When Love Comes

  Copyright ©2023 by Penny Zeller

  www.pennyzeller.com

  Published by Maplebrook Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, scanned, uploaded, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Penny Zeller at www.pennyzeller.com

  The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Any brand names or trademarks mentioned throughout are owned by the respective companies.

  Book Cover Design by Mountain Peak Edits and Design

  Rough Draft Critique/Developmental Edits by SnowRidge Press

  Copy Editing by Mountain Peak Edits and Design

  Proofreading by Kristina Hall

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. All song lyrics for the hymns as found in the public domain.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-957847-18-4

  Contents

  Books by Penny Zeller

  Dedication

  Bible Verse

  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.

  31.

  Epilogue

  Don't Miss

  Love's Promise

  Newsletter Invitation

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Wyoming Sunrise

  Horizon Series

  Love Letters From Ellis Creek

  Love in Disguise

  Freedom's Flight

  Contemporary Christian Romance

  Dedicated to my daughters—the decades-younger

  inspirations behind the characters of

  Aunt Myrtle and Aunt Fern.

  I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.

  ~ Psalm 121:1-2

  Chapter one

  Prune Creek, Wyoming, 1895

  Ma was right. Some time away from Willow Falls would be just the antidote to her broken heart. “After all,” Ma surmised, “how can anyone remain melancholy when spending time with the aunts? Just be sure not to eat Aunt Myrtle’s baking, and you’ll be fine.”

  Charlotte didn’t plan on eating much of Aunt Myrtle’s baking as she knew full well her great-aunt’s reputation when it came to such matters, but she did wonder if Ma was accurate about the melancholy part.

  The couple across the aisle, a handsome duo around Charlotte’s age of twenty-two, gazed tenderly into each other’s eyes. Charlotte overheard the woman telling another passenger that she and the gentleman were on their honeymoon. Tears welled in Charlotte’s eyes and she blinked them back.

  Unannounced envy crept in at the most inopportune times. Lest they discover her staring yet again, Charlotte tore her eyes away from the smitten couple and averted her gaze to the book in her lap, rereading the same paragraph for the sixth time. She’d never struggled with covetousness until a despicable man named Cyrus Keller entered her life and exited it, leaving pain and sorrow in his wake.

  Her brother, John Mark, would tell her she was dramatic for entertaining such thoughts, but the ache still lingered from what she’d eagerly anticipated would be a godly and loving marriage.

  Not only had she been foolish to believe Cyrus’s affections for her, but she’d also been daft in ignoring the warnings of those closest to her.

  Hadn’t she always desired to be a wife and mother? To follow in her ma’s steps as a kind and giving soul who loved her family only second to the Lord? A marriage to Cyrus would have filled that longing in her heart. Her former beau, just like a hero in a book, was dapper and charming. However, he lacked the most important characteristics—godliness and integrity.

  Now slightly older and hopefully wiser, Charlotte Eliason would never allow herself to fall in love again. If she was to be a spinster, so be it. Not everyone could have a happily ever after reminiscent of the characters in one of her favorite dime novels.

  Ma mentioned that, once upon a time, Aunt Fern’s heart had been broken by a scoundrel named Mr. Wilkins. If Aunt Fern could survive a broken heart, then so could Charlotte. And if it was God’s plan for her to be a spinster, then she’d accept her fate, albeit begrudgingly. Being a spinster wasn’t the worst thing in the world, was it? She swallowed the lump in her throat and instead attempted to focus on the adventure that lay ahead.

  Charlotte adjusted her posture, prayed for the Lord to set her focus on anything but her fragmented dreams, and determined that very moment that she would set her sights on caring for and assisting Aunt Myrtle and Aunt Fern.

  At least the train ride portion was a much smoother and more efficient ride than the first part of her journey by stagecoach had been. Several areas of Wyoming still lacked travel by railway, and Willow Falls was one of the towns still without a train depot. Pa had worried that he should perhaps take Charlotte over the mountain to Prune Creek, but Charlotte requested she do this on her own. Ma mentioned something to Pa about Charlotte being much like the aunts in that regard, and perhaps, just like the stories she’d heard about them arriving from Minnesota so many years ago for a fresh start, Charlotte would experience a fresh start as well.

  Excitement bounded through her as the train entered the Prune Creek depot. Trees on either side of the tracks gave way to a clearing that marked the town that had obviously grown since Charlotte’s last visit years ago.

  Brakes screeching, the train slowly came to a stop. Charlotte’s heart pounded in her chest, and she could barely wait a moment longer upon the hard bench seat. She fingered the purple heart-shaped pendant necklace around her neck, a gift from her family. What did the future of this time away from home hold? She peered out the window, searching for her aunts among the swath of people.

  When folks, waiting to disembark, crowded the aisles, she reached for her heavy, overly-filled carpetbag and Ma’s worn brown trunk and perused the crowd awaiting the passengers. Were Aunt Myrtle and Aunt Fern among them?

  “Charlotte! Oh, Charlotte!” Two jubilant voices garnered her attention as she deboarded. Aunt Myrtle and Aunt Fern waved at her from the north end of the boardwalk, and Charlotte bustled her way through the crowds and toward the aunts.

  My, but if they hadn’t begun to share a strong resemblance in their older years! Both had completely gray hair, and while Aunt Fern wore spectacles, her round face and pert nose matched her sister’s.

  “Best never say they resemble each other even if they do,” Ma had told her before she embarked on this trip. “For you might find yourself sleeping in the chicken coop for such a comment.” Ma and Charlotte had laughed over that, even as Ma insisted it would be detrimental to suggest their likeness.

  “Look at you! You’ve grown into such a lovely young lady.” Aunt Myrtle wrapped her arm around Charlotte. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

  Aunt Fern gave her a hug next. “Yes, we are. It’s been too long since an Eliason was here in Prune Creek. The buggy is thisaway. It’s a slight bit too far for us to walk to the Peabody house these days.”

  “Too far for you, maybe.” Aunt Myrtle fingered her decorative hat. “What do you think about my hat, Charlotte? Mrs. Peabody was about to discard it, and I salvaged it.”

  Since she was taller than Aunt Myrtle, Charlotte could see the top of the hat and the fake bird immersed in a portable flower garden. “It’s charming.”

  “Well, it is not,” declared Aunt Fern. “Who wears a hat with a bird on it?”

  Aunt Myrtle lifted her chin, nearly causing the hat to topple off her head. “Women of high society who take a fancy to the latest and most elegant fashions.”

  “But you’re neither.”

  “Pshaw. Hush, Fern.”

  They strolled down the boardwalk on the way to the buggy. As they passed the barbershop, a balding man with the thickest spectacles Charlotte had ever seen stepped into the entryway. “Well, hello, Fern. Would you like a haircut?”

  “You know full and well, Mr. Gorman, that I do not need a haircut.” Aunt Fern fluffed her gray curls and tossed him a disgusted look. “That vexing man asks me if I would like a haircut every time I walk by the barbershop. Far be it from me to allow someone with magnifying glasses for spectacles to see well enough to fashion my coiffure.”

  They loaded into the buggy, Charlotte sandwiched between the aunts, and rode along without incident until Aunt Myrtle’s hat blew off in a gusty breeze. Aunt Myrtle steered the buggy to the side of the road, and Charlotte retrieved it.

  “Do assist me with this,” Aunt Myrtle requested of her sister.

  Aunt Fern set it nicely on Aunt Myrtle’s head—backwards. She cast a warning glance Charlotte’s way and shook her head, finger to mouth to say nothing. Charlotte did her best not to smirk. The hat looked even more hideous backwards.

  “Dear me, there’s Mr. Clifford Quimby.” Aunt Myrtle slowed the buggy next to a tall, thin, older man carrying a stack of papers. “Hello, Mr. Quimby.” Was it Charlotte’s imagination or did Aunt Myrtle blush when she spoke?

  “Well, hello, Miss Beauchamp.”

  Aunt Myrtle held a hand to her heart. “Oh, hello,” she tittered again.

  The corners of Quimby’s mouth turned upward. “Miss Beauchamp, what brings you out and about on this lovely summer day?”

  “Our niece is visiting from Willow Falls. May I present to you Miss Charlotte Eliason.”

  Mr. Quimby removed his hat. “Pleasure to meet you.” He stared for a few moments up at Aunt Myrtle. “I do declare, Miss Beauchamp, that is the most interesting hat I’ve ever seen.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Well…” Mr. Quimby tilted his head to one side. “Do lean this way, Miss Beauchamp.”

  Aunt Myrtle leaned carefully to the left so as not to tumble from the buggy. Mr. Quimby reached up, removed the hat and set it on her head the correct way. “There, now it looks exquisite on you.”

  “Oh!” Aunt Myrtle’s cheeks flamed with a red hue the color of raspberries.

  “I best be on my way as I’m headed to the courthouse.” Mr. Quimby tipped his hat and continued down the street.

  Aunt Myrtle glowered at Aunt Fern. “You placed the hat on my head backwards. Such a bothersome sister you are at times.”

  “I do believe you’ve set your cap for Mr. Quimby.”

  “Pshaw.” But Aunt Myrtle didn’t deny it.

  Aunt Fern shook her head. “I’ve always found Mr. Quimby to be a kindly gentleman. It’s unfortunate he’ll soon meet his demise.”

  Aunt Myrtle’s eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Once you bake him some huckleberry pie, it will be the end of him.”

  Charlotte giggled at Aunt Fern’s exaggeration. She’d heard the story numerous times from Ma about the huckleberry pie during the aunts’ first visit to Willow Falls.

  “Don’t believe a word she says about my baking,” insisted Aunt Myrtle. “You don’t win ribbons at the fair for inferior baking skills.”

  They continued down the main street. “Oh, look, there’s the blacksmith shop,” said Aunt Fern, pointing to the building on the right.

  “The new smithy is such an extraordinary and upright young man. He’s been here all of a few weeks, yet when the wheel on the buggy broke last week, he came to our rescue. Say, Fern, we still haven’t invited him for supper like we promised.”

  The aunts passed a knowing glance and a niggle of suspicion arose in Charlotte. “Are you two planning something?” The aunts were obviously inept at disguising their schemes. And while the smithy may be an extraordinary and upright man, Charlotte was most certainly not interested in matchmaking ploys. Not after Cyrus.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Well, we are planning something,” said Aunt Fern. “Planning to have that nice young man over for supper. He has no family here, poor dear. He lives at the boardinghouse over on Second Street. The food there is most atrocious from what I’ve heard. Yes, Myrt, I believe we shall make those plans.”

  Aunt Myrtle, who Ma warned rarely agreed with her sister on anything—and vice versa—added, “I’m a planner, but Fern, not so much. She likes to wait until the very last minute. A procrastinator is among us.”

  They continued to argue, all the while traveling the short distance to the Peabody home they’d inherited after the passing of their charges.

  And as she watched the passing scenery of her temporary home, Charlotte smiled to herself. Yes, Ma was right. Time with her two feisty aunts would heal her melancholy. And when they invited the smithy to the house, Charlotte would firmly, but kindly, remind them she was of no mindset to fall in love again.

  Not that she didn’t see the good in Cyrus breaking off their engagement and marrying Violet. Not now that she saw what kind of man he really was.

  But her heart still ached for being so naïve, for giving her heart to him, and for wasting time courting someone who never loved her in the first place.

  Chapter two

  Charlotte pulled her long blonde hair into a tight coil atop her head like she’d seen women do on the pages of The Utmost of Fashion Ladies Magazine at Morton’s Mercantile in Willow Falls. While she had no intention of considering the aunts’ matchmaking machinations when it came to the new smithy, Charlotte did prefer to at least look presentable. She pinched her cheeks to encourage color and smoothed her skirt.

  Aunt Myrtle referred to the smithy as “an extraordinary and upright young man.” At their ages, they likely believed anyone younger than sixty to be young. Just as Pa referred to any male younger than him as “son”. Rather, the smithy was likely a great deal older than Charlotte with already-graying hair at the temples—perhaps he was balding. Mr. Gormon, the barber Aunt Fern referenced on the way to the house, flashed in her mind. She giggled.

  Ma had warned her of the aunts’ propensity to engage in shenanigans.

  And even if the smithy wasn’t old and instead was young and dapper, Charlotte would never be interested for he could very well be just like Cyrus.

  Charlotte tidied her meager belongings then left the room to assist the aunts with meal preparation. She removed a huckleberry pie from the oven. The dessert’s aroma was heavenly, but details were important. She needed to find out who baked it. “The pie looks delicious.”

  “That’s because it is,” Aunt Myrtle beamed.

  Aunt Fern snorted a most unladylike snort. “Your Aunt Myrtle made the pie. As they say, looks can be deceiving. Her huckleberry pies remind me of Mr. Wilkins. All attractive on the outside and abhorrent on the inside. Rotten character, but a nice outward appearance.”

  “Of all things to say!” Aunt Myrtle placed her hands firmly on her ample hips. “That my pies remind you of Mr. Wilkins—that is indeed the most horrendous of insults. My huckleberry pie is award…”

  “Yes, yes, award-winning. We know. Although the judge at the fair was at least one hundred and fifty years old and had long lost his sense of taste. I rather like Charlotte and the smithy and don’t wish for either of them to meet their demise anytime soon.”

  “No one has met their untimely demise eating my huckleberry pies,” snapped Aunt Myrtle.

  “Just a shortened lifespan. Look at Solomon. Poor, poor man. Can you imagine if he had keeled over after eating your pies that first time in Willow Falls? Where would we be then? No Solomon. No Lydie finding her one true love, no Caleb, John Mark, and Charlotte. No great-great-nieces and great-great nephew. It would be devastating to say the least.”

  “Such a dramatic sort you are, Fern. Nearly everyone loves my huckleberry pies. I’m sorry you have poor taste when it comes to such things.”

  Aunt Fern harrumphed. “Remember that poor Mr. Opalinski who ate a huge piece of your huckleberry pie at the Prune Creek County Fair last fall? They had to fetch Doc because we thought we were going to lose him.”

  “Well, I never! Doc was fetched for Mr. Opalinski because he had indigestion from inhaling the huckleberry pie a little too hastily because it was so scrumptious.”

  The aunts continued their squabbling, and Charlotte recalled what Ma had said about their witty comebacks. They indeed had developed a penchant for arguing. Speaking of Ma, Charlotte suddenly had more sympathy for all the times Ma had to endure her and John Mark’s frequent quarreling all those years.

  “Shall I put the stew and biscuits on the table?” Charlotte asked when she could get a word in edgewise.

  Both aunts ceased their chatter and gaped at her with wide eyes and slack jaws. And Charlotte could again see the family resemblance.

  Ma’s words echoed in her mind. “Never insinuate the aunts favor each other. I speak from experience.”

  “Well…” Aunt Fern finally muttered. “Yes, dear, please do. The smithy will be here any minute. I sure wish I could remember his name. Do you remember his name, Myrt?”

  “No, I do not. Did he even tell us?”

 

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