Liberating her Captive Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

“Mia! Oh, Mia, dear! Would you mind stepping into the kitchen to help me with this?”

Mia Walker, out hanging wet laundry on the line some fifty feet from the back porch door, removed a couple of clothes pegs from her mouth to answer. “I’ll be right there, Mama. One moment!”

A tall, capable young woman, blessed with a complexion which tanned under the Texas sun to a warm gold rather than burnt red, she finished clipping the last delicate undergarments onto a rope strung between two sturdy poles and stood back to survey her handiwork.

Mid-morning of a hot May Monday, and much had already been accomplished. This was good drying weather for even the heaviest of wet fabric, like her father’s denim trousers and wool socks. Soon she would be able to take everything down for folding and pressing. Very little in life, as far as she was concerned, tickled the nostrils with such wonderful fragrance as that of outdoor line-hung laundry. The scent carried over into the sheets tucked around bedsprings and a mattress, usually ensuring sleep as beguiling as the aroma.

With a nod of satisfaction, she adjusted the folds of her rolled-up sleeves and gathered once more the shining brown mass of her hair with a narrow white ribbon which had seen better days. She ought to just pile everything on top of her head and secure it with a few dozen pins; the stuff was so thick and curly it refused to cooperate. Soon after a brief time in any style, tendrils would slip loose to twine around her face and cause a bother.

Better yet, she considered, narrowing eyes as deep hazel as nutmeg, she could commit sacrilege and take scissors to the whole kit and caboodle. Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? Why not just hack off the rebellious whorls and waves to a convenient length?

She picked up the empty willow basket to tote as far as the porch. There it would stay, waiting to be filled in reverse, once it was time to take down and bring in what had been pinned out.

“Mama, now what are you doing that you shouldn’t be doing?”

Her mother, a frail little sixty-ish woman plagued by vague pains and poor health, turned from the cook stove with a sheepish smile. “Oh, Mia, don’t you dare go scolding me. I only wanted to put this big stock pot on to start cooking some vegetables for soup, but the whole thing is heavier than I remember.”

“Maybe because you’ve got it chock-full of water, Mama,” countered Mia reasonably. “It’s too hard for you to lift. Here, let me do that.”

Soup? During hot weather like today’s? Sometimes Mia wondered, with some concern, if her mother were failing somewhat not only in body but in mind. However, with a surplus of vegetables ready for culling in the garden, over and above what her father would pack up and drive in to sell at the Monmouth market, she supposed making soup would serve a good purpose. And—adding some sort of baking powder biscuits or sourdough bread to the menu—provide more than one meal for just the three of them.

She sighed, mentally ticking off the list of chores still to be done before evening and bedtime would arrive. Today, for some odd reason, she was missing the presence of her younger sister more than ever.

Certainly for the way the two of them, only some twenty months apart in age, shared the work always waiting on a farm. But also for her companionship. She and Abby were related not only by blood but by friendship. Their appearance, and their behavior, was so similar they might have been born twins.

But alas. The traitorous girl had thrown everything away for love and gone running off to the western Hill Country, too far away for an easy visit. No, actually, despite the somewhat facetious terminology, Mia didn’t begrudge Abby at all for recognizing that she had found what she was looking for and following her heart.

But she did envy her younger sister a bit. Especially given that she had hoped for just that outcome for herself, some day. With Abby married and gone, however, and two elder brothers also married and settled to the north with their families, it seemed that Mia would end up as the “old maid” daughter, staying at home to care for her aging parents until—well, until it was no longer necessary.

Not that any regret or resentment figured in her looking after their welfare. And both were, for the most part, healthy enough to make do if need be. And grateful. Definitely grateful.

It just seemed that, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, life was passing her by. Living here almost in solitary confinement, with few visitors and few social outlets, she sometimes wondered if there were any way her own perfect love might meander up the dirt lane to the house and find her waiting for him. Like the Prince, cutting through a forest of brambles to reach his Sleeping Beauty.

Ah, well. If only it were as simple to make her wishes come true as it was to—oh, say, wash these turnips and green beans to prepare for supper!

“You went out and pulled a lot of produce from the garden, Mama,” she said, over the splash of water at the sink.

“Things have been growing right well this spring, haven’t they, Mia?” Ruth Walker, already seated to begin working with a sharp knife, said with a smile. “Vegetables and weeds, both. I pulled a lot of those, too.”

“Just don’t overdo it, please. And you wore your straw hat against the sun, didn’t you?”

“Yes, dear. I’m a long way from childhood, you know.”

Of course she was. But sometimes she forgot to do what should have been automatic, and then all three of them paid the price after.

Besides helping to run the farm and oversee business arrangements, Mia also worked part-time hours at a dress shop in town, where she cut fabric to pattern, fit it to the purchaser’s figure, and inserted tiny stitches, darts, and buttonholes into women’s garments. Such exhausting effort often strained her eyesight and wearied her backbone, but there you were. You did what you had to.

Independent and competent as she was, sometimes there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day to accomplish so much pressuring her for completion.

She could almost hear the garden plants gasping, “Water me, water me,” and the sink dishes gurgling, “Wash me, wash me,” and the basket of mending pleading, “Sew me up, sew me up!”

For now, she sat down beside Ruth at the kitchen table and began scraping carrots for the soup. Sheer curtains lifted slightly at the windows as a sweet breeze curled in and out like some somnolent wave at the beach. Across the yard, a rooster out of step with his schedule decided to crow loudly and long, probably just to warn his harem that he was still in charge.

It was a pleasant room, thought Mia with some satisfaction, as she glanced up and around. Much of that due to her influence. A typical farmhouse, from the hand-hooked rag rugs on the floor to the sturdy cupboards to the spacious scarred and battered table which served so many purposes. The twin back doors, an inner one made of wood and an outer one made of screen, led to a large porch which served as catch-all for laundry tubs, several chairs, miscellaneous tools, and a couple of bushy flowering plants in pots—one holding bright red, orange, and yellow Indian Blankets; the other a profusion of purplish basketflowers.

Inside, the home had grown from several chambers at its inception to a sprawling design which held—besides the kitchen and pantry—a comfortable parlor, a front hallway, her parents’ bedroom on the east side; an overflow room sparsely furnished with a desk, a narrow iron cot, and a birds’-eye maple bureau on the west side. Connected by another hall were two more small bedrooms, one for each of the two sets of children.

The Walker family, seeking a more favorable climate, had moved from the colder regions of northern Minnesota some ten years ago, once the uproar, strife, and bloodshed of the Civil War had come to a close. Here they had settled into this compact farmstead just five miles or so outside of Monmouth.

Close enough to town for brief travel, yet far enough away for privacy. With a small acreage to work, and the usual livestock—a healthy flock of chickens, a small herd of hogs, several assorted barn cats which kept down the rodent population—the two older strapping sons had easily managed to keep up with chores and maintenance, while the younger girls had helped with household duties.

Then Silas, approaching thirty, had met and fallen completely head over heels with a young lovely during Monmouth Market Day. Within just a few months, he and Miss Phoebe Wyeth were wed and moving some hundred miles slightly northeast to Austin, where employment in the mercantile business awaited him.

Shortly after that, Aaron, at the age of twenty-six, had followed suit. A trip west to sell several head of cattle had resulted in his betrothal to and subsequent nuptials with the only daughter of a rancher. He and Gisela were now living at the Hadley Holdings, distant enough to make journeying and visits difficult.

During their five years of marriage, both brothers had ensured their posterity: Silas as the father of four-year-old Austin (named, obviously, for the city), with Phoebe six months along into her second pregnancy; Aaron and Gisela as the parents of toddler twins Martin and Matilda.

“Have you not been called in to work today, Mia, dear?” her mother, peering more closely through watering eyes at the onion she was trying to peel, wanted to know.

“No, there isn’t enough at the dress shop for full-time employment. Miss Scruggs told me I could come several times a week, unless we had some rush orders that needed to be filled.”

“Oh, that Miss Scruggs,” said Ruth complacently. “How fortunate you were to be able to take up that position. And how nice that the owner of Elite Ensembles is so willing to comply with your schedule. She’s a peach, that lady.”

“A peach, absolutely.”

The truth being something entirely different: Miss Scruggs was a dried-up vinegary old battleaxe of an employer who could, as the saying went, draw blood from a turnip. She was only complying with Mia’s schedule because the timing suited her. And the wages for minimal hours per week amounted to much less than paying for six full days.

Her mother, being one of those innocent, trusting souls who always looked for the best in people, usually found it. Mia, of a slightly more cynical nature, often did not.

“You do such beautiful work,” Ruth now said affectionately, reaching over to pat her daughter’s busy hands. “Every time I wear one of the new outfits you’ve made me to church, I receive so many compliments. I swear, you could open your own dressmaking shop, did you but want to.”

“Thank you for drumming up business for me, Mama.” Mia gave her a wistful smile and patted back. “Maybe someday.”

Then, just after Christmas, it was Abby’s turn to decamp.

With her yearning for romance, and her active seeking of it, she might have served as the heroine of every love story ever written, sung about, or played on the stage. From the age of sixteen on, immensely popular with so many young gentlemen, there was no stopping her from participating in every social function for miles about.

As the baby of the family, with her sorrel brown curls and her soulful eyes, little rein could be used to keep her in check. Both brothers now lived many miles away; both aging parents simply preferred a quiet life and were sometimes astonished by this bird of paradise which had sprung up in their prosaic midst.

At twenty, she had encountered the man who would become the love of her life, one Russell “Rusty” Bennett, from Terefield. He happened to arrive at Monmouth, on his father’s business, just as last year’s autumn fair was taking place in the square—which Miss Abigail Walker, in the company of her sister, just happened to be attending. Rusty might as well have been served up on a platter as the cowboy of her dreams to the splendiferous girl. He was immediately smitten, she equally so, and both set off on a courtship for the ages.

She had been married a mere six months and was, by all accounts, in a state of absolute bliss.

Which didn’t make Mia miss her sister any less.

“I haven’t heard a word from Abby for a while,” said Ruth suddenly, out of the blue. She was carefully chopping the odorous onions on a wooden board. “Have you?”

Mia blinked. Good heavens! Was her mother clairvoyant? “Come to think of it, not for a few weeks. But you know how slow mail delivery can be. Papa’s going to town tomorrow; perhaps there’ll be a letter waiting for us.”

“Perhaps.” The tone was dubious. “But at least we know, as of her last writing, that she’s busy and happy with her new husband.”

“Yes, all that, for sure,” Mia, lining up her knife precisely into the center of a peeled potato, said softly.

Certainly she would never consider deserting her parents in their time of need, and she did feel a great deal of satisfaction in how well the three worked together, and how much could be done. But, still, to share with some special man the beginning and end of each day, and all the busy hours in between… Wasn’t she entitled to a trifle bit of discontent on that score alone?

After all, she was one of the products of her parents’ own marriage. She had seen them happy and successful, and she wanted it for herself.

“She married in such haste,” murmured Ruth. “And you know what they say.”

“Ah. Repent at leisure, by any chance?”

It was a common complaint, voiced frequently by her mother during the past six months. As the first daughter of the Walker family to tie the knot, and the adored youngest, Abby’s leaving had torn a hole into the tight-knit clan. More so even than the boys’ departure, since that was to be expected. But Abby—a mere child, Ruth often lamented. Even though she herself had been wed at an adolescent eighteen.

“Are you really worried about her, Mama?”

“A little, dear. If you recall from Rusty’s explanation, when Abby first brought him to meet us, his mother died many years ago, in childbirth. Terrible thing.”

“Yes, I remember. Two sons—Rusty and his older brother—and a daughter, Samantha. And subsequent problems with his father, though he skirted around the subject, and only hinted at what might be wrong.”
Putting down her knife to rub gently at the tenderness of one sore wrist, Ruth frowned a little. “Mr. Bennett has become—uh—rather—addicted to drink,” she said in a low voice, as if someone might overhear. “It’s caused a great deal of trouble for all the children.”

“Abby understood that she might be walking into sensitive surroundings. Rusty told her—and us—all that she might have to contend with, as far as his father and his wish—or need—for a bottle.”

“Imagining what one might have to confront is far different from the reality of a touchy situation. There can be all sorts of—bad things happening…”

With a sigh, Mia smoothed all four fingers of one hand across her forehead—sure sign that a headache was beginning to bloom. “She’s written several letters to us already, Mama, without a mention of anything being wrong. Don’t you suppose she would let us know?”

“I’m not sure,” murmured Ruth, a trifle sadly. “Are you, Mia?”

“Yes, I am. She’s proud. Lord knows how proud that girl is. But, if she were unhappy in her new home, far away from us, she would find a way to send us word.”

“Whatcha gals cookin’ up?”

The master of the household had just entered through the open door, scraped his boots on a mat, and immediately gone to the sink to wash from whatever outdoor chores had occupied his attention. With a smile of greeting, Ruth glanced up from her chopping board.

“Soup, Charlie. Doesn’t that sound good? And Mia has already volunteered to bake a cherry cobbler.”

“Soup, huh? Well, honey, I reckon that’ll be just fine. Uh—you gonna add anything that moos or clucks to them puny vegetables?”

“Isn’t that just like a man?” Ruth clicked her tongue in mock irritation. “Yes, dear—Sunday’s leftover chicken, all nicely cut up. And lots of the broth. What have you been up to this fine morning?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that.” Charlie poured a cup of coffee from the blue enamel pot still hot on the stove. “Put some axle grease on the buckboard wheels. They were screechin’ somethin’ fierce, last time I went to town. Mia, you know anything about a big ginger cat?”

Finished with her slicing and dicing, Mia swept everything into a bowl for inclusion in the soup pot. “Oh, Paulie? He showed up here about a week ago, Papa. Looking for food and a place to sleep. Is he all right?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s just hunky-dory,” said Charlie wryly as he joined his women at the table. “Except he’s a she, and there’s five little mewlin’ kittens to prove it.”

“Kittens!” Mia brightened with pleasure. “Oh, I’ll run out and have a look directly. Papa, you didn’t—uh—”

“Didn’t what? Do away with ’em?” He laid a dramatic hand on his chest, atop a thin cotton shirt.

“Daughter, you strike me to the heart. Whaddya take me for, anyway? Naw, the whole family is settled in a wooden box filled with straw in the barn. Reckon we’ll have some more mousers right soon.”

Rising to fetch coffee for herself and her mother, Mia bent suddenly to embrace her father, with his kindly Santa Clause face and beard and portly figure. “I take you to be just the kindest man in history, Charlie Walker, and I’m so proud to be your daughter.”

Chapter Two

“Looky here what I’ve got for you gals,” crowed Charlie, marching into the kitchen the following afternoon. He was carrying a saddlebag stuffed to overflowing, several gunny sacks as well, and an oblong twig basket that reeked of fish.

“Ugh, Papa, put that thing outside,” implored Mia. “What on earth do you have there, and who was nasty enough to give it to you?”

Setting down the sad iron with which she was pressing one of her mother’s aprons, she shooed him away after retrieving the rest of his burdens, careful to move each safely out of the way of the malodorous container.

“Aw, c’mon, Mia, don’t want them danged cats to get into this. Got me a few fresh-caught bass, whisked from right under the nose of Herman Dudley, at the mercantile.”

Even Ruth, of a stronger stomach, was holding her nose. “I hope you don’t expect either of us to gut and clean those for you, Charles. You know how much fins and scales smell up the house.”

“Well, not really, never paid it no never mind, I reckon.” Her father, having been literally pushed out the door, was still protesting from the porch, and his tone had acquired a mulish quality. “Got a hankerin’ for pan-fried fish, darlin’. Can’t a man eat what he wants in his own house?”

“Poor Papa,” murmured Mia without an ounce of fellow-feeling. “You go start a campfire over past the garden and you can pan fry all the fish you want. Can’t he, Mama?”

“I’d say so. What else did you bring us, Charlie? Something good, I hope?”

“Huh.” He had slunk back into the kitchen, basket-free, to begin rooting through his bags. “Don’t s’pose you’d turn up your nose to a box of candy, though.”

Mia bent sideways from the ironing board to kiss her father on the cheek. “Never, Papa. That was thoughtful.”

“Well, yeah. I am a thoughtful person, y’ know. Seems the price of eggs is runnin’ higher’n last week, Ruthie. So, after bein’ paid extra for ours I give him to sell, I took the extra cash out in chocolate.”

“And a very wise decision that was,” his wife cheerfully assured him. “Thank you, dear.”

“Meanwhile, anything else in those gunny sacks of yours?” Mia craned her neck to see.

“Yup. Real profitable visit, I must say.”

Neither wife nor daughter had expressed any desire in making the before-dawn trip to Monmouth with Charlie this morning. However, both had sent along a list of items to purchase, mostly for household use. Charlie had done quite well in that department.

Salt, sugar, and flour; spices for baking; several yards of plain ecru cotton (“Nothing fancy,” Ruth, ever mindful of the family coffers, had directed.) for the cutting and hemming of new dish towels; a sizable galvanized wash tub (the bottom of their current receptacle having finally rusted through); and a sack of Irish potatoes to cook until the garden began producing its own.

Mia was surprised and relieved to see that her father had, all on his own, stopped by the dress shop to pick up several garments, carefully wrapped in paper, which needed fine sewing, for her work here at home. Clearly Miss Scruggs, owner of Elite Ensembles, was requiring Mia’s services more than she would ever admit.

Nor had Charlie’s excursion left him wanting. For his own needs, he had procured a small axe to replace a twenty-year-old tool whose handle had split right in half, and a box of ten-penny nails.

“Saved the best for last,” he announced with pleasure, pulling forth a stack of mail from the saddlebag.

Two weeks’ worth of the local newspaper—The Monmouth Meadow Times (called by some wags The MT)—several circulars, a seed catalogue, and four letters, all at once. Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Charles Walker, one from each of the two sons (or, more likely, their dutiful wives), and one from yesterday’s very subject of conversation, Abby. While Ruth immediately latched onto this treasure trove, Charlie handed over another, with a wink, just to Mia.

Hurriedly she tore open the envelope to scan its contents with eager eyes.

Only to pull herself up short. Internally, at least. Not so that either parent would notice. Of course, her father was already puttering around at the stove for some leftover vittles from dinner, and her mother was enthusiastically perusing her own correspondence.

Mia began again at the beginning to re-read the contents.

But this was dreadful news. Dreadful, indeed. Or, if she had misinterpreted the meaning, perhaps not so dreadful, after all. Only…worrisome. Surely her sister would not have written in the same way to their parents?

She glanced up. “Any news, Mama?”

With a fond smile, Ruth was skimming the three vellum sheets. “Oh, just the usual. Probably the same as yours, Mia. The weather. How wonderfully Russell treats her. Some of the work she’s taken on. How much Russell loves her. The similarity between the Bennett ranch and our small farm. How Russell takes such good care of her. And so on.”

A far cry from Mia’s missive. Thank heavens.

In the letter to her sister, Abby had mentioned a matter of great import which was bothering her no end. She didn’t specify what that matter might be. But she had asked that Mia come for a visit to the ranch as promptly and quickly as possible.

“Please, please, big sis,” she had finished up. “I implore you to pay heed. I desperately need help; without someone to step in, I fear I shall have no recourse but to do something quite calamitous.”

“You’re right, Mama.” Mia folded the single page away to return it to its envelope. “All about the same.”

“What’s this here from Silas?” Charlie, having tucked into a bowl of soup and dumplings, pointed to another piece of mail.

“Well, hold your horses, I pray you.” Giving the effect of rapping her husband’s knuckles with a closed fan, as a slight censure, Ruth slit open the envelope and spilled out its innards.

“Well, what does he say?”

“A moment.” She sent him a quelling glance over the top of her spectacles and returned to the letter. “Why, I don’t believe it!”

Charlie was instantly on the alert. “What? Bad news? Somethin’ wrong? Speak up, woman.”

“They’re coming here to stay with us for a while.” Ruth exchanged astonished glances with her husband and daughter.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it, Mama? We haven’t seen the family in—well, since just before last Christmas, at Abby’s wedding.”

Troubled, and showing it, Ruth shook her head. “Not for a simple reason. This is actually from Silas, Charlie. Things are serious enough that he actually reached for a pen. He’s lost his job.”

“Lost his—but why? He’s worked there for five years!”

“Because the mercantile closed of a sudden. The owner went bankrupt, and poor Silas has been—according to his writing—left high and dry without even a salary.”

“Well, I’ll be switched,” said Charlie slowly. “Got nothin’ saved against hard times?”

She handed over the letter for his own perusal. “He didn’t say. This happened several months ago. He’s been looking for other employment, but without much luck. And with a little one already to care for, and another on the way, well…” The gesture of her outspread hand stated it all.

“So they want to stay here for a while, get back on their feet,” Mia mused.

Picking up a spoon, she stirred sugar into her coffee and took a sip, thinking it over. Amazing how events could work out so well to coincide with each other! Well, not that she would ever wish such a run of bad luck upon her easy-going brother, of course. But sometimes things did end up for the best. She couldn’t have journeyed to visit her sister for any length of time, as Abby was begging, leaving her parents here alone, without some sort of provision for back-up safekeeping and aid.

Best to finish off the rest of the mail, in case some other dire news was lurking under the guise of the United States Post Office.

“And from Aaron and Gisela?”

“My goodness, this is such an embarrassment of riches…” murmured Ruth, cutting open the third envelope in her small stack with a paring knife. Taking a few minutes, while her family waited impatiently, she scanned whatever had been scripted. Then, sitting back with a sigh of relief, she passed over the missive. “No problems, thank the Lord above.”

“Ah, from Gisela, I see,” observed Charlie. “And she’s—what’s this on the paper’s corner, Ruth?”

She bent slightly sideways to peer down at the spot at which he was directing her attention. “I think—I hope—that’s homemade preserves. Looks to me as if the twins got hold of their mama’s letter with sticky fingers before she set to mailing it.”

“All good at the Holdings?” Mia followed up.

“Yes, indeed. Weather has been agreeable—no floods or droughts—and market prices are acceptable. They’re expecting to sell stock at a profit. Most important, all four of them are healthy and busy. Interesting how the three of our absent children decided to write at the same time.”

“Not necessarily, Ruthie,” Charlie, having read over the letter to his own satisfaction, pointed out. “Haven’t picked up our stuff for a week. They all mighta trickled in, by dribs and drabs. Listen, are we havin’ somethin’ more substantial for supper than that soup?”

Ruth assumed a slightly hurt expression. “I thought you liked my soup.”

“I do, darlin’. It just leaves me feelin’ kinda empty, still, and I got innards askin’ if that’s all there is. Gimme a nice big chunk of beef…”

“Now, Papa, you know very well you can afford to shed a few pounds.” Mia, rising to collect the used earthenware, clicked her tongue in mock sympathy. “Never fear; we shall certainly scare up a heartier meal for you tonight. Did Silas happen to mention how soon he was planning to bring the family here?”
Picking up the envelope to fish out its contents once again, Ruth scanned what had been written. “Why, almost immediately, from what he says. They’re going to load up what they can of their possessions and travel on back home. Oh, dear.” She frowned. “That means a wagon. Or two.”

“Well, sure, honey. But we can store what needs to be stored in the barn.” Charlie smiled reassurance at his wife, who was wearing her concerned face. “Get ’em all settled and find us a new routine. What’s the matter?”

“Poor Phoebe…expecting like she is. That won’t be an easy trip for the girl.”

Mia returned from the sink to lay one gentle arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mama. Phoebe is a country girl, born and bred. If I know her, she’ll be driving a wagon herself. Besides, give Silas some credit. He loves her. They’ll stop and rest whenever necessary.”

Her mother looked up with a loving smile. “You do me such good, Mia, dear. I don’t know what I should do without you here.”

A pang of guilt tore straight across the girl’s heart and left a small burst of guilty fire in its wake. Well, I’m not planning to bolt on my own selfish account, am I? she tried to ease her conscience. Rushing away to help her sister, as soon as possible, was a matter of importance. Someone else in the family needed her now, and Mia—the generous people-pleaser—must fly to her rescue.

At least she wouldn’t be leaving her parents to the care of strangers. Her sister-in-law was a sturdy, capable, no-nonsense type all on her own, and certainly Silas was the same. They’d just hit a patch of very bad luck right now. Fortunate for them there was a spacious home waiting to receive the beleaguered family. Both could handle whatever came along while she was gone.

Thinking it over, Mia came to the decision that would change her life forever.

She returned to the table, where her parents were still arguing amiably over some small point, and resumed her chair. “Mama. Papa. I have something of vital importance to discuss with you.”

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“Liberating her Captive Heart” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Mia has been in a quandary ever since her younger sister asked for her help in desperation. Being the sole support of her aging parents, she is torn between staying with them and leaving in aid of Abby. After making hasty arrangements and heading to her sister at Rosewood Ranch, she finds matters even worse than she imagined. Faced with her sister’s misery and a fractured family in conflict, Mia’s one glimmer of hope and comfort is a strange but charismatic cowboy she somehow keeps running into.

As her attraction grows to him though, the air of mystery around him seems to get thicker and thicker…

Chris has been living a lonely life, trying to stay safe from the family drama bound to follow him. Eager to avoid past trauma and new complications, he is content with his simple life near Rosewood Ranch. Upon meeting a graceful young woman in town one day though, everything changes and he starts to second guess his decisions. He soon realizes that pursuing Mia presents a surprising predicament he never anticipated, yet he can’t bring himself to stay away from her.

How can he fulfill his wish to see her again and again without revealing his true identity?

Troubles for Mia and Chris seem to be mounting instead of dissipating. In order to resolve the tangled mess of difficulties at Rosewood Ranch, they will need to expose their true selves and accept one another as they are. How can they possibly untie the knots of so many complex relationships in order to find their own happiness?

“Liberating her Captive Heart” 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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