enough people. 

She rose to her feet, clutching the basket. 

“Would you care to sample some of this for me?” she asked. “We can sit down together.”

Reverend Thomas met his sister’s eye, lifting his eyebrows. She gave a tiny nod, and the reverend beamed at Sarah. 

“We would love to.” 

An hour later, they sat in the kitchen, which was already shaping up to be a cozier room than the stiff, uncomfortable parlor. The stove was on, filling the room with warmth, and one of the cherry pies had been taken out of the basket and sliced up. It was delicious, and Sarah was just contemplating another slice. 

“Who are the rest of my neighbors?” she asked, after a pause. “I can’t see any houses from here.”

Grace clucked sympathetically. “I guess you’re used to a city, where everyone lives on top of each other, then?”

Sarah nodded. “I am, yes.”

“Well, I suppose that must be nice and neighborly.”

“Neighborly? No, not really.” Sarah gave a wry smile. “Who is my next closest neighbor after you, then?”

There was a brief pause. Reverend Thomas met his sister’s eye again, just briefly, and something passed between them. 

“That’ll be Samuel Ragger, I reckon,” the reverend said. His tone was light, but there was something there, something that indicated that he and Mr. Ragger were not exactly seeing eye to eye. 

But Reverend Thomas seemed so kind and friendly. He was young, for a reverend, and clearly full of vigor and enthusiasm. Sarah liked him already. He was a far cry from the stuffy, grim-faced clergymen she’d met before. The ones who gave fire-and-brimstone sermons from the pulpit, or mortifyingly obvious lectures, aimed at one person or a few people in particular. 

Perhaps church in Redemption Springs would be something different. She hoped so, at least. 

Fresh start, Sarah reminded herself for the thousandth time. 

“What sort of person is Mr. Ragger, then?” she asked, and again, the siblings’ eyes shifted nervously away from her. 

“He’s a businessman,” Grace said brightly. “And a good one at that. He’s very clever, I daresay, and known to be a remarkably hard worker.”

“Does he have a family? Is he married?”

“He is not,” Reverend Thomas said, sipping his coffee and eyeing the cherry pie. “I’d say that you’ll meet in church soon enough, but I doubt it. He’s… he’s not much of a churchgoer. Which is fine, of course. I don’t bully my flock into attending church, and I don’t lecture them, either. I’m sorry if you’re used to fiery sermons, Miss Sixsmith, but I’m afraid I take a kinder view to sin and human error. My sermon this week is based around the famous scripture in Matthew—forgiving others if we are to be forgiven.”

Sarah smiled. “Call me Sarah, please. Miss Sixsmith doesn’t sound right. I am used to fiery sermons, but I’d much rather hear something gentler. I think I’ll enjoy this Sunday. Can I tempt you to another slice of pie, Reverend? Grace?”

They both demurred, glancing at the darkening sky outside. 

“We had better get home,” Grace said apologetically, getting to her feet and picking up the emptied basket. “But you know where we are. Please, don’t be a stranger. I’m excited to have you here. We all are.”

The siblings made their goodbyes, shuffling towards the door. Grace hesitated before she stepped onto the porch, turning back to Sarah. 

“It’s none of my concern, of course, but do you have any intentions to sell the property, Sarah?”

Sarah shook her head. “No, I want to live here. My great-aunt left this to me, and I already like it here. I want a fresh start, and I think I can get that in Redemption Springs.”

Grace nodded slowly, chewing her lip. “I see. That’s, good, I’m glad you’re staying, but… well, you might want to make it known that you’re not selling.”

Sarah frowned. “I will, but… why?”

“Grace,” Reverend Thomas murmured. It was barely louder than a whisper, but there was definite warning in his voice. 

Grace glanced briefly at her brother, pressing her lips together. 

“Oh, it’s nothing much. It’s just that Samuel Ragger, you know, the gentleman I mentioned earlier, is an astute businessman, and he’s looking to expand.”

“You mean, he’ll want to buy this place?”

“Yes, I think so. I… I think he got it into his head that you’d want to sell and leave right away. Dear Mrs. Sixsmith would never sell it, you see. She always said it was for you. And Samuel isn’t really used to meeting a brick wall like that. It would be good if word got back to him that you aren’t going to sell.”

Sarah shrugged lightly. “I’ll tell him myself, that way there’s no misunderstanding. That seems the simplest thing to do.”

Reverend Thomas and Grace clearly did not agree. They glanced at each other, one of those quick, unintelligible glances that passed between siblings and close friends. Grace said nothing. 

“I’m sure it’ll all smooth out nicely,” Reverend Thomas said, with the light, forced voice of a man trying to leave the conversation on a good note. “We’ll make sure it’s known that you’re not selling. We’ll see you soon, Sarah!”

Sarah stood on the porch, waving. As a child, she imagined waving off friends and guests on a porch like this, with dusk falling all around them and a warm, well-lit house at her back. Of course, she’d imagined a family waiting for her inside; a husband and children, at the very least. 

Still, this was something. Sarah leaned against the doorframe and gave a sigh of satisfaction. There was a great deal of work ahead for her, but she loved the place already. 

I’ll never sell, Sarah thought to herself. Samuel Ragger will just have to get used to it, I guess. 

---

“Finding Love’s Sanctuary” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Accused of an unforgivable crime and shunned by her family, Sarah Sixsmith stands alone, heartbroken, and terrified, with nowhere to turn. Fate intervenes though, presenting her with an escape—a dilapidated ranch bequeathed by a long-lost relative. Eager for a fresh start, Sarah ventures to Redemption Springs, leaving the bustling metropolis of Chicago behind. With her own house and land, she envisions a new life away from the shadowy rumors that once haunted her.

Little did she know that an unexpected encounter with James might hold the key to reshaping her fractured world…

James Wheeler, scarred by the harsh world, seeks solace in the tranquility of Redemption Springs, determined to bury the ghosts of his past. However, peace eludes him as tensions rise with his antagonistic neighbor, who harbors a vendetta against him. When Sarah inherits a neighboring ranch, James is drawn to her beauty and strength. Yet, a dangerous undercurrent threatens their newfound happiness.

Can James escape the shadows of his history, and trust Sarah with his whole heart?

Bound by a powerful romance, Sarah and James stumble upon a dark conspiracy involving bribery, cattle mutilation, and the ominous specter of murder. As they navigate this perilous alliance, their shared quest for redemption becomes intertwined with the town’s unraveling secrets. Can they find the peace they seek or will their pasts catch up, leaving them adrift once more?

“Finding Love’s Sanctuary” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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