Chase, p.1
Chase, page 1
Chase
Bachelors and Babies Book #12
Charlene Raddon
Chase
Copyright © 2020 by Charlene Raddon
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Charlene Raddon
www.charleneraddon.com
www.silversagebookcovers.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Design & Formatting by Christine Sterling
Chase / Charlene Raddon. – 1st Ed. 4/2020
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the fantastic readers of the Bachelors & Babies series. Thank you so much.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Kathi Oram Peterson and Maureen Mills. This book wouldn’t exist without you—also big thanks to Georgia VanDruff, my editor, slave driver, and friend. Gratitude as well to my proofreader, Linda Middleton, and my formatter, Christine Sterling. Love you guys.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Ninteen
About the Author
Books in the Bachelors and Babies Series
Visit Charlene on Social Media
Other Books by Charlene Raddon
Chapter One
June, 1881, Cutthroat, Montana
C hase Givens knew there'd be trouble. No law prevented horse racing in Cutthroat, but no law allowed it either, so the contest taking place today would not go down well with authorities. Or with his older brothers, Jared and Barclay. Fortunately, they weren't here. Didn't mean the story wouldn't reach them, though. Nothing stayed secret in small towns.
Folks scattered to seek safety as he and his speckled mare, Jezebel, streaked through town.
"Yee-haw!" Bent low over his horse's head, he slapped her rump with his quirt. "Look out, folks. Horse race coming through."
Chase had wagered a half eagle on winning and didn't intend to lose. The race had started at Savvy Sam's place, a shack a mile north of town. He and his partners, Savvy Sam and Gus Rowley, had designated Three-Road Junction a few miles beyond Cutthroat as the finish line.
"Come on, Jezebel, you can do this," he whispered in the mare's ear. "Gotta win."
A shout from behind warned him Sam might be catching up. Chase whapped the mare again. "Go, baby, go! Don't let that nag sniff your tail."
He glanced over his shoulder to check his competition and cursed as the flapping ends of his bandana flew into his face.
A woman's scream snapped his head forward in time to see skirts fly out from under Jezebel's hooves, along with a curvy female form.
"Whoa, Jezebel!" He yanked hard on the reins and prayed he hadn't hurt her.
By the time the horse slid to a standstill, they were fifty feet down the lane. He leaped from the saddle and raced back to where a pile of skirts lay in a puddle of horse urine.
Lord a'mighty, please let her be all right.
A cloud of dust from his sudden stop blurred the scene. Bystanders stood on the boardwalk staring, shocked expressions on their faces. Chase threw himself down beside the girl and looked for a face to go with the tangle of lower limbs kicking at the layers of brocade and muslin, all the while praying he hadn’t caused her serious injury. Guilt sat on his shoulder like a miniature version of his mother.
"Somebody, help!" a female voice shouted from the knot of fabric.
Chase caught hold of an arm waving in the air and gave a gentle tug. That brought his victim to a sitting position. The ugliest bonnet he'd ever seen blocked his view of her face. She yanked it off, sending hat pins flying and tearing strands of raven black hair from her bun.
"Miss?" Chase ventured, holding out a hand. "Are you hurt? Should I send for the doc?"
"Don't touch me," she growled, scooting away from him.
He stood, scratching his head and wondering what to do now. The girl clumsily got to her feet, glaring at him and giving him his first glimpse of her face. A gentle visage with strong bone structure, lips just right, not too plump and not too thin, and eyes dark as night. Something niggled at his memory. Did he know her? He didn't think so. Ripping his bandana from his neck, he waved it to clear away the dust and get a better peek at her.
Hell, if she wasn't the prettiest little filly he'd ever laid eyes on since he'd begun to notice them. His pulse kicked up a notch. His palms grew moist. Her dress looked more elegant than what most women wore around town. Brocade, not broadcloth. If he had to guess, he'd say she came from money, either a wealthy husband or rich parents. Either way, in that get-up, she looked like a different breed of fox from every other female in Cutthroat.
Sam halted behind Chase and hopped down. "She all right, Chase? You didn't run her over, did you?"
Before he could answer, she whirled on him. "You! You're the one whose horse almost trampled me? What did you think you were doing? Do women mean nothing in this dumpy town of yours that you simply stampede over them?" Anger created red splotches on her ivory cheeks. Her ebony eyes zeroed in on him like bullets from a six-gun.
"No, I—"
"I ought to have you arrested." She picked up her bonnet and dusted it off. The flowers on the brim hung a bit tattered, the ribbons muddy. "If you've ruined my ensemble with your pernicious hellraising, I'll see you pay for it. I had it fashioned in Paris."
"Look, miss, I'm powerful sorry—"
"Is there an attorney in this one-horse town?" Her tone remained hoity-toity, disgust turning her mouth down at the corners and detracting from her beauty.
Chase felt like a square peg being pounded into a round hole. He had no idea how to deal with a situation like this. He darn near wished his big brother Barclay was here. Barclay had all the diplomatic skills in his family. He could talk himself out of a noose while sitting on a stolen nag.
"There used to be a lawyer on the next street over, corner of Buffalo and Sagebrush." His feet itched to get moving. He'd spent all the time he wanted to waste here this day. Still, he was the culprit who'd made a mess of the woman, and he figured he owed her. "Would you like me to show you the way? He might still be in business."
Her head snapped up from the bonnet she'd been trying to tidy, and she stared at him. "Do I look so ignorant that I can't find a street corner? Buffalo and Sagebrush, you said. A block over. A simpleton could locate that. What is his name?"
Chase shifted on his feet, riled by her attitude. She spoke excellent English like his ma had tried to teach him, and her duds cost more than he could earn breaking a herd of mustangs, but that was no call to be rude and belittle his hometown. "Gosh, ma'am, you telling me you ain't figgered that out yet?"
Savvy Sam and Gus Rowley, Chase's racing compadres, chuckled, and her gaze shot to them like a spark from a wildfire. If those boys weren't careful, she'd burn them to a crisp.
Her eyes back on him, she growled.
He couldn't believe his ears. No woman had ever done that before. Not to him.
She pivoted, smart-like, and marched to the boardwalk, lugging a portmanteau and a gallon of horse piss. Easy to see she was new in town. Where on God's clean countryside had she come from, and what was she doing in Cutthroat?
"Don't think she could be hurt real bad, the way she huffed off," Sam said. "But she's surely sore at you, Chase."
Chase tore his gaze from her departing figure—a right fine shapely one—and asked, "She look familiar to either of you?"
Gus shook his head.
Sam simply spit into the puddle the girl had abandoned as if he didn't consider her worth discussing. "She don't travel the same trails I do."
"Nope." Gus took out a chaw and bit down on it. "Ain't from here. Musta come in on the morning stage."
"Guess this race is a draw, eh, boys?" Sam said.
"Yeah, I'd say so." Chase started for his horse. Good thing he'd trained Jezebel well. She'd stayed right where he'd jumped off her. 'Course, that happened to be in the middle of Main Street, but—no harm done.
Sam and Gus followed him, bringing their nags with them.
"Got a feeling we're going to hear about this from Marshal Vining," Sam said, holding his hat like they were at a funeral.
"Reckon we can be sure of that." Chase mounted his horse. "I'm heading home. See you two tomorrow. You inviting anyone to the spring dance next Saturday?"
Sam slapped his hat on his head. "Not me. That's for fellows looking to settle down, which leaves me out. Twenty-one's too young to get married, far as I'm concerned."
Chase, being the same age, had to agree. "I'm not taking anyone, but I reckon I'll be there to whisk a gal or two around the dance floor. So long, Sam. See ya, Gus."
They waved goodbye, and Chase nudged Jezebel to a canter. According to the sun, straight overhead, the fam ily cook, Oysters, would be serving up the midday vittles soon, and Chase didn't want to miss out.
Jessamine Styles sat on the side of the bed in her hotel room with a hand clasped to her chest, aching with unshed tears. How humiliating, to be practically run down in the street. Her first day here and infamous already. Everyone would be talking about the poor girl who'd gotten dumped on her derrière in a stinky puddle by a wild horse. She'd worked so hard to make herself into a lady, dress well and act with good manners all for nothing.
Thanks to the one person she cared about most in this place.
Chase Givens.
She hadn't recognized him at first. She'd been so upset, and he'd changed since she last saw him. At least three inches taller, he wore a mustache and looked much older. Still handsome. In fact, more so than ever.
Once she'd realized who he was, she couldn't get away fast enough. What should she do now? She'd come here hoping to see her babies—the triplets she'd abandoned over three years ago—and in the hope that Chase hadn't forgotten her. Would he have remembered if she'd given her name as Minnie?
She wished she could dig a hole, crawl into it, and pull the sod over her. She wasn't sure now if she could go through with her plans. After the disaster of this morning, could she face Chase again?
Oh, but she wanted so badly to see her children. She'd checked and learned that they were still at High Mountain Ranch. The oldest of the three Givens brothers, Barclay, had married and adopted them. Neither her children nor the Givens family would ever know how hard she'd worked to become the type of woman they could respect. Her parents thought sending her to a finishing school would ensure her a good husband. She'd left them in Paris, unaware of her plans to teach rather than marry.
They had managed to put behind them the scandalous daughter who'd foolishly placed herself in a bad situation and gotten kidnapped by a ruthless gang of bank thieves. She had no desire to raise that memory from the dead. They had little idea of the horrors she'd endured in that hideout where she'd spent a year of servitude to a bunch of filthy, foulmouthed, ruffians. No idea that she'd given birth to triplets and left them at High Mountain Ranch. They knew only that she had returned home in a deplorable physical and emotional state.
The night she left the ranch, she couldn't even bear to look at the little ones, so terrifyingly small and reminiscent of the thieves who'd sired them as well as the terror and degradation those men had put her through.
Gradually, she'd realized that a woman who had given birth could never forget the feeling of babies moving inside her, or the first wails from their tiny mouths, or how her arms had ached to hold them. Jessamine had turned her back on those overwhelming emotions, fighting them with every ounce of her being, and abandoned her newborns.
During her time at the finishing school, her desire to see her children had grown and festered until it became an obsession. She had to see them, perhaps hold them, and learn what they looked like now. Did they have her physical traits or those of the men, any one of whom may have sired them?
She wanted to love them. What happened hadn't been their fault.
Chase Givens was part of all that. She couldn't think of the triplets without remembering his gentle touch, kind words, and much-needed encouragement.
Reaching into her skirt pocket, she took out the stone he'd given her. A worry stone, he'd called it. He'd told her if she rubbed it, it would soothe her, and he'd been right. She'd carried it with her ever since and stroked it often. She'd been eager to show him she still had it.
Would she dare to go through with her plans and brazenly walk up to that big house, knock on the door, and ask to see her children? Maybe she'd simply climb back on the stage and go home to Hawksville.
Chase arrived at the ranch house in the nick of time. Had he been one instant later, there wouldn't have been a pork chop or fried potato left. He enjoyed mealtimes more than ever now. The kids, with their lack of manners, provided humor as well as mess. Never knew what the little devils would do next. The only time they stayed still for long was when they were asleep.
"Connor," Cynara said, "don't slap your sister."
"She took my bread," he objected.
Vella, bread in hand, gave them a sweet, innocent look. "His looked better'n mine."
"It's the same bread," Cynara said. "See, it came from the same loaf."
She tried gently to take the chunk, a bit squished now, from the girl.
"No." Vella—Chase's favorite—hung on. "Mine."
"Is not." Connor turned to his papa. "Make her give it back. She's got it all dirty."
"You both washed your hands before we sat down, remember?" Barclay reasoned with his son.
Connor's brow furrowed, and he narrowed his eyes. "No. She gots spit on 'em afterward."
Barclay took hold of the loaf, broke off another piece and gave it to his son. "Here. Now, you have a new piece."
Straight-faced as a judge, Connor made a point of licking the bread, then stuck out his tongue at Vella.
Jenetta, Cynara and Barclay's two-year-old, found that quite comical. She smacked her hands on the tray of her highchair and laughed with the kind of boisterousness only a child can produce.
After dinner, Chase challenged Barclay to their usual game of checkers. Chase won two rounds before Cynara and Healy returned from putting the children down. Jared and Healy had adopted Gage after they married. Now, Barclay and Cynara only had Connor, Vella and Jenetta. When Chase found a wife, he'd adopt Vella. That had been decided the night the children were born. Barclay claimed Connor, Jared chose Gage and Chase took Vella.
Cynara filled her cup, the one with the three babies on it, and took a sip while resting her hand on Barclay's shoulder.
"You know you ought to take one of those babies off that cup," Chase teased. "You only have two of the triplets now." He winked at Jared.
"Odd." Cynara pursed her lips. "The last time I put kids to bed, there were three. Oh, and this morning, I fed three little mouths. On Monday, I washed three little sets of clothing. I scolded three monkeys for climbing onto the counter to get cookies. I—"
"Okay." Chase laughed. "You win. You still have three monkeys."
Healy entered in time to hear the last of the conversation. "Speaking of who has children and who doesn't, when are you going to give Vella a permanent home and family, Chase?"
He waved a dismissive hand at her. "Probably never. I have serious doubts about marriage. I've seen Barclay and Jared's success—they got you and Cynara. But I don't think I'm ready to settle down. I may never be. Too much fun still to be had. Too much living to do."
His mind went instantly to the pretty gal he'd nearly trampled in town. While occupied with that, Barclay jumped three of Chase's checkers, which almost put him out of the game.
"Hey," Chase objected. "You cheated. You got your wife to distract me. Not fair."
"Not my fault you can't concentrate on anything longer than a few seconds." Barclay picked up his pipe and checked to see if the flame had gone out, then stuck the stem in his mouth. "You're going to have to grow up one of these days, Chase."
"That's right," Jared put in. "Vella needs a full-time papa."
"I spend plenty of time with her," Chase said.
At that instant, a child's cry filled the air.
"Uh-oh." Healy raced out of the kitchen, Cynara at her heels. Three-year-olds were a handful.
"Hope one of the kids didn't get hurt," Barclay said.
"If they did, we'll hear about it," Jared assured him.
Oysters got up to stir the Mulligan stew simmering on the stove for tonight's supper.
"Smells good," Chase said.
"'Course it's good." Oysters tried to look insulted, though Chase knew he faked it. Oysters was an easy-going man of middle years who'd been with the family for decades. Used to be, he wore his hair nearly waist-length and shaggy, his beard untrimmed. Since Annie— Skelly Bernard's widow—moved to the ranch, the cook had begun washing more and dressing better.
Before Healy married Jared, she'd been engaged to Skelly. To see the man murder someone ended that and sent Healy running to High Mountain for safety. She hadn't known he was already married when he took her away, planning to force her to wed him. As his wife, she couldn't testify against him. Before it was over, Skelly lay dead, leaving Annie behind. Out of the goodness of her heart, Healy had invited the widow to move to the ranch and Annie had become a fixture. She helped with housework and became the ranch baker.
