Bound by his Word: Redemption Bluff, #3

By Christi Corbett

As he held his dying best friend in his arms, Luke Higgins made a promise—to return a locket to the man's wife.

He arrives to find a proud yet exhausted woman, struggling to run the town's sole restaurant while raising her young son. Luke hires on as her cook, figuring he'll stick around long enough to help her regain her footing, then hand over the locket and leave. Months later, with guilt gnawing on him worse than any of the injuries he sustained in battle, Luke finds himself falling for his best friend's widow.

Molly Fulton is intrigued by the handsome stranger whose willingness to work brings her much-needed funds, and something more precious than money—time with her son. She ponders a life with him as more than just her cook, until her son stumbles across a long-lost treasure hidden in Luke's coat pocket.

Can Molly forgive the man who entered her life because of a promise, but stayed because of a lie?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christi Corbett
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393902935

Book preview

Chapter One

Friday, March 1, 1867

Molly Fulton leaned across the sofa and tucked the edge of the quilt around her son’s shoulder. Goodnight, Andy.

He tugged the quilt from her lingering fingers and then dropped it back over himself with a huff. I’m a big boy and I can do it myself.

She stilled her hand, already reaching out to smooth the wrinkles of his pillowcase. I know, but I haven’t seen you all day. I just want to make sure you’re warm and safe.

Sorry, Mama. His eyes sought forgiveness as chubby fingers, still damp from a half-hearted washing, slid from beneath the quilt and crept into her palm. I’m not too big for you to tell me my favorite story.

Molly glanced at the clock and sighed to see the hands already showing eight-thirty. It’s past your bedtime.

His mischievous grin reminded her of her husband, who used to give the same grin when trying to convince her to hand over a second helping of pie. I can’t tell time yet.

Though she knew his flippant comment was only meant to be funny, the familiar cloaks of guilt and failure settled again over her shoulders. She’d been so busy the past few months there hadn’t been a spare minute to even sit and read to him, much less explain something as complicated as a clock.

Time with him was precious. How could she deny him something as simple as a bedtime story?

Molly settled herself beside him on the sofa. You’re five years old now. I guess that’s worth five minutes past your bedtime. Now, let me think of which one to tell. She crossed her arms and gave him a contemplative stare. Do you want the story about the dragon?

No, Mama. Giggling and wriggling, he shook his head for emphasis.

The one about the pirate ship?

No, Mama.

She slowly tapped her finger against her lips and feigned concentration, dragging out their rare moment of togetherness. Let me guess, the one with the mysterious hole that no one dug?

Yes, please. He snuggled deeper beneath the quilt, awaiting the story she’d first told a year ago to show the importance of not lying. To her surprise, it had quickly become his favorite.

Long ago, when your daddy and I were only nine years old, our teacher taught a lesson about trenches. Later that day, after school got out, a group of boys, including your daddy, decided they wanted to dig a trench of their own.

Andy brought his hands out from the quilt and folded them across his chest. Except they couldn’t find a good spot.

That’s right. No one wanted to ask their parents for permission to dig on their land, so they snuck into a pasture owned by the town’s livery owner.

And they started digging, Andy said.

They did. However, as children tend to be when they’re excited, they were loud. Pretty soon the livery owner walked out there and caught them. He warned them of the danger of digging holes where horses lived, and how they were trespassing on his property. So the livery owner helped Daddy and his friends fill the trench. Then they promised never to dig again, and they left.

Andy’s eyes widened and his voice turned solemn. But they came back the next week, without Daddy. Because Daddy told them he’d never dig there again.

Right. Molly nodded, loving that her son recognized his father’s integrity. They dug another trench. Except this time, much wider.

Andy let out a pensive sigh. And deeper.

The next morning the town woke to a horrible sound—ear-piercing squeals from a horse that had fallen into the freshly-dug trench and broken his leg.

Molly rubbed her palms down her thighs in an attempt to distract herself, to no avail. Even now she could recall the horse’s panicked thrashings as he’d fought desperately to escape the hole and the pain of its shattered knee.

Poor horse. Andy’s lips twisted into a grim line.

Molly nodded her agreement. Even though she’d plugged her ears and buried her head into her mother’s side, the next noise had been even worse—her father’s gunshot to end the horse’s life.

She forced herself to still her hands as Andy went on with his recitation. Then the livery owner asked Daddy’s friends if they’d been digging again. They lied and said no. And their parents believed them, and blamed the livery owner.

So everyone was mad at the livery owner, Molly continued. They said he was a bad man who was blaming kids for his mistake, and he couldn’t be trusted with horses anymore. She chuckled to see her son squirming in excitement. Do you want to tell the rest?

He nodded gleefully, then launched into his favorite part of the story. Daddy got mad at his friends, told them it wasn’t right to let the livery owner take the blame, and told them they had to tell the truth. They finally did, and then everyone said they were sorry to the livery owner.

Molly patted his hand, grateful for the cheerful simplicity of how her son still viewed the world. Yes, everything had ended well for the boys and the livery owner, but her family’s horse was still dead.

That day was the first time she’d ever seen her father cry.

He’d been doing repairs on their barn and decided to board their horses at the livery for the week. They were a matched team, raised together since birth. He’d gentled them, trained them, and had plans to sell them for a massive profit. Plans that died the moment his horse did. Her father had been devastated, the remaining horse’s spirit had never recovered, and Molly had been left with a deep-seated loathing of liars.

She smoothed her son’s hair off his forehead. He was still innocent to the harsh realities of life, and the harshest one he’d already faced without yet realizing. Now you’ve had your story. She kissed him on the cheek. Go to sleep and I’ll be back soon to get you.

Andy’s brow furrowed and he laid his hand on her leg to stop her from rising. You forgot to tell the ending.

So I did. Molly smoothed away his worried frown. I guess you did such a good job telling the story I plumb forgot.

That was the day you realized Daddy was a good, honest boy, Andy continued. You and Daddy grew up and got married. Then Daddy went off to the war. Then I was born. Then Daddy died in the war.

Molly’s breath caught in her throat at hearing her son’s rote recitation of his father’s death as part of the story. Understandable, because he’d never met him, and he was still too young to grieve all he’d lost.

That’s the ending. His confident words were at odds with the confusion in his tone and his hand inched toward her own, as if seeking confirmation he wasn’t the source of her sorrow. Right, Mama?

Yes, that’s the end of the story. Molly squeezed his hand, hoping he couldn’t see her chin quivering as she forced a smile.

At age nineteen she’d joyfully married Andrew, her childhood sweetheart. Over the next ten years they’d built a life together, and suffered heartbreak several times in their attempts to have a child. On May 31, 1861, he’d left to fight in the War Between the States. The following month, she realized their dream of parenthood might still come true. Their son, named for his father, was born early the following year on January 21, 1862. She’d spent the next year and a half daydreaming of the moment Andrew would return, scoop up his son in one arm while holding her tight in the other, and they’d continue on with their perfect life.

Then she’d gotten word he’d been killed.

Her blissful world had shattered that day, and nearly four years later she was still trying to pick up the pieces. As were his parents and sister. They’d spent two years slogging through waves of grief, supporting each other as each dealt with the loss in their own way.

Memories lurked around every corner, so two years ago they’d decided to leave Dallas and move to the fledgling town of Redemption Bluff, Kansas, to start fresh. A move that had proven futile once her son had grown into a young boy. Seeing so much of her husband in her son’s features, especially his brilliant green eyes, had proved both a blessing and a poignant reminder of the wonderful man she’d lost.

Goodnight. Molly tucked the quilt around Andy’s shoulder, pleased that this time he didn’t pull away. As she ran her fingertips down his cheek, Andy leaned into her tender touch and gave her a sleepy grin.

Am I sleeping here at Mimi and Pop Pop’s tonight, or are you coming back?

You’re with me at home, and we’ll have pancakes tomorrow for breakfast. Go to sleep and I’ll be back for you soon.

Goodnight. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. She waited a few minutes until his breathing grew deep and even, then snuck a kiss on his forehead.

Rising, she crossed the room and blew out the kerosene lamp on the nearby shelf, then slipped through the doorway and closed the door softly behind her. She went down the small hallway into the main room where she spotted her mother-in-law, Alice, sitting on the sofa piecing together yet another quilt square.

Is he asleep? Alice deftly slid her needle down and up through the fabric layers.

He had his eyes closed when I left. Molly shrugged while exchanging a knowing look with the older woman. Then again, he could be faking.

He takes after his father in that respect. Alice’s smile turned wistful. I remember lying beside Andrew and thinking he was finally asleep, then hearing his chipper little voice asking for something ridiculous, usually involving cookies.

Across the room, sitting in his favorite chair with his long legs stretched out in front of the fireplace, her father-in-law, John, chuckled fondly. I recall the time when he was around four years old and we thought he was napping. I found him in the barn, legs astride a pen wall, having a lively discussion with two newborn goats.

This time, Molly’s smile wasn’t forced. Though many women would balk at the idea of constant contact with their in-laws, she remained grateful to be around those who willingly shared the good times as well as the bad.

Molly settled herself beside Alice and admired a seam of nearly-invisible stitches. This one is coming along nicely. I love how the yellow and blue fabrics complement each other.

She trailed a finger along a nearby stack of completed squares. She’d been working on a quilt for Andy since before he was born, and was still far from finishing. Any pursuits of leisure—knitting, sewing, reading—had long-since been abandoned in favor of raising her son and running her café.

I’m going back now. Stifling a