Ricochet

By Fran Shaff

The Tender Mysteries Series of Inspirational American Historical Romance: After a flood annihilates a wagon train in 1888, eleven female survivors build a life in Hope, Nebraska.

RICOCHET, Book Five of the Tender Mysteries Series

The Countryside Outside Fremont, Nebraska

Was that a woman lying near the river?

Or just her clothes?

Emile shaded his eyes from the morning sun and leaned back in his saddle. Sitting astride his golden palomino, sixty yards from the Platte River, he saw a brown and white pinto grazing on lush summer grass not far from what looked like a woman's yellow dress lying near the river.

* * *

August, 1896. After searching for his father's killer for five years, Emile Hausman thinks he's finally found the thieving brute. Just when he's about to get justice, Bonnie enters his life.

She's hurt; she's alone...and she doesn't remember who she is.

Emile sets aside his need for justice, and, as he nurses the lovely Bonnie back to health, he falls deeply in love.

Emile and Bonnie are blissfully happy until horrific secrets from Bonnie's past throw them into a world so dark only true love can ensure their survival.

Reviewer Comments:

"Ms. Shaff is a gifted writer that always delivers in her stories." The Romance Studio

"Fran Shaff writes with depth and understanding and digs deep into the emotional lives of her characters bringing the reader with her all the way." A Romance Review

"Fran Shaff is a wonderful storyteller, and she knows how to pull her readers immediately into the world of her characters. I like this author's writing style, and it makes for a fast-paced and entertaining read." CataRomance

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fran Shaff
• Release date: Aug 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301139828

Fran Shaff

Just about all of us want to get away from the demands of everyday life from time to time. Unfortunately, most of us don’t have the luxury of being able to take off to some new, exciting place whenever we feel the urge--unless we like to read.A book can take us anywhere we’d like to go. For readers who enjoy living vicariously in pastimes or in modern times Fran Shaff provides a great escape in the more than twenty novels she’s published over the years. Fran’s fictional books have won awards from readers, reviewers and fellow authors, and her non-fiction has been acknowledged in this way too.Love is the main focus of all of Fran’s books, whether they’re contemporary or historical, serious or humorous, written for adults or teens. Love between men and women and among friends and families is featured in her books because there is nothing most of us want more than to love and be loved. Happy endings abound, but the journey to reaching that joyful final moment is always a rocky struggle, just the way we want our fiction (even though we could do without the drama in our real lives).Look for new, full-length historical romance novels from Fran Shaff in the ten-book “Tender Mysteries Series,” available now and debuting throughout 2013 and 2014. The first novel in the series “Resurrected” is available as a free download at most Internet bookstores. The series is available in single e-book and two-pack paperback formats.Reviewers say:“Ms. Shaff is a gifted writer that always delivers in her stories.” (The Romance Studio)“I have discovered a great new author in Fran Shaff. She writes with depth and understanding and digs deep into the emotional lives of her characters bringing the reader with her all the way.” (A Romance Review)“Fran Shaff is a wonderful writer whose prose speak with passion from her heart.” (Fallen Angel Reviews)“Ms. Shaff writes about characters that warm your heart and give you a good chuckle as well.” (Coffee Time Romance)

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RICOCHET

Book Five of the Tender Mysteries Series

By Fran Shaff

Inspirational Historical Romance

For Everyone Who Loves a Little Mystery in their Love Stories

Ricochet: Book Five of the Tender Mysteries Series By Fran Shaff

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Fran Shaff

Characters, names and incidents used in this story are products of the imagination of the author and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

Discover Fran Shaff books and short stories available in e-format, paperback and hardcover by visiting her website at: http://sites.google.com/site/fshaff

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Dedication

For the unsung heroic women who, over the last several hundred years, helped build the United States of America into a strong, caring country. Thank you for your dedication and sacrifice. And, as always, for JC.

RICOCHET

MOLLY’S PROLOGUE

The Longfellow Wagon Train Encampment on the Wishek River in Nebraska

The dawn of May 6, 1888 was shrouded in darkness. Black thunder clouds frightened early rays of light from the sky. Rain pelted trees, horses, and the Conestoga rigs in our encampment.

I, Molly McKee Longfellow, a red-headed, fair-skinned Irish woman, thirty-four years of age on that day, was in the Green family wagon which had been placed on high ground fifty yards from the Wishek River. Because Elizabeth and Liza Green, twelve and eleven-year-old angels, ailed with severe colds, their kind father Mitchell had parked the wagon away from the travelers camped near the river to avoid spreading their infections.

On that dreadful May morning, while I was soothing Liza’s forehead with a cool cloth, I heard screams filling the air. The deafening shrieks mingled with the roar of thunder and the stabbing strikes of the ominous rain against the stretched canvas above and around us. I moved deftly to the rear of the wagon and peered through an opening. When lightning flashed I saw figures of all sizes, some moving quickly, some paralyzed on their feet, almost all of them looking up river.

As I followed their gazes, a roar filled my ears, growing, growing, until it overtook the sickening sounds of the screams. Seconds later, lightning flashed, and I saw a flush of water descending down the Wishek. I estimated the giant wave to be twelve to fifteen feet high, though I learned much later others farther upstream believed it was only half that.

Whatever the height and breadth of the deadly liquid wall, the evil murderer took what it willed, its power seeming to equal the potency of the Almighty Himself.

Fathers, mothers, siblings struggled to fight the wrath of the river. I watched helplessly as some gave their lives to save others.

I wanted desperately to spring from my perch and find my three precious daughters, but my duties forbade me from doing so. I had two cherished charges who were too sick to help themselves if the water rose to the height of the wagon we occupied. I owed my allegiance to these girls and my trust to my husband who, I prayed, would take our daughters to safety.

Twice I threw up the coffee and biscuits I’d swallowed an hour earlier. The sight and sounds of all that transpired during my confinement in the wagon made me terribly sick.

An hour after I’d first peered into the storm from the back of the wagon, the rain softened and the sky brightened. It was then I realized the results of the river’s rampage.

We’d been a train of nine Conestoga wagons and six families, eleven parenting adults and eighteen children, some of age and some not. When we took an audit of survivors, as soon as the conditions allowed us to do so, I learned I was the only remaining adult, alone on the deluged prairie of eastern Nebraska with nine little girls ranging in age from eleven to fifteen years.

My dear husband James Robert Longfellow, a forty-five-year-old dark-haired, fair-skinned, handsome Englishman, who’d been with me since our wedding day on December 31, 1871 and all three of my baby girls, Mary Elizabeth, aged thirteen, Joanna, aged nine, and my beloved daughter Annie, aged eight, had been eaten alive by the furious flood.

A sadder, more horrifying day I had never known.

After the flood, we quickly located and buried as many bodies as we could find. Unfortunately, we didn’t find all of our loved ones. We did, however, encounter another child, a parentless, brown-skinned little Indian girl. We took her in and unanimously adopted her as one of our own. We called her Angie as we believed God sent the little angel to soothe us during our time of sorrow. I gave her my surname and my birthday, December 25. We estimated Angie’s age to be eight years at the time we found her, and we have kept her chronology of years according to that estimate ever since.

The nine child survivors whom I also adopted included the Willet girls, Deborah, aged fifteen, Susan, aged fourteen, and the twins Bonnie and Becky, aged eleven. Mary Phillips, who was fourteen at the time of the flood, and Amy McKittrick, who was fifteen, joined the Green sisters, Liza and Elizabeth, and Flossie Marquez, aged thirteen, as part of my new family.

Throughout the years since the flood, my ten espoused daughters have been a great blessing to me. They’ve given me the courage I’ve needed to provide them with home and hearth, with love and patience, with food and encouragement.

All of them have reached womanhood as I write this in the year 1900. I have earnestly beseeched God for one favor besides granting good health to all of my girls--I have asked often that each and every one of them find men who will cherish them and give them bountiful family lives. I have believed my girls would be able to find relief from the horrible suffering they’ve endured due to their familial losses only by creating progeny with dearly beloved husbands.

I’ve always had faith that nothing is impossible with God, but I have often wondered, would He hear me and answer my prayers according to my will, or did He have plans of His own which countered mine?

When it came to Bonnie, I was beginning to believe she would never marry. The girl had become a school teacher, and she seemed quite content in her job, as though she intended to remain engaged in it for the rest of her life. Even though she’d been teaching only two years, since just before she’d turned eighteen, she happily acted as though she’d been involved in the profession all of her life. It was so much a part of her it seemed to be an extension of her soul.

Her devotion to her studies in preparation for her profession and, to my disappointment, her subsequent dedication to her job left no time for Bonnie to find a beau.

Not that she saw that as a problem.

No, indeed, it was only I who was worried about her apparent commitment to the single life. I feared if the girl didn’t begin to do more than indulge in occasional male companionship at local dances and socials she’d never know the joys of being a mother and having a family of her own.

However, when in May, 1896 the dear girl was kidnapped, she experienced a horrible ordeal about which she never spoke once she was returned to us. She spent all of June and July removed from the rest of her family most of the time. No matter what the girls and I tried to do to cheer her up, Bonnie remained aloof and reserved, almost as though she were an unwelcome stranger in our loving household.

All of us were terribly distraught over her heartache, but, by the end of July, we’d come to realize the dear girl would have to find her own way of healing in her own time. I made certain she understood she could come to me or any one of her sisters whenever she was ready, and we would help her in any way we could to find the joy which had drained from her heart during her terrible ordeal.

I have no doubt she understood and accepted our love for her, yet all we had to offer her was not enough.

On Sunday morning, the second day of August in 1896, when Becky went to the room she shared with her twin sister to fetch her for church, she discovered Bonnie was gone. She’d left behind nothing of importance but a note which read, My selfish behavior of the last two months is more than I can bear. I will no longer inflict my bad mood upon anyone that I love. I’m leaving today, going away for as long as it takes for me to regain my good nature and my self respect. Please, don’t seek me out. I assure you I will return when I find the answers to my many questions. Love, Bonnie.

Becky broke into tears while she read me the note, and I…I had no idea how I would handle the horrible grief I was about to endure for, after having lost my three blood daughters in the flood, I had lost another daughter, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

Chapter One

The Countryside Outside of Fremont, Nebraska, August 4, 1896

Was that a woman lying near the river?

Or just her clothes?

Emile shaded his eyes from the morning sun and leaned back in his saddle. Sitting astride his golden palomino, sixty yards from the Platte River, he saw a brown and white pinto grazing on lush summer grass not far from what looked like a woman’s yellow dress lying near the river.

If someone was in trouble he should help, but, blast it all, he really needed to get to Fremont.

As he squinted against the summer sun, he took two minutes to mull over his dilemma--should he investigate or move on?

He paused then turned his horse toward Fremont and decided going into town was much more important than introducing himself to a stranger who was probably doing nothing more than fishing--or maybe she was bathing.

He covered about thirty yards before his Lutheran minister’s recent sermon popped into his mind.

Emile looked back toward the grazing horse and its female companion and muttered something nasty which he figured would likely shock Reverend Roberts if he’d heard him say it.

But he didn’t care. He was in no mood to be interrupted when he had important work to do.

Whether or not he wanted to be interrupted, however, the sermon Pastor Roberts had given continued to urge him to halt his journey to Fremont and see what was going on with the woman near the river.

Why had the reverend had to read and preach on the story of the Good Samaritan at last Sunday’s church service?

Sometimes being a Christian was damn tough, and being a good man was even tougher, but Emile had always wanted to emulate the beloved father he’d lost five years before when he was only sixteen years old.

And God had never made a finer man nor a better Christian than Joseph Hausman.

Within minutes Emile was at the riverbank. He dismounted quickly when he saw a woman was inside the yellow dress, face down in the mud, and she wasn’t moving.

He hunched down next to her and lifted her into his arms, turning her over so he could see her face.

Half of her sunburned complexion was caked with mud. Part of her long red hair was matted and dirty.

She was a tiny woman, maybe five one or two, and she was feather light in his arms. He was pretty sure she was fully matured, possibly several years beyond the age of eighteen.

Miss, he said, gently shaking her. Miss, wake up.

He spent the next three minutes trying to bring her around, but she refused to come to.

He stood up with her in his arms and walked to the patch of tall green broom grass where her horse was grazing. There, under the shade of a cottonwood tree, he laid her down.

He lithely moved to the beautiful pinto and went through the pack fastened to its saddle, looking for the woman’s identification. He felt like a marauder going through her female duds, but he believed his best course of action was to identify her and contact her people so they could fetch her and take her home.

Several minutes later all he knew was that her name was Bonnie--at least that was the name embroidered on her handkerchiefs--and that she seemed fond of blue and yellow, since most of her clothes which weren’t white were made up of shades of those colors.

The girl had either neglected to pack an adequate supply of food, or she’d eaten everything she’d brought with her except a few cups of flour.

He didn’t find any money among her cache of goods, but he figured she’d likely carry currency on her person as she could best protect it that way.

He went to her again, this time with one of her hankies and her canteen. He knelt down beside her, wet the hanky with water from her canteen and dabbed at her forehead and eyes.

Bonnie, wake up, he commanded.

She didn’t respond.

He dabbed her face again, called her name and, as before, saw no indication she was ready to be revived.

Growing impatient, he shoved her hanky into his pocket and poured water from the canteen into his hand. He dripped it on her face and wiped his hand over the caked mud.

He figured, perhaps the combination of trying to wake her and cleaning her up would finally bring her to full consciousness.

He poured a little more water on her face and cleaned her until all of the soil was removed.

The poor thing was tomato ripe with sunburn, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. It was imprudent of her to be in the August sun without a bonnet, but he couldn’t fault her for her lack of good sense now, not in her current condition. She was going to pay dearly for her indiscretion when she awoke and had to contend with a painful complexion.

She began to stir as he leaned over her.

He touched his hand to her forehead and noticed a bump when he brushed back a few strands of red hair.

Bonnie, he said, wake up, dear.

She moved again, and her eyes fluttered open.

The instant he gazed into her beautiful green eyes he gasped. Sunburned or not, her hair matted and dirty or not, this young woman was striking even though her lovely eyes were filled with trepidation.

Who are you? she asked, pulling away from him.

Before he could reply, she placed her hand over the bump he’d noticed. Ooh, my head hurts, she said, scrunching her eyes shut.

Did you fall from your horse? he asked.

She glanced at the nearby mount. I don’t know, she said, looking up at him.

Her brows crept together and the fear in her eyes intensified. I…I don’t remember…I…don’t…remember…anything. She looked around and sat up. "Where am I? Who am I?" she said in a panicked tone.

Shock coursed through him when she indicated she didn’t know who she was.

I beg your pardon, miss? he said, narrowing his gaze. Are you claiming you don’t know who you are?

She wiped her hands over her face. Do you know who I am? she asked desperately. Tell me who I am and why I’m here!

He pulled her hanky from his pocket. I wish I could help you, he said, gently, but I don’t know who you are or why you’re here. He handed her the hanky. I found this among your things, Miss Bonnie.

She took her hanky and stared at it. Bonnie, she said, fingering the word as she said it. Yes, she said, gazing at him, I’m Bonnie.

And your full name is?

It’s Bonnie…Bonnie… She suddenly moved away from him a few inches. I’m not…sure…what my last name is, she said anxiously. She slid her fingers through her matted hair. I should go, she said.

It would probably be best if you rested a while, Emile said. I don’t know just how long you’ve been unconscious or why you lost consciousness, though I suspect you must have hit your head, considering the size of the bump near your hairline. He stood up and handed her the canteen. Have some water.

She took a drink, fastened the lid on the canteen and said, I’d better go. She immediately tried to stand up and cried out in pain as she did so. Blast it! she said, sitting on the grass and setting the canteen aside, I seem to have injured my knee.

He hunched down next to her again. Would you like me to take a look at it?

She released a deep sigh and leaned back on her hands. I hate to be a bother, but I would appreciate your giving it a good looking over, if you wouldn’t mind.

He knelt close to her. I don’t mind. He reached for the hem of her full, pale yellow skirt and hiked it up so he could examine her knee.

He didn’t need to remove her long, white stocking to determine that the knee was swollen, and, when he gently touched it, she winced in pain.

He leaned back, took off his hat, the black bowler he wore with his dark suit, and laid it next to him. Miss Bonnie, I’m afraid you’ve injured your knee alright, he said, covering her leg with her dress again. Do you have pain anywhere besides your head and knee?

She leaned forward and moved her arms, back and feet. Only my head and knee hurt.

Is your memory of what happened coming back to you yet?

She shook her head.

Is your memory of who you are returning to you? he asked hopefully.

Her face seemed to get redder as she turned away from him and shook her head again.

Since she wasn’t willing to look him in the face when she responded to his last question, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was suffering from an amnesia of convenience. He hadn’t dismissed the possibility she was running away from someone or something and feigning a bout of memory loss to cover up who she was.

Or, perhaps, if she truly couldn’t remember who she was or where she was going, she might be too self-conscious to look him in the eye. Being the victim of true amnesia would have to be a terribly unsettling thing, Emile surmised.

She gazed at him again. You haven’t yet told me who you are, she said rather boldly. Are we…together? Do I….know you?

No, miss. As I mentioned when you came to, we don’t know each other, he said. I happened upon you just a few minutes ago on my way to Fremont from my family’s farm.

The questions she’d asked about their personal relationship made him think her memory loss might be genuine.

My name’s Emile Hausman. He glanced at her pinto. Do you think you’d be up to riding if I lifted you onto your horse? he asked, looking at her again.

I suppose, but… She gazed at her mount. I…have nowhere…to go.

His heart went out to her, but he really didn’t have time to take care of her. He really, really needed to get to Fremont.

Think hard, Miss Bonnie, he said urgently as he began to become impatient with her, where did you come from? Where were you headed?

Two tears rolled down her cheeks, and he felt like a monster for selfishly wanting to fulfill his need to go to Fremont more than he wanted to help this little lost lamb.

I am thinking, Mr. Hausman. She closed her eyes and rubbed the bump on her head.

He waited while she seemed to be trying to piece together answers to the questions he’d asked her.

It’s no use, she said, shaking her head as she opened her eyes and gazed at him. I can’t remember a thing.

He released his pent up frustration with a heavy sigh and put his hat back on his head. He bent and scooped Bonnie into his arms. I’ll take you home with me, he said, trying to keep the exasperation he was feeling out of his words. My mother and sisters will tend to your injuries.

I don’t want to be a bother to anyone, she said pitifully.

He carried her toward her mount. I assure you, you won’t be a bother. Perhaps in a day or two your memory will return and you’ll be able to get on with whatever you’d set out to do.

She sighed woefully.

I’ve seen people lose their memories twice before after a blow to the head, he said, and, in both cases, they were right as rain within a few days.

He’d actually seen such an event only once, but he exaggerated his experience hoping to encourage her.

The amnesia left them within a few days? Really? The bleak look in her lovely green eyes eased into a measure of hope.

I’m sure you’ll be fine quite soon, he said reassuringly.

You said you were on your way to Fremont from your farm, didn’t you? she asked. "Is Fremont a nearby town, or is it the name of one of your neighbors?

Fremont is a little city about eight miles from here.

She looked off into the distance. Perhaps you should take me there instead of taking me home with you.

I don’t think so, he said. We’re a mere two miles from our homestead. The less we have to travel, the easier it’ll be on you. Jostling you too much on a horse might worsen your injuries.

I suppose it might, she said, looking at him once more.

He lifted her into her saddle, and, to his great surprise, he felt an odd emptiness creep inside him as he relinquished his hold on her. He’d had to admit he’d been quite taken with her beauty, but he hadn’t expected that she’d already touched his heart.

Mother, Bethany and Lottie will enjoy having another woman in the house, he said as he helped her prepare to ride. We don’t get too many female visitors on our farm. He handed her the reins. Bethany is nineteen which I’m guessing is very close to your age, isn’t it?

She gave him a cautious look. If you say so. I…I’m not sure just how old I am. She tilted her head and gazed down at him. Do I look nineteen like Bethany?

You…ah, you look, yes, about Bethany’s age, he said. In fact, I’m sure you’re within a year or two of nineteen.

His heart was moved by the thoroughness of