A Chance at Love by Beverly Jenkins Read Free Book Online

was as mean as a winter on the plains and would challenge a bull if she got mad enough. Surprisingly, though, she seemed to love the girls. Dede especially. From the moment the girls came to live with Jake, Suzie seemed to sense their troubles and not once had she pecked them, chased them, or treated them as she did everyone else.
    As Jake walked over to the pens, he called out to his nieces, “Hey, you two. Do you want to go into town? Maybe get some jawbreakers and some new hair ribbons?”
    Their twin faces lit up with joy. “Yes!” they both squealed.
    He grinned. “Then go wash your hands, and we’ll get going.”
    As they ran past him to head for the pump, he picked up the pail of corn and tossed a few more handfuls to the hens. Suzie, evidently having had her fill, stood back and let her companions have the feed. Jake, noting her magnanimous gesture, bowed her way. “Thank you, your majesty.”
    Suzie responded by fixing him with a disdainful black-eyed stare.
    Smiling, Jake tossed out a few more hands of corn, then went to hitch up the wagon.
    One of the first things Jake learned about the girls when they came to live with him was that they loved to sing, especially on a trip in the wagon. Initially their repertoire had consisted of lullabies and silly children’s ditties like “Pop Goes the Weasel,” and “Jimmy Crack Corn.” Thanks to blacksmith Arthur Gibson, who was also the organist atthe church, the twins now sang “Amazing Grace,” “Home on the Range,” and “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
    They were singing that now, on their way into town, their heads thrown back, boisterously belting out the ringing refrain: “His truth is marching on.” Jake couldn’t contain his grin.
    When they were done, his heart was full as he looked into their shining, happy eyes. They’d come to mean a lot to him in the short time they’d been his, and if they wanted a mama—he’d get them one, come hell or high water.

Chapter 3
    A fter breakfast in Mrs. Boyd’s small dining room, Loreli, wearing a violet walking dress and a saucy matching that, strolled down the town’s main walk—destination, the general store. She was almost out of hand cream. Although she doubted a town of this size would carry the brand she favored, she hoped to find a reasonable substitute.
    Loreli received more than a few smiles and tips of the hat from the men she passed, and she smiled right back. She knew she was a good-looking woman, and admittedly enjoyed seeing that reflected in a man’s eyes. This being such a small town, she was certain most of the residents knew about her connection to the mail-order brides by now. The men’s smiles not withstanding, Loreli doubted their wives would be as welcoming. Local women took an immediate disliking to her. Most seemed threatened not only by her profession, coloring, and clothing but by her bold, independent approach to life. She remembered being run out of a small town outside of Reno by a bunch of Bible-pounding harridans who accused her of planting the seeds of the devil in the minds of the local women. It seemed only the devil would advocate women wanting to vote, a subject that had come up in passing during a card game she’d had with some of the town fathers. Apparently, one of the men had gone home and mentioned the conversation to his wife. By morning, the local correctness society had pounded on the door of her rented room, demanding she leave town. Because Loreli knew she couldn’t look to the law for help—sheriffs seldom intervened in such incidents—she packed up and took the next stage.
    Now, as she neared the store, she forgot all about those women. Her face brightened on seeing Zora Post, one of her bride friends from the wagon train, coming toward her on the walk.
    A gleeful Zora squealed, “Loreli!”
    As the two women embraced, the short,