Read Online Mail Order Brides: A Bride for the Banker (Bozeman Brides Book 1) by Emily Woods - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily Woods
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come right back home, Pearl Westcott. You got that?”
“Yes, Ma.”
CHAPTER 2
He stood on the porch and watched the sunrise bathe the plains around Gold Creek with its deep oranges and purples. It was his favorite time of day, when the world was waking up and everything was still right in the world. He breathed in the morning air and was to glad to be alive.
One of the wealthiest ranchers in Gold Creek, he had once owned everything as far as his eye could see, but he had sold much of it to allow the town to expand. He was too happy and self-assured to need to own more than everyone else.
Leaning against the porch post, he thought about the love of his life and couldn’t help breaking into a smile. What more could a man need than the love of a good woman? He had promised himself long ago that he’d love her forever, never becoming complacent or belligerent. He’d seen enough of his friends start with full hearts and high hopes, only for a slow deterioration to kick in until the woman couldn’t wait for her once beloved husband to leave every morning. Eventually, he’d stay later and later in the saloon until they were satisfied that they saw each other as little as humanly possible.
That was the last thing he wanted.
Maggie came out to the porch holding a steaming mug of coffee and handed it to him with a sleepy smile that wrinkled her eyes and made her look more beautiful to him than ever.
“Here you are Walter,” she said.
She was still in her nightgown and her graying hair fell down in the braids that he’d seen her wear every day for the past forty years.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking the hot mug from her hands and sipping.
It was hot and sweet and creamy, exactly how he liked it. He handed it back to her and she took a sip as they enjoyed the silent dawn.
“I wonder if there’ll be any letters today,” said Maggie.
“I wonder,” said Walter.
“Have you told him yet?” she asked, passing the mug back to him.
“Not yet,” he said. “He’s stubborn as a mule.”
“Don’t you just know it,” said Maggie. “That boy. He’s gotta get out of his own way.”
*****
Charles only heard the faint murmurs of Walter and Maggie’s conversation from the porch below as he sat at the table in his bedroom and cleaned his revolver, his heart feeling like a lead weight in his chest, as it did most days.
He told himself his little brothers were tough enough not to need him. They’d be nine, twelve, thirteen and sixteen now. Almost men. Far from the tiny boys with rounded cheeks and innocent eyes who he’d tried to convince himself were big enough to make it on their own when he’d left six years ago. He wouldn’t even let himself think of his mother.
Whenever he looked back on that day with guilt, he’d mercilessly attacked the feeling that gnawed at his stomach with unassailable logic. They needed the money, he’d gone to get the money. There was nothing wrong with that.
Only he’d since learned that talk was cheap and the stories about gold rushes and overnight fortunes were greatly exaggerated. There was no money. At least, not for most.
He’d fallen for the premise hook, line and sinker, telling his family how they’d soon be wealthier than they could ever dream of and that the little ones would never have to miss a meal again. He packed up everything he had, no more than a couple of spare shirts, and used every penny he could scrape together to buy a train ticket. He packed into an over sold train car with a dozen or so other young men just like himself who’d made the same promises to their own families. He didn’t know what had become of any of them.
He chastised himself for thinking so deeply. Focus on the revolver, he told himself. There was no need to get lost in whys and wherefores and yesterdays. He knew he’d only start thinking all kinds of things better left alone. The only thing to do was to concentrate on the task at hand, to get his revolver
“Yes, Ma.”
CHAPTER 2
He stood on the porch and watched the sunrise bathe the plains around Gold Creek with its deep oranges and purples. It was his favorite time of day, when the world was waking up and everything was still right in the world. He breathed in the morning air and was to glad to be alive.
One of the wealthiest ranchers in Gold Creek, he had once owned everything as far as his eye could see, but he had sold much of it to allow the town to expand. He was too happy and self-assured to need to own more than everyone else.
Leaning against the porch post, he thought about the love of his life and couldn’t help breaking into a smile. What more could a man need than the love of a good woman? He had promised himself long ago that he’d love her forever, never becoming complacent or belligerent. He’d seen enough of his friends start with full hearts and high hopes, only for a slow deterioration to kick in until the woman couldn’t wait for her once beloved husband to leave every morning. Eventually, he’d stay later and later in the saloon until they were satisfied that they saw each other as little as humanly possible.
That was the last thing he wanted.
Maggie came out to the porch holding a steaming mug of coffee and handed it to him with a sleepy smile that wrinkled her eyes and made her look more beautiful to him than ever.
“Here you are Walter,” she said.
She was still in her nightgown and her graying hair fell down in the braids that he’d seen her wear every day for the past forty years.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking the hot mug from her hands and sipping.
It was hot and sweet and creamy, exactly how he liked it. He handed it back to her and she took a sip as they enjoyed the silent dawn.
“I wonder if there’ll be any letters today,” said Maggie.
“I wonder,” said Walter.
“Have you told him yet?” she asked, passing the mug back to him.
“Not yet,” he said. “He’s stubborn as a mule.”
“Don’t you just know it,” said Maggie. “That boy. He’s gotta get out of his own way.”
*****
Charles only heard the faint murmurs of Walter and Maggie’s conversation from the porch below as he sat at the table in his bedroom and cleaned his revolver, his heart feeling like a lead weight in his chest, as it did most days.
He told himself his little brothers were tough enough not to need him. They’d be nine, twelve, thirteen and sixteen now. Almost men. Far from the tiny boys with rounded cheeks and innocent eyes who he’d tried to convince himself were big enough to make it on their own when he’d left six years ago. He wouldn’t even let himself think of his mother.
Whenever he looked back on that day with guilt, he’d mercilessly attacked the feeling that gnawed at his stomach with unassailable logic. They needed the money, he’d gone to get the money. There was nothing wrong with that.
Only he’d since learned that talk was cheap and the stories about gold rushes and overnight fortunes were greatly exaggerated. There was no money. At least, not for most.
He’d fallen for the premise hook, line and sinker, telling his family how they’d soon be wealthier than they could ever dream of and that the little ones would never have to miss a meal again. He packed up everything he had, no more than a couple of spare shirts, and used every penny he could scrape together to buy a train ticket. He packed into an over sold train car with a dozen or so other young men just like himself who’d made the same promises to their own families. He didn’t know what had become of any of them.
He chastised himself for thinking so deeply. Focus on the revolver, he told himself. There was no need to get lost in whys and wherefores and yesterdays. He knew he’d only start thinking all kinds of things better left alone. The only thing to do was to concentrate on the task at hand, to get his revolver
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