Unbroken Hearts Read online

  Lola sat patiently, drumming her fingers, recalling how she'd commissioned the work from a Denver saloon painter. The man had barely finished the job when he'd succumbed to a disease born of debauchery.

  * * *

  Sarah Anders cringed. The graceless woman had pitched her bulk against the sofa like a bale of hay being tossed onto an overloaded wagon.

  She wondered how long she'd need to stay at this place.

  Her jade eyes surveyed the grandeur of the room. Sarah's experience was deep but narrow. She'd never met a body like Miss Lola in her life. The woman was bold, like the ladies who sat in the front row at church on Sundays -- even when their families were behind on the pew rent.

  But bold didn't begin to describe the bright painted lips and fire-red hair, and Miss Lola's scarlet dress was cut overly tight and stretched far too brazenly across her ample bosom.

  Sarah nervously fingered her own faded lindsey-blue skirt, threadbare and covered with trail dust. Miss Lola's personal tastes ran to overbearing and eccentric, but who was she to judge? This woman was her only friend, or at least a sympathetic soul -- she'd responded kindly when Sarah had desperately knocked at her door.

  Besides, Sheriff Aiken had guaranteed Sarah there'd be work in Lola's kitchen. He'd said it was a good job, a good wage, with meals, and a bed.

  But what the woman now proposed was entirely different.

  Entertain men? Miss Lola's query echoed off the high plaster ceiling. Stunned the conversation had taken this direction, Sarah's slate went blank. It was another grave disappointment. She stared mindlessly over Lola's shoulder at a gilt-framed painting: a Cupid loading an arrow into his tiny bow.

  Suddenly the fancy parlor turned cheap arcade; it smelled too much of penny perfume, sour whiskey and stale tobacco smoke. The stench cast a pall, from the heavy draperies and flowered wool carpet to the mahogany leather upholstery.

  Dueling urges battled within Sarah. She wanted to flee, but there was no place to go. She had nothing. They were hungry and penniless. She glanced at her sister seated across the room.

  "Entertain men? Well, yes . . . if you mean singing and playing music," Sarah challenged, thrusting her chin upward. Her green eyes burned, roamed across Lola's shoulders and up to the round smiling face.

  Memories knifed through Sarah, thoughts of the many joyful evenings she spent singing with her papa. She bit down on her lower lip. She thought hard about her father's last words. Keep your head up. Always. My spirit will protect you.

  She'd been a practical, orderly daughter, and her skill at managing the homestead, especially after Mama died birthing Emily, was a source of pride to her father. But not a year had passed after Mama was gone, and he'd also passed on. Sarah missed him deeply.

  Orphaned, Sarah and Emily were promptly packed up and dispatched to live with Uncle Orv, a widower.

  Forcing her thoughts back to the present, Sarah twisted and scanned the room to look at ten-year-old Emily, who knelt on a wobbly straight-backed wooden chair, dangling over a checkerboard. Sweat-dampened blond hair hung in limp curls around her small face.

  "Emily, be careful! You'll tip!" Sarah felt a familiar surge of maternal concern.

  "Huh?" Emily turned, and the chair legs shook precariously as she held up a speckled white pawn.

  "Look Sarah! Fancy pieces! They're made of pretty stones!"

  Sarah waved a hand frantically. "Yes, Emily, very pretty . . . be careful! Don't drop them!

  Emily's small hands caught the edge of the table, and the back chair legs settled safely onto the floor. Sarah slapped one hand to her brow and groaned.

  Wrenching her neck back around, she resettled on the sofa. Miss Lola was still waiting. Sarah cleared her throat. Her voice emerged in a whisper.

  "Well . . . I used to sing with my pa."

  The madame leaned forward and arched one eyebrow, and she wondered how much of the young woman was real toughness and how much was bluff. The territory had a way of eliminating the weak, and it was certainly less forgiving of women than men. Lola's mouth opened a crack but she paused. Her chest rose slightly.

  "Er, that's dandy experience," she finally blurted, as she poked nervously at a hairpin near the nape of her neck. "Other girls here take a shine to singing. Honey, you'll fit right in." She reached out and grabbed Sarah's hand. "Darlin', you'll earn enough here to tend to yourself and your sister. My, it looks like she could use a new dress and shoes too."

  * * * *

  Miss Lola's kindly gray eyes turned to business steel, and she threw herself into the task of making her new asset a part of the family.

  Meanwhile Sarah considered her present situation. She was orphaned again and doing her best to care for her young sister. Lola had treated them well so far. She'd surely find a way out of this predicament.

  We are still alive, she told herself.

  Sarah briskly confided the day's horrors to Lola. After all, nobody's life and death turned out the way they expected . . . not Mama's or Papas or Uncle Orv's. And not mine.

  Living on the wagon train had taught Sarah important lessons, and the first was that endings were always lurking at the edges, ready to rise up to grab the most coveted dreams. Wild death rode on a moonless night, claiming an infant just four days old. It left a mother shattered, her child hastily buried beneath a crude marker alongside the trail. Another time it claimed a vivacious young boy who expired after a night of labored wheezing.

  And then came a still evening when Sarah lay under the blazing blanket. In the days that followed her weakened body stumbled through a thick fog, and dreams slipped away back in that deep Dakota-crossing haze.

  Since then, and especially today, it was blessing enough to be alive, to cling to the thin hope of a better life for Emily. It was Sarah's last duty, and when all was accounted for, duty rose above all else. Thousands of men had done their duty during the war, and at much greater personal sacrifice. Some said nearly a million died.

  Sarah frowned and narrowed her eyes. Starting over was something she knew how to do. She'd heard places existed in these territories where a soul forgot the past, and other folks didn't ask about it -- places where a soul would be accepted at face value. Uncle Orv had mouthed those words on the trail, over and over, day after day. It had been his mantra, and now Sarah wanted to believe it too.

  "When do I . . . begin?" Her voice felt hollow, strange.

  Lola bent her massive body forward and closed the breach between them, as if she were about to share a secret. Her two-bit scent hung heavy as a log wall between them.

  "Honey, you can get started right today." A warm glow crept up her face. Impulsively she laid a meaty hand on Sarah's knee.

  Sarah stared past Lola's shoulder, and she felt herself standing in the corner of that dank, gilded room.

  For the second time that day she felt bile rising in her throat.

  Chapter 2

  The lone wind gust pushed at something deep inside him. It grazed Cal Easton's brow, gently lifting his hat. He'd saved the Stetson with his free hand, but hell, it had come from nowhere, seemingly aimed for him alone.

  This is how I mark my thirtieth year, he thought.

  Cal had started the trip to town well past full sunup, but now -- except for the one odd blow -- the big sky covered clear and blue and the heat was stifling. His dark eyes scoured the horizon from his perch atop the supply wagon.

  "Dang. No relief," he muttered to Roy, the impetuous and foolhardy younger brother seated alongside.

  "Yup. She's a scorcher."

  Cal hadn't mentioned the significance of the day. Not that birthdays mattered much, since, in Montana Territory, each day was an endurance-test that simply followed heel-to-toe to another.

  Lanky Roy, a thorn-in-the-side boy stuck inside a grown man's body, had forgotten the occasion. Good, thought Cal. He'd happily skip Roy's usual prank, always hatched with Bailey, the ranch foreman.

  So, it was nothing special, this turning-thirty-day. He considered birthda
ys were for children, the giddy tots who looked forward to growing older as they rode youthful dreams.

  These days the man honed by adversity didn't feel young. Cal couldn't make a wish beyond pleasant weather and good grass for his stock. When did that happen? He supposed it was when Papa died. Or maybe it had been Grace. He swallowed hard. Heck, he told himself, folks got older one day at a time, not in one big leap, once a year. And "whys" and "what if's" were wasted exertions.

  As they neared town a sun-baked breeze billowed from the east. Cal lazily raised his right arm above his head to stretch. He reached to unbutton his shirt, just enough to feel the fresh air slide across his broad chest, whilst being careful to keep his injured arm hanging in the sling at his left side.

  Today he was grateful. The pain had quit him, and the cause of his injury -- the Malger gang -- wouldn't be coming back. Darn few men were fool enough to go looking for trouble with Cal and Roy Easton, and those who dared suffered deadly consequences.

  But where did it get a man to be thirty and still a target for lowlifes? They seemed to cluster like dark clouds over the territory; barely two weeks had passed since the outlaw Malger clan had run amok.

  Gangs like the Malgers were part of a new breed of confused drifters – mostly aimless young men who'd fought for the confederacy during the war. Their soft southern drawls and fancy manners with the ladies concealed a gnawing bitterness, and they took their revenge by roaming the prairie, rustling cattle, stealing horses, and running scams in the boomtowns. A few even robbed banks and stage lines, and the worst of the lot killed innocent law-abiding people.

  Some said the Malgers were drunk up on the Copper Strike's watered-down liquor that afternoon. Others speculated they were paid up to do it. The motive remained unclear, but three members of the bushwhacking clan were hell-bent on making trouble with the Eastons as they headed out of town that day.

  Fortunately for Cal and Roy, the Malgers squandered their surprise advantage. Roy, riding shotgun behind Cal, read the outlaw's fresh tracks, and out of the corner of one eye he'd caught the flash of late afternoon sun reflecting off a shiny spur or rifle barrel. Both men heard them.

  The quick nod from Cal had set their guns to talking. Pete Malger scrambled around the side of a rock not twenty yards ahead, and he took aim at Roy with his pistol. Cal grabbed his gun so fast Pete later recounted seeing it as a blur. And Pete was lucky, because the rock he chose provided good cover. Cal's sharp eye, steady hand, and iron determination aimed up and fired a shot to the hip, the only exposed part of Pete's body. The outlaw yelped, and he got off a miss wide just as Cal's bullet struck.

  Cal's gelding pranced restlessly, and he leaned forward in his saddle to maintain balance. Alvin Malger, hidden in a clump of scrub pine behind, sighted to cover his brother. He made his shot, hitting Cal in the left shoulder. But the flash from Alvin's muzzle gave him away, and Roy took full advantage, leveled his rifle at the bushes, sucked in his breath, and squeezed the trigger. Alvin fell to the dirt, writhing from a gut-shot, a surprised expression etched on his face for all eternity.

  Within moments, the Eastons spied a third man running for the shadow of a cottonwood, where he mounted a bay and galloped off, out and away from the ill conceived and poorly executed ambush.

  Cal didn't feel guilt when it came to shooting at men who foolishly gunned for his life or rustled his cattle. A man had to be his own lookout. He'd known ranchers who'd hesitated when it came to shooting, and they ended up dead men. In a lawless territory the quick ending of conflicts came naturally to a good rancher like Cal Easton. It was just another -- albeit less desirable -- part of the job.

  Cal glanced at his younger brother. Roy was focused on driving the wagon.

  "Right nice of Nettie to stay with Mama," Cal muttered.

  "Yup, fine woman," Roy agreed. "George is one lucky husband."

  The men counted themselves fortunate. Their ranch neighbor, Nettie Newman, had offered a "friendly turn". She was caretaking Mama so they could make the supply run to town.

  "Yup," added Roy, "it was tough to lose Dora."

  Cal's lips pursed as he thought about the stout young woman who'd nursed their Mama. He shifted on the seat. "That gal would chase any gamblin' gold sniffer. Some women'll take a chance on any fool."

  "Ain't it the truth! It's damn hard to scare up womanly help." Roy moved the reins from right hand to left.

  Cal's brown eyes slanted and pierced his brother. "You still fixin' to go up river to the mining camp tomorrow?"

  "I 'spect so." Roy feebly attempted to stretch his long legs. "Still got eight mules to sell, and they're always needin' pack animals up there. Reckon I'll fetch a price." He tossed a sideways glance at Cal and couldn't help noticing the frown pulling at the corners of his brother's mouth. Cal did all the worrying for the family, and that's precisely why Roy didn't. "I never thought I'd go back after the accident," he added as afterthought.

  Cal settled back against the seat and decided to change the topic.

  "You visiting the bank today?" Roy was eager to get to town, and Cal knew it had darn little to do with helping to haul supplies home.

  "Yup." Roy grinned "Just wouldn't be proper not to pay Ella a visit, to thank her for the pie she sent out with Bailey."

  Cal grunted. "Dang. Tasted like sawdust to me." The corners of his mouth turned up when he saw Roy's back stiffen.

  "Ella has other fine qualities that make up for her lackin' in the kitchen, if you catch my meaning," retorted Roy.

  Cal cleared his throat. "That so? As I recollect you said the same thing about Jane Parsons just last month. Brother, when you gonna catch a gal who can cook? I could use a holiday from the chuck wagon."

  Roy cursed. "That's a low pitch." Jane Parsons had run off with Ed Summers, a starchy fast-talking peddler. Summers plied her with honeyed words and promises of the good life back east. "Fool woman! She don't count none."

  Roy restlessly tugged at his hat. "Hell Cal, you're the one who prefers home and family. Get your own woman, and quit waitin' on me." The younger Easton grimaced, regretting these last words as soon as they slipped past his lips.

  "I'm not lucky at getting down that trail." Cal replied tightly.

  The two men fell silent. Roy mulled over his brother's style when it came to wooing women. Cal wasn't given to a good dallying. The man downright dove in and took it all serious-like. And whenever Cal's heart was captured, a streak of bad luck was sure to follow. But that's all it was, really, thought Roy -- just plain dumb luck.

  Cal had been crazy over pretty Grace Farrel, the blacksmith's sister. And she was over the moon for him too. But not long after the engagement was announced Grace died in an accident. Cal was heartbroken, and, although four years had gone by, he never seemed to get past the tragedy. He withdrew to his work on the ranch, where solace had come in laboring alongside his father.

  Roy had moved to the side and watched his brother and father bond tighter. He drifted into a devil-may-care attitude. But now their father was dead too, and lately Roy tried, on occasion, to get his brother to loosen up on the hard-driving monastic life he wore like a prison sentence.

  Two years after Grace died there was Betsy Simon. A beefy woman, she'd allowed Cal to court her, and now, in hindsight, Roy was convinced she deliberately played Cal for a fool. After a good month of squiring her around, Cal went off on a cattle drive. Barry Hanson, who'd been patiently waiting his turn, asked Betsy to step out. And the two-faced woman did exactly that -- right out and into Barry's waiting arms. Why was it that women fawned over a scrub like Hanson? The pair left town less than a week later, and Roy was the one to break the bad news when Cal returned. .

  Poor, poor Cal! Stoic to the end, he hid his disappointment well, but the way Roy figured it, the woman as good as stomped on his heart and slung it onto the prairie, like carrion to rot in the sun.

  No lady had captured Cal's attention since, and Roy suspected that his brother's bruised heart had given up on women alt
ogether.

  Oh, he'd concede that Cal was the fastest draw and steadiest shot in the territory. But Roy knew with absolute certainty he was smarter than his older brother when it came to women, never mind that there weren't many around to be smart about.

  Chapter 3

  Sarah squinted in the bright sunlight as she departed the dim stable behind Lola's house, seated sidesaddle on a white pony named Angel.

  Lola flitted about her new charge like an anxious scarlet butterfly, making last-minute adjustments to the yards of fancy pink sateen fabric. The skirt formed a soft cloud, flowing from Sarah's slight waist to a graceful sweep a bare foot off the ground. A hand named Ned looked on with little interest; he clutched the bridle in one calloused hand, and in the other he held a slate.

  As Lola primped and poked and twittered about she reminded Ned to smile and not to "rush around like a wanton rooster". The man nodded wearily and replied "Yes, ma'am" to each bit of hen-pecking.

  At last Lola appeared satisfied; she stepped back, scanned her charge one last time, and declared her perfect. Then she turned and waddled back up toward the house.

  Sarah looked down at the gown. It was more beautiful than any dress she'd ever owned, yet all she felt was dazed and tired and confused.

  The front door slammed behind Lola. Ned exhaled audibly and ambled forward, leading them toward the street. A limp hampered his stride. It gave the man a stooping, awkward gait, causing his balding head to bob in exaggerated fashion. Ned slowed and shifted his well-worn hat. Then he jerked the pony's reins, and the bobbing started up again

  Glum Emily, assigned to a station in the parlor, spied them from a front window and bolted out like a puppy chasing after a rabbit. Sprinting to where Ned was leading, Emily was smug as a bandit who'd just busted out of the pokey.

  "Emily!," Sarah reprimanded, "you're 'sposed to stay inside!"

  Emily frowned at her gussied-up guardian and stomped her toe in the dirt. "You can't hitch me inside that perfume tomb", she spat, "it stinks, and Miss Lola is a scary old witch. I wanna go home!"