Chasing Sunsets of Love (Preview)

Chapter 1: Ava

Spring 1886

Ava sat quietly on the wooden bench seat of the train taking her westward; the gentle swaying of the train car soothing her as she gazed out the window. Days of train travel had taken her west, through the low, winding hills of Ohio, then through Indiana and into the flatter landscape of Iowa and beyond.

She remained in her seat, offering polite responses to attempts at conversation from seatmates that boarded and de-boarded along the way. The one exception was the friendly, older woman who sat next to her now, dozing lightly, which suited Ava just fine. She wasn’t much in the mood to engage in conversation at that moment; to pretend that everything was all right, that her world hadn’t suddenly been turned upside down, wrenching her from the only life she had ever known.

Was it only a month ago that she had sat at her mother’s bedside, struggling to contain the grief that continuously threatened to bubble up inside her? Wasn’t it enough that she had lost her father to the same wasting disease just a month earlier? Was she next? Was her older sister Emily, her brother-in-law, and their baby girl to be next? She recalled every moment of that last hour by her mother’s bedside.

“Mama,” she said softly, her voice a whisper. She dared not speak louder for fear that in doing so sobs would inevitably erupt from her throat. She placed her hand gently over her mother’s on the bed, fighting back the hot tears brimming in her eyes. “Don’t leave me, Mama,” she implored. “I know you’re tired, but I need you to try. Try and fight.”

She had seen the same type of consumption afflict her father as the illness progressed. It had started off with coughing and gradually worsened to the point where the coughing also brought up blood, then difficulty breathing. It wasn’t just the horrible image of her father and then her mother struggling to catch a breath, but also the pain it caused, the wincing in their eyes with each breath. And then there was the fatigue that had kept them in their sickbeds toward the end, so weary they were unable to lift a hand or sit up without help to eat a meager spoonful of broth.

Ava had never felt so alone in their modest home, on the edge of a small town called Fayhurst, in western Pennsylvania. She had refused to let her older sister or her brother-in-law into the home once her parents had fallen ill, trying to protect them against the white plague, as it was being called. Both her parents had experienced the same symptoms, down to their lack of appetite and refusal to even drink water. Merely two days before he passed away, her father had grown delirious, not even recognizing his own daughter as she tended him. Then it was her mother who slipped into a delirium, though at one point it seemed to have passed, giving Ava hope. She hoped and prayed that her mother could recover, but if she couldn’t, she prayed that she would go quickly to ease her suffering.

The doctor had told her that there was no hope. He had offered to provide something that would help her mother sleep and reduce her pain, but she couldn’t even get a spoonful of it past her mother’s lips. Ava remained at her bedside, though she could barely look at her gaunt cheeks and deep-set eyes; the vibrancy that had been in them before her illness gone forever. Then, with a sigh barely audible in the stillness of the stuffy room, it was over. Her mother’s suffering was over and hers had just begun. A wave of grief had swept over her. 

Was she next? Would she be the next to succumb to the awful disease or whatever it was? But she didn’t. Still, she was an orphan now, and despite her recent twenty-second birthday, she felt like a child bereft of her parents, having lost her anchors in life. Her future unknown and uncertain. If only—

“Are you all right, dear?”

Ava realized that the old woman wasn’t asleep after all and glanced toward her, blinking away her tears as she offered a polite smile. “Yes, Mrs. Carruthers, I’m just fine, thank you.”

Ava had met the older woman when she boarded the train in Chicago. Heading west herself, she had insisted on providing Ava with her company. She claimed that she wouldn’t even think of leaving Ava to ride the rails alone until she had to get off in Cheyenne, just like Ava, where the older woman would head to Denver for a few days before continuing her journey westward toward Utah. 

In Cheyenne, Ava would board a stagecoach that would take her further north and west into Fremont County, past the Wind River mountains and then further north toward the Shoshone range in the northwestern part of the Wyoming Territory. She would travel nearly three hundred miles from Cheyenne before she reached her final destination, the town of Hope Springs, where her uncle lived.

From what her uncle had written, the town of Hope Springs was located on the west side of the Big Horn River. The Big Horn mountains were on its eastern side, with numerous creeks, hills, canyons, and mountains rising high into the clouds. From what he wrote, the small town of Hope Springs was situated between the northern banks of the Grey Bull River to its south and a waterway known by the Indians as the Mee-tee-tse Creek, which flowed into the North Fork of the Stinking Water River. 

She had followed the route with her fingers on a map of the western states that the local schoolteacher had loaned her. The story behind the name was one that she would very much like to hear, having always been fascinated with topics regarding history. Besides, her uncle had assured her in his letter that the troubles with the Indians had been few and far between in the Wyoming Territory for years.

It was her sister who had written to Uncle John, after their father and mother died, to tell him the news. Apparently she mentioned Ava in the letter, which Ava had never actually seen. Though her father and his older brother John had written fairly often, Ava had never met her uncle, who lived on the western frontier. He had a wife but no children, was a law man, and that’s about all she knew. Other than that he had invited her to come stay with them.

 

Even though she was alone now, she had resisted moving away from the only family she had left, her older sister, her brother-in-law and her niece. Yet nothing remained for her in Fayhurst. There were no suitors, as it seemed that no young men were interested in courting a young woman who spent most of her time reading books and newspapers, had a strong and independent nature, and who was not hesitant to disagree with a man if it was warranted.

All she had read about the western frontier was that it was wild, rugged, untamed, and dangerous. She couldn’t help but wonder though, if it was that bad, people wouldn’t keep moving out west, would they? The Indian Wars were over except for the ongoing skirmishes and attacks between the U.S. Army and the Apache in the southwestern regions of Arizona and New Mexico Territories. Though last she had read, luck was running out for the elusive warrior, Geronimo, or so the newspaper claimed. For the past couple of years, he had been forced to constantly evade thousands of American Army troops and several more thousand Mexican soldiers who sought to capture him.

His legend grew to the point where many people, even the newspaper writers, had given him supernatural powers. It was said that he couldn’t be hurt by arrows or bullets, that he could slow arrows and see into the future, and even stop time…

 “You’ll be just fine, Ava, I know it.” She realized the older woman was speaking to her once more. “You’re a bright young woman. I’m sure there’s plenty of young bucks up there who would be more than happy to court you.” She smiled. “You do know that men greatly outnumber women in those frontier towns, and believe me, the moment you step off the stage, word will travel fast.”

The older woman gave her a knowing smile and gently touched her arm. “Everything will work out just fine, Ava. Just give yourself time. Be patient.”

The woman’s kindness touched Ava’s heart but sorrow bubbled in her chest and her voice cracked slightly as she spoke. “But how long does it take? When will I begin to feel as if I can breathe again?”

The old woman sighed. “There is no timeline on grief, young lady. Very few of us are a stranger to it and everyone deals with it in different ways. You’ll have to find your own way through it, but I know you will. You’re strong and brave and determined.”

Ava eyed the older woman. “You really believe that? You hardly know me.”

“Of course I believe it or I wouldn’t have said it. And I might not know you well, but I do know that if you weren’t strong-willed and determined, you would not have begun this journey in the first place. And you told me yourself that you have a goal in mind, of building a school, of teaching.” She paused and glanced out the window at the passing landscape. “I would think that your parents wouldn’t want you to give up your dreams to grieve the rest of your life, would they?”

“No,” Ava agreed. “But it’s hard. It’s very hard.”

The older woman nodded sagely. “It is indeed.”

With that, Ava returned her gaze once more toward the window. The conductor had come through the train car a little while ago, telling them that they would reach Cheyenne in a few hours, just before noon on this bright, sunny and blue skied day in early spring. While Ava looked forward to the end of her train journey, she knew that the next leg of it would not be any easier.

“Is your uncle going to meet you in Cheyenne?”

Ava turned back to the older woman and shook her head. “No, I’m making the journey by stage the rest of the way.” She caught the older woman’s slight frown of concern and quickly sought to explain. “My uncle is the sheriff, not only of the town of Hope Springs, but the entire county. From what I understand, the stagecoach will get me there faster than if he came to meet me in a wagon or by horseback.” She offered a chagrined smile. “Besides, I don’t know how to ride very well.”

The old woman’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve never ridden a horse?”

Ava sighed. “There were a couple of draft horses on my neighbor’s farm that my sister goaded me into sitting on once or twice, when they weren’t working. But they terrified me. So I never really learned. We lived in town so I could always walk anywhere I needed to go.”  

The older woman apparently found it difficult to believe that anyone of her age didn’t know how to ride a horse. Supposing it didn’t matter that the woman, still much of a stranger, knew a little bit about her past wouldn’t hurt and she explained. “One time, while sitting on one of those horses, my sister foolishly poked it on the rump with a stick. I… I was terrified when it started to run and then it shook me off. I broke my arm.” She offered a small smile to the woman. “I was very little at the time, but ever since, I’ve been rather afraid of horses, to tell the truth.”

Mrs. Carruthers eyed her for several moments before she spoke. “I strongly suggest that you try to get over that, Ava.” Her voice gentle, she continued. “Out here, most people ride horses, even little children.” She smiled. “Like most places in the west, most of Wyoming Territory is still rather unsettled and other than the train going through the southern portion of it, other forms of transportation aren’t as prevalent as you might hope.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “But I’m taking a stagecoach up to Hope Springs,” she commented. “Surely there are stagecoaches that travel back and forth across the countryside?”

“Not as many as you might think,” the older woman replied. “It’s rugged country. The entire western half of the territory is filled with rugged mountain ranges. Not far west of where you’re going, jagged mountains inhibit traffic for anything with wheels beside the railroad. It’s rough, dangerous country. Between two mountain ranges to the west of where you’re going, there’s a long and narrow valley, at the tip of which is a large lake. The entire area is known to be a familiar haunt and hideout for outlaws of all sorts. It’s called Jackson Hole.” She paused. “I’m sure that your uncle is more than familiar with it.”

Ava wasn’t sure if she had frowned with worry, but once more, the older woman sought to reassure her.

“Not to worry, dear. From what I hear, that place is a good few hundred miles from your Hope Springs, over some of the most rugged and dangerous country in the territory. So much so that even horses and mule pack trains are often the only mode of travel through some of those regions.”

Ava considered what she did know of the region from her uncle’s letter inviting her to come and stay with them, along with other news that had taken her by surprise. “Yes, my uncle told me about some of the region. It’s not far from a place called Yellowstone,” she said with a certain sense of pride regarding her knowledge of the area, even though she would be arriving in the region as a newcomer. “President Ulysses S. Grant claimed it as a national park in 1872. My uncle told me that someday he would take me up there to see it.”

“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Carruthers commented. “I heard that there’s a geyser there, one that shoots water from the ground to more than one hundred feet into the air, and it does it on a regular basis too!”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Yes. Apparently, the natives of the area seem to have known about it forever and there’s been some history of trappers and explorers and miners talking about it as well. Apparently it’s been called Old Faithful since about 1870. I read something about it in a newspaper a long time ago that it spouts its boiling water high up into the air, sometimes for as long as fifteen minutes at a time or so. Apparently, it erupts every hour or so.”

“It’s fascinating,” Ava said, her voice tinged with wonder. “That would be the sight to see for sure. I’ll have to ask my uncle about it.”

“You do that, dear. It’s a wild, rough country, but it’s also filled with beauty.” She frowned and tilted her head and turned toward Ava. “I don’t think you told me why you’re traveling so far west. After all, you still have an older sister, brother-in-law, and a niece back in Pennsylvania, don’t you?”

Ava nodded. “I do, but I’ve always wanted to… well, I’ve always wanted to build a school for the deaf and blind,” she said softly. She shrugged. “When I was younger, I merely wanted to start a school for young girls, teaching them things such as manners and comportment, cooking, singing, perhaps playing musical instruments, but I realize that such schooling is not affordable to… well, let’s just say that no one around our town or even in the county I lived in had the money to pay for such things.”

“Indeed,” Missus Carruthers agreed. “There are some people that believe girls don’t need to be educated, and besides, they’re needed at home to help with the chores.” She paused. “Many of the boys and girls out on the frontier do go to school when they can, at least enough to learn the rudiments of reading and writing and arithmetic. But most of their time is spent on their farms or ranches, and even the girls who grow up in town often work in their parents’ businesses.”

“Yes, as I got older I realized that,” Ava agreed. “But I also noticed there were others in society that were even worse off, those who never really even have the opportunity to learn anything or become even moderately independent contributors to society.”

The old woman’s eyebrows lifted. “Who?”

“Blind and deaf children,” Ava said firmly. “I knew a blind child where I grew up. Julia was smart as a whip even though she couldn’t see. She soaked up everything that anybody told her, regardless of the subject. She wanted to be a teacher too, but no one believed she could do it, being blind.”

“Whatever happened to her?”

Ava shrugged, her thoughts sobering. “She was sent to a poor farm when she was sixteen after her parents died.” Ava’s heart sank at the thought. She had heard her fair share of so-called homes for the indigent, where they were supposedly given a comfortable bed to sleep in, and a roof over their head, and food. Many of them were also filled with the mentally ill and violent criminals. It was nothing unusual, as every county in the state and throughout the country had at least one such almshouse or poor farm in their counties. The county coffers would pay a monthly stipend to such places to care for the destitute.

Ava heaved a sigh. “I heard that she died there, a mere year after her arrival from sickness.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ava.” 

“Yes, me too.” She tried to brighten her spirits. “Anyway, after my father passed away, my sister and I learned from our uncle that my father, his brother, had purchased a large tract of land out in Wyoming Territory, not at all far from Hope Springs. Apparently my father had some distant hopes of someday moving out west and taking us with him.” She glanced down at her lap. “But we never did. At any rate, the land sits empty and Uncle John told me to come out and build a school on that land.”

“What a wonderful idea.”

“Yes, it was, although funding was still a problem.” Ava smiled. “But I had a bee in my bonnet, as they say, and I began to write letters. Finally, I received a reply from a Mister Francis Warren, the territorial governor, appointed by President Grover Cleveland himself. He offered a tidy amount of state funding for me to build the school for the deaf and blind, to serve such children throughout the territory.” She sighed. “So anyway, that’s what brings me out west.” She looked down at the small velvet reticule she held in her lap, twisting her fingers around the corded string. “I came to start a new life, to try and do something worthwhile that would make my parents proud.”

The train began to slow, climbing a low grade out in the middle of nowhere, nothing but a few rolling hills covered with long, pale green prairie grasses bending gently in the wind. The ever-present breeze that seemed to float across the prairies made the grass look like waves, just like the small, rolling waves she had seen on the lake behind their town, a mesmerizing and almost comforting sight.

Mrs. Carruthers gently patted her hand. “I’m sure they’re very proud of you, young lady, and always have been. In fact—”

The train slowed still more, and she felt the slight lurch of the train car on the iron rails, the chugging of the engine slowing, puffs of sooty smoke passing by her window. She blinked when she saw something slip by her window, a shadow of something half-hidden in the exhaust smoke from the stack of the locomotive up ahead. At first, she had imagined it, but then she saw another one.

Just before her mind identified what she had just seen, she heard the sharp report of gunshots and then the image of a masked man bent low and leaning forward in his saddle, a bandanna pulled up to cover most of his face, racing past her window.

 

Chapter 2: Wyatt

Wyatt liked working in the carpenter’s shop with Bernard Collins, surrounded by the aroma of freshly hewn pine, sawdust, and wood glue. For the past couple of years he had worked for the fifty-year-old carpenter and furniture maker in Hope Springs as an apprentice of sorts. When he’d first arrived in town, all he had been looking for was a job so that he could earn some money before he moved on, like he had been for the past handful of years.

In his restless wanderings, he’d ridden as far north as the Canadian border and as far south as the Mexican border down near Tucson in Arizona Territory. He’d seen the Great Salt Lake to the west but didn’t care for alkaline flats and the bland landscapes west of the Wasatch mountains. He’d ridden east again and made his way through the mountain ranges of Colorado Territory, wintering in abandoned mining cabins or caves when he had to.

A couple of years ago, he had grown weary of traveling, always moving from one place to another, not wanting to linger long in any town for fear his past would catch up with him one day. Venturing through the mountainous regions of northwestern Wyoming Territory that early spring, he had arrived in the small and nondescript town of Hope Springs. It was here that he’d finally stopped running from something that might never catch up with him. He had lived his entire life without any sense of permanence, without roots, without purpose, and he had wanted that then. But no longer.

At that moment, after all the places he’d traveled through, all the places he’d been, he saw what he wanted. Men walking with their wives and children down a boardwalk or working hard through the day. Men tending their cattle or their fields while their wives took care of their livestock or hung laundry, welcoming their husbands and children in their arms at the end of a long, hard day. It didn’t matter whether these people were ranchers or worked in a store or bank. At the end of the day they headed home, to a place where the windows glowed with yellow lights at night and laughter often escaped into the night.

Such thoughts had been in his mind when he had ridden into Hope Springs nearly two years ago. It was an isolated town for the most part, located in the northwestern region of Wyoming Territory in the foothills along the eastward facing range of mountains towering above. A couple of day’s hard ride through these mountains would take him  to the wide plains and eventually to the larger town of Casper if he wished, and even further south into Colorado Territory into Denver, but he stayed away from large towns, mostly.

In those two years he’d learned woodworking and carpentry, thanks to his mentor, Bernard Collins. That day he had ridden into town, there were no other jobs to be found in Hope Springs that day. Not sweeping the saloon floor at night, nor organizing shelves in the mercantile, not even working at the grain mill on the edge of town, sitting next to a wide stream that meandered its way down from the higher reaches of the Teton Mountains above.

 This town was home to him now; its people and its sounds familiar and comforting. He knew its people. Charles and Agnes Danforth, who owned the general store. He’d grown accustomed to the familiar clang of hammer on metal echoing through the air from Joshua Wilcox’s blacksmith shop at the north end of town. He swept his gaze past Rowena McGregor’s boarding house, and the livery and stable run by Ezra Sawyer at the edge of town. Of course, like many towns, this one had a small adobe-sided bank and combination land office. There was Sheriff Stone’s office, located in an old log cabin with a relatively new looking addition that held the jail cells and extra storage space, or whatever else the sheriff might need. The carpenter’s shop where he worked was situated at the southern end of town a workshop a short distance away. A small shingle hanging over the doorway of the main shop front announced it as simply ‘Carpenter Shop’.

Yet at nearly twenty-four years of age, Hope Springs had turned out to be exactly what Wyatt was looking for. A peaceful town. A town far from his former life in southern Colorado Territory or down into New Mexico.  Hope Springs was a town where his face wasn’t to be found on any wanted poster.

He had been cautious at first, wary of being discovered by someone who might’ve seen him in the past, someone who might have run into him at the wrong time, had perhaps even faced the muzzle of his revolver in those days before he realized he was wasting his life following a man with a bad reputation and a temper to match.

“I’m off to see about a new job.”

Wyatt glanced up to find Bernard hovering in the doorway, a hopeful expression on his face. He cast a quick glance around the structure. 

“You can finish that piece without any help?”

Wyatt grinned. “Sure thing, Bernard. Almost done.”

With a pleased nod, Bernard disappeared and Wyatt was alone again in the work shed. He glanced around the familiar room; he knew every tool and where it belonged. From the everyday tools such as hammers to the wood smoothing planes, chisels, and gimlets, which were used to create holes in the wood for dowels. There was a myriad of adzes and scratch stocks used to create wood moldings, both simple and decorative ones carved with exquisite skill. There were straight bladed draw knives used to remove bark from tree limbs and shaping axe handles.

Old glass canning jars were lined up on the shelf containing a variety of nails, which Bernard had made for him by the town blacksmith, Joshua Wilcox. Some of them were so tiny it was Wyatt was amazed that the blacksmith’s large, thick fingers had even managed to hold onto them as he made them.

Wyatt stretched his back and looked out the open double doors of the workshop, one of the larger structures at the south end of town. They were at the edge of a meadow, behind which ran the creek. Across the way he could see the large pond, and beside it the small church, home of the Reverend Delmar Radford. 

With a sigh, he turned back to his work, but not before he smiled again at the vast number of tools hanging from the walls and his gaze landed on the brand-new rip saw, designed by a pair of brothers named Barnes a mere six years ago. It was Bernard’s pride and joy, a piece of equipment he saved up quite a while for. The hand powered saw was capable of cutting planks up to nineteen inches wide and able to cut ten feet of it in a minute, though for harder woods like maple or ash, it was a bit slower. Still, it was an impressive tool, a hand cranked and self-feeding machine that employed two brown leather belts, the entire contraption a marvel even to Wyatt.

Despite his pleasure at being left alone to work with the wood in the shed, he frowned. Bernard had gone to visit with Sheriff John Stone, who’d left a message for him to stop by his office at some point today. Wyatt felt his heart jolt with a traitorous leap but then he calmed down. No one knew who he had been. In this town and the region around it, everyone knew him for who and what he was now. The carpenter’s apprentice of sorts, the man who helped Bernard Collins make furniture, build wagons, create tools, wagon wheels and more.

Over the past couple of years, Wyatt had heard very little of the outlaw gang he had spent so many years with, nor of Royce Wolff, its leader, which was just fine with him. He had made a home for himself in Hope Springs, the quiet little town nestled in the rugged mountains of western Wyoming Territory. It was there that he had learned how to work with his hands, to create rather than to destroy, to dream rather than despair. He liked the people in this town and though at first, he had been wary of Sheriff Stone, they had become something akin to friends. If only he could push that one part of his past out of his mind forever.

He got back to work, his arms starting to burn as he slid the small wooden plane over the wood. He loved the sound of it and the pleasure it brought him to be able to turn an ordinary piece of wood into something unique. He tried to push thoughts of outlaws and troubles from his mind. He knew he had made the right choice, leaving the gang. Before his parents had died he had been taught right from wrong and he knew that what Royce Wolff and his gang did was wrong. The life they lived was wrong. He also knew, even within the first few months of them taking him under their wing, that he didn’t want to live the life of an outlaw, an outsider, a constantly hunted man. Wolff seemed to glory in his choice of life, but Wyatt certainly didn’t, but he didn’t know how to leave. Where would he go? What could he do?

Royce often reminded Wyatt that it was he and his gang who had taught the youth everything he knew about survival, that they had fed and clothed him over the years, and that, most important of all, that Wyatt owed them for that.

“Wyatt!”

Wyatt looked up from his work in surprise. How long had Bernard been gone? He’d lost track of time.  Bernard entered through the wide double doors of the carpentry shop, noting the look of excitement on his mentor’s face.

“What is it?”

“Just got back from the sheriff’s office,” Bernard said.

Bernard Collins stood maybe five-foot-eight, with broad shoulders and strong hands, his forearms thick and covered with curly reddish blond hair as he sauntered inside, his thumbs hooked in the pair of suspender straps that held his pants up over slim hips.

“We got us a job, Wyatt, and a good one at that. It will keep us busy for a while, so let’s hurry up and get these current jobs finished up and delivered.”

“What job?”

Bernard beamed, rocking back on his heels and chuckling. “You and me, Wyatt, we’re going to build us a schoolhouse.”

 “A schoolhouse?”

“And not just a small one-room schoolhouse either.”

Wyatt lifted an eyebrow in curiosity. He’d never seen Bernard looking so content, like he’d just eaten the best steak of his life in spite of several missing teeth on the lower right side of his jaw, knocked out by a recalcitrant mule a year ago. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Bernard flung his arms out. “A big schoolhouse! A two-story schoolhouse with a veranda, an attic, a kitchen, storage, and—”

“Who in the world would build a schoolhouse that big out here in the middle of nowhere?” Wyatt asked. “Besides, children old enough for schooling share the church. Why would this little town need anything bigger?”

“It’s just not any little town school, Wyatt. It’s a special school.”

Wyatt eyed his mentor warily. “Why are you grinning like that?” He pretended an impatient scowl. “Why don’t you just tell me, for crying out loud?” Sometimes, the old man could try the patience of a saint, but he knew that Bernard often enjoyed their sparring, and he was more than happy to let the man play his game and enjoy knowing something that very few others did.

“It’s going to be a school for the deaf and blind,” Bernard explained, swinging his arm out to encompass outdoors somewhere. “It’s going to serve children throughout the territory, maybe even children from Montana up north or Colorado to the south.”

Wyatt didn’t understand. “What good is a school for kids like that?” he asked. “I’m not saying they can’t learn, but how do you teach a blind kid to read or a deaf kid to hear and understand?”

“Apparently there are ways to teach such children, and there’s a woman coming from back east to do just that. She’s the sheriff’s niece. She thinks that all children should benefit from an education, regardless of any handicaps.”

“But why?” Wyatt asked. “It’s not like they’re going to leave the school and find jobs, are they?”

“Wyatt, I’m not very familiar with such, but she’s right about one thing. All children should be educated. Besides, from what the sheriff says, there’s a special way of teaching blind children to read, with a book with bumps on the paper that they feel with their fingers.”

“They read bumps?”

“I don’t know exactly how it works.” Bernard shrugged. “Apparently, they have their own alphabet, using these bumps, and as their fingers slide over them, letters and then words are spelled out. So instead of reading with their eyes, they read with their fingers.”

Wyatt couldn’t imagine such a thing, but it sounded impressive. He wondered about this schoolteacher. He had had a teacher once, a none too friendly man whose hair stuck out in all directions. He had hairy ears and nostrils and a narrow face. That man had been mean-spirited and overly fond of his ruler.

“You said this teacher was a woman?”

Bernard looked at him and then nodded, a sly grin curving his lips as he waited.

Wyatt didn’t disappoint. “How old is she?”

“I don’t know, but you’ll find out in the next few days. She’s on her way now.”

Despite himself, Wyatt’s interest piqued. A woman schoolteacher was making her way toward Hope Springs even as they spoke, coming to oversee the building of a special school. A school they had been hired to build. Well that was a good thing and meant some steady money for a while, but he had to wonder about a woman taking on such a task by herself. Bernard didn’t know her age, but she couldn’t be as old as the sheriff, could she, not if she was the man’s niece? He figured that the sheriff was maybe forty-five years old. The age of the woman would depend on when the sheriff’s sibling had gotten married. 

“What does she look like?”

“How the heck should I know?” Bernard sighed. “Stop worrying about the teacher.” He rubbed his hands together. “We have us a job that could take us a few months, well into summer. Plus, we’ve been commissioned to make the desks and cupboards and tables for the place as well.”

He eyed the piece Wyatt was working on. “You almost done with that?”

Wyatt nodded. “Just a little more planning, and then I can sand and varnish.”

“Good,” Bernard said, then gestured toward the door. “I’m closing up shop for the rest of the afternoon. Got some stuff to figure out with the new job. Why don’t you go home and get some rest. We’re both going to need it.” He gestured. “You can finish that first thing in the morning.”

It wasn’t often that Bernard closed up shop before it grew nearly dark, and Wyatt wouldn’t argue. While he enjoyed the hard work, his muscles having been well honed over the past couple of years, he was tired, his muscles ached, and he wouldn’t mind heading back home to grab his fishing pole. He often caught his supper from the creek that ran along the eastern edge of town.

Minutes later he left the workshop, closing and latching the door behind him. He spied the dull glow of lantern light from a window in the main carpentry store and office, where Bernard lived in the loft. He smiled, shaking his head and then headed for his sod house, situated in a small meadow beyond the pond outside of town. As he neared it, he looked at it with fresh eyes.

The sod house he lived in had perhaps been an animal shelter for the first founders of Hope Springs, maybe a home as they built their house. It had been constructed by stacking patches of sod with its grass one atop the other to form walls. The roots of the grass held the sod together with a moderate amount of upkeep. He’d had to replace the roof shortly after he’d moved in, but he and Bernard had built a simple roof structure over which they laid large shingles. His soddie, as it was called, was about twenty by sixteen feet, plenty enough room for someone like Wyatt, who hadn’t lived with a roof over his head for nearly eight years.

No one had claimed the soddie, and no one had seemed to mind when he moved in with his saddlebags and blanket. He had built a small corral beside it for his horse and last spring he had attempted a small garden where he could grow some root vegetables. He lived simply; a narrow bed frame with a rope base for the straw filled mattress he slept on, a small table where he sat to eat, a small cast-iron stove tucked into the far corner. The little sod house was Wyatt’s home now, and while it may have lacked in modern comforts it had given him the privacy he craved. 

Looking at it now, though, he realized how alone he truly felt. It was a sad state of affairs that he was still more used to being alone than not. Though not a stranger in town any longer, he had yet to make any true friends. He didn’t confide in Bernard; he’d never even considered it. He had never been invited to anyone’s Sunday supper, nor had any younger women in town ever given him an indication that they might be interested in him.

Wyatt tried not to be disappointed over that. After all, what could he offer a woman? What woman would want to move out of a comfortable home and into an old, one-room sod house that was cold in winter and blazingly hot in summer? He was a man who didn’t shave every morning—maybe once a week if he had a mind to. After all, who did he have to impress? When the weather was warm, he bathed once a week in the creek behind town. But in the summer, he’d taken to dipping into the creek every evening to cool off, and wash off the sweat from a hard day’s work in the carpenter’s shop, before climbing into bed.

He washed his clothes in the creek behind town as well, but though they were mostly clean, they were old and worn, even torn in spots. Not exactly a good catch for any young woman. Maybe someday, but he wasn’t getting his hopes up. After all, he hesitated to allow himself to get close to anyone, male or female. What would happen if he slipped up and accidently mentioned something of his past that he didn’t want anyone to know? He didn’t want to lie, to make up a fake past that he would have to always remember. Better to just keep to himself, do the job he was paid to do, and stay well out of the sheriff’s way. Over the past two years, he’d often paused in front of the sheriff’s office, where one or two Wanted posters were displayed, always relieved when he realized his likeness wasn’t on any one of them.

No, it was best that he not allow his curiosity to grow over the new schoolteacher. He needed to focus only on his work, on saving up enough money so that someday he could live in a real house, even if he were destined to live in it alone for the rest of his life. Even so, he hoped that someday he would be fortunate enough to find a woman that wanted him. 

He smiled and shook his head, thinking that he was being foolish. Many years ago, when he’d been a young boy, his mother had given him a charm from her bracelet. She called it a four-leaf clover, a good luck charm. He had kept it in his pocket for years after the accident that had taken her life, up until he’d left the outlaw gang and discovered that he’d lost it somewhere.

He didn’t believe in luck. He didn’t believe that a rabbit’s foot or a horseshoe or a four-leaf clover could bring him luck. That was just wishful thinking. No, he had to work for what he wanted, and what he wanted most was to be accepted and loved for who he was. He wanted to put his sorry past behind him forever, and in order to accomplish that, no one could ever know who he had been or what he had done before he came to Hope Springs.

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“Chasing Sunsets of Love” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Ava Stone, a determined young teacher, ventures out West to build a school for the deaf and blind in the rugged mountains of Wyoming Territory. In the small town of Hope Springs, fate intertwines her path with Wyatt Reed, a captivating and enigmatic carpenter’s apprentice. As they join forces to turn Ava’s dream into reality, their connection grows stronger, and she finds solace in his undeniable support.

Will Ava find the purpose and fulfillment she seeks in this mysterious yet heartwarming connection?

Beneath Wyatt’s brooding exterior lies a hidden past as an outlaw with the notorious Iron Wolves gang. Fearful of his secrets being exposed, he yearns for redemption and a chance at a home filled with the warmth of love and the promise of a family. Yet, as he navigates his fears and aspirations, a nagging uncertainty gnaws at Wyatt’s soul…

Will Wyatt’s secret past shatter his dreams of finding a place to call home?

In the midst of the untamed wilderness, Ava and Wyatt discover the power of love, the strength of their own spirits, and the potential for redemption. Will they conquer their inner demons and forge a path to happiness, or will their pasts prove insurmountable obstacles in their quest for a shared destiny?

“Chasing Sunsets of Love” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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