Winds of Paradise (Paradise Valley Book 2)
Contents
Also by Vivi Holt
Copyright
About The Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Grand Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
My gift to you
Authors Note
Excerpt from The Strong One
Also by Vivi Holt
About the Author
Also by Vivi Holt
Orphan Brides Go West
Mail Order Bride: Christy
Mail Order Bride: Ramona
Mail Order Bride: Katie
Mail Order Bride: Holly (coming soon!)
Cutter’s Creek
The Strong One
The Betrothed
Cherished
Season of Love
Paradise Valley
Of Peaks and Prairies
Winds of Paradise
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Copyright © 2016 by Vivi Holt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
About The Book
Dusty Lewis has a hard heart. Years of loose living and of following the open trail have left him lonely and empty inside. All he has left, all he loves, is the homesteading life and the band of fellow ranch hands who he travelled with from Fort Worth Texas, to Montana Territory, to set up a new life.
Paradise Ranch is his home now: he’s come to terms with not having a family of his own. That is until he meets Jane Wilder. She’s running from a troubled past as well, but that past is about to catch up with her.
When the two of them are forced to work together on the run down schoolhouse where Jane is the schoolmistress, she does everything she can to keep her secret safe while he fights his growing attraction to her.
A tragedy throws them together again, and they must each choose whether to follow the path of fear or love, honesty or lies. Can their love overcome the sins of the parents, or will Jane and Dusty miss their chance at happiness?
Chapter One
April 1869
Missoula, Montana Territory
Jane Wilder despised conflict. She’d do everything within her power to make sure the people in her life were happy. She’d mend clothes for friends. She’d help others when they needed it and rarely request it for herself.
Unfortunately, as a schoolmistress it was impossible to completely avoid clashes. Her students couldn’t seem to help themselves – no matter how hard she tried to prevent it, they found a way to cause trouble. She stood beside the dusty blackboard, a long pointer in her left hand and her brow furrowed.
Jimmy Cantor was one of those troublesome students. He was mischievous in a way that only little boys could be. Whenever his thoughts lit on a new way to cause trouble, his wide brown eyes sparked with life. He was at that moment whispering loudly to Fred Milton, seated beside him. They held their slates high in front of their faces, no doubt certain she couldn’t see what they were up to. Jimmy pointed to his slate and the two boys exclaimed together over it.
Jane couldn’t help loving the little rascal, but at the same time she had a job to do. As she fought back a grin, she tapped the pointer beside her feet, just one brisk bang on the schoolhouse’s timber floor. The three rows of students immediately jumped to attention and all eyes rested warily on her.
“Jimmy? Come here, if you please,” she ordered.
“Yes, Miss Wilder,” he sighed, then stood reluctantly.
“Bring your slate with you, Jimmy.”
He grabbed it with a grimace and made his way down the aisle between the rows of ogling pupils. His eyes were downcast, his face seemed forlorn, but when he glanced up at her, the all-too-familiar mischievous spark was there.
“Hold up the slate please, Jimmy.” She rapped the pointer against her hand once for emphasis as he timidly raised his slate for her to see. It was covered with a childish drawing of a gun-wielding cowboy, astride a muscular horse with a lopsided face.
Jane raised an eyebrow. “This is not the list of spelling words I wrote on the board, is it, Jimmy?”
“No, Miss Wilder. Sorry, Miss Wilder.”
“Well, now I must punish you for it, as you well know.”
“Yes, Miss Wilder.”
Jane thought for a moment. She hated punishing him for using his creativity, but rules were rules, and if she didn’t enforce the rules the classroom would fall into disorder. At least, that’s what superintendent Charles Figway always told her. As her supervisor at the Missoula school, he liked to stay abreast of everything that occurred within its walls. He shared his opinions and insights with her regularly and freely.
“You shall write on the blackboard ‘I will not draw when I should be spelling’ twenty times, please.”
Jimmy groaned, then reached for a piece of chalk. “Yes, Miss Wilder.”
She turned to face the class, now whispering and giggling as they pointed and exclaimed over the interaction. As soon as they saw her watching, however, they sat up straight, attempting to push the smiles from their faces. Their failed efforts to look solemn only further fueled her frustration. “Now, class, it’s time to finish the sums we began yesterday. For our younger students, please work on the arithmetic written on the blackboard …”
“Miss Wilder?” Jimmy frowned and fidgeted with the piece of chalk in his hand. “There’s not enough room for my lines.”
“Then please use the eraser to wipe the board clean. Just make sure not to disturb the sums the younger children are working on.” She handed Jimmy an eraser and resumed teaching, but watched him from the corner of her eye.
He began wiping the blackboard carefully, from as high as he could reach down to the bottom. At first he moved slowly, but then sped up and was soon waving back and forth frantically, jumping up and down in place.
“Jimmy!” she exclaimed. He stopped and looked at her with wide eyes. She walked over to him and placed a hand on his, holding the eraser against the blackboard to still it. “Please do it sedately. There is no need for a jig!”
A titter ran through the classroom.
“Yes, Miss Wilder.”
She removed her hand from his, only for him to bang the eraser as hard as he could against the board. A cloud of chalk dust enveloped both Jimmy and Jane in a white veil. Her mouth dropped open in surprise just as he sneezed, blowing it all directly into her face. Her eyes widened in horror and she coughed hard.
The classroom erupted in laughter and shouting. Some children stood to their feet; others froze, unsure of what to do or how to react. A few bent over in hysterics or pointed and leaped around their desks in glee, unable to contain their mirth. Jane slowly turned to face them, lifting her pinafore toward her face with the intention of wiping it clean.
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br /> As she did, she saw that the back door of the classroom was open. Mr. Figway stood by the fireplace behind the last row of desks. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyebrows raised high and his face a dangerous shade of red. “Miss Wilder!”
The entire classroom fell silent. Children ran back to their desks to sit quickly and quietly in their seats. Even Jimmy hurried to take his place, wiping his face vigorously with both hands.
Jane felt her face flush beneath the coating of pale chalk dust. “Yes, Mr. Figway?”
“A word outside, if ya please!”
“Yes, Mr. Figway. Class, please continue your arithmetic – I will return shortly. Bessie, you are in charge.”
A tall, fair girl nodded and scurried to the front of the room. She clapped her hands together and began reciting sums with the youngest of the group.
Jane strode toward the back of the room, her head held high and her heart pounding. She was in trouble, and oh, how she hated to be called to account. She’d always been the girl in school who’d cry if the teacher so much as called her name. She couldn’t stand to be in anyone’s bad graces. And yet here she was, in strife once again. It seemed to happen so often these days.
It had all gone horribly wrong, as it always did, when Mr. Figway realized she was that Jane Wilder. The Jane Wilder of the greater Boston area, the one with the infamous parents. After that, everything changed. Everywhere she looked, people watched her, their eyes bulging, whispering about her behind their hands.
She went out the back door into the thin Montana sunlight. Even though it was a chilly spring day, a trickle of sweat ran down the side of her face. She wiped it away with the back of her sleeve. “Yes, Mr. Figway?’’ she asked, wringing her hands together.
He straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat. “I must say, Miss Wilder, I’d have thought ya’d have gotten the rascals under control by now. Ya’ve been in Missoula four years – that’s time enough to figger it out. ‘Twas bedlam in there. Chaos!”
She scratched at the collar of her dress, feeling the heat rising toward her face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Figway.”
“Discipline, Miss Wilder! Discipline’s what children need. ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’ – haven’t ya heard that before? No doubt ya haven’t, and I’m not surprised at all, given the facts o’ yer situation – which ya didn’t tell me when I interviewed ya for the position. Well, now it’s time you took them little’uns in hand and showed ‘em yer in charge. Ya know how the school board feels about it, don’t ya? We’ve spoken about it many a time with ya. Discipline is the most important part of a child’s education. Without discipline and manners, ya might as well send ‘em out to play in the dirt ‘n mud for all the live long day ‘stead of tryin’ to educate ‘em.” He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped away the beads of sweat forming across his brow.
“Yes, Mr. Figway. I understand.” Inside she fumed – he was taking what he’d seen completely out of context. She understood how to keep order in her classroom. He’d just witnessed an unfortunate and unexpected series of events that likely would never happen again. How could she guard against a thing like that? She opened her mouth to defend herself, then closed it again when she saw the expression on his reddened face.
“Hrumph! Well then. I hope ya know that I’ll have to tell the board – I’ve no choice in the matter. I don’t like to do it, but I must. I came by to check on things and it’s a fine thing I did. Yer contract is comin’ up for renewal soon, Miss Wilder, and I can’t say I’m certain what I’ll recommend to ‘em.” He cleared his throat and had the decency to look a touch uncomfortable.
Jane’s heart raced. She wished she could run from this horrible man and hide somewhere far, far away. She’d escape to a place where she didn’t have to answer to a superintendent or a board, or anyone else whose entire purpose was to criticize her. Somewhere where no one had heard her name before, where people would give her a chance to live her own life and judge her by her own merits.
She swallowed hard and glanced toward the schoolhouse where the sound of children’s voices began to swell. “Well, I’d best get back in there, Mr. Figway. It sounds as though poor Bessie has been overwhelmed. Good day to you, sir.” With a dip of her head, she hurried back into the schoolhouse, the sound of his grumbling following her.
***
After school, Jane returned to the boarding house where she’d rented a room for the past four years. She opened the door and unwound her scarf from her neck as she tramped through the entry way. A row of letter boxes lined one side of the foyer, and she stood on tiptoe to feel around inside hers.
There was an envelope there. She pulled it free and read the return address carefully handwritten on the back. It was from Aunt Priscilla in Boston, one of the few family members she’d managed to keep in touch with since leaving the East. Her mother’s sister was a widow, having made her fortune by marrying an elderly land baron who’d died years earlier and left everything to her. She was jovial and loving, and Jane couldn’t wait to read about her latest jaunts and the gossip from home.
She hurried up the wide staircase to her room and pushed the door open with her shoulder – it always seemed to stick, especially in damp air. It popped open, sending her stumbling into the room. She righted herself, pressed her flyaway hair back into place and searched for the letter opener. She slipped it beneath the edge of the envelope’s thin flap and pulled the single sheet of paper free, then sat at the kitchen table:
My dearest niece,
I write to you on a rainy afternoon here in Boston. I had intended to take a walk, but instead here I am in the drawing room with nothing much to do but work on the cross-stitch piece I intend to donate to the church fundraiser. I needed a break and so am writing to you instead.
I hope things have gotten better for you at the school. I wish I could be there to give Mr. Figway a piece of my mind – he sounds like a beastly man. However, my prayers are with you and I think of you often.
It gives me no comfort to think of you out there all alone. I was considering your predicament this morning when I thought of something you might find of interest. Do you remember your second cousin Genevieve Waters? You most likely don’t recall her, since she moved to Texas with her family when you were both still so young. However, she recently resumed contact with me after many years. She is currently living in Paradise Valley, Montana Territory. Is that anywhere near you?
I’ve enclosed her address for you, in case you should care to write her. At least you might have someone you know nearby …
Jane laid the letter on the table without finishing it. She vaguely remembered a Genny, probably the Genevieve referred to in the letter. Her memories of the girl were pleasant, and the idea of discovering a family member so close by set her fingers drumming on the leg of her chair. Perhaps she could even visit someday. How she longed to feel connected in some way to someone. It had been so long since she’d had any family in her life - five years, to be exact.
Five long years since her parents were arrested and thrown in jail.
Chapter Two
Paradise Ranch, Montana Territory
Dusty Lewis put two fingers to his lips and whistled. He leaped from the saddle to the soft earth at the river’s edge, his feet making a squelching sound as he landed, and looped the reins around the saddle horn. A calf was trapped neck-deep in the mud along the river, mewling as he approached.
“There, there, fella. Yer gonna be okay. Hush now.” He raised his hands toward the frightened creature, squatted beside it and patted it gently on the neck.
A sound behind him caught his attention, and he turned to face the calf’s frantic mother. He stood quickly and backed away from her baby. “All right, Mama, I ain’t gonna hurt yer little’un. Just checkin’ on him, tryin’ to see what to do about this here mess he’s gotten himself into.”
She bellowed and snorted, pacing back and forth.
Just then, Vaquero’s face appeared over t
he crest of the bank nearby. “Whatcha got there, Dosty?”
“This here youngun’s gone and got himself stuck in the dadgum mud. And his mama ain’t none too happy about it neither.” Dusty hustled back to his horse and took a rope from the side of his saddle, unwinding it quickly. “I’m gonna fix this around him and see if we cain’t pull him out of the muck.”
“I’ll sort out his mama for ya.” Vaquero took out his own rawhide-braided riata and tied it into a makeshift lasso. He spun it around and around above his head, then landed the loop gently around the cow’s neck. She didn’t seem to notice. He tightened the riata, dismounted and tied it carefully around the trunk of a stout juniper, then hurried to help Dusty.
Between the two of them, they managed to lift the calf far enough out of the mud to slip the rope beneath its chest and one leg. They heaved and struggled in the sucking mud for as long as they could, then landed, panting, on their rears. They were exhausted and covered head-to-toe, in gray-brown sludge. “Let’s take a breath,” grunted Dusty, slipping the Stetson from his head to run his fingers through his damp hair.
Vaquero grunted in agreement, lying back against a thick clump of grass.
Dusty popped a blade of grass between his teeth to chew. “When’s yer old lady and yer kid gettin’ here?”
“It will be a while,” Vaquero replied in his thick accent. “Can’t say for sure – she comes all the way from Santa Fe. I send her the money she needs. She writes me letters along the way, but it has been some time since I got one.” There was concern on his usually impassive face.
“I’m sure they’re fine. Not many places to mail a letter, no doubt. Betcha cain’t wait ‘til they arrive.” Dusty stood slowly, stretching his tired back and raising his arms over his head one at a time.
Vaquero smiled. Dusty couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Vaquero smile. “Sí. There are so many things I want to show them. I did not plan for us to be apart this long. I was supposed to bring them from México long ago. It will be good to see them. I wonder how big my baby girl is now.” His eyes glowed as he stood and reached for the rope still looped around the tired calf.