Blessing Read online

  Advance praise for

  Blessing

  “Blessing is a delightful historical romance from the pen of the talented Deborah Bedford. Come meet the colorful characters of Tin Cup, Colorado, and lose yourself in the sweet love story of Uley and Aaron. You’ll be glad you did.”

  —Robin Lee Hatcher, bestselling author of Loving Libby and The Victory Club

  “Deborah Bedford breathes the breath of life into her characters, giving them the power to walk right off the written page into our hearts.”

  —Hannah Alexander, Christy Award-winning author of Hideaway and Last Resort

  “If you liked the Brides of the West series, you’ll LOVE Deborah Bedford’s Blessing! Wonderful writing, a unique cast of characters and a lively story altogether emphasize a deep truth: Man judges on outward appearance, but God searches the heart.”

  —Lyn Cote, author of The Women of Ivy Manor series

  Praise for

  DEBORAH BEDFORD

  “The joy of this contemporary novel of faith lies in Bedford’s calm, competent voice as she spins a turbulent tale of love, sexual misconduct and divided loyalties…. this is a well-told tale that should appeal to readers of faith who enjoy an inspirational love story wrapped around deeper issues.”

  —Publishers Weekly on When You Believe

  “Wonderful truths…surprise circumstances and revelations…you’ll be sorry to have to say goodbye to Bedford’s marvelous characters.”

  —Christian Retailing on A Rose by the Door

  “Deborah Bedford…will inspire readers with [her] message of hope and healing through the power of love.”

  —CBA Marketplace on A Rose by the Door

  DEBORAH BEDFORD

  Blessing

  To those who long to find peace and protection.

  To the ones who know it is not their own power,

  but the Father’s, that makes things work for the good.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Meme and Papaw, Dale and Marjorie Holt, who showed me how to make Tin Cup my own. I love you.

  To Joan Marlow Golan, who has encouraged and given wise counsel during this project. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to turn this, the work of my hands, which I had meant for the world, into a story that glorifies the Lord.

  A Note from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  When my parents married in 1954, my mother had never vacationed outside Texas. My father took her to Colorado for their honeymoon. This began a longtime love affair between my family and the mountains. When I was little, I used to mark off the hours on a chart before we would hop in the car and drive toward Tin Cup. In college, I worked at Holt’s Guest Ranch. I rode horses to the lily pond. Just like Uley, I spent plenty of time at the Tin Cup Town Hall and, yes, I’ve even been to a wedding there! I’ve prowled around those hills outside the Gold Cup, and my poor little dachshund, Annie, got a porcupine quill in her paw while exploring an old ramshackle cabin.

  It was so much fun imagining the characters who had once walked these streets, thinking about the lives of the miners and the girls at Santa Fe Moll’s place. This story satisfied me when it was released the first time. But now that I’ve heard the Father’s call to write books that draw readers toward Him, the opportunity to “redeem” and rewrite this project seemed like a gift. How many chances does a person have to redo the work of our hands, which we had meant for our glory, and offer it up to glorify our Heavenly Father? I am grateful beyond measure to Joan Marlow Golan at Steeple Hill for giving me this opportunity. I offer this story to you, in His name. I hope you will love Tin Cup as much as I do!

  P.O. Box 9175

  Jackson Hole, WY 83001

  www.deborahbedfordbooks.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Discussion Questions

  Chapter One

  Gunnison County, Colorado—1882

  “I don’t want this town to be called Virginia City anymore!” Alex Parent hollered, banging his cup on the podium. “Every town this side of the Mississippi is called Virginia City. The confounded postal service is dropping off mail from back home everywhere else but here.”

  All 103 people in the audience agreed with him at the top of their lungs.

  “That’s right!”

  “Yep!”

  “You’re right, Parent,” someone else bellowed. “There’s a Virginia City in Nevada and another one in Alder Gulch, Montana and another one…”

  “So…we aren’t Virginia City anymore,” Parent hollered at them as he pounded the podium. “Who are we gonna be? We’ve got to discuss this and make a motion and get it down in the town records right.”

  For a minute, nobody said anything.

  Alex Parent fidgeted, shuffling through his papers. “Well, somebody say something. We’ve got to have a name for this town. Come on. Let’s have ideas.”

  One hand rose in the crowd. The hand belonged to Uley, a youngster who’d come from Ohio four years before to work in the Gold Cup Mine.

  “Yep, Uley? What is it, son?”

  “I think,” Uley said, in a timid voice that, if anyone had thought about it, sounded a touch too high-pitched for a boy of his age, “we ought to select a name that tells people something about this place. Remember last month, when that fellow from New York got off the stage on Alpine Pass? While the driver stopped to change horses?”

  Of course everyone remembered. They’d been talking about it in town for weeks.

  “The fellow went to the spring to get a drink,” Uley said, telling the story over again, just in case somebody hadn’t heard it. “But he wouldn’t drink out of that rusty tin cup they keep up there. So, George Willis pulled out his Winchester and shot off that fellow’s derby, then made him drink six cups of water.”

  Hollis Andersen took up the story. “And when the newcomer tried to get back on the stage, Willis said, ‘You’re too good to drink out of a cup that was good enough for hundreds of thirsty men. That cup’s been sitting on that rock for five years, and you’re the first skunk to pick it up, refuse to drink out of it and throw it into the bushes. If I ever see you in these parts God made for men—and not your kind—I’ll shoot lower and put a hole in that thick head of yours. Savvy?’”

  Everybody in the place started hooting.

  Parent banged his cup against the podium again to quiet the roaring crowd. His efforts came too late. People were laughing, clapping each other on the back. “Silence,” Parent shouted. “Silence!”

  Silence did not come. Somewhere in the back, somebody bellowed, “It’s got to be Tin Cup! Tin Cup! Tin Cup!”

  Every man in the meeting room took up the cry. “Tin Cup! Tin Cup! Tin Cup!”

  Parent knew he had to preserve parliamentary procedure. “I move we name this town Tin Cup! Do I hear a second? We have to have a second!”

  “I second it!” Uley’s hand lifted above the crowd. “Tin Cup is perfect!”

  “Any discussion? If there’s no discussion, I’ve got to call for a vote.” Parent banged his cup yet again. “I’ve got to call for a vote!”

  “Vote!” they all shouted. “Vote! We want to vote for Tin Cup!”

  “All in favor.” Parent did his best to count hands, but that prov
ed impossible. “All against.”

  In the end, he found it easier to tabulate the nays and subtract them from the number attending the meeting. It worked out—on paper—as one hundred votes cast in favor and three votes opposed.

  And so, this town would change its name. When the paperwork was completed, the officers of Virginia City would sell their rights and seal to the new town for the price of two hundred and fifty dollars. “Tin Cup, Colorado, it is—one hundred to three,” Parent shouted.

  Hats flew in celebration. Stetsons. Wool caps. Bowlers. Even a beret or two. Every hat flew except one. Uley’s. Despite the excitement, Uley stood still, hands propped on hips, hat very much in place.

  “Here we go again,” Hollis Anderson remarked. “All of us are gonna end up at Frenchy’s Place—alone—when we ought to be having a gathering with womenfolk.”

  “We can have a party,” Charlie Hastings told him. “We’ll just get half the men to wear aprons and we’ll pretend we’ve got ladies in this town.”

  Uley wanted to throw her woolen hat into the air. She wanted to let all her curls underneath tumble out and give away her secret. But she was stuck. Stuck like a pine marten gets stuck when it climbs down somebody’s chimney and ends up in somebody’s wood stove.

  “You going up to Frenchy’s?” somebody asked her pa.

  Samuel Kirkland glanced at Uley sideways, the way a mule glances when it’s unsure of its footing. “Don’t think so, Amos. Uley and I’ve got to get home. Tomorrow’s going to start early.”

  “Aw, Sam,” Amos said. “It’ll start early for everybody. Come on over and keep the celebration going.”

  Uley said nothing. A Christian young lady did not enter a place like Frenchy’s, a man’s place, without having her reputation sorely tainted. But what did it matter, anyway? With the deception she was playing on the whole town, she had no right to be counting anyone else’s sins. As long as she and Sam lived in Tin Cup, nobody would know her as a genteel young lady. Things had already gone too far for that.

  “Come on, Sam,” Amos urged her pa. “It’ll be hard work in the mines tomorrow. Tonight let’s cut loose.”

  Uley could tell by the way he glanced at her again that her pa wanted to go.

  “You should come, too, Uley.” Amos clapped her on the back. “They’re gonna start a poker game up there at ten. It’s about time a young fella like you learned to hold his own in a gambling den.”

  “No thanks, Amos.”

  The raucous crowd funneled through the doorway, then fanned out onto the street, heading toward Frenchy’s, the most popular of the town’s twenty saloons. That was certainly a subject a Christian lady shouldn’t know about, she thought, somewhat grimly, as she watched her pa get swept up in the throng. Gambling dens and saloons.

  Uley walked toward the little house where she and her father made their home. The cob-worked cabin on Willow Street suited them much better than the crude shanties most of the miners had pieced together in the hills. She knew her pa had purchased the pretty little place in town because he wanted to do right by her.

  “Hey, Uley!” Marshal Harris Olney called out as he passed by. “Why aren’t you over at Frenchy’s with the rest of them?”

  She thought before she spoke, and consciously pitched her voice lower. “That’s not a place I enjoy going.”

  “Wish everybody else thought that way, too,” Harris shook his head jovially. “I’ll be up all night.”

  Uley figured the marshal probably never got a decent night’s rest. People worked hard all day long in the mines, and at night, when you’d think they’d be exhausted and ready to sleep, they came out to carouse in saloons that never closed, celebrating a few nuggets of gold—which were usually gone by sunup. Oh, Father. It seems like nothing I could ever do would change this place.

  As she hurried up the street, Uley heard a slight sound to her left. The sound wasn’t much, just a pebble skipping across the dirt. She glanced up, couldn’t see into the shadows. Something about being here alone this time of night with everybody else down at Frenchy’s made her adrenaline flow.

  Just suppose she’d come upon a mountain lion.

  Just suppose she’d come upon somebody up to no good.

  Just suppose.

  Uley didn’t miss a stride. As she rounded the next corner, she spied a stranger standing at the edge of the darkness.

  “Hello,” she said to him, an unreasonable fear knotting her stomach.

  He nodded without answering. As she passed him, all she caught was a glimpse—a black leather vest, legs long as a stallion’s, a dark felt Stetson, a glint of moonlight reflecting in his eyes and in his hands.

  A glint of metal.

  Uley stopped three paces past him. The stranger was holding a gun. She turned to see him step out into the pale moonglow to take his aim.

  This man, all black leather and legs, with a shadow for a face, was going to shoot the marshal in the back!

  Uley didn’t take time to think. She didn’t take time to cry for help. She sprinted toward the man, mud muffling her long strides. She took a racing leap and sprang at him.

  She hit him full tilt and heard his breath rush out of his lungs. The gun pinwheeled out of his hands. He grunted as he went down.

  She fell on top of him and pinned him. She clamped her arms firmly about his neck, not about to let him go.

  He tried to throw her off. She clung to him like the mountain lion she’d been afraid of moments before, her attention riveted to his neck, the only part of him small enough to hang on to.

  For the first time in her life Uley offered thanks for her muscles, which were honed to do the same job as any man’s. She fought for breath. “He’s tryin’ to shoot Olney! Somebody get over here!”

  She heard feet pounding in her direction. Thank You, Father. Oh, thank You, thank You, thank You.

  The man beneath her cursed again and said, “Now I’m going to get tried for murdering Harris Olney, and I didn’t even get to kill him.”

  “You hold still.” She glared down at him. “You don’t say anything.” She realized he was staring up at her now the way a man might stare at someone dead. His eyes got as big around as silver dollars.

  He gasped, “You’re a lady.”

  Holding him down did not frighten her, but this did. He’d found her out. Uley let go of his neck, grabbed her head and, sure enough, the cap had flown away. Her hair hung in sodden, muddy ribbons around her neck.

  She looked alternately from the man beneath her to the woolen cap lying upside down in the mud.

  Every fellow in Tin Cup would arrive within seconds.

  Uley made a fast decision. She figured the stranger would get away, but she had to get her hat on. She leapt off of him, grabbed her hat and shoved the muddy tendrils beneath it.

  The stranger lay in the precise spot he’d landed. “You’re just a girl!”

  His words made her mad. Here she sat in the muck, a full-grown woman, strong enough to take him down, nineteen years old, well into marriageable age. How dare he call her just a girl?

  She locked her arms around his neck again.

  She couldn’t think of anything worse than this, having someone find her out after all the work she’d done in the Gold Cup Mine. Just now, the only thing more humiliating than being a woman would be having them all find out she was one. “You don’t tell anybody, you hear me?” She waggled a tiny, clenched fist at him. “You don’t tell anybody, or I’ll give you what’s coming myself.”

  The horde of men from Frenchy’s flocked toward them. The stranger didn’t move his glinting eyes from her own. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”

  By early morning, it was all over the new town of Tin Cup that Uley Kirkland, one of the most spry young fellows in Tin Cup, had apprehended a man trying to murder the marshal. Everyone talked of a hanging. They couldn’t hang the scoundrel, though, until Judge J. M. Murphy came back from visiting his daughter in Denver.

  All day, fellows clapped Uley on the back and talk
ed about a trial. Others deemed the stranger should just be shot. After all, sidearms had kept the law in the valley for a long time before Harris Olney ever wore his star.

  As Uley worked alongside her pa at the Gold Cup, she found herself wishing somebody would shoot the murderer and end this entire contemptible affair.

  If the stranger died, her secret would die with him.

  But then, she reasoned, that wasn’t quite true. She wouldn’t be dead. She would still have to live with it.

  Oh, Father, wishing somebody dead is not what I should be thinking, either. What a vile sinner I am!

  Around lunchtime, word filtered out that the stranger, Aaron Brown, was registered up at the Grand Central Hotel. When Uley first heard his name, she and her pa were working side by side as timbermen in shaft eleven. Uley knew this work almost as well as her father knew it, how to square off the lumber with a broadax, how to chink the fittings so that the joints stayed watertight in the shaft. “Don’t you go worrying about Aaron Brown,” Sam told her. “You did a good job last night. I’m proud of you. That criminal will be dead before we get our next paycheck.”

  But what if Aaron Brown talked before then? What if he sat on the back of his horse right before they hanged him and shouted, “Uley Kirkland is a girl! Uley Kirkland, who has cut timber right alongside you and who you’ve invited to play poker in gambling dens and who you’ve talked to about all sorts of private fellow things, the one who tries to talk to you sometimes about the Lord and His ways, is a girl!”

  How can you live one part of your life hanging on to the truth when the other part of your life is a lie?

  They would likely hang her, too, right beside him.

  Uley’d certainly fooled these men. If they knew who she really was, they’d get all tongue-tied and red in the face and flustered. She and her pa had only deceived them for propriety’s sake, a necessary little white lie so she could come West and they could stay together. Uley had not known that a small deception could carry such a heavy weight.