Blue Horizon (Shades of Blue, Book 4) Read online

  Blue Horizon

  Hildie McQueen

  Pink Door Publishing, Augusta, Georgia 2014

  Shades of Blue Trilogy

  Blue Horizon

  Amazon Bestselling Author

  Hildie McQueen

  Pink Door Publishing

  Augusta, Georgia

  Cover Artist: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  Editor: Tina Winograd

  Copyright Hildie McQueen 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-939356-19-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Other Works by Hildie McQueen

  (In reading order)

  Heading West Series, Western Historical

  Where The Four Winds Collide

  Westbound Awakening

  Historical Western, Shades of Blue Series

  Big Sky Blue

  A Different Shade of Blue

  The Darkest Blue

  Every Blue Moon

  Blue Horizon

  Montana Blue

  Contemporary

  Concealed Carry

  One Night In Vegas

  Paranormal, The Protector Series

  Desperate Choices

  Desperate Betrayal

  Desperate Surrender

  Desperate Possession

  Highland Historical Erotic Novellas

  Highlander’s Captive

  Seducing Her Laird

  Enticing her Highlander

  Ravished by the Laird

  In the Warrior’s Arms

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful friend Jordan K. Rose. I hope you enjoy this story. Thank you for your friendship and continuous support. One day we’ll say...”remember when?”

  Prologue

  Somewhere near Cody, Wyoming, 1864

  “You’re livin’ with me,” was the first thing Frank Foster said to her, and seventeen-year-old Laura Cook was too shaken, too far gone with grief to consider she had the option of saying no. Instead she’d nodded in meek obedience. It’s how she’d grown up after all, didn’t know any better, ignorant to the possibility of an alternative.

  Four days earlier Laura had been behind her parent’s house in the vegetable garden when gunshots rang out. Unmistakable popping sounds, one, two, three and then a fourth. Instead of running inside to find out what happened, she’d flattened to the ground and clasped her hands over her ears while she mumbled the one prayer she knew. Someone killed her parents while she cowered in the dirt not knowing what else to do.

  Laura wasn’t sure how much time passed before she got up. But it was long after the men on horses left and just as the sun began to sink on the horizon. With each step she took around the house to the front door, her breathing became more labored. When she reached the thrown open door Laura was forced to gasp for air, her lungs expanding until painful.

  On the floor, next to the kitchen table lay her father in a pool of blood, his unseeing eyes open, his mouth gaping. She didn’t see her mother, not right away and for a few seconds was hopeful she’d somehow survived, but then a shoe just past the next doorway caught her attention. “Momma?” Laura rushed to find her mother on her stomach arms outstretched, the back of her head blown away. She must have tried to run from the attackers.

  “Oh no.” Laura sank to the floor and pushed her mother onto her back. Tears spilled when she picked up the limp hand and held it to her cheek. “No, Momma. No.”

  It took her two days to dig the graves. After wrapping her parents in sheets, she dragged them outside and buried them, her mother under an elm tree, her father a distance away. He’d been cruel to his wife all their married life, no use in leaving him close enough to bother her now. Laura wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t mark either grave. There wasn’t a need for it; she would never forget where they lay.

  Two days later Frank Foster arrived, claiming to have overheard from people in the nearby town about what happened. She didn’t doubt it was true. It wasn’t surprising no one came to see about them, to check if they needed help or medical attention. Her father was not well liked by the local folks, known more for cheating at cards, stealing and his mean streak, than anything else.

  Frank Foster was older than her, almost as old as her father. Reminded her of him in a way, the cold cruel twist of his lips when he spoke to her, the odd unfocused eyes that saw right through her. He was a slight man, not much taller than Laura, with thinning brown hair and a thick beard and mustache. “Is that all you wanna take?” he asked her, grabbing the last two parcels and throwing them without care into the back of a large wagon. “Cause you ain’t coming back. I am selling this place. Your Pa owed me more than it’s worth.”

  Laura returned inside and turned in a full circle taking in the sparse room. They’d never had much, her father didn’t allow for any extras. A small glass with now withered flowers remained in the center of the kitchen table. Her mother had tried to make the house nicer by sewing curtains from scraps of fabric given to them and using old jars as vases. It was best not to become attached to such things Laura learned early. In a drunken rage most of their meager attempts at decorating ended up in pieces when he swiped them off tables or used the stronger things as weapons to hit them with.

  “No there isn’t anything else,” Laura replied once back outside, and followed him to the wagon. “Where are we going?”

  “To my house,” Frank replied and climbed onto the wagon not taking the time to help her up. She grabbed the side of the bench and hoisted herself. Her arms shook from the effort, still sore from digging.

  He snapped the reins startling the horses to a trot. Laura’s mouth flew open and she turned around to look at the elm tree. Her mother. Perhaps she should have marked the grave. One day she’d return to mark it, she hoped Frank Foster did not live too far and she’d be able to walk back.

  The first time Frank hit her, it took Laura by surprise. She’d been in his house only a week and had just finished cooking. He’d asked her for coffee and she’d told him there wouldn’t be any left for the morning. He took her by the shoulders and swung her around to face him. It was then she smelled the whiskey on his breath and realized her mistake. Of course it was too late to stop what came next. The backhanded slap split her lip and snapped her head back. He followed it with a punch to her stomach so hard she doubled over and threw up her dinner. “You will clean that up and I don’t want to smell any of it either.”

  She let out a yelp when he grabbed a fistful of hair and bent her over the table. With the uninjured side of Laura’s face smashed onto the tabletop, Frank fumbled with her skirts throwing them over her head. He raped her, ignored her screams when he tore through the membrane intact until that moment. When he finish
ed she remained laying across the table, sobbing with the realization she was now living her mother’s life.

  Frank pulled her skirts down. “Now make my coffee.”

  Each day was the same. Laura rushed from one task to the next ensuring everything was just right. The dishes clean, the house spotless, each article in its place. Unlike her father’s home, there were many things in Frank’s home. His wife had been indulged. Laura dared not ask what happened to her, she was too afraid of his reaction to her curiosity. Whoever the woman was, her belongings remained in the house. Her dresses took up valuable space in the wardrobe, her brush and mirror atop the dresser in the bedroom.

  Sometimes Laura pretended to be the mysterious woman with the fancy dresses and tea sets. But most times she hated her for having so many things that had to be dusted. The woman was given more importance in her absence than Laura received while present. Not that she wanted any type of caring from Frank Foster, she hated him and wished him dead almost daily. What she wished for more than anything, were a home and a husband who cherished and loved her.

  Even the dream angered her, a stark reminder of what she’d never have.

  Six months passed, the routine never changed. It was late in the afternoon when Laura placed the cup down, and stood from the table. She hid the book she’d been reading in a crevice between the wall and cupboard, and went to check on dinner. The room swayed and she fell against the wall. This was the second time in the last few days this happened. Whatever the reason, she hoped it wasn’t her biggest fear. After each time Frank and she had relations, she ran outside and urinated. She’d learned from her mother the type of herbs to drink that would keep her womb from allowing anything to settle. She drank the bitter concoction daily.

  No it could not be, not after all the precautions she’d taken. Laura racked her brain and then remembered the time, several weeks earlier, when Frank had not allowed her out of the bed after. He’d been angry and had been especially rough that night. Afterward she’d been too exhausted and sore to fight him when he held her down.

  A child. Tears fell down her cheeks as she stirred the pot and kept a watchful eye out the window to see if Frank returned. He didn’t like to see her eyes reddened or any sign of emotion.

  The changeless dinner and evening routine, how she hated it. For the most part, she served Frank, sat across from him with her head bent and ate in silence. If he asked something Laura replied ensuring to keep her voice even, no sign of anger or resentment. He picked up on any inflection and that would be reason enough for a beating. Of course if he was in the mood to hit her, it didn’t matter what she said or how.

  Her hand went to her flat stomach. Would a babe survive the hard beatings? What would Frank’s reaction be to her carrying his child? It was bound to happen, shouldn’t come as a surprise to him. Yet a small voice told her to remain quiet and not say anything for as long as possible. If she couldn’t escape and get away from Frank, only then, once there was no other choice, she would.

  From her kitchen window Laura had a view of the open plains leading towards a small town, past the town was where she’d lived with her parents. Although life had been difficult with her father, having her mother as a companion made it easier. The life she led with Frank could not compare, it took all her strength to make it through each day without breaking down. There was no one to talk to, no other person to share with. Some days she would talk out loud as she moved about doing her chores. It was rare that she and Frank held a conversation, as she couldn’t speak freely not knowing what would anger him. Her only escape was reading the three books Frank’s wife left behind, over and again.

  Through the window the sun sunk below the horizon. She worried her lip and looked around the space her critical eye landing on each surface, and then removed her apron. Frank would be home soon and he liked to have the food hot and ready as soon as he sat at the table. Laura closed her eyes and prayed for a quiet evening.

  “Whore!” Frank yelled once again and grabbed her arm pulling her back to her feet. “Who is it? Who’s the father?” He’d finally noticed she’d not had her monthly cycle in several months and caught her throwing up behind the house.

  “You are! I have not left this house since you brought me here.” Laura repeated the words and flinched waiting for the next punch or slap.

  His whiskey-laden breath along with spittle came across her face. “It’s not possible.” The push this time was not as hard, but after being hit and slapped so many times, Laura stumbled and fell on all fours to the floor.

  “How can it be? She said it was me. That I was the reason we never had children.” Frank moved to the front door and stared outside. “Did she lie?”

  Taking advantage of his distraction, Laura got to her feet and stood by the table. Her face throbbed and her ribs protested each breath. Silence stretched out for an eternity. Right then she wanted nothing more than to lay down, but she feared any movement would catch his attention and he’d fly into a fit of rage again. Finally he shot her an annoyed look over his shoulder. “You best not be lying. Go wash up and lie down. I don’t want to look at you right now.”

  She couldn’t move fast enough, but there were dirty dishes on the table and the pot of stew remained on the stove. Laura picked up the bowls, took them to the washbowl and then returned for the two cups. Over the months she’d learned to move without making a sound, each movement with practiced precision even in spite of the pain.

  “Git the hell out of my sight.” Frank stood so close behind her the heat of his breathing tickled the back of her neck.

  Later that night she lay in bed unable to sleep while Frank snored noisily next to her. What would happen in the morning when he woke to a dirty kitchen? She didn’t want to be beaten again, not so soon. Now there was the added worry of protecting the babe. Today one thing had been different. Instead of covering her face against the blows, she’d wrapped her arms around her stomach.

  *****

  Life changed for Laura after Frank learned she was pregnant. Although Frank continued his cruelty using words, he didn’t hit her. He didn’t touch her in bed either. The months passed pleasantly enough, she grew rounder and prepared for the child’s arrival with equal parts excitement and trepidation. Would the beatings begin again and would Frank be as cruel to their child? Was it possible to get away from Frank? Should she even try?

  *****

  “It’s a boy,” Frank told her without inflection. He shoved the newborn into her arms and walked out of the room, leaving an exhausted Laura alone in the bedroom. For a long time she looked at the baby, counted his fingers and toes and then swaddled him as best she could using small blankets she’d made and purposely left within reach. Once again she contemplated leaving Frank, running away with her son. There had to be a better life where he would grow up happy and without fear of his father’s wrath.

  “Gabriel,” Laura whispered to the sleeping child. “I will name you after a warrior angel. Because you will grow up to be a strong man.”

  Frank returned with a cup and placed it on the side table. “Don’t get any ideas about leavin’ me with or without that child.” His bleak eyes bore into hers. “If you do, I will kill him first and then you.” Then as if he’d not threatened their lives, he pointed to the cup. “Drink the soup. It’ll help you get your strength back. Can’t have you layin’ around for days.”

  And just like that Laura’s life returned to the same routines. Day after day, cleaning, cooking, sewing and sweeping. In the afternoons, she’d sit on the front porch and hold Gabriel, singing soft songs to him during the short reprieves before Frank returned from working out in the field.

  Then one day Frank went to town. He was always gone an entire day and returned the next. Laura lived for those times. Two days of freedom to do as she wished, a break from his cruel words and of walking on eggshells. His trips to town meant not worrying about the beatings that began ag
ain as soon as she had the babe.

  The first two days passed swiftly, then were followed by the third and fourth. When two weeks went by Laura went to the barn and harnessed the mule to their remaining rickety wagon. She bundled up Gabriel and headed to town. When she stopped at the boarding house Laura learned that Frank had not been there in over a month. She purchased a few meager items at the mercantile with the few dollars she’d stashed away without Frank’s knowledge and returned home to await his return. When two months passed, she began to wonder if he’d left her or been killed.

  One day a stranger appeared asking for shelter. His name was Bronson Cole, a handsome rancher on his way to Fort Laramie. Laura gave him shelter in her barn and asked him to inquire about Frank. The man returned with news that Frank’s horse was found, along with some of his belongings. The cavalry had the horse. They wouldn’t release it to Cole or give him any additional information, probably because they didn’t have any.

  When Bronson Cole asked her to return to his home in Alder Gulch with him, she considered it. But fear kept her from agreeing to accompany him to the area where her sister lived.

  If Frank returned and did not find her, he’d follow through on his threat to kill Gabriel first and then her. She had no doubt about it. Yet as another month passed, she pondered if she’d made the wrong decision.

  Finally one day, Laura took a few of Frank’s wife’s things that seemed to be of value and returned to town to sell them and purchased a few items she was desperately in need of. The winter had not been kind and they needed oil and candles. Riding away from town, a heavy disappointment weighed on Laura at how little she was able to get.

  Thankfully she wasn’t so deep in her thoughts and noticed two men on horses followed her at a discreet distance. The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end. Instead of turning to her desolate home, she continued north, without clear destination. The men stopped following her hours later.

  The next day she spotted a family traveling with two wagons and joined with them. In three days she arrived in Alder Gulch and found her sister’s home.