Pioneer passion, p.1
Pioneer Passion, page 1
PIONEER PASSION
Thérèse Kraemer
Copyright Therese Kramer 2013
Published by Spangaloo at Smashwords
Spangaloo Edition
http://spangaloo.com
©Thérèse A. Kraemer
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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
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Epilogue
Chapter One
Thin clouds veiled the California full moon, casting eerie shadows on the ground. Guy Strong wiped his brow feeling Nature’s warm breath cover him like a woolen blanket. The heat seemed to stifle the night air as it spit out an occasional lightning bolt from the sky. The flash gave him a glimpse of its beauty. Somewhere in the distance a wolf’s howl pierced the night that surrounded the small mining town of Osage. He assumed most good folks were in bed and others were too engrossed in their own pleasures to care for any sounds that spilled into the night.
“C’mon boy, we’ve lollygagged too long, let’s see what’s ahead.” Guy nudged his mount forward and trotted down the main street into town. In the distance assorted whoops and hollers radiated into the night and he heard music coming from inside a local tavern. As he trotted closer, the song, Old Susanna rumbled louder from a piano sorely in need of tuning. Even so, it brought back the memory of his mother singing that song to him when he had sat on her knee. He shook the image out of his head because those were better times. Tying the reins to a hitching post he decided to have a drink before he ventured on. Along with the jingle of his spurs as he entered the smoke-filled room, and the clamor and tinny music, he noticed in the back a card game was underway. Guy suspected that most were locals who returned nightly to lose the mining profits of the day. He knew from meeting a few miners that some days were better than others but good or bad, they couldn’t pass up a nightly game. The only difference tonight was that he had a mind to join in the game.
A deep voice drew his attention to a big fella wearing a coonskin cap. “I’ll see you and raise another fifty,” declared the gambler. Guy heard gold coins the man threw in clank against those coins already there. He watched smiling at the low rumble of voices buzzing around the table. Someone cleared his throat and three of the five men in the game threw in their cards. The game was now between a man he thought appeared to be in his early twenties and an older man who was sweating.
Unobtrusively as possible, the older man wiped his sweaty forehead with his grimy sleeve, but his perspiration was a dead giveaway. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow and traveled down his all-but-gray sideburns. To Guy the poor man looked like a cauldron of boiling water capped with a tight lid; he wonder why the man didn’t just walk away before he lost the last of his gold.
“Ya feeling lucky old man?” drawled the kid.
“Ya might say that son. I did find a vein this week, so my luck might have changed for the better.”
Guy watched the old timer shift in his seat, looking so very weary. But he figured the man had lived long enough to know what he was doing. “What will it be, old man?” asked the kid.
“I’ll call ya,” he said and laid down his cards showing three of a kind beating the kid. Someone cursed, and another bystander laughed and said, “Well, I’ll be! The boy bluffed.” The old man let out a relieved breath and murmured that his luck had indeed changed.
“Might I join you?” Guy asked drawing the attention of the big man with the coonskin hat. The kid just grumbled. “I’ve had enough, take my seat,” offered the big man and Guy nodded. “Much obliged,” he smiled and pulled out a few greenbacks from his shirt pocket. A scantly clad woman appeared, smiling seductively at him and asked, “What’cha drinking handsome?”
“A beer and a shot of whiskey,” he answered knowing she was interested in more than what he was drinking. She winked at him and said, “One boilermaker coming right up handsome.” She sashayed away and Guy thought that maybe later he’d take her up on her silent offer.
After a few rounds, the old man introduced himself to Guy as Sam, and he gave his name. He was told that the skinny kid, wet behind the ears, was Buddy. Guy said he was glad to meet them and he was just passing through. He ignored the scowl from Buddy and Sam merely shrugged at him. He was lucky and the kid left angry having lost all his gold in less than an hour. Guy wanted to call it a night but Sam insisted on playing. He noticed how pale the old man was and he tried to discourage the old timer figuring he had won enough. Sam insisted that he would like a chance to get some of his gold back and Guy simply shrugged. It only took him another few hands to beat the old man.
Sam pulled out a dirty rag and his pungent odor wafted across the table as he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. Guy noticed that all eyes were on the old man as a few patrons stood around watching the game.
“I’m out of gold, son,” he croaked, his hands shaking, “but I have a deed to my farm.” He pulled out a yellowed paper from his pocket. He trembled as he unfolded the title to the farm. Guy had a feeling that Sam believed he was holding a winning hand and would win back his gold.
A clock ticked the movements, and Guy grunted, “I’m not interested, partner.” His drawl was husky and Sam dabbed his wet brow again, perspiration trickled down his face. He took deep breath the room grew quiet except for the playing of the piano. He leaned forward looking into the Guy’s eyes. “Sir,” he swallowed, “My farm overlooks a beautiful valley. The land is worth a great deal. My house needs a little improvement, but it’s livable.”
Guy had to admit he was a bit curious.
“Sir, I ask you to let me reclaim my losses tonight.” He spread out the deed on the table, and he could tell Sam was trying to calm his nerves. Sam cleared his throat and rasped, “My homestead is a mile from town, heading west.”
He was not interested in Sam’s land and didn’t like the way the man looked. Sam’s face was flushed and his lips were very pale and they trembled. It even appeared to Guy as if the man was having difficulty breathing .And then the lines on Sam’s face tensed as if he was feeling pain. “You don’t look well, are you sure you want to keep playing?” he asked.
Sam nodded, “Just a little heart urn, I’ll be fine,” he murmured.
The old timer was dressed in a faded plaid shirt and his pants were dirty and worn, telling him that the man couldn’t afford to lose any more. Guy believed in fair play, but had a nagging feeling, the one he sometimes got when something went wrong. He decided to play out the hand and be finished with what was turning into an uneasy game. Win or lose, he’d walk away.
“Okay, old man, put up the farm,” he drawled. He took another long drag on his cheroot, then lazily snubbed out the butt with the heel of his boot. Sam smiled and showed his hand. Guy saw all eyes around him on the dirty piece of paper waiting for an owner.
“Full house,” Sam bragged.
Guy’s jaw twitched as he leaned forward. He didn’t feel good about this when he laid down four kings. The room grew still around him except for a few gasps.
Sam groaned, and then his voice sounded strained when he said, “Son, I lost fair and square.” He signaled the bartender and said,” Barkeep, a pen, please.” With a trembling hand he scratched his signature to the deed. The man then cursed and with an effort rose on unsteady legs. He fell forward clutching his chest. “God, he cried, “something’s wrong; there’s a terrible pain in my chest and I can’t bre…”
Stunned, Guy watched Sam gasp for breath and stood when he saw the man taking a backward dive onto his chair. A bystander yelled, “Hey!” and grabbed the old man before he fell to the floor. Sam’s face seemed to drain of his complexion and his eyes grew wide with fear. Guy had seen that look of fright and confusion before and he had no doubt that Sam was having some sort of a seizure. Damn, he should‘ve listen to his gut. Winning a piece of land this way was not winning in his book.
“Someone git the Doc!” a voice yelled, but Guy feared that it was too late. His suspicions were right when the bartender placed his ear to San’s chest. Shaking his head sa
At daybreak, Guy sat on his horse, Blizzard, a name that fitted the beautiful white stallion. The horse had been a gift from his parents on one of his birthdays, though he couldn’t remember which one. His last brought him to the ripe old age of twenty-eight. He was grateful for the animal and trusted friend; his superior speed had helped him out of many close calls.
Time blended slowly into the scenery as he traveled towards the farm and he reflected on the events of last evening. He knew it wasn’t really his fault the old geezer’s heart had picked that time to quit, but he couldn’t shrug off the guilty feeling. And what the hell was he going to do with a farm? After battling his conscience for the last time, he decided to see for himself what he now owned. He was tired of drifting and didn’t like the idea of returning home. This farm might be just the thing for him.
His horse snorted. Guy sat tall in the saddle to enjoy the view from the hill. He could see a small house protected by an abundance of tress that were beginning to bud. He heard chirping of baby birds and smelled a profusion of wild flowers wafting on the air. A densely wooded area ran for miles behind the house and it brought back happy memories of the days when he and his younger brother would play hide ‘n’ seek in the woods behind their house. He was aware of a dull ache at the memory and that bit of nostalgia made him miss his family, something he hadn’t thought about in awhile. He nudged Blizzard into a slow trot to get a better look, assuming it must be a pretty nice place. He rode closer and noticed some of the dry land was freshly plowed, but only a small field showed signs of new life growing. Licking his lips, he looked at the thirsty soil. Guy wasn’t a farmer but he understood the importance of rain; nature could sometimes be a man’s worst enemy. He shook his head regretfully because for some strange reason he felt an inexplicable emotion of emptiness and sadness. Was he disappointed over something he didn’t want in the first place? Maybe subconsciously he was looking forward to owning a ranch. Well, his father was right when he said son, ‘If you never expect too much in life, you’ll never be disappointed.’
“Let’s see what I got myself into.” He patted the horse’s neck and the stallion snorted as if he understood his master. Guy surveyed the surroundings feeling a tingling in his gut. The barn and house needed many repairs. “So, the place just need a little improvement, eh old man?” he snickered to himself, then added, “and to think you died over losing this.”
Close up, the place was in even worse shape than he first thought. One of the barn doors lay aslant on its hinge, there was a gaping hole on one side of the structure and its paint had pealed off years ago. A few chickens flapped and complained at his intrusion when he dismounted and tied the reins to the broken hitch outside the house. Noticing one of the steps to the porch had caved in; he wondered if it was safe to walk on it. With caution, he stepped gingerly over the flattened step and slowly made his way to the front door.
“Hello!” he shouted. The torn screen door squeaked as he opened it. Shaking his head sadly, he hollered, “Hello! Is anyone around?” The place seemed deserted. Guy scanned the large room that looked like a combination kitchen and parlor. The kitchen had a rusted wood-burning stove. A large pot sat on it simmering. He inhaled the aroma. Stew? Someone did live here, but who? he mused. Did the old man leave a wife? Damn! He hoped not, not wanting to be the one to break the sad news to her. With further inspection he noticed that in the middle of the kitchen area sat a worm-eaten table and three weather-beaten chairs that looked like they would collapse under the lightest weight. The sun beamed through windows with no panes but someone had bothered to hang up curtains. They were faded but clean; definitely a woman’s touch. A long, worm-eaten bench sat at the other end of the room where a cold fireplace, missing a few bricks, stood. Amazed at the poor condition of the place, inside and out, he shook his head again.
The aroma of the simmering pot made Guy’s stomach rumble. He had eaten nothing but dried meat and beans on the trail. He called out again before noticing a door towards the back of the cabin. He knocked sharply. No answer, so he peeked inside. It was a bedroom no bigger than a large closet with a small bed and dresser tightly squeezed into it. Again there were many panes missing from the window but like the one in the kitchen, it was adorned with curtains.
Shrugging, he returned to the main room and decided to help himself to the stew. Guy found a tin plate, took a mean share and sat, surprised the chair held his weight. But his knees rubbed the bottom of the small table when he slid into the chair. The stew was very tasty considering it held no meat. After eating his fill he pushed the chair back, rested his dirty boots on the one opposite, covered his face with his dusty hat and took a nap.
Chapter Two
Rusty Crawford patted her mule on its course hide looked up at the San Joaquin Valley’s blue sky and shouted, “If it doesn’t rain soon there’ll be no orange crop and no profit this year. Without crops and money, the farm will be lost!” She sighed thinking how things had been steadily deteriorating since her mother died. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she fanned herself with her father’s old hat, squinted west towards the Coast Range and grumbled sadly. Putting the hat back on her head to cover her tightly braided hair, she felt older than she really was. Loneliness and she were becoming good friends she thought. Snapping the whip lightly on the old mule’s hide, Rusty scolded herself as well as the stubborn animal.
“C’mon, Biscuit, we’ve got to get moving. Can’t stand here daydreaming, wishing for things we can’t control; like my lazy brother.” These words brought to mind Scott who she had sent into town for the few supplies she could afford. Small amounts of flour and some dried beans to hold them over. Thank goodness she had planted her garden again, but the water from the well would soon dry up if it didn’t rain. If it didn’t rain soon, they wouldn’t even have that.
Then how would she keep her garden green? Vegetable stew and fish from the nearby pond is all that kept them from starving.
The plowing finished, she led Biscuit into the barn. Feeling tension across the back of her shoulders, once inside she rubbed the small of her back, stretched and groaned. Rusty didn’t mind hard work, but wished Scott would take more of an interest in the place. She hated to send him into town for supplies, but she’d had no other choice. This was her livelihood and with any luck, this year’s crops would yield her enough of a profit to survive until her new saplings matured in three years. Feeling as if the world was on her small shoulders, she dragged herself to the pond to see if she had netted any fish. She found to her dismay, the patched net was empty.
“These fish are getting too smart or there aren’t too many left,” she laughed aloud. But the thought of eating vegetable stew again quickly wiped the smile from her countenance. Rusty splashed cool water on her face. She then stretched and heard a rip on her shoulder and wondered how much longer the thin shirt would hold up. As it was, she had to bind her breasts tightly to fit into her brother’s hand-me-downs. But her pa often reminded her, it was safer to hide her womanly charms. Ha! She snorted not feeling like laughing because her breasts were more of a nuisance than an asset. They were not doing her any good since she had to pretend she was a boy.
Rusty emerged from the woods carrying a bucket of water and heard the whinny of a horse before she saw the animal. Being cautious, she stopped short, spilling some of the pail’s contents. She listened again but again no sound reached her ears. Drawing her six-shooter from its holster, Rusty cocked the gun. Thanks to her pa, she had become a good shot at the age of twelve. She crept forward hoping Scott had returned from town and hastened her pace. She came to a complete stop when she saw nothing but the big white beast. Holding her breath, she leaned against the house and quickly removed her worn-out boots. The screen door opened with a slight squeak and she waited a moment before letting the wind out of her lungs. She had never been faced with the problem of a stranger in her home before and her throat went dry. She swallowed, at least she tried and her stomach clenched tight as the gun in her hand shook. Rusty pondered who she’d find in her home.
