Prairie Romance Collection

  After the Harvest © 2002 by Lynn A. Coleman

  Love Notes © 2007 by Mary Davis

  Mother’s Old Quilt © 2004 by Lena Nelson Dooley

  The Bride’s Song © 2000 by Linda Ford

  The Barefoot Bride © 2000 by Linda Goodnight

  The Provider © 2000 by Cathy Marie Hake

  Freedom’s Ring © 2000 by Judith McCoy Miller

  Returning Amanda © 2000 by Kathleen Paul

  Only Believe © 2000 by Janet Spaeth

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-696-7

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-844-2

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-845-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in Canada.

  CONTENTS

  After the Harvest by Lynn A. Coleman

  Love Notes by Mary Davis

  Mother’s Old Quilt by Lena Nelson Dooley

  The Bride’s Song by Linda Ford

  The Barefoot Bride by Linda Goodnight

  The Provider by Cathy Marie Hake

  Freedom’s Ring by Judith Miller

  Returning Amanda by Kathleen Paul

  Only Believe by Janet Spaeth

  After the Harvest

  by Lynn A. Coleman

  Dedication

  To my granddaughter Leanna.

  May you grow up to be strong in the faith of our Lord Jesus.

  All my love, Grandma.

  Chapter 1

  September 1857

  A gentle breeze stirred the white tips of rye and barley stalks. Rylan’s face creased with a satisfied grin. The bountiful harvest testified of God’s good grace.

  Tall stalks continued to dance and play like carefree children. Children! The next step in Rylan’s plan—a wife and a pack of children. He shifted his weight on his chestnut sorrel, the creak of the leather protesting the sudden change.

  Months had passed since his last letter to Margaret. Three years he’d worked to develop the land enough to support her and the children they would have one day. Five months and not a word.

  Truth be told, he hadn’t had an encouraging word from Margaret in more than a year. The first year he’d come and settled on his land in Kansas and received regu-lar letters. The second, they came less and less. But he refused to believe her love for him had dwindled. No, theirs was a strong one, a divine one. God had placed her in his life. Their love would withstand the hardship of separation. Yet her constant praise of Jackson Pearle, his best friend, made Rylan wonder …

  Rylan reached down and pulled the grain from a stalk. The seed rolled in his palm. A farmer with land to work. What could be more exciting than that?

  Margaret’s fine features glowed in his memory. “Ah yes, Lord, she is a fine one.”

  Tomorrow the harvesting would begin. Today he would go to town and hire a few extra hands for the harvest. Rylan shifted in his saddle and nudged the horse forward. Perhaps Margaret’s letter had arrived, telling him when to expect her and her family. A man could hope.

  He rode toward the dozen or so buildings that made up Prairie Center, the seat of Prairie County. This new territory of Kansas represented the hope and future of overpopulated Massachusetts and the rest of the North. Rylan had come and staked his claim, yielding to the enticement of free land. Margaret had agreed to postpone their wedding for a couple years to allow him to get the farm established. The fact that it had taken him a third year to build a suitable house and raise the funds for her ticket shouldn’t have been a problem.

  Admittedly, her letters came less frequently after he wrote her of the need for yet another year of separation. Rylan shook his head. No, he wasn’t going to enter-tain those dark thoughts again. She was coming; he could feel it in his bones. It was just the knot in his stomach that didn’t seem to share the same conviction.

  Rylan hitched his horse outside the general store and ambled inside. “Hello, Pete.”

  “Afternoon, Rylan.” Pete Anderson stood behind a counter with a white apron spread across his broad belly.

  “Know of anyone needing a couple days’ work?”

  “Crops ready?” Pete placed a pencil down on the counter.

  “Yup, and it’s a good one.”

  “Glad to hear it. How many men do you need?”

  Rylan removed his hat and wiped the inside brim with his red handkerchief. “Six is a good start, but I’ll go as high as a dozen if there’re enough men looking for work.”

  “Usually are. A day or two’s work before a man continues west isn’t bad to line his pockets a tad bit more.”

  Rylan grinned. Hiring extra men at harvesttime wasn’t difficult in Prairie County. Keeping men to stay and work the season … that was another matter. “Spread the word. Tell ‘em to be at my place by sunup, and we’ll work till sundown.”

  Pete picked up his pencil. “Can I get you anything else today?”

  Rylan didn’t want to ask if he had a letter. He’d been asking every time he’d come to town for the past two months. “Think I’ll just browse and see what’s new.”

  “There are some newspapers from back east, Boston, in fact. Didn’t you tell me you came from there?”

  “Yup.”

  “Set and read a spell.”

  “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” Newspapers were like gold, and once in a while someone would leave a previously read paper at the store, with a little prompting from Pete, of course. Occasionally Pete would pull them out of the trash and save them.

  Beside the front window of the store, Pete had set a table and a couple of chairs. A man could grab a cup of coffee and read to his heart’s content. Rylan searched through the papers and found the one from Boston. He placed his hat on the table and sat down in the chair, spreading open the paper. Pete brought over a mug of coffee. Old names, familiar streets… Rylan journeyed back to Boston, to his family home, to a life he’d left behind.

  An hour passed before he turned the final page. His heart stopped. He jumped up. The half-full mug of coffee toppled over. The table wobbled. “No!” he moaned.

  Randolph and Wilma Cousins are proud to announce the betrothal of their daughter, Margaret Elizabeth, to Jackson Pearle….

  Rylan couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked and read the malicious lines again and again. Why? All the work … all the planning … for what?

  Judith leaped out of the way as a man barreled out of Pete Anderson’s store. She brushed the skirt of her dress to remove any vestiges of the dust and dirt he kicked up. “How rude,” she mumbled under her breath.

  Singularly focused and driven were the best ways to describe the human train pushing his way out of the store and to his horse. She opened the basket carrying the few tomatoes she hoped Pete could sell. They weren’t much, but they were something to help ease the burden of her father’s debt.

  Her father wasn’t a farmer. He should have stayed in Worcester. Coming to Kansas to start over again seemed impossible. And having looked over the fields her father had planted in the spring compared to the other
farmers in the area, it was painfully obvious he should have stayed back east.

  “Hi, Pete. Who was that?”

  Pete’s generous smile warmed his full face. “Rylan Gaines owns the spread west of your father’s.”

  “Oh.” The farmer whose fields shouted her father’s ineptitude. “I brought some tomatoes. I’m hoping you can sell them and put the money towards my father’s debt.”

  “Sure,” Pete said, reaching for the bundle of tomatoes. “Fine-looking vegetables. They’ll sell.”

  Judith smiled. She didn’t know if Pete was being truthful or simply generous. It didn’t matter. What her father owed for seed, a few tomatoes wouldn’t make a dent in.

  “There’s a paper from Boston over there.” Pete pointed to the small wooden table and chairs. Over the summer it had been her only hiatus in this horrible place her parents now called home. They had let her stay in Worcester the first year while they settled.

  Judith examined the soiled newspaper, an overturned cup, and a wet brown substance she assumed was coffee. The newsprint bled. The paper bubbled. “Pete, do you have anything to clean up this mess?” she called out.

  “What mess?”

  “Appears to be coffee.”

  “Well, I’ll be. Something must have rattled Rylan.” Pete sauntered over with a dry rag.

  Judith scanned what she could of the obituaries, birth announcements, and wedding announcements. “Perhaps someone he knew passed away.”

  “Always possible. Rylan was one of the first to arrive. He came in fifty-four. Far as I can tell, he hasn’t been back east since.” Pete sopped up the coffee the paper hadn’t. His hand paused in midair. “What?”

  “Uhh, nothing.” Pete finished his work and hurried back behind the counter.

  Whatever bothered Rylan Gaines had hit Pete with nearly as much force. Judith scanned the paper again. No one named Gaines had passed away, married, or had a baby. Of course, she had no idea who his maternal grandparents were. It was always possible one of these names represented someone from that side of his family. But if someone had died, wouldn’t Pete have said?

  Pete wasn’t a true gossip, but the man openly shared the comings and goings of most folks. He was Prairie County’s newspaper. No, it was something worse than death—and something more personal, she assessed. “Mind your concerns, Judithshe heard her mother’s voice chide her. Ever since childhood Judith had felt the urge to butt in and know why so-and-so did this and so-and-so did that. Gossip was the hardest sin she fought. Her natural curiosity craved finding out information. Truly this wasn’t her concern. If so, Pete would have said what was wrong. But he hadn’t, and she needed to leave it at that.

  Judith tore the damp page from the rest of the paper and placed it over the other chair to dry. She settled down and read about life back east, the life she’d left behind. The life she desperately wanted to return to.

  “Excuse me, Judith,” Pete called over to her.

  Judith popped her head up over the edge of the newspaper. She’d been reading nonstop.

  “Are you aware of the county fair coming up?”

  “County fair?”

  “Yeah, we hold it once a year. The farmers bring their crops, and the women— what few we have—bake pies. There are horse pulls, judging contests…. It’s a lot of fun.”

  “No, I guess I hadn’t heard about it.” Even if she had, she knew her father wouldn’t be bringing his crops to show off.

  “Reason I mention it is there’s some prize money for the best foods, and I thought you and your mother might like to enter.” Pete continued to count his stock.

  Prize money. Could she and her mom possibly win?

  “There’s a flyer hanging in my window. You know, on your father’s land there’s the best batch of wild black raspberries. They’d make some mighty fine jam.”

  “If one had the sugar,” she mumbled.

  “They’re so sweet, hardly need to add sugar.”

  Had he heard her? She really did need to stop mumbling to herself.

  “So you hold this fair every year?”

  “It’s a grand time. Helps bring the folks in the county together. We’re spread so far apart.”

  She’d seen enough of the county to know how true a statement that was. Eighty acres were given to each man and woman who set up their claim, but they needed to stay on the land for five years before the property actually became theirs.

  Five years. She closed her eyes as if to shut out the knowledge of how much time stretched out before her until her parents would own their claim. Why did it bother her so much to be here? Nothing remained of the family home or her father’s bank back east. Her parents were here. Folks seemed friendly enough. She hadn’t left an admirer behind, so why her discontent?

  “Where did you say these berries were?”

  Pete rubbed his well-shaved chin. “I’d say on the hill behind where they built the house. There’s a line of trees that form a V and point right to it. You can’t miss ‘em.”

  “Thanks. Don’t know if I’ll be making any jam, but the berries would be a nice treat for the folks.” Judith headed toward the door.

  “Don’t have to make jam—that was just a suggestion. You can make anything and enter it,” Pete encouraged.

  Judith turned and waved. “Thanks, Pete.”

  Something for Momma’s sweet tooth to get her through the winter would be worth the effort to find those berries. She hadn’t searched the land much. She’d been so busy tending the garden and livestock, who had time for exploring?

  On the other hand, the money would be a blessing if she should win. Who was she kidding? She held her own in the kitchen, but she was certain she couldn’t compete with the other women who lived in this territory.

  Of course, there weren’t all that many women living in the county. Judith’s father had had more offers for her hand in marriage since she’d arrived in Prairie Center than during her entire eighteen years in Worcester. Some men who hadn’t even seen her came proposing. She climbed up on the buckboard and headed home.

  “Howdy, Miss Timmons, may I escort you home?” Brian Flannery tipped his hat and rode proud in his saddle. He wasn’t an unhandsome man, but the lack of a front tooth gave him a less-than-intelligent appearance.

  “Thank you, Mr. Flannery, but it isn’t necessary.”

  “Nonsense. A pretty woman like you shouldn’t be alone.”

  Alone? How could she be? If Brian hadn’t shown up, there was a list of at least a dozen other men who would. She’d never made a trip back from town without an escort.

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile. Inwardly she sighed, praying just once an opportunity would arise for her to go home in peaceful solitude.

  Rylan stormed home, pushing Max as fast as the workhorse could run. Back in the barn, he brushed the animal down with care. The poor beast wasn’t the problem. Margaret and Jackson, they were his problem. How long had they been seeing each other behind his back? The newspaper was nearly a month old, and he’d not even received a sorry-but-I-fell-in-love-with-another-man letter.

  “Nothing. Not one single word,” he huffed. “Why, Lord?” He threw the brush against the shelf and left Max with a bag of oats in payment for the hard ride home.

  He’d trusted her. He’d worked himself weary preparing this place for her and their children. He looked over the barn. A barn, a house, and a root cellar. How much more did a woman need? And what was so great about Jackson?

  Rylan didn’t consider himself a vain man, but he beat Jackson hands down in the looks department. Jackson barely had a chin to speak of. The poor guy was all neck.

  “Jackson, thanks—friend.” The bile in his stomach boiled. He kicked a small stone with his boot.

  He looked up at the house built for Margaret, a labor of love, now an empty tomb of disappointment and despair. “Why, Margaret? Didn’t I give you everything I promised I would? And why Jackson?”

  Rylan turned his back to the house. He couldn’t sle
ep in there tonight. Not tonight. He needed to get a handle on his emotions. The temptation to tear the place apart board by board burned at him. Thankfully, something held him back. Perhaps it was all the hours he’d put into it, or hopefully it was God’s grace giving him some good common sense.

  Every instinct he had urged him to storm home to Massachusetts and demand some answers. His head throbbed from the war being fought within. He needed time. Time to absorb. And time to decide what to do with his future.

  He pulled a wool blanket from the barn, tucked a knife in his boot, and grabbed his rifle. Tonight he would camp in the small woods bordering his land and Oscar Timmons’s. Oscar wasn’t much of a farmer, but you only had to farm ten acres of the eighty to earn your land. The fact that he still lived in a dugout only proved how poorly the man was doing. Oscar once had told Rylan he was a banker. But his bank went bust when some investments he’d made hadn’t panned out. In the end, he ended up selling all he had to pay off the debts the bank had accumulated before he sold it off for pennies on the dollar. Whatever Oscar’s ability with numbers, he certainly didn’t have a hand for growing.

  The brisk pace Rylan took as he headed toward the woods raised a sweat. A refreshing swim in the small pond on his property would help chill his burning temper. Most days it took Rylan quite a bit to lose his temper. Today was not most days.

  He stripped to the waist and dove in. His long frame sluiced through the water as he swam deeper and deeper under the surface. No sound penetrated under the water. His lungs burned for oxygen. How long did he dare stay below the surface?

  Rylan scanned the murky bottom and spun around, looking toward the sky. The water was so clear above him. Below him it was dark, murky, full of decaying leaves and matter. Above, the pure, clean water fed by a small stream.

  He pushed his arms upward and kicked his legs with all his strength. He was a man brought to this earth by God for a purpose. He needed to look up to find his direction in life, not down in the pit of darkness and despair. Another strong kick and pull with his arms and Rylan’s head broke the surface, his lungs sucking in the precious oxygen that gave him life. “Lord, show me what to do,” he gasped.