Black Hills Bride Read online

  Books by Deb Kastner

  Love Inspired

  A Holiday Prayer #46

  Daddy’s Home #55

  Black Hills Bride #90

  The Forgiving Heart #113

  A Daddy at Heart #140

  A Perfect Match #164

  The Christmas Groom #195

  Undercover Blessings #284

  DEB KASTNER

  is the wife of a Reformed Episcopal minister, so it was natural for her to find her niche in the Christian/inspirational romance market. She enjoys tackling the issues of faith and trust within the context of a romance. Her characters range from upbeat and humorous to (her favorite) dark and brooding heroes. Her plots fall anywhere between, from a playful romp to the deeply emotional.

  When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband and three girls and, whenever she can manage, attending regional dinner theater and touring Broadway musicals.

  DEB KASTNER

  Black Hills Bride

  Published by Steeple Hill Books™

  STEEPLE HILL BOOKS

  ISBN 1-55254-343-9

  BLACK HILLS BRIDE

  Copyright © 2000 by Debra Kastner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Steeple Hill Books.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Steeple Hill Books, used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  www.SteepleHill.com

  And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small Voice.

  —I Kings 19:11–12

  To my mother, Ann Larkin,

  for all your love and support.

  And to the Last American Cowboy,

  my grandfather, Gifford McIntosh.

  Dear Reader,

  Writing Black Hills Bride brought a couple of “firsts” to my career. You know that old proverb about never saying never?

  First, I insisted to my writer friends that I would never write a cowboy hero. Then strong, silent Erik tipped his hat at my muse, and that was the beginning of my cowboy-hero novel!

  Also, my books to date have all been crisis-of-faith novels—Christians dealing with their trials and tribulations and growing in Christ through adversity.

  Erik was the first fictional character I’ve brought to a saving faith in Christ through the course of the novel. Rediscovering the awesome grace and mercy of Christ our Savior through Erik’s salvation has been a tremendous blessing to me, and I hope for you, as well.

  In Him,

  Contents

  About the Author

  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

  COMING NEXT MONTH

  Chapter One

  If it wasn’t heaven, it was certainly the next best thing. Dixie Sullivan’s dreams were coming true in Technicolor, and she loved every moment. Sunshine, South Dakota and a horse of her own.

  Okay, well, maybe not a horse. Not yet, anyway. But he was next on her list, and so far, her plans had gone without a hitch.

  She pulled a deep, pine-laced breath of the crisp spring air of early April and surveyed the property. The land was certainly everything she expected it to be—covered with brush and lodgepole pines, scattered with a variety of woodland wildflowers.

  Ever since her first vacation to South Dakota when she was thirteen, she knew she would some day return permanently and call South Dakota home. Buying a spread of woodland in Custer was just her first step, and a baby step at that.

  But nothing could daunt her today. She’d finally been able to step forward, putting the past behind her and looking head-on into her future. She’d even bought cowboy boots for the occasion, which, she thought, set off her indigo designer jeans nicely.

  She might have made a mistake on the one-and-a-half-inch heels, which made it difficult to stay vertical at times on this rough terrain. But these boots had looked so much better than the flat-heeled ones. She didn’t want to look like a cowpoke just because she was moving into the mountains.

  She smiled. This was God’s country, or at least it would be once she was done with it, she thought eagerly.

  The buildings could be in better shape. She scratched a notation on a steno pad as she walked toward a dilapidated barn. The sawed pine was old and cracking, and there were many gaps in the walls.

  Small house, large barn. And all of it falling apart. It looked very much like something built by a pioneer tending his first spread of land.

  Dixie laughed. She was a pioneer in her own right, though she doubted the pioneer who settled this place had a wife with enameled, inch-long fingernails. She was a new breed, that was for sure.

  She surveyed the notes she’d made and shook her head. A lot about this pioneer business was new to her. She’d have to learn by trial and error, she supposed. She hadn’t asked how old the buildings were, and now she wished she had. She’d been so focused on finding the right amount of land for sale exactly where she’d hoped, the details were a bit of a blur.

  You get what you pay for. And the land had come cheap. Miraculously so, especially when she offered to pay cash. God’s blessing here left her more of the church’s money for fixing the retreat up, making it look like the dream she and Abel Kincaid, her ex-fiancé, had carried in their hearts for so many years.

  Or at least she had. Abel had his own agenda, one that ultimately didn’t include her.

  Thoughts of Abel weren’t ever far from her mind, but she squared her shoulders and pushed them back. Now wasn’t the time. And she wouldn’t complain about the place needing a little elbow grease. Abel, a seasoned missionary, had prepared her for that contingency. She frowned and shoved the past to the back of her mind.

  She had work to do.

  It might take a bit more than elbow grease, though, she thought, running through figures in her head. Instead of renovating, she might have to start over and build from scratch.

  It could be done, she decided, and probably should be.

  Her guests would want modern facilities on the inside, however rustic-looking they might be on the outside. She doubted these buildings even had running water, a possibility confirmed by the presence of a pump outside the building designated as the main lodge.

&
nbsp; Her eyebrows creased as she made another mark on her notepad. The main lodge would definitely have to be rebuilt. But what about the stable? She walked over to the oversize doors and pulled.

  A loud crack was all the warning she got as the doors disintegrated into dust, raining a heap of splinters over her.

  Shouting in surprise, she covered her head with her forearms, which took the brunt of the attack. Sharp-edged pieces split her skin wide, while large, blunt wood bruised her to the bone.

  Shaken, she jumped back and put a palm to her chest to still her pumping heart. Her breathing came in short, audible gasps that scraped through her dry throat.

  She groaned and tried to move her arms. She remembered being in a fistfight as a teenager, but that hadn’t hurt this much. Several wounds were bleeding, but they weren’t deep, Dixie decided, offering up a silent prayer of thanks, glad Someone was watching over her. Her expensive Western shirt was ruined, but she reminded herself it could have been worse.

  Much worse.

  She wrapped her sore arms around herself to keep from shivering, though the day was warm. She could have been seriously injured, and she was alone on this ranch until she hired a foreman and a crew for the soon-to-be retreat lodge.

  “Oh, Abel,” she whispered, suddenly feeling very alone. And lonely. The past two years without Abel had been difficult. Not because she needed him—she’d never admit to that.

  Hadn’t she learned her lesson? She’d trusted Abel to be around when she needed him, and look where that got her. Certainly not South Dakota. She’d done that on her own.

  She was a survivor, and Abel abandoning her wasn’t enough to make her abandon the desire of her heart, the dream she nurtured and carried with her.

  She turned her mind back to her work, not allowing herself to cling to her loneliness. The first thing she needed was a good foreman, someone to work by her side. A man, because despite her resolution to do it all on her own, she knew she had her limitations where physical strength was concerned, being only five foot one and a hundred pounds soaking wet.

  She’d been asking around town, and the name Erik Wheeler cropped up more than once. She’d immediately started tracking him down to see if he was available for hire. At the moment he was her only real lead, and to say it was a warm lead would be exaggerating.

  He hadn’t returned her numerous phone calls, though she’d conscientiously kept her cell phone by her side. It frustrated her that she hadn’t heard a word. The least he could do was call and say “No, thank you” if he wasn’t interested.

  A group from her home church in Denver were her first scheduled guests, but that was three months down the road, and three months was a long time for a woman on her own.

  She’d have to be more careful moving around here until she knew just how safe—or unsafe—the place was. She surveyed her wounds, but didn’t see anything that demanded her immediate attention. She’d wash up at the well—if it worked.

  Sighing, she crouched down and poked a wary finger at what was left of the door, wondering if she could salvage any wood, even if it was just for kindling for a campfire.

  She’d never made a campfire before, but it didn’t look that difficult. She’d checked out scouting books from the library and had brushed up on the subject, along with a several hundred others she thought she might need in the wilderness.

  As she stooped to pick through the wood, the hair suddenly pricked up on the back of her neck, and her breath clinched in her throat. She had the most disturbing notion that she wasn’t alone, that someone’s eyes were on her back.

  She forced herself to breathe deeply a couple of times. Someone was watching her.

  God.

  And a whole legion of angels with Him, sent to protect her. She couldn’t see them, but her faith confirmed they were present. The Bible said so, and that was enough for her.

  God didn’t take days off, she reminded herself with a shaky laugh. The broken door had startled her, that was all it was. A pretty reasonable reaction, all things considered.

  But if she started letting her imagination run wild at this point, she was going to be in for a long, rocky ride. She might be alone for a couple more weeks yet, maybe longer, if the equivocal Mr. Wheeler stayed in hiding. There was nothing to be afraid of, as long as she was careful.

  God was here.

  With that reassuring thought firmly in place, she rose and dusted off her jeans, now more a dusty brown than indigo. She laughed quietly at herself.

  She could really be a goose sometimes. Where was her faith?

  She decided to check out the interior of the main house, reminding herself deprecatingly to keep an eye out for imploding doors. The thought made her laugh out loud at her own silliness. Whirling around to go the way she’d come, she plowed right into a man’s rock-hard chest.

  She would have fallen, but the man’s arms snaked protectively around her waist, gripping her firmly but gently. She had an impression of breadth and build, but little else, with her nose buried as it was in his blue flannel shirt, which smelled of sweat and horse.

  It was a very effective combination. Her heartbeat doubled.

  She muttered a rather ineffective exclamation, being muffled by fabric as it was. She twisted uncomfortably in the man’s grasp, unwilling to be held in so intimate a posture with a stranger.

  His large, roughened hands were uncannily gentle, giving her another kind of fluttery, unsettled feeling in her chest, one she was less familiar with than the fear of injury or pain.

  “Easy there,” she thought she heard him whisper in a soothing baritone, but she decided she was mistaken when she looked up into his granite-featured face.

  Piercing blue eyes, half-hidden by the brim of a black Stetson, met hers, and she nearly shivered at the lack of emotion in their depths. She’d seen stones with more life.

  His thin, masculine lips were pressed together, giving Dixie the impression he was annoyed with something or someone. Probably her. She straightened her shoulders and composed her features as best she could.

  “My name is Dixie Sullivan,” she offered, dusting her palm against her pitifully dirty jeans before offering him her hand.

  His glance dropped to her proffered hand, then rose back to her face. His expression didn’t change. Neither did his posture.

  After a moment, Dixie awkwardly withdrew her hand and stuffed it in her front pocket. The man made her nervous. Why didn’t he speak? And it was downright rude to ignore a friendly handshake.

  “I own this land?” she said as a question, leaving him to explain his presence here.

  Still, he didn’t move or speak. Dixie decided he was either a deaf-mute or the singularly most unfriendly, unpleasant man she’d ever met. He might be the best-looking cowboy she’d ever laid eyes on, but she fervently hoped he wasn’t a close neighbor, someone she might be forced to interact with from time to time.

  What an unpleasant thought! But why else would he be on her land?

  He could be a poacher, but he didn’t look like one, with scuffed black boots and a worn Stetson. He looked like a ranch hand.

  Of course, she didn’t know what a poacher looked like, but then, he wouldn’t have walked up to introduce himself if he was hunting on her land, would he?

  If introducing himself was, indeed, his intention.

  If it was, he wasn’t accomplishing his task with much success, she decided wryly. His continued silence put her on the defensive, making her more aware than ever that she was a woman on her own.

  Abel wouldn’t have had this problem. But then again, Abel wasn’t a woman faced with a disturbingly attractive intruder.

  She planted her hands on her hips and glared back at the cowboy. If he insisted on a staring match, he’d find her a worthy opponent. Though it would help if she could see his eyes better. He kept them well shaded under the brim of his hat, tucked away like whatever thoughts and feelings he possessed.

  “And you are?” she asked pointedly, not really expecting an
answer.

  He surprised her. He stepped forward and pulled his hat off his head by the crown, exposing a thatch of thick black hair. “Erik Wheeler.”

  This was Erik Wheeler? The perfect-man-for-the-foreman-position Erik Wheeler? Dixie stared, astonished, into the most startling blue eyes she’d ever seen, made even more distinct by the deeply tanned face with the color and consistency of saddle leather.

  She hadn’t expected Erik Wheeler to be young. Or ruggedly handsome, not that she noticed. Didn’t foremen have to be old men with paunches and a family of seven?

  Clearly she had much to learn, and not from television, either. Her only experience with cowboys was old Westerns a` la John Wayne, and she suspected that limited knowledge wouldn’t help her now. Erik Wheeler definitely didn’t look like the Western-movie type.

  He was every inch the real thing, from the tips of his scuffed boots to the top of his alluringly tousled hair.

  “I’m Dixie Sullivan,” she said, then realized she’d already introduced herself. Heat flared to her face, making her even more annoyed. She wished she could keep what she was thinking from her expression, but she was dismally inept at keeping a straight face.