Read Before the Larkspur Blooms Online
Authors: Caroline Fyffe
Before the Larkspur Blooms
Also by Caroline Fyffe
Where the Wind Blows
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Caroline Fyffe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612187136
ISBN-10: 1612187137
Dedicated to my dear sister, Sherry Harm, with love.
Preview:
Where the Wind Blows: A Prairie Hearts Novel
Logan Meadows, Wyoming Territory, May 1881
A
powerful kick of emotion almost dropped Thom Donovan to his knees.
Finally!
After eight long years—he was home.
He stopped for a moment on the side of the deserted country road and stared at the Red Rooster Inn just ahead. The rooster-shaped iron weathervane on the steep-thatched roof and the crudely cut logs separated by a ten-inch white chink made his heart thump against his rib cage. The boardinghouse was more welcome than a spanking-new calf on Christmas Day.
Logan Meadows, the town he’d been raised in and his hope for a new beginning, was just around the next bend. He pictured lifting his ma into his arms and swinging her around. She’d laugh and kiss his cheek. And Pa? Well, he wasn’t quite sure what his father’s reaction would be. Thom would ask his forgiveness. Tell him how sorry he was for the trouble he’d caused.
Best not to get ahead of himself. Thom gave himself a mental shake and walked on. It wasn’t until he passed directly in front of the inn’s porch that he noticed the beaten-up old sign he remembered from his youth. The proprietor’s name had been struck through and “Violet Hollyhock” written in below. He frowned, and in his perusal, he almost missed the old woman sitting in one of the rockers. Her shawl, tight around her scrawny shoulders,
covered a blue-and-brown calico dress buttoned right up under her chin. Her eyes were alight with curiosity.
“You look mighty thirsty, young man,” she called in a scratchy voice. “Why not stop a spell and wet your whistle?” She waved a skinny arm at the chair next to hers. “Come sit and I’ll pour ya a cool glass of the best lemonade ya ever tasted.”
Thom smiled and shook his head. “That’s a kind offer, ma’am, but I have an appointment in town I have to keep.” At the thought, a boulder wedged in the pit of his stomach. “Thank you all the same, though.” When her eyes dimmed in disappointment, he quickly added, “But I may stop back by another time. It’s been years since I’ve tasted lemonade.”
Actually, the twenty-four hours since his last meal had his insides completely twisted. He’d walked the entire way from his drop spot in New Meringue, some fifteen miles, with only a drink from a nearby stream. His throat felt no better than sawdust, but he knew better than to deviate from his instructions.
After several minutes, he rounded the corner onto Main Street and stopped on the wide boardwalk. Logan Meadows had grown. Was growing now, it seemed. The hustle and bustle looked inviting—a sense of community, belonging, made him stand there for an entire minute, taking it all in.
Time to pick up the pieces of my life.
A burly man carrying boards on his shoulder crossed the street from the lumber mill and disappeared into an alley. Horses dozed in the sun. As two wagons passed in the road, the driver of one doffed his hat to the occupants of the other. Several men hammered away on the roof of the saloon. The once-sleepy town of Logan Meadows had come to life and the nail-pounding activity had the town in a stir.
Thom continued on, knowing no one would recognize him. He’d left a boy and returned a man. He glanced across the street at the mercantile. Scents of pine oil, tobacco, and candles being dipped all flitted through his mind. The recollection of molasses
brought welcome moisture to his mouth, and sounds of childish laughter reverberated in his head as he recalled the row of thick glass jars filled with all sorts of colorful confections. He blinked, and the images evaporated into the air.
Surprisingly, old Mrs. Miller, the owner of the mercantile and as prune-faced as ever, was still alive and out sweeping the boardwalk. She stopped and stared at him, clearly unmindful of her rudeness, then waved her broom to shoo away two scraggly boys kicking an old can back and forth across the wooden slats.
Thom crossed the alley and stepped back on the boardwalk. He’d taken only a few steps when the dented can shot through his feet, almost tripping him, and slid under the doors of the Bright Nugget Saloon. The dirtier of the two urchins tried to scramble past in pursuit, but Thom caught him by his small shoulders. “Let me, son. A saloon is no place for such a young lad.”
“You sure, mister?” the boy said timidly. He kicked at the ground with a well-worn boot and glanced in the direction of the mercantile, probably hoping to avoid Mrs. Miller’s broom.
Thom ruffled the kid’s thick mass of blond hair. “Sure I’m sure. Us men have got to stick together, right?” He winked. “Now, wait here, and I’ll be right back.”
Pushing through the swinging doors, Thom let his eyes adjust. The saloon was dark in contrast to the sunny day. Music and carefree laughter careened around the room. Waitresses served drinks to the occupied tables and flirted with the men at the bar. Remembering the reason he was there, he bent and picked up the can. As he turned to leave, he froze. A cowboy with a large bowed nose threw down his poker hand and hooted, collecting the pile of dollar bills and coins from the middle of the table.
Anger flooded Thom’s body, and a buzzing hummed in his ears. That nose could belong to only one man: Rome Littleton. A hundred times Thom had dreamed of wrapping his hands around the cur’s throat and slowly squeezing the life out of him. What was
Rome doing in Logan Meadows? Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good.
He took a step toward the poker table and stopped. As much as he hated to admit it—he had to leave it go. Reining in his temper, he walked out, handed the can to the boy waiting in the street, and headed toward the sheriff’s office next door.
The medium-size jailhouse looked as if it had suffered a fire at one time. Thom yanked open the thick oak door and stepped through. Two men looked up.
The loose-fitting pants, a parting gift from the penitentiary up in Deer Creek, suddenly felt awkward. Thom ran his left palm around the inside of his waistband, making sure his ragged shirt was properly tucked in.
Sheriff Albert Preston, presumably the current sheriff because of the silver star pinned to his vest and the name on the wall, sat at the desk. Across the room in one of the open cells, another fellow was stretched out on a cot, his fingers laced behind his head and his boots propped up on the metal end post.
The sheriff took in Thom’s ragged appearance, and his eyes narrowed a bit. His hand stilled from whatever he was writing.
Thinks I’m a beggar looking for a handout.
“May I help you?”
“I was told to check in with you when I got to town.”
The sheriff stood. The other fellow sat up and then came out of the cell.
Dwight Hoskins
—Thom immediately recognized him. The sorry excuse of a human being had gone from shifty-eyed youth to full-grown man. He had a silver star, too.
Damn.
Bad luck running into him first thing.
“You have something to say or not,
tramp
?” Dwight asked.
