Wild Heather

by Millie Criswell

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Heather Martin moves to San Francisco to become a newspaper illustrator, but this is considered ""man's work"" in the 1830s so Heather finds work as a nanny for an arrogant newspaper owner she despises--until passion takes over.

Release date: February 15, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

“Is he dead yet?”

Heather glanced up at the tear-stained face of her sister Rose, then back down at their father lying on the bed. For three
days she and her two younger sisters had kept constant vigil by Ezra Martin’s bedside. Doc Spooner had told them a week ago
to expect the worst. Ezra’s stomach ailment—most likely a cancer—had spread.


Before Heather could reply, her father’s eyelids opened, and his blue eyes, bright in contrast to his ashen complexion, focused
on Rose’s anguished face.


“Quit wringin’ your hands, Rose Elizabeth. I ain’t dead yet. And I don’t much appreciate your hurrying me off to meet my maker.”

“Pa, I’m… ” Rose stifled a sob and looked away.

“Hush, child,” Ezra whispered, reaching for his youngest daughter’s hand. Of all his girls, Rose looked the most like his
beloved Adelaid, and it gave his heart a painful little
twist, for he knew it wouldn’t be much longer until he’d be meeting up again with sweet Adelaid in Heaven.


He wasn’t sorry he had to go, though the thought of leaving his children alone lay heavily on his conscience. He hadn’t done
much for them in this lifetime. The farm barely eked out an existence, and Ezra knew it wasn’t a place for three lovely, intelligent
young women to spend the remainder of their days.


Dying gave a man wisdom, and recently he’d reached some conclusions. He was going to set things right for his girls.

Ignoring the pain in his gut, Ezra took a deep breath and turned his attention to his eldest child. Heather stared down at
him, her face etched with grave concern, and he heaved a sigh of relief. She could be counted on to carry out his wishes.


Heather was used to being in charge; the girls always followed her lead. Since Adelaid’s death nine years ago, the chore of
raising the girls had fallen upon her slender shoulders. And she’d done a downright admirable job.


Ezra cleared his throat. “Where’s Laurel? I want to speak to all of you at once. I don’t have enough breath to chew my cabbage
twice.”


Heather sensed the urgency in her father’s voice and exchanged a worried look with Rose before ordering her to fetch Laurel.
She was outside, hanging up the wash and likely engaged in some fantasy about singing at a fancy opera house.


Heather didn’t blame Laurel for dreaming about a better life. Living in a sod hut in the middle of a Kansas wheat farm left
a lot to be desired. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, then sighed with relief that no snakes or mice were slithering down
from above. Rodents and vermin were a constant problem, and the grass roof gave easy access into their three-room abode, which
had passed for a house these many years.


Pa always said he was going to build a real house one day, with a wood-shingled roof and smooth plaster walls. But there never
was enough money. And though Ezra’s inten
tions were always of the purest sort, his bank account never allowed him to carry out his plan.


Heather reached for her father’s hand, holding on to his gnarled fingers tightly. Her father couldn’t give them an abundance
of material things. But he did give them love, and a great deal of encouragement to pursue their dreams, and for that she
would always count herself rich.


“I’ll need your strength, Heather. I’ll need you to help me convince the others that what I’m about to suggest is the right
thing to do.”


“Hush, Pa,” she said, brushing back the graying, sweat-streaked hair from his forehead. “You’re not going to die. And you
mustn’t talk as if you are. It’s bad luck to tempt the devil.”


Ezra gave a weak little cough that could almost have passed for a laugh. “Child, the devil and me go way back, but I think
I’m headin’ for Heaven. No man who’s produced such beautiful daughters could be denied access.”


Before Heather could respond, Rose and Laurel entered.

Laurel rushed to her father’s bedside, blinking back tears that threatened to drown them all. “I’m here, Papa. I came as soon
as Rose fetched me.”


He acknowledged his golden-haired daughter with a nod. “I don’t have much time left, girls, and I’d just as soon not waste
it by listening to you and that fool Doc Spooner assuring me that I’m going to live to a ripe old age. I’m ready to meet my
maker, but before I go there are things that need settlin’. I’ve been doing a lot of thinkin’ about what will happen to you
girls after I’m gone.”


“You know we’ll be fine, Pa,” Rose interjected with the confident air that was so much a part of her nature. “We have the
farm. It’ll see us through.”


“Three hundred acres and a sod hut ain’t much for a man to bequeath to his family upon his death, but it’s all I got. But
that don’t mean that I have to leave it as it is.”


Heather’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “You’re not making much sense, Pa. How can you not leave it as it is? There’s no
way to change it.”


“You girls deserve more in life than this miserable pile of dirt.” He squeezed Heather’s hand gently and with a great deal
of love in his voice said, “You’ve got a rare talent with your picture drawin’ and such. I wouldn’t want you to waste it.
And, Laurel… well, you’ve got your dreams about singing at a grand opera house someday.” He and the good Lord knew that she
didn’t have the voice to match the dream, but he never mentioned that to his impetuous daughter.


With a sigh he turned to stare at the pretty, plump face of Rose, the youngest, who at eighteen was also the wisest. “I know
my decision’s goin’ to be the hardest on you, Rose Elizabeth. I know you’d like nothin’ better than to stay on this farm and
work the land. You’re too much like me for your own good.”


“I love this farm, Pa.”

“I know that, child, but this farm don’t love you or anyone else for that matter, which is why I’ve decided to sell it.”

“Sell it!” Rose’s hand flew to her throat and a horrified look crossed her face.

Shaking her head, Heather cast her sister a warning look, and anything else Rose was going to say was swallowed up in stunned
silence.


“I’ve put aside some money over the years. It ain’t much, but it’ll be enough to serve as a dowry for you three girls. It
was something I promised Addy I’d do. And though it was mighty rough at times, I kept my promise to your mama. God rest her
soul.”


“A dowry!” Laurel exclaimed. “You mean like for marriage? I don’t want to get married, Papa. I want to be an opera singer.”

Heather empathized with her sister. She didn’t want to get married either. She wanted to become an illustrator. That had been
her dream ever since her mother had bought her her first pad of paper and a pencil. But she’d given her father her word that
she would help convince her sisters of his wisdom, and she intended to do just that. Though she wasn’t quite certain just
how.


“Girls,” she said finally, ignoring the shocked expressions on their faces. “Let’s give Pa a chance to explain.”

Ezra took several deep, painful breaths before he continued. “As miserable as this piece of land is, it’s got to be worth
something to somebody. As soon as I’m laid to rest—” he shook his head before any protestations could be voiced, “I want Heather
to put the farm up for sale. With the money I’ve saved for your dowries, I want you girls to go your separate ways and pursue
your dreams.”


“But, Pa, I don’t have no dream other than staying here on the farm!” Rose wailed, wringing her hands.

“I know that, Rose Elizabeth, which is why you’re goin’ to travel back East and attend one of them fancy finishing schools.
They’ll teach you to become a proper lady. You’ll learn so much you’ll be able to teach school one day. A genteel, educated
woman has a much better chance of finding herself a rich husband.”


“But… ”

“I’m askin’ you to do this for me, Rose. It’s my dying wish.”

The hand that grasped hers was large, gnarled, and liver spotted with age and infirmity, but it offered love and solace. Rose
hesitated only momentarily before squeezing it, wishing she could somehow transfer her health and vitality to the dying man
she cared for so deeply, whose death would create a void she would never be able to fill.


“Yes, Pa,” she whispered, blinking back tears of despair.

“Laurel, you’ll take your money and study singing. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to meet a man of wealth at an opera
house. Them refined gents always frequent those types of places.”


Despite the somberness of the occasion, Laurel couldn’t keep the joy she felt from lighting her face. Singing lessons. Opera
houses. Marriage to a wealthy patron of the arts. Well, two out of three wasn’t bad. and if she wasn’t able to find a wealthy
husband…


Finally, Ezra turned his attention back to Heather. “You’ve got lots of talent, child,” he told her. “Mr. Pickens
down at the Salina Sentinel says you should be able to find work painting portraits of well-to-do families. That could lead to a marriage proposal.”


Heather did her best not to grimace. Portrait painting was too tedious and boring. She wanted excitement. She wanted to illustrate
for a big-city newspaper or magazine.


And she wanted to see the ocean. The real ocean. Not the waves of Kansas wheat she’d watched ebb and flow for most of her
twenty-two years.


“I could go to San Francisco,” she suggested, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. The city had been born for an
extravagant destiny, and Heather had no doubt that hers led there as well. “The California gold rush left lots of rich men.”
And there was an abundance of newspaper publishers, though she didn’t mention that fact.


“Then that’s that,” Ezra stated, a look of serenity settling over his face. “I’ll be able to die in peace now, knowin’ my
three girls are going to be well taken care of and content.”


Heather, Rose, and Laurel exchanged knowing glances with one another, then looked down at their father and smiled reassuringly.

“Yes, Pa,” they chorused. “You can rest easy now.”

“Are you deaf as well as dumb, miss? You come here yesterday asking for work, and I told you then, I ain’t hirin’ no woman
illustrators. Now get yourself gone. The Ledger don’t hire women.”


Heather gasped when the large man grasped her arm, forcing her from the newspaper office building to deposit her shaking body
on the street.


Her body filled with fury. No bald-headed Neanderthal man was going to treat her like a second-class citizen, especially in
broad daylight, and in front of strangers, no less. She looked about her at the curious faces, silently daring anyone to say
a word about her humiliation.


She was Heather Martin from Salina, Kansas. And she had talent, dammit. She knew it, too. Trouble was, no one else in this
unfriendly town did, and it didn’t look like anyone was going to give her the opportunity to prove it.


“Mule-headed barbarian,” she called out, stifling the urge
to march back into the building and crack her art portfolio over the man’s head. Her comment produced a chorus of laughs from
passersby, and Heather suddenly realized that she was making a spectacle of herself—something she had always cautioned her
two younger sisters never to do.


Good Lord, Heather thought, I’ve only been in town a day and I’m already providing fodder for the gossip mill. What a sterling way to begin my new life
and career. Keep it up, and maybe my name and face will be plastered across the front pages of the papers I want to work for: HEATHER MARTIN TAKES SAN FRANCISCO BY STORM AND DROWNS IN HER OWN STUPIDITY.


Heather’s temper had cooled slightly by the time she returned to her lodgings at Mrs. Murphy’s boardinghouse. Actually, her
pique was slowly working into a full-blown depression. As she stared out her window at the gray hills in the distance, she
wondered if she would ever realize her dream of working for a newspaper. The possibility seemed remote.


A foghorn groaned its eerie warning at the same time as a knock sounded at the door. Heather met a smiling, apple-cheeked
Mrs. Murphy, whose arms were full of fresh-smelling white towels.


“Good afternoon, miss. I’ve brought some clean linens. I’m sorry the room wasn’t quite ready upon your arrival yesterday.
I try to keep things neat as a pin for my guests, but my back’s been ailing me, and I didn’t get all the laundry done as I
should have.”


“No need to apologize, Mrs. Murphy.” Heather smiled reassuringly, ushering the stout woman into the small, clean room.

Mrs. Murphy kept her house as tidy as her person. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on the white apron that circled her thick waist.

“Your home is far grander than what I’ve been used to,” Heather admitted, thinking that she hadn’t had the pleasure
of having a bedroom all to herself since she was a small child.


Her compliment obviously pleased the red-haired woman, for Grace Murphy’s cheeks filled with color. “I do my best, dearie.
Since Patrick up and died last year, it’s been hard doing the chores by myself. I’ve a young boy who comes by twice a week
to help with the firewood and such, but he’s about as reliable as the weather.” The proprietress set the linens down on the
star-burst quilt that covered the bed. “You’re from Kansas, ain’t that right, dearie?”


“Yes, ma’am. Salina, Kansas. I’ve come here to make my mark in the world.” Just saying the words filled Heather with pride
and renewed determination, as if the mere uttering of them could somehow make her hopes come true.


“Well, you’re pretty enough, that’s for sure. I doubt it’ll take long for some gent to pop the question.”

“The question?”

“Marriage, dearie. It’s the only sensible thing for a woman to do. Life’s hard in this city. And dangerous. A good woman needs
a protector. A man to keep the evils at bay.”


“But you’re all alone, Mrs. Murphy, and you seem to be doing all right for yourself.”

Hanging the towels on the rod by the marble-topped wash-stand, the proprietress nodded. “I’m surviving, Miss Martin. But it
ain’t a happy existence to be alone in this world. I miss my husband something awful. The days seem to drag on. And the nights…
” She shook her head sadly. “I can’t even bear to think about the nights.”


Not about to be dissuaded by the motherly warning, Heather confided, “I want more than just marriage, Mrs. Murphy. I want
a career.”


“A career!” The woman chuckled, shaking her head, clearly amused by the notion. “Land sakes, what for?” She seated herself
on the edge of the feather bed, urging Heather to follow suit. “You’ve got looks, dearie. Get yourself married and have a
passel of young ones. It’s what God intended for us women. Though I’m sorry to say that I was never blessed with any children
of my own.”


“But I have talent, Mrs. Murphy. I can draw lovely pictures and sketches of people. Why would God give me the talent to do
that if He didn’t want me to use it?”


As Grace pondered the question, she patted Heather’s hand in a reassuring manner. “You’re young and full of adventure. I was
like that once, too, when me and Patrick first set foot in this city. Gold fever had a strong grip on us, as it had on everyone
out here. We almost ended up dying for our dreams. But we were one of the lucky ones. Patrick made enough off our claim to
buy this house and set up his own business repairing clocks. We never got rich, but we were happy.” A wistful smile crossed
her lips. “Sometimes the dreams you seek are right before you, and you don’t even know it.”


The regulator clock on the wall gonged four times, and Heather was saved from replying when Grace Murphy rose to her feet.

“Pay me no mind, dearie. Old women like me ramble on. We’ve got little else besides our wisdom to give out.” She paused by
the door. “Go ahead and pursue your dream, dearie. You owe that to yourself. And if it don’t work out, there’re always plenty
of men around this city looking for a pretty wife.” She closed the door softly behind her, leaving Heather to ponder her words
and wonder what would happen if she didn’t succeed at finding employment as an illustrator.


The alternative was highly distasteful. Marriage was definitely not what she wanted. Not now, anyway.

She had dreams, plans to become the best illustrator the city had ever seen. And tomorrow she intended to make those dreams
come true.


Clutching a well-worn copy of Maxwell’s Guide to San Francisco, courtesy of Mrs. Murphy, and her leather portfolio of sketches. Heather made her way down Geary Street toward Market, the
business hub of the city, where the majority of newspaper offices were located.


A stiff breeze blew in off the bay, chilling the morning air,
and she wished she’d had the good sense to wear her wool coat. Shabby though it was, the gray, threadbare, moth-eaten garment
was still warm.


The street was alive with activity. Fashionably dressed ladies and nattily garbed gentlemen drove by in bright-colored equipages,
and Heather felt as dowdy as a brown wren dressed in her plain navy serge skirt and white cotton shirtwaist. Dowdy but businesslike, she reminded herself. As she walked, she kept her focus straight ahead, not bothering to acknowledge the admiring looks of
the gentlemen who passed.


Rows of handsome two-story wooden houses with gardens set before them lined the street. She marveled at the intricacies and
embellishments of their gaily painted gingerbread trim.


San Francisco was a far cry from Kansas, that was for certain. The hills alone were a testament to that fact. They reminded
her of the bustles the society ladies were so fond of wearing—protruding for no special reason, incongruous with the natural
lay of the land.


Arriving at Market Street, it was only a short walk to The Chronicle building, a solid mass of brick and concrete. Heather looked up in awe at the imposing structure. It was by far the tallest
building she’d ever laid eyes on. Of course, there hadn’t been much opportunity to view office buildings in Salina, she reminded
herself: There weren’t any. Squaring her shoulders, determined to succeed this time, she made her way to the newspaper’s city
room, where she’d been told she could find the editor, Mr. Maitland.


She paused in the doorway of the noisy room. Her eyes widened as she glanced about, trying to absorb everything at once. Every
inch of wall space was covered with maps. Even maps of the remotest regions of the continent were displayed. On the back wall
next to the water pail stood a small library of books relating to city affairs, and scattered about the room were reporters
sitting at small green desks, their heads bent over their work as they scribbled feverishly to get out the latest news.


Excitement surged through her at the prospect of becoming part of such a profession. But that feeling was soon tempered by
realism when a disheveled cigar-chomping gentleman with graying hair appeared out of nowhere.


“Can I help you?”

Though the man’s question implied a willingness to be of assistance, his tone definitely did not. Despite her nervousness,
Heather forced a smile and nodded, wondering if his scowl was a permanent part of his expression.


“Yes. I’m looking for Mr. Maitland.”

“You found him, girlie. Now what can I do you for? This is a busy place, and I’m a busy man.” His impatience was evident by
his scuffed brogan tapping against the floor.


Busy he might be, Heather thought, but rude is what he is. Trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice, she hastened to explain, “I’m looking for work, Mr. Maitland.”


The look he shot her clearly summed up his opinion: Annoying. Featherbrained. Woman! “This ain’t the place for placing a classified,
girlie. You’ll have to—”


“You don’t understand. I’m an illustrator, Mr. Maitland. I’m interested in finding employment with your newspaper.” She pressed
her portfolio at him, but his hands remained firmly tucked in his pants’ pockets.


“We got all the illustrators we need, young woman. Even if I was in the hiring mode, which I’m not, I wouldn’t be hiring a
woman. There’s plenty of men out of work—men who have families to support. You get my meaning?”


Having heard almost exactly the same thing yesterday, Mr. Maitland’s meaning was all too clear.

“Are you saying that you won’t hire me because I’m a woman?”

The idea was outlandish, barbaric, not to mention totally unfair. This was 1883, for heaven’s sake! Women in Wyoming voted
in elections. There were women doctors, lawyers. Why, she’d even heard of a woman dentist! And Mary Anna Hallock, who was somewhat of an idol, was already a successful illustrator in New York City, contributing
to such prestigious publications as Harper’s Weekly and Scribner’s Monthly.

What on earth was wrong with the men in San Francisco?

Maitland blew a disagreeable cloud of cigar smoke in her face, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Women belong at home,
that’s my firm belief,” he said. “But if you’ve got your heart set on working at a newspaper, I could probably find you a
job as a typesetter. That’s the only position we’re hiring women for. And even that’s against my better judgment.”


Heather’s heart sank, but she squared her shoulders and looked the city editor straight in the eye, vowing to keep her temper
in check this time. “I’m an illustrator, Mr. Maitland. If you’d taken the time to look at my drawings, you would see that
I’d be wasting my talents as a typesetter, though I thank you for your generous offer.”


The older man shook his head. “You’re in for a big disappointment, girlie, if you think it’s going to be different anywhere
else. San Francisco’s a man’s town. And the newspaper business is a man’s domain. You’d best go on home and learn to sew and
such. Perhaps you’ll be able to find work making ladies’ dresses or hats.” With that he left Heather to stare openmouthed
as he walked away.


She turned on her heel and marched out the door and into the brisk morning air. Leaning against the post of a gas lamp, she
took several deep breaths to calm her nerves and cool her heated temper. “I will succeed,” she declared, receiving a strange,
almost piteous look from a male passerby, which made her furious again.


Undaunted by the setback, and fueled with more determination than ever, Heather made her way down the street to the offices
of The San Francisco Star.

A week later, Heather was no closer to finding employment as an illustrator than she’d been that first day at The Ledger offices. Everywhere she went the answer was the
same : There was no work for a female illustrator, no matter how talented, no mater how qualified.


“Men!” she cursed, pacing back and forth across the pine-plank floor of her room, her high-button shoes beating a staccato
rhythm as she walked off her anger. Men! They tried to rule the universe with an iron hand. And the pity was, they were succeeding.


Gazing at the rent notice held tightly in her, hand, she fought back the tears that threatened to consume her. She had barely
enough money to meet next week’s accommodation.


San Francisco had proven to be an expensive city. Food was outrageous, and her purchase of two ready-made dresses to avoid
further disdainful looks had been an even greater drain on her meager budget. Homemade calicoes and ginghams might not have
attracted much notice in Salina, but in the business district of San Francisco, they stuck out like those bustles she had
no intention of wearing.


Plopping down on the bed, she allowed her despair to wash over her, and tears formed in her eyes.

Failure. The word pricked at her. She had failed at very little up until now. But then, she’d never before tried to compete in a man’s
world.


Realizing that tears and self-pity would do little to put rent money in her reticule and food in her stomach, she reached
for the afternoon edition of The Examiner, which she’d purchased that morning instead of The Chronicle, steadfastly refusing to add a cent to that horrible paper’s coffers.


If she couldn’t initially find a job at her chosen profession, than she would have to find a job doing something else in the
meantime.


Spreading the newspaper out before her, she scanned the classified advertisements, frowning when she realized that she wasn’t
qualified to do much of anything. She had no idea how to operate a Remington typewriter. And though she was proficient with
a needle, she’d never been trained on a Singer sewing machine, which was required for most of the seamstress positions advertised.


Her abilities centered on housework, gardening, cooking,
and the like. Evidently, not what one could call qualifications in demand.


Continuing to read, Heather came upon one advertisement that immediately piqued her interest. A position was being offered
as governess to two children. Now that was something she was definitely qualified for, having almost single-handedly raised
her two sisters.


But did she really want to burden herself with the raising of other folks’ children again? And did she really have a choice?

The ad stated that they were looking for a mature, responsible woman with impeccable references. And they wanted someone to
start immediately.


“Brandon Montgomery.” Heather murmured the contact name mentioned in the advertisement, wondering where she’d heard it before.
“Brandon Montgomery. Brandon Montgomery.” She repeated the name several more times, then smiled when she realized who he was.


Brandon Montgomery owned one of the largest newspapers in the city, The San Francisco Star. She’d gone there last week to seek employment, only to be turned away by one of Mr. Montgomery’s underlings, a most unpleasant
little man who smelled of pomade and Sen-Sen.


Impeccable references. That could be a problem. But not for someone with her artistic ability and dire circumstances.


“God helps those who help themselves.” Hadn’t she heard her darling mama utter those very words countless times? And hadn’t
she read somewhere that San Francisco had burned to the ground six times within an eighteen-month period? And like a Phoenix,
she had risen from her ashes to emerge as a bustling metropolis.


Determination fueled her, and, smiling confidently for the first time in weeks, Heather withdrew her writing pad and pencil
from her portfolio, allowing her gaze to fall to her work. “There was more than one way to skin a cat.” Her mama said that,
too. And she aimed to prove Mama right on both accounts.


The cable car climbed Nob Hill with a series of fits and starts, groaning as it made its way up the steep incline, and causing
Heather’s stomach to alternate between rising to her throat and plummeting to her feet.


Pressed firmly against the back of a wooden seat, she held on to the hand rope as if her life depended on it. She forced herself
to concentrate on her surroundings rather than on the strange moving contraption she’d been forced to board to reach her destination.


Glancing out the open-sided car, she marveled at the magnificent mansions. They’d been built by wealthy “nobs,” mining magnets
who had spared no expense to create enormous and often ostentatious homes as testaments to their vast wealth.


The turreted palace of C