All in Good Time

Bees in the Butterfly Garden

“This character-driven historical . . . represents Lang at her best. Though her many fans will surely enjoy it, consider giving this title also to patrons who like Amanda Harte and Tamera Alexander.”

LIBRARY JOURNAL

“Lang’s talent shines through in this first of the Gilded Legacy series. The grandeur of the era is evident in the story, the charming characters, [and] the beautifully descriptive prose!”

ROMANTIC TIMES

“The premise of this story is so clever it’s interesting from the get-go. . . .
Bees in the Butterfly Garden
should appeal to cozy mystery fans and historical romance readers alike. . . . It’s a very promising start to the series.”

CROSSWALK.COM

The Great War Series

“[
Look to the East
] teems with conflict. . . . Lang’s novel is a cautionary tale as well as a romance within an exciting framework of war, secrets, and blissful reunions.”

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“A story of love and courage that uplifts and inspires. Lang brings an element of inspiration and beauty to the story that renews the reader’s faith in mankind and the power of love.”

FRESHFICTION.COM ON
LOOK TO THE EAST

“A moving book with a suspenseful plot that has a twist of romance.”

TITLETRAKK.COM ON
WHISPER ON THE WIND

“An excellent historical read. . . . The plot is clever and will keep you guessing.”

RADIANTLIT.COM ON
WHISPER ON THE WIND

“
Springtime of the Spirit
is rich with politics, war, secrets, faith, and love. Any woman with an affection for historical romances . . . would enjoy this finely-woven tale.”

CHRISTIANBOOKPREVIEWS.COM

“A heart-wrenching love story.”

LIBRARY JOURNAL
ON
SPRINGTIME OF THE SPIRIT

“Lang masterfully weaves historical facts and figures with postwar promise and love.”

ROMANTIC TIMES
ON
SPRINGTIME OF THE SPIRIT

“History, politics, passion, loyalty, and danger swirl together to create an intriguing story. Historical fiction fans and others will enjoy this compelling novel’s undercurrent of danger and romance, beautifully combined with a riveting plot and likable characters.”

FAITHFULREADER.COM ON
SPRINGTIME OF THE SPIRIT

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All in Good Time

Copyright © 2013 by Maureen Lang. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of woman taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of balcony copyright © Trinette Reed/Blend Images/Corbis. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of clouds copyright © Shaun Cammack/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of 1898 Denver from the US Library of Congress.

Cover photograph of leather copyright © andipantz/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

Author photo copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Girard. All rights reserved.

Designed by Stephen Vosloo

Edited by Sarah Mason

Published in association with WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130.

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the
Holy Bible
, King James Version.

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version.
®
Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All in Good Time
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lang, Maureen.

All in Good Time / Maureen Lang.

pages cm. — (The Gilded Legacy)

ISBN 978-1-4143-6447-6 (sc)

1. Prostitution—Fiction. 2. Bankers—Fiction. 3. Seduction—Fiction. 4. Denver (Colo.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3612.A554A55 2013

813'.6—dc23 2012041000

ISBN 978-1-4143-8208-1 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8209-8 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8207-4 (Apple)

You revealed your heart for others at a very young age, when a baby on television cried and instantly inspired you to cry along.

In that, you and Dessa have much in common.

MY RESEARCH
of 1880s Denver was made easy and enjoyable because of the work and help of Jay Moynahan, retired professor from Eastern Washington University. Not only did I benefit from Professor Moynahan’s own publications, but he generously pointed me in the direction of pertinent material he used during his decades of work. Without his recommendations I’d have been far less informed about society’s vices so common in many frontier towns, including Denver.

I’d also like to thank Massimo Duraturo for his help with Mrs. Gio’s Italian, and my friend Jeff Gerke for the introduction. Jeff is a perfect example of the wonderful generosity found in the Christian writing community.

And as always, I’m indebted to my critique partner, Siri Mitchell, and to the amazing talents of the Tyndale team: Karen Watson, Stephanie Broene, Sarah Mason, Beth Sparkman, Stephen Vosloo, and the marketing and PR support of Babette Rea and Maggie Rowe. It’s so easy to possess a grateful heart when surrounded by people who deserve to see one.

Mosquito Range, near Leadville, Colorado, 1875

“BE SURE
to send my gratitude and affection to Mr. Wells and Mr. Fargo,” said Henry Hawkins.

The stagecoach driver’s hands shook as he offered Henry the contents of the lockbox—a box Henry had coerced the driver to blow open, providing the right mix of explosive and mud to adhere to and destroy the lock without harming anything inside the box. Heaven knew Henry had practiced enough times to get it right.

A quick glance assured Henry he’d gotten what he’d come for. He was three times a robber, three times of the same coach. Each time he’d been certain of the lockbox’s contents; otherwise it wouldn’t have been worth the risk. Today the familiar green pouch nearly burst with gold fresh from Colorado mines and smelted pure in Leadville. Accompanying that was a stack of greenbacks and banknotes, all of which Henry received while still aiming his rifle at the familiar but wide-eyed driver—the only man Henry had left unbound.

Henry stashed the goods in his own pouch. “Get over to the side, Zeb,” he ordered the driver, whom he’d met on his two previous holdups. “You know the routine by now. Hands high so my boys won’t fire on you. That’s it.” He let his grin of confidence speak for itself, but truthfully he could barely contain his mirth. His “boys” were nothing more than roughly hewn, perfectly straight lengths of wood. Placed at just the right angles amid
boulders above them along the narrow pass, they looked as if they were the ready rifles of his gun-toting partners in crime.

Henry avoided meeting the gaze of only one man in the party, the one he’d ordered Zeb to secure first. He’d rather not have waylaid a coach with Tobias Ridgeway aboard, but it couldn’t be helped, not with the amount of gold and cash Henry knew would be transported this time through.

His mother’s brother was known from Leadville to Denver as straight and trustworthy, outspoken but earnest, an honorable sort every boy wished he could claim as a father—as Tobias was in surrogate form to Henry.

Except today Henry wished he didn’t know him at all.

Even now, with a false beard and mustache—fairer in shade than any Henry would have naturally grown with his jet-black hair—and his lanky form thickened by the padding he wore beneath his shirt, Henry dared not look his uncle in the eye. Unfortunately, Uncle Tobias was standing right next to a man Henry must address: a courier in the employ of Leadville’s largest mine. He routinely rode the coaches between Denver and Leadville and was this very day carrying a considerable amount of gold. Henry knew this because the man was a regular customer at his mother’s mercantile, and Henry had overheard him boasting more than once about being trusted with such an important task.

“I’ll take the nuggets from the mine.” He kept his voice to a raspy whisper, staring at the other man through the eyeholes of his mask.

The man’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets, but then he let his gaze slip upward, as if wondering how accurate Henry’s cohorts might be. Evidently he decided not to take the risk of running. “I don’t . . . know . . . what you’re referring—”

Henry poked him with the muzzle of his rifle, pushing aside his
jacket lapel. “No one will get hurt if you just keep steady.” Then with one hand he fished inside the man’s jacket for the pouch containing the best output from his employer’s mine: gold ready to be converted to specie in Denver. Henry ripped it away with less trouble than he’d expected.

“Your reputation is too kind, sir,” Uncle Tobias rumbled. “Rumor has it the recent robberies along here didn’t create any unnecessary suffering.”

“And it’s still true,” Henry said softly, aiming his response at the man from whom he’d taken the pouch. “It was never really your money, now, was it?”

“I’m available if you need help spending that,” invited the redheaded woman who’d been ordered to stand off to the side with the men, though Henry had spared her the indignity of bound wrists.

In spite of his need to hurry off, Henry shot the woman a grin, the unfamiliar beard tickling his cheek. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turned his attention back to the stage driver. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Zeb.” He backed away from the coach. “Rest assured me and my boys will not be delaying you again. I bid you farewell and good tidings for a prosperous future, along with profound apologies if my mischief has resulted in any trouble for you.”

With that, Henry darted beyond the bushes and boulders that lined this portion of the road. As before, he shot into the air once he was well away—mostly to hasten the coach in its departure, but even to his knowing ears, the echoes sounded as if his “guns” from above might be going off.

The rough, loose, rocky terrain once again aided him. He was confident none of the passengers would risk the wide gullies, treacherous incline, sharp granite, and precariously balanced boulders threatening any crossing. It was a terrain Henry had practiced navigating both on foot and by horse.

The whistle of a bullet proved his confidence wrongly placed. Instinctively Henry ducked. Without looking back, he shifted his route to the most dangerous path of all: a trail on the other side of the ridge barely wide enough for the elk, deer, and bighorn sheep that were the only creatures sure-footed enough for such a spot as this. It took Henry in the opposite direction from his horse, but he figured to circle back once he lost whoever was tracking him.

Even as securely as he’d fastened the brown muslin covering him from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose, with holes cut wide enough to let him see, he needed every bit of his sight to navigate the treacherous path that loomed above the deepest of all the ravines. At the bottom, the icy force of the mountain’s winter snowmelt churned mightily.

He tugged the mask away, too late realizing his grip wasn’t secure as a breeze ripped the material from his hold. There was no time to retrieve it. And why bother? Even if found, the bit of muslin couldn’t be connected to him. Or to his mother, from whose sewing box he’d stolen it.

It wasn’t long before the detour served him. By the time he reached the curve in the deer path, he looked back to find it empty.

Nonetheless, Henry lost no time returning to his horse by circling around and downward to the tree line. Having gone this route meant he couldn’t retrieve his wooden “rifles.” It was a good thing this was Henry’s last robbery; the secret that he’d acted alone would be out as soon as investigators returned to the pass.

No matter now. He found his horse just where he’d left him, hidden in a cluster of bristlecone pines. It had taken only a few minutes to reverse the horseshoes into prepared holes in the horse’s hooves. A casual tracker would think him going the opposite direction altogether; a closer, experienced inspection would at least delay any chase.

It was near dark by the time Henry returned to town, minus
his disguise. He stopped at the smithy, once owned by his parents, that now stood next to his mother’s mercantile, pretending concern over the horse’s shoes as he slipped them back into their proper positions. Not much later, he walked home, leaving his horse behind. No one would ever know what was hidden in his saddlebags. Tomorrow he would return to his special spot: a hole in the ground that no miner would be able to find, and no bear, goat, or snake was likely to occupy thanks to the pungent coal tar he’d applied to the walls as thickly and lovingly as it had ever been applied to a roof.

He would add today’s catch to the stash he’d already buried. Once that was done, Henry knew his work as an outlaw was finished.

Just as fast and easily as he’d planned.