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  Bride in Blue

  Cowboys & Angels #37

  Christine Sterling

  Table of Contents

  License Note

  Get Free Books

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Song of Solomon, Chapter 2 (KJV)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Leave a Review

  Read all of Christine’s Books

  About Christine

  License Note

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  -- Christine Sterling

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  Dedication

  Dedicated to anyone who has suffered from and through a mental illness. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for!

  Acknowledgements

  My heavenly Father gives me the stories and words. I am so thankful for your gifts and I love using them to glorify you! I’m eternally grateful to be your daughter.

  My husband Daniel, who supports me in this crazy writing life. I am glad I’ve been able to retire you through my writing and I’m even more grateful for you being a sounding board as I deal with plot details. You are my one true love, here on Earth.

  My three daughters, Rebecca, Nora and Elizabeth. I couldn’t be prouder of you if I tried. I love you so much.

  To Jo Noelle, who allowed me to be a part of this amazing series! I am grateful for your support and belief in my writing! And to all the other authors in the C&A Series. I am so happy to be alongside you.

  Editors rock – I couldn’t do any of my writing without my support team. Carolyn and Amy, you are much more than editors. You make me a better writer and you are part of my family. Love you both.

  Song of Solomon,

  Chapter 2 (KJV)

  I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.

  As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.

  As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.

  He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.

  Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.

  His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.

  I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.

  The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.

  My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.

  My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

  For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

  The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

  The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

  O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.

  Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.

  My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.

  Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

  Chapter 1

  Spring 1893, New York

  Cassie Stockton opened the window of the tenement and allowed the noise and the air of the city to invade her room. It wasn’t the most pleasant smell, but she couldn’t take being cooped up in the room for one minute longer.

  Living on the east end of New York, her family was crammed in a four-room apartment. She was fortunate to have a room to herself. But that was simply because she was a young woman and it wouldn’t do for her to share a room with her father or her brother.

  She did share a room with her brother when they were little, but as soon as little Charles wasn’t a boy anymore, Momma forced him to sleep in the living room.

  After Momma passed from the fever, Charles moved his mattress and bed clothes into the corner of his father’s bedroom. It was simply a place to sleep for him. For her, however, her room was a sanctuary. A source of escape from the day-to-day existence of living and working in one of the seedier areas of town.

  It wasn’t always this way. When her family first moved in, they had the whole floor to themselves. Then Mr. Weston had to go and rebuild the apartment so that more families would have places to sleep. What was once a beautiful brick building was now a jigsaw of brick, wood and mud.

  The back of the building had been expanded, so now there was a small patch of dirt where grass once had been. People would gather there to socialize, do laundry and barter for goods or services.

  She heard Father complain that the rent didn’t change even though their space was smaller, and more people lived there to share the costs. Father didn’t like Mr. Weston much.

  Mr. Weston only gave them half a day off when they buried momma. And it was without pay. It was the price of doing business, he said.

  Employment was scarce, and once you worked for Mr. Weston, trying to find employment elsewhere proved difficult. It appeared that many other factory owners were afraid of the clothing tycoon.

  Cassie looked out the window and she could see Mrs. Graham boiling her laundry in the small courtyard below. Her two children played in the mud.

  They were going to need baths, Cassie giggled. Unfortunately, there wasn’t running water inside the building, so they would be forced to bath in the laundry tub once their mother was done.

  Cassie was grateful that they had a privacy closet in the house where they could bathe and relieve themselves. It was much better than taking care of ones needs in the street.

  She went back to her bed – a thick mattress filled with straw and picked up her sewing. Mr. Weston provided her work from his factory down the road. Mainly hemming pants and adding buttons to jackets. She had been doing this work since she was old enough to hold a needle and thread.

  Since the factories could be fined for each child under the age of 14 it employed, she worked at home all those years. After she turned 14, the factory didn’t have enough room, so she was able to continue to work from the small apartment.

  She made three cents per ten buttons sewn and five cents for each pair of pants she hemmed. A penny was deducted if the garment became dirty in her care. She was very careful making sure nothing touc
hed the dirty floor in the building.

  It wasn’t much, but it at least allowed her to provide some basics for her family. Her father and brother both worked at the clothing factory. Her brother cut the fabric and her father was responsible for overseeing the sewing team.

  A portion of the rent on their apartment was provided as part of their salary. But it didn’t put a dent in the $13.00 a month they paid for the small four rooms.

  Mr. Weston also owned the factory where they were all employed. He wanted to make sure that his workers were nearby at all times in case there was an immediate order that needed to be taken care of.

  She finished sewing the last wooden button on the cuff of the dark jacket and was folding it when she heard the front door open.

  That’s odd, she thought. She wasn’t expecting anyone until much later – closer to suppertime. She heard the solid footstep, followed by a foot dragging across the floor.

  Her father.

  Cassie heard him sit down in his chair. She walked out of her bedroom and looked at him sitting there with his hand over his face.

  Her father had aged considerably since her mother died. Even though it had only been three years, he looked a decade older. His shoulders, which she thought were so strong, were now hunched and he appeared as though he was trying to curl himself into a ball.

  There was no sign of her brother. Not that Charles would have come straight home. Instead he’d be down at the poolroom drinking and playing billiards.

  Her father removed his hand and looked at Cassie. He didn’t look pleased. He pointed his knotted finger at her. “Get me a drink, girl,” he spat, “and make it quick.”

  Cassie had learned to ignore her father’s tone and quickly went to get a glass of water from the pitcher. “You’re home early,” she said. “Are you hurt?” She knew that his leg bothered him something fierce, especially if there was any kind of dampness in the air. With all the springtime rain it had been bothering him more than usual.

  She watched her father take a sip from the cup and grimace. “You daft twit. You can’t even do a simple thing as getting me a drink, can you?” He pushed himself up and dragged his lame foot to the cupboard.

  He opened the cupboard door and closed it again. He repeated the action until he was satisfied that what he was looking for was in the cabinet.

  Cassie watched as he rummaged around and finally pulled what he was looking for from behind a row of jelly jars. He shuffled back to his chair and sat down; the jar full of clear liquid in his hand.

  “What are you doing with that?” she cried. Her father had taken to being in his cups since her mother passed, but she thought he had stopped drinking.

  He rotated the jar and unscrewed the top. Taking a large swig. Cassie could see the liquid escape the jar as he chugged and collect at the corner of his mouth.

  “I can’t believe you have been hiding that swill in this house.” There was a group of men that made hard liquor from potatoes in the courtyard on Mondays. While everyone else was at the factories, they were making poison that separated hard working men from the money they earned.

  “Don't you worry none, girlie,” he said. “We’ll get it all figured out.”

  “Figured out?” Cassie was confused. Her father tilted his head back and polished off the rest of the jar in one swig. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, the fabric catching any drops of liquor on his chin.

  Cassie gave a little yelp as he threw the jar against the far wall and watched it shatter into many pieces before landing on the floor.

  “Shouldn't you be at work, girlie?” Her father said, looking at her with a grimace. “Mr. Weston isn’t going to appreciate you taking a break if you aren’t finished for the day.” He then mumbled something under his breath.

  “I didn’t catch what you said. You said Mr. Weston, would what?” Cassie wiped her fingers against her skirt. It wouldn’t do to provoke her father, but she just couldn’t help herself.

  Her father looked up at her, his anger replaced by a different emotion. He just looked sad. “I said Weston wouldn’t be pleased if you don’t get those buttons finished.”

  “After that,” she insisted. “I thought I heard you say it wouldn’t matter anyhow.”

  Her father wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I’m tired, girl. Leave me alone.” Cassie headed back to her room. The next words were so light that Cassie almost missed them.

  “Weston sacked me today,” her father said, leaning back on the chair.

  Cassie stopped. A heat flared up in her belly and rose straight to her chest. She felt the rise and fall as she tried to suck in air. She felt she was suffocating. Mr. Weston couldn’t have fired her father. They couldn’t afford the full rent share.

  “Maybe it was a mistake.” She quickly knelt by the side of her father’s chair and took one of his hands in her own. It felt so frail and so cold. “Perhaps you can tell him that whatever happened was a misunderstanding.” Her voice started to rise. “You need to go back and get your job.”

  Her father yanked his hand back and waved her off. “He’s promoting that Harris character. I guess he doesn’t need a cripple like me anymore.” Her father’s head started to nod. “Too old. I’m just too old, Cassandra.”

  He never called Cassie by her name. It was always girl or girlie. Cassie watched her father sleep in the chair. He had one suit that he wore to work every day. Cassie hadn’t noticed how frayed it had become. The fabric was so thin at the elbows, Cassie could see his undershirt peek out through the weave.

  She decided to complete her work in the living room so she could watch her father. Cassie returned to her room and gathered up the basket of suit jackets and her sewing kit. She settled herself on the sofa and picked up the next jacket in her pile. She had three more to get done tonight. That would be 60 cents in her pocket once she was done.

  She realized that she didn’t get paid much at all. Most places wouldn’t take on a woman if there was a man available to do the same job.

  However, she was grateful to have it, even if she did come by being hired through her father. It was a blessing to be able to stay at home when people, like Mrs. Graham took in laundry and sold penny apples on the corner.

  She pulled out her button box and searched to find seven buttons that were similar enough in size and color. The Weston factory made its own wooden buttons. They didn’t use fancy ones made of abalone or mother of pearl. Wood was very functional and cost less.

  When she found the buttons, she tacked the first one in place. The sound of the thread pulling through the fabric gave her solace. Whatever had caused her father to be fired, he wasn’t prepared to talk about it.

  Cassie had just completed the last button when Charles came bursting through the door. His eyes were a little wild as he looked around the room. “Has he been here?” Charles asked.

  “Who?” Cassie asked. She placed the jacket back in the basket and lifted the basket onto the settee.

  “Weston. Has Weston stopped by?”

  “No. I’ve not seen him. Why?”

  Charles breathed a sigh of relief. “I need to get out of here.”

  “Charles, what is going on?” Cassie demanded. “First, Father comes home and drinks, and now you are acting strangely.”

  Charles disappeared into the bedroom and returned carrying a carpet bag and a stack of clothes. He placed them on the table and started shoving the clothes in the bag. Cassie went to stand beside him. “Charles, what are you doing?” She picked up a pair of pants from the table and started to fold them. She hadn’t seen them before. The fabric was very fine. Much finer than they could afford on their pittance of a salary.

  “Where did you get these, Charles?” she asked, holding up the trousers. Before he could answer, she heard a knock at the door. Cassie turned towards the door when she felt Charles’ fingers wrap around her arm.

  “Don’t answer it,” he hissed to her.

  “Why ever not?”

  “Weston is looking for me.�
��

  “Don’t tell me, you got sacked too,” she huffed.

  “No, Cassie, I’ve not. Please,” he begged. “Just act like no one is home.” She scanned her brother’s face. His light brown eyes silently pleading with her. She nodded and went to sit on the sofa. Charles placed his bag on the chair and slid it back under the table. No one would see it if they looked in that direction.

  The knock came again. It was louder this time. “I know you are in there.” Weston! “I saw the back window open. Now open the door!”

  Cassie gave a little jump and placed her hand on her chest, willing her heart to slow down.

  “What is all this racket?” her father said, getting up and walking towards the door. Charles tried to reach his father, but it was too late.

  “Stockton,” Mr. Weston said, entering the apartment. He was so large that his frame took up the entire doorway. He had thinning dark hair on top of his head and a mustache that appeared to have food stuck in it. Cassie grimaced.

  “Mr. Weston,” Cassie said. “Please have a seat.” She hurried to take the basket from the settee.

  “I prefer to stand. This shouldn’t take long.” Cassie felt his eyes roam over her. She tried to suppress a shiver. “Cassandra, you look lovely tonight,” he said, stroking his mustache. She watched the crumbs fall to the floor. “It looks like there was an accident here.” Cassie followed his finger to the broken glass on the floor. “And it appears the wall is damaged. I’ll have to add that to your rent this month.”

  “It was just a jar breaking, Mr. Weston,” Cassie hurriedly replied. “I just haven’t had a chance to clean it up.”

  “Harrumph. Well I came to tell your father that I will send someone over with his items at the factory tomorrow. I can’t have a thief working the floor.”

  Cassie gasped.

  “A thief?” Charles cried. “My father is no thief. He didn’t take a thing from you.” Cassie could see his fists open and close.

  “I saw the evidence with my own eyes. Spools of thread, scissors, buttons were stashed in his work box.”