His Blessing in Disguise: A Western Historical Romance Novel Page 2

"You'll see."

  Chapter Two

  There was only one thought in her mind as Layla snuck from the house in the wee hours of the morning: Get out.

  Jacob was sleeping soundly and so were the rest of his boys, if you could call the gang of six that. They had lived side-by-side for the past three years, but now, it was time for her to leave. There was no regret in her heart as she tiptoed down the stairs to the sound of deep snores. She held her breath with every step; she couldn't get caught.

  A series of snorts made her freeze halfway down the stairs. Laya's heart raced in her chest and she clutched her small bundle of clothes to her chest, as she waited for the sound of a voice. There was none, and after several tense seconds, she continued her escape.

  She found the horses tied to a tree at the back of the house. The chestnut stallion whinnied softly, and Layla quickly hushed him to keep him quiet, smoothing her hand over his coat. She was almost safely away and couldn't risk getting caught now. Layla tied a knot at the front of her skirt. The layers of long fabric would only prove cumbersome on the journey she was undertaking, and she could ill afford any holdups.

  Layla loosened the reins and led the horse away. He was a good horse, one she'd ridden on more than one occasion when Jacob had allowed it. Her husband rarely permitted her to leave the house—it was her place, he said, and he wanted to keep her there always. Layla had other ideas.

  More than a mile away from the house, she finally swung a leg up and pulled herself into the saddle. She looked behind her to see if anyone followed, but there was no sign or sound to indicate that there was. Turning to the sky ahead, Layla let out a cry she'd never given before, kicked her heels into the horse's flanks, and took off.

  She had no idea where she was going. No plan, just a desire for something more, something better. She was chasing that feeling and hoping, praying, for the best. Despite what people believed, you could correct mistakes. And Layla was determined to fix her own.

  Silvertown slowly vanished behind her, and by the time the sun rose, she was already a town away—but she wasn't stopping. She didn't know where she would end up, but she was sure to know it when she got there.

  The days were hot and long as Layla continued on her journey. She stopped in several towns to water the horse and buy food, but she did her best to stay out of sight. If Jacob cared, he'd follow her, but she hoped he wouldn't. Her husband had never shown her an ounce of affection since the day they’d married. All he wanted was a cook and a washerwoman to tend to him and his boys, and for three years, she'd endured it. No more.

  She saw the wagon train long before she got close to it, several of them in a line crossing the plain. It was like a blessing from God. She’d made it this far without running into trouble, but she had a lot more country to cross before she found a place for herself. A wagon train was the perfect way to find protection and anonymity. She raced toward it, holding her hat to her head as she went. It was an impromptu purchase before she’d left the last town. Unfortunately, Layla hadn't thought to buy pins to keep it in place.

  "Someone's coming," she heard a man's voice announce as she approached. She could see the other men sit up in their saddles to look in her direction. Some turned their guns along with their heads. "Who goes there?" the man called to her.

  "A friend," Layla answered breathlessly.

  "It's a woman!" someone exclaimed. Layla looked, but she couldn't pinpoint the speaker.

  "Yes," she answered the first speaker. "I wanted to join you."

  "Where're yah headed?" he asked.

  "I don't know," she replied honestly. "I'm just goin'."

  He looked her over carefully. "We're goin' to Pilcher. Some of the party is leavin' at Richstone," he informed her.

  There was promise in the town's name. Perhaps that was the reason it called to her the moment the man uttered it. Something come alive inside her as she thought about starting over there.

  "Richstone it is," Layla confirmed. "Thank you."

  "You best get in the middle," the man instructed. "The name's Rupert Lachlan."

  "Layla McCarthy," she answered with a nod, then guided her horse to the center of the caravans. Several female faces looked out at her from the cover of the wagons. "What kind of wagon train is this?" she asked.

  Rupert chuckled. "Mail-order brides. You should fit right in."

  Layla laughed. Luck was with her.

  "Yer real fortunate," he continued. "We were due to pass this way days ago, but one of the ladies had a baby and we had to stop for a while."

  Her smile brightened. Luck was not sufficient to describe her fortune—'a blessing’ was much better.

  The days passed, and Layla became more familiar with her company. There were women from across the ocean amongst them. Bernadette was a pretty redhead from Ireland, who had come to marry a man named Nathaniel who lived in Richstone. Cooper was the man driving them to the town to meet her intended.

  "By letter? Really?" Layla questioned, incredulous. "I didn't think you could fall in love without meetin'."

  Bernadette smiled. "’Course yah can."

  "All of us did," another bride agreed. Layla had never met a group of women like them. They each came from a different background, even though some came from the same town, but each had the same dream. It was a dream Layla shared.

  The group left the main train for Richstone two days later. The town was three days away, and the feeling of anticipation was palpable.

  She was saddle-sore by the last day and had to dismount to ease her discomfort.

  "Layla, what're yah doin'?” Cooper asked, concerned, when one of the women told him she'd stopped.

  "I just need a few minutes," she assured him, raising a hand in acknowledgment.

  "Do yah want us to wait fer yah?"

  She shook her head. "There's no need. Go on, I'll be right behind."

  It took longer than she’d expected for the pain to ease. By the time it did, the wagon was miles ahead, and the sun was already dipping toward the horizon. She needed to catch up.

  Layla forced herself back into the saddle and kicked at the horse's sides to spur him on. She was almost there. Her freedom was at hand.

  She was so excited that she hardly recognized the pace. It wasn't long before she'd crossed the town's borders and was only a few feet from her companions. She pulled hard on the reins to bring the horse to a stop, calling out as she did so.

  Layla had noticed the man who approached her long before she'd made it to town. He’d been watching her, and she wondered why. It was soon clear as he began questioning her.

  Where was he taking her? The deputy had already interrogated her extensively and rebuked her reckless behavior. Was he taking her to continue his cross-examination? As they approached the sheriff's office, Layla's heart began to beat harder with every step. Then, to her surprise, they kept going. She looked back in confusion but said nothing.

  They passed through the maze of streets that spiraled outward from the center of town in three rings. Richstone was built in a coil out from the centre of town. There were several side alleys that could be traversed, and as Layla tried to follow the twists and turns, she soon became a little confused. The buildings and turns all looked similar and, as she looked back, she couldn’t recall if she had made one turn or two. It was a lot different to her one-road town and the small, isolated house she was used to.

  She moved slowly; the saddle sores made walking uncomfortable, but she did her best to hide it from the deputy. There would be time later to learn the layout of the town—for now, Layla's mind was preoccupied with where she was going.

  The house was small, even compared to the others they passed. Smoke billowed from the single chimney, and Layla wondered who lived there. The windows were black with dirt, preventing anyone from seeing in or out.

  Deputy Jones knocked on the door. Several seconds passed before there was an answer. The woman who stepped out smiled immediately at the sight of him.

  "Annabelle,"
Deputy Jones greeted. "How've you been?"

  "Doin' as best I can," she answered pleasantly. "My hands are aching somethin' fierce these days."

  "Doc Ryan told me," he replied. "I was hoping it'd ease."

  She smiled again. "At my age, you expect these kinds of things."

  "What? You're still sixteen," he mused. The woman smiled with him.

  "No, I'm not, but this young lady sure is close." Annabelle turned to Layla, who took the opportunity to get a better look at the woman.

  Annabelle had strands of black amidst the silver in her hair, but age clouded her brown eyes. Deep wrinkles marked her brow and cheeks, giving her permanent smile lines. Still, there was a sweetness in her appearance that made Layla feel instantly at ease.

  "Mrs. Annabelle Baker, may I present Miss Layla McCarthy. Miss McCarthy, Annabelle Baker," Deputy Jones introduced.

  "Hello, Mrs. Baker," Layla said, extending her hand in greeting. Annabelle looked at her hand but didn't take it.

  "I'm sorry, dear, I don't have the strength," she explained.

  "I'm sorry," Layla apologized, briskly pulling her hand back.

  "Don't be, it's not your fault," Annabelle said with a smile.

  "Annabelle," Deputy Jones interjected. "Miss McCarthy is looking for a place to stay. Knowing about your hands and the difficulty you've been having, I thought if you two got along, she might be able to stay here and help you around the house. It could be her way of paying room and board."

  Incredulously, Layla looked at the deputy, then shifted her gaze to Annabelle. The older woman seemed to be considering the proposal. "If she doesn't mind living with an old woman," she said finally, with a grin in Layla’s direction.

  "Do you?" the deputy questioned.

  "No, sir. I most certainly do not," Layla answered quickly.

  He smiled. "Well, I guess that settles where you're gonna stay."

  Layla's mouth dropped open at how easily he’d found her a place to live, and free of cost. She looked at Annabelle. "Thank you, Mrs. Baker."

  "Call me Annabelle, and the pleasure's mine. It'll be nice to have someone around to talk to."

  Deputy Jones nodded. "Now, you still need a job."

  "I can do anything," Layla said in a rush. "Cooking, cleaning, sewing—you just name it, and I can do it."

  "Is that so?" he asked curiously. "What about tending bar?"

  "I've never done it before, but I'm sure I could. I would need someone to show me what to do," Layla answered hesitantly. "Whose bar?"

  "Mine," Deputy Jones replied. "I have to warn you that the patrons can get a bit rowdy at times, but I keep a tight rein on 'em. Wages are two dollars and thirty cents a week."

  Shock shook deep within her as she looked at the man beside her. After all his questioning, Layla was sure he had intended to take her to the hoosegow, but instead, he'd brought her to Annabelle. Now, he was offering her a way to earn a living—something she hadn't done in three years.

  Emotion trembled her lips and filled her eyes with tears. It had been a long time since anyone had been this kind to her. She didn't know what to say or do in response.

  "I..." she started, but words failed her.

  "Go on, dear," Annabelle urged kindly. "Cat got yer tongue?"

  Layla nodded wordlessly. What could she say besides thank you?

  "You don't even know me," she managed, finally. "Why would you help me? Either of you?"

  Annabelle chuckled. "Where have you been that this is such a surprise, child? Aren't people kind where yer from?"

  Layla didn't correct Annabelle's comment. It was kindly meant.

  "It's the right thing to do," Deputy Jones added. "We help each other in this town. You'll learn that the longer yer here."

  His words sent another wave of emotion through her. Richstone was the right choice, Layla could see it already. It was the perfect place to start her life over.

  "I can't thank you enough," she said, her voice cracking. "I—"

  "Oh, sweetheart, you're all speechless," Annable interrupted. "If you didn't know kindness where you came from, you'll sure know it here. I promise. Richstone is full of good-hearted people.” She smiled at Deputy Jones. "The kind who care about an old woman on her own."

  The deputy smiled back at Annabelle. He almost seemed embarrassed.

  "Thank you, Deputy Jones," Layla was finally able to mutter through sniffles.

  "You don't need to mention it," he answered. "I was happy to help. Both of you."

  "We are both grateful," Annabelle confirmed. "Now, I think this young lady needs to get settled. I'm sure she's had a long journey. Where did you say you were from?"

  "Silvertown," Layla told her.

  "And where're yer things?" the older woman asked, looked back at Deputy Jones. "Did you leave them at the sheriff's office?"

  The deputy looked at her. "This is all she has," he answered honestly.

  "I see," Annabelle replied as she turned to Layla. "Well, I 'spose we'll need to go to the general store soon for some fabric."

  "But I have no money to pay for fabric," Layla admitted.

  "I didn't say who'd pay for it," Annabelle pointed out. "So, don't you trouble your head."

  "I have to be getting back to the station," Deputy Jones informed them as he looked from Layla to Annabelle. "I trust I can leave you two to get better acquainted?"

  "We'll be best friends in no time," the older woman declared.

  "I'm sure we will," Layla agreed, a genuine smile creeping across her face. "You just tell me where you want me to start in the house and I'll get right to it."

  "Stop that," Annabelle chided gently. "You just got here. Rest first, work later."

  "Yes, ma'am," Layla said with a grin. She felt distinctly like a child, but in the best kind of way. She could hardly remember the last time someone had cared so much about her needs or comfort.

  "Well, you two ladies have a good evening. I'll call around ten to take Miss McCarthy over to the saloon and show her around."

  "I'll make sure she has a good breakfast before you arrive," Annabelle said. "You have a good evening."

  "Yes, Deputy, have a good evening," Layla chorused. She stood with Annabelle and watched him leave.

  "Come inside, dear, it's gettin' chilly," Annabelle suggested as she stepped back into the house. Layla followed, looking out onto the street before she closed the door.

  Annabelle chuckled as Layla followed her inside. "That Peter Jones is somethin' else, I tell you. He's the heart of this town. The breathing, bleeding heart of it. He cares more than most—and gets far less than he deserves, I reckon.” She turned to Layla with a smile. "You'll see it for yourself, in time."

  Layla smiled back, but she was far from convinced. Life had taught her the hard way that all that glitters was far from gold. She wasn't about to make that same mistake again by rushing to conclusions about people. She would wait it out and see for herself.

  Chapter Three

  Three weeks passed like three days, yet it felt more like years since Layla came to Richstone. The young woman fit amongst them as if she’d been raised there.

  And Peter was not the only one who felt so, either. The patrons of the Whispering Whistle were beyond pleased with their new barwoman. They liked her so much, they no longer needed his presence there—Layla took care of everything.

  In the short time she’d worked for him, Layla had proven herself to be more than capable. She had taken over as if she’d done that type of work her entire life. In all honestly, it had taken Layla less time to grasp it than it had Peter, which was saying a lot.

  Peter had bought the building that would become the Whispering Whistle from Jude Pearce six years ago. Pearce was a feisty curmudgeon of a man who liked his liquor straight and his women round. It was the event of his marriage to a particularly plump lady which had triggered his urge to sell the small restaurant and move to Mexico City. The building became Peter’s that very day, and every day since, Peter had given his all to
see it succeed. However, when it was all said and done, he was left to wonder if the effort he had put in was worth the price it had cost him.

  Peter sat at the far end of the bar, watching her. He couldn’t help himself—it was something far too easy to do. Layla moved with grace behind the bar. It didn’t matter who was in front of her or what their condition was, she treated them all the same. She was pleasant and pretty, but there was still plenty about her that Peter didn’t know. That was what worried him.

  Layla had said very little about where she’d come from and what she’d left behind. The feeling he had when she arrived had yet to fade, but so far, nothing had happened. No one had come looking for her, and she hadn’t caused a single problem with anyone in town. She was oddly perfect. And Peter didn’t believe in perfection.