Her Secret Song, page 1
Books by Mary Connealy
From Bethany House Publishers
THE KINCAID BRIDES
Out of Control
In Too Deep
Over the Edge
TROUBLE IN TEXAS
Swept Away
Fired Up
Stuck Together
WILD AT HEART
Tried and True
Now and Forever
Fire and Ice
THE CIMARRON LEGACY
No Way Up
Long Time Gone
Too Far Down
HIGH SIERRA SWEETHEARTS
The Accidental Guardian
The Reluctant Warrior
The Unexpected Champion
BRIDES OF HOPE MOUNTAIN
Aiming for Love
Woman of Sunlight
Her Secret Song
The Boden Birthright: A CIMARRON LEGACY Novella
Meeting Her Match: A MATCH MADE IN TEXAS Novella
Runaway Bride: A KINCAID BRIDES and TROUBLE IN TEXAS Novella
(WITH THIS RING? Collection)
The Tangled Ties That Bind: A KINCAID BRIDES Novella
(HEARTS ENTWINED Collection)
© 2020 by Mary Connealy
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2169-5
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Author is represented by the Natasha Kern Literary Agency.
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Mary Connealy
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Epilogue
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Her Secret Song is dedicated to my new granddaughter, Adrian Isabelle. A wonderful, joyful addition to our lives in a year where the world has had so much hardship and sickness.
I love you, Adrian, welcome to the family.
Born in 2020, may you always have 2020 vision.
1
March 1874
Hope Mountain
Near Bucksnort, Colorado, Near Grizzly Peak, Colorado
Wax Mosby was living a life that was going to kill him. Probably shot in the back by one of the men he worked with.
If he wanted to live, he had to get away from here, and his time was running out.
But before he could leave, he had to go up.
His honor demanded he face the Wardens. And his gut told him they were at the top of the mountain.
He’d put off the treacherous climb all winter. You could hardly tell it by the remaining snowdrifts, and he’d lost track of what day it was, but the hours of daylight and dark were nearly even. It had to be almost spring.
If he put off his climb any longer, riders would finally get through the snow-packed trail from Bludgeon Pike’s ranch. Wax didn’t want to be around when they got here.
He had to find Quill Warden—hopefully alive—and learn the truth about Pike’s land grab.
He hiked toward the base of the mountain, the snow getting deeper and the trail getting steeper with each step. Looking up, he knew he’d only just begun.
Foolish idea climbing up there. What in the world was he doing?
Finding the Wardens, that was what. And he’d do it, and today was as good a day as he’d get unless he waited until warm weather fully arrived. Wax planned to be long gone by then.
Come fully warm weather, the Wardens, a tough family with some salty cowhands, would pour down off that mountaintop, guns blazing.
And Pike’s hands would come pouring onto this ranch, guns blazing.
And here would stand Wax Mosby, who intended to never draw his gun again. He’d be right smack in the middle of a gun battle, with no plans to kill honest folks like the Wardens, no desire to kill evil men like Pike’s, and no wish to die.
When the path grew too steep, he had to use tree trunks to grip and drag himself upward. The way got harder. The trees grew straight up, right alongside the mountain slope. Finally, breathing hard, and nearly halfway up the mountain, he realized he was getting close to the ledge where he’d seen the avenging angel.
Last fall, after the Wardens had been run off, Wax had been with the man who’d shot a fleeing Quill Warden. Wax had diverted his saddle partner long enough for Quill to get away. But Wax had no way of knowing how badly hurt Quill was. He stuck to his horse, so Wax hoped the man had survived the ugly bullet shot at him from behind by that coward gunman hired by Pike, Smiling Bob.
A few days after the shooting, Wax, along with Smiling Bob and Canada Phelps, had come to look around the cabin. Wax, being an uncommonly watchful man, spotted a man sitting on the ledge Wax was right now climbing for.
To Wax’s mind, God had perched an angel up there. Even now, a chill ran up and down Wax’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold wind.
That angel had looked down on Wax and judged him for an unrepentant sinner. And that had set Wax on a path to redemption. When Pike had sent Wax over here to live for the winter, he’d spent his time figuring out he had to change his life. No more hiring out his gun. He’d be a different man when he got out of here in the spring.
But first, the Wardens had to be found. Wax felt as if it were a charge straight from God. He had to talk to them before the shooting started. But the mountain still waited between them.
He moved fast, clinging to narrow hand and toe holds, intent on reaching that ledge. He was still a few feet away when he heard hoofbeats below.
Turning, his hold on the mountain unsure, he studied the trails around the ranch yard and saw five riders. Mean looking. Polished looking. No one Wax had seen before, which meant not Bludge Pike’s men.
Probably.
The men spread out in a wide circle around the house. They dismounted at the same moment, with the same graceful, economical movements, as if they were five bodies controlled by one mind.
They drew their guns and moved slowly, silently, toward the house.
Come for the Wardens, or come for Wax?
He might have more than his share of enemies, but the ranch was where someone would come if they were hunting the Wardens. They hadn’t spread it around town about abandoning their ranch for the top of the mountain.
Wax wasn’t about to hike down there and have a visit with this tough-looking crew.
The men riding with him the day he’d seen the avenging angel hadn’t noticed a man perched up here. People didn’t tend to look up.
But one of the five did.
No shout of warning or greeting. No questions asked. The first man pivoted toward the rock wall and opened fire. Then another did, then all five. It was a terrible angle, shooting so far up. And these men had pistols, which were notoriously hard to aim at this distance.
Wax just stayed still and let them waste their lead.
Then one of the men grabbed his rifle out of the scabbard on his saddle; the rest followed suit. The bullets got closer. Rocks shattered and slit Wax’s skin. Another shot broke rocks under his hands. Wax lost his grip and started sliding down, picking up speed. A bullet struck—or something sure did—and his slide turned into plummeting as flying lead sang around him.
This was his end. He’d needed to ride off, change his life, change his name, change his soul. But he’d waited too long.
Hurtling through the air, he dropped into the trees. He hit a tree branch and a shout of pain escaped him. Then he clamped his mouth shut and dropped out of sight of those killers. He landed hard against the trunk of a tree and was pinned between the tree and the mountain . . . and he heard laughter. Cruel, ugly laughter.
One of the men shouted, “That wasn’t even him. I know what Pierce looks like. But a little target practice doesn’t hurt.”
There was laughter and horses walking. Men walking, talking. It took Wax a while to realize they weren’t coming to make sure he was dea
Wax lay there, feeling the life draining out of him, bleeding and broken. But he stubbornly refused to die. He wasn’t sure how long he was pinned there. He might’ve blacked out for a time, but he couldn’t see the sun or judge minutes or hours from his position.
Finally, with terrible pain gnawing his legs—especially his left one—and his back, his head, his side, his arms, and just plain everywhere, he moved. He only moved his head enough to see through the treetops that the five men, saddlebags and bedrolls in hand, were heading into the cabin.
Maybe they’d decided to stay and wait for whoever Pierce was, or just hole up in an abandoned cabin now that the man living in it was dead.
He couldn’t go down, and for a long time, he couldn’t go up.
Then he found the guts to try.
One arm moved well. The other worked, but it was murderously painful to use it. His left leg might be broken. It felt like a wolf had sunk its fangs in deep. It was hard to tell if he’d been shot or if he’d landed so hard it just felt like a bullet wound.
He fumbled beneath his heavy coat, drew his knife out of a scabbard he wore across his chest, then cut strips from his shirt. With miserable slowness, he found wounds and did his best to staunch the blood. It seemed that the blood had finally quit flowing, or maybe he was just running out of it.
Lying sideways, caught by a tree trunk at the waist, and wedged against the cliff, he righted himself. His stomach twisted and heaved as he raised his head. His vision narrowed, and a throb like the beat of a drum banged behind his eyes. But it was quit and die, or take the pain with him when he moved. It made him mad to think of those men, now in that comfortable house while he lay here.
They’d laughed. They knew they’d shot the wrong man, and instead of trying to find him, trying to make right a terrible wrong, they’d laughed and gone in where it was warm.
Wax Mosby was no quitter. And he wasn’t going to die without a fight.
He wanted to live just so he could go down there and kill every man jack of them.
That thought, that powerful, ugly thought, stopped him.
Was that a reason to live? Was that the goal a man wanted to set, when his life hung by a thread?
No.
No, by all the saints, no.
A real man would act differently when he faced insurmountable odds and terrible pain.
A real man would pray.
Gathering every ounce of the knowledge of his sinful life in hand, he gave it all to God. He begged forgiveness.
More important, he accepted that forgiveness, and he believed.
2
Stay up here and lose her mind. Go down and die.
The devil’s own choice.
Ursula Nordegren was either finding a deep well of faith and drawing on it with all her might, or committing a terrible sin.
The fact that she wasn’t sure tormented her.
Stay up and go mad. Go down and die.
In her head, she’d been back and forth about this for two months. And always, whatever her thoughts were, she sang. She searched for peace, wisdom, and happiness in her songs. She’d done this all her life.
These days her songs were mournful.
At first, when the trail to the north snowed shut, she’d been relieved. And yes, it was frightening to be so alone, so cut off. But she deserved it after abandoning Ilsa. Her littlest sister had gotten sick, was maybe dying, and Ursula ran.
Ilsa had survived, then up and married Mitch Warden. The two of them had gone down the mountain and not come back.
Josephine had come, though, with her new husband, Dave Warden, Mitch’s little brother. Jo had brought supplies, and Dave had chopped wood and done repairs on this strange stone house Ursula had found in the high mountain valley. They’d begged her to abandon this ancient place and live with them for the winter. To give up her reclusive life.
But Ursula was so frightened of Dave and his family and his cowhands. The lowlands were full of disease and violence and death. Grandma had said it a thousand times. Grandpa ten thousand. Go to the lowlands and die.
Ursula had rejected all Jo’s pleading. Then the high narrow trail between here and where Jo was closed up tight.
For a time, it had felt safe to be cut off up here, but slowly as the months wore on and the bitter cold seeped in, the absolute loneliness had eaten away at her until she felt like she teetered on the edge of madness.
Ursula ran her hand over the small hatchet Jo and Dave had left for her. Dave said it was for splitting kindling, though he’d done the splitting for her and left a mountain of firewood.
At first, she’d ignored the hatchet, not wanting to use anything from the Wardens. Then she realized they wouldn’t know if she used it, and if they did find out, they wouldn’t care. Frankly, she was so bored nothing mattered much anymore. Not even those invading Wardens who’d gone and married both of her little sisters.
She started throwing the hatchet first just to occupy her idle hands. But as the winter stretched long, she learned to throw it straight and hard with a growing fierceness.
Jo had her bow and arrow. Ilsa was fast with her knife. Ursula could hit what she aimed at with a bow, but she wasn’t nearly as skilled as Jo. And she was handy with a knife. She could skin a rabbit with a few swift, sure strokes and hit a tree dead center. But both her sisters were better than Ursula with their weapons.
Now Ursula had one of her own.
The hatchet had a small ax-head, maybe five inches long and four wide, with a blade that she sharpened until it could split a hair. The handle was just a bit longer than the head and slipped easily into a leather belt she’d made specifically to hold it. It made her feel safe and strong to go around with her handy ax, and soon she never went anywhere without it.
She spent hours flinging it at the same tree she used to aim her arrows. She mostly practiced overhand, which seemed best. But she alternated throwing underhand, too. She practiced slipping it out of her belt quickly. Turning and throwing in a single motion. She stood close up, then stepped far away. If she needed to hunt, she needed to be as swift as the wild creatures, and if she needed to fight, she wanted to be ready.
Reading, singing, walking, and throwing her hatchet filled her days, but still the silence closed in and echoed in her head, her heart, her soul.
So she continued to practice, often for so long the cold finally drove her inside. And by the time the winter weather began to fade, she had a true talent. She didn’t count singing in this case, since that wouldn’t put food on the table.
Still the winter wouldn’t end. Still she was alone, and the day finally came when even hours of hatchet throwing weren’t enough. She began to think constantly of the other way down. A treacherous cliff, but it could be scaled. Mitch had come up that cliff to find his family after the regular trail to the lowlands snowed shut.
She had to go down that cliff or lose her mind. Those honestly seemed like her only choices.
She’d spent weeks considering she might climb down, but a renewed cold snap gave her a good excuse not to go. Then the weather had turned mild enough to have melted the snow that would be clinging to the sides of the cliff. She’d packed supplies and walked every day to the place Mitch had climbed up.
She had been tempted and frightened, lured and repelled. She’d stand up there, staring down, tormented with the longing to hear someone else’s voice.
But each time, she’d hear Grandma and Grandpa’s dire warnings and turn away in fear.
But today she had to do it. She had to go down.
She’d come prepared as always, with a satchel of food and a canteen full of water. Her bow and quiver were strapped on. She carried a wickedly sharp knife and knew how to use it. And, of course, her hatchet.
She stood for a long stretch of time at the top. She could see for miles. It was beautiful. That was part of the lure. Hints of spring were coming at the bottom of Hope Mountain. The trees that climbed halfway up the cliff were starting to bud, and patches of lush green grass were peeking through the snow. And best of all, she heard birds singing. They did that up here, too, but not spring birds. Not robins and larks. Not yet. But down below, they were nesting and thriving.
Today it was impossible to turn away. She wanted to see it, be part of it, to make her move, climb over the edge, and force herself to climb down. Each step was a victory over fear—or was it a step into perdition?
