Bound by Her Rancher's Promise, page 1
Bound by Her Rancher’s Promise
STAND-ALONE NOVEL
A Western Historical Romance Book
by
Hannah Lee Davis
Disclaimer & Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright© 2024 by Hannah Lee Davis
All Rights Reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.
Table of Contents
Bound by Her Rancher’s Promise
Disclaimer & Copyright
Table of Contents
Letter from Hannah Lee Davis
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Blurb
Prologue
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
Epilogue
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Blurb
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Your Honest Review
Letter from Hannah Lee Davis
"Life is like a bowl of soup—you've got to stir it once in a while, so all the good stuff doesn't settle at the bottom.”
Hannah Lee Davis, a spirited 65-year-old widow from Indiana who now calls Colorado home with her sister Janice as she finally embraces a long-delayed dream of becoming a published author. Her life, filled with family obligations and personal struggles including her husband's ailment, kept her pen on hold, but never stifled her imagination.
Known for her crocheting, each stitch for Ella symbolizes a crafted sentence in the heartwarming stories she's yearned to tell. Fulfilling a promise to her late husband, John, Ella's tales of enduring love and rugged courage aim to wrap readers in narratives as comforting as her homemade quilts.
Inspired by her favorite authors, Jodi Thomas, Karen Witmeyer and Francine Rivers, her stories are bound to sweep readers on their feet and transfer them back to an era where simple things mattered the most. A hug, a warm cup of coffee, an evening walk by the river.
Until next time,
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Blurb
She's sworn to never love again. But when his eyes find hers, why do the walls crumble, and sparks of forgotten emotions reignite against her will...
In the aftermath of the Civil War, Rose grapples with rebuilding her shattered life, tending to her siblings, and settling her father's debts. Grieving her lost love, she believes her heart can never beat for another man.
Andrew is now a successful rancher, still haunted by memories of war. He shields his affection for Rose behind a stoic façade of indifference. But when financial ruin threatens her family, he offers a pragmatic solution: marriage.
As they navigate this inconvenient alliance, a shadow from the past reemerges. With their family's lives at risk, can they defy these schemes and grasp at happiness before it slips away forever?
Prologue
“Promise Me”
April 3, 1866
Harrisburg, Mississippi
“No,” Andrew mumbled as he sprinted toward the medical tent. “No, no, no….”
His feet fought for traction against the muddy earth, his tall figure bent as he ran. His red hair hung in his face, but he barely noticed. Even the cries and moans of the injured soldiers as he neared the medical tent couldn’t be heard above his racing heart. He had to get there in time.
Pete! I have to reach him.
Pete had been on the front lines when the cannons fired. Andrew had no idea where he was, but he knew that if he hadn’t found him yet, he was certainly injured. He could be dying.
Andrew’s heart almost stopped at the thought.
When he finally tore through the entrance of the tent, his eyes darted across the faces of the soldiers who lay in hammocks or on the ground, skimming over the nurses tending them. He found Pete’s gaze immediately.
No!
Andrew could tell, without knowing how, that his friend was dying.
Pete saw him and grinned, or he tried to. His face was a mask of pain, brows pinched and lips curled.
He tried to sit, but Andrew held up a hand. “No, Pete. Don’t move. Let me come over.”
He marched over to Pete, doing his best to muster up his usual confidence.
“Hey,” he greeted his friend, keeping his voice soft.
“Hey,” Pete answered.
He tried to smile again but gritted his teeth, a huff of pain escaping his lips as he shifted on the pallet where he lay. Andrew tried to avoid looking down at Pete’s body, terrified of what he might see. He could smell the stench of blood like iron in the air, and Pete’s face was clammy and pale, streaked with tears that left tracks in the mud and blood staining his skin.
“Hey, Andrew,” Pete tried again, attempting a cheery greeting, but his voice was breathy, and Andrew could see the pain that every word caused.
“What happened, Grimaldi?” Andrew asked gently.
“Does it really matter now?”
Pete’s voice was hoarse and filled with pain, though he tried to mask it. Even the color of his wild brown hair seemed dulled, and his green eyes were missing their usual glint of mischief.
“I suppose not.”
He swallowed hard, his throat aching with too many unsaid words. He wanted his friend to feel at ease, so he said nothing of his worries—the wound, Pete’s condition, his fears for him. Pete grinned up at him and winced.
“How...was the battle?” Pete whispered.
“Good. We won. Obviously.”
Andrew pushed aside the sickness in his stomach and forced a grin.
Pete smiled.
“Good.”
The word was a soft outbreath, and Andrew’s heart twisted at the sound. His friend seemed peaceful now. Perhaps he’d worried about the battle’s outcome.
Andrew felt like crying, tears already stinging his eyes.
No battle was worth his friend’s life.
“Rose is going to kill you for getting so hurt, ya know,” Andrew teased.
He tried not to show his fear, hiding it behind a joke. He had to be brave for his friend. He hoped mentioning his fiancée, Rose, would comfort him.
“Ha!” Pete gave half a laugh before grimacing. “She might, at that.”
They were silent for a moment, and then Pete chuckled.
“Can’t be as bad as what Mr. Johnson did when he caught us stealin’ that horse,” he recalled.
The pair chuckled at the memory. That had been almost a decade ago when they were still just teenagers.
“That lickin’ he gave us was nothing—he just wanted to scare us straight,” Andrew reminded his friend. “That’s when I decided to turn straight.”
Pete nodded thoughtfully. “True. Without that old grump, you might’ve never gotten the ranch.”
“Without you, though, I woulda starved to death before any o’ that,” Andrew said softly. His heart ached; he owed Pete so much. “You took me in and taught me everything you knew. I….”
Andrew trailed off. He could barely find the words to tell Pete how grateful he was for their friendship. If Pete had never found him, Andrew might not even be alive. Life was tough as an orphan, especially alone. Pete had entered Andrew
“Well, without you, I woulda never met Rose, so I think we’re even.” Pete winked and then fell into a fit of coughing.
Andrew grimaced.
“Save your strength, Pete,” he told him gently. “Don’t try to talk.”
His friend lay back, breathing deeply. Andrew stood where he was, lost in thought as he studied his friend’s familiar face. Memories flooded through his mind—painful and beautiful. When Andrew climbed out of the outlaw life, he’d brought Pete with him. Andrew had got the ranch, and he’d invited Pete to work there. That was where Pete had met Rose.
How do I face his fiancée after this?
Andrew felt his hands shaking. He looked down and then back at his friend. His eyes wandered over him for a moment, then stopped. He had only just noticed the wound in Pete’s abdomen.
The bandages wrapped around it were steeped in a dark crimson, the blood at the edges blackening as it dried. There was a lot of blood. Pete’s left arm lay useless at his side, broken and bloodied. Andrew glanced down again at the wound and felt a hideous certainty. Pete was dying.
Silence filled the space between them for a bit when, finally, Pete took a deep breath. “You’ve got to take care of her for m—”
“Stop that,” Andrew cut Pete off. “Don’t say things like that. You’re gonna go home.”
Pete smiled weakly. “We both know that’s not true.” He reached down and pulled out an envelope, Andrew’s name written untidily across it in Pete’s handwriting. “Take this; it’s for you.” Pete paused, coughing. “Read it once I’m...you know.”
“No.... Pete, no. Don’t say it.”
“Shh.”
Pete’s words were gentle.
He was always gentle, a caring, funny boyish spirit who Andrew counted as a brother, though they weren’t relatives at all.
“No, Andrew. I’m not going to argue. Take it. I’m not long for this world.”
“No....”
“Stop it now,” Pete said softly. “Please.”
“All right.”
Andrew took the letter, holding it uncertainly. He looked down at his hands, fighting tears.
I’ve only lived this long because of Pete. How am I supposed to live without him?
Pete was the older brother Andrew never had, and he wasn’t ready to let go of him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
His sorrow was too great to hold back, and he had no more strength to force a jolliness he didn’t feel. Pete was dying, and he couldn’t face it.
“Pete, don’t do this to me,” Andrew said, choking up.
When no reply came, he looked up to find his friend's eyes closed for the last time. He opened his mouth as if to scream or cry out, but no sound passed his lips.
I’m all alone again.
The thought scared Andrew more than anything.
He sat silently, feeling like a whirlwind of emotions had swept through him. Around him, the nurses and army doctors went about their business. Men whimpered in pain, and the nurses tried to comfort them. The sun glinted on the field beyond the tent. The air was cool as the evening approached. Andrew barely felt it. He was numb with grief, as though a glass wall blocked out the entire world.
Rose loves Pete, Andrew thought. How do I tell her I let him die?
Andrew had vowed to keep his friend alive, to stay by Pete’s side until they could return home. Pete had laughed at him, but Andrew meant what he said.
All Andrew could think about as he looked at his friend's body was that he’d failed to protect his closest friend. They’d been separated on the field, and by the time Andrew had found Pete, it was too late.
Despite his despair, the thought of Rose still brought him some comfort. At least she was still there—a connection he and Pete shared.
The letter. I need to give it to her.
Pete had written Rose a letter before going off to battle. It shared the whole truth about Pete and Andrew’s past. Pete had never told her they were petty thieves as adolescents; they’d done it to stay alive, but Pete was still scared of how it might change the way Rose saw him. Pete had lost his nerve to give it to her before he left and decided to do it when he returned.
That means it’s up to me now.
Andrew sat silently beside his friend’s body. He glanced over at him, then looked away. His friend was lifeless, and he didn’t want to remember him like that. His eyes had always been so full of life.
He stood up, turning away from the body. He drew a deep breath, flooding his mind with memories of Pete. The sparkle in his eyes when he told a silly joke. The tilt of his smile. His humor. His gentleness.
I need to do what I can.
Pete’s words echoed in his head.
Take care of her.
“I will,” Andrew promised.
He turned around and slowly made his way out of the medical tent. He crossed the field, barely noticing the soldiers who sat there, huddled around their fires or the wagons where the blacksmith repaired the guns. His promise to Pete echoed in his ears, and he held onto it, the one thing that gave his world meaning as he walked through the blank emptiness around him, blinded by his grief and sorrow.
I will.
Chapter One
“Miss Rose”
May 5, 1866
Brickhouse, Texas
“What do I do, Pete?” Rose asked aloud where she sat on the edge of the bed, old letters from her fiancé, Pete, clenched tightly in her right hand.
In her left hand, she scrunched up the thin, yellow wool blanket underneath her. The smell of dust was heavy in the air, and the wind blew wildly around the house. The only furniture in the room was a small oak nightstand her father had made and a dresser where the family stored most of their clothes.
“I miss you terribly,” Rose whispered to the letters, letting her arm fall to her side. “Why haven’t you written to me for so long?”
It had been over a month since Pete’s last letter, and she was starting to believe the worst.
Before falling too deeply into despair, she cut off her thought: No, Pete will come home. He said so.
She just needed the comfort of his words, at least, if he still couldn’t come home. He’d promised to write, and Pete wasn’t one to break promises.
Rose’s mother had passed not even two weeks ago, her father following shortly after. Grief was still numbing her, and the weight of the entire world was already on her shoulders. She was the eldest in the household now; Jacob and Charlie, her little brothers, needed her to be strong.
Her mother had passed from pneumonia, her already fragile frame unable to chase the illness away. They weren’t sure what their father died of, the only known cause being the absence of their mother.
Rose needed her fiancé to come home to save her.
