Caught in the Middle (Ladies of Caldwell County Book #3) , livre ebook

© 2014 by Regina Jennings
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www . bakerpublishinggroup . com
Ebook edition created 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6350-6
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by John Hamilton Design
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency
To my husband Coy
Brave enough to buy a Harley without permission . . . Charming enough to get away with it.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
About the Author
Books by Regina Jennings
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
P USHMATAHA , I NDIAN T ERRITORY S EPTEMBER 1883
The serving line hadn’t moved an inch, and the mood of the men in the depot diner was growing ugly. Nicholas Lovelace rapped the flimsy tin plate against his knuckles and took a deep breath. No warm scents of meat and potatoes. No bread baking that he could detect. If dinner wasn’t simmering, he might as well get back on the train. No point in crowding around the kitchen door with the lumberjacks, the Indians, and the hunters voicing their complaints.
The plate clattered on the roughhewn table as Nick abandoned the depot. His stomach gnawed at his ribs, telling him that the roll and coffee from the last station had burned away hours ago. Could he wait for supper at the hotel in Garber where he was staying?
He’d rather not. His only hope for nourishment this side of the Red River was the ramshackle general store. Otherwise he wouldn’t live long enough to prepare Mr. Stanford’s report, which would be a pity. He’d so anticipated the praise it would bring.
Nicholas’s crew was performing ahead of schedule—clearing the timber from the railroad’s future path, shipping it to the mill, processing it into ties and trestles, and shipping it back to the railhead. He had ridden the train as far as the track would carry him, and his men toiled a good three miles further still—a nice lead, but no more than he expected.
And no more than Ian Stanford expected. Mr. Stanford had contributed more to the success of Lovelace Transportation Specialists than anyone outside of Nick himself. In fact, every merchant, every trapper, hunter, and farmer along the twin rails owed Mr. Stanford—and Nicholas was blessed to call him his mentor. Stanford had taught him much, but now Nick wanted to expand. Upon his return to Garber, Texas, Nicholas would begin seeking contracts with other railroads. It was time to grow.
Even with eyes closed, he could tell by the hot fumes that he was standing on the train platform. The black engine shimmered under the relentless sun, but it didn’t shirk. It would continue its quest, plowing through the prairies, unstoppable, proving that God-approved ambition could conquer any obstacle.
“Nicholas”—Miss Susan Walcher’s head emerged from a train window—“when will we leave this dreadful place? I’m nearly asphyxiated.”
“I heard your father warn you.” As an investor of the NTT Railroad, her father handed out warnings aplenty, but only his connection with Ian Stanford could’ve forced Nick to endure hours of her complaining. “The Indian Territory line isn’t luxurious. There are no Pullman cars here.”
“But I’m famished. Didn’t the station house offer any refreshments?”
“I stood in line for a quarter of an hour and saw nary a one. Perhaps you’d like to serve up something?”
She crinkled her nose at him to the delight of her companions. With shrieks they pulled her inside the suffocating car amid a flurry of fans.
Rather than being stuck inside an airless car with the daughters of railroad investors, Nicholas would see what Pushmataha had to offer. Besides the piles of buffalo hides awaiting the eastbound train and the hastily constructed depot, the dusty general store was his only hope for finding something to eat. He needed nourishment if he was to entertain the girls all the way back to Garber.
Rounding the corner of the depot, Nick was struck afresh by the beauty of the vista. The trees still held their summer hues, patches of green spotting the golden prairie. He never tired of surveying the landscape, picking out the smoothest route for the parallel ebony lines to stretch to the unseen population beyond. Even though the tiny water stop of Pushmataha had its connections, Nicholas’s fortune was tied to the forests on the hills just east of the railroad. Mr. Stanford’s railroad couldn’t pass until the trees had been felled and shipped to Nick’s sawmill, which, located a convenient distance from town, was the nearest to the new construction. As long as his crew stayed ahead of the railroad, clearing the path and providing the lumber needed, his future was set.
Angry voices reached him as he neared the store—most notably a woman’s voice, strong and insistent. Never one to miss out on a spectacle, Nicholas edged his way toward the far side of the building.
“I won’t cook. I refuse. You’re making a big mistake.”
“Now, Annie,” a man said, “simmer down. We’re not talking permanent, only until Anoli can get another cook in. You heard how irate those men are. If we want the railroad to stop here and pick up our hides, we have to keep the depot open.”
Nicholas stopped at the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. What appeared to be a company of hunters—buffalo, judging from their Sharps rifles—was gathered around the back door of the kitchen. But where was the lady he’d heard?
“I have an idea.” The woman, dressed like a man, rapped the butt of her rifle against a filthy boot. “We’ll shoot for it. Whoever misses the knothole on the fence over there will stay behind to cook.”
When the men turned to squint, Nicholas caught a better glimpse of the speaker. Slight, bristling, and wrapped from her bandanna to her boots in a faded green duster, her rifle was already at her shoulder before the older Indian man could intervene.
“Arguments aren’t settled by the skill of a shooter.” The leader swatted at the muzzle, throwing her aim off.
“Why not? My skills are more valuable hunting than they are in the kitchen.”
“But you’re a woman,” one of the men protested. “It’s only natural—”
Nicholas stepped closer, curious what she’d done to silence the hapless man. He’d only known one woman in his life who’d dared to dress like that. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him. Anne Tillerton had been odd, no doubt, but a buffalo hunter in Indian Territory? He could be mistaken, but the soft brown curls peeking out from beneath the hat said otherwise.
The shuffling hunters obscured his view of her face, but the set of her shoulders, visible even beneath the loose duster, further confirmed his suspicions. Anne’s name had come up occasionally in conversation with his sister—Molly speculating on whether Anne had found a nice man and raised a family like women ought. From the looks of things, Anne had shunned domesticity since her husband’s death.
“What if I find Tessa and bring her back?” She squinted up at the Indian man. “Anything but staying in this crummy depot feeding the rabble while you hunt.”
The Indian man nodded. “A reasonable suggestion if you can get your gear together before the train pulls out. And if you can’t get Tessa to cook again, hire someone else, but don’t be long. We don’t want to be poisoned by Fred’s cooking while you’re in Garber.”
“My cooking?” A man threw his hat to the ground. “Why’s it gotta be me? I swear you always . . .”
With a silent chuckle Nicholas backed away from the gathering. So the Garber train had picked up a new passenger? Interesting. Now if he could find some jerky in the general store, the ride home might not be so tedious after all.

By the time the whistle blew, Anne Tillerton had stashed her drawstring knapsack in the luggage compartment and found an empty seat in which to spend the next few hours, hopefully undisturbed. She’d left her rifle in Pushmataha in favor of a pistol, hidden beneath her duster. If Tessa had gone in search of that no-account Finn Cravens, she could be staying in a true snake hole. Anne slouched against the bench and pulled her duster together over her curvier parts. If only the buttons would’ve held. Her vest and bandanna covered her chest, and her smelly boots kept the other passengers from sharing the alcove with her. Usually her disguise effectively protected her from unwarranted attention, but when it failed, misery was sure to follow.
From beneath the brim of her hat Anne watched the performance of a passel of girls seated near the front of the car. With bobbing feathers and squeals of laughter, they were making more noise than a rabbit caught in a trap. One in particular, perched at the edge of her bench, rocked like a canary on a swing, her frequent chirps and flapping hands attesting that a man was no doubt sitting across from her. Anne looked away. Didn’t those foolish ladies have any idea the dangerous attention they were attracting?
She removed her hat and laid her head against the glass window. She’d tried to warn Tessa about getting mixed up with Finn, but the stubborn girl wouldn’t listen. His intent