Melly, Unyielding (Lockets And Lace Book 4) Read online

  Melly, Unyielding

  LOCKETS & LACE

  BOOK 4

  BY ABAGAIL ELDAN

  Copyright © 2018 Sheila Hollinghead writing as Abagail Eldan

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to

  The hard-working authors of the Sweet Americana Sweethearts blog who provide the world with sweet/clean historical romances about North Americans between 1820 and 1929.

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ~o0o~

  This book is part of a multi-author series sponsored by the authors who write for the Sweet Americana Sweethearts blog. My appreciation and thanks go to those other authors who helped develop the Lockets & Lace series of books.

  A special thank you goes to

  Carpe Librum Book Covers for my book cover design.

  And to

  Pauline Creeden, Lynda Cox, and C.C. Austin for their valuable editing help.

  DISCLAIMER

  ~o0o~

  All the characters described in this story are fictional. They are not based on any real persons, past or present. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, is coincidental and unintended.

  Chapter One

  Melly grabbed Obadiah’s arm, and he twisted away to shake her off. The rifle caught on the fabric of her shawl, and she yanked loose and stumbled back.

  Tears pricked her eyes. “Oba, please. I promise he won’t be any trouble.”

  “That ain’t a promise you can keep, Melly.” He spat a stream of tobacco and some trickled onto the white streak in his long beard, leaving a trail of dark red, the color of dried blood.

  She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He won’t give us away.”

  His brows drew together. “Sooner or later, he will.” He spat again. “Ain’t nothing but an old dog, anyhow.”

  She bit her quivering lip, and her hand automatically traveled to the handkerchief in her apron pocket. The lace adorning it once belonged to her mother, the last thing of hers she still possessed — and even that was purchased at a dear price. She kept her hand in her pocket and fingered the lace, as if it was a talisman against evil. No, it had never been that although it usually brought a semblance of peace. But not today.

  Her fingers shook as they traveled the length of the handkerchief. The tears rolled unheeded down her face. “At least, let me ...” The words caught in her throat and only a choking sound emerged.

  He nodded. She fell to her knees and threw her arms around the dog, and his warm tongue licked away her tears. Somehow, this dog had managed to find the cabin, deep in the woods. She’d hidden him for days before Oba had discovered him.

  Melly placed her hands on the side of the dog’s head and searched his dark eyes. “Billy, you’re a good boy, a very good boy ...” He strained against her hands, and she pulled him closer and buried her head against his sandy fur. If his fur had been dark, Oba probably never would have found him, as quiet and shy as he was. She’d never so much as heard the dog whine, until today. His whines grew in intensity, and her tears became sobs.

  Oba grabbed her elbow and yanked her to her feet. “Get in the house.”

  She shook her head, stubborn for a moment. Oba pointed, not at the cabin, but at a small shack. The meaning was clear. Still, her feet remained rooted to the spot.

  Oba’s eyes softened briefly. “It’s too dangerous to keep him. You’ll forget in time.”

  But a greater untruth was never spoken. Her past ripped open her heart with each rising of the sun. Fifteen years later, and screams still echoed within her. The anguish propelled her forward, and she grabbed Oba’s arm. “Please.”

  His eyes hardened again, and she lost hope.

  WILLIAM THATCHER RAINER dismounted his horse and let out an exclamation of disgust. When his horse startled, he patted his neck. “Whoa, boy! Sorry I scared you.”

  The horse settled and turned his head to stare at his owner. Thatcher picked up the foreleg and dug in the hoof to remove the rock. “It’s my own fault, for not noticing.” He surveyed his horse and then his eyes swept the area. A thick canopy let only a few rays of sunlight filter through, resulting in very little undergrowth. The trail, packed hard, was barely visible. Was it even a trail? He’d seen no sign of civilization for the past ten miles, no sign of settlers in this area.

  The last town he’d traveled through lay thirty or more miles to the east. Berren might be leading him on a wild goose chase, or worse, into a trap. This was a deserted area, with no hope of help, if he needed it. But why would he? He wasn’t afraid of dying.

  He turned in a circle and wondered who would live so deep in these woods, this far from civilization. Berren wouldn’t have come this way, or if he did, he’d lost the trail.

  His mind had been on other matters. For some reason, riding along the vast area of level land near the forest had brought forth memories of Isabella.

  The memory of her made him careless. She’d looked to him for protection, and he’d left her. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been standing at the edge of the field and watched him as he rode away. She’d been silhouetted against the sky, standing on a knoll, and tears streamed down her face. And he’d ridden away, so sure she’d be safe in the community without him.

  Her memory never faded.

  He patted his horse’s neck again. Johnny Bell would have to be led. Even without a rider, the horse had a noticeable limp. “C’mon, boy. We can’t stand around here all day.”

  Thatcher’s gaze swept the area as they walked along. While it was true the undergrowth provided no place for a man to hide, the large trunks of the trees offered plenty of cover.

  There was no sign anyone else had been this way, but someone like Berren could easily cover his tracks.

  After they’d been walking for an hour or so, he stopped, and Johnny Bell bumped into his shoulder.

  “Whoa, boy. Let me think a minute.” He allowed himself a moment to relax. He dropped the reins and moved away from the trail to sit at the base of a tree. He pulled his legs up and let his arms rest against his knees. Johnny Bell looked at him as if he were crazy before moving to a patch of grass. Thatcher needed time to think, something he’d done little of that morning.

  The sound of crying drove him to his feet. It was in the distance but definitely the cries of a woman. These woods were not totally devoid of humans as he had thought. He cocked his head to listen more intently. Echoing sounds often drove folks in the wrong direction, and it took him a moment to orient himself to the sound.

  He was unfamiliar with this area, with this type of forest, with towering trees. The sounds bouncing around him might confuse anyone. He stood perfectly still before he tied Johnny Bell to a tree limb and slipped off the trail.

  His instincts were right. The sounds grew louder and made his heart constrict.

  He crept forward until a clearing, down a gentle slope, came into view. With so little brush, he crouched behind a tree, and then slid onto his belly and used his elbows to pull himself forward. A scene pl
ayed out before him. A woman grasped an older man’s arm whose hands held a rifle. Thatcher lowered himself even farther, wallowing out a depression in the ground. A small cabin, its grayed boards blending so well with the bark of the trees that it was barely visible, stood less than a hundred feet from where Thatcher lay.

  The older man pointed, and his words carried clearly to Thatcher. “Get in the house. Now.”

  The woman did as the man ordered, her head down, sobs shaking her slim shoulders. The man raised his gun at something hidden behind the cabin. A shot rang out, followed by a dog’s yelp, and then, silence. The man, who had a black beard with one streak of white, disappeared behind the cabin and reappeared on the other side, his face angry and contorted.

  Thatcher crossed his hands on the cool dirt in front of him and rested his chin, contemplating what he had seen. He did not jump to conclusions. Perhaps the dog had been badly hurt, even mad.

  But why would the woman try to stop the man if that was true? Perhaps the man was plain mean and enjoyed torturing animals as well as people. Unfortunately, he’d met his share of that type of man, who showed no pity, who derived pleasure from pain and the sorrow they inflicted.

  Thatcher frowned. What were they doing here anyway? It was unusual for a cabin to be nestled in woods like this, far from anywhere. Indians probably still roamed this area. The couple below was either mighty brave or mighty stupid.

  Couple? The man was many years older than the woman. Maybe it was father and daughter, although she didn’t much favor him from what he could see. If it was his daughter, why hide her away, in the middle of nowhere? Surely, she must be yearning for friends, although they might have neighbors nearby, hidden away in cabins like this one.

  He shook his head to clear it. What did it matter? He’d get Johnny Bell, walk down to the cabin, and ask the old man to make a poultice. Before he climbed to his feet, Thatcher slid over until he was hidden behind the tree. He brushed the dirt off, and crouching low, ran from tree to tree until he made it to Johnny Bell. His horse had gotten loose, wandered into the woods, and discovered a small patch of grass.

  Thatcher led him back to the trail. He now knew approximately where the little cabin set. Still, as he walked along, it remained out of sight, well hidden among the trees. After a careful search, he found a horse’s hoofprint, barely discernible.

  Lying came easy to him, and he planned to lie if he had to. He clucked to his horse and headed deeper into the woods toward the cabin.

  The man stood with his hands on his hips, cursing. Thatcher cleared his throat at the same time Johnny Bell let out a snort.

  The man startled and jerked his head in his direction. The rifle leaned against a tree, but too late, Thatcher noted the holster strapped around the man’s waist. The man pulled his gun. Thatcher reached for his, changed his mind, and let his hand fall to his side.

  When the old man leveled the gun at his head, Thatcher spoke. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Who are you and whacha doing here?” The man’s voice was raspy, as if from disuse.

  Thatcher smiled. “I’m James Owens, traveling through, and my horse pulled up lame. I was awondering if you had ...”

  “I ain’t got nothing.” The man spat tobacco juice and swiped an arm over his chin.

  The white stripe on his beard reddened with the dripping tobacco.

  Thatcher nodded. “Appreciate if you’d let me and my horse lodge in your barn.”

  “That look like a barn to you?”

  Thatcher noted the odd structure. No, it was not large enough to be a barn. It was a mere shack, windowless, about half the size of the cabin, with only a short door. To get through, a grown man would have to get down on his hands and knees. Thatcher frowned as he tried to figure out the building’s use.

  The man swung his gun in an arc. “Ain’t nothing here for you. Get going.”

  Thatcher nodded. “Sorry to disturb you, sir.” He turned and led Johnny Bell back the way they’d come. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard running. The man was behind him.

  He touched Thatcher’s arm. “Hold up.”

  He stopped and turned to face him. “Yes, sir?”

  The man pointed the gun at his chest and glared into his face. “How’d you find this place?”

  The man was so close, Thatcher smelled the stench of his breath and his unwashed body. He glanced around, seeing nothing but the gray-barked trees. This cabin had been well hidden.

  The man tapped Thatcher’s chest with the barrel of his gun. “Speak up ’fore you get a hole blown in your chest.”

  Chapter Two

  Melly stood at the edge of the window, straining to hear what Obadiah said to the strange man. Where had the cowboy come from? Her curiosity burned, and she placed an ear to the wall, next to the window. The cracks between the planks allowed her to hear the voices.

  Her face was still wet from tears, and she fumbled in her apron pocket for her handkerchief. She wiped away the tears and then fingered the lace sewn onto the cotton square — fancy lace for such a utilitarian object. Her mother loved the finer things of life and had bought the lace from an Irish woman at a shop she barely remembered. It had been in Missouri, so long ago. Thirteen years? No, more like fifteen.

  The lace had held up well, probably because Melly took such care in the laundering of it. It was one of the few things she had left from her mother, the only reminder of her life before ...

  She broke off the thought and knelt, so Oba wouldn’t see her. Luckily, his intense gaze was turned on the man. As Melly watched, her heart thumped in her ears. What if Obadiah killed him? Her hands trembled as she twirled the handkerchief around and around, until her fingers were entangled.

  A soft sigh of relief escaped her lips when the man started walking away. She gasped when Oba scurried after him, as fast as any rat she’d ever seen. When he hit the man in the chest with his gun, she brought her fisted hand to her mouth. The man’s calmness amazed her. She watched until Oba nodded, lowered the gun, and the man left. She remained rooted to the spot until Oba turned toward her. She ducked her head when his eyes sought the window.

  Breathing a hurried prayer, she replaced her handkerchief in her apron pocket and moved to the table. She steadied her shaking hands and snatched a bowl off the shelf and stuck it under the sifter. The flour flew as she quickly turned the handle. The flour settled over her, probably turning her white as a ghost. She had more than enough flour to make biscuits, water biscuits. They didn’t have a cow, had never had a cow, out here in the woods.

  After she added the baking powder and a pinch of salt, she measured out the lard and worked it into the flour with her hands. After the lard was evenly worked through, she rinsed her hands in the bowl of water she kept handy on the table, expressly for the purpose of keeping her hands moist as she rolled out dough into biscuits.

  She’d already had another iron skillet ready. She deftly rolled the dough in the palms of her hands and placed them in the skillet, pressing them down slightly. When she finished, she dribbled bacon grease over the tops, slid the pan into the oven, and closed the door.

  She licked her dry bottom lip and peered out the kitchen window, set higher than the other two in the cabin. She could see nothing.

  A pot of beans had simmered on the back of the stove all morning, and she brought the pot to the table to cool a bit. She hated the taste of the dried lima beans, but it was mostly what they lived on. That and a small amount of meat, usually, a rabbit or squirrel. Today it was squirrel, and she’d skinned and cleaned it earlier. She melted lard in another iron skillet while she cut the squirrel into smaller pieces and salted and floured them and then carefully dropped them into the hot grease.

  Oba came in when she fished out the last of the fried squirrel. She pushed the hot skillet to the back of the stove to cool and checked the biscuits. The tops were browned to perfection, and she grabbed a dishrag to wrap around her hand and pulled the skillet from the oven. She turned the sk
illet over onto a plate. The biscuits came out together, and the smell was heavenly. She so longed for butter to slather on but would have to make do with apple jelly she’d made from wild apples Obadiah had gathered. The thought made her stomach growl.

  Oba sat down at the table and threw a sideways glance at her but didn’t say anything until she had the food on the table. He frowned. “Where’s the gravy?”

  “I didn’t make any, but it will only take a second ...” She turned to the stove, berating herself for her stupidity.

  “No, no. This is food enough.”

  Sometimes, Oba’s kindness surprised her. She twisted around to peer at him as he dipped a large portion of beans onto his plate.

  He indicated a chair. “Sit. I gotta talk to you.”

  She took a seat and folded her hands in her lap, trying her best to look composed.

  He took a spoonful of beans and held them posed to go into his mouth. “I reckon you seen that cowboy?”

  She looked down at her hands and shook her head. “A cowboy?” Despite her best efforts, her voice quavered. She watched him through her lashes.

  He chewed the beans, swallowed, and took a drink of water, his eyes on her the entire time. “You know good and well who I mean. I seen you looking out the window.”

  She kept silent, knowing whatever she said would only make matters worse.

  He shoveled more beans into his mouth and spoke as he chewed. “We gotta go. As soon as I finish eating, pack everything up.”

  She twisted her hands. “But —”

  “No buts. We’re leaving. That nosey fellow —” He broke off to shove more beans into his mouth and to take a bite of the fried squirrel. He picked up another piece and squinted at it. “Ain’t much meat on this ’un.”

  She had to look away. Although she ate most everything else Oba shot and brought home, she never could stand the thought of eating squirrel. This squirrel had been especially thin, and a shadow of sadness fell over her as she nodded.