Pleasance's First Love: A Six Brides for Six Gideons Novella (Book 3) (Grandma's Wedding Quilts 6)
Contents
Title Page
Book Description
Copyright
Dedication
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 Nineteen
Before You Go
Grandma's Wedding Quilts Series
A Little More About Each Title in Series
A Note From The Author
Books by Kristin Holt
About the Author
A Sweet Western Historical Romance Novel (Rated PG)
Grandma Wedding Quilts Series, Book 6
Also:
Six Brides For Six Gideons, Book 3
by
USA Today Bestselling Author
The books in this series are loosely connected and may be read in any order.
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A Sweet Western Historical Romance Novel (Rated PG)
Grandma Wedding Quilts Series, Book 6
&
Six Brides For Six Gideons, Book 3
Colorado, 1879
His worst mistake was letting her go.
His second-worst mistake? Bringing her home.
No one will ever know how badly Pleasance Benton's abandonment threw Jacob Gideon. He landed hard, hard enough he didn't care to find a replacement. Now that he needs a woman, he figures the safest way is to order one from a catalog.
Pleasance is back to reclaim her rightful place at Jacob's side. One way or another she'll remind him theirs is a match made in heaven...once the shock wears off. The teensy-weensy problem? Jacob doesn't know that she--his first love--is his catalog bride.
PLEASANCE'S FIRST LOVE is a sweet and wholesome western historical mail-order bride romance novella. This title is Book 6 in the multi-author series Grandma's Wedding Quilts, but is also Book 3 in the Six Brides for Six Gideons Series. Jacob Gideon is one of the six Gideon brothers separated when they were young, and as this is the first story in which the men make inroads toward finding each other, there is no need to read the other titles in this series first.
SIX BRIDES FOR SIX GIDEONS Series:
#1: Gideon's Secondhand Bride, by Kristin Holt (available now)
#2: Courting Miss Cartwright, by Kristin Holt (available now)
#3: Pleasance's First Love, by Kristin Holt (available now)
More to come!
GRANDMA’S WEDDING QUILTS Series:
#1: Grandma's Wedding Quilts: The Prequel, by Kate Cambridge: January 1
#2: Kizzie's Kisses, by Zina Abbott, January 9
#3: Jessie's Bargain, by Kay P. Dawson, January 10
#4: Meredith's Mistake, by Amelia C. Adams, January 11
#5: Monica's Mystery, by Kate Cambridge, January 12
#6: Pleasance's First Love, by Kristin Holt, January 13
#7: Zebulon's Bride, by Patricia PacJac Carroll, January 14
#8: Ione's Dilemma, by Linda Carroll-Bradd, January 16
#9: Josie's Dream, by Angela Raines, January 17
#10: Chase's Story, by P.A. Estelle, January 18
#11: Gloria's Song, by Kathryn Albright, January 19
#12: Tad's Treasure, by Shanna Hatfield, January 20
PLEASANCE’S FIRST LOVE: Copyright © 2017 Kristin Holt LC
www.KristinHolt.com
Kindle ISBN-10: 1-63438-029-0
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63438-029-4
Paperback ISBN-10: 1-63438-030-4
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63438-030-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
eBook and Paperback Cover designs © 2017 Shanna Hatfield.
eBook and Paperback interior design by Kristin Holt.
Editing by RVP The Man Editing.
To Robyn Echols, who writes historical novels under the pen name Zina Abbott.
Thank you for inviting me to participate with Sweet Americana Sweethearts, and for the brainstorm that became Grandma’s Wedding Quilts series.
Chapter One
1865
Fourteen years ago…
“Pleasance, my dear, come sit a while.” Grandma Mary worked her needle in and out of the fabric on her lap. Grandma’s hands, spotted and misshapen with age, were never idle.
Pleasance might be almost ten years old, but she would rather go outside. Not to play—playing was for children.
Jacob did not think her a child. Four years her senior, he fascinated her. He spoke of interesting things. He retired to the adjoining gardens behind his house and hers, each evening at dusk.
She’d rather spend an hour with him than just about anything. But Grandma Mary’s visits were special, so Pleasance hid her disappointment.
“Yes, Grandma.” Pleasance sat on the sofa at her grandma’s side.
The needle caught long rays of sunlight through the south window. Nine stitches per inch, Mama had said with pride. Grandma could work five tiny, perfect stitches onto her needle all at once. Would grandma try, again, to teach Pleasance to sew? She liked sewing about as much as she liked scrubbing floors.
“What are you making?” Triangles of brown, dark red, and cream-colored cotton came together to make rectangles. The corners lined up perfectly, like Mama’s. Pleasance had yet to make seams align with precision.
“Quilt blocks.”
“Oh.” Uninspiring. Like Grandma was in a hurry to make something up.
Usually, Grandma’s quilts took hours and hours and hours, just to piece one block. And a quilt needed lots and lots of blocks. Then the top would be put together with a plain back and a warm batt inside. The layers had to be quilted together to hold secure through use and washings. Sewing a binding onto the finished quilt’s edges took more hours still. The quilt on Pleasance’s bed had been a gift from Grandma.
“This quilt will be very special. It is for your wedding.”
Special? Pleasance fought to hide her distaste. Didn’t Grandma Mary know her at all? This quilt was ugly. Plain. Somber. Boring. The exact opposite of what she wanted: bright, fanciful, embroidered, and decorated. With baskets and flowers, many shades of lavender and pink and sky blue to match her eyes.
Not triangles and squares.
Besides, she wouldn’t get married for ages and ages, and by then, maybe Grandma would be forgetful and this awful quilt would never become her wedding present.
“This pattern is called Flying Geese.”
Geese were dumb birds. Pests. The only good goose was roasted goose for Chri
stmas dinner.
Pleasance always displayed polite manners. But good girls also told the truth. She had to tell Grandma the truth. “I’d hoped, Grandma, that you’d let me choose the design. Or maybe the colors?”
“I chose Flying Geese, granddaughter, because I love you very much.”
So why did Grandma make beautiful quilts for everyone else, and make an ugly quilt for Pleasance? Her throat felt raw and her nose burned. She wouldn’t cry. Only babies cried.
“You have a fanciful mind, Pleasance, with grand ideas and a desire to see and experience all the excitement the world has to offer.”
Yes, that was all true, but what did Grandma know? She didn’t live nearby.
Pleasance’s eyes filled. She sniffed. Don’t cry!
“A girl like you will need help to find your way back home.”
“But Grandma—”
“Hush now. I’ll tell you about this quilt pattern, chosen for you with great care, because you need to understand something. I know you have dreams. Big dreams. You want to learn to sing.”
Pleasance nodded with vigor, her throat still too tight to speak…or to sing. She loved singing more than anything in the world.
“You have the voice of an angel. I hope you have the privilege of training with a voice master in a big city. I hope you’ll perform in grand opera houses. Those dreams are many, many miles away.” Grandma used up the thread on her needle. She tied a knot and snipped the tail with little scissors. She threaded her needle and took up again. “Did you know geese migrate to the very same place each summer and each winter?”
One tear slipped over Pleasance’s lower lid. Did Grandma think she didn’t have the sense of a goose? “How can you worry about me finding my way home? Everybody knows where Denver is.”
“You’ll be getting the Flying Geese, dear. Do stop complaining.”
So unfair. “Yes, Grandmother.”
Leadville, Colorado
June 1879
Present Day
Jacob Gideon braved the streets of Leadville once a month at most. He often delegated the job to a hired hand, and must have done so a time or two, because the town had sprouted.
Hammers rang against nails. Wagons carried loads of lumber and bricks. Formerly vacant lots now sported structures of all kinds. Houses. Mercantiles. Another implement shop. A bootmaker. More saloons. A gunsmith. Another undertaker. Two new restaurants.
The summer breeze carried the smell of new wood, sawdust, and drying paint.
On Harrison Avenue, a three-story brick building stood where nothing had been—three months ago?—and bore a sign proudly announcing Tabor’s Opera House. Not open yet, but the workmen hefted crates inside. Must be finishing the interior.
Jacob didn’t like the idea of another opera house in town, but he did like the obvious sign of prosperity.
The silver strike had done more than bring men in by droves. The strike had stimulated commerce.
With all that silver and gold coming out of the mountains surrounding Leadville, the bankers must have loosened their purse-strings.
Jacob crossed the street. He skirted a puddle, avoided road apples, and barely missed being run down by a stagecoach, driven fast and hard. The team’s wild-eyed look enraged him more than the near-catastrophe.
The teamster ought to be strung up for handling valuable horseflesh like that—
He glared after the driver.
Not his horses, not his problem.
He shook off the incident, and checked his watch. Right on time. He squared his shoulders, stood a little straighter, and entered Bank of Leadville.
“Jacob Gideon,” he told the underweight fellow, dressed in a fine suit of clothes, his starched collar bright white in the comparative dimness of the marble-and-velvet lobby. Out of the sunlight, the bank’s high-ceiling and posh interior seemed a good ten degrees cooler.
And a whole lot more uptight.
“How may I be of service, Mr. Gideon?” The banker had a way of looking down his nose at Jacob, though he stood a good six inches shorter.
Yes, Jacob kept his appointment in denims, work boots, and a sturdy work-shirt. Instead of a bowler, a wide-brimmed Stetson. He brushed off the banker’s subtle disrespect. Anybody could see the man in his ten-dollar suit and Jacob in his dusty denims and know immediately which man worked for a living.
“Sandusky’s expecting me. I have an appointment.” Jacob pulled out his pocket watch, popped it open, turned the dial at the gatekeeper. “At two-o’clock. Right now.”
“This way, if you please?”
Jacob knew the way to the bank president’s inner sanctum. He’d tread this path twice before. Twice, they’d sent him away with a worthless list of things they wanted him to do.
You’re not married, Mr. Gideon, at your age? Married men are better risks.
Check. His mail-order bride was coming in on today’s train.
A proper home, Mr. Gideon, increases our trust in your determination to repay your mortgage.
Check. The Running G sported a brand-new frame house. A two-story upright-and-wing. Big enough to house his eventual family. Paid for, too. Down to the last dime.
Like a circus pony, he’d jumped through hoop after hoop to win their approval.
Now, he needed the loan the banker had implied would be forthcoming, to ensure the increase in his breeding stock. Right on schedule to begin a careful five-year plan. Already, the Running G had made a name for itself, producing the finest saddle horses anywhere west of Kentucky. All these incoming men, once they made their money in the boom, would want a good mount. Jacob already had a dozen buyers with cash in hand, but not a single horse to spare. He needed to increase his herd and do it fast.
The underfed bank employee knocked on the frosted glass-paneled door, with Mr. Lycurgus Sandusky’s name in two-inch high gold paint.
“Come.”
Jacob strode in, removed his hat, and offered Lycurgus Sandusky his hand.
The men shook, started with pleasantries, and eventually took their seats.
“We both know why I’m here.” Jacob held the banker’s eye without hesitation. “Your men have seen the house I built and have had time to look into my finances. You know I own it outright.”
“Indeed.”
“And my bride-to-be is arriving in Leadville presently.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations are in order.” Sandusky moved to the sideboard and poured two snifters of brandy, handing one to Jacob.
He rarely drank and saw no reason to do so today. He needed a clear head during this conference and at the train station. He needed to remain as sharp as possible. He nodded his thanks, but set the crystal glass on the end table.
“You’ll marry today?” the banker pressed.
“As quick as is reasonable.”
“Ah.”
What was one more week? Or two? “Tell me the board’s decision. Did you approve my loan?”
Sandusky sucked in a great draught of air through his teeth—a sound that importuned bad news.
“We are concerned. Understandably so, as this second mortgage is half again as large as the first. A large load of debt, for anyone but H.A.W. Tabor.”
Horace Tabor was a local storekeeper made good by grubstaking a couple silver miners who’d struck pay dirt. Now Tabor had more money than he knew what to do with, practically owned the town. Reference the Tabor Opera House in all her glory.
Jacob didn’t know Tabor, and didn’t need to. Nor did he need millions to understand the value of a dollar, or the security of land, bought and paid for.
They’d been through this. More than once. Nothing had changed.
If this short-term loan weren’t an essential stepping-stone, if he weren’t absolutely certain he could make the payments—
Sandusky tapped a closed tome on his desktop. The bank’s records. “I see your account has diminished substantially.”
Jacob fought the urge to clen
ch his fists. “I paid my bride’s train fare.” He’d also paid a hefty sum to a private investigator, but the banker didn’t need to know about that.
Either he’d approve the loan or he wouldn’t.
Leadville’s Miners Exchange Bank and Merchants and Mechanics Bank rejected his petition on grounds of qualification. He wasn’t a miner, merchant, or mechanic and they didn’t loan money to ranchers. Lake County Bank and First National Bank had turned him down, the financial climate such as it was.
Bank of Leadville was his last chance.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall window, dust motes dancing like snowfall.
“I own eight of the finest breeding mares. Inside three years, I’ll have a dozen quality horses, trained and ready to sell at top dollar.”
Sandusky leaned back. Several seconds slipped past in agonizing slowness. The man wasn’t going to make this easy.
“I own the house. Outright.”
“On property mortgaged to this bank.”
This time Jacob did the waiting. Anxiety curdled the dinner he’d eaten hours ago. The mortgage was for only fifty percent. He held steady under the banker’s glare. He hadn’t worked his way from hired hand to landowner without learning a thing or two. He and patience were well-acquainted.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Mr. Gideon.” Sandusky slid his chair back on its casters and rose. He pressed manicured fingertips to the polished desktop. Buffed fingernails, soft hands, and no idea what it took to start a successful ranch from nothing.
“You’re saying the answer is no.”
Sandusky had stuck those manicured fingers in every corner of Jacob’s life, poked around, asked questions he had no business asking, all to deny a simple loan.
“You’re not a good risk.”
In that moment, he might have been five years old again. Small for his age, desperate to survive, alone in the world. A marshal had found him foraging for food in a Denver alleyway and dropped him off at a poor farm. Conditions had been terrible, so he’d run away. Two weeks later, he’d been caught by the O’Kanes. Irish immigrants with hearts wider than the Colorado sky. They’d saved his life in every way imaginable.