Restless Souls (Haunting Hearts Series, Book 1)

By Rachel Wilson

Montana native Penelope Potter is in England for the first time to attend the nuptials of Arthur Collingsworth--her brother Harry's best friend--whom Penelope met on his trip out West.

While harboring romantic feelings for Art, Penelope knows he must marry the woman his family has chosen--the well-bred and moneyed Miss Juliette Griffin.

Then Harry begins behaving like a wild and wooly Western character after drinking corn liquor Arthur purchased while in New Mexico.

Art offers Penelope his every assistance, and together they discover the spirit of Chester Pease, who's about to teach them about the power of true love. But can Penelope and Art convince Chester to leave Harry, before Harry is forever lost?

REVIEWS
"Light and lively... thoroughly enjoyable." ~Maudeen Wachsmith

HAUNTING HEARTS SERIES, in order
Restless Souls
Heaven's Promise
Bittersweet Summer
Spirit of Love

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Jul 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781614178613

Rachel Wilson

Rachel Wilson is a wife, mother of two, and the coauthor of The Life We Never Expected. She and her husband are part of Kings Church in Eastbourne in the United Kingdom.

Book preview

Author

Prologue

Chester Pease's mother used to say that the company he kept would be the ruination of him. His aunt generally countered that for something to go bad, it had to be good in the first place. Invariably, she went on to say Chester didn't qualify.

Probably John Wesley Hardin best expressed most folks's opinions of Chester. In April of 1877, right before he plugged Chester in the heart after a poker game in Cimarron, New Mexico Territory, John Wesley said, You're a low-down, snake-eyed, cheatin' son of a bitch, Chester Pease. Nobody argued.

Thus it was that in his twenty-first year of life, Chester Pease, who had behaved very badly during those years, died. That would have been the end of him but for a twist of fate....

Chapter 1

Penelope Potter tried to remember to behave in a ladylike manner and not allow her excitement to express itself in exuberance as she clutched her brother's coat sleeve. Such restraint was difficult for her at the dullest of times. Today, when she was about to embark upon the most exciting adventure of her life, Penny forgot herself at her first glimpse of England's foggy shore and commenced jumping up and down.

Oh, Harry! She clapped her free hand to her large-brimmed hat so that it wouldn't sail off of her head and into the Atlantic Ocean. Look! Isn't that Arth—er, Mr. Collingsworth?

Her brother laughed. Harry always laughed at her when she tried and failed to behave herself. Now, how can you expect me to see that far if you can't, Pen?

Penelope laughed, too. I was hoping your eyes were better than mine.

She was absolutely delighted to be visiting England for the first time. Her anticipation about touring England, however, was nothing to her joy at the prospect of renewing her acquaintance with Mr. Arthur Collingsworth, upon whom she'd had a crush for four years, ever since he visited her parents' Montana Territory ranch. In fact, she was so thrilled, she could barely contain herself.

Not that being unable to contain herself was an unusual circumstance for Penny. Miss Quilling, headmistress of the exclusive Boston academy for young ladies from which Penny had barely graduated last June, used to despair of ever getting Penny to comport herself with propriety.

The huge ocean liner seemed to crawl toward the dock. Harry had to grasp his sister around the waist and haul her back as she leaned over the railing. Penny! Art won't be impressed if you fall overboard before we even land, you know.

Her brother's good-humored admonition recalled Penny to her manners, and she straightened, striving for a dignity as foreign to her as England. Her heart seemed to have taken on a life of its own, though, and zoomed inside her breast like a Fourth of July skyrocket.

She hoped she looked presentable. Actually, she hoped she looked pretty. She'd had this suit especially made by the best dressmaker she could find in Butte. It had been crafted out of an expensive, soft woolen worsted she'd ordered all the way from Boston. She thought she looked good in it, although Penny was about as far from vain as a young woman could be and didn't consider herself the best judge of beauty. The suit's color, a deep rust-brown, complemented her red hair better than most colors did. Unfortunately, there weren't too many colors one could wear well if one's hair was as coppery as Penny's.

Not for the first time she wondered why she couldn't have been blessed with Harry's coloring and he cursed with hers. Nobody thought twice about a man with red hair and green eyes. She knew she'd look much more dignified if she had dark curly hair and dark brown eyes like Harry's instead of the garish hair and sprightly greenish-hazel eyes she'd ended up with. Even when she managed to throttle her expansive personality into sobriety, her eyes invariably gave away her natural gaiety. According to Miss Quilling, gaiety was a quality much to be deplored in a female.

As a rule, Penny didn't give much thought to her appearance. She prided herself on her rugged, independent Western ways, and had been taught from the cradle that surface appearances didn't matter much. When one ranched in Montana Territory, other attributes—such as stamina, fortitude, and character—mattered far more than beauty.

Today was different. Today she wanted to make a good impression on Art. Rather, she wanted to correct the impression she feared she'd already made on him. She worried her lower lip with her teeth and recalled his visit to the ranch during the summer of 1882.

Do you think Mr. Collingsworth bears a scar from that horsewhip, Harry? Oh, she hoped he didn't. If he did, she'd be mortified.

Her brother laughed at her again. I don't know, Penny, but I suspect he'll let us know soon enough.

That's what Penny feared. She frowned and stared hard into the throng of people awaiting the arrival of their liner. Do you suppose he remembers that camping trip? She didn't mention her real worry: that he might resent her for the burn he'd sustained when she'd dropped a smoldering log on his hand.

How could he possibly forget? her brother said with a chuckle. You practically burned him alive.

Penny added hand-wringing to lip-nibbling and frowning to her repertoire of unladylike behaviors. I wonder if he still limps, she muttered, more to herself than to Harry.

She really hadn't meant to startle Art's horse into throwing him, and she'd been truly sorry when he'd broken his ankle. Although, it must be admitted, she'd been glad when he'd had to delay his departure from the ranch. She'd enjoyed waiting on him, even though she now regretted having entertained him by teaching him card tricks. She recognized today that demonstrating her ability to cheat at cards hadn't been very feminine behavior on her part.

Not that it would make a particle of difference if Art bore scars from her buoyant childhood accidents or not. It wasn't as if he would ever consider her appropriate wife material. And she didn't want him to, anyway. Not really.

Penny huffed impatiently, wishing her heart and her head would coordinate their desires with greater facility. She lectured her heart sternly, which did about as much good as it ever did.

Harry patted her on the shoulder. She appreciated the gesture, even though she knew Harry didn't understand the true source of her distress.

Don't worry, Penny. Art specifically asked that you accompany me to England. He wouldn't have done that if he harbored malice toward you. He chuckled again. Unless he wanted you here so he could get even, of course.

Harry! Penny glared at her brother. Mr. Collingsworth is a gentleman. He wouldn't be base enough to seek revenge just because I had a couple of accidents around him when he visited us back home.

A couple of accidents? Lord, Pen, you marked the poor man for life! This time Harry threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Penny's scowl deepened. I was only a girl, Harry, she muttered, her feelings wounded.

Harry snatched his snowy white handkerchief from his breast pocket and proceeded to mop his eyes with it. Oh, mercy, he gasped. Then he seemed to take note of Penny's worried expression, and he patted her arm again.

Don't worry, Pen. I've known Art for fifteen years, and I've never known him to nurse a grudge. His laughter bubbled up again and he doubled over, helpless with it.

Penelope Potter rarely thought ill of her brother, whom she loved more dearly than anyone on earth save their parents, but she'd gladly have shoved him over the liner's railing and into the ocean at that moment. It's not funny, Harry.

Harry was gasping for breath by this time. Of course not, he managed to choke out. Of course it's not funny.

They were close enough to the dock now that Penny could make out individual facial characteristics among the mob of people gathered there. She decided it was useless to attempt to reason with her brother and instead took to scanning the crowd for Art Collingsworth.

There are so many people....

All at once her breath caught, and her hand flew to the cameo brooch pinned to the decorously high collar of her white shirtwaist. There he was!

If Penny's sturdy nature allowed for such feminine idiocies as swooning, she might well have swooned right there on the deck of the ship. There he was! Mr. Arthur Collingsworth, great-great-nephew of the Duke of Plumpstead, and the most handsome, gracious, glorious, wonderful man Penelope Helen Potter had ever met in her entire life.

Her fingers had tightened of their own accord on her brother's arm, and Harry seemed to take note of her at last. He ceased laughing at his sister's expense, wiped his eyes once more, and glanced toward the crowd where Penny's gaze had fastened.

What is it, Pen? Do you see Art?

All of Penny's breath was occupied in keeping her body upright and conscious at the moment, so she had none left to use on words. She jerked her head in a brief nod and remained with her gaze fixed on Art Collingsworth's magnificent face. The wind gusted, lifting the brim of her hat, and she clapped her hand on it again unconsciously, never removing her gaze from that dear countenance.

She'd never seen anything to match Art Collingsworth's face. She'd grown up on a ranch in Montana Territory in the heart of the Wild West, among men whom the dime novelists described with romantic words and artists painted with affectionate strokes of their brushes, yet she'd remained completely unmoved by any of those rugged frontiersmen's charms. The moment she'd clapped eyes on her brother's adventurous friend Art Collingsworth, however, she'd been smitten. It had happened four years ago, and she hadn't recovered yet. Seeing him in that throng of waiting people, in fact, rejuvenated her ardor.

His features were refined and aristocratic—indeed, even slightly arrogant. His hair was thick and blond, and Penny remembered watching it gleam under the glare of Montana's sun and thinking she'd never seen anything so pretty as Art's hair. Since he stood at least a head taller than most of the other men in the crowd, she could observe him at her leisure, so she did. Her sigh gusted out before she recalled her determination to behave as a lady, but it didn't matter. Her brother was too busy waving madly at Art to notice. Even if he'd heard her, he wouldn't think anything of it. Harry was used to Penny's ways, a fact Penny sometimes appreciated and sometimes deplored. If he were more of a stickler himself, Harry might have had a more edifying effect on her own manners.

No sooner did the selfish thought enter her head than Penny rued it. As she watched Art, she knew deportment was important—especially in England—and that, if she expected to be treated like a lady, it was up to her to act like one.

Art hadn't caught sight of them yet. Penny saw him anxiously searching the people thronging the ocean liner's railing, and wanted to scream at her fellow passengers to go away and leave her and Harry alone. She wanted Art to see her: to see her now, as she was today. She wanted him to take one look at her and know beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was no longer the gangly, feckless girl of four summers gone, but a young lady. A woman grown. A woman who had at least a small claim to attractiveness.

Oh, Penny knew good and well she'd never pass for one of the fragile, delicate beauties with whom she'd attended Miss Quilling's Select Academy in Boston. She stood, after all, almost five feet seven inches tall, too large to aspire even to a pretense of fragility. And she had all that deplorable red hair, too, braided up today and knotted into a discreet coil at the nape of her neck.

She sported a nose sprinkled with freckles, as well. Those freckles were the product of a childhood spent running free in Montana. Penny had never cottoned to sunbonnets; indeed, as a girl wearing her brother's britches and riding astride her huge bay gelding, she'd scorned them. Today, she wished she could speak to the little girl she used to be. After a good hot lecture, she'd paddle her soundly for ruining an otherwise fine complexion with those stupid cinnamon-colored dots.

Nevertheless, Penny could and did take pride in a slender figure, complete with all the attributes men claimed to admire. Unwilling to make herself miserable with tightly laced corset stays, she could yet boast a small waist, if not the wasp-like one favored in fashion periodicals. Not even for Art Collingsworth would Penny lace her corset so tightly as to make her faint if she took a deep breath. Her posture was straight, her bosom plump, her legs slim and long.

She used Mrs. Minnie's Fading Cream religiously every day in an effort to make her freckles disappear, although this morning she'd taken refuge in a light dusting of face powder. Still, she didn't think her freckles were too unattractive. She'd even gone so far as to ask Harry what he thought about them before the ship entered port.

Freckles? he'd said, as if he'd never heard the word before. Do you have freckles, Pen?

Penny had cast her glance heavenward and given up. It was useless to ask her brother questions about her appearance. She knew it, and had only done so out of nervousness.

At least the captain and first mate had seemed to find her appealing. Never of a flirtatious bent, Penny had nonetheless been thrilled by the attention the two men had lavished upon her. She had, in fact, used them to practice on, thinking that if she rehearsed with the two robust seafarers, she'd be well-equipped to deal with Art.

Not that it would make any difference. Her fluttering heart reeled and began to throb when she recalled the purpose of her visit to England. She and Harry were here to attend Art's nuptials. The thought made Penny suck in a deep, painful breath, even as she squared her shoulders and reminded herself that the life she'd planned for herself held no room for a husband, not even one as appealing as Arthur Collingsworth.

I wonder if that's Art's fiancée standing there beside him, Harry murmured, saying aloud what Penny had been thinking, and making her heart hurt even more.

I don't know, she murmured back and wished if that pallid creature standing beside Art was his bride-to-be, she'd fall off the end of the pier and drown. Immediately she scolded herself for the wicked thought.

No, Harry said after a minute spent squinting at his old friend. She's with that other party. It looks like Art's alone to greet us.

Good, Penny thought, her mood lightening. Then there was no more time to worry. To a loud cheering from both ship and shore, the liner came to rest at the dock. The gangplank was lowered, and people began to disembark.

It seemed to Penny as though a huge mass of humanity swarmed down the gangway and was swallowed up, in little groups, by the huge mass of humanity seething in wait for it. She saw people embrace each other, tears flowing freely even as smiles blossomed, and she and Harry were jostled about. The first mate shook her hand warmly and looked as if he'd like to kiss her cheek, but the swarm of people came between them. Penny wasn't sorry, although she relished the look of disappointment on the first mate's face.

Then Art was there. Out of the crowd of people he seemed to appear by magic, making Penny's heart soar like one of the pelicans that used to fly over their ship's deck. Harry met him in a bear hug that Penny wished she could share, even though she knew the thought to be inappropriate. After all, she was an unmarried lady, and Arthur Collingsworth was a single gentleman. And, what's more, he was engaged to be married to another woman.

God, it's good to see you again, Art! Harry said when he caught his breath. You haven't changed at all.

Nor have you, Art said, laughing, his sky-blue eyes alight with merriment.

Penny caught herself grinning like an American, and primmed her lips, striving for the ladyship that always managed to elude her. Good morning, Mr. Collingsworth, she said when he let go of her brother and glanced at her.

Good Lord! Art took a step back, as if shocked, and slammed a hand to his chest melodramatically. This can't be little Penny, can it?

Penny fought her frown. Little Penny? Good heavens! That Art could think of her as Little Penny made her heart ache. She wanted to give him a stern lecture about proper manners and appropriate modes of address.

Instead, she held out a gloved hand and murmured in a voice Miss Quilling would have been as proud of as she was astonished at, How do you do, Mr. Collingsworth?

He ignored her outstretched hand, clasped her shoulders with his two large hands, and stood back to observe her, sending a thrill coursing through her. She tried to hide it, although she feared the excitement in her eyes would surely betray her. Her eyes always gave her away.

Good Lord! Art exclaimed again. I can't believe how you've grown, Penny. He laughed heartily. I suppose I should call you Miss Potter now, shouldn't I, since you're such a grown-up miss?

Penny wasn't sure what she was supposed to say to that. Or even if Art expected an answer. It didn't matter in the long run, because he let go of her shoulders and grabbed her in a hug as warm as the one he'd just given her brother. She guessed she appreciated it, although she was too stunned to take in all the sensations rioting within her. He almost sent her reeling when he suddenly released her.

Well, come on, you two, Art said in a good-humored voice. My carriage awaits. I wish you'd reconsider staying at the Clarendon and come to stay at my flat, Harry.

Harry shook his head. Can't do it, Art. You know as well as I do that your stuffy British countrymen would look askance at a young lady lodging with a gentleman or staying alone at a hotel.

Your sister could stay with my parents, Harry. You know that.

Penny caught herself frowning again, but this time she didn't cease the unladylike activity. She hated it when people talked about her as if she weren't there. In order to remind both of these rude men that she existed, she said rather loudly, I prefer staying at a hotel, thank you very much. And I certainly do not mind lodging there alone, should you care to stay with Mr. Collingsworth, Harry. I, she said in a stately voice, and raising her chin defiantly, am a grown American woman, after all.

Both Art and Harry laughed, crumpling Penny's dignity even before it had a chance to solidify. This time it was Art who patted her shoulder. It's all right, Miss Potter. We'll take you and Harry to the Clarendon as planned. Sorry I mentioned it.

Her frown deepened. Penny wished she could sort her feelings out. She longed to be considered a lady, but every time she tried to behave in the manner prescribed by Miss Quilling, her independent American spirit rebelled. And while she loved the easygoing affection Harry showed her, she absolutely hated Art treating her like a kid sister. She was a woman grown, for heaven's sake! And even a rather pretty one.

Lifting her chin again, she decided that smacking Art back would not be the best way to demonstrate her newly achieved womanhood. She merely nodded in as regal a manner as she could, and said, Thank you very much, Mr. Collingsworth.

Art looked slightly taken aback, and Penny experienced a rush of inner satisfaction. Then Harry went and spoiled her whole effect by saying, Don't mind her, Art. Pen's only putting on airs to be interesting. She's still as rowdy as ever underneath.

Penny could have pummeled him.

* * *

I don't know what you're so mad about, Pen! Harry said.

What do you mean, you don't know what I'm so mad about, Harry Potter? You treated me like a child!

Aw, Pen, you're being too sensitive. Art's a good fellow. He didn't think anything of it.

Exactly what she feared. Penny jammed her lacy nightgown into the drawer and then slammed the drawer shut. At once she regretted her show of temper. A lady never showed her temper in this unseemly manner. Miss Quilling had told her so; over and over and over again.

A huge sigh gusted from her lips. I'm sorry, Harry.

Her brother shrugged. That's all right, Pen. But you're sure touchy lately. Is it that time of the month?

Heat scorched Penny's cheeks and fury bloomed anew in her breast. "Harry! How on earth can you even think anything so indelicate, much less say it?"

Another shrug lifted Harry's shoulders, this one more helpless than the last. Shoot, Pen, you always used to complain about feeling puny when the curse was on you. And you never used to be so missish in Montana, either.

Penny opened another drawer and slammed it just because the racket thus produced suited her mood. This isn't Montana, Harry Potter, in case you hadn't noticed. This is England!

Harry stared at her for a moment, his mouth open, as if an incredible thought had just occurred to him. Then he said dubiously, You don't mean to tell me that you're actually going to try to behave yourself, are you, Pen? Good Lord!

Penny resented the grin spreading over her brother's face every bit as much as she resented his words. Her cheeks still felt as hot as a lit match. I went to Miss Quilling's Select Academy in Boston, Harry. I know how to behave properly in society.

Harry's grin broadened. I'm sure you do, Pen, but I've never seen you actually do it before.

Her brother's words stung Penny to the quick. Forgetting herself entirely, she heaved her hairbrush at him, barely missing his head, and then only because he was quick enough to duck. You just watch me, Harry Potter! You just watch me! I can behave as properly as any stupid old English lady!

Going off in a gale of laughter, Harry picked up her hairbrush. He held it until he'd made it to the door of her hotel room. I'll watch you, Pen, he called to her as he nipped out the door.

Right before the door closed, he set the brush on a table. Penny knew it was because he feared she'd snatch it up and fling it at him again. She felt a sense of terrible failure when the door closed behind her brother.

Who are you trying to fool, Penelope Helen Potter? she asked aloud, her mood fading from angry to glum. You couldn't behave like a lady if you tried for the rest of your life.

Upon that pessimistic note, Penny settled a pretty flowered hat on her glossy hair, tied the bonnet strings under her ear at a dashing angle, and sallied forth to eat her dinner. Alone. In the restaurant in the Clarendon Hotel. She held her head high, knowing she was defying convention by dining alone and, thus, foiling yet again her determination to behave as a lady should behave.

A true lady, when faced with the prospect of dining alone at a hotel, would have made arrangements to do so in the privacy of her room, tucked away from the curious eyes of society. A true lady would never dine by herself in a public restaurant, no matter how eager she was to look about her new surroundings, and no matter how many notes she planned to jot down about those surroundings so she could write an article about England for publication in her former school's literary journal.

She told herself she didn't care and knew she was lying.

Chapter 2

It's great to see you again, Art. God, it's been years!

Too many years, agreed Art Collingsworth, clapping his old pal Harry Potter on the back. "Too damned many years. But I feel a little guilty about your having to leave your sister all alone on your first evening in Britain, Harry."

Don't worry about Pen, Art. You of all people must remember that Penny can take care of herself.

Art remembered. All too well. Yet even as he glanced at the puckered scar on the back of his hand and grinned, his gentlemanly feelings troubled him. Well, but still...

It's all right, Art. Honest. Penny doesn't mind at all. She told me so. Harry tossed his hat onto the rack in the corner and shucked off his coat. As he did so, he seemed to shed any concerns he might have harbored about abandoning his sister to her own devices so soon after their arrival in a foreign country. Lord, didn't we have some times, though!

Art decided that if Harry wasn't worried about Penny, he shouldn't worry, either, although he continued to nurse a vague feeling of disquiet. He chalked it up to his stuffy Britishness and endeavored to forget it. I'll certainly never forget them. Wish we were heading out on another adventure, Harry. I'd rather be traveling up the Amazon or camping by that big geyser in Wyoming with you than getting married, I'll tell you.

Art wasn't surprised when Harry lifted his eyebrow in query. He sighed heavily. Getting married wasn't exactly on my agenda at this point in my life, Harry.

No? Harry cocked his head. I don't understand, Art. I figured you'd fallen madly in love with some beautiful British lady. He shuddered eloquently. Why else would a fellow sacrifice his freedom?

Why, indeed? In order to combat the heaviness in his chest, Art donned a big smile and reached into the upper shelf of a cupboard, feeling around for the ears of the jug he'd been saving for a special occasion. It's a long story, Harry. Let's have a drink, and I'll tell you all about it before the others arrive.

Art had planned this wake—rather, he had planned this celebration—to coincide with his friend's arrival from the United States. Although he'd anticipated Harry's visit with eagerness, he'd been surprised by how extremely glad he was to see the American fellow he liked so well. He realized he'd begun to look upon Harry Potter almost as a brother.

He'd also been surprised by how well Harry's sister Penny had grown up. His chest ached again when he contemplated being shackled to Miss Juliette Griffin for the rest of his life. He had a sinking feeling he'd have a happier sensation in his middle if he were about to be wed to the delightful, albeit somewhat lively, Miss Penelope Potter, even if she was an American. He lifted the jug down from the shelf.

Harry exclaimed, Where on earth did you get that, Art? Why, it looks like a jug of the corn whiskey my uncle Albert used to put up in Missouri.

That's exactly what it is, said Art, uncorking the jug. Or, rather, it's a jug of corn whiskey. I don't think the fellow who sold it to me was your uncle Albert, though. I bought this in a little town called Cimarron, in the New Mexico Territory, not long after I departed from your ranch.

I remember you were still limping when you left us.

Art laughed. I'll never forget that, believe me. My ankle still hurts in cold weather.

I'll bet it does. Harry chuckled, too. Say, I've heard of Cimarron, Art. You managed to find yourself in some pretty rough places while you toured America, didn't you?

Memories flooded Art's mind, and he smiled wistfully. I certainly did, Harry. That was the best trip I've ever taken.

Better than Egypt or Arabia?

More fun than Egypt, Arabia, and Africa all rolled into one. He sighed and set the cork beside the jug. I guess we'd better let this breathe for a while. I'll pour it out when the other fellows arrive.

Harry threw his head back and laughed, making Art smile. He did love Americans. They were so free with their emotions. They weren't all bottled up like Art and his fellow Englishmen were. Not to mention English ladies like Juliette Griffin. The thought of his fiancée made a shiver dance down his spine. He poured out two stiff whiskeys and handed one to Harry.

Bottoms up, he said, lifting his glass.

Here's mud in your eye, Harry countered, lifting his, also.

The two men's gazes met as their glasses clinked, then they drank deeply.

All right, Art, now tell me why you're getting married if you don't want to get married, Harry said after he recovered from the jolt of his whiskey.

Art sighed again. It's a long story, Harry, but not an uncommon one. At least, it's not uncommon over here among the people in my set.

Your set? Harry lifted his eyebrow again, and Art grinned.

The aristocracy, dear boy. That's my set. He added darkly, Unfortunately.

Harry took a smaller sip of his whiskey. I reckon we don't have much of that in America.

Don't reckon you do. Art knew his smile had gone lopsided. You see, my father has suffered severe reverses on the stock exchange.

There's a lot of that going around, too, even in the United States, Harry murmured. "We had some awful times on the ranch. First