Within My Heart Read online

  Praise for Tamera Alexander’s

  TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS series

  “Pull up a comfy armchair! The main and secondary characters [in Beyond This Moment] instantly become people to care about, and the plot twists will keep you turning pages long into the night. The themes of racial tolerance and second chances are as timely today as they were back in the early days of Colorado’s history.”

  Romantic Times, 4½ star review

  “Tamera Alexander is, without question, a must-read author who appreciates exceptional writing and loves to close a book with a heartfelt and satisfied sigh of delight!”

  Relz Reviewz

  “. . . thought-provoking plot and poignant prose. . . . You will be whisked Beyond This Moment into another time and place.”

  Historical Novels Reviews

  “Tamera Alexander . . . is extremely talented in how she paints the scenes so vividly you think you’re there watching the story unfold. The story as well as her characters are written with depth . . . you can feel the emotions they are experiencing.”

  Once Upon a Romance

  Honors for FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES series

  Rekindled was named to Library Journal’s Best Books of 2006 list, was a nominee for Romantic Time’s Best Inspirational Novel of 2006, and was a finalist for the 2007 RITA Award for Best First Book and for Best Inspirational Romance.

  Revealed won the 2007 Romance Writers of America RITA Award for Best Inspirational Romance.

  Remembered won the 2008 Christy Award for Best Historical Romance and the 2007 National Readers’ Choice Award for Inspirational Fiction.

  Honors for TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS series

  From a Distance won the 2009 Christy Award for Best Historical Romance.

  Beyond This Moment won the 2010 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence for Inspirational-Single Title and the Holt Medallion for Long Inspirational, and was a finalist for the 2010 Christy Award for Best Historical Romance.

  WITHIN MY HEART

  Books by

  Tamera Alexander

  FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES

  Rekindled

  Revealed

  Remembered

  Fountain Creek Chronicles (3 in 1)

  TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS

  From a Distance

  Beyond This Moment

  Within My Heart

  TAMERA

  ALEXANDER

  Within My Heart

  Copyright © 2010

  Tamera Alexander

  Cover design by Studio Gearbox

  Cover photograph by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.

  Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  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. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Alexander, Tamera.

  Within my heart / Tamera Alexander.

  p. cm. — (Timber Ridge reflections ; 3)

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0391-6 (pbk.)

  1. Self-actualization (Psychology) in women—Fiction. 2. Widows—Fiction

  3. Colorado—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.L3563W58 2010

  813’.6—dc22

  2010014687

  * * *

  To my precious mother, June Gattis.

  Heaven is sweeter still,

  knowing you’re there.

  Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.

  PROVERBS 4:23

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  Epilogue

  A Note from Tamera

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  DUSK, HOURS FOLLOWING THE BATTLE OF NASHVILLE

  DECEMBER 17, 1864

  Half hidden beneath the bare-limbed canopy of a dogwood tree, the gravedigger kept a reverent distance, patiently waiting for the last whispered prayers to be uttered and for the final mourner to take her leave. Only then did he step into the fading light, a worn spool of string clutched tight in his gnarled hand. Not much time left. It would be dark soon. And the last grave still needed tending before the pewter skies let loose their winter white.

  The distant squeak of wagon wheels and the clomp of horses’ hooves faded into the night, leaving only the faint chirrup of crickets to companion the silence. Jessup Collum lifted the lid of the oblong pine box and with painstaking care, his arthritic fingers numb from the cold and marred with time and age, he tied a trailing length of string around the soldier’s right wrist. Mindful not to tie the string overtight, he looped the other end through a tiny bell.

  He stared for a moment at the soldier’s face—the fallen Confederate a mere boy judging from his features—then he glanced around at the freshly covered graves. Deep in his bones he knew what he was doing was right, even if a bit out of the ordinary. There was no malice in his actions, and no sin, most certainly. Nothing that would bring serious offense. Though folks would surely think him a touch senile, if they saw. If they knew . . .

  So many ways for a man to die, yet only one was needed for the earth to cradle a body back from whence all life had come.

  Jessup turned that thought over in his mind as he’d done countless times before, not indifferent to the shadows stealing across the graveyard as the December sun hastened its retreat. Nightfall brought bitter cold, but not a breath of wind stirred, and each snowflake lofted downward from heaven, unhindered in its journey. He worked hurriedly to cover the last grave, mindful of the trailing string.

  After the last shovel of dirt, he straightened, slowly, his crooked spine bearing the brunt of forty-two years of tending this hallowed ground—and of the last few hours of burying the bloodied remnants the Federal Army had abandoned following their assault. If the once-valiant Tennessee Army had been crippled in the battle at Franklin two weeks ago, then the past two days of fighting had delivered a mortal wound.

  Jessup lit a torch and stared over row after row of mounded earth, the light casting a burnished glow around him. Too many and too young were those who lay here, going before their time. Before their lives had been lived out. He thought again of the young woman earlier who’d been last to take her leave.

  Dark-haired with skin pale and smooth as cream, she’d knelt for the longest time at the grave on the far end, one he’d taken care in covering not two hours earlier, as he’d done the one at his feet just
now. She’d huddled close by that grave, weeping, arms drawn around herself, looking as if she’d wanted to lay herself down and mark an end to her own life, what little she had left after losing the man buried there—“a decorated lieutenant from the Tennessee regiment, and my only brother,” she’d whispered through tears.

  The wound on the lieutenant’s neck had told Jessup how the man had died, and the sutures and bloodstained bandages told him how hard some doctor had fought to save him. Shame how fast these soldiers were buried. No proper funeral. No time for one— not with the Federal Army bearing down hard, void of mercy, bent on conquering what little was left.

  He tugged the worn collar of his coat closer about his neck and begged the Almighty, again, to intervene, to put an end to this war. Surely it couldn’t go on much longer.

  A heavy mist crept over the rise from the creek, shrouding the stone markers. The fog seemed to deepen the pungent aroma of upturned earth, and a beguiling trace of honeysuckle clung to the cool night air, despite the wild vine not being in bloom. Jessup took a deeper whiff and could almost taste the sweet summer nectar. A smile pushed up his whiskered cheeks. Maybe folks were right. Maybe he was a touch senile after all. These days recent memories skittered off about as quickly as he reached for them, while others that should have been long gathering dust inched closer as the years stretched on.

  He sat down against an ancient poplar, borrowing its strength. Still no wind, and the snow had ceased falling. He imagined the boy’s face again, able to see it clearly in his mind’s eye as he stared at the bell, willing it to move.

  Even the slightest bit.

  He put his head back, resting his eyes, only for a moment. But the moments lengthened and gathered and pulled taut, coaxing him along on a gentle wave, absent of the throb in his lower back and the ache across his swollen knuckles.

  He was a boy again, running through fields knee-high with summer grass, the sun hot on his face, sweat from a humid Tennessee afternoon beading on his forehead and matting his hair to his head. Someone called to him in the distance. A voice so sweet . . . A lifetime had passed since he’d heard that voice. Mother . . .

  He ran, youthful legs pumping hard, trying to reach her, wanting to see her again. But the faster he ran, the farther away her voice seemed to— Jessup awakened with a start, his breath coming in sharp staggers.

  An uncanny sense of presence crowded the darkness around him, and he realized the torch had gone out. He sat straighter, head cocked to one side, and listened, straining to hear his mother’s voice again.

  But her voice was gone.

  He wiped the telling moisture from his cheeks and rose, the joints cracking in his knees. In all his days, he couldn’t recall so still a night. So loud a hush over the graves. With a sinking feeling, he looked down at the grave of the young boy. It was late now. Too late.

  He prayed the boy was at peace, wherever he was. Same for the decorated lieutenant down the way. He didn’t know much about the afterlife—not like folks expected him to—but he reckoned if God was as kind as he believed Him to be that there was some sort of special welcome going on right now for those men who’d laid down their lives in this terrible—

  The distant tinkling of a bell brought Jessup upright.

  A skitter shimmied up his spine. The air trapped viselike in his lungs. Praying he wasn’t still dreaming, he searched the darkness at the end of the row where the woman had knelt earlier, and his skin turned to gooseflesh. If this was what some folks felt when they visited this place late at night, he knew now why they never ventured back.

  He also knew why he would never leave.

  1

  TIMBER RIDGE, COLORADO, ROCKY MOUNTAINS APRIL 12, 1877

  Rachel Boyd stood motionless in the main aisle of the general store, knowing she shouldn’t eavesdrop. But heaven help her, she couldn’t bring herself to move! Half afraid that Ben and Lyda Mullins would hear her if she did try to make a stealthy exit, she gripped the jar of molasses in her hand, unable to stifle a giggle. The only patron in the store, she was grateful for the lull in afternoon traffic and was more than a little amused—and surprised— by the affectionate whispers coming from beyond the curtained doorway.

  A soft chuckle. “Ben Mullins, what’s gotten into you? Someone could walk in on us.”

  A deeper laugh. “Who’s going to come back here into the storeroom? All I want is a little kiss. Come here, woman, and let me . . .”

  Rachel couldn’t make out the low murmurs that followed, and didn’t need to. Her imagination filled in the blanks just fine. Warmth rose to her face. Unbidden, her memory skimmed the past two years, and emotions long buried since Thomas’s death, yet never forgotten, slowly reawakened inside her.

  With them came bittersweet memories of the tender way her husband used to love her, and desires long dormant began to unfurl. She closed her eyes, recalling what it had felt like to be loved by a man. A shiver stole through her, though not an altogether pleasurable one. Her smile slowly faded.

  While this wasn’t the first time she’d remembered the intimacy she and Thomas had enjoyed in marriage, it was her first time to feel those intimate stirrings again. The desire for a man’s touch, for that relationship. But the desire wasn’t welcome. She would not—could not—ever again love a man the way she’d loved Thomas.

  Following his passing, there had been moments when she’d questioned whether she would survive. It had taken so long to find her way out of that fog, that deep, dark place where she’d known she needed to start living again, if only for her boys, but couldn’t. With the double-edged gift of time’s passing, and the persistent encouragement of family and friends, she’d finally found her way back into the sunlight.

  But loving someone so completely, giving herself to a man the way she’d done with her husband, it gave them the power to hurt you in a way no one else could, even when it wasn’t their intention.

  And she never wanted to hurt like that again. Ever.

  More than once, she’d been told she needed to consider remarrying, if only for her boys’ sake. But just as she wouldn’t risk her heart a second time, neither would she risk her sons having to endure the same hurt they’d gone through with their father’s passing. Besides, she and Mitchell and Kurt were getting along fine, just the three of them.

  A not-so-gentle check tugged at her flagging confidence. She fingered the jar of molasses in her hand. Perhaps fine wasn’t the best choice of a word, but the three of them were managing as best they could. She smoothed a hand down the front panel of her skirt and forced down a recurring tide of emotion. With effort, she refocused her thoughts.

  School would dismiss within the hour, and she planned on dropping by to visit with the schoolteacher about Kurt. She didn’t have an appointment—and it wasn’t her first “meeting” with Miss Stafford over her younger son. She just wanted to make sure things were going smoothly and that Kurt hadn’t done something else foolish. Again. Like the shenanigan he’d pulled two weeks prior involving the school’s outhouse.

  He hadn’t been the only boy involved, she’d learned, but she had a feeling he’d been the instigator. And she cringed again just thinking about it, putting herself in Miss Stafford’s place. Young and inexperienced, Judith Stafford was, from all accounts, being more than patient with Kurt. How embarrassing that must have been. Kurt had written a note of apology, and she’d written Judith Stafford a note too, offering her own expression of regret and thanking the teacher for her understanding. Hopefully a quick visit today would keep things moving in the right direction.

  After dealing with that issue, endless chores awaited on the ranch, not to mention the meeting about the overdue loan payment. Mr. Fossey, the bank manager, had been more than lenient, but she sensed his patience waning.

  She returned the jar of molasses to the shelf, considering it a luxury these days with funds on the scarce side. In the midst of everything, she was still determined to keep Thomas’s dream alive for their two sons. It was what pushe
d her from bed each morning and what carried her through each day until she fell exhausted back into bed long after dark. That, and the pledge they’d made as a couple to give Mitchell and Kurt a heritage, a better life than the boys would have had if she and Thomas had stayed in Tennessee following the war.

  She fingered a callus on her palm. Losing the ranch Thomas had worked so diligently to build wasn’t an option, and it hardly defined giving their boys a “better life.” She’d stood over her husband’s grave and had given her solemn oath that she would see his dream—their dream—come to fruition. And that was a promise she intended to keep. If Mr. Fossey still considered her a worthwhile risk.

  The intimate exchange behind the blue-and-yellow gingham curtain grew more ardent, and Rachel felt a blush, regretting not having left at the outset. She made her way to the door, hoping Ben had remembered to oil the squeaky hinge. Guilty as she felt, it was nice to know that after twenty-something years of marriage, Ben and Lyda’s feelings for each other were still—

  “Ben?”

  Hearing the name, and catching the unmistakable alarm in Lyda’s tone, Rachel paused, hand on the latch.

  “Ben, what’s—” A muted gasp sounded from the back storeroom. “Honey, what’s wrong? Ben . . . are you all—”

  A dull thud.

  “Ben!”

  Rachel raced to the curtain that separated the store from the back part of the building but stopped shy of continuing on. “Lyda, it’s Rachel. Is everything all right?” She waited, impatient. “Lyda?”

  “No, we’re— Ben, can you hear me?” Anxiety constricted Lyda’s voice. “Rachel! Something’s wrong. I . . . I don’t think he’s breathing!”

  Rachel whipped past the curtain and hurried down the hallway, and came to a stilting halt by the storage closet.

  Ben lay crumpled on the floor, motionless, his complexion drained of color. Lyda knelt close beside him. Panic lined her features.

  Instinct kicked in and Rachel squeezed in beside them into the cramped space. “What happened?” She checked Ben’s pulse, first on the underside of his wrist, then on his neck.