A Kiss to Remember: Western Historical Romance Boxed Set
Cheryl Pierson & Tracy Garrett & Tanya Hanson & Kathleen Rice Adams & Livia J. Washburn
CHAPTER ONE
River’s Bend, Missouri, early March, 1855
The mob harassed Margaret Flanaghan ahead of them, their zeal washing over her in a wave of prejudice and hatred. “I was only gathering medicines for my father.” Her rising terror drained the conviction from her voice, leaving her with nothing, not even a defense. Sharp pains stabbed her bad hip, increasing her limp until she was having trouble staying ahead of them.
“Medicine?” Mr. Jones swung his lantern at her face, forcing her back another step. “Is that what you call that potion over your fire, witch?”
“It wasn’t a potion. It was tea. I was only steeping willow bark tea. For his pain.”
“You were practicing the devil’s arts, witch!”
The crowd of men and women, even a few of the precious children, people with whom she’d traveled from St. Louis, had thought were friends, took up the chant.
“Witch! Witch! Witch!”
Maggie stumbled, righting herself before Jones could grab her arm. “I’m not a witch!”
An icy wind whistled between the buildings on either side of the narrow street. Leaves, left behind by the winds of winter, skittered and rolled across her dusty shoes.
The street narrowed and climbed slightly, civilization fading behind the flickering flames of lanterns and torches. Her hip threatened to buckle beneath her. Frantic, she tried to get her bearings. She’d explored River’s Bend the first afternoon they’d made camp north of the little town, but that was two weeks ago and, in the darkness, she was confused. The moon was nearly full, but it was hidden in clouds. If this hill turned out to be the natural rise overlooking the river, she would not survive the night, for she couldn’t swim.
The mob’s chanting continued, growing louder and more frenzied. “Why are you doing this?” she cried. All she wanted was to make her father well so they could continue their journey to her aunt in Denver. Knowing the plants, their uses both good and evil, came naturally to her. She’d not been trained, but had somehow always understood their purposes. But the superstitious settlers thought her knowledge was demon-spawned. “Please,” she begged. I’m no witch. I only want my father to—”
She screamed when a rough hand grasped her cloak. Spinning away, she yanked free. “Don’t touch me!” They kept coming, forcing her backward in the darkness, another step, another, still another, as the crowd gained ground. When she slammed into someone, tall, broad, and obviously strong, and he didn’t sway at the impact, her terror stole even her voice. She was trapped.
“What is the meaning of this?”
A deep, mellow voice silenced the crowd. The man steadied Maggie for a moment before moving to put himself between her and the mob. His shoulders were straight and wide, making him seem even taller than he was. Gratitude for his protection stole the last of her strength and she grabbed at the man’s arm for support.
“I asked for an explanation. You, sir. You tell me.”
“Stay outta this, Preacher.” Artemis Jones. She would hear that voice in her nightmares. “That there is a witch.”
Maggie felt the man tense. A preacher might condemn her as easily as those she’d called friend. Fearing he would turn on her, she released his arm and eased back a step, her bad limb protesting. Steeling herself to flee, she forced herself to remain upright. If they would just argue for another few moments, let her catch her breath, she might be able to run again. When his broad shoulders flexed with tiny tremors, her confidence collapsed. There was nowhere to go if the preacher—
The laughter started deep inside the man, rolling into the night air, rising in volume until it surrounded the mob, silencing their ugly accusations. Maggie breathed it in, wishing she could absorb the sound and the safety it conveyed.
“A witch? Truly? How did you come to that conclusion?”
“She’s been seen in the moonlight, doing things.”
“That’s nonsense.” Maggie nearly charged forward to face her accuser.
The preacher quieted Maggie with a glance. “What things?”
“Well, uh, like walking around at night when most God-fearin’ folks should be a-bed.”
“The way they are tonight?” he murmured to her softly, tempting her to smile in spite of the danger.
“She’s unnatural with animals, tames even the most cantankerous,” another accused.
“Yeah. She has a panther for a pet,” someone else agreed.
“And she’s been gathering plants and cookin’ them,” shouted another. “And chantin’ over them, besides.”
“I was singing!” Maggie felt like screaming at the fools. “It was a favorite tune of my father’s, to help him rest easier.”