Unbroken Hearts Read online

  If we had a home, thought Sarah. She flashed Emily a stern look. Deciding to ignore her sister's tantrum she bore her eyes into Ned. "Let's get this done."

  Ned grimaced uncomfortably, yanked on the reins, and they jerked ahead. Emily was silenced for the moment. She ambled along beside them, lovingly stroking the pony's neck, until they reached the street, where she coughed to catch Ned's ear.

  "Mister, may I ride the pony after Sarah gets her turn?" Emily's blue eyes pleaded him up in an act to melt the toughest cowboy. Ned's defenses crumbled. Dealing with grownup women was one thing. Sweet waif-like girls were quite another.

  "Emily, don't you sass Mr. Kingman," admonished Sarah.

  "I'll do as I please!" stomped Emily. "Mr. Kingman is my friend!"

  The hired man pulled a bandana from his around his neck and wiped his brow. "Uh, we have a different pony you can ride out back. Angel don't cotton to young lasses."

  Ned patted Emily on the top of her head the way one would pet a cherished dog. His grip on Angel's reins loosened, and he turned and limped back to the brothel. He hauled himself up the front steps, crossed the porch and creaked open the door.

  "December! Git out here!"

  Ned walked back to the pony.

  A minute passed, and "December", a young woman whose rose-tinted smile was nearly as wide as her hips, poured out and down the steps. She ambled lazily, tossing her eyes heavenward, wearing a what-on-earth-do-you-want-now look. When her big brown eyes lit on Emily she brightened.

  "The little gal needs occupying. Git Daisy!" Ned waved his hand in the air.

  In a blink Emily had sized up December, and she loosened her tongue from its moorings. "Who's Daisy? And why is your name a month?"

  December laughed at Emily's childish curiosity, and she slapped a hand playfully to her hip. "Daisy's the best dern black pony in Wounded Colt," she said in a southern drawl that spilled over soft lips, sweeter than hot molasses. "An' I'm December, cause then's the month I come to live here." Then she giggled and spun like a pretend ballerina. "A new name struck me right for startin' a new life."

  But Emily wasn't listening to December -- she was making a beeline for the stable as soon as she heard 'black pony'. Her legs churned excitedly; the worn soles of her shoes skidded over dry gravel as she ran.

  December, still in mid-spin when Emily launched off like a rocket, hitched up her skirts and raced to catch up with the sprightly girl and her mass of bouncing blond curls.

  Sarah watched December chase after Emily, and her lips curved upward for the first time that day. Ned snorted; the duo disappeared around the corner of the house, Emily giddy with eager anticipation, and December breathlessly imploring her to slow down.

  Ned yanked on the reins and they started off.

  Sarah nervously fingered the pale pink gown with ornate stitched edging on the bodice and sleeves. Miss Lola had insisted it was just right. But to Sarah's way of thinking the dress was far too elegant for wearing on a weekday ride down a dusty main street. The bodice was cut too low, and Sarah was forced to tug at the top of it every now and again. What was more, Miss Lola had demanded she wear her hair down. The final abomination was Miss Lola trying to douse her with the smelly, cheap perfume. In the end Sarah struck a deal to wear her hair loose if she could skip on the perfume.

  "Where are we headed?" Sarah had patiently waited until they were out of earshot of Emily and December.

  Ned restlessly nudged his hat back on his head, then tugged it off impulsively and scratched the back of his neck.

  Sarah's voice affected him; it was sweet, almost melodic, and at the same time it sounded lost. He slanted a glance over his shoulder. He had a strict rule of maintaining a distant but pleasant demeanor when dealing with Lola's girls.

  "Just takin' a stroll around town, so everybody gets acquainted." This was, without doubt, the most distasteful part of his job at Lola's. "You's young and riding on the white, so plenty of men'll be wantin' to meet you'." It wasn't much consolation, he knew, but it was all he had to offer. At least it was honest, the sort of blunt observation that gently conveyed her new station in life.

  Riding on the white? The words stabbed. She'd been trapped in a confused state, but now there was no room for denial; she well knew she wasn't hired to peel potatoes in Lola's kitchen, the job Sheriff Aiken had pitched to her when they'd met at the edge of town. Weariness descended, heavy as the hot summer day, and her sweat dampened the creases of the borrowed dress.

  Ned reached up and fingered a canteen that hung from the saddle horn.

  "Git water when you need, Miss." He cleared his throat and looked past her, casting about for a friendly expression.

  For the first time Sarah looked him square in the face. Ned's mouth formed a hesitant smile, and she was surprised to see the man still had all his teeth. He wasn't poor in appearance, not when one looked past the limp, but of course there was the obvious lack of proper schooling.

  And just as Sarah took stock of Ned he also observed her. He'd seen this apprehension in the new ones before. They valiantly tried to hide emotions behind carefully shuttered expressions. Anger. Fear. Anguish. Denial. This girl was no exception; she was pretty, and yet, he was aware of something extraordinary in her manner. She rubbed small shaking hands along her skirt and shifted her weight in the saddle. But she held her head high, back straight, and her clear green eyes were pooled with determination.

  Ned was strict about avoiding conversation, but instinctively he sensed she was something of a gem-in-the-rough. It tugged at him. The clear eye and lift of her chin spoke of courage, sensitivity, and intelligence. Honor graced the pains she'd taken to protect her little sister from the gritty truth of their circumstance, and in the way she held the little one blameless. Indeed, it betrayed the selflessness of her purpose, and Ned decided she deserved better from life. He looked a second time into those eyes, felt pride and admiration, and recognized the pain, and the unspoken connection between them: Sarah Anders was a survivor.

  "Er, yer right pretty." Ned coughed.

  Sarah bowed her head and reddened at the compliment.

  "I came to work for Lola just after soldiering," he explained. "Planned on working at ranching, but after I got out here my leg took to painin' me too much." He waved a hand. "I was shot at Manassas. I wouldn't have the leg at all but the army was short of docs. Yah, some of them sawbones cut off everything in sight. I knew one fella, he complained his back hurt so they cut off his leg. Imagine ya' that! Thing is, this fella said it worked, said his back stopped hurtin' him once he was rid of the leg." He guffawed. "Ever heard a thing so backwards?"

  Sarah smiled. She was touched by the gruff old war veteran's darkly amusing story. Ned Kingman had a heart, and he'd shared the disappointment of his abandoned dreams. She couldn't remember the last time she'd talked to a straight up kind of man.

  She started speaking slowly, like a heavily laden wagon beginning to roll from a dead stop. "So . . . uh, you were in the war . . . I had a neighbor in the infantry. He was wounded at Appomattox. He died later, after he came back home." She thought it best not to mention which side he was on, and she quickly continued with her story so Ned wouldn't think to ask. "My mama took sick with the child bed fever, and she died two weeks after Emily was born. Papa died the next year. My uncle took us in. He was a widower, and he had a farm and a young son. I did all the cooking and housework and chores and such, and of course I looked out for the young ones. We were coming out here with other families, but we got delayed and were behind them, 'cause we had to stop to repair a busted wheel. The train master said it would be fine to catch up. There hadn't been any Indian trouble, so we weren't worried. My cousin and uncle were just finishing the job w-when bandits got them." She paused. "They k-killed them." She shuddered and gripped the leather of the saddle to hold herself steady. "They ran off our oxen. Then there was nothing left . . . so Emily and I walked here to this town," her voice trailed off. After a moment she caught herself, collected her t
houghts, and continued. "We met Sheriff Aiken on the trail in, and he told us Miss Lola had a job to hire on and a place to stay." Sarah ended her story, and she reflected on how her life could be summed up in a few short, emotionless statements. She hadn't mentioned the attack on herself, or that her uncle drank and gambled or how he often came home in a sotted stupor, ready to beat anybody in his path.

  Ned nodded as he listened to Sarah's tale. So many people pouring into this territory had hard-luck stories of fortunes made and frittered. Others were orphans of illness or the war. Indeed, he was one, for he'd arrived in Montana territory with only seventy-five cents and a pair of worn shoes. Ned knew a body could never find a way to make things right again.

  They turned onto the main street of the bustling town. Ned recounted to Sarah how the rough-hewn settlement had grown in rapid-fire fashion after copper was discovered nearby. Merchants and schemers were more than happy to separate the miners from their money, he said, while providing places for drinking, gambling, and "cowboy" entertainments.

  He explained how spoke streets flowed off the main, and, as these were too narrow to turn a mule team they were dotted with smaller shops and, further on, larger houses. Ned said the largest and grandest belonged to Jack Dullen, a man who owned much of the town, and plenty more, including a copper mine and a ranch.

  Soon men surrounded them. So many beasts of burden filled the streets the place smelled like a barnyard. Sarah was glad to be on the pony instead of dodging horse droppings like Ned. Sounds from a tinny piano and laughter floated in their direction as they neared the center of the town.

  "That there's the Copper Strike saloon," Ned barked. "Ain't had much trouble there lately, least not since we got a sheriff." As if to contradict Ned's words, two men flew through the saloon's swinging doors at that moment, fists flying into each other. They rolled in the street, grunting and wrestling in a cloud of dust. Ned shook his head and stepped around them.

  Sarah's mouth fell open. "Isn't anybody going to stop them?"

  Ned kicked at the dirt. "Aw heck, those two been fighting like coyotes over a piece of meat all week . . . er, now, across the street is the general store, the hotel, and there's the bank. We got a blacksmith and an undertaker too." Ned babbled on about the town's merchants, but what impressed Sarah most was what the town didn't have, or at least didn't have much of --- women. They passed fifty men for every woman she saw.

  "Everyone works at the mines?" She shifted again to make herself more comfortable on the strange sidesaddle. She'd begun to think about other jobs she might be suited for in such a place.

  "All the lately comers." Ned spun around to face her, lifting his voice to carry his words above the street noise. "Ranches are scattered about. Biggest outfit is the Mineral Creek. The Easton brothers own the place, and they run it square. Must have thirty cowhands out there. Bachelor ranchers." He scratched his head, and looked up at her.

  Sarah, distracted, was still thinking about better employment opportunities. "I can cook, work with figures, and sew," she sputtered. "Any positions for somebody with those talents?" She strove to keep her tone light, but the last was a stammer of desperation.

  Ned drew his eyes downward and frowned. "Women can marry up."

  "Oh." She bit her cheek. She'd never had that offer, and didn't know the first thing about attracting one in a strange place. "You married?"

  "Me?" He grinned. "I can't afford a woman, but thanks for asking." He lifted an eyebrow. "Anyhows I don't know any who'd jump at taking up housekeeping at my palace in Lola's stable."

  Ned suddenly halted the pony, and Sarah lurched forward. Two grizzled looking bearded men were approaching them.

  "Howdy Ned." The solid-looking man grunted on foul breath wafting beneath deep-set eyes. Ned stepped away from the pony, and spoke to the two men in low tones so Sarah could only hear parts of the conversation. She saw Ned flash a look of annoyance. Then she heard him say, "just one man! Can't you see she's ridin' the white?" The two men spat, wiped their mouths on their sleeves, and loped away.

  Soon other men presented, mostly dirty, ragged miners, who smelled like they hadn't bathed since Christmas. Bandanna-clad cowboys stepped up to Ned, who always moved a discrete five paces away from the pony, so Sarah couldn't hear the conversations beyond the occasional snort or laugh. One man asked her to smile, and she did. "Yep, she's a looker", she heard Ned boast. She watched with mounting curiosity, as Ned wrote on the slate, erased it, and wrote again.

  A torrent of feelings rippled through Sarah. Shame followed anger, which was followed by a general sense of detachment. Since forever she'd been invisible -- Sarah and Emily had walked about like shadows on the dimly lit stage of their community, lurking in the background. Sarah and Em were always installed in the back of the classroom, two rows behind the girls who had pretty clothes and fathers with good jobs and respectable lives.

  On this strange day in this new world Sarah was the focus of attention. Men on the street gawked as if she were the lizard lady come to town. In one small albeit ironic way, she' d moved up a notch.

  Driving a wagon slowly toward them, a small trim man wearing a long black duster appeared. He drew closer, and Sarah saw a hard face with chiseled features, like the statue of a war hero she once saw in a town square.

  "Hey Ned!" His sunken eyes scanned Sarah. "You the girl that lost kinfolk outside town?" He twisted the reins in his gnarled hands.

  "Yes, that's me." She shifted in the saddle.

  "Sam Owens, undertaker. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss," he bowed slightly and touched his hat brim. "Sorry to hear about yer misfortune. Lola sent me to fetch your kin back." His voice went lower, all gentle and velvety, the way folks tended to do when paying their respects. "Don't ya' worry. Miss Lola said she'd take care of everything -- payin' fer coffin making and the preacher." He stroked his dark beard. "Uh, the preacher's Methodist. Hope that's agreeable with you."

  Sarah stared grim-faced at the back of his wagon. She recognized the shapes of two figures under a canvas tarp. It was some relief to know her uncle and cousin would get a decent burial. "That will be fine, sir. Thank you, sir," she managed.

  The undertaker wagged his finger and clucked. Then, like one more phantom passing through a nightmare, he urged his corpse wagon down the street.

  Ned and Sarah plodded further, until they reached the end of town where Ned turned Angel around to make the return trip to Miss Lola's house.

  As they made to retrace their path, a well-dressed gentleman waved at Ned from a building across the street, the only one with a brick front.

  "Here comes trouble." A muscle twitched along Ned's jaw.

  "How's that?" Sarah twisted in the saddle, completely undoing Lola's masterpiece of perfect skirt spreading.

  "Dullen." Ned clenched his mouth tighter. "Got a mean streak a mile wide, that one. "

  The stranger caught up with them in front of the general store. He wore expensive clothing, was well-groomed, and his hands were smooth and soft looking. A surge of hot wind swept across Sarah's face, delivering the faint smell of cologne from his lean body. Dullen was dressed in a black duster and gray pants, with a starched white shirt and black boots polished to a high shine.

  As he neared, Sarah saw a devilishly arched brow, piercing eyes and the fine, hawk-like features of his face. His ivory skin was pulled tautly into a leering expression, and he was stripping Sarah naked, from head to toe, with his gaze. As he spoke to Ned his eyes remained fixed on her chest.

  "I like what I see." He stabbed a bony finger at Ned.

  "Yessir."

  Dullen wolf-grinned and yanked the slate from Ned's grasp. Losing his balance, Ned stumbled and fell to his knees, tearing his best pair of pants. Dullen made no attempt to help. He ignored Ned's plight and stepped back to intently study the slate.

  Sarah felt her cheeks burn with anger. "Didn't your mama teach you manners? Help him up!"

  Dullen scowled. To Dullen manners were a damn fool notion, us
eful only when cajoling others to get them to do what was necessary to build his empire, and he bristled at her mention of his high and mighty mother, the woman who'd cast him aside when he was but a mite. He was reminded how, years later, when she'd caught wind of his financial success, she'd expected him to take care of her. One day she'd arrived at his door to ask as much. His mouth curled in a tight line as he recalled how he'd taken care of dear mama.

  Damn this girl for making him remember, he thought. He cursed and assessed Sarah with the cool expression of a raptor eyeing its prey. His arms folded across his chest and one corner of his mouth twisted downward.

  "A firebrand!" He sputtered. "I'm eager to train her up for Lola! Hell, she could use a good horsewhipping straight away!" Then he leaned forward, and he slid his hand up Sarah's skirt. As he groped her thigh he laughed hoarsely, and then he squeezed again and brayed triumphantly.

  Sarah's flush deepened to crimson. Her hand formed a small tight ball, and she hammered it down on his violation.

  Ned had scrambled up to his feet, and now he pushed Dullen aside to set himself between Sarah and the offensive man.

  Blood pounded in Sarah's throat. Dullen's words had struck like a slap across her hot face, stinging long after they hit their target.

  Dullen cursed under his breath. "Soon you'll be begging for my hands on your sweet body." His fierce eyes glittered, and his nostrils flared as he sought to heighten his pleasure with the smell of fear.

  Dullen ran his tongue across his lower lip, and he imagined the fine time he'd have looking into those beautiful angry eyes and touching her womanly softness.

  Meanwhile Sarah stubbornly clenched her fists and tightened her jaw. Repugnant men like Dullen intimidated those who were weaker, and she was determined to rob him of the sick pleasure he craved.

  "You'll enjoy my pokin', little spud." His laugh ripped from deep in his throat. "Tell Lola I'll be around to deal this afternoon." Then he thrust the slate back at Ned. "I like a challenge." But his hard gaze lingered on Sarah.