Winters' Open Heart: Silver Spur Series

By Nan O'Berry

"Really Winter's have you no heart?"

A good question deserves a good answer, but Dobson Winters is not so sure. A tragic accident claimed his beloved wife, Miranda at the start of the holiday season. Now, Silver Spur, Wyoming seems as cold as his live alone without her.

When Curtis Watson calls him to hear his last dying breath, he finds himself with the difficult task of finding Watson's daughter, Holly and to save his soul, win her heart.

Yet, redemption has never come in such a lovely and unexpected package as Holly Watson and her niece Lucy.

Holly Watson has braved the wagon trail to bring her niece home for a Silver Spur Christmas. When she is met along the trail by Dobson Winters, she doesn't know what to expect. Her brother played a role in the death of his wife. Surely, Winters could not be her friend. Yet, there is something in his eyes that calls to her. She feels she is a lost soul too. Could they find a common bond which would allow him to could see his way to forgive her family?  What of Lucy? Is she the spark that will melt his cold heart?

When a man thinks he has nothing to live for, life has a way of coming full circle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nan O'Berry
• Release date: Dec 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393318958

Book preview

Winters Open Heart

By Nan O’Berry

Dedication

To my friends, Aliyah Burke and Sue McKlveen, who suffered through my whines until I was able to pick up my big girl panties and move on.

To my group of followers. who take the time from their busy day to read my work.

To my long-suffering editor, who doesn’t cringe when I put a comma in the wrong place and who makes all this possible.

And to my guardian angel, who may have taken up drinking and smoking since she was assigned to my case -

I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

The citizens of Silver Spur, Wyoming extend a heartfelt welcome and ask you to join them in a celebration of

Winters Open Heart

©2019

All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, real places, or real events described or coincidental and if not are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are property of their respective owners and are used here for identification purposes only.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

Table of Contents

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

Acknowledgement

About Nan O’Berry

Other Books by Nan O’Berry

When a man thinks he has nothing to live for, life has a way of coming full circle.

Chapter One

Dobson Winters was not the kind of man that celebrated things. He didn't celebrate his birthday, the Fourth of July, or Thanksgiving and he wasn't about to lend his blessing or his money to the town of Silver Spur, Wyoming to decorate the square for one day out of the year. Christmas, he mused, was a holiday best left alone.

Count me out, gentlemen. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a ranch to run.

Just a few decorations, Mr. Winters, the banker began, a note of pleading in his voice, while his eyes nervously darted to the bowler hat sitting quietly on his lap.

Dobson glowered at him.

The man turned his eyes toward his feet.

The answer is still, no.

But, Mr. Winters, sir, the preacher dressed in black, sitting next to the banker, spoke. The children will be most disappointed. They look so forward to the holiday. The decorations that were purchased when we became a town are now old and faded.

Look here, Reverend, Dobson began. Christmas is a holiday created for the likes of Sam Russell at the General Store to line his pockets and those self-centered pious folks, who step inside your walls to pray for a fortune when they should be hard at work bringing it in. I got over ten thousand head of beef to answer to. I got no time or extra wealth to pay for decorations used one day out of a year.

The thin little minister sitting beside the banker blanched and tugged at the white collar around his neck as if his words suddenly made it grow too tight.

Really, Mr. Winters, have you no heart? the banker scolded. Think of your wife. She loved the holiday. Why, it was with her blessings we purchased those items. Not a day goes by that we aren't reminded of her deep generosity.

The banker's words cut deep across Dobson’s heart and proved the last straw. Gentleman, our meeting is over. As he spoke, he rose to his feet. Stepping back, his hand closed around his father's double barrel shotgun he'd cleaned just that morning.

The two men who sat before him scrambled to their feet.

Now, Mr. Winters, there’s no need. The Reverend's eyes grew wide.

Dobson, the banker cautioned. Be reasonable.

Dobson’s eyes narrowed. He flipped the breech latch and broke the gun open.

The space above the men’s upper lip suddenly sprouted moisture as he glided two cardboard shells home. You know, my daddy once told me a seat full of buckshot often deters most highway men from pickin' a man's pocket.

The click of the barrel as it closed spurring the two men into action. Tripping over their feet, Reverend Thomas of Silver Spurs' First Presbyterian Church scrambled toward the front door, at his heels Thomas Carter followed.

The banker paused at the closed door to slam his bowler onto this head and cut Dobson a hard glare. The town council will hear of this - about how you treat your guests. Just because you founded the town, it doesn’t give you a right to be rude.

It gives me every right, Dobson snapped, his upper lip curling back, so the men would see the white of his teeth. I didn't tell you to set up your tents or build homes around my stockyards. But, you did it. Nor, did I request any sheriff to monitor the saloon the council invited into town. Yet, I put up with it. He shoved the barrel against the banker's backsides.

The man let out a yelp as he and the preacher wrestled with the lock to open the front door.

Oh, I pay my fair share of taxes and usually keep my mouth closed. In fact, until today, I've lived up to the town's motto, never a discouraging word. Well, not today, boys. I will be doggoned if I pay another dime.

In their hurry to leave, both men collided, their shoulders wedged as they tried to press through the door in unison. Squeezing out the entrance, they lengthened their strides as they moved toward the buggy.

But your wife, the minister called over his shoulder. She wouldn't want the town to go without a Christmas.

His heart constricted. How dare they bring her up! Don't you ever go there, you two-bit Bible thumper. Dobson could feel his face grow red from the heat of anger as his eyes bore into the Reverend. He delighted to see the little man's Adam's apple bobbled as if it were a boulder being tossed down downstream through a rapid. Now, git! he bellowed.

Moving to the edge of the porch, he turned the gun barrel skyward, curled his index finger over the trigger and let loose one shot.

The percussion of the gun echoed in the still air.

Both men let out a yelp like wounded dogs and the speed of their retreat increased. They fumbled with the brass rail of the buggy seat. Their feet slipped, yet somehow both men managed to pull themselves aboard.

Picking up the reins, Carter managed to turn the buggy around. You haven't heard the last of this, he shouted and with the Reverend sour turn of lips, brought the lines down upon the horse's back. The iron rims of the wheels hissed against the ground as if fueled by Satan’s fires and they left at a fast trot.

Damned fools, Dobson snarled. In the quiet of the ranch grounds, he watched them pass before the barn and caught one last look as they tossed him a glare mixed with fear and pure hatred. He broke open the barrel and pulled the empty shell from the smoking gun. By golly, they got the message that time. Tossing the spent shell onto the ground, he pulled the unused ammunition out and returned it to his vest pocket.

Be gone, the devil see you.

He turned and stared at the empty doorway of the two-story log home he'd built. A momentary expression of hurt rolled through him. Recalling his late wife had been a low-down trick. In his mind, the right Reverend and that weasel of a banker got off easy. He cursed them for reminding him she was gone. By all rights, Miranda should be there, standing in the doorway, waiting for him every night, with a smile on her face.

Storming through the heavy oak door, the eight-inch walls of the Wyoming pine seemed to cringe. He paused and laid the rifle on the table long enough push back the bite of the cold wind. With a half turn, he slammed the wood at the entranceway with enough force, the windows along the front of the great room rattled. His left hand reached out and swiped the weapon off the table surface. He took one-step toward his desk and spied his Chinese cook peering around the edge of the dining room.

The little man’s eyes were rounded; a meat cleaver raised in his right hand.

Dobson drew his body up to his full height and leveled a hard glance. Ain't you got some meat that needs fixing?

No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the cook lowered his hand and hurried to disappear. He rushed toward the kitchen, his queue waving madly down his back, with a stream of Chinese echoing in his wake.

Good. Dobson huffed.

Stomping to the gun cabinet, the cattleman removed the loose lock and stowed the firearm away. He put the unspent shell beside the weapon in case any other do-gooder ventured into his path. The door closed, he turned the key in the lock and secured the guns from prying hands. Staring at the silver key, the edges of his mouth turned down.

Who was he kidding? There weren't any prying hands. That dream ended ten years ago like so many others. His fingers closed around the key so tight, he could feel the cold metal cut into his skin of his palm. Curse them all for reminding him of the season.

A log in the hearth split. The sound echoed across the room and sent sparks leaping up the chimney. He heard the wood break apart with a heave; then give something akin to a human gasp of despair. A sudden chill filled the air. He shook it off and walked to the fireplace to stare. One hand on the mantle, without thinking, he placed a boot upon the stone edge, and reached for the wrought iron poker to shove the timber further back.

Ten years ago, next week, he sighed, and it seemed like yesterday.

Not wanting to dwell on the memory, he placed the poker back, and moved across the room to his desk. Issuing a grunt, Dobson sat down and picked up his pencil, intent on resuming his work. There were only two pages to put in his ledger. Concentrating on the figures, he could push all the other thoughts from his mind.

Two hundred cattle marked to make their way down to the winter pastures. From that, he and his men would cut out the heifers due to calf and move them closer to the barn. He wanted the accounts up to date so they could order supplies against the first snows of winter that were bound to fall soon. Tomorrow, he'd make the journey into town and lay in the basics. His thoughts drifted to the conversation with the men from Silver Spur. On second thought, he'd make sure to double it. That way, he wouldn't be bothered to go into town and have his ear bent about their foolish notions of celebrating a holiday meant to line a merchant's pockets until long after the first of the year.

He counted the tallies again and as he worked, the pale sunlight moved at a steady pace across the desk. A twinkle flashed and caught his eye. He brought his gaze up and found the golden light centered on the woman pictured in the framed tintype. He paused.

His heart tightened as he remembered the luminescence of her blue eyes, so similar to smoke. Her dark hair, as she always wore it, in one long braid and coiled at the nape of her neck. His mouth softened. In the picture, he could see the two hairpins, which held that thick braid in place.

Another memory