An Angel Called Gallagher

Book 4: Montana Gallagher Series

by MK McClintock

Genres: Holiday books; Westerns; Western Romance; western historical romance; American West; christmas; christmas romance; American Historical Romance; montana; westerns

Synopsis

On a ranch known as Hawk's Peak, a family celebrates love, joy, and peace at last . . . or so the Gallaghers thought.

Brenna is convinced she hears a woman singing to her son. Eliza and Ethan are unnerved by a sleepwalker, and Isabelle swears Hawk's Peak is haunted. Then an unlikely visitor stumbles into their lives. Enjoy a heartwarming holiday adventure filled with tenderness, hope, and the promise of a better tomorrow for more than one deserving soul.

Join us for a Gallagher Christmas at Hawk's Peak and fall in love with the family all over again.

The Montana Gallagher series:
Gallagher's Pride
Gallagher's Hope
Gallagher's Choice
An Angel Called Gallagher
Journey to Hawk's Peak
Wild Montana Winds
The Healer of Briarwood

Release date: December 3, 2015

Print pages: 212

Sample

Chapter One

 

Briarwood, Montana Territory—December 1883

 

White clouds of warm breath snaked through the cold air. She held her hands in front of her mouth in an effort to bring heat to her stiff fingers. Fresh snow had covered the land while she tried to sleep, and she didn’t want to sleep too long for fear that the small fire would dwindle. Two thin pieces of wood leaned against the inside of the small black pail. She tucked her feet under her legs and pressed them into her chest. The wool blanket was thin and only warm enough for a cool day, not bitter winter nights. When the sun dipped behind the mountains and the moon rose, the cold seeped past the blanket and into her bones.

 

Sleep came and went like fleeting dreams until the stars faded, and the small window by the door promised to reveal a rising sun over the mountain peaks. It would be a good day to gather more wood and branches from the forest floor. She looked to the two pegs above the narrow stone fireplace where her father’s rifle used to hang. The emptiness in her stomach might be worse if her father hadn’t left behind a cut of deer. She finished the last of the meat the night before, and the gnawing in her gut told her she’d have to find a meal soon.

 

Her eyes closed when the soft rays of sun touched her skin. As though drawn toward the promise of warmth, she stepped off the bed with the blanket wrapped around her small shoulders and opened the front door.

 

Catherine Rose Carr had been raised properly and prided herself on her ability to do her numbers, read a full book without too much difficulty, and to follow the moral rules her mother said every young man and woman must abide by to get to Heaven. She wasn’t certain if she was going to Heaven, or if her mother and father were even there waiting for her, but Catie was sure her behavior the past two weeks excluded her from ever finding out.

 

The snow soaked through her boots and left her legs weighed down with each deep step. Grateful she could find a moment of rest, Catie crouched low, pressing her back up against the wooden structure nearly the size of her cabin. She hadn’t come this far to turn back now. It took almost ten minutes to convince herself that starvation was worse than stealing.

 

Catie hadn’t been this far from the cabin before, and the ranch was the only place she’d come upon after half a day of walking through the woods. Her father had been adamant that she remain close to the cabin. Two days and he’d return—that had been his promise to her.

 

“Too many dangers beyond the walls of home,” he had told her.

 

Catie didn’t understand his concern. Hadn’t he taught her how to shoot the Remington rifle? She might have had better success hunting if he’d left it behind.

 

Three weeks ago, she swore her father would not forget to return, yet as the days and weeks passed, she was forced to break her promise.

 

The chickens, who must have sensed the unknown presence, squawked and squabbled from within. Catie covered her mouth with the end of the shabby wool scarf to keep any noise from escaping her lips. She heard the unmistakable sound of boots hitting wooden boards and someone talking softly to the fowl. Catie remained still as a sturdy oak, just the way her father had taught her when they tracked her first buck up the mountain. Someone else walked toward the chicken coop and entered the structure. Voices carried through the planks, and curious to know if they were friendly or a danger to her, she pressed closer against the wood.

 

“Brenna! You startled me. How did you manage to trudge out here in those boots, and what are you doing with a basket?”

 

“Then you startle too easily, Amanda.”

 

The woman laughed, a light and lovely sound. She spoke differently than the other woman, almost like a song.

 

“My boots don’t seem to fit well these days, so I borrowed an old pair of Ethan’s. I wanted some fresh air, and since my aromatic oils should arrive any day now, I thought I’d gather some pinecones, give them a little scent, and set them around the house.”

 

“What a nice idea. Would you like some company after I get these eggs back inside?”

 

“I was hoping you’d join me. I had a few ideas for the house that I wanted to discuss with you. I promised Ethan I wouldn’t attempt to stand on anything when he wasn’t around.”

 

One of the women laughed, and Catie thought it was the other woman without the music in her voice. “Then we better not let him or your grandmother catch you.”

 

Catie listened to the light rustling, and finally the door closed with the women on the outside. She shouldn’t have dared. Reason seemed to have little place in her mind at the moment because she peeked around the edge for a glimpse. Starved for human companionship, Catie was desperate to call out. Almost. When the women had disappeared around the other side of the barn, she trudged through the snow to the front of the coop. Careful not to disturb the chickens too much, she collected as many of the leftover eggs as she could carry wrapped in her scarf. Her gaze flitted over the hens once, and Catie shook her head.

 

“You’re safe from me, little ones. I haven’t fallen that far yet.”

 

As quietly as she came, she disappeared back into the woods.

 

The unfamiliar voices halted Catie’s progress into the rough-hewn cabin. Smoke rose from the narrow chimney, and the scent of cooked meat caused her stomach to clench. A smile formed on her red lips, though her happiness did not last. It appeared to be three voices and none sounded like her father. Catie held the eggs close to her chest and walked alongside the perimeter until she could comfortably peek inside the window.

 

Three men stood or sat in various stages of undress, snug in the nearly barren cabin. One of them turned something in a hot pan sitting precariously over the wood and coals in the fire, even as she wondered how they’d come upon her home so quickly. She looked into the sky where the sun shined directly above her. Her excursion to the chicken coop had taken longer than she realized.

 

She looked again at the men through the window, careful to remain out of sight. They’d used the last of the firewood. In the months she and her pa had lived in the solitary cabin, she’d not seen another soul come around.

 

Catie waited for each man to turn around so she could glimpse their faces. She was convinced none were her father now that she’d at least seen their backs, as much as she might have hoped otherwise. The third man turned, and an inaudible gasp escaped her lips. If ever there was a man in her past life she didn’t want to meet again, it was him.

 

Catie pulled back, her eyes scanning the land around what used to be her home, or the home her father had found for them two weeks ago. Even if the men left, they knew where she lived. Looking down at the eggs bundled in her scarf, she ignored the pain of cold around her toes and walked back the way she had come.

 

She noticed the line shack in the distance. It was small, unoccupied, and warmer than the cabin. After a quick scan of the little room, Catie stepped inside, grateful to find a cot and a bin of wood for a potbellied stove. With the short winter days and the sun on a downward setting behind the mountains, she was out of options. Trespassing was only the latest in a growing list of wrongdoings. Survival demanded she forgive herself of the sin, and she prayed the owner of the shack would show mercy if they came upon her in the night. She didn’t relish adding jail to her future list of shelters. With the simple hope embedded in her mind, she closed the door.

 

She set her precious eggs—the stolen eggs—down on the flat surface of the rough table and started a fire. The tinder was still dry, and after half a dozen attempts, a small flame licked the edges of the wood. A few minutes later, Catie’s fingers turned a light shade of pink as the heat soaked into her skin, and she removed her boots to help warm her feet and dry her socks. The shack was better equipped than the cabin, and she found a small skillet and pot in a wooden box by the stove. A single plate, cup, and fork sat beneath the pan wrapped in a dusty cloth. She brushed the sleeve of her shirt over the pan to remove any lingering dust and cracked the eggs open when the heat seeped through the iron.

 

The eggs staved off the gnawing ache in her stomach, at least for one more night. Her hunger temporarily assuaged, Catie laid on the narrow cot, the scarf wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The few warm blankets were a blessing, and thankful for a sheltered place to rest, she fell into a deep slumber.

 

The following morning, Catie stood in the trees, her arms filled with small branches for kindling. She watched a tall man dismount and circle the shack, look inside, and then return to his horse and rummage through his worn leather saddlebags. Her body shivered, and the trees offered little protection from the cold breeze. Light drops of wet snow fell from the low-hanging branches of the pine trees, testing the strength of her resolve. The man left the shack, remounted, and rode away.

 

She hurried back to the scant warmth of the shack and nearly tripped over her own feet. On the edge of the cot, a thick blanket was neatly folded. Her gaze darted around the small space, settling on the thick cut of beef on the table. Beside the beef was a clean, white towel. Catie pulled back the corners to reveal a dozen more eggs and half a loaf of bread. Why would the man leave them behind? How did he know she was there, and would he make her go away? She would worry over those questions in the morning. For tonight, she would feast.

 

End of Preview. More at https://www.mkmcclintock.com/excerpt/an-angel-called-gallagher.