—Proverbs 3:5–6
This book is dedicated to my aunt Marilyn, a kind and gentle spirit. Surely now there are chocolate chip cookies in heaven.
Contents
Cowboy Creek
April 1869
Seth Halloway heaved a burlap sack of dry beans over his shoulder and carried it to the back of the wagon, where he vaulted into the bed and stacked the bag beside kegs and crates. He yanked a faded bandana from his back pocket and wiped his face and neck. The sun was warm for April. Good for the early hay.
“Hadn’t you better clean yerseff up and git over to the station?” Old Horace, shuffling from the interior of Booker & Son general store, slowly drew a cheroot beneath his nostrils and inhaled. He paused at the nearest porch beam and struck a match. The loamy dark scent of tobacco drifted upward. “Bride train’s arrivin’ any time now.”
Seth tucked away the bandana. “Too much work waiting to go gawk at women keen on a husband,” Seth answered. “There’ll be plenty of eager grooms crowding the rails.”
“Might be you’d take a shine to one of those young fillies,” Gus Russell said from the bench where the two old men sat a healthy portion of the day when they weren’t playing horseshoes behind the church.
“A wife is pretty far down my list,” Seth told the two men, who knew all the comings and goings in town. Last fall, he’d sold his land in Missouri to start a ranch here in Kansas, and getting the White Rock stocked and operational took all his time and energy.
“You need sons to help you run that ranch,” Old Horace advised, peering up through a trail of smoke. He punctuated his statement by pointing his pipe stem at Seth.
Seth thought the same thing. He’d learned ranching from his father, and he wanted to pass down land and know-how to his own children, but the war and some unfortunate turns had put a kink in any plans he may have had. “Plenty of time for that.”
Shouts reached them, and the clanging bell across the intersection at the corner of The Cattleman hotel echoed along Eden Street. Seth’s immediate thought was a fire, and a jolt of unease rippled through his chest. He jumped to the ground.
Hoofbeats alerted him to a fast-approaching rider.
“Train derailed to the south!” the cowboy hollered from atop his prancing piebald. “Need ev’rybody’s help!”
Abram Booker appeared in the doorway in his clean white apron. “I’ll get another wagon from the livery. We’ll need to bring in the injured.”
“Help me unload these onto the boardwalk,” Seth called to the cowboy. They made quick work of stacking his purchases, and Abram tossed in an armful of blankets. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“I’m comin’, too!” Old Horace climbed up to the seat. Seth helped Gus into the back, and by the time they’d gotten to First Street, half a dozen more men and a few women had joined the old men in the back of the wagon. Seth urged the team past the now-deserted railroad station and south alongside the creek after which the town had been named.
He spotted a thin line of black smoke before he came within sight of the train. The engine and tender were overturned, and men worked at putting out fires along the tracks. The hazard of a prairie fire seemed to be under control. The foremost passenger cars had been overturned, and beyond those the stock cars were detached and had skidded together in a zigzag pattern.
The wailing of crying infants and children could be heard, along with shouts of men and whinnying horses. Other townspeople had arrived, as well. A few women offered water and assistance to passengers seated or lying on the sloping ground.
Seth set the brake handle and helped Old Horace down, then joined one of the small groups of men gathering to search cars.
“You’re strong and agile,