A Reason to Believe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
Teaser chapter
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF MAUREEN MCKADE
“Absolutely wonderful!” —USA Today bestselling author
Lorraine Heath
“Maureen McKade creates characters who step off the page and into hearts. I couldn’t put down A Reason to Live. From the first page McKade’s characters made me care for them. McKade shows the mark of a master storyteller by creating a world I’ve never been to and making me feel like I’m coming home as I turn the pages.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas
“A story that will tear at your heart . . . Heated passion, fast paced, sizzling sexual tension.” —Rendezvous
“Watch out when sparks start to fly!” —Affaire de Coeur
“A Maureen McKade novel is going to provide plenty of excitement and enjoyment . . . Another triumph.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Well-done, uplifting, and enjoyable.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“With a clever story line and sparkling dialogue, she’s created a town that will live in her readers’ minds and keeper shelves forever . . . Untamed Heart is one of the must read romances of the year!” —Literary Times
“One of the most original romances I’ve read in a long time. I look forward to reading more from this talented author.” —All About Romance
“Hard to put down . . . A great story.” —The Best Reviews
Titles by Maureen McKade
TO FIND YOU AGAIN
AROUSE SUSPICION
CONVICTIONS
A REASON TO LIVE
A REASON TO BELIEVE
Anthologies
HOW TO LASSO A COWBOY
(with Jodie Thomas, Patricia Potter, and Emily Carmichael)
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not asssume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
A REASON TO BELIEVE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / August 2007
Copyright © 2007 by Maureen Webster.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the Wyrd Sisters—especially Karen Fox, Pam Mc-Cutcheon, Angel Smits, and Deb Stover—for your fresh eyes, creative input, and encouragement.
A special thanks to my agent, Natasha Kern, and my editor, Cindy Hwang, for their unflagging faith.
And, as always, to Alan and our four-footed children.
ONE
DULCIE McDaniel squinted against the hot, harsh sun and refused to give in to the desperation tightening her chest. Instead, she studied the rustling leaves overhead and the robin perched on a branch, cocking its head at the scene below.
A hand tugged at Dulcie’s skirt. “Maaa.”
Madeline’s crabby whine brought Dulcie back to the present. She looked down at her four-year-old daughter. “What is it, honey?”
“Wanna go home.”
Dulcie wanted to do the same, but she couldn’t leave her father alone while two strangers lowered his pine box into the ground. Bitterness rose like bile, and she choked it back.
Her throat constricted, and she blinked tears into submission. Her father had been a falling-down drunk who hadn’t done an honest day’s work since Dulcie’s mother died. But he’d been her father, and she owed him something for that.
“Ma, wanna go. Hot.”
“A few more minutes.”
The girl fiddled with her bonnet strings.
“Leave it on, honey, or the sun will burn your face.”
Madeline sighed audibly but stopped playing with the ribbons.
Dulcie squared her shoulders and brought her gaze back to the two men lowering the wooden casket into the earth.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Trying not to think about how many of her precious coins were used to give her father this simple burial, Dulcie focused on the plain cross marking the new grave beside her mother’s final resting place.
Frank R. Pollard.
Rest in Peace.
Resentment filled Dulcie, and she bit the inside of her cheek. First her husband and now her father. Although both had been miserable excuses for human beings, her father had given her life and her husband had given her Madeline. But now, she had no one but Madeline, and her father and husband had the peace that was denied the living.
A dull thwump brought Dulcie out of her bitter musings. Thwump. Anothe
r shovelful of dirt hit the wood coffin. Madeline’s small fingers tightened around Dulcie’s hand and the girl whimpered.
Dulcie’s stomach tossed and rolled, threatening to lose its meager contents.
“It’s all right, honey,” she said, surprised by her calm, even voice. “You can have bread with honey when we get home.”
Madeline snuffled, the promise of a treat quieting her restlessness.
When they were done, the men slung their shovels over their shoulders and plodded away without a word, leaving Dulcie and Madeline alone by the fresh grave. An expectancy hung in the air, as if Dulcie’s father were waiting for something.
Dulcie thought about her mother’s Bible lying in the trunk at the cabin. She had considered bringing it and speaking some words over her father, but it didn’t seem fitting. Not even the minister could be bothered to bury a lynched murderer.
“I hope you and Ma are together now,” Dulcie said awkwardly. “And that there’s no more whiskey to tempt you.”
She stiffened her backbone. She’d done all she could and probably more than her father deserved. But then, even though he was a drunk, he wasn’t a murderer. He hadn’t deserved to die at the end of a rope with masked men surrounding him.
“Is Grandda sleeping?” Madeline asked.
Dulcie pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yes, honey, Grandda’s asleep.” And he won’t ever wake up.
Dulcie turned away from the grave and, with Madeline skipping alongside her, trudged back to the mule-drawn wagon.
RYE Forrester thought he’d left hell behind. Instead, it had followed him from Kansas all the way down to Texas, bedeviling him with scorching heat during the long, dusty days. He adjusted his battered, wide-brimmed hat and tried to ignore the sweat that trickled down his cheeks and jaw. His shirt stuck to his back, clammy and wet against his skin. His inner thighs were damp from pressing against leather.
His mare tossed her head and snorted, letting him know what she thought of traveling in this ungodly heat. Rye patted Smoke’s sweat-soaked neck and considered looking for some shade. However, his destination was close, and there they’d find shelter, water, and food. There’d also be saloons that served warm beer and burning rotgut.
Rye shoved temptation aside. The sooner he found the woman, the sooner he could atone and move on. He shifted uneasily. There’d probably be tears and accusations, but he’d known this wouldn’t be easy. Hell, his whole life hadn’t been easy. Why should this be any different?
He continued on, giving his attention to his surroundings rather than the worn-out memories scrabbling for purchase. Fields littered the area, scattered between bursts of trees, giving the land a latticed appearance. Crops were nearly ripe and it wouldn’t be long before harvest began. Unless the merciless sun stripped them away and replaced the living plants with brown, withered stalks.
The town appeared as a blur on the horizon, and it took nearly half an hour to reach the outskirts of the sleepy village. His eyes shaded by his hat brim, Rye catalogued Locust as simply another town like so many others, inhabited by mostly God-fearing folks who gave their lives to parcels of land worth less than his horse.
As he studied the town, he was aware of being the center of attention. Even two years after the War between the States, every stranger in these southern towns was regarded as an enemy until proven otherwise. Rye never stuck around long enough to prove one way or the other.
He glanced around and caught movement on a hillside at the edge of town. A woman with a young girl stood in a cemetery as two men shoveled dirt into a grave. It seemed odd, just the two mourners. . . . But then, it wasn’t any of his concern.
Rye steered Smoke to the livery and dismounted in the shade of the barn.
A man wearing overalls stuffed with a low-hanging belly ambled out. He pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his wrinkled brow. “Four bits a day. Includes a can of oats,” the man said after a jaw-cracking yawn.
Rye suspected the can was the size of a tomato tin, but he wasn’t in any position to argue. And the liveryman knew it. Rye tossed him two coins, and the man caught them with his thick, stubby fingers. “For that price you’d best be giving a rubdown, too.”
It wasn’t a question, but the stout man gave a choppy nod. Rye tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder and untied the rifle from the saddle, hefting the scabbard comfortably with one hand. He gave the liveryman the reins. Rye’s nose wrinkled at the stench of old sweat, manure, and other odors he didn’t want to mull over, having smelled them too often in army barracks.
“There a place to sleep in this town?” Rye asked.
“There’s rooms upstairs in the saloon.”
Rye frowned. “Isn’t there a hotel or rooming house?”
The liveryman shrugged and picked at a scab on his beefy forearm. “Ain’t got enough folks comin’ through. ’Sides, most that do are men lookin’ for whiskey and a woman—saloon got both.”
Six months ago Rye would’ve been looking for the same. He nodded to the man and ambled away, his legs stiff from sitting in the saddle for so long. Out of the shade the sun’s heat struck him like a blow, and the hot air stole any moisture left in his mouth.
Going into a saloon thirsty and tired wasn’t the best idea, but Rye didn’t have a choice. He paused in the doorway, his forearms holding open the swinging doors. The stench of stale beer and whiskey, along with unwashed bodies and old tobacco, invoked memories of nights spent drinking himself into oblivion. He breathed through his mouth to lessen the effect, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t just camp under the stars again. But the thought of sleeping on a mattress was too tempting, and that was a temptation Rye could surrender to.
He wove between chairs and tables, his footsteps muffled by the sawdust on the floor.
The tall, thin bartender placed his hands against the bar. “What can I get you, mister?”
“A room,” Rye replied.
“We got four. You want the one closest to the stairs or the farthest one back?”
With morbid fascination, Rye watched the man’s long mustache bounce with every word. He mentally shook himself. “I just want to get some sleep.”
“Farthest one, then. That’d be two dollars for the night.”
Rye glared at the man. “It got a solid gold bed?”
The bartender laughed, exposing rotting teeth. “We get that much for letting a whore rent the room for her business.”
“Provided she’s on her back from sundown to sunup.”
“Take it or leave it, mister.”
As much as Rye wanted to tell him where to shove his room, he wanted a night in a real bed more. “Clean sheets?”
“We got ’em, but it’s two bits extra and you got to make up the bed.”
Rye grabbed the man’s shirtfront and jerked him forward,bringing them face-to-face. “You give me the clean sheets for the price of the room and I won’t break your god-damned nose. Take it or leave it, mister,” he said, throwing the bartender’s words back at him.
“You’re bluffin’.” The quaver in the man’s voice gave lie to his bravado.
“You and me both know you won’t get two dollars from a whore on a Tuesday night in this one-horse town.”
The bartender gave a jerky nod. “All right.”
Rye released him, and the man stepped back, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his cranelike neck.
Rye tossed two silver dollars on the bar, wincing inwardly. He’d have to find another job soon to restore his scant money supply.
The bartender scooped up the coins and reached under the bar for a key. He handed it to Rye then went into the back room. He appeared a few moments later with an armload of fresh bedclothes. “Here.”
Rye accepted them without comment. He turned to head up the stairs, but remembered his reason for being there. “You know a woman named Dulcie McDaniel?”
The bartender frowned. “No McDaniel around here.” He paused. “Seems to me Dulcie Pollard married som
e soldier fellah, but I don’t recall his name.”
Rye suspected that was the woman he was searching for. “She live around here?”
The man crossed his long, thin arms. “Ever since she come back here ’bout four months ago. Lives on the farm three miles west of town.” He shook his head. “Buried her pa today. Bastard murdered a good man. Got hanged for what he done.”
It took a moment for Rye to digest the news. The woman he’d seen at the cemetery must’ve been McDaniel’s widow, and the little girl his daughter. He didn’t know whether he should be surprised or not. The fact was he’d never met her, and Jerry hadn’t talked much about his family. He’d been too busy drinking and whoring.
“Damned shame,” the bartender commented, shaking his head. “Frank Pollard was a good customer. Used to buy his whiskey here.”
Obviously the bartender could care less about Mrs. McDaniel’s grief, which angered and disgusted Rye. “A woman lost her father and all you can think of is that you lost a customer?”
The man’s thin lips turned downward, his mustache making his face—and frown—appear longer. “You’re a stranger ’round here, mister, so you don’t know how it is. If you did, you wouldn’t go ’round defendin’ her.”
“She didn’t kill anyone.”
“Apple don’t fall far from the tree.”
Rye stared at him, wondering if most of the town felt the same way. As if reading Rye’s thoughts, the bartender added, “The man her pa killed was well-liked. Everyone respected him. That’s more than could be said for Pollard and his daughter.”