A Silent Bond Between Them (Preview)

Chapter One

September 1889

Dry Springs, Wyoming

“Now count backwards from ten, Diana,” the disembodied voice said, “as you descend a long flight of stairs.” 

Diana Pennyworth sat back on the soft velvet of the sofa beneath her, closed her eyes, and obliged. This was supposed to help her; it was supposed to open doors in her mind that she had shut. 

Holding up her hands, she began to let her fingers sink down one at a time. Ten, nine, eight… 

Her legs and body were oddly heavy, as though instead of bone, her skeleton was now made out of iron or maybe gold. She couldn’t move more than her hands, which were light as feathers. She felt safe and happy. 

Five, four… 

She was growing quite drowsy listening to the voice, which was telling her how tired and relaxed she felt as she proceeded further and further down the stairs in her mind. 

Two… one. 

“All right, you are now at the bottom of the flight of stairs. In front of you is a door. Can you see the door?” the voice asked. 

Diana nodded. She could see it clearly, even though her eyes were shut. It looked like the front door of the house she used to live in when she was a child. It was a blue door, painted the color of the sky. Moving her hands, she told the voice what she saw. 

It had taken him a while to learn her language, the one she had made up when her voice left her. But the doctor was smart, and he had eventually picked it up. 

“Open the door, Diana,” the doctor’s voice said. 

She shook her head. That house was not the kind of place she ever wanted to go to. It was a place of fear and horror, regret and longing. 

“Remember, nothing through that door can hurt you, Diana. Nothing can touch you. I am here and you are safe,” the doctor said. His voice was very soothing.

 

Diana nodded. Yes, she was safe. She was secure. 

Reaching out her hand, she touched the door. She could feel it, ghostly and unreal beneath her fingers. She turned the knob and it opened. It swung outwards and she had to take a step back so that she could walk through. 

The house was exactly as Diana remembered it. The slanting rays of light picked up the dust motes that slid gently down the sunbeams as though they were magical, tangible things. There was the little table in the hall where her father had always put his money purse and his reading glasses when got home. Mother’s purse would be there too, along with what correspondence the family had recently received. Usually, letters from Diana’s mother’s aunt who lived in the far-off land of Canada. 

In her mind, Diana walked up to the table and ran an ethereal hand over the items on it—a small blue ceramic vase and a couple of little daisies. She and her sister Ester had picked them on the way back from their friend Sarah’s house, and Mother had put them in the little vase.

 

They were lovely. 

They drew Diana in. She wanted to stay with them so that she could remember that happy afternoon forever instead of moving on, always moving on, to the next bit of the story. 

“Diana, we can’t linger,” the doctor’s voice interjected. “Just as nothing can hurt you here, nothing can bring you real joy, either. You must leave the vase and the flowers and walk down the hall to the kitchen. Can you do that?”

 Reluctantly, Diana nodded. What choice did she have? This was all for her, to help her get her voice back, and she desperately wanted to speak again. She had to go on. 

The wooden floorboards creaked under her feet as they always had, playing a happy tune as she walked along them to the kitchen where she could hear her mother’s voice. She was speaking in a low tone, which made it difficult, near impossible, to hear the individual words being said. Her mother’s voice sounded like a droning, like a soft and modulated buzzing as of a particularly well-versed bee. 

Another voice spoke, this one deeper. It was her father’s voice. He was home. Diana was filled with delight. Her father often went on trips to other towns in the area for days on end. He had been on one such visit for three days. Diana looked around and spotted his valise, propped against the stairs, ready for him to grab the handles on his way up. He must have arrived and gone in search of Diana’s mother straight away. 

With renewed vigor, just as she had on that fateful day, Diana ran down the last stretch of the corridor, Ester right behind her, and burst into the kitchen. 

“What do you see?” the doctor asked. 

This was difficult. If Diana had her voice, she could tell the doctor what she saw using all the right words. But not being able to speak, the ability having left her suddenly that day so long ago, she had to sign it, and that was difficult.

 

How could she put this into words? Her mother looked alarmed. Diana thought it was because she and Ester had come running into the kitchen. Their mother frowned on running in the house. Ester, who was older, seemed to pick up on something in their folks’ expressions—something that until now, Diana had missed. They were angry. 

No, their father looked angry and desperate, as though he had been begging for something that was never going to be given to him, and yet he tried anyway. Their mother looked scared, worried, and angry too. 

Who was she angry at? Diana never did find out. 

As the girls burst into the room, their folks froze in that moment and then both plastered smiles on their faces and turned to them. 

“We need to move on now, Diana,” the doctor said. “We have been through this scene, and we must move on. Let’s move to dinner time.” 

Dinner time? No, Diana didn’t want to. It was too close to the time when it had all gone spectacularly wrong. The time when the world turned upside down. 

“Remember, you are simply viewing these events,” the doctor said in his kind, modulated voice. “They have already happened and there is nothing you can do to change their outcome. We are merely here as observers, separate from the events, but watching them.” 

Diana nodded. She knew this. It didn’t make her happy or make her feel any better, but she knew it. 

Time sped around her as though someone had found a lever and turned it once, twice—the sun set in a flurry of moving shadows and light, and the house filled with the smell of Diana’s mother’s chicken pot pie. 

But Diana wasn’t down in the kitchen now. She was upstairs with Ester. Diana, being the youngest by two years, was fighting with her older sister about washing her face before dinner. She didn’t like the smell of the flannel cloth that Ester wanted to use to get the dirt off her face, and she was protesting loudly. 

Oddly, no adult came to force the issue one way or the other. That was strange. Ester mashed Diana’s face into the cloth with a harsh, “Stand still, baby!” 

Diana pushed her away and Ester stumbled backwards. She landed on her rump with a loud bang. At the time, Diana had thought her sister had made the bang, that she had fallen so very hard. That wasn’t the case, as she later found out. The bang was something else entirely—something far more horrifying. 

“Come, Diana, we must move on,” the doctor said. “We must…” 

She shook her head. No, she mustn’t. What lay beyond this moment was something Diana couldn’t bear to revisit. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye. One bang was followed by another. Curious, the two girls had crept to the top of the stairs, and that was when it happened. That was when the dark figure had come and taken everything. 

Even Diana’s voice. 

Another bang and footsteps making the boards in the hallway sing a horrible, unfriendly tune, and then another bang, a yell, Ester pushing her backward, screaming something that sounded like “hide,” and then… and then… Ester’s body jerking as though something hit her. She fell. 

Diana screamed and grabbed her sister. Her face was angled away from Diana. Why wouldn’t she look at her? She tried to turn her and—

***

It was over. Diana’s eyes snapped open as though someone had hit a switch. She stared at the ceiling, still seeing the images of that day in her mind. Blinking, she felt someone take her hand, and she looked over at Dr. Thomas Maxwell. He smiled at her, a kind, gentle smile that helped Diana to push the images away. 

“You did very well,” Dr. Maxwell said, his thin, bony hand pressing and rubbing hers as though she was cold and he was trying to warm her up. Perhaps she was. Diana felt oddly numb and hollow, like something had come out of her and left a mold of itself behind, a shape that nothing had filled yet. 

She forced a little ghost of a smile and he nodded. 

“That’s the spirit,” the doctor said. “You are making remarkable progress. To think that only a few short weeks ago, you couldn’t get past the front door.” He nodded. “We are going to get you speaking again, my dear. I can feel it in my bones.” 

Dr. Maxwell was no ordinary doctor. He didn’t set bones or stitch wounds, or even prescribe anything for a cold. He was an alienist all the way from New York City who had come to Wyoming to help Diana. 

Granted, he was doing a study on people like her, people who had suffered trauma and lost their voices, and he had decided to include her in the study. On the one hand, Diana was a little flattered, but on the other, she felt something like a laboratory rat. The contents of her head were not her own. She had to share them with the good doctor. 

She sat up. He handed her a notebook and a pencil, and for the next half hour, she wrote down every detail of the session. Every smell, sound, and sight. Every feeling, emotion, and thought. It was important that she be thorough, and by now, she was used to it. 

When she was done, Dr. Maxwell took the book back, peered at her writing through his thick spectacles, and nodded. 

“As always, your work is beyond reproach,” he said. “Such a fine, neat handwriting. I think you will be capable of great things once we get you speaking.” 

Diana didn’t have to force a smile now. The events of That Day were now far enough behind her again that joy was possible. She signed to the doctor, using her hands and her facial expressions, that she was pleased with her progress as well, and that she was very grateful for his time and effort. 

The doctor nodded and smiled. “Now, remember that I’m out of town for a few days from tomorrow and so we will have to pick up our sessions when I return. It won’t be long, a couple of days at most. I have heard of another case in a nearby town.” 

Diana nodded. The doctor needed to ply his trade. She couldn’t keep him for herself. Although he had helped her a lot. She wasn’t as scared of the world now. 

He walked her to the door of the house he was renting in Dry Springs and let her out. She waved goodbye and set off down the street. 

She hadn’t taken ten steps when someone called her name. Turning, she saw her best friend, Sarah Ward, come striding toward her. 

“How did it go with the alienist?” Sarah asked, hooking her arm through Diana’s. 

Diana put her hand out flat, palm down, and made rocking motions with it. So, so. 

“He still hasn’t found that lovely voice of yours rattling around in there somewhere,” Sarah said with a laugh. She playfully poked Diana in the chest. 

She had lovely brown curls piled on her head in a fetching manner and the kindest hazel eyes that Diana had ever seen. Diana’s hair was auburn and her eyes blue. Her skin tended to freckle in the sun and thought herself to not be anywhere near as pretty as her friend. Sarah had married the new sheriff, Henry Ward. He’d just taken office a month ago, and they were a very happy, ambitious couple. 

Sarah worked for her father’s newspaper, the Dry Springs Chronicle, and she was very good at it. Diana loved to read her stories, which were well-researched and always written with Sarah’s brilliant, straightforward, no-nonsense attitude. Although Diana suspected that the editor spent a good deal of time revising Sarah’s work to make some of her statements less offensive. 

“Are you headed to the saloon?” Sarah asked. 

Diana nodded. She made sweeping motions with her hands as though using an invisible broom. 

“Oh, you’re cleaning today,” Sarah said with a sigh. “How about dinner tonight at my house?” 

Diana mimed cooking, pretending to stir a bowl in her arms. 

“Ah, you’re cooking at the saloon,” Sarah said. “Are you ever not with the alienist or working?” 

Diana shrugged. Of course, she didn’t work all the time, but she had to earn her keep. Her uncle Tim Cabot owned the saloon, where she lived and worked. She was lucky. Someone in her position—a person who didn’t speak one word, ever—didn’t have a lot of opportunities in a town like Dry Springs. Diana considered herself lucky to have a caring uncle who also employed her. 

The saloon wasn’t open yet, it being well before midday. Diana’s mind turned to the chores that awaited her. By now, Uncle Tim would have started getting the bar clean, and she would arrive in time to do the floors and clean the kitchen and start making the meal of the day. It was warm and bright out and she thought maybe sandwiches for lunch and then stew for dinner would do. 

Sarah said goodbye with a happy wave, and Diana opened the door to the saloon when they reached it.

 

It was full of all the familiar smells—the rich scent of polish on the bar counter and tables, the malty, hops smell of the beer, the sharp aroma of spilled whiskey, and the bitterness of the lemon-scented soap they used to clean everything. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell. Uncle Tim had the windows and the back door open, and the breeze had already cleared out the stale cigarillo smoke, as well as the odor of a lot of men drinking and sweating together after a day in the mines and the fields. 

Uncle Tim, his balding head gleaming in the sunlight that streamed in through an open window, was not engaged in cleaning, as Diana had expected. Instead, he sat at a small table by one of the windows. He wasn’t alone. 

A young man with a full head of golden-brown hair sat opposite him. The man had a straight back and occupied his chair with a nonchalant ease. 

Diana walked to a spot where her uncle could see her and waved hello. 

“Ah, Diana, are you done with your session today?” her uncle asked. “Mr. Welliver, I’d like to introduce you to my niece.” 

The man turned and Diana caught sight of his face. She had seen him around town a bit lately and every time she saw him, she thought how handsome he was. With his large green eyes and his lips that always seemed to hold the last touches of a smirking smile, he was the picture of a roguish gentleman. At least to Diana, who read a lot of books in her spare time. 

As Mr. Welliver smiled at her, she felt the heat of the blush beginning to rise up from her middle. 

He stood and extended a hand to her. “Jackson Welliver,” he said with a brilliant smile. 

Diana nodded and shook his hand. 

“Diana doesn’t speak with her voice, sadly,” Uncle Tim said. 

“She’s mute?” Mr. Welliver asked, frowning. “Such a lovely young lady, I hope it’s nothing permanent.” 

Uncle Tim shrugged. “According to her doctor, it’s curable.” He smiled at her. “Isn’t it, Di?” 

She nodded. She hated being treated like a dimwit. So, she began to sign to her uncle. 

Uncle Tim watched her hands and sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.” 

Diana nodded and signed to Mr. Welliver, not that he would understand, but Uncle Tim could translate. I am very pleased to meet you. Would you like some coffee? I will put a pot on. Are you discussing business with my uncle? 

Uncle Tim translated and said that coffee would be great. 

Mr. Welliver’s eyes grew large and round with surprise. “She said all of that?” he asked. 

Uncle Tim nodded. “She did. She’s quite talkative once you know how she speaks.” 

“Good heavens,” Mr. Welliver said. “Where did she learn this fantastic means of communication?” 

“She made it up—well, this version of it, I suppose,” Uncle Tim said. “Then she taught it to me and to her friends. Make no mistake, the voice is all that is lacking. Her brain is just fine.” 

Flushing with pride now instead of embarrassment, Diana headed to the kitchen to make the coffee. 

 

Chapter Two

September 1889

Dry Springs, Wyoming

Jackson Welliver was in awe. He had seen Diana around town but hadn’t met her before. She had seemed so silent and introspective to him, never stopping to talk to the other girls. Now he knew why. 

She didn’t speak. 

“You’re wondering what happened to her,” Mr. Cabot said. He was an odd man with the dome of his head poking through a ring of clinging hairs that seemed poised to fall out at any moment. 

“I was wondering what could have caused her trouble,” Jackson admitted. It was intriguing. And how had she come up with that fascinating language? It made the version he knew, the one used by thieves, seem awkward and quite primitive. 

“That is what the alienist, Dr. Thomas Maxwell, is trying to work out,” Mr. Cabot said. He sighed sadly and Jackson got the impression that he cared deeply for his niece and her well-being. Mr. Cabot seemed a decent fellow. 

There was a time when Jackson would have considered a soft heart to be a liability, but not now. He was a straight-walking, honest citizen now, the dark days having been put behind him firmly and without any regret for doing so. 

“I can’t say that the alienist has had much luck with making Di speak again,” Mr. Cabot said, after a short pause. “He says that it’s complicated, and I believe him.” He chuckled. “The human mind is a strange and wonderful thing, isn’t it?” 

“Without a doubt,” Jackson agreed. “I wish him luck and her success. It must be dreadful not to be able to express oneself freely and with ease. I should imagine that not everyone is too keen or willing to learn that language Diana speaks. It must make finding friends difficult.” 

“She does all right,” Cabot said. “There are those who look past such things. Sarah Ward and her husband the sheriff are two of those.” 

There was a short silence, and now Jackson simply had to know. 

“What happened?” he asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.” 

Mr. Cabot waved his words away. “It’s not a secret. The whole town knows the story. It’s the only gruesome and yet exciting story to have come out of Dry Springs. I swear that Alistair Appleby from the Chronicle is lamenting the lack of things to report in this town since it happened. After that sensation, there’s been next to nothing for him to print in his rag.”

Rag? Clearly, Mr. Cabot didn’t hold with newspapers, or perhaps just not that one. Perhaps he didn’t like the way they would invade one’s privacy with a regrettable lack of remorse. 

“I would very much like to know, at least the basics,” Jackson said sincerely. “So that I can avoid making a faux pas in Diana’s presence. I should imagine she’s not keen on the topic.” 

“She’s not. Do you plan to see more of her?” Mr. Cabot asked, looking both suspicious and a little excited at the same time. Jackson guessed there weren’t a lot of suitors hanging around Diana, asking her uncle if they could step out with her. Perhaps the man was afraid his niece would become an old maid. 

He considered how to answer the question for a moment and then smiled. “It’s a small town, we’re bound to run into each other,” he said. “And who knows, if we manage to strike up a deal, I might see a lot of both of you.” 

Mr. Cabot laughed and nodded. “That is true. But then you have to keep this out of conversations you might have with her. As you can imagine, she is quite easily upset when this topic is mentioned.” 

He leaned in closer, and Jackson did, too. 

“Diana had the misfortune of witnessing the murder of her parents and her older sister. It all happened right in front of her, and she’s been mute ever since.” 

“My goodness,” Jackson said. “How dreadful. And she is the only survivor? That’s odd too, isn’t it? Why did the murderer leave a witness?”

Mr. Cabot shrugged. “Who knows how those people’s minds work? So now you know, you can avoid the topic as most of us do, especially when we’re around Di.” He shifted in his seat and leaned back. “Now, you said that you’ve been brewing out at the old Blythe house?”

Jackson smiled and nodded. This was a far better topic. His insatiable curiosity had gotten the better of him there for a moment, but now he was back on track. “I have. The property is perfectly suited to it, being right on the banks of the river. I think I’ve managed to produce something you might be interested in.” 

Mr. Cabot nodded thoughtfully. “Did you bring anything along to sample? I can’t agree to sell a beer I’ve never tasted.” 

“Oh, naturally. I would never expect a gentleman of your standing to do something like that,” Jackson said with a wry smile. “As it so happens, I brought a bottle with me.”

Jackson reached into the black bag beside his chair and pulled out a bottle. It had been capped that morning, and he was hopeful that Mr. Cabot would like the fruity flavor he had tried to cultivate in the beer to cut the bitterness of the hops and the yeast. 

Holding the bottle’s top against the side of the table, he smacked it with his hand and the cap came off. He handed the bottle to Mr. Cabot. 

Jackson had pulled a fair number of scams in his wilder days. He had talked people out of thousands of dollars, and he had never been as nervous in those negotiations as he was right now. His hand shook slightly as he passed Mr. Cabot the bottle. 

The saloon owner sniffed the open neck and Jackson took the moment to lower his hand and wipe his sweating palm on his trousers. He had never been this worried before. Perhaps it came from knowing that Mr. Cabot was a connoisseur of fine beers. It was making his heart race and his body break out in a sweat. 

Raising the bottle to his lips, Mr. Cabot took a long swig and held the beer in his mouth for a moment. Then he swallowed and smiled, nodding. “Yes, this is a fine beer. You gave it a pleasant fruity aftertaste. How clever.” 

“Thank you,” Jackson said, sighing inwardly with relief. He had managed it. He had brewed a decent beer. “I tried to make it feel light and easy to drink. Not heavy like the drinker was wading through silty water.” 

“Well, you succeeded,” Mr. Cabot said, taking another sip. “I think this would go down well. What are you planning to call it? I see there’s no label on the bottle as yet.” 

Jackson pursed his lips. Having been a thief and a swindler, he’d never had to name anything of his own before. He had simply taken things other people had made. That was easy. Making something and then finding a halfway decent name for it had proven a trial for him. 

“I’ve kicked several names around,” he admitted. “But none seem right.” 

“I find easy names are usually the best,” Mr. Cabot said. “You know, the ones that people can remember to order the beer over and over. When folks get all creative and give their drinks complicated names then the simple folks don’t buy it. So, try something like Jack’s Ale or something like that.” 

Jackson was aware of a presence beside him, and he turned his head to Diana there with a tray. She smiled warmly at him and her uncle and proceeded to put the tray down on the table between them. It held a pot of coffee that smelled as though it had been brewed to perfection, along with two mugs, a sugar bowl, and some cream. 

Her uncle made some complicated gestures to her, and Diana watched his hands moving with a slight frown on her face. Then she responded with some gestures of her own. 

“What did you say to her?” Jackson asked. 

“Oh, sorry, I forget sometimes when others are around that you don’t speak this language,” he said, chuckling in an embarrassed manner. “I thanked her for the coffee and told her about your beer. She is good at naming things, and I thought she might be able to offer some suggestions.” 

“She is welcome to join us,” Jackson said, finding to his surprise that he wanted Diana to be part of the conversation. 

She nodded and, heading to the bar, fetched herself a mug and joined them at the table. Before drinking the coffee she had made, she took a sip or two of Jackson’s beer. She smiled and nodded at him. 

“That means it’s good,” her uncle said. 

She rubbed her tummy with her hand, still smiling. 

“And that means that it’s yummy, I suppose you could say,” Mr. Cabot translated. 

Jackson was glad Diana liked it. He smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Miss Pennyworth.” 

She spoke with her hands, saying something that he couldn’t begin to guess at. 

“She says you can call her Diana,” Mr. Cabot said. 

“Oh, I thought she was saying something about shooting a bow and arrow?” Jackson said with a bemused smile. This was fun, it was a puzzle that he had to try to solve, even though he had the cheat sheet in the form of her uncle. 

“It is how she signs her name,” her uncle said. “See, she puts her hand on her chest meaning she’s speaking about herself, and then she shoots her invisible bow and arrow to symbolize Diana, goddess of the hunt. You do know your mythology, don’t you, Mr. Welliver? You’ll need it with Diana. She’s been reading up about the Greek, Roman, and Norse gods since she could hold a book.” 

“Oh,” Jackson said. “Well, I know a little. I can brush up on it.” He smiled. “Thank you, Diana. You can call me Jackson.” 

They smiled at each other, and Jackson was mesmerized. There was something about this woman that just drew him in as though she was quicksand, and he was about to be drowned. 

“So, Di, any ideas for a name for the beer?” her uncle asked, breaking the moment. 

She nodded and began to sign rapidly. 

As she did, her uncle translated. “She says she thinks it should carry your company’s name. Do you have one?” 

Jackson shook his head. “I haven’t really gotten that far. I wanted to see if I could brew a decent beer before making everything official.” 

Diana nodded and signed fast. 

“She says since you’re at the Blythe House, why not use the name? It’s a good one, and well-known in the area. People will remember it, and many will have a fond association with it. Mr. Blythe was well-liked before he died.” 

“You don’t think it would be presumptuous?” Jackson asked. 

She shook her head. 

“So, then I would call it, Blythe Ale?” he asked. 

“Blythe Light Ale,” Mr. Cabot said. “And next you’ll want to brew a stout. Stout is very popular here.” 

And so, the conversation went on from there. They went through two pots of coffee before all the negotiations and discussions were done, but when he left the saloon, Jackson felt more confident about his new fledgling business. 

He wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of calling his business Blythe Brewery. He had been toying with Jackson Brewers, which he thought had a nice ring to it. Mr. Cabot had pointed out that the locals would most likely end up calling his company the Blythe Brewery anyway, because of the land it was on, and Jackson had given in to that. He had decided to call his first-ever ale the Jackson Light Ale. 

He needed his name on the product. Going straight wasn’t easy for someone like him. A dyed-in-the-wool thief, a cat burglar with such a soft tread, skilled hands, and a sixth sense for danger, he had been at the top of his field. No one could compare to Jackson Welliver, and he needed to feel that sense of accomplishment again. 

At the moment, after that meeting with Mr. Cabot, he felt something similar. It was a kind of warm pride burning in his chest, filling him with a sense of great contentment. He had made something, and it was good.

 

He could be proud of what he had done. It was a new sensation for him. 

The ride back to the Blythe house was a short one and Jackson was at the gate not more than twenty minutes after leaving the saloon. The house stood in the middle of a couple of acres of rolling grassland with clumps of pine forest dotted throughout. In the distance, mountain peaks rose up to the sky, white-capped and hazy. 

It was beautiful out here, remote, far from cities and Jackson’s usual haunts, which was both a good and a bad thing. He missed the convenience of living in a large city like New York or Boston or Chicago, but he enjoyed the peace and serenity of the wilderness around him. 

Dry Springs was on the way to several places. The railway passed close by, so there were options to secure deals with saloons farther afield, and he could send his ale all over via the trains. He had thought about this carefully. And best of all, his current home was miles and miles away from Silas. 

That was possibly the most important part of the whole plan, to get himself as far away from that crazy blackguard as it was possible to be. Teaming up with Silas and his crew for Jackson’s last heist had been the biggest mistake of his life. 

“How did it go?” Oliver Hempstead asked. 

He was a tall, burly man who could lift a full barrel on one shoulder. Seeing that, Jackson had hired him on the spot to be his assistant brewer. It was just the two of them for the moment. Jackson didn’t build trust easily. It would take time to undo years and years of having to look out for himself only. 

Handing the reins to Oliver, Jackson smiled and nodded. “It went well. Cabot will buy a crate of our beer.” 

“Just one?” Oliver asked, running his big hand through his sandy hair. “Seems like a lot of effort for little return.” 

“We have to start slowly,” Jackson said. “We can’t expect him to buy a whole lot when he doesn’t know if his patrons will like it. He suggested we make a stout as well.” 

“Ha!” Oliver exclaimed. “See, I told you we needed a stout. It’s very popular here.” 

“Yes, well, I learned to make light ale. I will have to read up about how one makes a stout,” Jackson admitted. 

Oliver shrugged. “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.” 

“Thank you,” Jackson said. “Did anything interesting happen while I was away?” 

Oliver shook his head. “You might want to hire someone to come in and clean. We’re going to need the help. There’s a lot to scrub out and I don’t think I can do it all alone.” 

Jackson sighed. “All right, you get the horse seen to and I’ll start cleaning the vats.” 

It wasn’t a fun job, but it was necessary. Everything had to be kept clean to make sure that the beer turned out perfect every time. It was a lot more hard work than Jackson was used to, but it was also fulfilling in a way that he had never experienced before. Having sore muscles at the end of a day’s toil carried with it the feeling that one had accomplished something, something big and good. It was new and exciting, and he loved every moment of it. 

After changing out of his good suit and into some work clothes, Jackson set to work cleaning the vats and the pots and all the rest of the equipment needed to brew a fantastic beer. And then he would brew a stout, and when he started to sell his wares properly, Jackson Welliver would be a legitimate, upstanding businessman who wasn’t afraid of the law. Not having to look over his shoulder all the time would be a new experience, and one that Jackson was looking forward to. 

After an hour of scrubbing, he realized that he wouldn’t have time for this when the Blythe Brewery became busy. Oliver was right, he would have to hire someone to come and clean. For some reason, Diana popped into his head. Would she consider working for him? It would give him an excuse to see her every day. 

Jackson liked the idea of that. He liked it very much. He would have to learn to speak her language. Well, how hard could it be? As tricky as brewing beer? He thought not. He was willing to give it a try and then he could see where things went from there. Perhaps he and Diana could be something.

---

“A Silent Bond Between Them” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

In the aftermath of a brutal tragedy that robbed her of her family and her voice, Diana Welliver’s resilience shines through her silent communication with nimble hands. Bound by a past she can’t escape, Diana finds solace in the simple rhythms of life at the local saloon where she meets Jackson, a man whose presence stirs a tumult of emotions within her…

What secrets lie beneath her mute facade, and could Jackson be the one who holds the key to her salvation?

Jackson Welliver, a man with a checkered past, now walks the narrow line between redemption and relapse. As he grapples with the shadows of his past and the allure of temptation, Jackson must confront his inner demons to protect the newfound love and purpose he’s discovered in the arms of Diana Welliver.

When someone from Jackson’s past shows up in his new life, will he succumb to the ghosts that haunt him, or will he rise above his past to forge a brighter future?

As Jackson struggles with the echoes of his past, Diana stands by his side, determined to forge a future together. With danger closing in, they must fight to overcome the obstacles in their path and find a way to bring those who threaten their happiness to justice. Will their love be enough to withstand the challenges they face, or will the darkness of their past consume them both?

“A Silent Bond Between Them” 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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