High Desert Haven (The Shepherd's Heart) Read online

  High Desert Haven, THE SHEPHERD’S HEART SERIES, Book 2

  Copyright © 2012 by Lynnette Bonner. All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lynnette Bonner

  Cover images ©

  www.istockphoto.com, File: # 9303865 Cute Bride.

  www.fotolia.com, File: Bringing in the Herd, Jeanne Provost #2658808.

  www.bigstockphoto.com, File: Old Map of the US Pacific Northwest #5998922.

  www.flickr.com/photos/playingwithpsp/2573403882.

  Title-plate created with Photoshop Swirls by Obsidian Dawn, www.obsidiandawn.com.

  Author photo © Emily Hinderman, EMH Photography.

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1477586488

  High Desert Haven is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  TO MY PARENTS:

  DUANE AND SYLVIA STEWART

  A truer example of walking in God’s Grace and Mercy would be hard to find.

  AND TO MY SIBLINGS:

  BETHANY AND HERB,

  JON AND PATTI,

  MELISSA AND KEVIN

  I love you all and am so glad I can call you family twice—once through our own blood, and once through Christ’s.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, I owe much thanks to my English-teacher mother. I can honestly say I wouldn’t be here, writing this sentence, if it wasn’t for her encouragement along my writing journey.

  Lesley, my crit-partner-extraordinaire, thanks for all your input. I’m so thankful God brought you into my life. I truly appreciate you (even when I’m grumbling through a rewrite).

  Psalm 23

  A PSALM OF DAVID

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  He makes me to lie down in green pastures;

  He leads me beside the still waters.

  He restores my soul;

  He leads me in the paths of righteousness For His name’s sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;

  For You are with me;

  Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

  You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over.

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me All the days of my life;

  And I will dwell in the house of the Lord Forever.

  Prologue

  California

  July 1883

  As Dominique Noel Vasquez methodically scrubbed clothes in the tub of soapy water, she listened to the quiet, strained tones of her parents who sat against the shady side of the house.

  Scorching afternoon sun shone on the hard-packed, earth yard of the small adobe hut. Heat waves, radiating from every sun-baked surface, turned the landscape into a shimmering sepia blur. Dead brown land lay in every direction; the only hint of green life was the small scraggly plot of corn that would hopefully feed the family for the year to come. Even the wheat struggling to grow added to the dull brown vista. A solitary chicken, scratching for a meager meal, sent small puffs of dust filtering across the yard and a lonely cow, the children’s only source of milk, rested her head on top of her split-rail fence and let out a low bellow.

  In this heat everyone should have been down for a siesta, but on this day only the smallest children of the household were resting. Tension rode the heat waves.

  Dominique plunged harder and glared at the clothes. The creditors had come again this morning. Last year Papa had been forced to borrow money for seed, and now for the second season in a row the rains had failed them. There were no crops; they were down to their last chicken; the one cow’s milk was needed by the children; and the creditors were howling for their money like a pack of hungry wolves hot on the scent of lame prey.

  Nicki tossed an angry glance at the sky. “Lord, where are You when we need You?” Sweat trickled down her temple and she rubbed it roughly across one shoulder as she shook out a little skirt with more vigor than necessary and tossed it across the line. Gentle conviction washed over her. She was throwing a bigger temper tantrum than two-year-old Coreena did when Papa told her “No.”

  Nicki’s anger eased. “Forgive me, Lord. You alone know and care about our plight. But if there were anything I could do to help Mama and Papa, You know I would do it.” She paused in her prayer, thinking, then continued, “What is there to do, Lord? Show me what I can do to help.”

  Mama called across the yard, interrupting her prayer. “Nicki, you work too hard. Sit! Rest! We will finish the washing when it is cooler.”

  “Almost done, Mama. Then I will rest.”

  “That girl!” Mama turned to Papa but the rest of her words were drowned in a dry, hot breeze.

  Nicki smiled. Mama often castigated her for working too hard, but with twelve children, nine of whom were still at home to feed and clothe, Mama needed and appreciated all the help she could get.

  Silence reigned for a time. The only sounds filling the afternoon air were the soft swish, plunge, and gurgle of Nicki’s washing and the giggling of her two younger sisters splashing each other with cool water by the well. Nicki gave the last small shirt a snap and deftly flipped it onto the line where the laundry was drying. Dumping the soapy water in front of the door, which helped keep the dust down, Nicki hung the wooden bucket on its nail and moved to carefully empty the contents of the rinse bucket on the one small rosebush at the corner of the hut.

  “Girls, please!” Juanita Vasquez called from the shadow of the house to Rosa and Juna, who were getting a little wild and loud with their splashing game. “I have just gotten Manuel to sleep. Quiet!”

  This sent the girls into another gale of giggles. Their mother’s voice had been twice as loud as theirs. But when Papa tipped his sombrero back and glared at his two wayward offspring, the giggles ceased immediately.

  Nicki shook her head fondly at her sisters’ wayward ways and sank to the ground next to Mama, suppressing a groan of satisfaction as she leaned back against the cool adobe wall. She was tired. All morning she had helped Papa haul water from the well to carefully water their acre of wheat and corn. A large enough plot to hopefully get them through another year. Later they would repeat the process, because watering with buckets did not soak the ground like a good rain would, and the crops needed plenty of water if they were to produce well.

  Nicki closed her eyes, trying to ignore Mama and Papa’s furtive conversation.

  “The chicken, Carlos?”

  “Mama, the chicken will not bring in enough to get us through one day, much less pay the money we owe.”

  “Yes. You are right, of course, and it has stopped laying, so we don’t even have the eggs from it anymore.” Mama sighed. “Ahhh, maybe we should have chicken tonight, sí?”

  Papa sighed at Mama’s little joke. “We could sell the cow.”

  “Papa, she is the only milk for the children. I would like to keep her if we could.”

  Hot tears pressed the back of Nicki’s eyes, and she leaned back against the wall. What were they to do? Papa would be taken to jail if he didn’t come up with the money by next week, and then they would all die for sure. The creditors would take their meager crops to recoup as much of their money as they could. They wouldn’t care that they’d be leaving a woman and her nine children to starve to death. Where was Juan when th
ey needed him? Were he here, he’d think of some way to make the money they so desperately needed.

  A slight breeze rustled the dried grasses, and Nicki pulled her skirt up around her knees, not caring that Mama would chastise her for such an unladylike action. The small breath of fresh air was worth it. Reaching up, she brushed at the long wisps of black hair that had escaped her braid and rubbed the perspiration from her upper lip. She wanted a drink of water but felt almost too tired to get up and get it. Eventually the thought of the cold water won out. She shifted forward. Mama and Papa could surely use a drink as well. “Child, you don’t sit still for even a minute! What are you heading to do now?”

  “A drink, Mama,” Nicki said lovingly. “Would you like one as well?” She pushed herself up from the wall.

  Mama’s voice turned tender. “What would I do without you, child?”

  Nicki chuckled. She was hardly the child her mother kept insisting she was. At seventeen she more than carried her weight, but Mama didn’t like to see her children grow up. Nicki remembered Mama calling Roberto “my little man” on the day of his wedding! Those had been happier times, Nicki thought as she walked to the well. The rains had been good in those years, and debt had not hung over the little adobe hut and its occupants.

  As Nicki cranked the lever that would pull the bucket up from the depths of the well, she scanned the horizon and stiffened. “Papa.” Her tone held a soft warning. Someone was coming on the trail.

  Papa rose and stood by her side. Nicki pulled the bucket toward her, filling the dipper with cool water. If the creditors had come to take her papa away, he would go having just drunk his fill from the chilled water of his own well. She handed the dipper to her father. He drank, never taking his eyes off the rider heading their way, then handed the dipper back. Nicki filled it and moved toward her mother, who still sat in the shade, tears filling her eyes.

  “They said not until next week.” Mama’s words stabbed a knife of pain through Nicki’s heart. Whatever happened, Nicki knew Mama would die a slow death once Papa was taken. Not from starvation, but because the love of her life would be gone.

  Fierce determination filled Nicki as she marched with the empty dipper back toward the well. Tossing back a gulp of water, she wiped the droplets from her chin and pivoted to glare at the man coming into the yard.

  She froze. He was not the man who worked for the bank.

  “Howdy.” The man tipped back his dusty, black hat and smiled down at Carlos. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze flicked past Papa and came to rest on Nicki. Considerable interest flamed in their depths. He nodded to her, the smile now reaching his eyes, and touched the brim of his hat in a one-fingered salute. “Ma’am.” He ignored Papa and spoke directly to her. “I was thinking how nice a cool drink of water would be. I’d sure be appreciating it if I could light a spell.”

  Carlos stepped between Nicki and the newcomer, effectively blocking his view. “Draw fresh water, Dominique.” He stretched his hand toward the man, indicating he could dismount. “Welcome.”

  But Nicki could hear an edge in his voice. This man could mean trouble.

  “Obliged.” He nodded and swung from his saddle. The man was tall, had graying hair, steely blue eyes, and a wad of chewing tobacco stuffed in his cheek. He stretched his hand toward Carlos as Nicki pulled up a fresh bucket. “Name’s John Trent.”

  Papa took his hand. “Carlos Vasquez.”

  Mr. Trent studied her over the dipper as he drank his fill. Nicki averted her eyes but held the bucket for his next dipperful. She had received more than her share of such looks and knew what he was thinking. For although this man would say nothing to her in front of her father, the men down at the cantina showed no such qualms whenever Mama found it necessary to send her there. The thought of their suggestive remarks burned a blush across her cheeks. John Trent lifted the dipper again and raised his eyebrows in amusement.

  Papa made small talk about the long hot spell as Nicki pulled buckets of water from the well for the man’s horse, but Nicki didn’t miss the looks John Trent kept throwing her way.

  When he mounted up to ride out, Mama, still seated in the shade, gave an audible sigh. Nicki couldn’t deny she felt plenty relieved as well.

  Just as he arrived at the crest of the trail, the man paused, and Nicki stiffened. John Trent rubbed a hand across his face and said something to himself, then swung his horse once again toward their adobe. His eyes raked her more boldly this time as he pulled to a stop in their sun-baked yard.

  Leaning his arms casually on the horn of his saddle, he spat a stream of tobacco into the dust, turned toward Papa, and brazenly asked, “How much for the girl?”

  Nicki and Mama gasped in unison.

  The bucket in Nicki’s hands crashed to the ground, splashing water over her feet. Quickly she bent and picked it up. She spun on her heel and marched toward the well to return the bucket to its hook. The audacity!

  Papa spoke with authority. “The señorita is not for sale.”

  John Trent’s eyes scanned the small house and the scraggly field beyond, then traveled pointedly to seven of Nicki’s brothers and sisters who had gathered in a little clump to watch the goings-on. Then he stared into Papa’s face before spitting another stream of brown sludge. “I think everything’s for sale as long as the price is right.”

  “My daughter is not for sale, Señor. I have to ask you to leave us now.”

  Ignoring him, Trent reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a coin. He tossed it to the ground near Papa’s feet.

  A twenty dollar gold piece! Nicki had not seen Mama move, but the audible click of a cocking shotgun cracked into the afternoon stillness. All eyes turned toward the door of the house to see her there, the gun aimed squarely at John Trent’s chest.

  Nicki’s eyes dropped to the money on the ground. That little piece of gold could save Papa’s life. It would get him out of debt and even give them enough to start over somewhere. Remembering her earlier prayer, she started to step forward.

  But Papa beat her to it. Picking up the offensive gold, he threw it toward John Trent as if it were too hot to touch. “She is not for sale!”

  Trent deftly caught the coin, pulled two more pieces just like it from his pocket, and tossed all three on the ground. “I want that girl. Now I am trying to go about this in a civilized manner, but if I have to, I will take her by force.” He sat up straight and casually rested a hand on his thigh near his gun.

  Nicki felt dizzy from the sheer shock of this proposition. Her eyes flashed from Mama, bravely holding an unloaded gun on the man insulting her daughter, to Papa, stooping to pick up the offensive coins, to the hand of John Trent inching toward his holster. She surprised even herself by what happened next.

  “Papa, wait!” She stepped forward. Sixty dollars! “I will go with him.” Her hands trembled as she smoothed the material of her skirt.

  “Nicki, NO!” Mama screamed.

  “Mama, por favor! The money! You will be free from all this trouble! I will be all right. God, He will go with me, sí?”“

  Dominique, don’t do this.” Papa’s words were thick with restrained emotion. “We will work something out with the bank. You take too much on yourself for one so young.”

  “Papa.” Nicki wrapped her arms around his neck. “You are the one who taught me to be strong, sí? Take care of Mama and make Rosa help her now.” Nicki pulled back, gazing deeply into his dark eyes, so much like her own, and rested a hand on his stubbly cheek. “She would have died without you, Papa.”

  She spun toward her mother, throwing herself into her arms, before the threatening tears could overflow. “Mama, te amo!” The choked words were all she could squeeze past her constricting throat. Would she ever see her beloved mama again?

  Nicki hugged her brothers and sisters in turn, giving them each a piece of advice on how to be helpful to Mama and Papa, drying their tears with her skirt and promising she would see them again someday. Going into the ho
use, she ran her fingers across the baby-soft cheek of little Manuel, the only member of the household still sleeping through all the commotion.

  And then, head held high, she walked out into the searing sun and allowed herself to be pulled up onto the horse behind John Trent’s saddle.

  “Wait!” Mama ran toward her, carrying the family Bible. She pressed it into Nicki’s hands, making the sign of the cross and blessing her daughter one more time, as she had done every day since her birth.

  Nicki didn’t let her family see her cry, but as she rode away from the only home she had ever known, part of her felt like it died. She allowed herself the small luxury of quiet tears.

  They rode north for several days. Nicki was thankful that John Trent seemed to be a kind man. A justice of the peace married them in his dusty office in a small, one-street town that Nicki didn’t even know the name of. By evening, they were moving north again.

  They had been traveling for more than two weeks, making mostly dry camps at night, when Nicki heard her husband utter an oath of awe. It was mid-afternoon and Nicki, her forehead pressed into John’s back, was almost asleep when she heard his exclamation. Lifting her head, she blinked into the sunlight, almost unable to believe the sight before her.

  A lush valley stretched before them. A small creek meandered through its center, merging with the Deschutes River at one end. The Deschutes was normally inaccessible due to its steep canyon walls, but here the descent to the river was simply a long, smooth slope. Here and there a cluster of evergreen trees could be seen, but the verdant meadow was what had drawn John’s eye.

  It was like a vivid oasis dropped in the middle of the high-desert sagebrush they had been traveling through for the last week. The swaying grass was belly high to a good-sized horse.

  At that moment, Nicki knew she was looking at her new home. The valley was a rancher’s paradise, and John had talked of nothing else since their journey began. He wanted to become a rancher. A rich rancher. And this was where he would make his start.

  They made camp early, and Nicki sighed in satisfaction as she waded into the creek for her first bath in a week. She rolled her head from side to side, rubbing her neck, working out the kinks of knotted muscle.