A Secret Fire (Western Historical Romance) Read online

  Copyright © 2012

  A Secret Fire by Deborah M. Hathaway

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed by any part or by any means without written consent of the author.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by Draft Horse Publishing

  Logan, Utah

  ©Copyright 2012 by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Cover Art by Cora Graphics

  First Printed Edition, 2012

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012933053

  ISBN 978-0-9851831-0-3

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  www.deborahmhathaway.com/newsletter

  Books by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Stand Alone Novels

  A Secret Fire

  When Two Rivers Meet

  To Warm a Wintered Heart

  A Cornish Romance Series

  On the Shores of Tregalwen, a Prequel Novella

  Behind the Light of Golowduyn, Book One

  For the Lady of Lowena, Book Two

  Belles of Christmas Series

  Nine Ladies Dancing, Book Four

  For my husband, Christian –

  Without your help and encouragement, my dream would have never come true.

  Thank you.

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Emma Marchant bent down to pick a purple wildflower from the long grass surrounding her. The morning sun warmed her back. A subtle breeze stirred the soft, green blades against her skirts and lifted the untied ribbons of her bonnet, causing them to dance around her shoulders.

  She drew the wildflower close to her eyes and examined the small petals until she was sure each one was securely attached. Then, removing her bonnet from her brown hair that was pulled back in a bun, she tucked the flower behind her ear.

  Emma smiled as she felt the small stem press against her skin. She felt like she was once again a schoolgirl putting flowers in her hair just to receive attention from the handsome older boys. But those days of seeking attention, of seeking beauty, were long gone. Still, she justified her girlish behavior by reassuring herself that no one would see her with it and that she would make sure to take it out before walking back to town.

  She continued her daily morning stroll, bonnet in hand, and resisted the urge to release her hair from the pin that secured it. “You can’t act like a child completely, Emma,” she muttered to herself.

  Pushing her thoughts of aging aside, she focused on what a beautiful morning it had turned out to be. The fields around her were a vibrant green speckled with purple, pink, and orange wildflowers, and the sun rising higher in the sky only proved to increase their beauty. The birds swooped around her, chirping to each other their ‘good mornings’ as the bees hummed softly near her slow-moving legs.

  The sounds of horses’ whinnies drifted across the breeze, and Emma’s light blue eyes darted to the small town of Thundercreek just beginning to stir.

  “Well,” she said, giving one last glance to the peaceful wilderness around her, “I suppose it’s high time I should be gettin’ back.”

  Sighing, she put the bonnet back on her head and tied the ribbons loosely under her chin as she trudged back to town. Sadness threatened to creep inside her heart as it did each morning after her walk, but she managed to push it away, as well as the accompanying dread of impending mundane routines.

  Not wanting to have her day ruined again from negative thinking, Emma raised her chin and looked ahead. Maybe something different would happen that day to give her more to look forward to.

  She felt doubtful but still managed to smile as she made it back to town, greeting the various residents of Thundercreek and forgetting about the small, purple wildflower tucked securely behind her ear.

  ***

  Emma placed her hand on her sister-in-law’s swelling belly and gasped as she felt a tiny kick press against her palm. “I felt it!” she exclaimed, smiling widely. Another bump against her hand and Emma looked up to Eliza Marchant. “There it is again.”

  Eliza sighed, smiling. “He’s been goin’ at it almost all afternoon. I’m so plum tired. I’m just about ready to throw up the sponge.”

  The two women stood in the front room of the Marchant Inn, and Emma watched as the very pregnant Eliza waddled over to the chair behind the check-in counter and sat down, exhaling heavily as she stretched her legs out in front of her. “Well, you don’t have much longer,” Emma said.

  An open grin spread across Eliza’s face. “Doc Symes says the baby will be out of me within a month or two. And finally I’ll be able to breathe again.”

  “And so will Seth,” Emma said, shaking her head as she thought of her older brother, Eliza’s husband.

  Seth had been high-strung ever since Eliza had announced she was with child. He didn’t like her doing anything, whether it was cooking, cleaning, or even walking up the stairs. He’d made a huge fuss when he saw her putting flowers in a vase on the table, knowing that she must have been outside picking them from the fields in order to get them there.

  Even still, Emma couldn’t help but feel a longing to find a man like her brother for herself, one so loving and dedicated to his wife. She watched as Eliza stroked her belly absentmindedly and wondered if she would ever get to have that feeling.

  The sadness she felt must have shown on her face, for in the next moment Eliza spoke softly. “Don’t worry, Em. As much as you think it, you aren’t an old spinster.”

  At twenty-two and not married, Emma did feel like a spinster, but she shrugged her shoulders nonetheless and waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, Liza, I’m not worryin’ a bit. I’ve got ole Silas Gyver to keep me company.”

  Eliza rolled her eyes. “Has he been botherin’ you again?”

  Emma nodded. “I suppose it’ll never stop. When I went to Garth’s General Store, he found me and told me again we should get hitched.”

  “Oh, Emma,” Eliza said, “I just don’t know how you manage to keep from goin’ crazy with that odd stick around.”

  “He’s not all that bad,” Emma said, smiling. Silas Gyver was Thundercreek’s drinking man. The never-married forty-one-year-old could always be found sloshed drunk and smiling his toothy grin, his short beard speckled with week-old food that was crusted into the red, prickly hair. She grimaced as she thought of his dirty hand reaching out to touch her own, but she put it from her mind. As unkempt as he was, Silas meant no harm and had always kept his boundaries. Still, Emma had no interest in marrying a man who engaged in spirits. Especially not one old enough to be her father.

  “Not all that bad,” Eliza muttered under her breath. “The man’s a saphead!”

  Emma smiled. “Careful who you’re talkin’ ’bout, Liza. I’ve a mind to accept his proposal one of these days.”

  “You’d better not. Then what’d you tell him when your knight in shinin’ armor
comes to whisk you away on his white stallion?”

  Laughing, Emma shook her head but decided not to argue with her. The two had been friends ever since Emma and her family had moved there when Emma was five and Eliza four. She knew when she was going to lose an argument.

  “You’re right, Liza,” Emma said. “I suppose I should wait for my man and his white stallion, then.”

  Eliza smiled, pleased with herself, and Emma shoved the self-deprecating thoughts from her mind.

  The door to the Marchant Inn swung open behind them, causing the bell to ring above it, and Emma turned around to welcome their unexpected guest. A tall cowboy with a navy blue shirt entered and removed his tan hat, flashing a friendly smile. “Howdy, ladies,” he said, nodding to both women.

  Eliza came up to stand next to Emma behind the counter, and both women nodded courteously to the handsome stranger.

  “The name’s James Deakon,” the man said, “and this here is my brother, Thatcher.”

  Emma opened her mouth to greet him when a broad-shouldered figure appeared in the doorway and stole her attention entirely. His spurs clanged against the wooden floor as he walked into the room, and Emma couldn’t help but notice his long, thick legs matching his barreled chest. This man’s build was considerably larger than the first, and he stood a good few inches taller, too. The thin white shirt he wore clung to his biceps that bulged with each movement he made, and his shoulders stretched the fabric to what looked like ripping point.

  Sakes alive, he’s handsome, she thought as the large man removed his dark cowboy hat.

  “Well,” Eliza whispered as she pretended to focus on a paper on the desk, “he sure is no Silas Gyver, but I think he’ll do just fine.”

  Emma shot a warning glance to her, yet she couldn’t help but smile herself.

  The handsome man’s deep brown eyes met with Emma’s light blue as she looked back at him, her heart flipping. The solid square jaw that framed his face was shadowed with scruff, having no doubt grown during one afternoon, and his mouth, though not in as friendly a grin as the first man’s, was turned up in a slight smile. Never had she seen a man more attractive.

  Emma felt Eliza’s elbow make contact with her rib cage, and she burned red as she realized she had been staring, mouth open, at the stranger, Thatcher.

  Clearing her throat, Emma blinked a few times and still watching the handsome man, finally forced her words out. “Welcome to the Marchant Inn. Would you like two rooms, or would you just like to share mine? One! I mean one! Would you just like to share one?”

  She wished she would’ve remained silent.

  Emma watched in horror as the two brothers exchanged glances and chuckled deeply, the sound resonating within her ears. How could she have said something so ridiculous? She looked to Eliza for help but only saw her biting her lip to keep her own laughter stifled.

  Traitor, she thought, but the betrayal was soon forgotten as the attractive Thatcher sauntered closer to the counter where his brother stood. Her hands trembled as they rested on the countertop, and her face felt as red as a hen’s feathers, but she tried to hide it by taking a deep breath and forcing her gaze up.

  “Well, Miss,” Thatcher said, the skin around his eyes crinkling as she willed her heart to stop hammering, “if the choice is between sharin’ a room with my kid brother or a pretty filly the likes of you, I think you’d know my choice.”

  He winked at her, a mischievous look in his eyes, but instead of blushing, Emma felt the blood drain from her face in shock. Feeling faint, she directed her head down to focus on the logbook set on the counter, hoping to regain some stability. She felt betrayed again as she heard Eliza’s giggles mixed in with the men’s chuckles. How could she be laughing at something so entirely inappropriate? Though, when she heard the words echoing in her mind, delighted chills ran up and down her spine.

  Pretending to record information in the logbook, Emma waited until the laughter died down. When she looked up, she saw James nudging Thatcher with his shoulder. “Quit harrassin’ the girl, Thatch, or we’re not goin’ to have a place to stay.” James looked to Emma and smiled. “You’ll have to forgive my older brother here, Miss…?”

  Realizing she had yet to introduce herself and Eliza, Emma felt the blush return to her face and was oddly relieved. At least I know I’m not goin’ to swoon in front of them anymore, she thought. Hoping her voice didn’t shake as she answered, Emma said, “Oh, I’m Miss Emma Marchant, and this here’s my brother’s wife, Eliza Marchant.” Emma avoided looking at Thatcher, but she felt his gaze remain on her.

  “It’s good to meet you both.” James smiled. “We can take just one room, if that’s alright.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Deakon,” Emma said, smiling for the first time and feeling more at ease when she knew both brothers didn’t have a mind to make her uncomfortable. “Let me just write down your information, and then I’ll show you to your room.” Her hand continued to shake as she wrote down their names and the room they would be in, but she was relieved when she heard the conversation continue, the attention finally away from her.

  “It looks like you’re ’bout ready to have that young’un soon, Mrs. Marchant,” James said, his voice jovial and friendly. “My congratulations to you.”

  “Well, thank you kindly, Mr. Deakon,” Eliza responded with a proud look.

  Emma’s nerves were lessened somewhat with Eliza’s calm nature, but as she glanced up and saw Thatcher’s gaze still on her, her heart flipped again, and she wondered how that amused grin playing on his lips could be so handsome.

  She tore her eyes from the man to watch Eliza, who was craning her neck to see out the window. “Which of these fine stallions do you boys own, then?” she heard Eliza ask, and Emma was grateful for something to distract Thatcher with.

  “James’s is the chestnut, I own the black,” he said.

  His voice made Emma’s heart pound again. Deep and masculine, she thought.

  Eliza only nodded then walked past Emma and towards the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Well,” Eliza said again, nonchalantly, “I suppose a knight on a black stallion will do just fine, too.”

  “Eliza!” Emma chastised under her breath, appalled, though she couldn’t help but smile at her impish behavior.

  Eliza walked through the doorway and disappeared down the hall, leaving Emma alone with the handsome brothers.

  Thatcher and James exchanged curious glances, but Emma spoke before they could ask any questions. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll lead you to your room.”

  She walked through the doorway Eliza had left from but turned right to head up the stairs, listening to the sounds of the boots behind her. She imagined Thatcher staring at her as she heard his spurs bring up the rear of their small procession, and somehow, she forgot how to walk as she tripped up the steps, catching herself just before she fell flat on her face.

  She heard quick footsteps behind her, and hands soon wrapped around her waist to help steady her, her skin burning warm from the touch. “Thank you,” she said, not wanting to turn around for fear of losing her footing again.

  “You alright there, Miss Marchant?” the deep voice said from behind.

  She twisted her neck to see with horror that Thatcher had been the one to quickly reach forward to steady her, not James. She expected another remark to cause further humiliation, but his eyes held sincere concern rather than mischief. He didn’t even seem to notice the foolish thing she had done, and her heart warmed because of it.

  The unnerving tingling from Thatcher’s touch around her waist knocked her out of her shock, and she took a step back when she realized she’d been staring far too long into his warm brown eyes. “Yes, I’m alright. Just lost my footin’, I suppose.”

  She straightened her bodice, smoothed down her skirts, and turned back around to continue making her way upstairs. Her cheeks blushed red, but she decided it would be better for her to focus on the steps rather than on her embarrassment, even though she was sure she wo
uldn’t mind having the handsome Thatcher Deakon steady her again.

  They finally reached the top of the stairs, and Emma spoke, trying to distract herself from reliving what had just happened. “My brother Seth manages the inn, and Eliza and I cook. The kitchen, parlor, and dinin’ area are all downstairs, as well as our rooms. The bedrooms up here are for the guests.” She led them down the hallway to the second door on their right. “You two are the only ones here for the time bein’. If you have any questions at all, we’ll be happy to answer them. Supper is at six, so you’re both more than welcome to join us, if you’d like.”

  “We’ll be there, Miss Marchant,” James said.

  “I’ll look forward to seein’ you both, then,” she said.

  Knowing she needed to get out of there and soon if she wasn’t going to humiliate herself further, Emma handed the room key to James and hurried towards the stairs, making sure to take special care where she placed her feet.

  She heard the door to their room open and footsteps walk in when she reached the first step.

  “Miss Marchant?”

  Her heart took to pounding again, and she turned around to see Thatcher’s head poking out the doorway from inside his room. “Yes, Mr. Deakon?” she stuttered out, cheeks blushing yet again.

  “You should know,” he said, a mischievous smile playing at his lips, “when I’ve not got somethin’ for a long while, my appetite goes somethin’ akin to crazy.”

  Emma’s brows crinkled together. “I’ll make sure that there is enough food for you then.” Why would he need to tell her this? Surely she would know how much two cowboys could eat.

  His brown eyes sparkled, and a smile broke out on his face. Her heart fluttered as she saw straight, white teeth and a grin that made her weak at the knees. “I wasn’t talkin’ ’bout the food, darlin’.”

  And with that, he pulled his head back inside the room and shut the door promptly behind him.