Loe raamatut: «Bride By Arrangement»

Chapter One

Cowboy Creek, Kansas

June 1868

Noah Burgess wasn’t cut out to be sheriff. He’d worn the badge less than three days and had already failed the town he’d helped found. Seemed one simple task—rounding up the Murdoch brothers and their band of outlaws, men who’d managed to relieve the bank of its gold and end Sheriff Davis’s life—was beyond him.

Muscles stiff from long hours in the saddle, his shirt clinging to his sticky, sweat-slicked skin, he welcomed the sight of his homestead rising up from the sea of prairie grass. The steadfast sun painted everything in a butter-yellow haze. The one-and-a-half-story cabin wasn’t grand or vast like his friends’ houses. In fact, with its awkward roofline and porch awning dissecting the front facade, the home he’d designed and constructed was somewhat of an eyesore.

Unlike Daniel Gardner and Will Canfield, his best friends and cofounders of Cowboy Creek, he didn’t plan on taking a wife and filling his home with offspring. His cabin may not impress folks, but it was practical. Kept him warm during the brutal prairie winters and cool enough during the summer months. Kept the rain and snow out. What critters managed to breach its walls the cat took care of.

He’d done a better job with the barn. Granted, he’d gone a tad overboard. The structure was large enough to house five wagons abreast and ten deep. Straight ahead, stately cottonwoods lining the creek bank blocked the frequent breezes sweeping across the undulating plains. Above him, a hawk’s cry sliced the air, the bird’s broad wings outstretched as it dipped and peaked searching for a meal.

The tight ball of tension between his ribs unraveled as his sorrel horse, Samson, carried him closer. This slice of Kansas granted him sanctuary and tenuous peace after years of fighting on chaotic battlefields and months of inescapable suffering in filthy field hospitals.

Ranching was in his blood. Working the land and tending livestock came naturally. Running thieves and outlaws to ground? Not a profession he’d ever aspired to.

Noah was headed for the barn when he noticed the cabin’s front door ajar. Pulling up the reins, he slid out of the saddle and had his revolver unholstered by the time his boots hit the ground. His senses sharpened. The vegetable garden was undisturbed, and the fields dotted with shorthorn cattle revealed nothing unusual.

Multiple scenarios ran through his mind. Outlaws like the Murdochs wouldn’t think twice about helping themselves to others’ property. An unattended homestead presented the perfect pickings. Indians in these parts weren’t too pleased with the locals, either, the needless slaughter of buffalo solely for their hides provoking some to violence.

His ears strained for unfamiliar sounds.

Jerking down the loading lever, he fumbled in his tiny cap box for the percussion cap. When he had it in place, he gently replaced the hammer. He could get off one good shot. Weapon outstretched, he eased the door open inch by inch. Narrow steps ascended into the loft. Perfect place for a body to hide. He scanned the half wall’s top ledge. Farther in, the pie safe and hutch came into view, as did the Waterloo step-stove he’d ordered because it was the same kind his ma had used.

A chair creaked and Noah reacted.

He lunged into the room. “Make another move, and I’ll shoot you where you stand...” He trailed off, jaw sagging. Had he entered the wrong house?

“Don’t shoot! I can explain! I—I have a letter. From Will Canfield.” A petite dark-haired woman standing on the other side of his table lifted an envelope in silent entreaty. Her jewel-adorned fingers trembled. “Are you Noah Burgess?”

At the mention of his friend’s name, he slowly lowered his weapon. But his defensive instincts still surged through him. It was difficult to make sense of encountering a female in his home. Not an ordinary female, either. This one belonged on the finest streets of Paris, France or New York City. What she was doing in an isolated, male-dominated Kansas cow town he couldn’t fathom.

From the polished boot tips peeking beneath her bell-shaped skirts, to the orderly perfection of her hair swept up and off her neck, she oozed sophistication. Elegance. She may as well have stepped from the pages of a child’s fairy tale. He got an impression of creamy, rich fabric, dainty pink bows and skirts that formed a cascading cloud of perfect folds. A thin pink ribbon encircled her neck. Noah had no words for the hat atop her crown. Too small to provide shade, the ivory-colored contraption was drowning in pink and red bows.

She was dainty. Ethereal. And clearly lost.

When he didn’t speak, she gestured limply to the ornate leather trunks stacked on either side of his bedroom door. “Mr. Canfield was supposed to meet us at the station. His porter arrived in his stead... Simon was his name. He said something about a posse and outlaws.” A delicate shudder shook her frame. “He said you wouldn’t mind if we brought these inside. I do apologize for invading your home like this, but I had no idea when you would return, and it is June out there.”

Her gaze roamed his face, her light brown eyes widening ever so slightly as they encountered his scars. It was like this every time. He braced himself for the inevitable disgust. Pity. Revulsion. Told himself again it didn’t matter.

When her expression reflected nothing more than curiosity, irrational anger flooded him.

“What are you doing in my home?” he snapped. “How do you know Will?”

“I’m Constance Miller. I’m the bride Mr. Canfield sent for.”

“Will’s already got a wife.”

Pink kissed her cheekbones. “Not for him. For you.”

Shock nailed his boots to the floorboards. “Excuse me?”

“You are Mr. Burgess, are you not?”

She looked deliberately to the tintype photograph propped on the mantel. Three young, naive soldiers stood proudly in their freshly issued uniforms. He was in the middle, flanked on either side by men who had become like brothers, Daniel Gardner and Will Canfield. The same men who’d followed him out here as soon as the war ended. Men who’d pestered him to pitch in for the bride train and order one for himself.

His throat closed. They wouldn’t have.

“That’s my name,” he forced past stiff lips.

“I was summoned to Cowboy Creek to be your bride.” She was looking at him with encroaching desperation, silently imploring him to confirm her statement.

He closed his eyes and mentally pummeled his blockheaded friends. They’d stirred up a hornet’s nest with this one. How many times had he told them he wasn’t interested? Why couldn’t they accept he was resigned to a solitary life?

“Your friend didn’t tell you.” The dismay coloring her tone snapped his eyes open. A sharp crease brought her brows together.

“I’m afraid not.” Slipping off his worn Stetson, Noah hooked it on the chair and dipped his head toward the crumpled parchment. “May I?”

Miss Miller didn’t appear inclined to approach him, so he laid his gun on the mantel to unload later and crossed to the square table, keeping it as a barrier between them. He took the envelope she extended across to him and slipped the letter free, aware of an undertone of vanilla. Was it coming from her? He’d expected garish perfume, not sweet subtlety.

The words scrawled in neat, succinct rows were indeed Will’s. The handwriting was unmistakable. Heat climbed up his neck as he read the description of himself. His friend had embellished his finer traits while downplaying the disfigurement he’d earned during the battle of Little Round Top.

Tips of his ears burning, he stuffed it back inside and tossed it on the tabletop. “I’m afraid you’ve come all the way out here from...”

“Chicago.”

“Chicago.” Of course. Lots of wealthy industrialists in that fine city. So why hop a train out here? Was there a shortage of acceptable men her age back in the Midwest? Both sides of the war had lost significant numbers...

With the rush of adrenaline fading, he began to notice details about her. Miss Miller wasn’t a classic beauty. Her features were too interesting. Slightly playful. It was the eyebrows, he decided. Sweeping over large, expressive eyes, the dark slashes formed a natural arch and were set in perpetual inquisitiveness.

No, it wasn’t the brows. It was her unusually shaped mouth. Soft and pink, the top lip curved in a smooth arc above the full lower one. A tiny freckle hovered above it on the right. Definitely intriguing.

He blinked those thoughts away. Intriguing or not, the city girl wasn’t staying.

Folding his arms across his chest, he delivered a glare that made most townsfolk quiver in their boots. “The trip was a waste, Miss Miller. I am not, nor will I ever be, in the market for a bride.”

* * *

He hadn’t been expecting her. Clearly. Grace Longstreet stared at the walnut gun handle angled on the mantel and swallowed tightly. Fear tasted coppery in her mouth. Guilt oozed through her veins like black sludge. If she didn’t pull off this masquerade...

Her fingers curled into balls, causing her many rings to bite into her skin. Failure didn’t bear thinking about. She must convince this intimidating homesteader of two essential facts—that her name was Constance Miller, and that he had a responsibility to marry her. There wasn’t room for her conscience or pride. Her little girls’ well-being hinged on the success of her subterfuge.

Sunlight streaming through the bare window set his fair hair ablaze and made his flinty gaze appear to radiate blue fire. Noah Burgess was a blond, blue-eyed Norse Viking clothed in cowboy gear. He had nothing in common with the men in her social circle, with their expensive suits, slicked-back hair and soft hands. This man lived and breathed the great outdoors. He was one with nature. Strong and virile. He wore a pale blue button-down shirt, tan vest, canvas trousers and brown leather boots caked with trail grit. A red-and-white bandanna was knotted around his neck. A powerful-looking man, his biceps and wide shoulders strained the fabric, folded as they were over a chiseled chest that narrowed to lean hips and thick, muscular legs.

She tried not to stare at the scars. Raised, uneven webs of pink skin fanned over his lower left jaw, extended under his ear and onto his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt collar. Grace wanted to ask what had hurt him. Mr. Canfield hadn’t given her details, saying only that Mr. Burgess had sustained an injury in battle. But she’d sensed his recoil the first time she’d noticed them, and so she refrained.

Whatever the case, it didn’t distract from his rugged presence. He possessed strong features. His mouth, set in a hard, straight line, looked as if it hadn’t curved into a smile for quite some time.

When she’d discovered her cousin had agreed to come West and marry a complete stranger, Grace had seen only an opportunity to escape the city. She hadn’t given a single thought to whom or what she’d find at the other end of the tracks. It wasn’t until she and the girls were safely on the train, Chicago’s skyline gradually fading into the distance, that she’d paused to consider the possible ramifications of her impulsiveness. Fact was, she didn’t know anything about Constance’s intended groom. Her cousin hadn’t been able to tell her much. With no suitable marriage prospects in her impoverished neighborhood, the younger girl had been anticipating a fresh start, despite the inherent risks in such an undertaking. Grace had gifted her with a satisfactory sum for letting her switch places. Right about now, her cousin was undoubtedly searching for another eager groom in a different territory.

During the long, uncomfortable journey, Grace had contemplated the contents of Will Canfield’s letter—Constance had read it to her enough times for her to have it memorized—and had been comforted by his description of Noah Burgess as an honorable man. She’d prayed a lot, too. With her soul conflicted, she’d begged for God’s understanding and forgiveness. What choice had she had, in the end?

Noah shifted, the silver badge over his heart glinting, catching her eye for the first time.

“You’re the sheriff?” she blurted, hard put to hide her distress. There’d been no mention of it in Mr. Canfield’s letter. Then again, that gentleman had apparently left off more than one piece of pertinent information.

Conning an ordinary homesteader was one thing. But a lawman? Her already upset stomach tightened further into hard knots.

“It’s a recent development.” His lips firmed. She couldn’t tell if he was perturbed with her, his own situation or both. “Our former sheriff, Quincy Davis, was shot and killed several days ago. The town needed a replacement.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Kneading his nape, he heaved a sigh. “Look, Miss Miller, you’ve a right to be upset. My friends meant well. They’ll fix this. Will owns the Cattleman, Cowboy Creek’s premier hotel. You can stay there at his expense while you await the return train to Chicago.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about the cost of the ticket, either. It’ll be taken care of.”

Grace grasped for the right words. “Have you ever considered your friends may be right?”

His hand slapped to his side. “I don’t take your meaning, ma’am.”

“Perhaps they see a need in your life you haven’t yet acknowledged. Why else would they do something so outrageous as to arrange a marriage for you without your consent?”

She could practically hear his teeth grinding together. “Are you suggesting I don’t know my own mind?”

Grace was accustomed to men’s displeasure. She’d endured Ambrose’s for five years. Ambrose was gone, however. If she had only herself to think about, she’d accept this mistake and walk away. But her daughters’ future was at stake. Her brother-in-law, Frank, would do anything to make her his, including threatening to separate her from Jane and Abigail if she didn’t comply with his wishes. She had to pursue her daughters’ best interests, no matter if she had to get on her knees and beg this man to take her as his bride.

“I’m suggesting you give marriage to me some thought before you send me packing. I’m a proficient housekeeper.” She indicated the cabin’s clean but sparse interior. “I can sew. Cook. Surely you don’t have time to prepare adequate meals with all your other responsibilities.”

His expression frustratingly inscrutable, he raked her with his cool blue gaze. His clear dismissal threatened to deflate her already shaky self-confidence.

Humiliation licking her insides, she lifted her chin. “I may appear incompetent, but I assure you, Mr. Burgess, I know how to make myself useful.”

He studied her a moment longer. “Go back to your pampered life in the city, Miss Miller. I don’t know what sort of glamorous accounts you’ve read about life out here, but they ain’t reality. One week on this homestead, and you’d be begging me to send you back.”

Surely it was her appearance he was judging, not her, the woman. He didn’t know her. Couldn’t see her soul, her heart. “You’re wrong. I can prove you’re wrong.”

A long-suffering sigh pulsed between his lips. “Let me be plain. It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re prairie material or not. I don’t want a wife. I don’t want you or any other woman.” He jerked a thumb to the open doorway. “I’ve just come off a three-day search for a gang of outlaws. I’m tired and hungry, and I need to see to my horse. So if you’ll excuse—”

Behind her, the bedroom door creaked open. “Momma?”

Grace froze. Exhausted from the interminable train ride, the girls had been drooping by the time they’d reached the homestead. She’d put them in the only bed in the house.

The intractable sheriff’s focus shot past her, his eyes going wide. He blinked several times.

“You have a kid?”

“As a matter of fact, I have two.”