Authors: Dorothy Garlock
The Listening Sky
He held her close, her head buried in his shoulder while he gently stroked her hair. “I wanted to marry you the second day
you were here,” he murmured. “You were spunky, willful, and bucked me at every turn. Even Doc said I’d be ten times a fool
if. I let you get away from me. You’ll never be alone again, sweet- heart. I’ll find out who hurt you.” He gently stroked the
scratches on her cheeks. “No one will hurt you ever again. I swear it.”
She felt the feathery touch of his lips against hers and sudden tears ached behind her eyes.
“Jane, love, you’re mine now. We’ll face whatever comes together.”
Jane put her arms around his neck, moved her hand to the back of his head and gently stroked his hair. The very strange feeling
of belonging washed over her.
And… the incredibly sweet feeling of coming home.
* * * *
“When you pick up a Dorothy Garlock book, you expect the very best, and that is what you get. ‘Garlock’ has stood for quality
in the romance genre since her first book, and that has not changed.”
—Heartland Critiques
“To read any one of Dorothy Garlock’s novels is to fail in love with the strong, heroic men and women she portrays, with the
rugged Western frontier she describes, and with her wonderful, deeply held conviction that love can heal all wounds.”
—Heart to Heart,
B. Dalton Newsletter
A G
ENTLE
G
IVING
A
NNE
L
ASH
D
REAM
R
IVER
L
ONESOME
R
IVER
R
ESTLESS
W
IND
R
IVER OF
T
OMORROW
W
AYWARD
W
IND
W
ILD
S
WEET
W
ILDERNESS
W
IND OF
P
ROMISE
M
IDNIGHT
B
LUE
N
IGHTROSE
H
OMEPLACE
R
IBBON IN THE
S
KY
G
LORIOUS
D
AWN
T
ENDERNESS
F
OREVER
, V
ICTORIA
S
INS OF
S
UMMER
Y
ESTERYEAR
L
OVE AND
C
HERISH
A
LMOST
E
DEN
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1996 by Dorothy Garlock
All rights reserved.
Warner Vision is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
Warner Books, Inc
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2228-2
Contents
This book is dedicated with love
and appreciation to—
FREDDA ISAACSON
for her valuable contribution
to the twenty-two books we have
worked on together.
—And for being the editor all writers
dream of having.
No one knows my secret but the listening sky.
I wont tell the birds nor that floating butterfly.
The sky’s high above and it’s far away,
And that is where I’d like for my secret to stay.
It’s nice to tell a secret if the secret’s good.
But if the secret’s bad, you never should.
You may speak your heart to the listening sky,
But be sure to look about you lest a man walk by.
Hush little baby, don’t you cry.
Tears are not me answer, and I’ll tell you why.
If you just grow strong and are unafraid,
You can win against die trouble that die secret’s made.
—F.S.I.
Wyoming territory
, 1882
J
ANE
Love’s groping fingers found the pocket on her skirt and shoved the scrap of paper inside.
i know who yu we.
Hiding the crudely written words, however, did not erase them from her mind. Her heart hammered so hard that it was difficult
to breathe. Without moving her head, she searched the crowd to see if anyone was watching her.
Standing in the dusty street of a run-down town with the group of women who had climbed down from the wagons after the thirty-mile
trip from the stage station, Jane refused to allow any outward sign of the nervousness that was making her stomach churn.
Three families stood beside their wagons. Two of the mothers held babes in their arms, while older children clung to their
skirts. A half-dozen men, bundles of their belongings at their feet, stood to one side waiting to be told where to go.
Jane’s eyes were caught by those of a husky, dark-skinned man wearing a leather vest and a battered felt hat. He had been
at the stage station when she arrived with the others from the train stop and had immediately singled her out for his attention.
He smiled and winked.
She tilted her chin and glared.
Last night in the dining hall of the station, she had hung her hat on a peg while she ate her supper. Later she had found
the first note tucked in the crown.
yu cant hide.
She knew what the hateful message referred to—there was no doubt of that. The scribbled note had so unnerved her that she
had hardly slept a wink all night.
The latest note had been pressed under one of the straps of the leather valise that held the sum total of her belongings.
Had it been placed there by someone at the stage station, or after the baggage had been loaded and she had climbed into one
of the lumbering wagons that had brought her and the other adventurous souls to this former ghost town in the northwest section
of Wyoming Territory? Had the note-writer gone on with the train to some other destination? Or was he one of the people who
had come here with her?
“Welcome to Timbertown. I’m T.C. Kilkenny.” The man who spoke had stepped onto a bench so that he could see the faces of everyone
in the crowd.
When Jane turned and looked up, she saw a big, wide-shouldered man with a lean, strong-boned face. A black flat-crowned hat
sat squarely on his dark head in a no-nonsense fashion. Wide galluses held up duck britches, the legs of which were tucked
into calf-high boots.
“Men, those of you who have families, get them settled in the cabins provided and then come to the store building and sign
up. Your women and children are tired from the trip, so bring them to the cookhouse tonight for supper. Jeb Hobart is the
building foreman.” He gestured toward a stocky man who wore a billed cap and was smoking a pipe. “He will show you the way
to the cabins. Each of them is furnished with a bed and a stove for heating and cooking. Our store is fully stocked, and you
will be invited to run a tab which will be deducted from your pay by the Rowe Lumber Company, if you so wish.”
Kilkenny waited while the families climbed back into wagons that were piled high with their possessions. The men started the
tired teams moving down the dirt-packed road toward their new homes. Most of the lumbermen had requested a cabin on an acre
or two of cleared ground. Wash hung from the lines behind a few of the town houses, and children playing on the doorsteps
waved as the wagons passed.
After the crowd had moved away, Kilkenny spoke to the men who remained.
“I have a few things to say to those of you who are going to work on the town building, also the mill workers. Take your plunder
to the space beyond the blacksmith and stake out a place to camp for tonight. Temporary quarters for the women are in the
building next to the cookhouse. Ladies, I’ll take you there presently.
“The population of our town is nearly a hundred people and there are that many others who live around it. At least thirty
more will be here tomorrow, not counting the children. They will be the last addition to our town until spring, unless some
folks happen to wander in and want to stay. So that we can live in a civilized manner, there must be rules. I am the town
manager and part-owner of the land it sits on. Therefore, for the time being, I make the rules and enforce them.
“Drinking during a work shift will result in instant dismissal. No handguns are to be worn on the job nor in the saloon. I
expect that you will have the normal number of disagreements among yourselves. If you want to fight, go out into the street
and have at it in a civilized manner. A man who deliberately cripples his opponent will be fired on the spot. I will not tolerate
biting, eye-gouging nor stomping. Other than that, I’ll not interfere.” These remarks were directed to the group of men.
Fight
in a
civilized
manner? Jane suppressed the urge to roll her eyes to the heavens.
“Social functions will be provided so that the single men and women may become acquainted if they wish to,” he added quickly.
“Any man who fails to conduct himself in a gentlemanly manner toward the ladies will find himself in a peck of trouble. I
intend to have a civilized, law-abiding community here.
“We have a well-stocked mercantile store. I expect a train of freight wagons soon. Prices will be fair. Each man who signs
on to work for Rowe Lumber Company can run a tab. We have a blacksmith, a harness-maker, a wheelwright, and, of course, a
livery. We’ll soon have the hotel and rooming house usable. A bakery and an eatery will open to give us some relief from Bill’s
cooking.”
A gray-haired man with a dingy white cloth wrapped around his waist lounged against the building with a screened door. At
the remark about his cooking his toothless mouth spread in a broad smile.
“I expect a preacher soon, and we’ll build a church. I’m hoping to engage one of you as schoolmaster. If our town continues
to grow, a year from now we will elect a mayor, a city council, and a peace officer. You will notice that I do not call this
place a lumber camp. We have two cutting camps. One to the north, one to the west. The sawmill is a mile upriver.