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  “Hope is another fun, inspirational outing from seasoned writer Lori Copeland. Who else but Lori would include among her characters an ornery goat, a stolen pig, a mule called Cinder, and a man named Frog? It’s easy to see why romance readers are circling their wagons around the Brides of the West series!” —Liz Curtis Higgs, author of Mixed Signals

  “I just loved this book! Only Lori Copeland could weave a knee-slapping tale with such a beautifully redemptive message. Her characters are delightfully funny and unpredictable, and her plot is full of refreshing twists and turns. I can’t wait for her next book!” —Terri Blackstock, bestselling author

  “Lori Copeland concocts just the right mix of faith, romance, and humor in Hope. I started chuckling right away and didn’t stop till the end. A cheering, uplifting story of God’s wisdom and love.” —Lyn Cote, author of Whispers of Love

  “Lori Copeland’s third book in the Brides of the West series, Hope, is such a delight! I laughed, I cried, but most of all I thrilled to see how spiritual truths could be woven into a rollicking good story! Lori’s light and lively voice makes for good storytelling! This one’s a keeper!” —Angela Elwell Hunt, author of The Silver Sword

  “This tender and funny page-turner will tug at your heart from start to finish. Hope’s journey to love kept me cheering, sighing, and chuckling as I read. Hope is Lori Copeland at her very best!” —Diane Noble, author of When the Far Hills Bloom

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  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Hope

  Copyright © 1999 by Lori Copeland. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Author’s photo copyright © 2004 by Quentin L. Clayton. All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Beth Sparkman

  Interior designed by Catherine Bergstrom

  Edited by Diane Eble

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  This novel 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 events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  Hope / Lori Copeland.

  p. cm.— (Brides of the West)

  ISBN 0-8423-0269-7 (softcover)

  I. Title. II. Series : Copeland, Lori. Brides of the West 1872.

  PS3553.06336H67 1999

  813’.54–dc21 99-34162

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4143-1536-2

  Build: 2012-12-06 13:26:41

  To my family,

  the source of

  my greatest earthly joy.

  I love you all so very much.

  Contents

  Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Note to Readers

  About the Author

  Preface

  This book is a work of fiction. Thomas White Ferry (1827–1896) of Grand Haven, Michigan, had a long career in politics. He was a member of the Michigan House of Representatives from 1851 to 1852; a member of the Michigan Senate, 31st District, from 1857 to 1858; a U.S. representative from Michigan’s 4th District from 1865 to 1871; and a U.S. senator from Michigan from 1871 to 1883, when this story takes place. I’m not sure the senator had a daughter; she’s as fictional as Big Joe Davidson.

  Prologue

  December 1871

  “You’re a Christian, Dan.”

  At the odd remark, Dan Sullivan looked up. Franklin knew Dan had accepted the Lord several years ago. It had taken a lot of hard knocks to get to that point, but now his convictions were strong.

  Franklin chuckled. “You’re going to need the patience of Job for what I’m about to ask you to do.” The general reared back in his chair, his scruffy boots propped on the scarred desk. The smell of reams of periodicals wedged in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves permeated the room. The office was cramped and perfectly reflected Franklin Talsman. The old gentleman absently drummed his stubby fingers on the belly of one who’d partaken of too many of his wife’s biscuits.

  Dan studied the man who’d been more like a father to him than a commanding officer. There wasn’t much Frank could ask that Dan wouldn’t try to oblige. One more job wasn’t going to hurt. God had been good, kept him alive all these years. One last favor for the general wasn’t out of place.

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. What do you need, General?”

  “Oh …” Franklin pretended sudden interest in his ink blotter as he fidgeted with the inkwell. Dan frowned. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to offer his services.

  “Just a small job—shouldn’t take more than a week or two at the most.” Franklin kept his eyes on the blotter. “Maybe three.”

  Two or three weeks. Not much of a delay for an old friend. Still leaves plenty of time to buy that farm, get a small crop into the ground before summer hit.

  Leaning back in his chair, Dan recalled the time he first met the general. Had it been fifteen years ago? Frank had waded into a rowdy New Orleans street brawl to save his neck. Dan would never forget the favor.

  He’d been a headstrong, cocky nineteen-year-old spoiling for a fight and never had trouble finding one. He was lucky that the general liked that in a man. He took Dan under his wing, drew him into the military, and became both friend and mentor. By the end of Dan’s military stint, Franklin bragged openly that Dan Sullivan had matured into one of the army’s most prized possessions.

  Three years ago Franklin had formed a small but elite group of men for high-risk jobs like the recent rash of government payroll robberies. Dan was part of that unit—at least until he retired at the end of the month.

  “Interested?”

  “As long as it’s no more than two to three weeks.”

  No one was more surprised than Dan when he recently came to the realization that he wanted out of the service. Two years ago, he’d have laughed at the idea. But he was thirty-four now, long overdue for roots—somewhere to call home. Last month he’d informed Franklin he was leaving. He planned to go back to Virginia, buy a piece of land he’d had his eye on, and start a new life. Both parents were dead, and his one sister lived in England. All of a sudden he needed something other than a cold bedroll and a lonely campfire.

  Franklin pushed away from his desk and stood up. “It’s the Davidson gang. They’re on the move again. They’ve robbed three government payrolls in the past six weeks. You’ve got to find these men and stop this piracy.”

  Dan frowned. “The Davidson gang? Aren’t they—”

  “Nuts?” Franklin shoved a sheaf of papers aside. “Nuttier than Grandma Elliot’s fruitcakes. But they’re smart enough to rid the government of a good deal of money lately.”

  Getting out of his chair, Dan moved to the window. Outside, twilight settled over the barren ground. In another few months, Washington, D.C., would come to life. Ugly patches of snow would give way to tender blades of new green grass. Crocuses and lilies would push their head
s through rich, black soil. Tulips and daffodils would bloom along the walks and roadways.

  “You know, Dan, Meredith and I have been hoping you’d reconsider your resignation. Why not take a few months off—take a well-deserved break, then come back.” The old man chuckled. “After the assignment, of course. The army needs men like you.”

  Dan watched the streetlights wink on in the gathering dusk. Carriages rolled by outside the window, men going home to families. Six years ago he’d stood at this window and watched the Union army parading up Pennsylvania Avenue in a final Grand Review. That same month, April 1865, he’d watched the funeral cortege of his beloved president, Abraham Lincoln, led by a detachment of black troops, move slowly up the avenue to the muffled beat of drums and the tolling of church bells. Dan had stood in the East Room of the White House earlier that day and said good-bye to his old friend. Mary had pressed a large white linen handkerchief with A. Lincoln stitched in red into his hand as he’d offered his condolences. Most of his life had been here in Washington. It wasn’t going to be easy to leave, to start over. “Thanks, Frank, but it’s time to go. Move on with my life.”

  The older man moved beside Dan. “Next thing I know, you’ll be getting married.”

  Dan didn’t have to look up to know humor danced in his friend’s eyes. Married? For the past fifteen years there hadn’t been time for a wife. There was no time for a personal life at all. Besides, he’d been in love once. The brief episode had ended in dissatisfaction and heartache. He wasn’t interested in marriage; he planned to live the remainder of his life in peaceful solitude.

  “Right now I’m more concerned about buying a few head of good beef cattle.” Dan sank back into the hard wooden chair in front of Frank’s desk. “Exactly what is it you want me to do, Frank?”

  Franklin sat down again, shuffling more papers and handing them to Dan. “Wouldn’t be our kind of thing except that military payrolls are involved. Seven total, to be exact.”

  Dan frowned. “Seven?”

  “Seems this gang of three scruffy ne’er-do-wells has been able to intercept seven payroll shipments—three in the past six weeks. Witnesses say the gang is a bunch of inept fools—don’t seem to know what they’re doing—but that could be a cover.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. “We’ve tentatively identified them. One is Big Joe Davidson. Spent some time in Leavenworth for armed robbery. A bank. Tall, strong as an ox, got one eye that wanders. Isn’t known to be real bright, but that could be a cover, too. The second is Boris Batson—don’t know much about this one, just that he’s ridden with the gang two years.

  “The third one is called Frog. He sustained a bad throat injury in a fight several years ago. Ruined his voice.” Frank leaned back in his chair. “He’s been in prison once that we know of. Apparently he doesn’t talk much. At least hasn’t during a holdup, and from what we’ve heard, never spoke while he served his time.”

  Dan studied the wanted posters. The three faces that stared back at him didn’t appear to be overly bright.

  “I want you to hook up with them. Gain their confidence, find out where they’re getting their information. We’ll put the word out on you.” Frank grinned. “In fact, you’ll be one dangerous character. Name’s Grunt Lawson, and you’re lightning fast with a gun, even faster with women, and mean as a woodpile rattler. We hope the Davidson gang gets wind of you, so that when you meet up, they’ll be begging you to join them.”

  “You think someone on the inside is feeding this gang information about the payroll shipments?”

  “That’s what we think. Only two or three people know when those shipments go out and how much. So far, the gang has hit the three largest ones. Someone has to be filtering information. Your job is to find out who and make the arrest.”

  It was a standard request. Dan had followed the procedure more than a dozen times over the years. But he was tired. Tired of being someone else, tired of cozying up to outlaws, then moving in for the arrest. Tired of living a lie. He tossed the flyer back on the table. “Where’s the next shipment?”

  “Kentucky.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “First light. You accepting the job?”

  Dan pushed out of the chair and stood up. “For you, yes. But it’s my last one, Frank.”

  Frank’s smile widened as he rounded the desk to walk Dan to the door. “Your orders will be ready in the morning. Be careful, son. This gang may be stupid, but they’re also dangerous. I’d hate to lose you over something foolish.”

  “I’m always careful, Frank. You know that.”

  The general clapped him on the back affectionately. “Gonna miss you, boy. Sure you won’t reconsider and stay on? I can arrange for a desk job if that’s what you want.”

  “No, thanks. I’m going to simplify my life.”

  “Simplify your life, huh?” Franklin grinned.

  Dan didn’t know what the general found so amusing. One last job, and Dan Sullivan’s life was going to be dull as dishwater.

  “I’m tired of moving around, Frank. From now on, I’m going to live a quiet, uncomplicated life, alone—with a few head of cattle on my own piece of land with nobody telling me where to go or what to do.”

  Franklin’s grin widened.

  Dan eyed him sourly. “What’s so funny?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Got your life all planned out, do you?”

  “Sure. Why not?” Dan prided himself on control. Control of his life and his actions. God took care of the big picture; he took care of the details. “What’s so odd about that?”

  Franklin shrugged. “My mother, God rest her soul, had a saying: ‘Want to hear God laugh? Tell him what you got planned for your life.’” He winked. “You take care of yourself, son. It’s going to be real interesting to see if God agrees with you.”

  Chapter One

  Hope Kallahan pressed a plain cotton handkerchief to her upper lip and shifted wearily on the hard wooden seat, bracing herself against the wall of the coach.

  Her bones ached.

  She’d have given all she owned for a pillow to cushion her backside. Never had she sat for so long on such a hard wooden bench, not even in church. The pews in Papa’s house of worship were softer than this device of torture.

  “Are you feeling poorly, Miss Della?”

  The young woman sitting opposite Hope peered anxiously into the sickly face of her elderly companion.

  “I’ll be fine, dear. Just having some mild discomfort. Don’t worry your pretty head, Miss Anne. I’ll be just fine.”

  Della DeMarco, the young woman’s escort, fanned her flushed face. The poor woman had taken ill the moment she boarded the coach, but she insisted on continuing the journey. Her charge, Miss Anne Ferry, daughter of Thomas White Ferry, U.S. senator from Michigan, was traveling to Louisville to visit friends.

  Pressing back against the seat, Hope counted the tall trees lining the road. Miles of countryside rolled by, bringing her closer and closer to her new home.

  And a new husband. To think that a man like John Jacobs wanted her as a mail-order bride—well, it was answered prayer. After Papa died, Hope and her sisters, Faith and June, were in desperate straits. They knew Aunt Thalia couldn’t afford to feed another mouth, much less three. With no resources of their own, the girls felt they had no other choice but to find suitable mates. And since Cold Water had no likely prospects, they were forced to look elsewhere.

  Faith had moved to Texas to marry Nicholas Shepherd, a fine upstanding rancher; June would soon travel to Seattle to marry Eli Messenger, an understudy to the powerful evangelist Isaac Inman of the Isaac Inman Crusade.

  Of course it was too soon for Hope to have heard from either Faith or June, but she hoped to very soon. She was anxious to see how each sister fared with her new husband.

  Ordinarily, Hope would be frightened by such a long and perilous journey undertaken without the security of her sisters’ companionship, but she was resigned in th
e knowledge that she was doing the right thing. She simply had to trust that God had ordained this marriage. Soon she would marry John, and they would live happily ever after.

  Would she be a good wife, one John would be proud to claim? Papa had spoiled her shamelessly, but she was perfectly capable of being a dutiful wife. She reached up to pat her ebony hair into place.

  If matrimony wasn’t too demanding—and Medford had a decent hairdresser.

  Anne Ferry edged forward in her seat. Large brown eyes saved the petite blonde from being plain. “I just don’t know what to do. Miss Della shouldn’t be traveling, but she insists.”

  “Well—she’s the best judge of that,” Hope murmured, but she uttered a silent prayer for the woman’s impediment anyway. Papa always said that folks sometimes weren’t the best judges of their own resources, meaning that they depended upon themselves far too much and not enough on the Lord.

  Papa. She sighed, still feeling his loss. So much had changed since his death. One moment he had been preaching a fiery lesson, and the next, he was lying cold and unresponsive in the pulpit. Now she was leaving everything and everyone she knew to marry a man she didn’t know.

  She closed her eyes, her forced enthusiasm waning. From now on her life would be just plain dull. She’d be a tired old married woman with three or four young ones hanging on her skirts. She sighed.

  She knew little about this man she was about to marry. They’d become briefly acquainted through letters exchanged over a few short weeks. John’s picture depicted a rather plain face, dark hair neatly trimmed and parted on one side, a handlebar mustache. She’d never cared for mustaches, but then perhaps she’d learn to like one. John looked a bit uncomfortable in the photo, as if his collar were too tight or his britches too snug in the get-a-long.