Annie's Heart

By Barbara Edwards

Only two coins and a gold pendant heart separate widowed Annie Moss from disaster. The fields need to be plowed, the barn repaired and food stored for the winter, but she is alone and afraid. Her dream of a home for her children hangs from the promise of a wandering man to keep moving on, a man she has no reason to trust. Trace Randolph has lost everything except his honor, so when a desperate Annie saves his life he knows he must pay his debt, even if it means marrying her. The only promise he makes is to leave before the winter snows. A promise he finds impossible to keep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590882108

Book preview

What They Are Saying About Annie’s Heart

I n Annie’s Heart The tremendous physical hardship that the country presents is as much a threat to their love as Annie's mistrust of men and Trace's reluctance to settle. Barbara Edwards creates a romance that proves life is about surviving disaster. Growing back stronger, and most of all, the courage to love.**** (four stars)

—Gerry Benninger

Romantic Times Magazine

Annie’s Heart A real page turner with wonderful characters and a unique plot. You can’t miss with this one.

—Patricia Potter

ANOTHER LOVE is a story that is hard to put down. The characters are well-developed and the setting is vivid amidst a solid, balanced plot. **** 1/2 (four and one-half stars

—April Redmon

Romantic Times Magazine

Another Love Distrust on both sides must be overcome before true love makes the day. Throw in some political intrigue and whodunit and enjoy this afternoon read.

—Debbie Pollart

Writers Club Romance Group on AOL

The horse of a different color? Perhaps something of the sort. Another Love is painted with a kaleidoscope of perception. A historical that at times feels like a James Bond film. A true paint box..

I had to keep reading. I was caught up in the detail. Another Love has elements unique to a historical romance. Some things made me uncomfortable. Another Love spans passion of unending variety. Passion can be frightening. More so when it involves our letting go. That kind of passion shows the range of the author’s gift.

True, some things made me uncomfortable but those elements were necessary to the story. Uniquely plotted. All in all, a super read.

—Leann Buzzy Arndt

Annie’s Heart

Barbara Edwards

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Historical Romance Novel

Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Copy Edited by: Crystal Laver

Senior Editor: Crystal Laver

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Chrissie Poe

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 2002 by Helene Radjeski Edwards

ISBN: 1-59088-210-5

Previously Published: 1-58697-907-8

Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

To five of the ten best men in the world:

William, Stephen, Andrew, James and Anthony.

My sons and the models for all my heroes

Prologue

North of Fort Larned, Kansas 1864

I don’t like escorting officers’ families along with the Fort payroll... The sergeant’s terse words trailed off as his commanding officer shot him a stern glare. He shrugged his dust-coated shoulders. Sweat seeped under his tightly buttoned collar, but he couldn’t loosen his woolen coat. His lieutenant was a graduate of West Point and insisted on proper adherence to Army regulations despite the shimmering August heat.

I agree, Sergeant. There’s always a chance of Indian attack or guerrilla ambush, but with every able-bodied man called to aid Sherman’s sweep south, we’re the only ones available. The men you picked for this duty are recovered enough from their wounds to ride. I’ll certainly be glad when I return to General Wallace’s command. The lieutenant rubbed the ache in his freshly healed thigh and frowned. Keep to the old stage route by-passing Muddy Water. These Kansas towns change allegiance faster than the weather.

The sergeant’s uneasy gaze flicked over the officer’s sun-reddened face to rove the surrounding prairie. Both men slouched in their saddles with the deceptive ease of experienced campaigners.

Heat waves shimmered off the flat land, distorting details. High above the trail a hawk hovered then swooped to grab a mouse from the thick grass. The sergeant’s gaze followed the movement from under the wide brim of his weather-beaten hat. With a frustrated screech, the predator veered upward from their path. He abruptly loosened his carbine from its worn leather scabbard.

Seven ox-drawn wagons slowly churned through the deep, dry ruts behind them. A loose line of a dozen heavily armed Union soldiers rode alongside. The dust swirled in the air like thick brown soup stirred with a spoon. Sun-bonneted and calico-clad women coughed and soothed a dozen rambunctious children. Their low voices chimed like musical bells with promises of sweets and fresh water come nightfall.

We’ll set up camp near the Overland Way Station. Sarge was the only one in the outfit fully recovered from his battle wounds. Impatient with his long recuperation, he had spent the past six months learning the surrounding country. Except for the manager and horse handler, the place is deserted, sir. There’s been no regular coach runs since the rail spur was completed.

We’re making good time. At least the payroll wagon is light and well-sprung. His eyes old before his time, the Lieutenant’s weary expression brightened. Even with an overnight stop at Fort Larned’s saloon for a drink and a woman, we’ll be on schedule heading back.

Sarge cleared his throat, spit to the side, and ignored his officer’s disapproving glare. Damn dust. Don’t know how those women tolerate it. Been a cursed dry year.

The earth heaved. Pandemonium broke lose as armed men surged to their feet. Shots roared. The Sergeant’s horse reared, screaming in pain. Four of the blue-clad men, including the lieutenant, pitched to the ground without ever knowing they were under attack. The sergeant’s finger barely closed around his carbine’s trigger before crimson streamed from a wound to his head. He fell.

The rest of the soldiers died in the second fusillade.

Seven men kicked aside the dust-covered tarpaulins they’d hidden under in imitation of an Indian buffalo-hunting technique. Clad in a hodge-podge of blue and gray castoffs, it was impossible to tell which side they had fought for, if any.

Panicked pleas for mercy shrilled out. The soulless renegades turned their smoking weapons on the terrified women who clutched their children. The dying cry of a child hung in the air until cut off by another shot and a vile curse.

The predators checked their guns with meticulous care and reloaded before holstering them. To a man, they exchanged mirthless grins in a horrible death’s head parody.

Obeying the order of a heavy-set man with two gun-belts strapped around his wide belly and an unlit cheroot clenched between his stained teeth, four men hoisted a heavy box from the lone army wagon. They dropped it to the ground and stepped aside. The leader shot off the lock before kicking the box open. Leather bags filled with gold lay packed inside tight as pickles in a barrel of brine.

Obscene shouts of triumph split the air. The renegades slapped each other’s shoulders in celebration and exchanged excited quips.

Gonna get me a purty girl—

Drink ‘nuff to last all winter—

Goin’ ta Californy—

Ignoring the raucous voices, the leader gestured for two men to follow him to one side. Dressed in townsmen’s brown trousers and clean shirts, they looked out of place with the filthy band.

Didn’t expect to kill any women, the first sputtered and nervously wiped his balding pate with a clean handkerchief. He rubbed his pudgy hands over the crumbled linen square repeatedly as he stared at the carnage. He blinked rapidly.

Can’t bake a cake without crackin’ eggs, their leader sneered. He bit the end off his cigar. Scraping a sulphur match up his pant leg, he puffed and blew out a cloud of smoke. Then he dropped the match and his big hands fisted. He shook one at the sky. Damn Yankees, curse them all.

They’ll hunt us down for this. These are officers’ wives. And the United States Cavalry has a long memory... The second townsman’s meticulous voice broke on the last words and he paled.

The leader’s heavy brows forming an unbroken line, he frowned at the whining tone. We can wait.

The townsman nodded silently, but his pale blue eyes shifted from the wagons to the payroll box and back. His mouth worked under a thin black mustache that looked as though it had been drawn with a pen above his narrow lip.

Lookee here! Look! A loud holler came from the back of a wagon. A shaggy head popped from the canvas opening.

An unshaven raider held up a carved ivory jewelry box. A gold chain, fragile as a spider’s web, dangled from his bloodstained fingers. A dainty heart pendant with a diamond center glistened in the air like a frozen tear. He shook the box and more jewelry tumbled into his hand.

The other men scrambled into the wagons. Wild whoops filled the air like the howling of wolves. Callously shoving aside the dead like discarded trash, they rummaged through family belongings. One heartless butcher removed wedding rings and necklaces from women still clutching their massacred children.

In the time it took to plunder the wagons contents, a score of vultures formed lazy circles overhead. The reek of blood and death called them from far and wide. Their stark shadows speared across the treasures piled on a blanket alongside the open payroll box like slashes of ink.

Swiping his sweating pate, the first townsman nervously protested. We can’t take those. Someone will recognize a ring or necklace and we’ll all be caught. The second nodded.

Their leader glared at them impatiently before he grunted. I told you. I have a plan. He motioned the two men to wait for him. They exchanged nervous glances but complied. No one disagreed with Big Ed Browning and lived long.

Ed unobtrusively gestured to several outlaws standing to one side. A low-voiced order sent the oldest to fetch their horses from a nearby hidden swale.

The second townsman cursed and kicked at a tuft of dry grass. You said there would be no problem, Ed. For this outrage the Cavalry will hunt us down like mad dogs, he shouted.

You should have thought of that when you gave us the information about the payroll shipment. Smoke trailed from Ed’s narrowed lips in thin tatters.

But I wanted to help the war movement. The South—

Don’t spout that drivel to me. You’re just a low-down thief and coward. If you wanted to help, you could have joined the Confederate Army instead of tending that stage station.

His deliberate insults hit home. Swearing, the man reached for his holstered gun.

Big Ed Browning pulled his revolver. He shot his cohort in the chest and dispassionately watched him fall to the ground. He cursed when a wild bullet from the dying man’s gun scored a line across the back of his hand and viciously kicked the dead man in the ribs. Stunned into silence, the gleeful renegades stared at the body.

Fanning out behind their leader, the three outlaws deliberately aimed their carbines and killed the others.

Shouting questions, the horse wrangler spurred into view and yanked his mount to a plunging halt. The spare horses milled around him, kicking up a cloud of choking dust. He eyed the dead men for a second before he spat in the dirt.

More fer us, he grunted.

Glaring suspiciously at the others, he kept his back protected while they loaded the rifled booty into a small trunk and tied both boxes to the stage station owner’s horse. The easily traced army mounts were shot.

The leader’s bloody fingers caressed the heavy box containing the gold shipment as he passed. After he mounted, he signaled the others to move on.

Throwing his lit cigar into the dry grass, he watched while bright flames licked across dry tufts and clumps of weed stalks like hungry tongues. They swallowed the wagons within minutes. He grabbed the loaded mounts’ trailing leads and urged his horse into a gallop. The three other renegades followed close behind.

Wheeling in low, the circling buzzards ignored the spiraling smoke and flames. Their excited squawks broke the silence. One by one the feathered demons alighted in the hellish ruins.

One

Kansas, 1875

She was free.

Annie Moss flung a sun-baked dirt clod onto the rough pine coffin and stifled her superstitious fear the lid would open to reveal her husband’s angry face. The last invisible link chaining her to the dead man inside had snapped.

Realization made her dizzy.

Her daughter, Melly, dropped a similar clump into the hole. She muffled a sob in a damp linen square. Annie didn’t know if the twelve-year-old cried from relief or grief, but whatever the cause, her three-year-old son imitated his sister.

Blinding morning sun washed all color from the cemetery’s bleached wooden crosses. The gaunt minister glared at her over his open Bible with all the compassion of a vulture spying out carrion. He ignored the bead of perspiration trembling on the end of his prominent nose. Do you have any final words about your departed husband, Mrs. Moss?

No, Reverend. Annie ached to tell this judgmental old fool what kind of man he was burying, but bit her lip to keep the scathing words inside. She needed his good will. And she suspected where Sam had gone he was sweating more than the tight-collared reverend in front of her.

He snapped the dog-eared black book shut. Then if you ain’t got nuthin’ to say, the next time I see you, he said, it’ll be at your wedding.

What are you talking about? Annie didn’t think her spine could stiffen any more, but it did.

Female can’t manage alone. He thumped his Bible. Says right here woman should be joined to man. I figure the single men won’t be slow in courting you. Even though you got two children.

His narrowed gaze dragged over Will’s carefully patched trousers and Melly’s hand-me-down calico dress.

Annie knew she gaped at the minister. She had expected a man of the cloth to show charity, not reflect the town’s low opinion of her and her family. Will’s chubby body pressed against her legs. The fretful wind tossed grit from the open grave and snatched with avid fingers at Annie’s ill-fitting mourning dress and shabby bonnet as though probing for her weaknesses.

I don’t need a man, she declared. I won’t ever marry again. Pride and fear gnawed at her insides with jagged teeth.

The preacher’s thin lips flattened into a harsh line. You’ll soon change yer mind. The pharaohs of Egypt were shown the error of their ways by plagues of locusts, drought, disease, flood, he ranted. Spit sprayed in every direction. Your foolish pride will not protect you from the fires of Hell. Even if Sam was a sinner and a—

The children and I thank you for your thoughtfulness, Annie interrupted, swallowing her resentment at the man’s sermonizing.

She dared not insult the minister and risk turning the town’s opinion further against her, but she didn’t want Melly and Will to hear the scandalous talk about their father, even if it was true. Her fingers tightened around her reticule enough to crinkle the papers inside. Resolve curbed her anger. Her family’s wandering days were done.

The fine hairs on her nape stood up. Someone was watching her. Annie glanced around the cemetery and toward town. Little more than a wide grassy path rutted by horses hooves and wagon wheels, the main street was deserted. No one moved along the weathered plank walk or in front of the nearest buildings. Her grasp froze around her purse-strings while a chill raced down her spine. Nerves, she decided.

After Reverend Stone acknowledged her thanks with a stern nod, she handed the gravedigger her last coin. Taking the children’s hands, she drew them away.

Miz Moss. Wait. Sheriff Moore had appeared out of nowhere. Annie stifled the urge to run for her nearby wagon. He stepped in front of her, hitched his baggy pants higher, and gave her a grave nod. His wine-skin shaped belly hung over his gun belt. He had timed his official arrival perfectly to miss the internment, but the biscuit crumbs scattered on his unbuttoned vest spoiled his solemn demeanor.

How nice of you to come, Sheriff, Annie murmured. Her sarcasm went straight over his bullet-shaped head. But I don’t have time to be sociable. We have a long ride in front of us and there won’t be any rest until the farm chores are done. You know I can’t rely on Digger.

She ducked her head when the relentless wind lashed her face with wisps of hair. She hastily tucked them away. Her temples ached from lack of sleep and worry burrowed into her gut.

She lifted her head to cool her face and clear her mind. The breeze carried the clean smell of growing grass and reminded her that she had a future. She grabbed at her shabby straw bonnet as more hair blew free.

Well, yes. My condolences. Moore stopped, muffling a belch. His uneasy gaze moved from Jacob Slythe, who slowly filled the grave, to her ramshackle wagon, then to the ground, avoiding her eyes. I, ah, wanted to ask you some questions.

Melly trembled and Annie gave her cold fingers a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t want her children to hear anything the sheriff had to say about Sam’s death, so she gave her daughter Will’s hand to hold.

Take your brother to the wagon. I’ll be right with you. Annie pressed her reticule and its precious contents into the girl’s other hand. Her daughter gave an understanding nod, squared her narrow shoulders, and led her brother toward the waiting team. Melly was always happier when she was busy.

Annie concentrated on brushing the dust from her full black skirts before she turned to the waiting sheriff. She didn’t want to discuss her husband, or even think about him. Sam’s last act on this earth freed her family, but she couldn’t bring herself to send her prayerful thanks after him. He certainly hadn’t meant it that way.

Miz Moss... Annie. His unhappy gaze finally met hers. Like the reverend, he was sweating. There’s not much to say. I, ah, know your man left you all in a fix by gettin’ himself killed the way he did. A woman alone out here... Well, you know how dangerous it can be. And there’s some question about what happened.

I wasn’t there during the card game, Annie protested. Her hands shook and she concealed them under her skirt’s thick folds. For the first time she was glad to have the ill-fitting charity gift to hide behind.

Lifting his wide-brimmed hat, the lawman wiped the back of his neck with a wrinkled bandanna. A red line marked his forehead where the hat rubbed, bisected by a white scar across his temple. He shoved the stained square into the back pocket of his pants.

He grunted and spat into the dust. The witnesses said some land deeds changed hands before that drifter plugged Sam.

Annie schooled her expression to remain blank.

Moore couldn’t know.

What exactly are you asking me about? As far as I know, Sam had very little cash with him. He wouldn’t have told me if he did. A battle-scarred veteran of the conflict between the states, Sam never spoke of his private business. He certainly hadn’t trusted his wife of thirteen long years with any secrets.

Sam had a wad of greenbacks when he sat down. And he won a few big hands.

He had money? Annie wanted to scream with rage. She felt as though her old frustration and anger would boil over like the contents of a tightly-lidded pot heated too hot. The bastard told me there wasn’t enough cash to buy food for the children.

Could be some question about who owns the deed, if one was actually bet. Sheriff Moore scuffed his manure-stained boots in the dust before looking at her again. I feel real bad about this shootin’, Miz Annie. Muddy Water is usually a quiet town. You ain’t really got to know folks, so maybe you don’t expect us to act Christian.

Her nails dug crescents into her palms and she inhaled deeply to calm herself. If he suspected... she avoided his eyes so he couldn’t read her growing panic. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Sheriff. The children are waiting and I want to take them home.

Let me know your plans. With the Indians confined to reservations, they’re not the trouble they were before, but this is a terrible hard land. He waved his hand at the empty grassland stretching to the horizon. What with all the bad weather ruinin’ their crops, folks with ready cash leave. Some go ‘cause the wind drives ‘em crazy with its ceaseless noise. ‘Course, if you decide to stay at the stage station, you’ll find a husband right quick.

I don’t intend to get married again, Sheriff. And you can tell anyone else who asks I said so. She recalled enough of her southern upbringing to be gracious, but she would face all the dangers alone before she entrusted her family to another man.

Sheriff Moore shook his head slowly. I know how difficult it is for a woman to raise kids out here without a man’s help. And I know that hired hand of yours, Digger, ain’t reliable. So ifn’ you need anything...

Surprised by his friendly offer, Annie held out her hand to shake his. We just want to be left in peace, but thank you, Sheriff. I’m sure we’ll be fine.

Sheriff Moore gave her hand a hearty pump and stepped aside to let her pass. After she climbed into the wagon, he called out, If you happen to think of anything, let me know.

I’ll be sure to do that, Sheriff. Annie gathered the reins into her work-roughened hands, settled her skirts around her, and released the brake.

SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN Annie’s ribs, making her skin itch. Dust tickled her nose and parched her throat until she could almost taste the cold water from the pump in the yard. The next curve of No Name Creek would reveal their home.

Their home. The words sounded sweet as a meadowlark’s song.

She clucked her tongue to urge the tired and thirsty team forward. Her fingers ached from handling the plow horses’ leather reins. An abrupt dip in the trail down to the edge of the creek revealed a grazing horse beneath the cottonwood trees edging the water. Vultures swung in low, lazy circles overhead.

Someone was camped on her land.

Annie’s heart pounded in imitation of a Cheyenne war drum as she reached under the wagon’s bench seat and dragged out Sam’s loaded shotgun. Her fingers were slick with sweat and she wiped them on her skirts.

What’s wrong, Mama? Melly whispered.

I don’t know. There should be a campfire—

The wind rippled the buffalo grass in green waves. Her stomach cramped with fear. She gnawed her wind-chapped lips and squinted against the glare of the westering sun.

Both roaming Indians eager to avoid the reservation and wandering marauders in tattered Yankee blue trousers or Confederate gray coats followed the passing trail between Fort Larned to Fort Leavenworth. She feared them all.

The roan gelding tranquilly cropped at the thick grass. An abandoned saddle and gray blankets were carelessly heaped beside a blackened fire pit. Both saddlebags tumbled open, their contents strewn on the churned-up ground. Two limp boots lay nearby like discarded toys.

Her sweaty hand gripped the shotgun as she reined her tired team to a halt. Both thirsty animals tossed their heads, setting their harness to jangling. They wanted a drink after the hot drive.

Melly carefully rolled the treasured twine she used for cat’s cradle designs to amuse her little brother and placed it in her pinafore pocket. She hugged Will to her side when he tried to scramble over the seat. He squirmed to get loose, then subsided at Melly’s admonishing shush.

Annie’s lips tightened. The relentless wind carried the water’s damp scent, the stink of cold ashes and the coppery stench of blood to her flared nostrils. Annie recognized the smell of trouble. She coughed, but the nasty combination clung to her tongue like bitter medicine.

Sitting here wouldn’t solve anything.

Keeping the shotgun firmly in her grasp, she lowered herself to the ground. Thigh-high grass tufts of buffalo grass whispered against her skirts as she reached up and put a hand on Melly’s knee.

Stay in the wagon. You know where my purse is hidden. If anything happens, get out of here lickety-split.

But—

Don’t argue with me. Annie’s voice softened as she took in Melly’s anxious expression. She would follow her mother’s instructions. Her purse held the promise of their future. She gave the girl’s knee a quick squeeze. This won’t take but a minute. I have to know you’re both safe. Promise?

Melly scooted across the cracked leather seat and gathered up the knotted reins, her thin face determined. Resentment and longing swamped Annie for a moment. Her daughter had never had a chance to be a child. Melly dipped her hand alongside the seat and dragged her father’s heavy revolver from its hiding place. She laid it across her lap. Will popped his thumb into his mouth and sucked noisily.

Good girl. And you, young man, Annie gave Will a stern look. His mussed hair hung over his eyes and she smoothed it back. Listen to your sister. I’ll be quick.

Will obediently knelt beside the meager supplies she’d bought with the few dollars she’d found tucked inside the sweatband of Sam’s hat.

Annie cautiously approached the jumbled belongings. The seemingly empty grasslands held more then one kind of threat, but the familiar weight of the shotgun gave her confidence. Thankfully, during her first year of marriage, when she had been left alone in places most decent people avoided, she had convinced Sam to teach her to use the bulky firearm as well as a revolver.

The heap on the ground resolved into a bedroll twisted around a man’s motionless shape. Annie inched closer. The harness creaked loudly in the stillness. A vulture swooped low, squawked in surprise and flapped noisily away. Melly murmured a low command to the restless animals. The gelding gave a curious whiffle and