Stars in the Morning

By Laura Strickland

Accused of ruining Mae Ballard and faced with a shotgun wedding, Jefferson Lind knows exactly who’s to blame. He’s been taking the fall for Jedediah’s sins as long as he can remember. Mae’s a shrieking shrew, and he hasn’t seen Jed, his identical twin, since they worked digging the Erie Canal together. If he’d been ordered to marry Mae’s sweet younger sister Rosie, instead, he sure wouldn’t complain. Rosie’s the only member of her family who believes Jeff, and she’d go to any lengths to free him from her sister’s clutches. But when Jedediah turns up with violent thugs on his tail, things quickly grow more dangerous. Gamblers from Buffalo seize both sisters as hostages, prompting a daring impersonation. Can Jeff and Jed shed their troubled past and win the hearts of the women they love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509217069

Laura Strickland

Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. Embracing her mother's heritage, she pursued a lifelong interest in Celtic lore, legend and music, all reflected in her writing. She has made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, but is usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario, with her husband and her "fur" child, a rescue dog. She practices gratitude every day.

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Chapter One

Jamesport, Western New York, July 1826

Get up! On your feet, you craven, lily-livered coward. Face us like a man, I say, and take what you’ve got coming. Or don’t you have the backbone?

Jeff Lind, sprawled in the dirt near the edge of the big ditch known as the Erie Canal, narrowed his eyes against a haze of bright sunlight and pain. Peering up through the thick swirl of dust, he struggled to identify his assailants. Three of them, there were. They’d jumped him on his way to the livery stable, dragged him up against the back of the building, and commenced beating on him like a big bass drum. When he got over his shock and surprise, he fought back as best he could, but three against one made poor odds, and two of them had fists like pile drivers.

Before he had a chance to figure it out, the two bigger fellows threw him on the ground—bruised, bleeding, and still wondering what the hell had hit him. The third man hollered questions into his face, few of which made much sense.

Are you Jeff Lind?

Well, yeah, what of it?

Why you here in town? Who you looking for?

Nobody, Jeff managed to reply. Just came for my plow horse at the livery.

That answer sure didn’t seem to please his questioner, who scowled. You think I’m gonna let you get away with what you did to Mae?

Jeff answered that one with a question of his own. Who the hell is Mae?

My daughter! the man howled.

With dawning horror, Jeff replied, I don’t even know anybody called Mae, God damn it!

That made them drag him up, toss him against the building, and start hitting him again. Things got pretty ugly for a while, just as they sometimes had back when he and his brother, Jed, worked their way across half the state with shovels in their hands. They’d sweated like slaves digging Clinton’s ditch, and Jeff had done his share of brawling. These days, he still worked hard on his scrap of a farm, which made no light labor. For several minutes he gave as good as he got, but they bore him back down into the dirt and thrashed him royally with fists and feet.

Now he tasted his own blood.

They’d loosened at least one tooth, the bastards, and maybe cracked a cheekbone. The skin next to his eye had split under repeated blows. Those last kicks might just have busted some ribs, and pain seared him as he drew a deep breath. He was still damned if he knew what it was all about.

He spat blood into the dust, which he was shocked to see already wore many spatters of red, and spoke with difficulty. I tell you, I don’t know anybody called Mae.

Liar! Do you take me for a fool? She pointed you out to me.

Don’t know if you’re a fool, do I? Jeff hollered back, perhaps a bit unwisely. Since I don’t know you. Or her.

You think you can ruin my little girl and then expect to walk around town like an innocent man? the older fellow screamed.

Jeff drew another breath. Ruin her? Now, wait a minute.

Haul him up. Haul the bastard up. Give me my gun.

Jeff’s bowels gripped and twisted painfully as merciless hands grasped him. Hell, a beating was one thing, undeserved as it might be. But in a town like Jamesport, on the Western frontier, messing with a man’s daughter was serious business, and justice often came instantaneously. He didn’t know who these fellows were, but he had to make them understand there’d been a mistake, and do it quick.

Let’s talk about this, he said desperately. I swear I don’t know anyone called Mae. You’ve got the wrong man.

Snake. Another kick, fast and intense, connected with Jeff’s ribs. Before he could catch his breath, they hauled him out of the dirt and shoved him back against the rough boards of the livery. Pain speared through him and his senses swam.

Coming at him out of the sick miasma, the man’s long, thin face thrust up to his again. It had angry blue eyes and wore a look of hate such as Jeff had rarely seen.

Sure, he’d seen angry men before. In the boozers that had sprung up spontaneously following the route of the Canal, hot tempers and whiskey made a volatile mix, and bust-ups were fast, almost casual things that blew over quickly and felt pretty impersonal.

The hate in this man’s eyes was very personal and represented a clear threat.

I tell you, I don’t know your daughter.

Lyin’ piece of shit, the man roared. The words were accompanied by a blow to Jeff’s gut that would have doubled him over had the two bigger fellows not been holding him so tight. She admitted it all. You sayin’ she didn’t tell me the truth?

She must have made a mistake, Jeff protested through gritted teeth.

Mae Ballard don’t make mistakes, and she don’t lie. A backhanded blow accompanied the words; Jeff’s head slammed against the wall again, and his mouth filled with blood. I suppose you’re gonna claim she’s lying about the brat in her belly, too?

What? The color drained from Jeff’s face. Look, it wasn’t me. He hadn’t consorted with any women; hell, he was too busy trying to get his patch of dirt up on the Dale Road to pay, breaking his back day and night. He rarely even came to town. On this hot summer’s day he’d had to bring Suzie, his plow horse, to Bob Mullins at the livery so Bob could adjust her harness.

Liar! the man screamed again. You know her right enough, and in the Biblical sense. Pretty girl—works in the general store, remember? Leastwise, she did work there. They likely won’t have her now. You flattered her with fancy words, so she says, poured on the charm, and talked her round, came in the store nearly every day till she agreed to go walkin’ out with you. And then you had your hands all over her, and more.

Fancy words? Charm? Amid the morass of confusion swirling through Jeff’s mind, something clicked. Wait a minute, he said again. Wait just a minute. I have a brother…

Sure you do, you lyin’ sack of crap. Is there anything you won’t say in order to save your slimy hide?

Probably not at the moment, but this happened to be the truth.

You want me to believe Mae couldn’t tell the difference between you and some brother, given you put your brat inside her?

Jesus, Jeff thought. And he’d figured Jed miles away, plying his schemes all along the frontier, wherever folk were gullible and ready to part with their money or favors. She might not be able to tell the difference. We’re twins.

His attacker reared back and exchanged incredulous looks with the two thugs holding Jeff up. Do you believe this lyin’ cuss? Why, he’d have to look up to view the underside of a snake.

I swear to God it’s true!

Bring him.

His arms bundled roughly behind him, Jeff found himself hustled out from behind the building, across the dusty street, past Morgan’s café and the new hotel on the corner, to a wagon and team. People stopped and stared, but despite the fact that Jeff struggled and swore, no one interfered.

A group of people stood beside the wagon, one of them a young woman. Through the pain and blood half blinding him, Jeff realized he knew her—at least he’d seen her around town, and admired her, too—a delicate thing with a dimpled smile, rosy cheeks, and blonde curls that spilled down her back.

Oh, Jesus, he thought again.

Ballard and his pair of thugs hauled Jeff to the wagon and paused in front of the young goddess.

Well? Ballard demanded of her. Is this him? Is this the filthy dog who put his hands on you?

The young woman, who must be Mae, looked at Jeff; he felt the impact of that look like the scourge of a flail.

Tell them the truth, he begged silently. Tell them it was Jed. Surely a woman who’d lain with his immoral cad of a brother would be able to tell the difference between them.

He claims it was his brother ruined you, Ballard told her, like the answer to a prayer.

Jeff managed to exhale despite his battered ribs. Surely the nightmare would now end, the truth emerge and prove this nothing more than an ugly misunderstanding. If Jed was in town, he could be located and would for once take responsibility for something he’d done.

Because, by God, Jeff was sick and tired of taking it for him.

Mae blinked and her lips parted. She trembled like a willow in a harsh wind.

That’s him, she said.

What? No! Jeff roared. Mistaken! Miss, you’re mistaken. My brother Jed—he’s my twin, you see—we look just alike.

Ballard growled, Daughter, what was the name of the man who seduced you?

He told me his name was Jeff. Jefferson Lind.

And what’s your name, Mister?

Jefferson Lind. That’s me. But—

Bring him, Ballard said again. I ain’t listenin’ to any more damn excuses.

****

Loaded into the bed of the wagon like so much battered lumber, with the two thugs poised over him, one of whom held a shotgun, Jeff found himself ferried out of town. He couldn’t see where he was being taken, but the way felt long, hot, and bumpy. If he so much as groaned, the heftier of the two thugs poked the barrel of the gun at him.

Shut up, Lind.

Ballard and his daughter rode up front on the bench seat with another man, a stranger, who Jeff very much feared must be a preacher. Jeff’s intense loathing for all of them gnawed at him fiercely. It burned inside him like sickness, making it hard to figure out the full extent of what had befallen him.

Why had the stupid girl lied? Did she want a husband so bad she’d take even a dirt-poor farmer with scarcely a dime to his name? His name… She knew it, used it to accuse him even though he’d never lain with her. Hot damn, if he had, he would remember. Despite her lying tongue, she was pretty as the sunshine after a rain.

So why would she tell such a tale? The question dogged him, biting like the pain in his ribs. And then it hit him: maybe she hadn’t lied. Maybe the usual culprit—Jeff’s twin with the habitually crooked tongue—had used Jeff’s name, set him up to take the fall for his misdeeds as he so frequently had in the past.

How many thrashings had Jeff taken in their youth for things Jed broke, stole, pilfered, or bungled in his inimitable fashion? How many suppers had Jeff gone without while Jed enjoyed Ma’s home cooking? How many times had Jeff received punishment for pranks Jed pulled? Eventually his ma had caught on, but by then it was too late. Jed had turned naughty, as his mother put it. She always feared he’d end up shot, or at the end of a noose.

And now it looked like Jed had been clever enough to make sure the consequences for his philandering also fell to Jeff. Shit, of course Jed had lied to the girl—he’d lied, taken what he wanted, and left Jeff holding the baby.

Mae Ballard carried Jeff’s nephew, not his son.

Still hard to believe Mae wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two of them, if she’d slept with Jed. But he had to at least consider the possibility that she was telling the truth. And how did that improve Jeff’s situation? Not a whit.

By the time the wagon pulled into a dusty farmyard, Jeff believed he had things straight in his mind. The two thugs hauled him up and dragged him out before a sea of staring faces. This must be a big working farm—he saw a flock of women, most wearing aprons, a number of farm hands, and even some children. Hell, he thought, this is no scene for kids.

As if to prove his point, a little girl—about four—took a look at his bloody face and burst into tears. One of the younger women caught her up and carried her off into the farmhouse, a good, large structure painted white.

Jeff’s home, back on his own land, huddled above a creek, looking like what it was, a simple dwelling built from cast-off lumber. He couldn’t even imagine being able to afford paint.

One of the older women wiped her hands on her apron, stepped forward, and peered at Jeff. That him?

Yes, Ma, Ballard replied.

The woman, a gleam in her eye, reached up and slapped Jeff across the face hard enough to turn his head. His lip started to bleed again. That’s for ruinin’ my granddaughter, she cried, you filthy brute.

Ma’am, there’s been a mistake. I think I’ve figured out—

You shut up, Ballard told him. No more of your lies. Only time you’re allowed to speak is when the preacher tells you to say ‘I do.’ Understand?

I’m not marrying your daughter.

Cyril, bring the gun. Keep it pointed at his head, you hear?

Yes, Pa, answered the giant with the shotgun.

Now, wait a minute. Jeff put up his hands.

Another woman stepped forward to peer at him. This one was young, with brown hair worn in a long braid across her shoulder and a sweet face spattered with freckles. She eyed Jeff the way a shrewd buyer might a horse on the auction block.

Then she turned to Mae Ballard and said, That’s not him.

Jeff’s heart stuttered and rose on an almost sickening surge of hope. Finally—a voice in the wilderness, one speaking truth and reason.

She’s right, he said earnestly. I’m not your man.

Don’t be foolish, Mae Ballard cried. Don’t you think I know the man who seduced me?

Whom you seduced, you mean, said the girl with the braid tersely. You forget I’ve seen you at work.

Mae flushed, and her beautiful eyes narrowed. Shut up, Rosie. You don’t know what you’re saying. She pointed an unsteady hand at Jeff. He led me astray. And now he’s going to make it right.

You’re the fool, the brown-haired girl returned. Do you forget I saw the man you were busy chasing? She too pointed at Jeff. This is not him.

Ballard stepped up and looked from one girl to the other. What’s all this? ’Course he’s the man, Rosie. Don’t you start no trouble. Your sister knows what she’s saying. The fellow just looks different because he’s kinda beat up.

Rosie’s jaw went hard and stubborn. I tell you, you’ve got the wrong man.

You just want to cause me grief, Mae told her. Like always.

As if you don’t cause grief enough for ten women. You’ll live to regret this, Mae Ballard. You’ll rue this day.

Enough, Ballard bellowed. We’re gonna have a wedding, and it’s gonna be done proper, in the parlor. Bring the preacher, bring that shotgun—and bring the bridegroom.

Chapter Two

I’m not the man.

The words, forced between split and swollen lips, had taken on a repetitive quality that argued insanity. They were all Rosie Ballard had heard Jeff Lind say since he’d been dragged into the Ballards’ fine parlor with its flocked, crimson wallpaper and its plush settee that had come all the way from Boston. Rosie wondered if shock and the beating had, indeed, unhinged his mind.

She bit the inside of her cheek and watched him sway on his feet like an aspen tree in a high wind. The preacher, who looked flustered, kept posing the customary questions at the usual places in the marriage service and getting that same response. Rosie’s brother Cyril now had the barrel of the shotgun pressed so hard against Lind’s temple the poor man’s head was cocked.

Don’t worry, preacher, Pa said. All he really needs to say is ‘I do,’ isn’t that right?

This is taking much too long, Preacher Willby fretted. I promised I’d perform a baptism for a newborn not expected to survive.

Then hurry it up, Pa advised.

Reverend Willby shot him an uncertain look and forged on.

Do you, Mae Ballard, take this man, Jeff Lind, as your lawful, wedded husband?

I do, Mae squealed, and reached for Lind’s hand.

He snatched it away from her as quick as if she’d bitten him. Rosie stifled a half hysterical laugh. If it weren’t so pitiful, it would almost be funny.

Let me ask it again: do you, Jeff Lind, take this here woman, Mae Ballard, as your lawful, wedded wife?

He’s not the man, Rosie murmured, only half under her breath.

Everyone in the room, with the exception of Lind himself, turned and glared at her.

Reverend Willby began yet again. Let me ask…

I’m not the man! Lind cried. I’m sure as hell not the father—

And Pa said, Shoot him. I’d rather my daughter was a widow than a ruined woman.

Rosie, who didn’t suppose it would be helpful to point out Mae couldn’t be a widow—not quite yet anyway—caught her breath. Things had become suddenly altogether too serious.

Cyril’s finger tightened on the trigger of the shotgun. Sweat beaded and trickled down Lind’s bloodied face.

Say it! Pa bellowed.

I’ll not admit to something I didn’t do. You’ll just have to go ahead and shoot me.

Pa, no, Mae wailed. I want him.

Typical, Rosie thought and frowned at her sister. I want had been Mae’s cry since she first learned to speak, and she used the words to good effect. Mae the pretty one, the charmer, everybody’s darling, usually got whatever she demanded.

Rosie narrowed her eyes. Would Cyril really shoot Jeff Lind? Was Pa prepared to listen to Mae whine for the next three years over losing him?

Pa turned and bellowed into Lind’s face, Give the preacher the answer, boy. Speak up when he asks you a question. He hauled back his fist, and pumped it full bore into Lind’s gut.

Rosie winced in sympathy. Pa might be lean and lanky, but he had fists like hams. Rosie’d suffered their impact a few times when he’d swatted her for some misdeed or fancied disobedience.

Lind doubled over and emitted a sound through his open mouth that could best be described as a croak. Pa snatched the shotgun from Cyril’s hands and pointed it at Reverend Willby.

There now, Preacher, you heard him say ‘I do’ just then, clear as anything.

Willby’s eyes widened. You threatening me with that firearm, Joshua Ballard?

Not at all, Reverend. I’m just pointing out you posed the question and the man here gave a reply.

Lind had not yet straightened his body. Plain to see, he was temporarily rendered incapable of speech. Willby stared into the barrel of the shotgun, danced a couple nervous steps on the parlor carpet, and said, Well, then, I do pronounce this couple man and wife.

Mae screeched in glee. Lind hauled himself upright, drew a breath, and quietly collapsed where he stood.

****

I want to go home with him, Pa. A wife is meant to live with her husband right and proper. And that’s what I am now, isn’t it? His wife?

Mae seemed a bit uncertain about that last point, as well she might. In Rosie’s opinion, nobody had got married in the parlor this day, and things were quickly getting out of hand.

The bridegroom, still unconscious and seeping blood from half a dozen places, had been loaded onto the back of the wagon, and the preacher had fled, citing the promised baptism. Cyril and Bennington stood by like the great lumps they were, and Pa continued to try and order everybody around while Mae pulled the strings.

Daughter, he said now with a doubtful glance into the bed of the wagon, I don’t feel easy in my mind about sending you home alone with a stranger.

He’s not a stranger to me. Mae folded her hands across her as-yet-flat stomach and attempted to look pious. He’s the man I love.

Well, now. Pa considered it. I hadn’t figured on you being on your own with him. That boy’s gonna be pretty angry when he wakes up.

Jeff would never harm me, Mae asserted. He loves me. He told me so.

Rosie peered over the side of the wagon at the man who comprised its sole cargo. Sprawled, arms wide like someone suing the sky for mercy, he looked dead. By heaven, they’d done a grand job on him, her hefty brothers. All those years spent splitting firewood and hauling tree stumps had truly paid off in muscle power.

The man in the wagon was still handsome, though, even with his eyes swollen shut and both lips split. No wonder Mae wanted him.

What’s the point of a wedding if I can’t live with him? Mae virtually stamped her foot.

Pa looked round at his extended family. Anybody seen this place of Lind’s up on the Dale Road?

Bennington shook his head. Not much up that way except trees and the occasional Indian.

Pa glanced around his own yard; he was proud of his farm on the Quaker Road, and rightfully so. The land—lush and rolling—provided good crops. His livestock were fat, his home well-built and neat. Mae worked at the shop not out of necessity but because she wanted to. The farm bored her and, she said, Grandma and Rosie could do whatever chores needed taking up round the place.

And now only look what had happened. It had all turned out pretty badly, in Rosie’s opinion.

Pa gave Mae what he probably thought was a stern look. The point of the wedding, Daughter, was to give your babe a proper name. This man transgressed with you, and he needed to pay for that transgression.

Mae’s expression showed she didn’t like the sound of that. You saying marrying me’s a punishment? Pa!

No, honey. You know what I mean. The man needed to put things right.

And now he needs to be a proper father to this babe and a proper husband to me. Mae wore the stubborn expression that said she wouldn’t budge till she got her way.

Rosie took another look into the wagon. I could go with her, Pa, she heard herself say, just to make sure he treats her right.

Mae turned a stare of pure astonishment on Rosie, who never helped Mae get her way.

Pa raised his eyebrows and rubbed his long chin. Well, now, I guess that’s a possibility. What do you think, Mae?

Mae’s pout remained in place. I don’t want her staying with us. A new-married man and wife should be on their own.

You will be, Daughter. All in good time. But there’s no telling how that fellow’s going to react when he comes to. I don’t like the idea of you there alone at his mercy.

Mae lowered her long lashes and regarded Rosie through them. Well, I guess she could come along to do the chores. It will give me more time to look after my husband.

Good, Pa said, not so much as pausing to consult Rosie further. Cyril, you go too—and take that shotgun.

Cyril did not look pleased. As Pa always said of his family, his girls got the looks and his sons got the brawn. Truth was, Rosie reflected, his girls got the brains, as well. Cyril, not what anybody would call a stellar thinker, pondered his father’s instructions and protested, Pa, I ain’t no babysitter.

No, you’re going along to be my eyes and ears. You make sure he treats her like she deserves.

Is this America? Rosie muttered. Or a serfdom in England?

You hush up, Rosie.

Rosie, who rarely did what she was told and never without good reason, continued, I thought our forefathers, and his—she gestured wildly to the man in the wagon—came to this country to escape this kind of thing.

Pa looked uncomfortable for a moment. Rosie knew he wasn’t a bad man. He just lost all his common sense where Mae was concerned.

It’s done now. He glared at Rosie. They’re married. You two go along to make sure he treats her right, hear?

Rosie and Cyril looked at one another. Cyril nodded unhappily; Rosie said nothing at all.

Mae took a doubtful glance into the wagon. He’s not dead, is he, Pa?

****

Lind wasn’t dead. He woke up on the way to his farm, no doubt roused by the hard ride over rough roads, groaned, and eventually hauled himself up using the side of the wagon. Rosie, managing the team, stole a look over her shoulder and saw Cyril still had the shotgun aimed at the man’s head.

What in hell? Lind exclaimed.

Not much more to be said, in Rosie’s opinion. Tersely she told her brother, Ask him how much farther to his farm.

They traveled northward on a dusty dirt track known as the Dale Road. A fellow called Dale owned the southernmost parcel; Rosie had never before been all the way to the north end. The woods up here were dotted with small holdings, only portions of them cleared. Carving a farm out of the wilderness was a backbreaking enterprise.

Which of these is your place? Cyril demanded in the manner of an interpreter, waving the shotgun about.

What’s it to you? Lind sounded like his head hurt. Rosie bet his whole body throbbed like a smacked thumb.

We’re taking you home, Cyril told him in a mollifying tone that belied the presence of the shotgun.

Lind, eyes nearly swollen shut, hair smeared with blood, and wheezing audibly, peered at his fellow occupants of the wagon, settling his gaze at last on Mae, who sat sideways on the bench seat so she could look at him.

You! he seethed. Lying cat. Tell them the truth before this goes any farther.

The truth is we’re married and on our way home like a proper couple. My sister and brother, here, are merely accompanying us on our bridal journey. Now, show me my future home.

Lind said a word that, spoken by either of Rosie’s brothers, would have earned them a thrashing from Pa.

Hey, now, said Cyril, and