Spring of My Love (Silver Hills Trilogy Book #3)

Ginny Aiken

Description

Angel Rogers is alone in the world. With both her mother and father gone, the fiery young woman is left to run Rogers Ranch on her own. Not an easy taks for anyone in 1894, especially in the midst of a drought that has nearby ranchers desperate for the water on her land. So it is that rancher Jeremy Johnson comes to call upon Angel, hoping to strike a bargain that will allow his cattle to graze on the fertile Rogers land and drink from its sparkling waters. Instead, he finds himself increasingly drawn to Angel, and finds he wants he love more than anything else.But to what lengths are other ranchers willing to go in order to gain access to Rogers Creek? And what is Angel willing to sacrifice to keep her ranch from falling into the wrong hands?Ginny Aiken's growing readership will enjoy Spring of My Love as much as they loved the first two installments of the Silver HIlls Trilogy.

Sujets

• Historical romance

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 février 2005
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781585587667
• Langue: English

Extrait

© 2005 by Ginny Aiken
Published by Revell a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287 www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2011
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 electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
eISBN 978-1-5855-8766-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
The L ORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.
Isaiah 58:11
1

Hartville, Colorado 1894

The mountains’ silence overwhelmed her. Its endless echo rang grim and hollow; it drove in the certainty of her situation. She was now beyond any doubt alone.
Papa’s sudden death, as far as Angel Rogers could tell, had occurred plain and simple because his heart gave out. It seemed Papa had indeed lived too hard before he met Mama and settled to a “proper” life, as he’d often said.
Knowing what led to his passing did nothing to ease Angel’s grief.
She leaned on the handle of the heavy shovel and surveyed Papa’s final resting place. He would have wanted it right by Mama’s grave, so Angel had fought the hard, cold earth until her hands bled. In the end, the two people she’d loved most lay side by side.
She’d never known loneliness before. It was all she knew now.
How could silence be so loud?
Nothing stirred. The squirrels had packed away their stores for the winter, and the birds had flown south. The bears had gone to ground, and every green thing, aside from the scrub pine, had died.
Dead.
Mama and Papa were dead.
Only Angel remained in this corner of their small valley, the only home she knew.
She wanted no one to suspect her predicament. Eighteen was no great age, but it was enough for her to recognize that dangers might await a woman alone. Papa had often spoken of his wealth, not in currency or coin, but rather in something perhaps of more value than silver or gold, even here in Colorado. The spring on their ranch ran clean, clear, and abundant. In this land so prone to drought, what little silver the nearby Heart of Silver Mine still yielded couldn’t buy what the earth didn’t give: water to satisfy parched land, cattle, horses, men.
She would have to protect herself.
Herself and her land.
Papa had fought the elements too long and too hard for her to let their patch of land slip out of Rogers hands. One way or another, Angel would do it. By dint of Rogers determination, and by the grace of Almighty God, she would.
Even though she didn’t know quite how just yet.
At her side, Sunny moaned, or so the big, shaggy dog’s mournful sound struck Angel. She bent to one knee and scratched the animal between her ears.
“Yes, girl. You’re still here. I can’t go forgetting that, now, can I?” Sunny’s sad brown eyes met hers.
“You miss Papa, too, don’t you?” Angel swallowed a sob. “Well, don’t go fretting. You and I have too much to do to wallow in mourning and grieving and tearing up like this. He’s with Mama and Jesus now, and there’s no better place to be. Not even here.”
She reached out a leather-gloved hand and patted the slight mound of her father’s grave. “Don’t you worry either, Papa. I’ll be fine. Remember how you and Mama always told me that Jesus’s hand was big enough to hold me and whatever troubles I might find? I reckon it’s big enough to hold this ranch and these mountains, too.”
She stood and shivered in the frigid wind that had kicked up. With a final glance at the earth she’d just packed down over her father’s spent body, she hugged the lapels of Papa’s wool coat close over her chest, clasped the shovel handle and set off toward the house. Sunny, scenting home, ran ahead, her yellow tail waving its long, full fringe in the chill.
The sight of the cabin affected Angel as it never had before. It had always represented love and welcome, but now it spoke of her plight. Mama, who’d died four years earlier of the influenza, wouldn’t be at the woodstove, her watchful eye on the savory supper she’d brought to a simmer. Despite the passage of time, the memory still came to Angel more often than she cared to admit. Now Papa wouldn’t tromp in either, his heavy stomps dislodging snow, ice, and earth from his boots.
She had enough supplies to see her through to spring, for which she thanked Papa’s wisdom and the Lord’s bountiful provision. Plus, she had Sunny to keep her from going mad. After that? Well, she had to leave that in the heavenly Father’s capable hands.
He’d have to be her protector in every way.
She’d never learned to use Papa’s shotgun, not because he hadn’t tried to teach her, but because she hated its sound, its power, the destruction it caused. Now, however, she wondered if she hadn’t been mistaken in her refusal.
There were many, Papa had said, who would do anything to get what they wanted. They always wanted more land especially if that land brought a good water source, as Rogers land did. Angel didn’t know the first thing about protecting what was hers.
A cold whisper on her cheek told her the snow she’d smelled in the air since early that morning had arrived. From the thick, fluffy texture of the flake and the leaden shade of the sky overhead, she knew a heavy blanket would cover the ground before it was all over. She’d be snowed in.
Good.
Some satisfaction broke through the misery she’d felt since she found her father slumped over his Bible two mornings ago. Horror had filled her what would she do with his solid body? How would she give him a decent burial?
But God had seen her through. It seemed He was still doing so, if this storm was any indication of His benevolence. The isolation of winter, which had always seemed harsh and endless, now stretched out as a welcome reprieve.
She had the winter, only that one season, to prepare for what might be an onslaught of greedy seekers. In your hands, Lord Jesus. Sunny, the ranch, and I are all in your hands .

One glance at the skimpy growth of grass on his land told Jeremy Johnstone that this year would be worse than the last. When he’d bought his spread two years earlier, he’d known his future depended on one thing: water.
The lazy little river that wandered around the southern border of his property swelled with snowmelt each spring. This past winter, as well as the one before, had brought little snowfall a couple of big storms had covered everything, and the icy temperatures had kept the snow on the ground. But it hadn’t added up to much in the way of water. Spring’s rains had been more absent than not. Now, in late June, the banks of the river looked like dirty old china, cracked and crumbly.
Jeremy tugged off his hat and used his red handkerchief to sop up the sweat from the persistent morning sun. Not quite ten o’clock yet, and the temperature was high enough to roast a steer on the run. Where was God when a man stood to lose his very last dime on account of a dry sky?
He craned his neck to glare at the blank blue bowl overhead. Not a cloud to be seen anywhere. A frustrated sigh ripped from his chest, and he slapped his hat against his thigh. Small puffs of dust spread upward and outward from the denim and straw, making his tough situation more real.
A ways behind him, his herd made woeful sounds. They still hunted fresh pasture with little success. He’d already spent what to him was a fortune to buy feed, and he couldn’t afford to hire enough men to drive the herd up north to richer pastureland. Not if he also wanted to get his ranch through another winter. If only he had a more ample water source nearby.
Well, the underground source was ample. But by the time the water reached his little river, large amounts had been redirected to other branches. Branches like Rogers Creek.
He’d heard Old Man Rogers was tough as rawhide. Wouldn’t surprise him if it was true. The crusty codger would have to be to live through all Jeremy had heard tell he had.
Oliver Rogers, if folks were right, was a real western original. Jeremy hadn’t met the man, but he’d been told the fellow had come out west as a baby-cheeked boy. They also said he’d done as much as Kit Carson and had become a real mountain man, was maybe even the last one left in Colorado.
Jeremy had also heard tell the old man had died.
Rumor had it he’d passed on in the early winter he hadn’t been seen in town since late fall. If rumor was anything to go by, then by all means, rumors in Hartville carried extra weight. He’d never known another place so given to gossip, even though Pastor Stone spent much of his pulpit time preaching against the sinful habit.
Jeremy suspected that rumor sprang from a root of truth.
If that was so, then who was manning the ranch? Old Man Rogers’s wife had died a while back, and they’d had only a freckle-faced, carrot-topped girl. Had the daughter left the ranch? Did she now live in Hartville? He sure hoped she wasn’t stupid enough to try to run the spread on her own. If nothing else, livestock needed more than the soft hand of a big-eyed miss.
Then again, Old Man Rogers had never gone in for cattle.
Jeremy spat in disgust.
Sheep.
Who in his right mind would fill t