Honor's Mountain Promise, page 1
HONOR’S MOUNTAIN PROMISE
HEARTS OF MONTANA
BOOK FIVE
MISTY M. BELLER
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
SNEAK PEEK: A Warrior’s Heart
Review Request
Also by Misty M. Beller
About the Author
He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay,
and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.
PSALM 40:2 (KJV)
Would you like to receive a free book and be the first to know about new books by Misty M. Beller?
Sign-up for insider email updates by tapping here.
CHAPTER 1
October, 1869
Montana Territory
Aaron Long tightened his hands around the mule team’s reins as the dog halted in the trail ahead of them, ears pricked toward something in the distance. The mangy mutt’s body nearly quivered with tension.
Aaron peered through the scattering of pines ahead, but no sign of movement flashed through the branches.
A low growl slipped from the dog’s throat, and Aaron lifted the rifle from the seat beside him to firing position. “Who’s there, Barney?” Of course, the mutt didn’t answer.
Still no motion ahead. No sounds. In fact…nothing. Not the twitter of a bird or even the rustle of wind.
A shiver slid down Aaron’s arms, and he shifted to climb down from his freight wagon’s bench. He kept tight hold of the bar he’d fastened for support until both his legs landed on the ground and his right leg secured its balance. Then he eased some of his weight onto the gimpy left limb, finally releasing the bar once he stood straight.
This leg might be the death of him yet. He’d survived the bullet that ripped away part of his thigh bone, then the surgery to add a metal plate to replace the missing fragments. Even endured the year of dark days as he recovered and learned to walk again. With God’s help, he’d mostly come to peace about the accident—he’d been the one in the wrong after all—but the way this leg slowed him down still pressed on his frustrations. Not to mention the constant ache on cold days like today. With winter coming on, this pain would be his steady companion for months.
As he hobbled along the road, another burning in that limb made itself known, this one farther down. His shoe had rubbed a hole through his stocking and started into his flesh two days ago. He’d stopped to help a driver retrieve items from an overturned load, and all that walking up and down the mountainside had started a chafing that hadn’t stopped since.
We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience. He replayed the verse from Romans that he’d been clinging to ever since he’d found those powerful words. According to the apostle Paul, patience would produce perseverance, and the perseverance would turn into hope. Lord, I could use some hope right now.
He pushed aside the pain and dark thoughts it always tried to summon, then stepped forward, focusing on the road ahead. Barney still held his position, staring into the distance, but occasionally the dog would glance back, as though to make sure Aaron was following.
Aaron did his best to quiet his footfalls as he limped forward, though he could never manage the silent stalk he’d mastered before—in his past life. The road wound through the trees, but he took a more direct route so he didn’t have to walk as far. Also, the foliage would give him cover if a true threat lurked ahead.
Since he hadn’t heard any unusual sounds, this was more likely to be an animal than a human, and the only creature this quiet who posed a danger would be a wildcat.
Aaron shifted his attention up to the trees ahead of him. Perhaps he should have taken the road instead of planting himself under so many branches where a cougar might be waiting. But the lower branches were far enough apart through here that he could see an animal long before he came close enough to be attacked.
Barney trotted beside him, just out of reach but never straying far. The mongrel probably only stayed with him for the food Aaron tossed him at each meal, for he’d never actually allowed Aaron to touch him.
Something dark through the trees ahead made him slow. That could be a boulder at the edge of the road, but the flash of color looked manmade. He shifted from trunk to trunk as he approached, resurrecting all the senses that had laid dormant so long now. He’d once possessed a well-honed ability to spot danger and move a step or two ahead of the threat.
As he reached the last tree at the edge of the road, he leaned around for a better view of what he’d glimpsed.
A wagon. Lying on its side, bundles and barrels spilling out from under an oilskin.
His gut clenched tighter. That kind of accident was a freighter’s worst fear. One of them anyway. But where was the man? The mules were missing, too, so maybe the fellow had gone off to catch them. This looked like a runaway situation.
A glance down the road in both directions showed no one around, but just in case, he called out, “Anyone there?” He didn’t want to be shot when he crossed to the rig.
No answer sounded. Only this deathly stillness.
Easing away from his cover, Aaron kept the butt of his rifle tucked against his shoulder, finger near the trigger so he could fire if danger reared its head. He wouldn’t shoot a person. Not if he could help it. So many months of recovery had given him a healthy respect for the lasting effects of a split-second decision like that.
As he neared the wagon, he could better make out the smashed crates and spilled contents. Some kind of ore—probably silver or copper—meant this rig had been coming from one of the mining towns, headed to Fort Benton, where the containers would be loaded on a steamer bound for the States. Peeking out from the oilskin was the flash of color he’d seen through the trees. A carpet bag, stitched with roses and swirls that no respectable man would be caught carrying. The freighter must have had his wife on the bench with him.
Lord, let neither of them be hurt. He moved to the front of the rig and toed the straps that secured the team to the wooden traces. Ripped. This had definitely been a runaway.
Since Aaron hadn’t seen a team of mules careening along the Mullan road, the animals must have split southward down the slope. Either that, or they’d turned and gone back the way they’d come.
He hobbled around to the other side of the box to see what condition the wheels were in. When the driver caught his animals, his next step would be to right this vehicle and try to patch it together enough to get to Helena, the closest town with a wainwright in these parts.
As he rounded the corner, a bit of brown in the grass caught his gaze.
No.
The pressure on his chest clamped down. Please, Lord…
But it was.
The fur overcoat…a tuft of graying hair protruding at one end of the form and two boot toes poking out at the other…
Aaron swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. Lord, why? A death like this felt so senseless.
He forced his feet forward. The man might not be dead, though his instincts told him it was true. Still…he had to check.
His weak leg protested as he lowered to a sitting position to reach the fellow’s neck, and he wove two fingers through the growth of beard to feel a pulse. Nothing fluttered under his touch.
As he focused on any movement, a growl sounded from the road.
He jerked his gaze to where Barney stared. A rise in the road kept him from seeing what lay beyond.
A sound slipped through the air. Something like…breathing?
Aaron scrambled to push up to his feet, using his rifle like a cane as he found his balance.
The sound grew louder, like someone puffing as they climbed the hill. The driver’s wife? His belly tightened. The last thing he wanted was to tell a woman her husband had passed.
He positioned his rifle at the ready, but not yet aimed, as he waited for the stranger to reveal herself.
A blonde head showed first, then the pretty face of a female. Far younger than he would expect to be matched with this white-haired freighter.
As her shoulders came clear, she halted to scan the area. Those sounds had definitely been breathing, and they grew even louder now as she sucked in gulps of air.
The moment her gaze took in the wagon, her features crumpled. She scanned the rig lying on its side and the goods fallen out, her jaw slowly dropping open.
She still hadn't seen Aaron, so he shifted a little to catch her eye. He didn't want to startle her any more than she would be already.
Her gaze shot to him, her eyes widening and her jaw snapping shut. The moment her attention dipped to his rifle, he lowered it to point at the ground beside him.
"I won't hurt you, ma'am. I'm here to help."
She regarded him with a wary look. "Who are you? Where's Mr. Driscoll?"
Did she mean her husband? Or maybe she was simply a passenger he was carrying to Fort Benton. Aaron didn't haul people, as a rule, only goods. But a lot of other freighters didn't mind a companion if it meant a bit of extra money for their trouble.
He kept his voice as gentle as he could manage. "If you mean the driver, I'm afraid he didn't make it." He motioned toward the body in the grass.
Then she slipped out of view.
Panic made him lurch forward. Had she stumbled? He couldn't remember how steep that slope was.
"Ma'am? Are you all right?" He hobbled as fast as he could manage, and the top of her head came into view again as he neared the rise.
She hadn't fallen but sat on the hillside.
He slowed his approach. She might need smelling salts or water. He was the last person who should be comforting a distraught female, but he couldn't very well climb back up in his wagon and ride away.
That new realization slowly webbed its way through his mind, wrapping around him like a noose rope. The driver was dead. The wagon damaged. The team run away.
This woman had no way to reach help unless Aaron took her there.
Lord, what are You doing to me? He squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat.
But he couldn't stand here bemoaning the reality. Best get on with things.
He forced himself to shuffle his weak leg forward, topping the rise and scrambling down the slope to where the woman sat. He removed his hat to address her, and she lifted red-rimmed eyes to him.
Only then did he realize that the mass of skirts around her bulged in the front. The dress she wore… It was the same style Mrs. Ingrid wore when she was about to give birth to little William.
His mouth went dry and his throat constricted. Not only a woman, but one in the family way. He’d need to be extra gentle with her. It’d be ten days to Settler’s Fort, Lord, help him. If they could make it that long, he'd deliver her safely into the hands of Doc Micah.
Please, let us make it.
He forced his gaze back up to her eyes, the ones that the hope had leaked out of. He knew that feeling. He’d lived the sadness.
He swallowed to bring enough moisture into his mouth to speak. "I'm Aaron Long." The words came out raspy, so he cleared his throat. “I assume you were riding on that wagon?” How had she gotten off before the wreck? Was she injured?
She nodded. “I had just climbed down. A wildcat jumped from a tree and landed on the mules.” Her lips rolled in, her jaw trembling.
Confound it. Help me here, Lord.
The mules must have run for all they were worth to shake free of that cougar. Poor Driscoll.
He shifted farther down the slope so he didn’t loom over her, then he softened his voice. "Are you hurt, ma'am?"
She shook her head, a dainty movement that didn't belong out here in these rough mountains. What was she doing in this land?
Was she really not injured? He slid a glance down the length of her, but those voluminous skirts covered everything. She would've said if she’d broken a limb, surely. She did climb the hill after all.
She hadn't spoken much, though, not since asking about the driver. Had shock altered her senses? "Can I get you something, ma'am? A drink of water?"
She locked those reddened eyes on him again, and the desperation in her expression gripped his chest. "What am I going to do?"
What indeed. He reached out a hand. "Come up the hill. I need to bring my rig over here, then we'll sort through what's best to do next."
She straightened, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. Maybe regaining control of herself. But instead of taking his hand, she waved it away and turned on her hands and knees. Then she slowly worked up to a standing position. The task looked as if it required a great deal of effort, but with his own weakness, all he could do was grip her elbow and help her rise.
Her face formed a grimace as she straightened and placed both hands under her large belly, pulling her arm from his hold in the process. She squared her shoulders once more and started up the slope.
Obviously, she didn’t want the likes of him touching her. Who could blame the lady?
As he followed, her every step looked as painful as his, and her breathing grew loud again. For his part, he had to lock his jaw against the burning in his foot where the flesh had rubbed raw.
At last they reached the flat ground at the summit, and she paused to suck in gulps of air. She still had her hands braced beneath her protruding middle, and the position outlined the expanse of the bulge there. That babe must be ready to come any time. Where was her husband?
She caught him looking, and heat surged up his neck. Before he could turn away, she offered a tight smile. "I have a month still. Long enough to reach Fort Benton."
Her gaze shifted toward the wagon and the still form nearby. "That's where Mr. Driscoll was taking me. He said there's a doctor there who can deliver my baby. Then when the ships start coming up the Missouri in the spring, we’ll take the first one back to Philadelphia."
One month. Lord, don't let that little one come early.
“Is your husband waiting in Fort Benton for you?” If so, why hadn’t he come for her instead of making her travel alone with a freighter? As this situation showed, travel in these mountains could be treacherous.
She lifted her chin, though she didn’t look at him again. “He died on our homestead. My family lives back in Philadelphia.”
Poor thing. She was having to navigate this challenging journey completely alone. And in her grief too. He’d have to take her with him to Settler’s Fort then. And get her there as soon as he could manage so she’d have time to settle in before the baby came.
He followed her gaze to the wagon, bracing his hands at his waist as he studied the spilled contents. "It'll take me a couple hours to bury Driscoll. Then I have a little room on my load to add some of his." He shot a look her way. "Do you know which town he was hauling from so I can get the things back to their owners?"
Her brow lowered. "It was a small town with several mines. I might be able to remember the name if I think on it."
He nodded. He didn't cotton to the idea of taking part of the shipment without knowing whom to return it to, but if he left it here, others would scavenge with even less ability or desire to deliver the goods back to their owners. And he’d promised the Lord he’d do the right thing every chance he could.
He motioned toward the front of the wagon. "You can sit and rest while I get my team. I have water and a pot of beans I'm happy to share."
She eyed the spot, then headed that direction. He followed her, doing his best to keep his limp from being noticeable. As she sank onto one of the traces that stuck out about seat level, she seemed to wilt. Such a pretty thing, but exhaustion fanned lines away from her eyes.
He turned away, slapping his good leg to call Barney to his side. Not that the dog obeyed his commands very well. Aaron usually left him alone, but he didn't want the animal to stay and make this woman nervous.
He should have asked her name. They would have plenty of time for those niceties later, though. Ten long days on the bench beside her. Not the way he'd envisioned this last trip before winter.
He could endure it. God must have sent him to take her to safety at the time she needed it most. But was he the right man for the task?
He could only pray that the babe didn't come before they reached Doc Micah.
CHAPTER 2
Not only could Katie Barlow barely draw a full breath, but she desperately needed a chamber pot in this mountain wilderness. Hiding behind a large rock would have to do.
She eyed the retreating form of the man she’d found standing beside poor Mr. Driscoll. What an awful, horrendous event. Mr. Driscoll had reluctantly agreed to wait while she tended to business behind a rock down the slope, and she’d barely stepped from the wagon before the scream sounded. She could still hear the wildcat’s cry as the beast leapt from a tree onto both mules’ backs.
The animals brayed and leapt into a run, doing their best to shed the unwanted creature before it mangled their flesh. The hill hadn’t slowed them down in the least, nor had Mr. Driscoll’s shouts and urgent pulling on the reins.
