Twice Promised (The Blue Willow Brides Book #2): A Novel Read online

  © 2012 by Maggie Brendan

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3898-6

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Most Scripture, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Scripture quotations marked NASB are from the New American Standard Bible®, copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  “Memorable characters and solid storytelling abound in Maggie Brendan’s delightful tale of two mail-order brides vying for the same man. The two romances will double your reading pleasure, and the twists and turns will keep you guessing until the end. I loved it!”

  —Margaret Brownley, New York Times bestselling author of the Brides of Last Chance Ranch series

  “What a delight! Maggie Brendan has outdone herself with the second of the Blue Willow Brides series, giving readers not one but two romances. For a heartwarming story of love in the Old West, don’t miss Twice Promised.”

  —Amanda Cabot, author of Summer of Promise and Christmas Roses

  “Twice Promised is another great love story by Maggie Brendan . . . with fast-paced plot twists as the characters find their way to true love.”

  —Mary Connealy, author of Over the Edge, In Too Deep, and Out of Control

  Praise for Maggie Brendan’s Books

  “Maggie Brendan is adept at weaving a sweet love story . . . Within these pages indeed lies a jewel.”

  —Tamera Alexander, bestselling author of From a Distance, Beyond This Moment, and The Inheritance

  “Maggie Brendan has done it again . . . A tender and haunting tale that stirs heart and soul deeply—well beyond the last page.”

  —Julie Lessman, author of the Daughters of Boston and Winds of Change series

  For my niece Kathy Hardison Wells, who stays focused on the Lord.

  “All this,” said David, “the LORD made me understand in writing by His hand upon me, all the details of this pattern.”

  1 Chronicles 28:19 NASB

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5

  6 7 8 9 10

  11 12 13 14 15

  16 17 18 19 20

  21 22 23 24 25

  26 27 28 29 30

  31 32 33 34 35

  36

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books By Maggie Brendan

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  August 1887

  Outskirts of Fort Bridger, Wyoming

  Keeping his eye along the steep ridge above him, Sergeant Bryan Gifford clutched his Sharps carbine next to his hip. He hunkered among the thickets of scraggly sagebrush, which wouldn’t allow much protection from the renegade band of Sioux who bore down on his unit in a surprise attack. The sagebrush’s pungent smell tickled his nose, and its yellow flowers were bright against the brown earth, but he had no time for enjoyment of the surrounding kinnikinnick, the evening star, or the wintergreen that crept over the warm rocks. For just a moment, he thought of when he’d played soldiers with his two brothers, but this was no game. This was the real thing, and if he made it out alive, he’d run, not walk, to the nearest train headed to Cheyenne, into the waiting arms of his true love.

  Bryan thought about the recent unrest among the different tribes. After the government passed the Dawes Act in February, they had taken away the land of the tribal communities. Maybe they have a right to be angry, Bryan thought. Their land was going to be divided up into parcels of 160 acres for families and eighty acres for individuals. But it was up to him to follow the orders of his superior, not disobey them, and right now he didn’t care who was right or wrong. He just wanted to win this attack and save his men . . . and his life.

  Bullets whizzed past him from Private Charlie Foster shooting in the direction of the jagged rocks above him. Charlie signaled to Bryan from another group of rocks, indicating that he’d cover him. Crouching low, Bryan made a beeline for the safety of the rocks, his boots stirring up the dry dust.

  When he was only a foot away from Charlie, he felt an arrow pierce his heart. He knew he was mortally wounded. For a moment he wavered sickeningly, feeling the sharp pain, then he lunged for the shelter of the outcropping of rocks.

  “Sarge!” Charlie yelled, dragging Bryan next to him. Charlie cradled his upper body, and Bryan heard the ripping of his shirt as Charlie quickly yanked the fabric free, exposing the embedded arrow. His voice seemed distant now, but Bryan saw Charlie’s frantic eyes look around for help when his hand came in contact with blood. “I need to get this out.”

  Bryan’s hand stayed Charlie when he reached for the arrow. He lay helplessly, knowing that his life’s blood pumped from him, soaking his chest. The yelling of victory from the Indians seemed distant, as did the silence of his men around him. He reached for Charlie’s hand, and the private paused, fear etched in his young face. Charlie was barely old enough to be in the Army, and this was the first scrimmage of any kind he had encountered. Up until now it had all been drills and make-believe.

  “Charlie, listen to me,” Bryan said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You must leave right now or you won’t make it!” Bryan gasped for breath, his sight becoming fuzzy. “I’m not going to make it . . . but I’ll fire into the air until you can scamper out of sight . . . They’ll think you’re dead.” He winced, forcing down his pain, then stared at Charlie, seeing the fear reflected in his hazel eyes.

  Charlie shook his head. “No, I can’t leave you like this.”

  Bryan mustered all his strength to grab the private by the collar of his uniform and pull him closer. “You have . . . no choice. All the others are dead . . . You have to obey my orders while there’s still time!”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie’s eyes filled with tears, and he was shaking.

  “One other thing . . . I need you to do.” He released Charlie’s collar. He was becoming light-headed now. He must try to concentrate. “Go to Cheyenne and find Greta Olsen. Tell . . . tell her . . . I love her and we’ll meet . . . in heaven.” He gasped, trying to clear his throat, and tasted blood on his tongue. He had to say this before he died. “And tell her for me . . . that there’s only one other man worth her love . . . my brother—”

  Suddenly Bryan stopped and looked heavenward as the midmorning clouds scattered, revealing the brightest of s
kies and the most glorious of gardens . . .

  1

  August 1888

  Central City, Colorado

  Greta Olsen perched primly on her seat, clutching her Bible as the train headed to Central City, Colorado. She stared out a smudged window at the moving landscape of canyons and mountain ridges, where snow capped the distant purple peaks. The ride was somewhat thrilling, as well as frightening. The Colorado Central chugged up its winding tracks around the Rocky Mountains and the sparkling Clear Creek. Greta held her breath at their incredible beauty, wincing as her ears popped with the change in altitude. The further up the mountains they traveled, the chillier and drier the air became. Greta pulled her woolen cape tighter about her shoulders, thankful that she hadn’t packed it in her case.

  She contemplated the new venture she’d thrust herself into. The advertisement for a mail-order bride was tucked safely into her reticule. Greta had hated leaving the crowded farmhouse outside of Cheyenne where she’d lived since coming to America. After saying goodbye to her only family, she’d watched as the wheat fields, already ripe with promise, were soon gone from her sight. Her eyes had flooded with hot tears, and an ache planted inside her chest.

  But that was yesterday, and today there would be no tears. In fact, she was excited about living this deep in the mountains, even after hearing the rumors of the cold and snow and the rugged life where miners were as thick as fleas on a dog’s back, as she was informed by Peter, her brother-in-law. But that hadn’t deterred her. Greta wanted adventure and had closed the door to her heart on love once and for all. She had no illusions when it came to love. It may have finally worked for her sister and Peter, but just look what had happened to Clara, Peter’s mother! Greta decided that when she wed, her marriage would be one of mutual love and respect.

  Greta caught the gaze of a young lady with big brown eyes sitting across the aisle, so she smiled back at her with a nod, thinking maybe the lady might be a new friend here in the Rockies. The lady’s lips lifted slightly at the corners, then she turned to look out the train’s window, keeping her hands clasped together in her lap. Greta guessed her to be about the same age as herself and wondered where the young woman might be headed. She glanced down at the lady’s left hand, noticing it was devoid of a wedding band.

  Through the entire trip, the young woman had not moved from her stiff sitting position, nor had she spoken to anyone. She simply handed the conductor her ticket when asked. Her hourglass figure was smartly dressed in a dark navy traveling suit with black velvet trimming, and the matching hat sported a long-plumed black feather at the band. Apparently she was well-bred—Greta noted her poise and secretly admired her fashionable attire. The few dresses Greta owned now were beginning to show wear. She looked down at the frayed cuffs of her traveling dress and crossed her arms at the wrists, hoping to hide them.

  Knowing they had only a little time left on the train before reaching Central City, Greta turned her attention to her open Bible, her sister Catharine’s parting gift before Greta left Cheyenne. It had belonged to Catharine, and their mother before that. Greta remembered her sister’s words before she left: “Greta, you take Mother’s Bible—I want you to have it. Remember to let it guide all that you do. And remember us when you read—it can be the connection we have when we’re apart, until we meet again.”

  A newspaper clipping fell into her lap, and Greta carefully opened the folded paper, now browning with age. She recognized it—Peter’s ad that Catharine had responded to when they were still in Holland and thoroughly adrift as to their future. Catharine must have forgotten she’d placed it there. She’d read it to Greta and Anna a dozen times, and now its creases were worn through with use. Greta remembered how God had been faithful to Catharine, Anna, and herself, providing Catharine a good husband and a fine home for all of them. It was a good life . . . for a while.

  Lord, what’s in store for me now? No one but Bryan will ever hold my heart . . . but at least here, deep in the mountains, I won’t hear the constant howl of the prairie winds. It was enough to drive a person mad, to her way of thinking. She wondered how terrible it must have been for Bryan. Had he been in pain as he lay dying on the windswept prairie? She shuddered to think about him suffering at all, and prayed that his death had been swift like the ambush. Sorrow flooded her heart for what could’ve been.

  She slipped her own mail-order-bride ad from the Bible and ran her gloved finger over the name at the bottom: Jess Gifford. That name was one of the reasons she’d answered the ad in the first place. Could it be that Jess was related to Bryan? Perhaps a distant cousin? She sighed. Probably just a coincidence . . . but there might be a slim chance. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out. Now she regretted that she and Bryan hadn’t talked more about his family. She smiled. The stolen moments together had been so short. Most of it had been spent kissing and planning their future, not talking about their pasts.

  Greta folded the piece of paper, tucked it into the book of Psalms, and tried to read. When the conductor announced they were nearing their destination, she gathered her things together from her seat in readiness to disembark the train into this fresh, new world.

  The engine puffed and ground to a screeching stop, allowing the handful of passengers to make their way toward the depot. The wiry conductor reached up and grabbed her carpetbag, set it down on the depot’s wooden platform, and took Greta’s hand to assist her down the metal steps. “The rest of your bags will be unloaded momentarily, miss.”

  Feeling suddenly adrift, Greta stood numbly off to the side next to her carpetbag and scanned the platform, expecting Jess Gifford to step forward for her. Maybe he was delayed but would show up any moment. She adjusted her cape, then stepped over to a nearby bench to wait, ignoring the open stares of men about the rough-hewn depot. Mercy! The raw mining town was filled with miners, trappers, and merchants milling about. She observed the constant movement on the busy streets from where she sat.

  Only moments later, she was joined by the lady who had sat across from her on the train. “May I sit here with you?” Her large brown eyes seemed kind, but she looked unsure while she waited for Greta’s response.

  “Hallo. Alstublieft! Of course!” Greta noticed the finely etched cheekbones and smooth olive complexion, framed by dark brown hair that peeked from her fashionable hat, and thought again how very pretty the woman was. As the lady bent to place her bag next to her feet, the long feather from her hat tickled Greta’s cheek. Greta giggled.

  “I’m sorry.” The lady smiled, then took a seat on the bench and extended her hand. “I’m Cora Johnson.”

  “I’m Greta Olsen,” she said as she took Cora’s outstretched hand. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  A flash of concern crossed Cora’s face. “As a matter of fact, I am. And you? Are you visiting someone or moving here?” Cora folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Greta smiled. “You’re not. I . . . I’ve answered an ad for a mail-order bride.” She swallowed nervously. “But I see no one has arrived to pick me up, so I thought I’d just sit here a few minutes to wait. Apparently Jess Gifford is delayed.” Greta tapped her foot as she looked out over the boardwalk, hoping he would appear soon. She was tired but anxious to meet the intriguing man she’d been corresponding with.

  “Did you say Jess?” Cora raised an eyebrow with a bewildered look.

  “Yes.” Greta turned sideways to face her. “Jess Gifford. Do you know him? Tell me what you know. I’m as nervous as a cat crossing a busy street—”

  Cora huffed, then straightened her skirts without looking at Greta.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Johnson?”

  Cora’s face turned pink. Clearing her throat, she lifted her gaze and let out a deep breath, but before she could reply, a tall cowboy swaggered toward them, bowing slightly as he lifted his hat. His brown hair was matted around his head where his hat had been. He smiled broadly at them.

  “I’m here to pick up Jess’s mai
l-order brides,” he said. He twirled his Stetson in his hand.

  The ladies rose simultaneously. “I’m Greta Olsen, his mail-order bride. I thought Jess was to meet me. Who are you?” Greta asked, her hands on her hips. Had she heard him right? Did he say brides?

  “Begging your pardon, I’m Mr. Gifford’s mail-order bride.” Cora whirled, glaring at Greta, her dark eyes snapping as her ladylike composure suddenly became a thing of the past.

  “There must be some mistake. I thought you said brides, but there can be only one bride!” Greta ignored Cora’s glare and faced the good-looking cowboy. He’d better have a good explanation for this. She hadn’t traveled all the way here to be made a fool of.

  “I’m Zach Gifford, Jess’s brother, and . . . er, you did hear me right. I did say brides.” He donned his hat, then reached for their bags, lifting one in each hand.

  “There must be some terrible mistake!” Cora folded her hands across her chest. “A man can’t have two brides. Not to mention it’s illegal! This is ridiculous! And I’ll not stand for it!”

  “Nor will I!” Greta reached for her bag, but Zach held on to it. “Where is this Mr. Gifford?”

  Zach held Greta’s eyes for a moment. “If you ladies will give me a chance, I can explain everything, but we can’t stand here squabbling in the street, now can we? I’ll take you for an early supper and we’ll talk.”

  When the two ladies looked at each other doubtfully, he leaned back on his boot heels and quickly added, “Besides, that was the last train today, so you have nowhere else to go.”

  Zach’s brown eyes glinted with a dash of fire. Greta wanted to slap the silly grin right off his face but instead mustered up the courage to consider his plan. After all, it was late, and what other options did she have? She knew no one in this town. “You’re right about that, Mr. Gifford—”

  “Please, everyone calls me Zach. Now let’s go rustle up a good supper over at Mabel’s. Then I’ll see that you both get settled for the evening.” He started walking away. With a glance over his shoulder, he nodded at them to follow.