What an honor and a privilege it was to be able to write a story for Debra Holland’s Montana Sky Kindle Worlds! I first met Debra at a writer’s conference in 2014. She’s a wonderful person, not to mention a fantastic writer! If you love the books in her Montana Sky Kindle Worlds, and haven’t read the actual Montana Sky Series, then you’re in for a real treat! I’d read several before being invited to work on this project, so was somewhat familiar with Sweetwater Springs, but Morgan’s Crossing was a little new to me, and it was even more fun getting to know the town and the characters before introducing Anson Jones and his mail-order bride Zadie Barrett to the little community.

As to Anson and Zadie, here’s a little more about their story: When Anson Jones discovers one of the men who embezzled money from his family’s company hid the loot near Morgan’s Crossing in Montana Territory, he leaves Oregon and travels there under the guise of setting up a horse ranch. Then all he has to do is wait for the culprit to slink into town, dig up the money, and have him arrested. There’s only one problem. Anson just sent train fare to the Pettigrew Bridal Agency for his mail-order bride! He can’t bring a woman into such danger and telegraphs the agency to stop everything. But when his message to Mrs. Pettigrew is altered, she thinks he wants her to send his bride to Montana! Misunderstandings, a loony villain, plenty of romance and a few surprises make for a fun romp.

For a taste, here’s an excerpt!

“I have a list,” Anson said and pulled it from his shirt pocket. “Would you mind filling it while I go pay a visit to the bathhouse?”

Ralph’s bushy brown mustache twitched as he took the list and scanned it. “Sure. Oh, and ya got a message here.”

“I do?”

Ralph went to the other end of the counter where a small pile of mail sat and snatched an envelope off the top. “El Davis dropped it off when he came to town yesterday. I told him I’d give it to ya the next time ya came in.”

“Much obliged,” Anson said and took it from him. It was probably a letter from his father or uncle. But no, it couldn’t be – the envelope had just his name on it. No address at all, not even the name of the town. “That’s odd.”

“Maybe it’s from someone in Sweetwater Springs. Ya got more horses comin’ in?”

“No, not yet. A lot depends on how sales go the next few months.” Not bothering to wait and read it in private, Anson tore the envelope open and … “Great Scott!”

Ralph’s eyes widened. “What?”

Anson slapped his forehead and pulled his hand down his face, but his shocked expression remained. “I have to go!”

“Go? Ya just got here.”

“I mean I … I have an emergency!”

Ralph’s face twisted up in confusion. “What kinda ‘mergency?”

“I … well, I sent for a mail-order bride a while back, and …”

Just then several women entered and went straight to where the fabric was hung. “You were saying?” Ralph urged. “What about your mail-order bride?”

“Mail-order bride?” one of the women said, turning to them with a smile. “Oh, how lovely!”

Anson shook his head in panic. “No, not exactly …”

“What do you mean?” another asked. The two began to approach.

Anson started to sweat. No matter how small the town, if there was one thing he’d learned over the years, it was that a woman about to be added to the ranks always caused a stir.

“Is your bride on her way?”

“What?” Anson said, his thoughts racing around in his head like a whirlwind.

“Your mail-order bride,” the first woman repeated. “If she’s here, we’d like to meet her.”

For the first time, Anson noticed her Southern accent. As thick as it was, he should have caught it the first time she spoke. Clearly he was rattled. “Uh, well …”

“Good grief, does that letter say she’s in Sweetwater Springs?” Ralph asked. He noticed Anson’s horrified expression, slapped the counter and laughed. “Now don’t that beat all! Ha! You didn’t know she was comin’, did ya?”

Anson swallowed hard. He was sinking deeper into the pit of raging gossip, and quicker than he could climb out. If he didn’t do it, though, he’d drown in a growing sea of whispers as it spread all over town. (Or worse, get caught in the riptide of his own tortured analogy.)

It didn’t matter that there were farms and ranches all over kingdom come between here and Sweetwater Springs – folks would eventually find out he had a bride. In fact, all they’d have to do was attend church in Sweetwater Springs and that would be it. Any chance of quietly sending his bride to Clear Creek to wait things out would be lost. And he needed to send her away, because if Mortimer Penworthy came sniffing around after the stolen money, he might figure out who Anson really was and high-tail it out of Montana altogether.

Hi, Cynthia, I always love to visit your blog. Today I’m here with my newest western, Loving Matilda. I had so much fun writing this and working with you to incorporate your heroine, Lena, into it. That was fantastic. Here’s a little of what happened behind the scenes for your readers.

I saw Cynthia’s cover and knew instantly that Matilda “Matt” Berwyn would connect with Lena. Here’s why. Matt was really a girl living as a boy in a mining town. Her father cut her hair off and had her dress in boys clothing to protect her in an all male environment. Then Prudence came with her pretty dresses, and married Michael Morgan who owned the mine. When Lena came, she was more approachable. Unfortunately Lena didn’t know the redheaded boy was really a young woman who was not much younger. But Matt took one look at Lena and she was everything that Matt wasn’t.

John Thorpe was an average guy – well not quite. He was better off than the miners, but not as wealthy as Mr. Morgan. Lena was pretty and had a dainty way about her. Her hair ribbons matched her dresses and she always looked beautiful to Matt. Lena represented everything that Matt wanted.

Everyone took Matt for granted. “He” was just a kid in the town, but “he” was liked. “He” was clean and well mannered, plus “he” loved to read. At one point, Matt figured that Lena might have guessed that Matt was actually a female.

How Cynthia and I pulled off this mixing of the stories took just a little time. First we both know how the other writes. And who doesn’t love Cynthia’s stories? Cynthia knows me and knows my stories. She told me a little about Lena and we just exchanged a few passages. It was so much fun! Cynthia’s story stops and mine continues, with a wee bit more about Lena. But I’m not going to give away the stories and tell you why.

The truly amazing thing is that Cynthia and I write with totally different voices. And our stories are almost 180 degrees from each other. Cynthia writes a romance in a western setting. I write a western with a romance in it. Blending characters into my story was a challenge, as I mixed several characters from the other authors into my story. I found it interesting to see how some of the other authors used Matt in their stories.

We all know if you put nine people in a room that some of those people will be good friends and others are acquaintances. Our feelings towards one another will all be different. That came through as various authors added a line or two about Matt as they wrote their stories.

Everyone saw Matt in a different light and “his” reaction to those characters in Morgan’s Crossing is different. Of course, we all used Debra Holland’s characters as we created our stories. In fact, to keep all us from making silly mistakes, Louella Nelson worked with Debra Holland to create a primitive but serviceable map we could use. Her not-to-scale map inspired me to have my hero handed a hand-drawn map to find his way to Morgan’s Crossing, and its inaccuracy made my hero’s trip a little more complicated. He made the correction to the map he was given.

That’s how many maps were back then. The government had maps and the railroads had maps, but most of those traveling didn’t. If they did, chances are it was hand-drawn. That’s something we almost can’t fathom today with our GPS systems to get us across town. Can you imagine driving down the road looking for the third tall beech with the slash mark, and turning northeast when you do? Probably a third of those reading have no clue what a beech is, and another third couldn’t point to the northeast. I’m going to assume that back then if they didn’t know, they soon learned.

I used to swear I’d never write historical novels because of all the work and research involved. Yet, here I am eating my words and having fun as I delve through time. This book forced me to back up ten years from my two other historical books, A Rancher’s Woman and A Rancher’s Dream. And I had new things to learn, such as mining operations.

All that mining stuff isn’t in my book, just the little town. But once I had that knowledge, it colored what I wrote. Who were the people who became miners, and what was the difference in skilled jobs from the non-skilled jobs? Who would be the support personal who would attracted to a small town? I looked at other real mining towns, and studied photos.

Two things have stayed with me during my research. A mining town was not the cleanest place to live. Today with all our clean air laws and so forth, the dust that they dealt with shouldn’t exist. The stamp mill that crushed rock, to separate the gold from the stone, would constantly be tossing dirt into the air. The stamp itself uses water, which would put out some very “dirty” silt water, so where is the airborne dust coming from? From the rocks before they go into the stamp and from the crushed rock that’s been through the stamp. I could imagine that dust settling on streets, windowsills, and porches. Considering nothing was very airtight when it came to houses, I’m sure it created a layer of dust on everything inside the house, too. Certainly homes would require a daily dusting.

The tent “towns” are historically correct throughout the west. The tents, made from heavy canvas, are called white wall tents and were used year round in many mining towns. Yet it’s not unusual for places in Montana to have -25 degrees Fahrenheit (-32C) in the winter. Yikes! In a tent? They didn’t have today’s super thermal sleeping bags from LL Bean. Yes, they had Franklin stoves in them to help keep them warm. Certainly not something I would want to attempt! Those miners were tough people.

I have to admire the characters in Debra Holland’s books. Like their real counterparts, they were strong, hearty people. She has some of the miners living in those tents during the summer months. And she placed the mine entrance on the far side of the mountain to keep down the dust, noise, etc. But looking backwards through time, life was hard for everyone in those days.

Matilda “Matt” Berwyn’s dad was a miner. That’s all he’d ever been. It’s what he knew. He’d follow that stamp mill wherever it might go.

And for fun, I dragged in Germantown. Pennsylvania. I grew up not far from there, and my family is from that rural area. My great grandmother would have been about Matilda’s age. I knew those farms, the countryside, and seeing City Hall when it was still visible and not blocked by taller buildings. (I’m not old enough to have seen sailing ships on the Delaware River, but my father did as a little boy.) Germantown was so close to me that it was a bit of a trip down memory lane.

Come visit Morgan’s Crossing and look at it through the eyes of a young woman who has spent her entire life in a mining town someplace. I enjoy taking my readers on a journey back in time and letting them peek at the real life those people lived. But I love wrapping it in a romance.

Loving Matilda

E. Ayers

http://amzn.to/241E1cR

Matilda “Matt” Berwyn, forced to live disguised as a boy in a mining town, longs to escape and blossom into the female she’s always wanted to be. But her desire to leave Morgan’s Crossing escalates when she realizes she’s being stalked.

Stockyard hand Zeke Hillerman knows her secret and has fallen in love with her. He helps her flee to his parents’ home in the east to learn to be a lady, while he struggles to start his own ranch. As Matilda grapples with Victorian expectations of young women, Zeke’s plans for their future unravel, and he realizes that the cost of her ticket out of Morgan’s Crossing may have been his own heart.

Here’s a little excerpt that shows the daily life of Matilda. May I interest you in a bowl of oatmeal?

There wasn’t a single person in Morgan’s Crossing that Matilda didn’t know, and everyone was friendly towards her. So who would be following me, and why?

Her mind wandered to Marla and Rebecca Lee. Matilda had been warned by her father to stay away from the gals at the saloon, but they were both nice women. Then Lena caught her eye. Dressed in white with pink trim, and a fancy crocheted shawl, Matilda decided that of all the women in Morgan’s Crossing, she loved Lena’s clothes best of all. Lena didn’t walk to town this time. She walked to the livery where her husband worked. Taking him dinner?

Aside from a few women, there wasn’t a single man to be found stirring in town. Giving up, Matilda went home, but as she approached the soddy, she had that same feeling of being watched. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and the nape of her neck prickled. Instead of going into the soddy, she walked around the back of it where the stove was kept during the summer.

This morning she had fixed hot oat cereal for her brother and father. Oats always took forever to cook. She boiled the water and then added the oats. The minute she did, she saw a problem – weevils. She had added extra water when she realized the number of weevils that were in the oats, and then carefully spooned out the weevils that floated to the top as the cereal boiled. Certain she removed most of them, she added a bit of fatback to give the oats more flavor and let it boil down. Now she had a messy pan. Lifting the pan from the stove, she looked at the oat cereal that was stuck to the metal, and headed for the stream.

Instead of staying in a secluded area, she walked to the plank bridge near the tents and placed the pan into the cool water. It wasn’t much of a pan, but if she left it, someone would probably take it. She yanked her pants above her knees and waded into the water. She rubbed her arms and face with the water and wished she could have taken a cooling bath. With luck, Zeke would be coming in a few days, and she wanted to see him again.

Bio:

As the official matchmaker for all the characters who wander through a mind full of imagination and the need to share, E. Ayers enjoys finding just the right ones to create a story.

Find E. Ayers here:

http://www.ayersbooks.com

http://ayersbooks.wordpress.com

http://AuthorsofMainStreet.wordpress.com

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Twitter: @ayersbooks

Here is an excerpt from FAITH – SCANDALOUS SUFFRAGETTE BRIDE by Sylvia McDaniel.

Faith Warren heard the clink of the jail cell doors and prepared herself for the storm about to erupt. Stepping into the waiting room, her father approached her, his face taut with barely concealed rage. He’d been angry with her before, but she knew there would be consequences for her actions today.

He took her by the arm. “Don’t say a word until we’re in the carriage.”

The door swung open and several reporters from the Boston Evening Traveler greeted them. “Miss Warren do you think your father’s bank treats women unfairly?”

“Miss Warren, why don’t you go to work in your father’s bank?”

“Mr. Warren, what do you think of your daughter’s involvement in the suffragette movement?”

Her father gripped her elbow almost dragging her to the waiting carriage. He didn’t say a word and she knew from his rigid body, he was the angriest she’d ever seen him. When they reached the buggy he opened the door and she crawled in, followed closely by her father.

The driver clicked to the horses and away they went, with the reporters laughing.

She sighed. She knew better than to say anything. Long ago, she’d learned that nothing embarrassing or revealing was discussed when a servant was nearby. She glanced out the window at the passing homes, knowing her activities with the ladies would be curtailed. Eight long months and then she could walk out of her family home and hopefully into the school she hoped to create for young girls.

The carriage turned and came to a halt in the prosperous neighborhood on Beacon Street. She could see reporters milling around the front of the house close to the street. The door opened and her father waited holding out his hand. She had no choice, though she wanted nothing more than to escape to her room and avoid the confrontation she knew awaited her.

The reporters were making a mad dash across the street. “Miss Warren, Miss Warren.”

Taking her elbow her father pulled her towards the steps leading into the house. Reluctantly she followed, feeling like she was walking to the gallows. Their maid opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Warren, Miss Warren.”

“Good evening, Bertha,” her father said.

Faith nodded, but kept her lips closed, knowing what was expected of her.

Not releasing her elbow, he took her straight into his office and closed the door.

“Sit,” he commanded.

She took a seat in the chair across from him as he went behind his desk. The tick tock of the clock could be heard, but nothing else as they sat staring at one another.

“If your mother were alive, she’d be quite disappointed in you.”

Faith knew better than to argue, and she didn’t believe his statement. Her mother had been the one who encouraged her not to define her life by marriage, but rather to learn and grow. And she had in honor of her mother and then slowly for herself. But she knew better than to argue. It didn’t really matter what she said because her father didn’t listen.

“While I’m glad it wasn’t my bank you marched against, but still it’s my competitor.”

Next weekend they were slated to march against her father’s bank. And she’d known there was no way she could be seen protesting with the women, so she’d gone this weekend. But she wasn’t about to tell her father his bank was on the schedule.

“Attending college was the worst thing I’ve agreed to. Since you graduated, you’ve become involved in this women’s movement. You’ve embarrassed the family, my business, and we have reporters in front of our home. I should have married you off years ago.”

He sighed and gazed at her. “In your own best interests, I’m sending you out of town for a while until this scandal dies down.”

“No,” she cried knowing she wasn’t supposed to speak, but unable to stop the word from coming out of her mouth.

He frowned at her. “Silence.”

She couldn’t be sent away from Boston. She was working with the ladies to find a location for her to start a boarding school to teach young women. They were to look at property next week, and when she received her trust fund in February, she would have the school ready by next fall. There was much to prepare if she wanted to start on time.

“Your aunt told me that Cal Anderson is searching for a teacher for his granddaughter, Lilly Anderson. You know the little girl your cousin had with the rancher from Montana.”

Cousin Beth was the girl who should have been her father’s child. She was the one who enjoyed parties and shopping and dancing the night away. She was the one who flirted with every available man and had gotten caught in more than one compromising position. Until she’d eloped with the rancher from Montana shocking them all. A rancher hadn’t seemed the right fit for her.

“I have your train ticket to Sweetwater Springs, Montana. You’re leaving with your aunt Edwina in the morning.”

AMAZON buy link:  http://amzn.com/B01BL0HL40

About Sylvia McDaniel

Sylvia McDaniel is a best-selling, award-winning author of western historical romance and contemporary romance novels.  Known for her sweet, funny, family-oriented romances,  Sylvia is the author of The Burnett Brides, Lipstick and Lead Series, Scandalous Suffragette Brides, The Cuvier Widows, and several short contemporary romances.

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You can write to Sylvia at P.O. Box 2542, Coppell, TX 75019 or visit her website.

Excerpt:
Cora’s green eyes sparkled at his words and it was all he could do to keep his gaze from drifting down to her plump, pink lips. They looked so soft and tender, and they were parted in the most inviting way…

Clearing his throat, he snatched his hand back, jumped up and went back to cleaning. Anything to keep his mind off what had just popped into his head. She was begging him to tell her what to do. It would be so easy to manipulate her, get her to stay on with him and cook him fine meals like that every night, among other things. But his heart rebelled at such a disgusting, selfish act.

Maybe his words would get through to her that she was finally the mistress of her own life. Still, he had a hard time believing that she never had any influence on what happened to her.

“You didn’t have a say about nothing on your trip out here? Didn’t your husband ask you what you thought about which route to take?”

“No, why would he?”

Jasper barked out a surprised laugh and shook his head. What kind of man didn’t consult his wife on important matters?

“Well, it’s your life, too. I know I woulda wanted more opinions than just my own.”

“He did have more opinions. We set out with four other wagons heading to Idaho, including his brothers, Rafe and Dale. When Rafe took sick back in Fort Laramie, Amos sent the rest of them on, including Dale. We’re a week or so behind them.”

“You musta missed having the extra company,” Jasper mused, studying her carefully. She dropped her gaze, almost like she was ashamed or something.

“Not really. I suppose I miss the company of the ladies. They were nice enough, but nothing really made up for having to put up with Dale. He was Amos’ brother, though, so there wasn’t anything I could do about it.”

Something in her tone made him bristle. “Why was he so bad?”

“He’s a brute. Amos was the oldest, Rafe the youngest, and Dale the meanest. He didn’t have a wife to cook for him, so he always ate with us. Made me mend his clothes and whatnot. He’d bully Rafe into taking care of pretty much everything else. Amos did his best to keep him in line, but it didn’t always work.”

Already Jasper didn’t like this Dale character. Her clipped tone and sudden stop made it clear there was more to the story. He had to know.

“You know, Cora, now that Amos is gone, you prolly won’t ever see him again. Ain’t no shame in telling a friend what he done.”

She looked as surprised as he felt at his use of the word “friend”. But if they weren’t friends, what were they? Her cheeks pinked up in the most fetching way, but she nodded her agreement.

“He would say things to me, vile things, when Amos was out of earshot. Things no man should say to any woman, much less his sister-in-law. Told me Amos would never believe me if I told, that he’d never believe a…I can’t say the word. Let’s just say, a lady of questionable morals.”

Whore. She means whore. Jasper clenched his jaw and wiped off the last of the dishes into the slop bucket.

“In the end, I didn’t want to rock the boat so I stayed silent. Besides, I’m only a laundress from Peoria. What do I know about surviving a journey into the wild west? I relied on Amos to make the right choices and he chose to partner up with Dale.” She paused, understanding truly dawning in her eyes. “And now it’s all up to me?”

With a grimace and a nod, Jasper said, “That it is.”

He grabbed the soup pot and dishes and headed out the door, wanting to give her a little space to think, not to mention give himself some time to clear his head. Something about her got him all turned around and backwards, and what he really needed to do was focus on his farm. If he wanted Mr. Finnegan to extend his contract, he’d have to bust his hump to catch up on almost two days of lost work.

Blurb:
When tragedy strikes, love blooms…

Jasper Eaton couldn’t be happier with his life. Despite having the deck stacked against him since the day he was born, he beat the odds and found himself a home in Morgan’s Crossing, Montana. He has friends, a farm and a future brighter than the stars in the night sky. Nope, he couldn’t be happier.

Or could he?

Cora Winters is a good girl who always does what she’s told. When she’s forced to marry an older man headed west, she never dreams she’ll end up widowed, injured and left for dead by the side of the road.

After Jasper rescues her, Cora proves to be a charming helpmate on his farm as she recovers. But it won’t last long. For the first time in her life, Cora must choose her own path. She could settle in Montana or continue on to her homestead in Hope Springs. But heading to Idaho would mean leaving Jasper behind because he would never give up his farm.

Or would he?

As their friendship blossoms, they each dare to dream of a better life together. When Cora’s past comes back to haunt them both, a gunman’s bullet threatens to kill their future before it even begins.

Hope on the Horizon is the prequel to the Western Sunset series, set in the fictional town of Hope Springs, Idaho. Look for the first book in the series in April, 2016.

Amazon buy link:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01BL0HKJ6/?tag=cassiefb-20

Bio:
Bestselling author Cassie Hayes grew up pretending she was Laura Ingalls (before that pesky Almanzo arrived on the scene) in the middle of Oregon farm country. She lives with her husband and cat on the Pacific Ocean and loves to hear from her readers.

Connect with her at:
www.CassieHayes.com
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When I finished my last historical western romance series, I started brewing up the next series I wanted to write and came up with, Letters of Fate. This is a series that is linked by the hero receiving a letter than changes his life and brings him to the woman who captures his heart.

After I’d decided on this series, I was approached to be part of a Kindle World Project authored by Debra Holland. It seemed like a good way to help jump start my new Letters of Fate series.

Isaac Corum is a mine guard at the mine in Morgan’s Crossing owned by Michael Morgan, one of Debra’s characters and part of her Montana Skies series.

Isaac: Letters of Fate

Historical western filled with steamy romance and the rawness of a growing country.

Alamayda Wagner’s life has left her cynical, but also vigilant, and that’s what propels her to Morgan’s Crossing, Montana in order to uncover the secrets her father took to his grave. She quickly discovers her only hope includes trusting Isaac Corum. That soon proves to be expensive, and not just financially.

The last thing Isaac Corum needs or wants is a snooty woman telling him he didn’t do enough to save her father, which is what her letter implied. He’d helped the man more than most people would have, and swears he won’t go out of his way like that again. He’ll meet her at the Sweetwater Springs train station, deliver her father’s belongings, and send her back the way she came.

But, dang it all, the woman doesn’t do a single blasted thing she’s told, and Isaac can’t just sit back and let her go traipsing off into the mountains alone…

Excerpt:

Isaac stopped the horses at the hitching post in front of the church. After climbing down, he grabbed the box of Alan’s belongings and marched up to the little house next to the church. For a brief moment, he had the notion to just leave the box with a note. But his conscience wouldn’t let him do that. He’d been the last person to speak with her father before his death. It seemed sociable he should talk to her.

He knocked on the door.

A pleasant-looking man, not much older than Isaac answered the door. “Good evening. May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Miss Wagner,” he said.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you Mr. Corum?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We just sat down for the evening meal. Would you care to join us?” The reverend asked.

Isaac didn’t want to sit through dinner with the woman. “I’d prefer if you asked her to come out here. It won’t take long.” He’d noted the chairs on the porch. “We can sit there,” he said, walking over to one of the chairs and placing the box on the porch beside a chair.

“I’ll get Miss Wagner.” The reverend disappeared into the house.

A minute later, a tall, thin woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a severe bun, stepped out and scanned the porch.

Isaac stood, pulling his hat off his head as the woman walked toward him. He’d been wrong about her being big-boned and horse-faced. She was tall, but thin. The dark blue dress she wore hung straight from her shoulders to her feet with no curves in between. Not even a bump where her bosoms should be. Her long, thin face had a pointed chin and small, pointed nose. Her large, wide eyes were brown. She held out a thin, long hand.

“Mr. Corum?” she asked.

He gripped her hand gently for fear of breaking the thin bones. “Miss Wagner.”

She pulled her hand back and stared down at the box on the floor. “What’s this?” she asked.

“I brought your pa’s things to you. This way you can rest a day or so and head back home.” He said it with the enthusiasm he had for getting her back to Kansas and out of his way.

Alamayda stared at the box, then up at Mr. Corum. She usually looked down on most men. Mr. Corum, she had to tip her head just a bit to see into his gray eyes. He had several days of whisker growth on his face. His eyes were wide set with wrinkles at the corners. His nose long but not wide. A full bottom lip made his upper lip appear thinner. His square chin gave the appearance of a man who didn’t back down. His shoulders were wider than his narrow hips hidden beneath a long canvas duster. His hand when he’d clutched hers was wide with long fingers.

She had expected him to be closer to her father’s age and not her own. “Thank you for bringing me his things.” She sat in the chair closest to the box.

Mr. Corum remained standing. “Ma’am, I just wanted to let you know there was nothing that could be done for your father. The doc made sure he was as comfortable as could be until the end.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a moment.

Alamayda was about to say something when he opened his eyes and peered at her.

“It was nice meeting you. I can’t afford to miss too much work. I’ll be headed back to Morgan’s Crossing now.”

“Wait.” Her heart raced. He couldn’t head back. She hadn’t had time to see if the clues to the mine were in her father’s belongings.

He stared down at her.

“Give me a chance to go through my father’s things. I’m—” She didn’t want to tell anyone about her father’s hidden mine. Surely, if this man had been friends with her father he would know about it, but since he hadn’t mentioned it in his letter, she didn’t know if her father hadn’t told him or he planned to keep the mine for himself.

Mr. Corum sat on the other chair. “I’m sorry. As long as Alan was away from home, I didn’t think you’d be upset to go through his things.” He reached down into the box. “I didn’t send them home because they weren’t worth the postage.” He held up a dirty sweat-stained slouch hat. He handed it to her.

Alamayda held her breath and turned the garment over in her hands. There wasn’t anything unusual about the dirty hat. She placed it on the porch between them.

He pulled out a chambray shirt. It was well-worn with patches but clean. “This is his clean set of clothes. The ones he was wearing when he took sick I burned. They were covered in dirt and—”

She didn’t want to think about what might have been on her father’s clothing. She’d nursed a sick mother long enough to know there were accidents and such.

Her heart lurched at the thought he’d burned a set of clothing. “Did he have anything in his pockets?” She couldn’t bear to think this man might have burned up her only way of finding the mine.

“Only a couple coins. I put those in this clean pair of trousers.” He handed over a faded, patched pair of wool trousers.

She put her hand in a pocket and pulled out two dimes. Tears started to burn the back of her eyes. Her father had died with two dimes in his pocket. He’d sent money home over the years, never on a regular basis. She’d had to make sure the farm had supplied all she and her siblings had needed. She’d sold eggs and cleaned rooms at the local hotel to make enough money to buy the things they couldn’t make on their own, like shoes and tools. There had to be something in his things to tell her where the mine he talked about in his letters could be found.

Mr. Corum cleared his throat. “Here’s his coat but it’s kind of…” He didn’t have to finish.

Alamayda held her arm up in front of her nose. “Did my father never take a bath?” she asked, trying to imagine what he must have looked like the last few years.

“He’d take one monthly in the summer. He didn’t like to pay for a bath at the bath house. Many prefer the cold water of the river to the dirty water someone else has been sittin’ in.” He lowered the coat back into the box. “Your pa used the river so it was only during the warmer weather that he took a bath.”

She didn’t want to touch the nasty garment, but she had to see if there was anything in the pockets or perhaps sewn inside the lining. Holding her hand out, she waited for Mr. Corum to make up his mind about handing it over.

“You sure you want to touch this?” he asked.

She nodded even though she didn’t want to. But she had no choice. He held the coat out and she grabbed it with one hand. She pushed her hands into the gritty pockets and came up with nothing but dirty fingers. Holding her breath, she turned the coat inside out and felt the lining around the cuffs and hem of the coat.

“What are you looking for?” Mr. Corum asked.

She glanced into the box and didn’t see anything else. Dropping the coat back in the box, she folded her hands into her lap. They had to stink as bad as the coat.

“Mr. Corum, I’ll be returning to Morgan’s Crossing with you.”

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About the author:

Award-winning author Paty Jager and her husband raise alfalfa hay in rural eastern Oregon. She not only writes the western lifestyle, she lives it. All Paty’s work has Western or Native American elements in them along with hints of humor and engaging characters. Her penchant for research takes her on side trips that eventually turn into yet another story.

You can learn more about Paty at:

her blog; Writing into the Sunset

her website; http://www.patyjager.net

Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/pages/Paty-Jager/132536633482029

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