Captivating Cole Read online

  Captivating Cole

  Big Sky Boys Book One

  Cheri Chaise

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events, businesses, institutions or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Cheri Chaise. All rights reserved.

  Woman on the Chaise Publications

  No part of this publication may be used, stored, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by copyright law. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Manufactured in the United States

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Other Works by Cheri

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  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Estella

  Every worthwhile and interesting tale contains various threads interwoven like a beautiful tapestry teeming with vibrant color. Sultry reds. Glistening blues. Luxuriant greens. Lustrous yellows.

  But even the loveliest works of art contain shadows – certain perceived evils that provide richness and depth. They add fullness to an otherwise flat and monotone existence.

  Such is life in all its mysteries.

  My story isn’t really all that different from most. Fleeting moments of heartache in the midst of incredible joy. Conflicts that many times had no solution. And yet, somehow things still turned out mutually beneficial for all.

  Plenty and want. Hardship and Deprivation. Love. Loss.

  Family.

  Now that I have opportunity to reconsider, such a claim is dependent upon your interpretation of the word different. My definition certainly transformed all those many years ago.

  And I have no regrets.

  Before judging my decisions as many others have, I only hope you will consider the circumstances I found myself in at the outset of my life-changing venture.

  The War Between the States was but a painful memory for those who had survived the conflict. The formal Reconstruction of the South had come and gone and a new century crept ever closer.

  All the while, the bloom fell off my rose.

  Not that I’d ever had much to offer where appearances were concerned. At least not according to my mother, God rest her soul. By the time I’d graduated to wearing a corset, she’d already spent many an hour fretting over the size of my waistline and increasing curves.

  From the moment of my birth, my life was all planned out for me, a concept not so uncommon in those days. As the eldest daughter of a wealthy Baltimore businessman turned politician, it was my duty to marry well and produce offspring. Male, preferably.

  It fell to me to continue my family line in order to perpetuate the cycle after the War had decimated the previous generations of the South’s supply of strong, virile men.

  Of which my intended was not.

  For years I tried to accept my fate toward the presumed betrothal. As children, the pompous and pampered buffoon tagged along with my sister and me on adventures and scavenges while on our family jaunts into the countryside.

  I played the part and demurely sat alongside Alan when my mother foisted him upon me at holiday gatherings even long before I was old enough for a proper coming out. At least she never had to listen to his incessant whining about this perceived slight or complaint about that irrelevant mishap, usually instigated by something he’d done.

  But upon the eve of my eighteenth, and with my mother’s influence no longer an issue since her passing, my father could no longer rebuff the pleadings of his favored daughter. I finally obtained the thrill of planning the first official ball held in my honor.

  It turned out to be not only my first.

  But my last.

  My fall was swift and public. My descent into disgrace made me a pariah among my peers. The promise of invitations, visitations, and innocent flirtations dried up overnight. My prospects for marriage grew less than dim.

  They disappeared completely

  I long ago accepted full responsibility for what I’d done when I learned of Alan’s plans for a public announcement of our presumed engagement during my ball. Looking back now, however, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  No matter how dark those chapters of my life became.

  During that difficult period I was merely a caterpillar cocooned in the chrysalis, impatiently waiting for my transformation into a beautiful butterfly.

  I couldn’t even begin to comprehend then that my rebellious indiscretion was the catalyst that thrust me into the greatest life I otherwise never would’ve known.

  ~~~

  Snow continued to fall outside the library’s window. Heavy wet flakes encased the early spring blossoms in a white shell as I watched from the window seat. My breath and body heat fogged the reflection of my wide-set blue eyes, pointy chin and ebony hair as I stared out into the cold, bleak world.

  A world from which I was effectively shut out – but not for much longer.

  I took a break from re-reading the letter that had fallen into my lap to tug the wrap tighter around my shoulders and blow on chilled fingers. My sad attempt to maintain a warm fire in the library fireplace winked its disapproval as the last flickers faded and died with a spit and a hiss.

  How I hated Washington DC. I could only but count the myriad ways. Dreary winters. Dismal summers. Deals under the table. Disingenuous smiles.

  Promises never kept. Supposed friends who never called on me. Parties I was not allowed to attend – not that anyone ever invited me these days.

  Father had moved my younger sister and me to the nation’s capital soon after he’d won his seat in the House of Representatives several years ago. I’d begged to stay home with the family servants since I was of age, but I suspected the move was less about finding my sister a suitable spouse and more about separating us from the scandalous cloud I’d created back home.

  But while my sister was primped and paraded in front of a variety of very eligible and powerful suitors, I was forced to merely observe from the sidelines. Excluded from the vibrant offerings of the growing city.

  But soon – heaven
s, I hoped it was soon – I’d be free from this imposed exile.

  No longer could I tolerate merely existing like a ghost caught between the veil. Neither alive nor dead. Trapped to haunt lonely rooms in a house that was nothing like a home. I wanted a life. Needed to break free. To live again before I shriveled up and died from utter loneliness and despair.

  And I finally had the means before me in which to do so.

  Plans were affixed in place like the miles and miles of rail lines soon to be put behind me. Passage was purchased. The last item I’d waited for was the question posed in his most recent letter. Or rather, not so much asked, but stated.

  A woman is a scarce commodity out here on the Montana prairie. A good one even more so. From your letters, it sounds like you’d be mighty capable of taking care of me and my three brothers.

  If you’re willing to make a go of it, I’ve arranged transportation by steamboat up the Missouri to coincide with the June rise and will meet you at Fort Union sometime during the final week of the month. If you will check the train schedules on your end, that will have you arriving in St. Louis according to the enclosed steamship itinerary, I’d be much obliged.

  Please advise of any expenses incurred on your end of this transaction, and I’ll telegraph repayment arrangements at earliest convenience.

  The scope of a marriage proposal had been reduced to a mere transaction, though in my case that had been true long before Cole Carston’s letter. I shouldn’t have expected much more than that after what had transpired with Alan Westford five years ago.

  That first, blessedly unspoken, betrothal had been more of a transaction as well – between parents in that instance. I never did learn how much my intended had been promised in exchange for my hand.

  Thankfully now I never would.

  But after my twenty-third birthday passed me by, I no longer held to the hope of marrying for something greater than financial or social status considerations. The girlish concepts of love and romance were a thing of the past.

  And it had become painfully obvious that I’d long overstayed my welcome where my father was concerned.

  His return each evening to the home he allowed me to occupy with him was my constant dread. The barely concealed looks of disgust and disappointment – if he even bothered to acknowledge my presence at all. Most nights he avoided me entirely and left the staff to oversee my virtual imprisonment.

  My cold finger tapped against my lips as Cole’s letter sent me descending deep into musing again over how it’d all played out back then.

  I’d never felt such desperation when my sister Abby had revealed Alan’s plans to spoil my night of frivolity five years ago with the announcement of a betrothal in front of a roomful of witnesses. Such a public declaration would seal my fate forever.

  By that time, I could no longer stomach a never-ending life of slobbery kisses and one-sided conversations culminating in clumsy grasps and forced attempts upon my virtue.

  Especially after experiencing how gloriously freeing it felt to willingly give said virtue away to someone else. Time after scandalous time.

  My lover had awakened my body to torturous delights. Shown me things I never thought possible as he ravished me to new heights of ecstasy. He’d even come up with the daring plan and convinced me of the necessity of ensuring we had an audience in order to send Alan packing.

  Permanently.

  The only regret I carried from that night was that the audience had included my father, entering the dark library right upon my passionate cry of sweet release. The fact that my lover and I were caught with his tongue buried between my thighs made it all the more scandalous.

  And the shame had followed me ever since, nipping at my heels like a rabid dog.

  Now after Cole’s cold, transactional offer, it was doubtful I’d ever experience such blissful release again. Instead of words extolling the love between a man and a woman, he seemed more interested in whether or not I possessed the abilities to cook, clean, sew and manage the laundry of four sweaty frontiersmen.

  Of course, I didn’t reveal that the closest I’d come to actually doing laundry was helping wash the family dog when I was ten. Or that most of my sewing consisted of needlepoint and the tapestry weaving I’d undertaken to distract me after the fall from my father’s good graces.

  Besides there was still three months for our cook to teach me the basics of country cuisine. It wasn’t as if I needed to learn how to stuff and roast a Christmas goose or prepare a fine dinner service for twenty. I was heading to Montana, of all places.

  And according to Cole’s letters, their favorite meal consisted of biscuits and gravy. Ham or chicken on occasion when it was available. It wouldn’t take Mrs. Barker but an hour or two to teach me how to prepare such simplicities.

  As his was the closest thing to a real marriage proposal I’d had since that disastrous night, I wasn’t about to let minor details stand in the way. I’d do whatever was required to avoid facing day upon endless day of my current fate.

  However, there was one subject I purposely chose not to skirt. I’d determined it was only fair that Cole have at least a modicum of the story behind my willingness to consider such a move from civilization to the savage Montana Territory.

  My confession seemed not to have affected my intended. Much to my surprise, Cole offered for me immediately after my indecent disclosure in a previous missive.

  He never mentioned my revelation after that letter. Never brought up my reasoning behind why I did such a thing to damage my prospects and alienate my family, to which I breathed a sigh of relief. The only reference he made was to my can do spirit, and how it would serve me well in the wild and untamed West.

  I tucked the dog-eared letter back into the weathered envelope and slid it into the keepsake cigar box with the others as I pondered the dutiful response concerning the transaction proposition I’d forwarded with my last batch of letters. God willing, Cole was in receipt of the bundle I’d dispatched before winter fully set in and busied finalizing plans for my arrival come the last week of June.

  They say that those married in June are blessed with prosperity and happiness. At this stage, I determined any man willing to take on me and my once headstrong ways offered the only chance left for a modicum of happiness. I couldn’t care less what he looked like or how comfortable the circumstances.

  Anyone had to appear more handsome and kiss better than Alan had. My indiscretion at least taught me that there were some things between a man and woman that were meant to be enjoyed.

  Even if Cole never decided to take advantage of them. Life offered few guarantees – except disappointment. There was always the chance he’d find me to be one of them.

  The room grew dusky with the approach of evening. I breathed on the window and drew a finger through the fog to sketch the imaginary image of the man who in a few months would become my husband.

  I hoped he was at least tolerable to look at and somewhat considerate in temperament. If he spoke as he wrote, we should get along fine in each other’s quiet company. After all, I’d learned to find some sort of contentment in solitude throughout the last several years. Appearances were no longer of high priority in our matrimonial transaction.

  The times I’d asked Cole to describe himself, he’d referenced things he enjoyed doing around his ranch. Food he enjoyed eating. How big the sky looked at night with all of the stars gleaming overhead.

  When pressed for a more personal description, he’d merely referred to himself and his brothers as simple men.

  No other statement he made throughout his life – written or spoken – had ever been more wrong.

  So completely and utterly wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Cole

  The wind howled across the Montana prairie, the heavy gray clouds threatening another blanketing of snow as my horse traversed the frozen riverbed. Buck made his way up the embankment, and I hunkered deeper into my coat to escape the blasting wind until the two-story log ho
use came into view.

  Home.

  Smoke curled from the chimney before the wind blustered it away. One of my brothers better the hell have started dinner already. At least have a pot of coffee brewing. I was in no mood to throw together another half-assed meal tonight after chasing those predators and living off of cold jerky for three days straight. If they weren’t prepared, I really would serve shit on a shingle this time.

  Literally.

  Buck tugged at the reins, in as much of a hurry as me to get warmth flowing through our blood again. The cold cut more deeply this winter, and I ached to feel four walls around me again with a blazing fire in the fireplace and a willing woman tucked into my side.

  At least two out of three awaited me when I got home tonight.

  “Y-haw,” I urged the buckskin with a nudge to his flanks.

  The first snowflakes showed up as I rounded the rear of the barn and made for the stables, dismounted stiffly, then led Buck toward his stall. I think we were both happy to escape the biting wind and smell the familiar scents of warm horseflesh and fresh hay.

  My beast nearly pranced like one of my brother’s trained show horses when I tossed the carcasses aside in a pile and lifted the saddle from his spine. I set to work rubbing down his dark cannons to unfreeze my stiff fingers while he munched away on some well-earned oats.

  “You’re gonna make him fat if you feed him too many grains.”

  I covered up my surprise at my brother’s silent entrance by giving him a glare from beneath Buck’s stomach and muscular girth. Bret had long ago perfected the art of soundless stalking, maybe something to do with the bit of Sioux running through his veins.

  The only comment my father had ever made to explain the differences between Bret’s darker looks and mine and my other two younger brothers’ fairer images was that our mother had a healthy appetite no one man could quench.

  It was years later before I understood his words had nothing to do with food.

  “After the last few days we had out there,” I responded, “I think Buck here has earned a little something extra special.”