The Dangers 0f Love (Hero Hearts; Marrying A Marshal Book 2) Read online

  The Dangers of Love

  Marrying a Marshal Book Two

  Natalie Dean

  Eveline Hart

  Kenzo Publishing

  © Copyright 2018 by Kenzo Publishing - All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document by either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited, and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Dedication

  I’d like to dedicate this book to YOU! The readers of my books. Without your interest in reading these heartwarming stories of love on the frontier, I wouldn’t have made it this far. So thank you so much for taking the time to read any and hopefully all of my books.

  And I can’t leave out my wonderful mother, son, sister, and Auntie. I love you all, and thank you for helping me make this happen.

  Most of all, I thank God for blessing me on this endeavor.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

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  Chapter 1

  About Author - Natalie Dean

  Chapter 1

  1886 Western District of Texas Cypress Creek, Texas near the Guadalupe River

  Deputy U.S. Marshal Simon Brown knew it would be another lonely night. In truth, it wasn’t so much that he knew, but he guessed as much based on his friends’ previous responses to his invitations the last three nights in a row.

  Scuffing his boots against the packed dirt and kicking up a choking amount of dust, he made his way back toward the U.S. Marshal’s small office. He’d decided he was still going to ask though. Why not shoot for three out of three and seal his fate as a lonely bachelor for the rest of his life?

  Simon shook his head. Lifting up his brown Stetson, he ran a hand through his curly hair, figuring he couldn’t mess it up much more, sweat-matted and smothered by the hat as it was. He was being dramatic, something his sister had always told him, but he couldn’t help it. It was the way he felt.

  Ever since his friend and fellow deputy, Deputy U.S. Marshal Andy Fulton, had gotten married to Louise Settelmeyer, things had changed. Louise, a mail order bride who’d had the unfortunate luck of agreeing to marry a criminal before Andy swept her away from that fate, was a sweet woman, and Simon liked her a lot. Apparently so did Andy, to the detriment of their friendship.

  Simon snickered at this thought as his boots alighted on the uneven wood of the boardwalk in front of the office. Of course, a husband would want to spend time with his wife, but did that exclude taking a leisurely ride with his friend once in a while? Or perhaps a quick bite to eat here or there? Simon had even offered to have Louise join them, but Andy was adamant that they wanted their time together spent alone, as this was the beginning of their marriage.

  Hand on the metal of the door handle, Simon paused. Was he being unfair? He pursed his lips and thrust the door open to the office that was only relatively cooler than the sweltering August heat outside.

  “There you are,” U.S. Marshal Hank Fulton said. Simon instantly saw the similarities that Hank shared with his brother Andy. Same strong nose, bright blue eyes, and nearly the same shade of dirty-blonde hair. The major difference here was the lack of a smile on Hank’s face. He was nearly always serious.

  “Just coming back from lunch,” Simon said, offering a nod to the man.

  “Right. Well, I’ve got to run out and needed someone here.”

  “Where’s Andy?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?” Hank walked to the door and picked up his gun belt and vest. “He’s taking Louise on a picnic at the river and asked for the afternoon off.”

  Simon’s jaw clenched. Of course he was. “I see,” was all he could manage.

  Hank didn’t seem to notice his less-than-thrilled tone, likely thinking of the errands he needed to run. He said a hasty goodbye and left, the silence of the empty office surrounding Simon.

  He hadn’t always hated being alone like this but growing up with a sister only a year younger than he was created good opportunities for companionship. Pair that with his involvement in the church community, where his father was pastor and his mother hosted all sorts of women’s gatherings, and Simon had rarely needed to entertain himself.

  Plopping down onto a hard wooden chair, he tipped back and put his boots up on his desk. He had missives to write, but he could take a few minutes to wallow in his new found position as lonely bachelor.

  He mentally chastised himself. He really was being dramatic.

  But what was he going to do? He’d moved to Cypress Creek two years ago after seeing the opening for another deputy marshal. He’d liked Hank instantly, despite the man’s lack of humor, and felt positive that this was the town in which he wanted to establish roots. That had happened differently than he’d expected.

  He’d plunged into the local church but found almost no one his age, save for Andy, and little-to-no options when it came to women. That was typical in the West, of course, but perhaps he’d held out hope that God would make a way.

  It sounded foolish now on the other side of two years, but he’d truly believed that he’d meet his wife here, fall in love, and they’d get married. When that hadn’t happened within the first year, he’d started to lose hope—and, quite frankly, interest. Not in marriage itself exactly, just the portion of his attention it had taken up.

  Why should he be considering every female between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight for only their marriageable qualities? Why should he think so much about what he wanted and ignore what he had—a good friend and a solid job?

  With those thoughts in his head, he’d set out to regain focus and priorities in his life. He emphasized serving the poor and widows in the community, helping out when the pastor asked for volunteers for projects, and doing his best at his job. He’d also found Andy to be a great friend, and they had spent many of their evenings together—whether that was eating, riding horses, or on the job.

  But everything was changing. And it had to change, he reminded himself. Perhaps the part of the change that worried him the most was the fact that it brought back all the feelings of desire he’d once had.

  Of a wife. Of children. Of a home and family.

  He could hear his father preaching from the pulpit what a blessing family was and that, “He who finds a wife finds a good thing.” But that was easier said than done. He’d met a few women, but none had held his interest. Had he risen his standards for a wife too high? Had he overlooked
someone whom God had placed in his path? Was he in some way blind to a woman he should have considered?

  As he asked himself these questions, he felt the answer deep inside. No. He hadn’t done any of those things; he just hadn’t met the right woman yet.

  Yet. That was the operative word.

  Slamming his boots on the ground, he shot to his feet and strode toward the water pitcher on the counter at the back of the room. He was going to grab a drink and get to work on backed up paperwork. If he could reorient his mindset and focus on work, maybe that would lend him the distraction he needed to fill the empty space left by his friend’s marriage.

  * * *

  Greta Fischer felt the swaying motion of the train car increase as it gathered speed. Her own emotions seemed to be shifting into a faster pace as well, as she followed the bent figure of the older woman and the rotund frame of the man in front of her.

  Her husband-to-be, Daniel Evans, and his frail mother, Cynthia Evans, were not exactly the traveling companions she’d expected, but she had little choice in the matter. Not only was Greta a mail order bride, she was also thousands of miles from home.

  Just the thought of home—Germany to be specific—made her heart long for the familiar. What she wouldn’t give to be surrounded by her German language and the scenes and scents that made it dear to her.

  It was too late for going back though. She had committed to marrying Daniel and all that a marriage to him entailed, including his mother and his snide remarks. She cringed even now thinking of the comments he’d made just the day before when he’d picked her up from the ship that had carried her across the Atlantic.

  The constant critique of her accent, the laughter at her mispronunciations, and the teasing, somewhat racist jokes about her heritage were enough to make her flush with anger, but she knew better than to let her tongue get away from her. She was very much at the mercy of Daniel Evans, and she could not forget that, lest she be left at some train station in the middle of the Wild West without a coin to her name.

  “This way, this way,” he said, the slightly nasally tone of his words grating on Greta’s nerves. “We mustn’t hold up the aisle.”

  His mother hobbled forward. Greta felt bad for the poor woman who was bent and hobbling and was barely given the space to say more than a few words. Greta had wondered more than a few times within the last two days if this was to be her future.

  “Here we are,” he said, sliding open the door to a private compartment with egotistical flare. “I’m sure you didn’t expect to be traveling in such style, dearie.” His grin widened, and Greta tried to smile her appreciation.

  His mother stepped past him and sank onto one of the plush chairs as Greta approached Daniel. “Thank you,” she said, slipping past him.

  “Bet they don’t have anything this nice in Germany!” he said with a boisterous laugh.

  She wanted to explain to him that much of Germany was like America. Though very different in culture, they were not so backward in their ways. However, she didn’t have the stamina to argue with him.

  She’d tried contradicting him the first day, matching him on a point he was sure Germany could not have, but it had only ended in disaster and a red-faced Daniel, who didn’t talk to her for nearly an hour after. Since then, she’d learned to keep her mouth shut, much in the way Cynthia did.

  “Now sit tight while I see that our luggage was properly transported and that our dinner assignments are secured. Don’t go anywhere, dearie!” He grinned and patted her cheek a little too enthusiastically before he was gone.

  Greta turned toward the older woman only to see that she had closed her eyes, head resting against her seat. Her first chance to engage in conversation with the woman and she was asleep.

  Greta felt frustration at the situation but tamped it down as best she could. This was her new life, or at least almost how her new life would be. Wasn’t this what she wanted? To be free from the constraints of her life in Germany, the poor conditions of those in her small town had led many to find alternatives. Many young women, such as herself, had sought out better options in America, seeking marriage to foreigners. After the success of one of her best friends, who had become a mail order bride, she’d joined the tide of young girls flowing from Germany to the great unknown of America.

  And yet the warning of her best friend, June, resounded in the back of her mind. It’s not all it’s chalked up to be. June was an American, who had come to Germany when her family took on a business venture overseas. She and Greta had quickly become bosom friends, and Greta had asked her all sorts of questions non-stop for weeks on end. When those had run out, their friendship grew deeper as the topic of conversation refocused on true, real things. Matters of the heart, as June liked to say.

  Greta turned to look out the window, missing her friend dearly. It was June who had helped her to learn English. It was June who had prepared her for what America would be like. And it was June who had begged Greta not to go.

  She should have listened to her friend.

  Resting her head against the cool glass, the motion of the train more steady now, she closed her eyes and prayed for peace and perseverance. They had to make it to West Texas and Daniel’s hometown, then they would be married, and perhaps then things would settle down and become more normal.

  She opened her eyes and looked at the woman opposite her. It seemed life was hard on the Evans women, would she be a victim of that as well? She hoped not. She hoped that, during this journey west, she and Daniel could gain an understanding. That he would slow down long enough to listen to her—even her German-accented English—to hear her heart. And maybe, just maybe, they could begin to lay a foundation of mutual respect, looking ahead to their marriage.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Chapter 2

  The dry cackling of thunder high up in the clouds made Simon glance upwards. Fat raindrops plopped on his upturned face, and he quickly looked back down again. Quite the summer storm they were experiencing. Not that he minded, he loved storms. They were something to break up the monotony of the summer heat, even though they only brought slight changes to the temperature.

  He quick-footed his way across the street and yanked the U.S. Marshal office door open. Hank and Andy were there, both looking up at the sudden intrusion. Hank, the first to react in any situation, had his hand on the drawer of his desk, where Simon knew he kept a pistol for ‘just in case’.

  “Easy there, boss,” Simon said, holding up his hands with a grin. “Just me.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times not to startle me, boy.” Hank shook his head. While at thirty-one he wasn’t more than five years Simon’s senior, Hank acted like everyone’s father. While the term ‘boy’ could have been endearing from anyone else, Hank meant it as an insult.

  “I’m not sure what else I should do. Sing the tune of Dixie before I open the door?” He was irritated, and it was showing.

  “No,” Hank said, his manner calm even as his eyes hardened into a steel blue. “Just think before you rush in like that. That’s all.”

  Simon grunted and moved toward his desk. “Have a good picnic?” he barked at Andy.

  Andy looked up, surprised. “We, uh, did.” He too noticed the quick shifting of Simon’s mood. It was like the changing weather, sunny one moment and stormy the next. “You have a good night?”

  “Peachy,” Simon replied.

  Silence descended on the office, and all Simon heard was the echoing of his own thoughts accompanied by the resounding feelings welling in his chest. He wanted to be included in something—anything—to feel like he was a part of this community still. Sure, old man Heller had asked him to help with a horse he was having trouble breaking and Sarah, the widow who lived on the land next to his cabin, had asked him over for dinner in two days’ time, but none of those things involved him and his friend together, like nothing had changed.

  Was it unreasonable for him to want that? Perhaps it was. Everything had changed.

/>   He chastised himself for the foolish feelings he was allowing to take precedence in his heart. They were working to bring up bitterness rather than resolution. He should know better. How many times had his daddy told him to sow patience in order to reap understanding? If only his daddy could see him now.

  Shuffling his papers around, he nearly reached for his own concealed weapon when the front door banged open. His gaze shot to the entry way to see the shadow of a figure standing in the doorway, his silhouette highlighted by the odd, orange light of the stormy sky.

  His gaze shot to Hank whose expression said, See why I ask you not to barge in here?

  Capitulating, Simon nodded once and then turned to look at the stranger, who had stepped further in, closing the door and shutting out the sound of the pounding rain behind him.

  “Howdy,” the figure said. He was still backlit, and Simon struggled to make out his features.

  “What can we do for you, Mr….?” Hank left his sentence open to allow the man to offer up the information.

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Tom Wilson at your service, sir.” The man stepped forward, his features finally highlighted by the lamplight.

  He had a strong jaw and piercing, dark brown eyes, so dark they almost looked black. The ruffled hair beneath his hat, which he quickly removed, was also dark brown and longer than any deputy ought to wear it.

  “Tom Wilson,” Hank said, standing. “I’ve heard that name.”