Romancing the Bride

by Melissa Jagears

  He’d at first wondered if these were actual tips or a criminal’s attempt to get the marshal out of town, but considering the last one panned out, they were likely real.

  After stuffing the note in his pocket, he crossed the room to grab extra ammunition. Then he locked up the office and jogged back down Main Street.

  Nolan Key could watch over the town while he was away. Though Nolan’s amputated leg kept him from serving as deputy, he trusted the man to stop any mischief if these notes suddenly proved themselves to be an elaborate distraction.

  Before he retrieved Duchess from the livery and rode out to the Keys’ ranch, he’d have to let Annie know where he was headed.

  Within minutes he let himself into his kitchen, but the house was quiet and dark. No bread was in the oven, no fire in the cook stove. “Annie?”

  No answer. She’d not mentioned she was going anywhere this morning, but then, she’d been reticent as usual.

  Time was too precious to run about town when the rustlers could already be half a day away from the spot the note described.

  He swiped paper from Annie’s desk but halted. Was someone crying? The clock ticked out three seconds and all was still. Evidently, he’d heard nothing. He searched for a pencil.

  Thankfully he’d already informed Annie his job could call him away unexpectedly. He would let her know he’d be gone a couple days, longer if he caught the rustlers. His hands shook as he wrote. Could he indeed bring in three rustlers on his own? He couldn’t ask Nolan to come along, and Bryant, well ... maybe Frank was in town, but if not...

  He paused only a second before signing, “Love, Jacob,” to the bottom of his note.

  Though he wasn’t in love yet, if the worst happened, she’d know he’d pledged his heart to her. Hopefully it would bring her some comfort.

  Please bring me home safe so that the hope for love isn’t all there ever was between us.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Not much farther, girl.” Jacob patted Duchess’s neck, but didn’t bother prodding her to speed up since he was enjoying the sun’s slow but colorful ascent over the ridge. Its fiery glow transfigured the gently rolling plains from a frosty-looking greenish blue to a cheery orange.

  Besides, he’d ridden Duchess hard yesterday and she deserved to take her time getting home. He’d received the anonymous tip nearly twenty-four hours ago and had ridden her halfway across the plains that morning. The site hadn’t been as fresh as he’d hoped, but he’d found tracks indicating a small herd of cattle and a couple of horses heading north. He’d followed those tracks for hours, but come nightfall, near a creek, he’d lost all sign of them.

  He’d bedded down on the ground under an endless expanse of twinkling stars, waiting for first light so he could continue tracking, but his mind hadn’t let him sleep.

  And then the rainstorm had rolled in, obliterating any chance of success.

  Since the moment he’d left town, he’d prayed God would put obstacles in front of the rustlers and give his horse light feet so he could bring them in. But instead, he’d seen no one and was headed home empty-handed again.

  Did God not want to use him to bring about justice?

  Or was he simply that poor of a marshal? If so, why had God allowed Annie’s ranch to be taken away if God wasn’t going to use him in this job?

  He rubbed his bleary eyes and forced himself to hum a lively tune.

  At the sight of several men galloping on horseback in Jacob’s direction, he pulled Duchess to a halt.

  Mr. Sullivan, several Crawfords, and a handful of other men who made up the county’s self-proclaimed posse trotted up.

  Jacob straightened his shoulders and held back a sigh. How many times would he have to tell them nobody would be swinging from a tree without a hearing in this county, rustler or no? Years ago, his oldest brother had lost a good friend that way. The posse had hung first, proved innocence later. As long as Jacob was marshal, he’d never sanction such vigilante justice.

  Levi Crawford, Annie’s former neighbor, held up his fist, calling the group to a stop. The men circled their mounts like a pack of coyotes ready to pounce upon poor tired Duchess. She tossed her head at the fence of horses closing in around her.

  “Heard tell the rustlers took thirty head from the O’Conners’ place.” Levi leaned slightly in his saddle to spit. “Thought you were tracking them?”

  “I lost them in the Laramie.”

  Levi grunted, and his mount pranced. “Lost them?”

  “Yes.” Jacob kept his gaze steady.

  “Of course, he lost them.” Sullivan slapped his horse’s reins and crowded Duchess with his mustang. “He don’t know how to track.”

  Jacob let Duchess back away. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Sullivan.” He eyed the pock-faced ne’er-do-well who couldn’t manage to keep his prize sow penned. “I can track.”

  “Why didn’t you ask us to come along?” Sullivan leaned atop his saddle horn, his ever-present alcoholic fumes mucking up the air. “Deputize some of us. You obviously need the help.”

  Jacob scanned the crowd of men, none he trusted. “Perhaps I do need a deputy, but I don’t want a posse.” Maybe it was time to ask the council to pay for a tracker who could spend every day scouring the land.

  “Every county around here has a posse.” The other men’s mumblings affirmed Levi’s statement. “Why you’re the only one who despises them, I don’t know. Wanting to hoard the glory for their takedown yourself?” He spit again. “But when we catch the rustlers—since you cain’t—the county’ll be thanking us. When they replace you, then you’ll wish you’d let us help.”

  Jacob gritted his teeth and jerked his head in the direction he’d come from. “You can search if you please, but you’ll be wasting your time.” He glared at Sullivan. “Even a skilled tracker would lose them in the storm I endured last night.”

  A younger Crawford pulled forward from the circle. “You ain’t been able to bring them in for over a year now. Next time you should hand your tips to us. With no cattle of your own, you ain’t taking a hit to the money box, so maybe you don’t have enough incentive.”

  “If you keep letting them get away, you’ll pay for it with your job.” An older Crawford pulled at his straggly beard. “We can’t afford to keep a useless marshal.” He pointed behind him toward Armelle. “I heard you can’t even catch the kid vandalizing city property.”

  Jacob steeled his jaw and his right eyelid twitched. He forced himself not to snap at the man.

  For how could he? The man spoke truth.

  Sullivan cocked his head. “Or maybe you’re too soft to string up a thief?”

  “I think he’s gone and gotten himself distracted by his homely wife.”

  “Enough,” Jacob barked. “Gentlemen, if I need you, I’ll call for you.” Nudging Duchess, he pushed through the ring of horses and didn’t look back. After putting a fair bit of distance between them, he rolled his shoulders yet maintained his broomstick posture. He couldn’t afford to let them see they’d hit a nerve, even from afar.

  What if they were right? What if he didn’t have enough guts or drive? Annie distracted him all right, but even before she came along, he’d not been able to catch the rustlers.

  Within a mile of town, a fine black carriage raced toward him. Only three people from town owned such a vehicle: McGill, Mr. Ivens, and the banker. But none of them should be in such a rush. After reining Duchess to the side of the road, Jacob shielded his eyes and tried to make out the driver.

  Gwen—not the McGill’s family coachman—was whipping the horses. Her face was as pale as the white feathers dancing about in her hat. Her father hung onto his seat’s edge with both hands.

  Why were they in such a hurry? He waved an arm to snag their attention.

  Gwen yanked the horse to a stop with one hand, while squashing her precariously perched hat against her head with the other. Her golden curls whipped forward with the momentum.

  Once she’d righted herself and
checked that her hat was in place, Gwen rested a hand on her heaving bosom. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re all right, Jacob.”

  He cocked his brow. Even if she’d thought he’d met his doom, what had made her think racing to his aid would’ve done any good?

  “Those men said they were coming out to teach you a lesson.” Her breathless voice and concerned pucker made him want to flog each and every man in his would-be posse.

  “Confound it, Gwendolyn.” McGill stumbled out of the carriage as if he’d just tumbled off a bucking bull. “Remind me to never let you drive again, no matter how much of a hurry you’re in.” He jerked on his lapels and scanned the area.

  Had his boss thought he’d have been able to stop the men? Without a gun, McGill would’ve been as effective as spit in a dust storm. He had influence, sure, but not that much. If they’d been intent on a hanging, they probably would’ve strung up the roly-poly mayor as well.

  A man didn’t monopolize choice grass land, water access, and political clout without making lots of enemies.

  Jacob ran his reins through his hands. “Perhaps you misunderstood. I just spoke with them, and they mean to show me up by out-tracking me—which they won’t.” At least he hoped not. If they could find the remnants of a trail in all that mud, he might as well quit.

  He noted the flush in Gwen’s cheeks which only served to enhance her fair skin. What would she have tried to do if those men were bent on lynching him? Neither of the McGills could’ve stopped that riffraff with stern words or logic—which was exactly why he had no use for a posse. “How’d you hear of their plans?”

  Her cheeks bloomed brighter. “In town.”

  “Where in—”

  “I hurried to Papa straightaway. I couldn’t bear to think of you being accosted when I could stop it.”

  Jacob frowned at her father. This girl got her way more than she ought. “Thank you both for your concern. Though next time, you might want to gather more men before attempting a rescue.”

  “So you didn’t catch the rustlers?” McGill wiped perspiration off his forehead and floppy jowls.

  Jacob sighed, and then took a long look to his left and his right. Where did the man think he’d stashed the rustlers he would’ve trussed up if he’d caught them? “Not a single one, sir.”

  McGill’s eyes narrowed into menacing slits.

  Jacob simply shrugged.

  “But he will, Papa.” Gwen flashed him a smile. “He will.”

  “Your time would be better spent clearing the roads, Hendrix.”

  Jacob blinked. Did McGill not care about the rustlers? Then again, of all the cattlemen in the area, he had the most ranch hands, all armed to the teeth. He’d yet to lose a good amount of cattle. Many couldn’t afford such protection.

  “Now trade me places, Gwendolyn. I’m driving.” McGill gestured for her to switch seats. “I want to get home in one piece.”

  Gwen scooted over and winked at Jacob while her father’s back was turned. “I know you’ll catch them.”

  Her infatuation must be strong for her to believe that.

  Jacob gave the McGills a good lead before following them into town.

  When the livery came into view, Duchess quickened her pace all on her own. The big girl must want oats something fierce.

  His own stomach rumbled. Hopefully Annie had something good on the menu, along with some words to soothe his ego. Gwen’s unmerited belief in him hadn’t helped whatsoever, but Annie was sensible. Whatever she chose to tell him in regard to his failed mission had a much better chance of encouraging him.

  Thank you, Lord, for giving me a wife. I certainly need her today.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The tiny bell rang above the mercantile’s front door, and Annie looked up to see who’d come in, but the crowded shelving made it impossible to see past the stacks of cans.

  Could it be Jacob?

  She’d instructed Celia to inform him she’d gone shopping if he returned.

  If he returned.

  She shook her head at herself for thinking the worst again. She set down a pickle jar and attempted to swallow down the butterfly wedged in her throat.

  God’s plan for her couldn’t be to lose two husbands in less than a year.

  Jacob had been kind enough to leave a note, but wearing a rut in the glossy planks of his parlor had done nothing to dispel the worry-laden clouds hanging over her as one day had rolled into two.

  Holding her breath, she moved to the end of the aisle and peeked around the corner.

  Just Mrs. Tate.

  Annie let out a noisy, unladylike sigh.

  The old woman’s gaze caught hers and grew intense and ... sour?

  Annie glanced behind her, but no one else was in this part of the store. She turned back to Mrs. Tate, but the woman had already walked away.

  Had she imagined Mrs. Tate glaring at her?

  Annie shrugged and went back to perusing the canned goods. Jacob’s pantry was practically empty. Was he so picky he only ate crackers and canned beans or had he eaten at the Whitsetts’ so often he needn’t much food on hand? She’d meant to ask him about foods he liked and disliked, but he’d left before she’d gotten around to doing so.

  Would he turn his nose up at oysters?

  She spun the tin cylinder around, leaving fingertip trails on its dusty lid. She picked up the can and squinted at the image of the round gray shellfish, imagining how they might taste. She’d only learned the basics of cooking as a girl since Mother thought them above kitchen work. The ranch cook Gregory had hired their first two years in Wyoming had only shown her how to cook meat, beans, potatoes, eggs, and cake. The only thing she’d bothered to learn beyond that was fruit pies.

  Learning to cook more than four basic meals might help soften Jacob’s disappointment over ending up with three extra mouths to feed instead of a ranch. Oysters wouldn’t be enough to make up for that, but what else could she do?

  Though with the way he looked at her, one might think he didn’t mind ending up with her much at all.

  Annie plunked the can into her basket and tried not to read too much into the looks he’d given her since their wedding.

  He’d not looked at her as if she was a woman he knew he was in his rights to fully possess, but as if he esteemed her.

  As if he truly cared.

  But if anyone deserved to be appreciated in this marriage, it was him, not her.

  So she’d purchased a cookbook yesterday in hopes of finding something special to make him for supper once he returned. She’d found several oyster dishes, and if nothing else, attempting such a daring recipe might get her mind off worrying about Jacob’s whereabouts.

  Funny how she’d felt crowded this past week with all of his asking about whether she was all right, but now she was positively jittery wondering whether he’d ever come back to pester her with questions again.

  She grabbed a can of baking soda, the last thing on her list, and headed to the counter, where Mrs. Tate was digging through her coin purse to pay for two spools of thread.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Tate.” Annie gave her a small smile. She’d have to get used to seeing people so frequently now that she lived in town. Maybe she could gain some friends. Without all the chores and animals to care for, there was more time to fill up than she’d ever thought existed, or at least had forgot existed. Being a young woman of leisure was now more than a decade behind her. She emptied her basket onto the counter. “A beautiful day for shopping.”

  Mr. Owens, the shopkeeper, handed Mrs. Tate her receipt but looked to Annie. “It sure has been pleasant lately, Mrs. Hendrix.”

  Annie nodded at the rail-thin man with the meager mustache. “And I’m enjoying being able to patronize your store any time I feel the need.”

  Mrs. Tate adjusted her spectacles and raised her eyebrows. “You have a need for oysters?”

  “Well, no, but I bought a new cookbook yesterday and thought I’d try some new recipes.”

  Mrs. Tate’s
pointed gaze took in Annie’s green work dress, from collar to hem.

  She glanced down to make sure she hadn’t a tear or a stain causing such censure.

  “Perhaps you ought to consider purchasing another dress before you purchase oysters.”

  Annie’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry?”

  “Seems to me mourning colors would be more appropriate. You are still mourning, aren’t you, Mrs. Hendrix?” She humphed. “Or at least you should be.” Mrs. Tate pivoted and barreled out the exit.

  Mr. Owen gave Annie a worried look, and she dropped her gaze to examine her dress. She’d put on the spring colored garment because it was wash day. Her three black dresses were presently hanging on the line. They’d been dyed many times over since she’d lost her daughter, Catherine, to brain fever, and they’d been worn more often than anything else in her wardrobe.

  But after wearing her navy and rose outfit for her wedding...

  Annie ran her hand along the pleats in her faded, flower-sprigged dress. If she’d still been living on the ranch, she’d not have come to town on wash day.

  Mr. Owens coughed and she forced herself to look up.

  His dark brown eyes looked like a puppy’s—sad and questioning. He’d already stacked her items back into her basket, except for the oysters in her hand.

  Annie shoved the can across the counter. “I won’t be getting this.”

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Hendrix? Just because—”

  Annie sucked in a loud breath. “No, thank you. Maybe another time.”

  He nodded, but he must know she was lying. She’d never be able to pick up another can of oysters without thinking of being accused of not properly mourning Gregory.

  You are still in mourning, aren’t you? At least you should be.

  How many years had she been in mourning for one loved one or another?

  More than she could count. More years than she had children, that was for certain.

  Yet she’d never once thought of cooking something fancy for Gregory, and here she was about to purchase an expensive, unnecessary ingredient to impress Jacob.