A Place Called Harmony

Book 8: Harmony

by Jodi Thomas

Genres: Small Town & Rural; American Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas has captivated America with her novels set in the small town of Harmony, Texas. Now she tells the story of the three hard-luck men who first settled the town, a place where last chances and long-awaited dreams collide. Desperate to escape his overbearing father, Patrick McAllen disappears with his bride, heading north to build a new town-discovering strength, honor and true love along the way. After drinking away the grief from his family's death, Clint Truman avoids jail by taking a job in North Texas and settling down with a woman he vows to protect but never love-until her quiet compassion slowly breaks his hardened heart wide open. All Gillian Matheson has ever known is Army life, leaving his true love to be a part-time spouse. But when a wounded Gillian returns home to find her desperately fighting to save their marriage, he's determined to become the husband she deserves. Amidst storms, outlaws, and unwelcome relatives, the three couples band together to build a town-and form a bond that breathes life into the place that will forever be called Harmony.

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 320

Sample

***

Dear Readers,

I’ve been wanting to write this book since the day a place called Harmony came into my mind. Many of you have traveled this journey with me and grown to know and love the people of Harmony.

Now we’re going all the way back to the beginning, to the start of the town. For those of you who read the series, you’ll love knowing how it all started. For those who haven’t visited Harmony yet, you’ll be stepping into a community at the birth of not only a town, but of friendships that will last for lifetimes. If you enjoy this tale, you might just stay awhile and read the rest of my stories.

I’ve always loved historicals. For me, early heroes in Texas always walk off the pages and into my heart.

I think you’ll feel that way about Clint Truman, who believes he doesn’t have enough heart left to break; and Gillian Matheson, who has loved one woman since he first saw her; and, of course, Patrick McAllen, who is young enough to believe that love comes easy.

Many books I write take on a life of their own. In this one I felt like I was meeting these men and their wives, not making them up. Truman stepped onto the pages with a stubbornness that his descendants had in later books: Matheson’s strong need to protect and help others is deeply rooted, and Patrick’s laughter shows through in every scene in which he appears.

So climb into the covered wagon and come along with me to Texas. I promise, this story will keep you reading long into the night.

With love,

Jodi Thomas

Prologue

DEAD OF WINTER

Harmon Ely limped out of the trading post he’d built where two streams crossed in the panhandle of Texas. He’d suffered through a fire that burned his first building to the ground, two robberies, and a dozen winter storms that almost froze him out.

“It’s been a good ten years, Davy.” He grinned at the hairy yellow dog a few feet away.

The hound looked up at Harmon with sad eyes that called the old man a liar.

Harmon laughed. “I know you’re gonna be surprised, but I figure it’s about time we had a little company, and I don’t mean the beef herders and saddle tramps I usually see. I want families, kids playing around the place, and a town growing up on all this land I bought after the war.”

The old mutt named after Davy Crockett still didn’t look interested.

Harmon lifted a board as high as he could and hammered it up on the front of his store like it was a picture. “I’ve been thinking. We’ll need a lawman, and someone who knows a thing or two about building a town, and a carpenter to carry it all out. I wouldn’t mind having a few cooks and kids and throw in a schoolmarm to teach them what’s right and a preacher to make them feel guilty if they don’t follow along.”

Davy spread out like a rug on the slice of sun-warmed porch.

Harmon lifted a can of paint. Slowly, he wrote Population across the top of the sign. “I don’t care how long it takes, I’m gonna have me a town.”

In the middle of the sign, he painted a big number 1. Then down at the bottom he added in smaller letters, and one dog.

“A town,” he said to himself, since Davy was snoring, “that even my family would want to come to. A nice place where folks will pass by and say, ‘There’s old Harmon Ely’s town.’”

Chapter 1

FEBRUARY
HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS

Clint Truman hit the floor so hard his teeth rattled, but, as always, he didn’t have the sense to stay down. He came up swinging, ready for another round.

The next hard blow from the miner he’d decided to fight sent him flying through the saloon’s swinging doors and into the muddy street. He slid several feet, picking up horse shit along with the mud as he dug up the road. Then he just lay still, letting the rain beat on him for a while.

When he tried to straighten, a heavy boot landed on his chest, holding him down like a boulder. Clint stared up, but the rain and clouds offered him only a shadow of the man above him. A wide shadow.

“Evening, Truman.” Sheriff Lightstone’s voice matched his three hundred pound body: big and frightening. “You drunk enough to listen to me now?”

“Soon as I finish the fight, Sheriff,” Clint promised.

“The fight’s over.” Lightstone lifted the gun belt that circled his ample waist. “We need to talk, Truman, before you kill someone and I have to arrest you. Now, we can do it here with you in the mud, or we can do it with you behind bars, but we’re going to have a talk.”

“Hell,” Clint said, hating both choices. “How about you buy me a cup of coffee before you get into telling me how to live my life?”

“Fair enough, but clean up first. Between the blood and the mud, there ain’t an inch of you left unaffected. I’m tired of standing in this drizzle anyway. You’ve got ten minutes to meet me at Maggie’s. If you don’t pass her inspection to get in, I’m putting you in jail and letting you dry out until the mud flakes off and the bleeding scabs over.”

Clint stood and watched the sheriff head toward the only café willing to serve drunks in Huntsville, Texas. He hated being bossed around, and he wasn’t trying to kill himself by fighting. He just had a ton of anger built up in him and needed to get it out. In a town like Huntsville someone was always looking for a good fight.

Walking over to the horse trough, he dunked his head in and shook, guessing the horses wouldn’t appreciate him bloodying the water. He pulled the plug at the bottom of the trough and let water run out into the river already flowing in the street.

Thunder rumbled and the sky dumped buckets down on him. Clint turned his head up and took the full blast. “Give it your best shot!” he yelled, waiting for the lightning. Life couldn’t get any more painful. He probably wouldn’t feel a direct hit.

A kid of about ten ran past him, bumping into his outstretched arm. “Sorry, mister,” he shouted over the storm. “Didn’t you notice it’s raining?”

“Hell,” Clint answered. “It’s been raining all my life.”

He replaced the plug in the trough, then walked to a bench outside the saloon and lifted his saddlebags from where he’d left them three hours and several drinks ago. He might not have the sense to come out of the rain, but at least he’d left his horse in the barn.

Reluctantly, Clint headed to the back door of Maggie’s place. Once inside the mudroom, he stripped off his shirt and dried with a towel the owner tossed him.

Maggie watched from the doorway of the kitchen as he cleaned up. “You’re one hunk of a man, Clint Truman. If you ever gave up fighting and turned to loving, you’d make some woman very happy.” Her inspection wasn’t shy. “That scar running across your hand, or the one on your jaw, don’t take nothing away from that perfect body. Broad shoulders, slim waist and . . .” She grinned. “Wouldn’t mind if you turned around so I could finish my description.”

He growled at her.

Maggie held up her hands and tried her best to look innocent. “Just making notes to pass along to some woman looking for a new lover.”

“There’s no more loving left in me, Maggie.” He said the words as if he were swearing. “You mind turning around while I change my pants?”

“Not a chance. An old widow like me don’t get to see a full-grown man strip but a few times, and I’m not missing this opportunity. My first husband used to wash in the creek and come back to the house naked, but he was so hairy I thought he was a bear heading my way half the time.”

“You got anything to drink, Maggie?”

“Sure.” She stepped away and he exchanged soaked trousers for damp ones from his bag.

When she returned she handed him a cup of coffee, and he frowned.

“Trust me, honey, you need this. That bull of a sheriff is out front waiting and he don’t look happy.”

Clint downed half of the hot liquid that tasted more like the mud outside than coffee. He’d known this talk with the sheriff was coming, so he might as well get it over with.

Thanking Maggie for the towel and the coffee, Clint stepped through the kitchen door to the café. Sure enough, Lightstone sat by the window staring out at his town.

Clint took the seat across from him without saying a word.

“You eat today?” the sheriff asked.

“I’m not a kid. I don’t need mothering,” Clint snapped. At thirty he’d about decided he didn’t need anything from anyone.

“You ever wear anything but black?”

“No. Why the hell do you care?” Clint needed a drink. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to go well.

The sheriff ignored his comment. “I heard you fought with Terry’s Texas Rangers during the war. Some say you were a crack shot. Maybe even the best in the South.”

“Some talk too much. Most of what I shot was game for dinner. I don’t want to talk about the war. Wasted years. We lost, you know. The whole damn country lost.”

“I know how you feel. I thought I was fighting for Texas. For rights, then found out later it was all about slavery. By then, it was too late and I was mostly just fighting to stay alive.” He stared down at his cup as if looking for the answer. “What’d you do when you got home?”

“I drifted for a while, trying to shake ghosts following me. My folks kept a little farm going during the war, so I finally settled there. I helped them out for a few years until they passed on. Then, I thought I’d marry and start a family.” Clint didn’t go on. He couldn’t. The memory of his two little girls crying still haunted his dreams.

Lightstone waited for a while then added, “I know enough to fill in the details, Truman. I heard your wife and daughters died a few years ago of the fever. Folks say you burned the house and the barns the morning after you buried them.”

Clint didn’t comment. He felt like his whole life was simply acts in a play, and some days he didn’t want to step on the stage. Sometimes he thought the ache to feel his wife, Mary, by his side would collapse his chest, or the need to run his hand over one of his daughters’ curly hair would almost take him to his knees. They were gone so fast, like his parents and all the boys he’d joined up with to go to war. Some nights, in his nightmares, he felt like a time traveler going back to them all. They’d smile at him and wave, then curl up and die like dried leaves caught in a campfire.

Clint took a long drink of his coffee and waited for the sheriff’s lecture. He’d heard it before: different people, different towns. If he had enough caring left in him to change, he would try one more time, but he no longer saw the point.

“Truman,” the sheriff began. “I need your help with a matter.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected the sheriff would want a favor. Lightstone was only passable nice to him on a good day, and the huge man had very few of them in a town like Huntsville.

“Now, hear me out before you decide. Promise. This is me asking for something, not me telling you what to do. You make up your own mind.”

“All right. I’ll hear you out,” Clint answered. He didn’t plan to walk back over to the saloon until the rain let up anyway. He had no other clothes to change into.

Lightstone leaned back. “I got a friend I fought with during the war who wants to build a town. He’s been running a trading post up in the wild part of Texas where the Indian Wars have been going on for ten years. He makes good money, thanks to the cattle drives coming through and crazy settlers who wanted to move that far north, but he wants more. He wants to have a community. He says his wife refused to go with him because that part of the state is too wild. Thanks to Colonel McKenzie and a new fort moving in, it may be settling down.”

“How does this affect me?”

“My friend is a good businessman, but the war left him crippled up. He’s been robbed several times, and once they shot him and left him for dead. If he’s going to do this, he’ll need someone good with a gun working for him. I’ve heard, even if you don’t usually wear a gun belt, that there is no better shot in the state.”

“I’m not a hired gun, Sheriff. Not interested.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be that. He’s offering every man who comes to work for him forty acres and a house to live in. If you stay two years, he’ll deed the place over to you. He’ll pay a fair wage and you help him build the town. A real town where folks can walk the streets without worrying about being robbed or shot.”

Clint was low on money and knew he’d have to look for a job soon, but he never planned to settle anywhere again. He might get attached to folks if he did that, and he never, ever planned to let that happen again. Signing on to be his friend or loved one was a death warrant.

“You’d be hauling supplies and running cattle and who knows what else, but you’d also carry a gun. You’d be protecting hardworking folks and running off those who are looking for trouble. This time you’d be fighting to keep people alive. That part of Texas has very little law of any kind. Trouble will ride in at full gallop more than once over two years, I’m guessing. You’ll earn that house and land.”

Lightstone leaned halfway across the table and yelled for Maggie to bring them a couple of meals. He didn’t have to say more; she only served one choice a day.

She yelled that he needed to stop yelling at her.

The sheriff smiled. “I’d marry that woman if she’d have me, but she says four husbands were enough.”

Clint didn’t want to picture the two in bed, but the image came all the same. Both were built wide and thick. Maggie told him once that she was simply big-boned. Proof of dinosaurs, he remembered thinking at the time. If she and the sheriff ever did get together and make love, they’d shake the house.

Lightstone drew him back to the conversation. “What have you got to lose? The trip north, even if you decided not to stay, would do you good.”

“All right. I’ll go.” Clint had nothing else to do anyway. He could be packed in an hour. “But I make no promises that I’ll stay two years.”

The sheriff nodded as if they’d made a bargain. “Oh, I forgot, you have to take one thing with you.”

“What’s that?” He was thinking maybe his own horse, or rifle.

The sheriff smiled and added, “A wife.”

Chapter 2

HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS

Clint Truman finally sobered up enough to realize just how crazy the sheriff’s plan was. He didn’t mind traveling across the state to look for work, but picking a wife from the women being released from prison tonight was loco.

Yet somehow, here he was standing next to a mountain of a lawman waiting for the prison gates to open.

Sheriff Lightstone stood close, probably making sure he didn’t run. The night seemed smoky with low clouds, and so much moisture lingered in the air Clint could feel it on his face.

“Now it’s not that hard, Clint. I’ve seen fellows do this before. Last month a man I’ve known for years met a little pickpocket outside these gates. He never had much luck with women, but they talked all night, then at dawn woke up a preacher. She had to pay, of course. Somehow my old friend couldn’t find his money.”

Clint didn’t laugh. He had no idea if the sheriff was telling the truth or making a joke.

“Way I see it,” Lightstone continued, “marrying you will look better to a woman on her own than her taking the only other choice.” He pointed with his head at a wagon pulling up twenty yards away. “If no one picks them up, that guy, who goes by Harden, offers them employment at a whorehouse down near Houston. He makes regular runs picking up women leaving prison. Once they step in that wagon there’s no going back to a regular kind of life.”

Clint looked at the two women waiting in the back of the wagon as the sheriff continued, “He bailed them two soiled doves out an hour ago from county jail. One knifed a guy. They kept her in jail until they were sure her customer wasn’t going to die. The other lady of the evening stole money from a patron at Harden’s place. She looked fine when Harden picked her up, but judging from the bruises on her face he made her sorry she caused him trouble. Women leaving prison and climbing in that wagon know exactly where they’re going.”

As Clint stared, the one with a black eye lowered her head. Neither woman looked to be eighteen, but both were worn down by life. He doubted either would make it to thirty.

Several other people waited around the gate, looking more like mourners than greeters. One man sat on a bench playing with his knife, striking it again and again into the corner of the bench. Clint noticed an old couple and a kid of about sixteen close to the locked door.

The gate rattled and a guard stepped out.

“Might not be many tonight,” Lightstone whispered. “Sometimes there is trouble in the prison and they don’t let out many. Used to let them out in the morning, but too many people complained about them walking the streets. County gives each enough money to take the stage out of town, but some spend it on drinks the first few hours they’re out.” He frowned. “I was kind of expecting one woman to be released tonight. She’d be worth considering even if we have to come back next week.”

Clint had already decided that he wouldn’t be coming again. This idea was far too crazy to repeat. Once the sheriff saw there was no wife material here, he’d drop the plan.

“This is a bad idea. Getting married because the job description says to bring a wife just doesn’t seem right,” Clint mumbled to himself, guessing the sheriff wouldn’t be listening. “How do I know one of these women hasn’t killed someone, like maybe her first husband?”

“I doubt any have done more than they had to, or more than any one of us did during the war. Toward the end we all stole to eat and killed to stay alive. I’m guessing they did the same.”

Clint didn’t argue, but picking a wife this way seemed like scraping the bottom of the barrel. He looked down at his worn boots and decided he was already at the bottom. Half the townspeople thought of him as a drunk, and the other half felt sorry for him and offered to buy him a drink. If he married an ex-con, some would say he was marrying up.

The first woman out of the gate ran toward an old couple standing as close as the guard would allow. All three hugged and cried. No matter what she’d done, she obviously was still their baby.

The next two walked out together, yelling for Harden to pull the wagon closer and take them home. One of the women winked at Clint as she walked by. “Come on by tonight, honey. I’m offering rides for half price to celebrate.”

Clint stared at their flimsy clothes. They were dressed for work already in ragged lace and see-through silk.

Lightstone filled him in on facts. “The women can wear what they were arrested in home, or the prison gives them one of the dresses they wore in prison. Most have worn that outfit for far too long already, so if they have anything else they change out of prison clothes.”

A middle-aged woman came out in what had to be the uniform she’d worn in prison: a tattered apron over a gray dress with a plain collar. A shawl made with little skill was tied around her shoulders but looked like it would offer no shelter from the rain.

The man with the knife stood and waited as she walked to him. “’Bout time,” was all he said as they turned and walked into the night.

Clint thought if he ever wanted a lower level of melancholy than he had every day, he’d come back and watch this scene again.

The last woman out was tall and dressed in a gray traveling suit that appeared finely tailored, but it was wrinkled. She looked almost a proper lady, but her clothes seemed a few sizes too big and her shoes were dilapidated and scuffed beyond repair. She held a bundle in her arms and another slung over her shoulder.

Clint glanced at a kid by the gate, thinking maybe he was meeting her, but he just shrugged and walked away. She obviously wasn’t someone he was looking for.

The woman raised her head to glance around, but her eyes were dull as if she had little hope. Her hair was too short to pull back and hung down, dark and lifeless, across part of her face. Anyone seeing her would guess she’d been ill. Prison thin. Moonlight pale.

Harden whistled and signaled that she could join him in the wagon, but the thin woman shook her head.

The guard shooed her along. “There’s a hotel down the road that’ll let you sleep there if you give them a day’s work come morning. They don’t take in most of the women who get out of here, but I’m guessing they’ll take you, Miss Karrisa. You tell them Sam said you paid your dues.”

“Thank you,” the woman in gray said, pulling the bundle she carried in her arms closer as if sheltering it from the rain.

Clint found himself staring and wondering what she’d done to end up in prison. She couldn’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. Her movements were slow, as if she were testing every step like an old woman on uneven ground. Maybe she’d been hurt or sick, or beaten.

Surely no one beat her on her last day of prison.

The thought turned his stomach.

Lightstone took one step in her direction and she moved away. “Miss,” he said too loud, then lowered his voice. “I’m the sheriff over in Huntsville and will be happy to give you a ride to the little hotel the guard mentioned. You’ll be safe with me, and I promise you’ll be safe there for the night.”

She looked up and Clint saw that she didn’t believe Lightstone. How many people must have lied to her, Clint wondered. Frightened round eyes set into dark circles looked his direction for only a moment.

“I might have a job for you if you’re interested,” the sheriff rushed on. “I could tell you about it and then you could pick which one you wanted: hotel work or my choice.”

Clint saw it then, pure fear so deep she couldn’t speak. He thought he was beyond feeling sorry for anyone but himself, only right now in the moon’s watery glow, he felt sorry for her. She had no one and nowhere to go. If one person had cared whether she lived or died, he would have met her here tonight.

Harden’s wagon rolled past. “You can have her, Sheriff; she’s too thin to satisfy a man. I’d lose money on her keep and that baby will be yelling, waking folks up.”

Clint saw the bundle move and realized what she carried out of the prison: a baby so small it had to be a newborn.

The guard closed the gate but turned to stare through the bars. “If the sheriff says he has a job, he probably does. I’ve never known the man to lie.”

The woman he’d called Karrisa took a step toward Lightstone. “I’d appreciate the ride, Sheriff, but I don’t know about the job.”

“Fair enough.”

Lightstone walked around the wagon while Clint followed the woman. When they reached the side of the wagon he offered to help her up, but she stepped back, out of reach.

As she climbed onto the bench, he again noticed her slow measured movements as if she were in pain.

Without asking, he tugged the bag from her back and tossed it in the wagon.

She raised her thin fingers from the bundle she carried in a slight wave of thanks to the guard. If she’d been mistreated in prison, it hadn’t been by him. The guard looked hard as stone, but he’d shown her a bit of respect.

Clint also nodded at the guard and climbed in the back of the wagon. She stared at him as if she feared he might be a wild animal, then slowly settled on the bench. Without a word, he draped his duster over her shoulders, shielding both her and the baby from the rain.

The ride into town was silent. The hotel would have been a long walk on this dark, rainy night. Clint tried not to stare at her sitting as still as stone next to the sheriff. For the first time since his family died, he thought of someone else. Karrisa.

Maybe she was a murderer, or a bank robber. Women were usually given far more leniency than men, so whatever she did, she must not have served long. Their prison was small and crowded. Some said it was more like a workhouse with guards. Like the men in prisons, the women grew their own food, made their clothes, and took care of stock. If the crop was poor, they ate little. If the crops were good, some was sold off to offset expenses. Life was hard everywhere in Texas, but it must have been near hell in prison.

The hotel, at the edge of town, wasn’t much. It looked like it had been an old stagecoach station and catered to mostly prison visitors or lawmen delivering new inmates or maybe travelers looking for a cheap place to stay. Clint would have passed it by and slept out under a tree, even on a night like this. Putting up with damp ground would be better than fighting bedbugs.

Sheriff Lightstone yelled, “Hello the inn,” as they neared.

An old man stepped to the doorway but didn’t call back a greeting. He had an apron tied around his waist and a shotgun lowered to the side of his leg.

“You got a meal for travelers, innkeeper?”

“We got stew, Sheriff. What you doing this far from your office?”

“Just came to eat your cooking. Hope that wife of yours made pie. Her buttermilk pie is worth the stop even on a night like this. I’ll buy three bowls of soup if you still got it warming.”

The old man moved inside with a nod. Like most folks since the war, they’d learned not to be too friendly.

Clint jumped out of the wagon and offered Miss Karrisa help down, but she didn’t take it.

When she turned to reach for her bundle, he grabbed it first. “I’ll carry it in for you, miss.”

She turned away without arguing, as if the bag were of little value to her.

They moved into a dark cavern of a dining area. Long, poorly made tables ran the center of the room. Clint removed his wet coat from her shoulders, and without a word she sat down close to the fire.

Again Clint couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. How long had it been since she’d stood close to a warm fire or had enough energy to care about anything?

The baby made a little sound and Clint remembered when he’d held his own daughters just after they’d been born. Probably as close to heaven as he’d ever get, he thought. That one moment, that first moment.

No one spoke until the innkeeper rattled into the room with a tray. “This is the last of the stew, Sheriff, so I won’t charge you for it, but the pie will be two bits a slice.”

Clint noticed neither the sheriff nor the lady asked if she could work for her board. Maybe the sheriff wanted to toss out his great idea first or maybe she didn’t want the job. She probably wanted to wait until she heard the sheriff’s offer before deciding.

When the food was spread out, they sat at a little table by the fireplace. Clint wasn’t hungry, but he ate, taking a bite every time she did. Her manners were polished.

“Where you from, miss?” He finally broke the silence.

“Nowhere, really.” She put her spoon down and stopped eating as she rocked the baby.

He didn’t want to ask her any more questions, but he hated that she seemed so tense. Maybe if he talked she’d relax. “I grew up on a farm about thirty miles from here. My folks came in the fifties to homestead. My dad wasn’t much of a farmer, but they survived even after my brother and I went to war. My brother didn’t come back. He died at Shiloh.”

She picked up her spoon as he continued, “I still own the land, but I thought