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  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Debra Holland. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Montana Sky remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Debra Holland, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Legacy

  A Dry Bayou Legacy Novella

  Lynn Winchester

  For Patriots and Pilgrims.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  I cannot tell you how excited and honored I am to be a part of Debra Holland’s Montana Sky Kindle World. It is a dream come true to be listed with such amazing authors. I’d like to thank Debra for inviting me to join the lives and adventures of Morgan’s Crossing.

  A thank you to my cover designer, Jaycee, who is capable of magic.

  I’m grateful to my editor, Melissa Cameron, who has a strange word wizardry of her own.

  And, finally, thank you to my readers who never fail to make me feel wonderful.

  Foreword

  Welcome to the Montana Sky Kindle World, where authors write books set in my 1880s “world” of Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing, Montana. While the backdrop and foundational characters of the world are mine, each individual author creates their own story, and sometimes writes an entire series set in my Kindle World. This sweet western romance, Legacy, was written by Lynn Winchester, and is based on characters from her bestselling Dry Bayou Brides series. Lynn and I were introduced through our mutual friend, International Bestselling author, Kathryn Le Veque. I was pleased to invite Lynn to be a part of the Montana Sky Kindle World launch. I hope you enjoy reading about the characters Lynn brings to the incredible world of Montana Sky.

  - Debra Holland

  Prologue

  Dry Bayou, Texas

  Spring, 1874

  “Timothy!” his ma called to him in the hay loft where he was playing with the barn cat’s newest litter—a fuzzy, mewling pile of calicos and orange tabbies.

  “Be right there, Ma!” he called back, knowing better than to dawdle when his mama called for him.

  He scrambled down from the loft and ran from the barn, nearly colliding with his Pa who was wiping the sweat from his face. “Whoa there, son. Watch where you’re goin’. Last thing we need is for you to break a leg...worse, for me to break a leg.” Timmy’s father was a tall, wide man, who always smelled of hay and tobacco. He spent more than ten hours a day working the fields, tending the animals, and selling their produce for a fair income. He stared down at Timmy with mud brown eyes. “Get in the house, before your ma has to leave the house lookin’ for ya.”

  Timmy didn’t need any further prodding. With a swift “yessir” and tip of his head, he spun on his heel and made a dash for the house.

  He slammed through the back door, into the kitchen, and stopped short when he found his ma standing there, hand on her hip and a wooden spoon in her fist.

  “Ma, I came as soon as I heard ya callin’!” He knew he shouldn’t shout in the house, but he was near out of breath and couldn’t control his volume, through all the heaving in his chest.

  Mrs. Hanlon arched an auburn eyebrow and pursed her lips before clicking her tongue and tossing the spoon onto the table.

  A sigh of relief escaped Timmy once he knew that spoon wasn’t meant for his backside.

  “I called because I need you to run into town and get me a sack of flour.”

  Timmy grimaced. He’d already been into town that morning, helping his father load a wagon with empty crates, which they’d fill with produce tomorrow.

  “I know that look, Timothy Glenn, don’t make me pinch your ears.” Ma tipped up on her toes to reach a can of lard on the top shelf—golden biscuits! His mind whooped in happiness. Ma only ever pulled out the special lard when she was making her World Famous Golden Biscuits.

  For those biscuits, he’d dig a hole to China to get his ma the finest silk!

  Ma placed the lard can on the counter and reached for the flour bin, opening it, then turning to look at Timmy. “While you’re in town stop by and grab the post.” He groaned at the additional errand, but his mother’s sharp gaze quieted him real quick. “Just get going; you need to get back in time to keep an eye on your sisters while I deal with the linens and sewing.”

  His sisters Henrietta and Bernadette—or Rhetta and Bernie, as he liked to call them, much to his ma’s dislike—were twin dolls, all smiles and laughter, until one of them lost sight of the other. They couldn’t ever be apart. His ma’s heavy sigh told him he’d forgotten to answer her properly. “Yes, ma’am,” he blurted, then spun on his heel and slammed from the house. Just before he crested the hill leading to the creek, he heard his ma yell, “Hurry back, Timothy, and don’t get into any trouble!”

  He snickered at that. Out of all the boys in Mrs. Watkin’s school, he was the cleanest and most kind. His mama made sure of it. He knew how to stay out of trouble because trouble always led to him getting a swat from Pa and a disappointed frown from Ma. He hated her frowns even more than he hated those swats. When Ma was disappointed in him, she wouldn’t make her biscuits, and that was worse than being grounded!

  Because he knew the way like the back of his hand, he made it to the edge of town in no time flat. Mosier Mercantile was in the middle of everything, which meant he had to pass all the best places; the candy store and the new eatery, before he chugged through the mercantile door. The bell clanged, bringing Mr. Mosier around the counter to glare at him.

  “Young Mr. Hanlon,” he began. “Despite what you may think, you are not a herd of cattle, stampeding into my store. Please have a care.” The sharp-eyed man, with the pinched face and balding head, spun on his heel and returned to the counter. “Now, what is it you want?”

  Timmy hesitated. He didn’t like making Mr. Mosier angry because when he got angry he seemed to charge more money for his goods. At least that’s what his pa said. “My ma sent me for a sack of flour.”

  Mr. Mosier eyed him, doubt shading his face. “You can’t carry a fifty-pound bag… I suppose I can send you with a twenty-pound bag. You strong enough for that, young man?”

  “You bet I am, Mr. Mosier. I’m the strongest kid in town!” Timmy prided himself on being the strongest, fastest, smartest, and best kid in all of Dry Bayou. And he wasn’t ashamed to say so.

  Mr. Mosier grunted then nodded, coming around the counter again to lead Timmy to the dry goods bins along the wall. Beside the barrel of flour were large and larger sacks labeled ‘flour’.

  “Here you go, young man. I’ll add this to your father’s tab. Make sure he comes into town this week to pay this off.” Mr. Mosier was a stickler for paying your bills on time, which wasn’t a problem for Timmy’s pa, who was an honest man. However, it became a problem when the prices listed in the
store weren’t the prices listed on the bill. Now, Timmy’s pa would never call Mr. and Mrs. Mosier crooks to their faces—he was a courteous man, after all—but he sure grumbled about it at home to Timmy’s ma.

  Knowing better than to speak such things aloud, Timmy only nodded and smiled, then gripped the sack by the corners and lifted it onto his shoulder.

  Gaw-lee that was heavy, but he was the strongest so he’d get it home in time for his ma to make Golden Biscuits. He trudged to the post office, thankful it was on the way out of town, and picked up the post.

  “Timothy Hanlon, you look like you need a little help there, son.” Timmy looked up to find Mr. La Fontaine standing there, hands in his pockets, and a warm smile on his face.

  “No sir, I can make it,” Timmy heaved, the sack pressing down on him. The heat of the day was just settling into his back, and sweat was now sliding down his neck. He was uncomfortable, but he’d never ask Mr. La Fontaine for help! The man was the town founder, for pete’s sake.

  “Timothy, I insist. Let me take you home…I’ll even drop you on the fence line so you can walk the rest of the way.” Mr. La Fontaine winked at Timmy and Timmy knew the man was helping him save face, while also helping him get that increasingly heavy sack of flour home to his ma.

  Knowing when he’d been beaten—by a sack of flour—he sighed and dropped the sack onto the boardwalk just outside the post office. “Yes, sir. I could use the ride.”

  Mr. La Fontaine pointed toward a surrey waiting just up the way and he and Timmy walked to it, Timmy lifted the sack onto the floor of the surrey, then climbed up. Mr. La Fontaine climbed in, awfully limber and agile for a man of his age, and then directed the team of matching red roans toward the Hanlon farmstead.

  It took ten minutes to get to the fence line, where Timmy hopped out, snagged the flour, then hurried to the house. Bursting through the kitchen door, Timmy dropped the flour, stretched his back and smiled up at his ma. “I got the flour, and it wasn’t so hard. I didn’t get into any trouble, either, Ma.”

  His ma turned from the table where she was mixing something in a bowl and stared down at him, taking in his disheveled clothing and his sweaty face. He rubbed his hand over his forehead, then remembered the post. He pulled the letters from his back pocket and handed them to her.

  “Thank you, Timmy,” she said, her eyes dancing with unspoken pride. Timmy saw it and his grin grew.

  Ma placed the stack of letters on the table, beside the mixing bowl, and opened the first one. She read it then turned her eyebrows down into a look he recognized as her ‘Ma ain’t happy’ look.

  “What’s troubling you, Ma?” Timmy asked, truly concerned, if not for whatever she read, then for what it might have to do with them.

  She flicked a glance to him then back to the letter. “Hmmm, what? Oh, your uncle…the one from up north, says he’s sending his daughters down to visit.” She let out a curse. “That man never considers me and what I might have to go through for his hare-brained plans. He didn’t even think to ask me if I wanted to house his bauble-headed daughters.”

  Surprised by the acid in his ma’s voice, Timmy blurted, “But Ma, you always said we should be kind and hospitable.”

  Ma turned to him, her cheeks turning red. “Well, you’re right, we should be kind and courteous. But your uncle…”

  “Uncle Thomas? The one Pa never likes to talk about?”

  Her flush deepened. “Yes, well, your uncle fancies himself a man of fortune. He left the family more than twenty years ago, travelled north determined to get rich. Hit a vein of gold in Montana near Morgan’s Crossing—wasn’t much more than a tent camp then, but it’s supposedly a booming town now—and now thinks he can do whatever he wants because he’s established a big stead somewhere west of there. His daughters, your cousins, Brigette and Phyllis, are just like their father, pushy and with their heads in the clouds. I don’t know what that man is thinking sending his daughters here.”

  “What else did he say?” Timmy asked, suddenly very curious about his uncle, the gold miner who struck it rich.

  Ma blinked then glanced back at the letter. “He promises to return the favor when you’re old enough to go north alone,” she read aloud. “Says he’ll teach you all he knows about being successful—well, I never! Your pa would have his head!”

  Taken aback by the heat of her reaction, Timmy stepped back. “But why? Isn’t being successful a good thing? If Uncle Thomas struck it rich, I could too, then I’d be a success, too!” Excitement, hotter than he ever knew, surged through him. He’d be the strongest, fastest, smartest, and richest man in Dry Bayou—even richer than Mr. La Fontaine! He fairly danced in place thinking about it.

  Ma’s face paled and her eyes narrowed at him. “Timothy Hanlon! You will never be a gold miner! You will go to Morgan’s Crossing over my dead body!”

  Chapter One

  Morgan’s Crossing, Montana

  Spring, 1888

  Squinting into the bright afternoon sun and wiping the sweat from his brow, Timothy Hanlon stepped from the stagecoach onto the roughhewn boardwalk and slapped his hat onto his head. Used to the burning heat of Texas, he was surprised to find that Montana had a kind of heat all its own. A soft breeze blew in from the west, carrying with it the scents of dust and hints of smoke.

  “Timothy, my boy! Welcome to Morgan’s Crossing!” A tall man, who looked like an older, hairier version of his ma, stepped out from behind a milling crowd of people on the boardwalk and walked toward him. “You look like your ma, especially when you squint like that.”

  “Uncle Thomas?” Tim took the man’s hand and shook it. It was soft, so very unlike Tim’s own work-worn hands. “I didn’t know if you’d meet me here or not, but I’d hoped it would be you coming to get me.” The man’s telegram was rather vague, only mentioning the town and that he may be in town that day to greet him. Tim had left Texas only eight days before, but the long train ride to Billings and then the bumpy stagecoach ride in Morgan’s Crossing had done a number to his body. Shoot, he was used to hard work and the aches and pains that came with it, but sitting still for long periods of time created aches in new and unfortunate places.

  His uncle’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he pressed his hand to his chest and tipped his head. “And I’m mighty sorry about that, Timothy, my boy! You must understand that a man of my station is as busy as a bee, with meetings and whatnot. There isn’t a day that goes by that doesn’t have something or another to steal my attention—or money.” He laughed, but Tim didn’t quite understand the humor in it. “I didn’t know if I’d make it to town today, with all the work going on at the stead—Wheeler Hills, is what I call it—I’d hoped to come meet you. Though, my man, Ollie, would’ve happily come to pick you up and deliver you to the estate.”

  “I understand, sir. I’m just glad you could meet me. I don’t think I’d be able to find my way around, not that I wouldn’t give it a go,” he said, looking around at the buildings, people walking to and fro, and the big, blue sky overhead. “This town isn’t much bigger than Dry Bayou.”

  “I s’pose. I haven’t been to Dry Bayou to see my girls since they left, but you know that. I’ve been busy, son, too busy to bother with visiting. I get letters, once a month, and that’s good enough for me.” Uncle Thomas seemed to swat away any guilt he may have felt with a flimsy wave of his hand. “I’ll bring ‘em home soon, just as soon as you and I have had some time to get to know one another. Come on,” he said, gripping Tim by the elbow. “It’s a two-hour drive to the estate in the carriage, but your Aunt Melda is excited to meet you. A good woman, she is.”

  Exhausted, Tim wanted to do nothing more than fall into bed and sleep for three days, but he knew he was asking too much. His uncle had invited him to come up north to Montana to work for him, paying his way, offering him room, board, and a lifetime of experiences—experiences like the ones his uncle had as a miner, before he struck it rich. Tim was indebted to his uncle, which meant he would
do everything his uncle expected of him, even sit in a carriage for another two hours.

  “What about my bags?” he asked, turning to look down at the two large bags containing pretty much everything he owned in the world.

  Uncle Thomas blinked down at them, as if he hadn’t thought Tim would bring luggage. “I’ll have one of the porters load it.” In five minutes, the porter had collected Tim’s bags, and he and his uncle were seated in a comfortable carriage on their way out of town. A little disappointed that he hadn’t had the chance to see more of the town, he watched through the carriage window as the buildings passed by.

  “Don’t worry, son, you’ll have plenty of time to see Morgan’s Crossing. You’ll take many trips into town for supplies and whatnot,” he winked. He smiled politely at his uncle and returned to watching out the window, his body aching, and his mind whirling with the realization that he was finally here, in Morgan’s Crossing.

  His new adventure was just beginning, and he couldn’t wait to see what was in store. But first, sleep. He tipped his head back against the straight back of the thinly upholstered seat and closed his eyes.

  Just a few moments…

  “How’s your ma?” Uncle Thomas asked, tearing Tim from a light slumber. “I know she wasn’t all that happy to let you come up here.” How long had it been since he closed his eyes? It felt like mere moments, but the scenes outside showed him that the dust just outside the mining town had turned to green plains and grasslands; the mountains in the distance rising to the sky.