Where Wind Meets Wave (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 6), page 1
Where Wind
meets Wave
Also by Caroline Fyffe
Prairie Hearts Series
Where The Wind Blows
Before The Larkspur Blooms
West Winds of Wyoming
Under a Falling Star
Whispers on the Wind
Where Wind Meets Wave
McCutcheon Family Series
Montana Dawn
Texas Twilight
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Evie
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Heather
Moon Over Montana
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Kathryn
Montana Snowfall
Texas Lonesome
Stand Alone Western Historical
Sourdough Creek
Stand Alone Contemporary Women’s Fiction
Three And A Half Minutes
About the Book
Drawn from Wyoming Territory for the first time in his life, Jake Costner sets off to find his destiny, leaving his love behind in Logan Meadows. Where Wind Meets Wave, Book 6 of the Prairie Hearts series by USA Today bestselling author Caroline Fyffe, will keep you on the edge of your seat.
Discovering his saloon-girl mother has known all along who sired him, Jake takes his fate into his own hands and travels away from the only family he’s ever known. Unaware of what awaits him at the end of his train ride, Jake discovers not only a dying father, but a surprise that will change his life—forever. More is on the line than returning to Logan Meadows, where Daisy Smith awaits the wedding he’s promised.
Given new awakenings, bitter sorrow, and a daring escape, will Jake return a whole man? Or will the happiness he and Daisy have been building for the last two years be lost where wind meets wave?
Where Wind
meetsWave
A Prairie Hearts Novella
Book Six
Caroline
Fyffe
Where Wind Meets Wave
Copyright © 2016 by Caroline Fyffe
All rights reserved by the author.
www.carolinefyffe.com
Where Wind Meets Wave is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is wholly coincidental.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, recording, by information storage and retrieval or photocopied, without permission in writing from Caroline Fyffe.
Edited by Bulletproof Editing & Lustre Editing
Cover design by Kelli Ann Morgan
Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Proudly Published in the United States of America
ISBN # 978-1-944617-00-4
Table of Contents
Also by Caroline Fyffe
About the Book
Dedication
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
~~~Author’s Note~~~
Acknowledgements
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Dedication
For my wonderful son, Matthew, for all the help and support.
You keep me on track.
Love you!
Chapter One
October 1883, Somewhere between Wyoming and Oregon, Union Pacific Rail Line
The clickety-clack of the train wheels agitated Jake’s ragged nerves and kept him from falling asleep. Eyes gritty with fatigue ached as if a ten-pound weight were laid atop each lid. Bracing his boot on the back of the seat in front of him, he tried to get comfortable. His five-day trip was about to come to an end. Rest on a solid surface would be welcome.
What will my life look like this time tomorrow?
The door between the two passenger cars opened and a porter carrying a lantern stepped inside, the amber glow infusing the dark space. He was older, heavyset, his uniform rumpled and worn. He ambled down the aisle, glancing at the sleeping passengers.
When he got to Jake, he stopped. “You haven’t gotten much sleep since you boarded, young man.”
Jake shrugged. The man was right, but what could he say?
The porter chuckled. “Didn’t mean no offense. Just gets mighty lonely on the night shift. All the passengers snoring away and me havin’ ta stay awake. I noticed you haven’t been one of ’em.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Jake whispered. He wished he could be one of the sleepers.
“Some people don’t cotton to the rocking motion. Never get used to it.”
That was only part of the problem. “Thanks, but I’ll be getting off tomorrow. I appreciate your concern.”
The man smiled and moved on, leaving Jake to his pondering.
Tomorrow was just around the corner. What would he find? Would his father even be able to talk? Had his sickness gotten worse? Or had he died?
At the thought, a flash of molten fire ignited in his belly, but he tamped it back.
After all these years, he’d meet his father. Jake’s mother had sworn she hadn’t known who his father was. Being a saloon girl for most of her adult life, she’d entertained more than her fair share of men. That falsehood had been just another in her long list of lies.
Jake pushed back the anger gnawing at his gut. Now, as if in a dream, he was about to meet the man whose blood flowed through his own veins.
Provided he arrived in time.
The train jerked violently and then rocked back and forth before chugging onward. This section of track through the Willamette Valley to the Oregon coast seemed rougher and the train had slowed, sometimes almost to a crawl.
Several seats in front of him, a burly man who’d been snoring for the past hour sat up at the disturbance and looked around. He cast one questioning look at Jake before settling back onto his seat. Farther up the car, a mother, huddled with three children in a pile of arms and legs, whispered and shushed them back to sleep.
Jake swallowed and turned his gaze to the deep, foreboding darkness on the other side of the window. He’d never been out of Wyoming Territory.
Jake Costner.
He couldn’t get used to thinking of himself in those terms. For his whole life, he’d been Jake. Just Jake.
What’s Daisy doing now? The question was never far from his mind. He glanced down at the book resting on the seat beside him. The Last of the Mohicans. Daisy’s parting gift, but he was far too preoccupied to read.
On the eve before he’d departed Wyoming, he’d lain awake for hours, keyed up and uncomfortable. Chase and Jessie had insisted he and his best friend, Gabe, spend the night in the large, rustic ranch house with them, even though the two young men normally lived in the bunkhouse with the other ranch hands. Jake hadn’t wanted to put out his adoptive family, hadn’t wanted to make a bigger deal of his leaving in search of his father than it already was. But Jessie usually had her way when the subject in question was her family and making them feel special.
She’d gone to great lengths preparing his going-away supper, cooking up all his favorites. Pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, pumpkin pie with thick, sweet cream on top. Using the buggy, he’d picked up Daisy in Logan Meadows and brought her out to the ranch.
A hefty sigh escaped. That evening felt like ten years ago instead of four days. Then later that night, when he’d taken Daisy back into town, he’d driven off the road where they could say their good-byes in private. They’d kissed under the moonlight, the farewell bittersweet.
She hadn’t said as much, but he knew she hadn’t wanted him to go. She was frightened, worried he’d find something better and not return. Didn’t she know how much he loved her? Would give his life for her? Just as soon as he had this business behind him and returned, he’d erase all the doubt from her mind.
He dragged his thoughts away from Daisy.
The train would reach the coast first thing in the morning. Would his father still be alive? He wished the letter his mother had brought to town had gone into a little more detail. As exciting as the prospect was, Jake didn’t like walking in blind. If he and Daisy were lucky enough to have a son or daughter, he’d be a good father, watch over any child of his carefully.
Jake withdrew the post from his pocket and took the missive from the envelope. He searched for something he might have missed. After all these years of wondering who the man was, the prospect of actually meeting him now had Jake’s mouth as dry as sand—or perhaps the hours he’d been riding this iron horse were responsible.
“Newport! Yaquina Bay!” a deep baritone voice called out.
Jake jerked awake as the train slowly rolled to a stop.
The small family several seats in front of him squirmed in excitement, their faces and hands pressed to the grimy glass.
He glanced outside. The cloud-covered sun was midway past the gray horizon. He’d finally fallen asleep, only to wake much later than normal.
“I believe this is your stop, young fella.”
The same porter from last night stood at his seat. His smile revealed a missing front tooth Jake hadn’t noticed before.
“Pick up your travel chest at—”
“Don’t have a trunk,” Jake said, interrupting him. “Just this bag, my saddlebags, and a horse.”
“In that case, when you go to retrieve your horse, be aware a prison camp sits close to where you’ll be collecting your animal. Best not hang around. A few months back, a civilian was almost killed when he got curious, crossed the tracks, and approached the fence.”
That was a term Jake wasn’t familiar with. “Prison camp? Here on the coast?”
“Yes, sir. Hard-core criminals being transported up from San Francisco by ship to meet another vessel bound for Alaska. They’ll live out their sentences in a gold mine on the Kenai Peninsula.”
“You mean lives, don’t you?”
The conductor nodded and then turned to go. “Pretty much. The stories the guards bring back freeze your blood.” Ambling away, the man stopped to chat with the family now hopping up and down with excitement like a bunch of prairie dogs.
Jake stood, stretched, and worked out the kinks in his neck and back. He hadn’t eaten much on the way, and now a ferocious hunger burned in his belly. Once he picked up his horse, he’d find some food and a bathhouse. Get cleaned up.
After reaching overhead, he lifted down his soft leather saddlebag and tossed it over one shoulder, then went for his bag. Covering the distance in eight paces, he arrived at the front and took the three narrow steps, descending into the chilly morning air, unaware of what his future might hold.
He paused and looked around. Coastal mountains to the north and south were small compared to what he was used to in Wyoming. A gloomy slate-gray sky, so different from the vivid, welcoming blue of home, hung low over the land and then disappeared into the Pacific Ocean. The salty air had a biting chill and smelled like rotting fish. Gusts of wind moved women’s skirts and bonnets as they rushed into the arms of their waiting family and friends.
Everything about this place seemed to want to drive him away—the wind pushing him back toward the train, the clouds pressing down upon his body, the mocking cry of the seagulls.
Go home, they all said. You don’t belong here.
Feeling alone, Jake pulled down his hat and started for the rear of the train, the weight of his .45 Colt, the only familiar sense keeping him grounded.
Had he arrived in time? Or had he made this long trip for nothing?
Chapter Two
Jake waited with several men at the stock car as a railroad employee began unloading the horses. One by one, they came down the slanted ramp. A flighty blood bay was led down first and handed over to a large fellow. Next came two stocky quarter horses, by the looks of their conformation.
As Jake waited, he glanced across another set of tracks to an old train car surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence, the strands only an inch apart. The two men who stood guard looked more disreputable than the two inside. Their tattered US army uniforms had seen better days. The prisoners wore loose-fitting black-striped pants and shirts, as well as small striped hats.
“Your horse?”
Jerked out of his gawking, Jake spun around. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“You’re the last bloke here. One horse, one man.”
Jake took Joker’s lead rope.
“Wait one minute and I’ll get his gear.” The man hurried off.
Jake turned his attention back to the two convicts who sat listlessly on a long bench. Nothing else occupied the compound except a fire pit and a rickety outhouse. The men stared off at the far horizon, which had a glimpse of Yaquina Bay.
The dark hair and large shoulders of the fellow on the end caught Jake’s attention. He didn’t have a clear look at the man’s face, but something about the sharpness of his profile made Jake stare. Something seemed familiar.
The man swayed and then mumbled to the skinny fellow beside him.
Jake sucked in a breath of surprise. Dalton Babcock? Could that possibly be? Or was the man a look-alike?
Indecision warred inside Jake. Why would Dalton be a prisoner? He’d arrived in Logan Meadows last April, the day the Pacific Union train wrecked at Three Pines Turn, one of three men hired by the First National Bank of Denver to transport a large amount of money to San Francisco.
In the beginning of this month, Albert Preston, the sheriff of Logan Meadows, had received a letter from Dalton. He was doing well but planned to come back to Logan Meadows as soon as he finished his current job assignment. Make the town his home.
What had happened? Had he committed a crime and been tried and sentenced that quickly? That outcome didn’t seem possible. He was a good man with a good reputation.
“This is it,” the stockman said, setting Jake’s saddle, blanket, and bridle next to him on the ground.
Troubled, all Jake could do was nod. Finally, after checking his gear, he found his voice. “I hear those prisoners are bound for Alaska.”
“That’s right. Just as soon as the merchant ship returns.”
“When would that be?”
“Don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next month. Just depends on the weather the ship encounters on its return voyage.” The man shielded his eyes from the sun that had peeked out from a cloud, looking at the camp. “Unlucky chaps. It’s no secret the conditions are mighty ugly where they’re going—and that’s before the bitter cold sets in. I guess it’s a fitting punishment for hardened killers.” The man eyed him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.” Jake bent over for his saddle blanket and tossed it up on Joker’s back.
“You best not be curious anymore. Those guards strike faster than a rattlesnake. Stay out of their way.”
Jake stared him in the eye. “I’m not interested in criminals.”
Dalton Babcock, if that’s him, is no criminal. That’s the only surety of the situation.
Jake took one more quick look in time to see the man slump to the side. He’d have fallen from the bench if the small man next to him hadn’t grasped his shirtsleeve and pulled him upright.
Was he sick? Hurt?
Maybe the fellow wasn’t Dalton after all. The man Jake knew was strong and tall. Fierce, with those piercing eyes the color of caramel or gold, like an eagle’s. He was a strong-willed man too. One who believed in law and order, or so he’d thought.
Would Dalton have turned to crime in the short time since he wrote the letter to Albert? Or had someone done this to him? This man was sick, or hurt. If that was Dalton, then Jake was certain something was wrong.
A need for answers pushed up in Jake’s chest. Somehow, some way, he needed to find out what was going on—before the ship arrived.
Chapter Three
“Pay attention, Freddy!”
Adaline Costner gripped the ruler she used to illustrate her point when she’d much rather wield the tool to rap the unruly eight-year-old on his knuckles. With revulsion, she snatched away the spitball he was about to flick at Jasper, the family’s house cat asleep on a parlor chair, and dropped the soggy ball of paper into the trash can before she discreetly wiped her fingers on her skirt.
“You failed your last mathematics test. No wonder your parents are none too happy with your studies. You need to take your assignments seriously.”
