Her Heart’s True Longing (Preview)

Chapter One

September 1888
The Mason Farm
Clarion Hills California

Adella Mason tested the branch above her head. It felt secure, like it could take the weight of a lithe twenty-two-year-old. She moved up, marveling at the way the sunlight shone through the dark green avocado tree’s leaves. It was lovely. Hot, but lovely. Being September, the August heat was still lingering like it always did. They might get a cool breeze in off the ocean, which was miles and miles away later on. That would be magical. It always cooled things down, and although her parents thought she was crazy, Adella thought she could smell the salt in the air. 

Reaching as high she could in the tree, she began to gather the avocados. The thing about avocados was that they never got ripe on the tree. It was odd. Other fruit would get ripe and fall off or rot, but not avocados. They waited to be picked. Like they were a snooty fruit that couldn’t be bothered with falling off itself, all nice and ripe for the eating. Oh no, these fruits had to be picked by hand and then left on the vegetable shelf to get ripe in their own sweet time. They were picky fruit.

For that reason, Adella had been climbing these trees since she was a tiny thing of five, and her father had first hoisted her up into one. She loved it, though. A body could get lost up there in the green. It was a world away, with nothing but the sunshine on her skin, the breeze in her hair, and a song on her lips. She was humming Amazing Grace under her breath as she worked and thought. 

Not so long ago, she’d have been up here with her younger sister, Rosamund. It had been fun with both of them encased in the cocoon of green. Of course, that was before her sister had, in her own words, gotten too old to climb. 

“It’s undignified,” she had said. “Wearing men’s trousers and shinnying up a tree is no way for a lady to behave.” 

Luckily, Adella didn’t care a whole lot about being a lady. Father needed help and since Ben was gone, she was the one to help him. And that was that. Wearing men’s trousers and shinnying up trees was all in a day’s work.

She quickly filled the canvas bag she’d brought up with her, and slinging it carefully around her body, she climbed back down to the ground. Her father was outside of the canopy on a ladder filling a basket. He waved as he worked. 

She waved back as she made her way to one of the baskets loaded in the back of the cart. They were large, and it was easier to tip the smaller ones in and take these filled to the brim to the market. No heavy lifting. With no strong men, apart from her father on the farm, it was the only way to work. Lifting her bag over a basket, she tipped it, and the avocados rolled out. 

Over the rumble of falling fruit, she could hear her father singing. He had a lovely voice, rich and sonorous. He’d sing all day, given the chance. For a moment, she just listened to him, letting the simple melody wash over her. 

The song her father was singing was one from the war. He had fought in the civil war and come home with a scar on his right cheek and a fever. The fever was long gone, but the scar still remained. It and the song. 

 “Twas the night before the last fierce charge. 

Two soldiers drew their reins. 

With a parting word and the touch of a hand, 

they might never meet again….” 

She knew the song well, and as she walked to the next tree she had to denude of its fruit, she began to sing it too. Her voice was higher than her father’s, but they complimented each other, singing in harmony. 

“One had blue eyes and sunny curls,

 Nineteen but a month ago,

Red on his cheek, down on his chin,

He was only a boy, you know.”

Adella knew why he liked this song. At thirty-one years of age and having joined the Northern troops, Jacob Mason had been trained to fight his brothers for freedom. He’d been a good soldier and had managed to stay alive for four years. It was towards the end of the war in 1865 that his luck finally ran out, and he was shot. 

That was when he met a young nurse. She was a pretty thing with golden-brown hair and green eyes, and she’d stolen his heart. That had been a new experience for Jacob. And, as it turned out, it had been new to her too. A couple of months from his recovery Madeline Graves had agreed to marry him. 

The song was one she’d sung to him while nursing him back to health. No, it wasn’t romantic, but since her father insisted their mother’s singing had done more for his recovery than any doctor could have, it always held the connotation of love for the Masons. 

Adella wondered about a love like that. Something so instantaneous nothing else mattered, not a scar on the cheek, a fever, or a bullet wound to the upper chest. The bullet had missed father’s heart by less than an inch. He said it was because her mother had sent the angels on him to keep him safe. 

She denied it, stating they didn’t know one another at the time, but he insisted most vehemently. It was so romantic. Rosa mooned over the story openly, while Adella, always the more practical of the two, simply wondered if anyone would look past her own scars to the girl within. 

Rosa was only seventeen, and she already had several young men sniffing about, as their father put it. But not Adella. Despite her chestnut hair and olive-green eyes, and cheery disposition, not one young man seemed interested. No even one.

Thinking of these things, she stared at her bare forearms. The reason for her being judged as unsuitable stared up at her. The scar was ugly. It reached all the way from her right elbow down to her wrist and onto the top of her hand. The skin was discolored and looked oddly like it had been melted. It ran around her arm like the lash from a whip, which is what the old women of the town said it was. Satan’s whip had touched her, according to them, and that made her unsuitable for any nice boy to marry. It wasn’t Satan’s whip at all, but lamp oil that splashed across her skin as it caught alight. Not pretty and not supernatural. 

Between that and her mouth, which never knew when to stay shut, she had no chance of finding a husband. Not that she needed one. She could do everything a man did around the farm and with a lot less moaning. 

Adella sighed. She’d come to terms with her scar. Pity no one else seemed to be able to. 

Up in the leafy canopy again, she stopped singing and listened, feeling the breeze on her skin, the sun turning the insides of her eyelids red and gold as she rocked in the tree. She was safe up here, and so long as she kept her thoughts on the trees and the breeze, nothing could upset her. 

She was humming again, but this time, it was a nursery rhyme. 

“Boys and girls come out to play, the moon doth shine as bright as day,” she sang. 

“Adella,” her father’s voice called. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

“You do know it’s daytime now?” he asked playfully. “And you should be picking avocados.” 

She stuck out her tongue playfully and then began to pick the large, dark green fruit. Of course, now the song was stuck in her head, and she sang it the whole way through. 

“Boys and Girls, come out to play,

The moon doth shine as bright as day;

Leave your supper, and leave your sleep,

And come with your playfellows into the street.

Come with a whoop, come with a call,

Come with a good will or not at all.

Up the ladder and down the wall,

A halfpenny roll will serve us all.

You find milk, and I’ll find flour,

And we’ll have a pudding in half an hour.”

Once it was done, she began on another hymn, and soon, her father was singing along with her. 

They harmonized on All Things Bright and Beautiful, and In the Sweet By and By. 

“My goodness, with the two of you singing like angels, the birds hardly need to try at all,” a voice said. 

Adella looked down, smiling. “Mama!” she called. “What are you doing out here?” 

“I’ve come to call you both to lunch,” she said. “But it sounds like choir practice down here.” 

“We’ll come up now, Love,” her father said, walking over to her mother and kissing her cheek. 

Adella watched her mother smile and felt her heart warm. It was so sweet that her parents loved each other so much, after so many years. All the trials of their lives, they’d faced them together, and were still going strong. It gave Adella hope. 

“All right you two,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t need any younger siblings, thank you.” 

“Oh, Adella!” her mother scolded. “Honestly, the things that escape your tongue.”

Her father just laughed. “So, where is Rosamund today?” 

“Out with Milly Shepherd and her brother Paul,” Adella’s mother said. She sighed. “They’ve gone berry picking, or nut picking, or some such nonsense. I think that boy has his eye on her.” 

“I think so too,” father said. He wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief. “Come down, Dellie,” he called to Adella using her pet name. “We can finish up later.” 

“All right, father,” she said and climbed down. 

Her mother was waiting at the bottom with an incredulous smile on her face. “You know, sometimes I think you have to be half-monkey.” 

“Which half?” Adella asked. 

“The one that came from him, of course,” her mother said, jabbing a thumb at her father. 

They walked up the hill to the house, her parents holding hands and Adella walking beside her father. She picked a length of grass straw and began to chew it. 

Dressed in her trousers, a flannel shirt, a straw hat on her head, and boots, she didn’t look much like a girl at all. Adella saw her mother cast a sad glance at her, but she said nothing. Of course, she would like Adella to be more like pretty, dainty Rosamund, but that wasn’t meant to be. She had a debt to pay, a place to fill, and nothing, and no one would stop her. Ben being gone was all her fault, and she had to make up for it. 

The farmhouse was a grand old building. Adella’s grandfather had built it with his own two hands. He was a carpenter and a builder, so it wasn’t hard for him. He’d made sure it was sturdy, and apart from needing a whitewash from time to time and a hole patched in the roof, it was a great old house. 

Adella most loved the porch. It went all the way around the house and her grandfather had insisted there be swing chairs and rockers, and it was just magical. She was sad he’d been gone the last ten years. Things had certainly been easier around the farm with him on hand. 

Her mother had set out a wonderful lunch. Ham sandwiches and salad with lemonade to drink. As they ate, they talked about the chores. It was a hot day, and the alfalfa was no doubt starting to get limp. 

“You’ll have to turn on the irrigation system before you come back to the orchard,” her father said. 

“Will do,” Adella said. 

She cleared the table when they were done and washed the dishes in the sink, using the hand pump for the water. Then she donned her hat again and trotted outside to the pump. The windmill was turning lazily in the breeze sending water through the animal trough, where the two cows and the four family horses stood in the upper field. 

From there, it entered a bunch of pipes that led down to the citrus orchard, the avocado orchard, and the alfalfa fields. Determining which field got the water was a matter of pumping the handle up and on and turning a switch from closed to open on the appropriate field. 

Adella pumped the pump handle a few times. There was a reservoir there that held the water until they wanted to use it. It was quite large. The excess pumped up from the underground spring was sent to the house, where it was used to wash the laundry, dishes, and people. 

When the pump had good pressure, she opened the switch for the alfalfa field. Usually, there was an almighty rushing noise, a gurgling as the water rushed through the pipes. None of that now. Not a thing. 

She stared at the pump. Was it faulty? She inspected it but couldn’t see what the problem was. 

Just then, her father appeared. He was looking tired and hot, his face red despite his broadbrimmed hat. 

“What’s wrong, Dellie?” he asked. 

“I think the pump’s busted,” Adella said. “No matter which switch I turn on, there’s no water coming through.” 

“And the windmill is working?” her father asked. 

She nodded. “It’s working perfectly. The chickens and goats are very happy. So are the cows and horses. Their troughs would run dry if the windmill wasn’t working.” 

“True,” her father agreed. “Well, let’s take a look. Will you go and get my tools from the barn?” 

Ice slid down Adella’s back. She hated going into the barn. That was where it had happened, where she’d been burnt. 

No doubt seeing the look of terror flash across her face, her father smiled and kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, honey, I’ll go.” 

“No!” she cried. “You take a rest. I’ll go.” 

“You sure?” her father asked. 

“Of course,” Adella said and forced a smile. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.” 

“I know you can,” he said. 

She walked up the hill again to the barn. It was opposite the house, and for the most part, Adella avoided it cordially. Which meant she anthropomorphized it. She’d looked up the word in the dictionary, and gave it powers of thought it simply didn’t have. But thinking of it that way helped her to control herself. 

So, standing in front of the barn, which she thought of as a large animal that was mostly friendly, she took a breath and patted its door frame. 

“I’m coming in to get father’s tools, okay?” she asked. “Just that.” 

The barn creaked in a friendly manner, and Adella stepped inside. 

Her father’s toolbox was on a table in the back. She walked quickly to it, picked it up, and walked as quickly back out again. 

The box was heavy, but she only noticed that when she was halfway down the hill towards him again. 

For the next couple of hours, she and her father tried to fix the pump. They tried changing the handle and some of the innards, but nothing helped. It wouldn’t pump water no matter what. 

“Do you think there’s a block in the pipe?” Adella asked. 

“Could be,” her father said, sounding doubtful. 

It was worth a try anyway, and they quickly undid the pipe to check. This meant they were drenched in cold water and ended up putting the unobstructed piece of pipe back. 

“I don’t know what it is,” her father said. 

“So, what do we do now?” Adella asked, wringing water from her shirt. 

Her father, water still dripping down his face, turned to her and shrugged. “I guess we call in the big guns.” 

“The big guns?” Adella asked. 

“Yup, I’ll have to go to town and get us a new hand pump for out here. For now, we’ll have to water the old-fashioned way. Carrying buckets down to the trough at the field.” 

Adella sighed and closed her eyes in dread. 

Chapter Two

September 1888
Just outside of Clarion Hills California

The day was hot, and Simon Robertson was beginning to regret his decision to set off late from his uncle’s house in Patience. It was a fifteen-mile journey over hilly ground, and so far, he and his chestnut stallion Percival were struggling in the heat. They had stopped five times to rest in the cool of a clump of trees and had drunk liberally from several creeks and streams. 

Patience was closer to the coast, and somehow, that made it feel cooler. Perhaps it was the constant breeze that blew in off the ocean and cooled everything down. But heading up into the Santa Ana foothills towards Clarion Hills, things were different. It was as though the ground itself reflected the heat back up to him. 

Or perhaps it was the journey. 

Going home. 

On the one hand, Simon was eager to see his folks and his brother, James, again. It had been a while, and James’ wife was due to have their first child any day now. He’d like to be there to take on the role of Uncle Simon. 

He was also looking forward to seeing his best friend, Bill Webb, again. They’d seen more of each other than Simon’s family had seen him. Bill’s family ran the local bakery, and he did their deliveries. It was amazing how often he’d find himself in Patience when he wasn’t supposed to be there. But that was the sign of a good friend. At least, according to Simon. 

Clarion Hills came ever closer as the sun moved west. 

Along with all the people Simon wanted to see, there were some he could do without ever seeing again. In fact, living in Patience had been wonderful in that regard. Not having attended school there, he’d never developed any of those petty rivalries. That had made living in Patience in Uncle Karl’s house a wonderful place to be. 

However, home was a different story. Simon wouldn’t say he’d been bullied, but he had. And always by the popular boys who thought reading was for girls. They thought being bright and capable was a sin, and they’d made him pay. 

Things would be different. He was different. Five years away had been plenty, and things changed. 

He was deep in the farmlands now. Passing row upon row of neatly planted vegetables, or orchards of citrus fruit, their leaves green and tilted to the sun. He passed a few avocado farms where people were busily harvesting the fruit off the trees. 

And then the road crested a hill, and he looked down into the valley that housed the town proper. It was a vast valley, and in the fading light, he saw the church steeple, high up like a candle. The town hall had a shaft of sunlight hitting it as well, the roof glowing golden in the fading light. He halted Perceval’s progress, and for a moment, he took in the sight. It was lovely. From up here, one could assume that all was well down below, that no one fought with anyone, that neighbor loved neighbor. But then, that was the same for every town. 

“Well, well,” came a voice from behind him. 

Simon had been so wrapped up in the beauty of the town that he had failed to hear the clip-clop of two other horses’ hooves on the hard-packed ground. 

“If it isn’t Simon Robertson,” the voice continued. It was female and carried a certain sneer that identified its owner straight away. 

“Hello, Mary-Louise,” Simon said. 

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, reining in her white mare next to him. “You don’t have eyes in the back of your head, do you?” 

She cast a glance at him, looking down her nose as always. 

“No, your voice is distinctive, that’s all,” Simon said. 

“Hello, Simon,” another voice said. 

This one he knew too. It was Archie Underwood, Mary-Louise’s older brother. He turned to see Archie riding up behind them. He was smiling and as always, Simon got the impression that Archie was genuinely glad to see him. 

They were the most unlikely siblings. Where Archie was blonde, fair, and green-eyed, Mary-Louise was dark and brown-eyed. They couldn’t have been more different if they had had different parents. 

Simon smiled and doffed his hat to them, freeing his too-long black hair from its trapping. 

“You’re back,” Archie said. “How was…where were you again?” 

“Patience, with my uncle,” Simon said. 

“Oh, right. Was it good?” Archie asked. 

“It was,” Simon said. “And where are you two coming from?” 

“Oh, from the farm,” Mary-Louise said dismissively. “Father has a rally tonight in the town hall. He wants the family there to support him. Will you vote for our father for mayor again, Simon?” 

Her tone was light and friendly, but her dark eyes flashed with warning. Simon had been on the receiving end of Mary-Louise’s harsh tongue before, and he chose his next words very carefully. 

“Well, I’ve not been here for over five years,” Simon said. “I think I’ll save my decision for once I’ve settled in.” 

Archie grinned. “Well said,” he said. Then seeing his sister’s body stiffen, he continued. “Oh, leave him alone, ML. He’s not even seen his folks yet. Give him a chance to breathe.” 

Simon was grateful. Mary-Louise looked as though she planned to launch into a speech no doubt expounding her father’s many leadership virtues. 

They all set off again, heading into town. 

“So, election year again, huh?” Simon asked. “Who else is running?” 

“Paul de Berg,” Archie said, urging his dun-colored stallion on. “You know, the merchant? He moved here about four years ago. Bought out the trader from old man Partridge and….” 

“…and now he fancies he can do a better job running this town than our papa,” Mary-Louise said stiffly, her nose in the air. “As though he knows the intricacies of town politics in a mere four years.” 

“But he practically lived here for much longer than that,” Simon said, recalling the silver-haired gentleman in question. He had always like Paul de Berg, who was a generous man with a genuine smile. “Wasn’t he always here?” 

Archie nodded. “It was part of his route or something. I think he’s from San Diego originally.” 

For a while, Mary-Louise spoke about how much better their father was until Simon could take no more of it. He simply spoke over her, asking Archie what he’d been up to since school. 

He had left straight away the summer after graduation, heading back east, but Simon had no idea why. 

“I went to Harvard medical school,” Archie said. “I’m currently working for Dr. Worthington.” 

“Holy cow, is he still working?” Simon asked. 

Archie nodded. “At the moment, I handle most of the cases, but some folks don’t trust me yet.” He shrugged. “I guess they find it hard to believe the little boy who ran around in his vest and muddy britches is their doctor now.” 

“When did you get back?” Simon asked, feeling he’d missed a lot. 

Archie sighed. “About a month ago? Yes, around then.” 

They were in the town now, riding slowly along Main Street. Simon could see his father’s smithy coming up on the right. 

“Well, that’s me,” he said, nodding to the building that had smoke rising from the chimney into the evening air. His father must be working late. 

“Good to see you. Welcome back,” Archie said. He held out his hand to Simon, who took it and shook it firmly. 

Simon nodded to Mary-Louise. She looked down her pointed nose at him, but he didn’t take offense and simply rode into the smithy’s yard. 

Simon found his father bent over his anvil, his hammer in hand, banging out a piece of iron. It glowed golden-red. With each strike of the hammer, sparks shot off it onto the ground, where they fizzled out in the blink of an eye. 

The place still smelled the same. Simon was glad of that. Things had changed in town more than he’d liked to admit. The old bathhouse on the first corner was gone, no doubt moved to a less visible corner of the town and Main Street had lamps now. Probably Mayor Underwood’s attempt at bribing the town for the election. He and his daughter were one of a kind. 

“Simon! You made it before dark!” his father said, placing the now cooled rod of iron back into the furnace. He placed his tongs and hammer on the anvil and went to embrace his son. 

As his father’s arm wrapped around him, Simon couldn’t help but grin. He was home. Finally. He didn’t mind that his father was sweaty and smelled of it. There was smoke and singed leather from his apron that saved him from constant burns. These were familiar smells. 

“How’s Karl?” his father asked, finally releasing him. 

Simon shrugged. “Same as always,” he said. “He’s working hard.” 

“As always,” his father said with a chuckle. “Well, come on. Help me damp down the forge, and let’s head home. I promised your mother we’d come home the moment you arrived.” 

They closed off all but the chimney, making sure that the fire would die down quickly with no fresh air and no new fuel. Then after putting the tools away and cleaning up, they locked the smithy door and went to the horses. Simon’s father had a nice paddock around the back of the building with a shed for the horses to take shelter under from the sun. There was water and food in troughs, and his horse, Hercules, pricked up his ears in anticipation when they approached. 

Simon had left Perceval there too, but he looked less happy about riding out again. 

“Almost home, boy,” Simon said. “Just a little further.” 

His father saddled his horse, and together they rode down Main Street. They took a left onto Pine and a right onto Alder, which took them up into the hills where Simon’s father had built their house when he and Simon’s mother got married. 

It was a lovely house with a lush, verdant garden of succulents, plumbago, and cacti. Simon’s mother hated watering the garden and so only the kitchen garden, which held all their vegetables, got any kind of care. For the rest of it, indigenous plants would suffice. It was so lovely to see that some things never changed. 

Simon found his mother in the kitchen surrounded by the smell of roast chicken. Anna, his brother James’ wife, was folding napkins at the large wooden table, and his brother James looked up from the two bottles of wine he had been inspecting. 

“Simon!” his mother cried, throwing her arms around him. It was awkward with his bags in his hands, but he let her hug him as long as she liked. When she drew back, her blue eyes were brimming with tears. “You’re finally here.” 

“Good to see you Si,” James said, shaking his hand when their mother let him go. 

Anna began to rise, but Simon stopped her and kissed her cheek. The last time he’d seen Anna had been her wedding day to James, two years earlier. And then he’d only been able to stay for the wedding and had returned to Patience the next day. She’d been slender then. It was a shock to see her now, round-bellied as she was. 

“I’m glad to see I’m in time for my niece or nephew’s birth,” Simon said with a smile. “I didn’t want to miss that.” 

“Well, I’m ready to be free of this belly now,” Ana said. “So, you can come any time now,” she added, speaking to her stomach. 

“Dinner is ready,” Simon’s mother said. “Do you want to go upstairs and freshen up, and then we’ll eat? Your room is as you left it…” she paused. “Only clean.” 

Simon laughed and carried his bags through the kitchen and the hall and up the stairs to his old room. It was exactly as he’d left it, only cleaner, as she’d said. The clothes that usually lay in a heap at the foot of the bed were neatly packed in the closet, and his books were all on the bookshelf. They had spent most of their lives in Simon’s care, scattered around the room in various stages of being read. But the place smelled like pine, and his mother’s rose-scented soap and the knot he’d felt in his stomach since leaving, finally let go. 

Collapsing on his bed, he took his boots off, shook out some stones, saw the mess and groaned. Two seconds back and he’d already made a mess. Quickly he picked them up, opened his window and tossed them out. 

Then he washed his hands and face in the basin of water and dried them. He neatened up his hair. It was long enough now to tie at his neck with a little strip of leather. Simon thought he looked quite dashing with it and decided to see if his mother would say something when he went downstairs. 

The kitchen table was set, and everyone was seated, waiting for him. Simon thought he could hear the table groaning under the weight of the food. His mother had always been a generous soul, and there was far too much food there for one family. 

“Come sit,” she said, patting the chair next to her. 

He sat, and after saying grace, the meal began. 

Simon’s mother dished up a plate full of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, carrots, and pumpkin onto his plate. Then she doused everything in her rich gravy and handed him the plate. 

In truth, Simon hadn’t eaten like this in five years. His aunt, Maggie, didn’t believe in huge dinners, and she tended to make only the bare minimum. Mostly they’d had soups and fresh bread or stews. He didn’t know why. 

His stomach had clearly missed such feasts, and before Simon could think about it, his hands grabbed his cutlery and began shoveling food into his mouth. 

Around him, the family talked. It was quite like old times, except they had to stop every now and then and fill Simon in on something that had happened while he was away. It mostly seemed to boil down to this one and that one had gotten married, and so and so had a baby, and so on. Nothing that interested him particularly. There were only a few people he thought anything of. One was Bill Webb, his best friend, and he could count the others on his right hand. 

“So, will you be joining me at the smithy tomorrow? Have your first day working with your old man?” Simon’s father asked. 

Simon studied his father’s face. There was more gray in his hair, and his face seemed to have more wrinkles around the eyes, but he still looked strong and capable. 

“It’s either that or you have to come shoe horses with me,” James said with a smile. “Of course, you’re entirely the wrong shape to be a farrier.” 

“Is that so?” Simon asked regarding his brother with a look of incredulity. 

“Yeah,” James said, grinning. “Look at you. You have dad’s shoulders, broad and heavy. I’m lithe and slim. I can get in under a horse without the poor animal thinking a bear is attacking it.” 

Everyone laughed at that, and Simon playfully pretended to throw some mashed potatoes at him, which drew their mother’s ire. 

“So?” their father asked. “What’ll it be, master blacksmith?” 

Simon laughed. “I guess since my shoulders are all wrong for shoeing horses, I’ll just come hammer out hoes and shovels with you, father.” 

His father smiled. “That’s my boy.” 

When they’d eaten enough, their mother produced a peach cobbler, Simon’s favorite, and they all had a generous helping. Except for Ana, who looked strained and uncomfortable. She kept rubbing her stomach and grimacing. 

“Are you all right, dear?” his mother asked. 

“Yes, thank you, Elenore,” Ana said. “I think perhaps I ate too much. I might need to lie down.” 

Simon stood to help Ana, as did James and their father. Their mother shooed them all away, and she took Ana by the arm. She hadn’t taken more than two steps when there was splashing noise, and Ana’s eyes grew wide. 

“Oh dear,” she said and looked panic-stricken at James. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

Simon too, was at a loss, although their mother seemed to know. She worked at the apothecary and knew a lot about medicine. 

“It’s fine,” their mother said. “Ana, your water broke. I’m going to send Simon to fetch Dr. Worthington and Mrs. Wallace, the midwife.” She nodded to Simon. “Go, you’ll find Dr. Worthington on Apple Avenue number eighteen, and Mrs. Wallace’s house is down by Chestnut creek, number six. You can’t miss it.” 

Simon nodded. He dashed for the backdoor. “Can I borrow a horse?” he asked when he reached it. 

“Yes, take Zeus!” his father called. 

Simon nodded and bolted out of the door.

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“Her Heart’s True Longing” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Adella has always been a feisty woman, unwilling to find a suitable husband, despite her family’s wishes. When her father’s illness puts their farm at risk, though, it’s up to her to save them both. A solution crosses her mind as the mayor’s son begins expressing his feelings for her, even though she knows it is not what her heart wants. Things will get even more complicated when she comes across the first man that is able to see past her imperfections, effortlessly capturing her heart. Torn between her head and heart, Adella will be forced to decide what direction her future will line in.

What will she choose to sacrifice?

Simon Robertson is not exactly who everyone thinks he is. He might be a rough-looking blacksmith, but deep inside, he is a sensitive and cultured soul. When he returns to Clarion Hills after completing his apprenticeship, he finally encounters a woman who catches his attention and conquers his heart. To his misfortune, he will soon be trapped in a web of misunderstandings and lies…

Will he be able to discover the truth, and the path back to her?

When a raging wildfire rips through the farms, Simon and Adella find a new meaning to love and friendship as they work to save the town they both love. Together, they will have to deal with many difficulties, before they can make sense of what’s truly in store for them… Can they overcome the obstacles that threaten their only chance at love?

“Her Heart’s True Longing” 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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