The Dove_The Second Day Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  by

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  SHANNA HATFIELD

  Copyright © 2017 by Shanna Hatfield

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, 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 author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions.

  For permission requests, please contact the author, with a subject line of "permission request” at the email address below or through her website.

  Shanna Hatfield

  [email protected]

  shannahatfield.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover: EDHGraphics

  Prologue

  Noelle, Colorado

  September 1876

  Dear Miss Mirga,

  A letter such as this is not one I ever expected to write. Quite frankly, I hope I never have to again. Perhaps that sounds harsher than it should. I just meant that I’ve never written to any woman, let alone one I intend to marry.

  In truth, I never planned to wed. Yet, for the good of our town, a place I’ve set down roots, I’ll do what I can to help it thrive. A thriving town, it seems, requires women and families.

  Noelle is a peaceful place, nestled against the rugged Rocky Mountains. We have plenty of fragrant pine trees around us and in the spring, the meadows burst with flowers. I haven’t given the flowers much consideration before, other than to admire how pretty they make the meadows, but I reckon a woman might enjoy that sort of thing.

  Life here is interesting, never dull. The softening touch you women will most likely bring to Noelle will certainly change things — in a good way.

  I suppose you’d like to know a little about me before you make up your mind about agreeing to become my bride. There’s not much to tell. I’m thirty years old, in good health, and of sound mind. At least I am unless you ask a few of the cheekier fellas in town. They’ll no doubt offer varying opinions on that particular subject. I have a tendency to be quiet instead of prattling on like my tongue’s lost its hinges. You’ll discover I like things orderly and completed on time.

  Noelle’s blacksmith shop and livery belong to me. Since I was sixteen, I’ve worked as a blacksmith. The war taught me many things, but how to be a good blacksmith was one of the skills that I continue to use. When the need arises, I also handle a little silversmith work. By no means am I wealthy, but I do well enough to support a wife and will provide the best I can for you.

  All this is new to me (the thought of being married), and I have no idea how to go about being a good husband. I’m willing to learn, though, and to try. However, I want to be clear with you on a few things. I will expect you to carry your share of the load of daily working and living, such as tending to my home and maybe milking the cow. Don’t fret that I’ll work you to death, because I won’t. I want you to be happy and content. As we get to know each other, I hope you’ll become my partner in life as well as my wife.

  You probably have a few expectations of your own, like a decent place to live. No fancy house full of expensive furnishings awaits your arrival. Rather, I have a humble dwelling at the back of my business. My home is snug and warm against the winter snows and blustery winds. In the spring, the breeze carries the scent of those wildflowers I mentioned through the open window, filling my place with a wonderful scent. Most of the time, my rooms carry the odors of smoke and metal blending with the distinctive aroma of the horses at the livery. I like the smell, but then I’ve spent a good portion of my life around it.

  You won’t ever go hungry if you marry me, but I’m not much of a cook. Are you handy in the kitchen, Miss Mirga? In the event you can’t cook, you’d best acquire a taste for salt pork and beans because that’s what I eat most of the time, unless I go to Nacho’s place for supper (which involves more beans). If you can cook, I’d be everlastingly grateful if you could bake a pie. My favorite is apple, but I’m not a picky eater. Right now, just thinking about a flaky crust surrounding cinnamon-laced fruit makes my mouth water.

  Most folks consider me a big man. I stand half a dozen inches on the upward side of six feet, and my shoulders are broader than an axe handle. I don’t say that to brag or frighten you, but to let you know what you’re getting yourself into by agreeing to marry me (if you do agree, which I hope you do). Please don’t let my size worry you. My mother taught me to be gentle with women and I promise I’d never hurt you, at least not intentionally.

  I can’t offer you much, Miss Mirga, except to be an upright, loyal, and considerate husband. I don’t expect love to play any part in our relationship, but perhaps we can be friends. Should you agree to become my bride, I’ll do my best to do right by you.

  Yours if you’ll have me,

  Culver Daniels

  Chapter One

  Noelle, Colorado

  Christmas Eve, 1876

  Behind a façade of casual indifference, Culver Daniels rested a brawny arm on the mahogany bar at the Golden Nugget Saloon. His feigned calm demeanor hid the angst he experienced as he anxiously awaited the arrival of twelve mail-order brides. One of those women, Miss Kezia Mirga, had agreed to become his wife.

  He cast a sideways glance toward the door where Reverend Chase Hammond stood, Bible in his hand, peering out into the swirling snow of the afternoon. Culver blamed the pastor for the uncomfortable nervous bubbling in his stomach, like sour milk churned with vinegar. It was the pastor’s idea to bring respectable women to Noelle in hopes of saving the town. The railroad agreed to consider running a line through the area if the town showed the promise of growth and stability. Regrettably, wives and families were necessary to make that happen.

  An abundance of volunteers stepping forward to take a bride resulted in the men of Noelle drawing straws to decide who, exactly, would marry. Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Culver joined those drawing straws, never dreaming he’d be one of the lucky men, or unfortunate (depending on whom was asked), to end up with a short straw.

  Years ago, Culver vowed to remain blissfully single during whatever time he had left on earth. Despite his proclamations to stay far away from the hallowed institution of matrimony, he was about to meet his bride, and on Christmas Eve, no less.

  The blizzard blowing outside did nothing to alleviate his concerns or settle his upset stomach. What if his intended didn’t like him? What if she was one of those annoying helpless females who thought men lived to serve her every whim? What if she was a homely, timid thing who wouldn’t look him in the eye? It would be a long, miserable marriage if she spooked every time he got within a foot of her.

  Culver held no hope Miss Mirga would be a match for his towering size, although the brief account Reverend Hammond shared with him hinted she was tall. In the months since he’d resigned himself to this harebrained scheme to save the town, he’d memorized every word of Miss Mirga’s description:

  Talented in many ways including domestication, Kezia is a capable,
lovely woman with experience in the performance arts. Her goddess-like stature and dark beauty make her an excellent candidate for the right man.

  For the thousandth time, Culver wondered if he was, or could eventually be, the right man. What did that indicate? The right man. How did one decide if a man was right or wrong for a woman? Who made that decision? Him or his bride-to-be?

  The phrase “goddess-like stature,” whatever that signified, left him pondering her appearance. Would she be unusually tall or did it mean she was wide and stout? And what was implied by dark beauty? In spite of the many hours he’d invested in trying to imagine her background, he had no idea what kind of name Kezia Mirga might be. The name, like her description, sounded exotic and spirited. Would she be from some foreign place?

  He’d also spent more time than he cared to admit curious about her experience with performance arts. What in the heck did that mean, anyway? What if she was an actress or something along those lines? She’d no more fit in at his blacksmith shop than a flamingo would blend in with Woody Burnside’s chickens.

  Unsettled by the not knowing, by the waiting and wondering, Culver refused the drink Seamus, the barkeep, offered to pour him and wandered to the front of the saloon. He stood behind the reverend and looked outside as the two wagons carrying the women arrived in town.

  “Here they come!” he said excitedly as the first wagon, fitted with sleigh runners, pulled up in front of the building and slid to a stop.

  Everything in him wanted to race outside and find Miss Mirga, to meet the woman who had tormented his thoughts and dreams the past few months.

  Instead, Culver returned to his post at the bar and again leaned his arm on the shiny, smooth surface. He’d never been this tense in his entire life, and that counted the miserable years he’d served in the Union Army during the war.

  He inhaled a deep, fortifying breath before he turned around and watched the cold, tired women file inside the saloon. There were tall women, short women, skinny women, and women swathed in big cloaks.

  “That one’s no spring chicken,” Seamus muttered as a woman who had to be seventy if she was a day walked inside.

  Culver’s gaze flicked across the aged bride and landed on the female beside her. He sucked in a gulp and choked, bedazzled by the sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Tall and statuesque, the woman possessed snapping dark eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and a full bottom lip that made him think any number of husband-like thoughts.

  The vivid purple cloak she wore, embroidered along the edge with gold thread, stood out from those wearing less vibrant colors. A red and gold paisley scarf encircled her neck. Rich, black hair spilled in finger-tempting waves over her shoulders, although a braided band of hair encircled the front of her head like a crown.

  A crown seemed fitting for an enthralling gypsy queen.

  Fascinated, Culver continued his perusal. Silver hoops swung enticingly from her ears. When she lifted a hand and placed it on the old woman’s shoulder, silver and gold bracelets tinkled around her wrist and slid down her forearm.

  Culver clenched his jaw to keep his mouth from dropping open in awed wonder. Sudden, inexplicable jealousy stirred his anger toward the man who would marry this bride. Not only was she stunning, but the way she smiled at the old woman hinted at a kind heart. It would be easy to fall for a woman like her, or at least ease the hardship of saddling himself with a wife he didn’t know or want.

  Annoyed with himself for his interest in the woman, Culver decided to go home. There would be time enough tomorrow to meet the bride he’d pledged to marry. If he left before any introductions took place, he could pretend the tall beauty was his bride-to-be. With his luck, he’d probably end up with the old woman.

  Determined to escape unnoticed, he started across the floor. Unbeknownst to him, though, his heart staged a revolt before he could stride away unnoticed. Without waiting for his consent, his feet carried him toward the dark-haired gypsy. He’d nearly reached her when the old woman stepped in front of her and shot him a narrowed glare.

  “Who might you be, young man?” the old woman asked. In spite of her obvious years, her voice held a youthful zest.

  Culver reached up to doff his hat, then remembered he’d set it on the bar earlier. He tipped his head to the two women and summoned his most charming smile. “I’m Culver Daniels, ma’am. Welcome to Noelle.”

  The old woman tipped back her head to look up at him, surveying him from the top of his carefully combed hair to the tips of his polished boots. “My, gracious, Mr. Daniels, but you are what the girls in my day called a strapping young buck.”

  Uncertain what to say, he merely nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “I’m Agatha Boonesbury. Before you ask the questions swirling in that fine-looking head of yours, I’ll tell you that I’m here as a bride and no, I’m not too old. You’re only as old as you allow yourself to feel and I feel like I’m ready for a new husband.”

  Culver grinned. One of the restricting bands of worry that had squeezed the air from his chest relaxed. “That’s a fine way to look at life, ma’am.” His gaze traveled from Mrs. Boonesbury to the woman behind her. “And your name, Miss?”

  A slight blush dusted the woman’s cheeks with pink as she lifted chocolate-colored eyes to his. Culver had always been quite partial to chocolate. He could quickly grow accustomed to staring into eyes that held such mesmerizing flecks of amber light among their glossy depths.

  When she didn’t respond, he took a step closer, but Mrs. Boonesbury subtly shifted to block him from the stunning woman.

  Culver moved to the right and so did the gypsy’s self-appointed guard. He shifted to the left, as did Mrs. Boonesbury. A few more steps back and forth and Culver decided the old woman was not only a fair dancer, but also the most irritating person he’d encountered in a long while. He couldn’t fathom a single reason why she’d prevent him from getting any closer to the gypsy woman, but she undoubtedly planned to do so.

  Defeated, at least temporarily, Culver looked again to the dark-haired woman. “Miss? What’s your name? Who are you to marry?”

  “You, Mr. Daniels,” she said in a soft, alluring voice that melted Culver’s insides and turned his brain to mush. “I’m Kezia Mirga, but my friends call me Zee.”

  “You’re even more beautiful than I dreamed, Miss Mirga,” Culver said, shocked to discover his tongue joined the rebellion his heart and feet had already staged against his good sense.

  “Been dreaming about her a lot, have you?” Mrs. Boonesbury inquired, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering at him.

  Culver paid her no mind as he fell into the warmth of Kezia’s smile and slowly worked his head up and down in agreement.

  “Been thinking husbandly thoughts, have you?” the old woman demanded. “Plotting what you’ll do to this poor girl once you’ve married her?”

  Another absent nod.

  Kezia’s blush heightened and she glanced away as Mrs. Boonesbury reached out and soundly whacked Culver on the arm.

  “Shame on you, Mr. Daniels.”

  Culver dropped his gaze from the gorgeous creature in the purple cloak to Mrs. Boonesbury. He tossed her a confused, questioning frown that drew a laugh out of his bride. The sound brought Christmas bells to mind.

  Aware that he’d lost the ability to think with any degree of reason, Culver began to wonder if he was coming down with some malady. Perhaps he needed to speak to Doc Deane about the sudden feverish feeling swamping him.

  Or maybe the problem stemmed from being immediately and undeniably besotted with his future wife. As he gazed at the gypsy, he was vaguely aware of the owner of the town’s mine, Charlie Hardt, threatening to kill the reverend then turning his fury on one of the other prospective grooms.

  Culver blocked out the sound of their argument, intently focused on studying every inch of Miss Mirga’s lovely countenance. He’d heard about gypsies. Didn’t they cast spells and curses? Was
it possible she’d bewitched him? If someone had asked him even ten minutes ago if he believed in such nonsense, he’d have scoffed at the idea. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

  Not a single bit of logic could explain the racing, frenetic beat of his heart or the unfathomable desire to pull Kezia into his arms and ascertain if her lips tasted as sweet and ripe as they looked.

  Nope. He’d definitely left behind every bit of reason and sense he formerly possessed.

  The woman must have cast some sort of love spell over him the moment she walked into the saloon. And Culver didn’t want any part of it. No, siree. Why he’d…

  His train of thought derailed as he studied her cloak and envisioned what she’d look like with it removed. Would she have tempting curves to match her lovely face and seductive voice? He wished she’d discard the heavy covering so his curiosity could be satisfied, but there would be time enough for that later.

  In truth, he found himself so smitten with the woman, she could have been shaped like a barrel and Culver wouldn’t have cared, at least not much. Her inviting smile and beguiling eyes were enough to leave him elated with the bride he’d been given.

  The sound of shrieking drew him out of his musings as he watched the woman in charge of the brides waggling a finger in the pastor’s face.

  “What do you suppose is the matter now?” Kezia asked in a low voice, shifting a bundle she carried beneath her cloak.

  Culver took another step forward, but Mrs. Boonesbury blocked him as she glanced over her shoulder at the reverend and Mrs. Walters, the woman who’d arranged for the brides. “I’m sure everything will be fine, dear.”

  “May I help you, Miss Mirga?” Culver asked, attempting to step around the old woman and relieve Kezia of whatever burden she carried beneath the voluminous folds of her cloak.

  “No!” Kezia blurted with a hint of panic. She quickly dropped her gaze and took a step behind her guardian. “Thank you for offering, Mr. Daniels, but I’m not in need of assistance.”