More Than a Miracle Read online

  More then a Miracle

  Raine Cantrell

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2000 by Theresa DiBenedetto

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition July 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-346-5

  Also by Raine Cantrell

  Wildflower

  Silver Mist

  Western Winds

  Calico

  Desert Sunrise

  Tarnished Hearts

  Darling Annie

  Whisper My Name

  The Homecoming

  Novellas

  The Bride’s Gift

  Miss Delwin’s Delights

  The Secret Ingredient

  More than a Miracle

  A Time for Giving

  Apache Fire

  To Michael, Krysta and Tommy—

  never stop believing.

  Chapter One

  The Colorado mountain wind howled around the rafters of the cabin almost lost among the towering pines on this first night of December 1884.

  Seated in a rocking chair before the river stone fireplace, Maureen O’Rourke looked up from her knitting. Snowflakes swirled against the panes of the only glazed window that glowed with the light of candles and the newly fed fire.

  She listened for a few moments, then shrugged off the vague disquiet that distracted her. It was foolish to think she could hear any sound over the rising wind.

  This would be her second winter in the cabin. Since last fall when she discovered the cabin abandoned, she kept expecting someone to come riding up and tell her and the children they would have to leave.

  But no one had come to chase them away.

  Her gaze swept over this area of the cabin. She still found it difficult to believe that someone had left behind dishes and cooking pots, the very chair she sat upon, an old cedar blanket chest and a pine table and benches.

  The mellowed logs of the walls showed care in the building. And cleverness, too. The large fireplace backed a smaller one so that two chimneys warmed the sleeping loft above and the smaller private one below. Her own feather tick rested on a sweet summer-grass-stuffed mattress supported by the rope springs of the pine bedstead.

  This cabin had been a home, carefully and lovingly built and tended. Then abandoned.

  At first the thought had bothered her, but now all she felt was a warmth, as if this was all meant to be.

  Her family back in County Donegal would say she had been favored by the Odaoine sidhe, the fairy people of Irish legend and lore.

  Maureen hoped it was not true. The wee folk were a most fickle lot, giving good and bad luck upon whims of their own.

  With a sigh she turned her attention to the scarf she needed to finish. She had found the woolen shawl in the blanket chest, the only piece of feminine apparel stored there. The yarn she unraveled was the softest she had ever touched. More important, there was enough to make new mittens and scarves for both children. She would add these to the items she had bartered for their Christmas presents.

  And she was determined that this would be a good Christmas with plenty to eat and enjoyment for all of them.

  She couldn’t stop a quick glance to the corner where the tree would stand. Strings of dried berries hung on a nearby peg waiting to be draped over the branches.

  Not for her and the children the practice of cutting out woodcuts from a catalogue of some practical item or toy.

  She remembered all too well as a child finding a bit of string holding such pictures to the branches of the tree or tucked into a much mended stocking.

  As she grew older, she understood how much her parents loved her and wished they could give her the French doll displayed on a shelf in the mercantile, or the shiny new ice skates, or later yet, the sealskin cape just like Miss Alice Potter wore and the kidskin gloves.

  She found it far kinder to ask for necessary items well within her parents means to provide. Her dreams and her longings were hers to share or keep secret.

  Far better for all to hold the soft and warmly knitted stockings that her mother had made with love and she could accept with the same feeling, than express a wish for silk stockings and find only a bit of paper.

  Maureen thought about that and how from that time she had developed a practical streak that helped her to meet whatever trials life set in front of her to overcome.

  Let others wish for the impossible.

  She was perfectly content.

  This year she could provide a real Christmas feast. Her own good aim with a rifle had brought them a wild turkey. The vegetable garden she’d nursed through the summer had provided them with enough to eat and more for trading.

  For the first time she had a whole sugar loaf and could generously grate some over the cookies she would bake. They had corn for popping to string on the tree and some for eating, too.

  If there were times when she felt lonely, it was a very small price to pay to see the children warm, fed and happy.

  She picked up her knitting, forcing herself to concentrate on the stitches while she worked to banish the thoughts of the past

  Truly, she told herself, such thoughts had no place in the new life she planned and worked toward. The creak of the rocking chair and her humming lulled her deeper into her contentment.

  Gabriel Channing knew leaving the trading post and the meager town springing up around it had been a mistake.

  The kind of mistake that could get a man killed.

  The increasing bite of the wind, the thickening flurry of snow and the pack animals fighting the lead line all pointed to an error in judgment.

  The only trial he had not encountered were heavy drifts that would cause the horses to flounder. But he was not sure how much longer his luck would hold.

  He needed to find shelter immediately.

  His own carelessness added to the bitter frustration of his empty year-long search. Men called him a fool to continue hunting, but everything he had meant little without the one person necessary for his life to have meaning.

  So he took risks, like riding out when the mother of storms was beginning, always hoping and praying that this time, this trip, would see an end. A happy end, he added to himself.

  Gabe bent his head low against a sudden strong gust of wind that whipped snow against his face. He knew how tired the horses were; knew that if he did not push on they would all freeze.

  Several times he thought he spotted a likely place to build a brush shelter, but something inside him told him to go on.

  It wasn’t too much longer that the slow realization that he had left the sheltering woods penetrated his thoughts. He pulled up at the edge of a meadow. He knew he had left the flatland behind and had been climbing steadily through the afternoon into the foothills.

  He sheltered his eyes with a leather-gloved hand. He thought he knew this place. If he was right, there was shelter not far ahead.

  With a new sense of purpose, he urged his horse forward and tugged the lead line to bring his pack animals closer.

  “Just a little farther,” he coaxed. “I’ll have us safe and
warm as if we were home.”

  The restless stampings of his mountain-bred mustang sent him moving across the meadow at a fast trot. Once across, the wall of pines blocked the worst of the wind and snow.

  For a long while he plodded on, wondering if the cold had befuddled his senses. He could swear the cabin was closer, but once more they were climbing a ridge where the trees thinned and the full force of the storm battered him and his horses. His feet were close to numb despite the double layer of socks and thick boots. He couldn’t feel his nose.

  But he had come this far on a hunch and had to play it out.

  He felt blessed relief as the trees thickened to screen him from the fury of the wind and snow.

  The faint smell of smoke brought him up short. He forced numb fingers to unbutton his heavy sheepskin-lined coat. He tucked his right hand under his armpit to warm it. He shivered as his body warmth disappeared, but as he touched the well-worn butt of his holstered gun, he knew it wasn’t foolish to risk exposure to the cold for his safety.

  A man alone never knew what kind of company he would find pulling up to a campfire or a lonely cabin. Having his hand warmed, and his gun free of the thong that held it holstered made him ready for whatever kind of reception he might find.

  Minutes before, for the third and final time, Maureen set aside her knitting. The vague disquiet sent her on another restless prowl around the cabin until she stood in front of the window. There was little to see but the thick fall of snow and the darkness beyond.

  She questioned her own senses. A feeling that she needed to be aware of something happening was growing inside her, but she was sure the warning was not one of danger to her or the children.

  The temptation to light the lantern and take a look around outside rose to an almost overwhelming need.

  She stepped back from the window, closed her eyes briefly and tried to concentrate. She knew the animals were safe in the barn. If timber wolves were around, they would not be silent, but a mountain cat would be.

  Her knowledge that the team of horses, milk cow and chickens were safe went beyond the stout walls of their shelter to knowing truth she had had as a child. It had never failed her. Her family claimed the magic of the Green Isle was bred in her bones and would always protect her and those she loved.

  Perhaps there was some truth to that, for her sense never failed to warn her when some great change was about to happen or when danger was near.

  There was no help for it. She opened her eyes. The urge to look around outside remained, even stronger than moments ago.

  From the pegs near the door, she took down a heavy wool jacket she had traded her best cloak for, and used her shawl to cover her head and shoulders. Her gloves were serviceable wool and she quickly put them on once the lantern was lit.

  She closed the door behind her and stood for a few minutes beneath the overhanging roof.

  As she stepped to the edge of the porch, the wind whipped her skirt and petticoats against her legs. It took but a moment to see that the snow was thick and wet, the kind that stuck to the ground and would close the mountain pass to the trading post.

  The thought of being isolated with the children did not worry her. She had a smokehouse filled with meat, and her storeroom, while not filled to overflowing, held enough dry foodstuffs and canned goods to see the three of them through the winter.

  The air was sharp and biting, the wind more so as she shrugged off her thoughts and stepped down. Sheltering the lantern against her, she kept close to the side of the cabin and made her way to the barn. The footing was not too slippery, but if the temperature dropped the path would become icy and dangerous.

  The bar holding the barn doors closed was firmly in place. She pressed her ear against the cold wood planks to listen for any disturbance from the animals.

  There was nothing to hear over the rising wind. No chickens squawking, no panicked whinnies from the horses, no lowing from the milk cow.

  All as silent and serene as the woods that surrounded the cabin.

  Maureen tightened her grasp on the icy metal handle of the lantern. Something had sent her out here. She looked around once more, then stared into the woods as far as she could see.

  The thick trunks and sweeping branches of the towering pines collected snow. Some of the branches would snap beneath the weight by morning, while others would sag low enough to form shadowed snow caves to delight the children.

  There was nothing here to alarm her.

  The very urgency that had sent her out into the winter cold disappeared far more suddenly than it had come upon her.

  Her eyes began tearing. The wet cold seeped through the soles of her boots. With her fingers growing numb and deep shivers coming from where the wind penetrated cloth, she hurried to retrace her steps to the cabin.

  More annoyed than worried she turned the corner and found herself too surprised to cry out.

  Several animals loomed close to the porch, their packs hilled with snow.

  The sight of the horses, heads hanging low as if they had come a far piece, freed her to move. She kept the lantern at her side so not to frighten them into running off.

  Her thought of them being strays disappeared as the animals shifted and revealed a rider hunched over one horse’s neck.

  She lifted the lantern and held the blurred impression of craggy features as the man turned his face toward the light.

  Now she understood why she had been summoned outside. The poor man was in need of rescuing. “Lord, save us all from these greenhorns who come west without knowing what they are about.”

  “Greenhorn?” The word came back at her in a hoarse whisper. “Lady, I’ve come home.”

  Chapter Two

  Gabe stared at the swaying light. He knew what he whispered was wrong, but the cold stinging him like tiny cutting knives demanded he concern himself with getting warm.

  He forced himself to sit up in the saddle, easing his hand away from the gun.

  “It’s too cold to be disputing ownership of the place with you. Do you need help to dismount?”

  Even as she spoke, she had to wonder why there was no fear, no sense to be cautious with this lone man. After all, she was a woman alone with two children who depended upon her to keep them safe. She had to be wary.

  Since he appeared held in the grip of the cold, she repeated her offer to help, then added, “Come inside and warm yourself. I’ll see to your horses.”

  She thought about explaining her possession of the abandoned cabin for over a year. But as it didn’t seem he was going to put them out now, she would deal with that problem when the time came.

  Gabe found himself obeying the firm, no-nonsense yet very feminine voice. The cold had seeped down into his bones. Dismounting cost him more effort than he believed possible.

  Maureen moved closer to him, one hand reaching out to touch his snow-covered sleeve.

  “You poor old man. You must be near frozen. Come inside now. Come on,” she coaxed as if talking to one of the children. “But mind you, don’t be making noise. With Christmas coming the little darlings have the devil of a time sleeping.”

  Gabe found himself shocked to silence. Old? Old man, she called him. But he found himself handing over the reins and lead rope just as if he were one of these children she talked about. He struggled to see the face of the woman beneath the shawl. She was shorter than his own near six feet, and unless he was snow crazed, there was a definite Irish lilt to the voice now crooning to his horses as she led them away.

  Led them away? His horses?

  He cast a longing glance at the glowing window, knowing it must be warm inside the cabin. With a rough shake of his head, he rid himself of the momentary confusion that held sway over him.

  No one, but no one cared for his horses but him. His father had taught him that, and it was a good rule for a man to live by.

  He shivered with cold, but forced himself to follow after the woman.

&
nbsp; Old man, indeed!

  He was not sure what was wrong with him. He hoped it was no more than the surprise of seeing a woman step out from the darkness as if she had been waiting for him.

  That thought was enough to chill a man.

  And if he got any colder, he’d be no better than a side of beef in the ice house.

  He hurried to where she struggled with the bar across the barn doors. The wet snow had swollen the wood and it taxed his spent strength to lift the bar free.

  The minute he set it down, she wasted no time herding him and the animals inside and closing the door behind them.

  Maureen did not glance at the man as she set the lantern on a protruding nail. She quickly slipped the latch on a roomy box stall and moved her horse into its teammate’s stall across the aisle. If the stubborn man thought her incapable of caring for horses, it was nothing to her. But then, old men were prone to be set in their ways. Likely that was his problem. She spared a few moments to whisper to her horses and quiet their nervous whinnies at the presence of strange horses.

  Gabe listened to her lovely voice crooning nonsense to the animals. He was fighting the needlelike pricks the warmth of the barn brought to his body. The cow turned its head in the wooden stanchion to look at him with large brown eyes then turned back to chew her cud. Even the chickens in their scattered nests blinked open beady eyes and paid no more attention to the invasion of strange animals.

  What had he stepped into?

  Her efficient moves had already stripped his saddle horse. She rubbed the animal down with coarse sacking and the fool horse nudged her gently as if asking for more. But she turned him into the empty box stall.

  He stripped off his gloves and flexed his cold fingers before attempting to loosen the rope of one pack horse.

  “Please, let me help you,” she offered, coming to stand by his side. “I know how cold effects old bones. There is nothing to be ashamed of in asking for a little help. Besides,” she added, “my hands are warmer since I’ve been inside my cabin and you’ve been riding in the storm. You should have gone straight inside when I told you to and left all of this to me.”