Finally a Bride (Texas Boardinghouse Brides 3)

by Vickie McDonough

  “I don’t like to be pushed around by men.”

  He stepped closer. “I didn’t push you.”

  She leaned toward him. “You know what I mean. I don’t like to be bossed around. I’ve had enough men telling me what to do to last me a lifetime.”

  He flung his arms out to the side. “Well, I’m sorry, lady, but there are no women here to assist me.”

  She gasped. No women indeed. “Then what am I?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You said there were no women around, so I just wondered what you considered me?”

  His gaze traveled from her eyes downward. She hiked her chin. His stance relaxed a smidgen as a cocky smile tugged on one side of his mouth. “I never said you weren’t a woman. You’ve just got me all—all—discombobulated.”

  Carly sighed at his confused expression. He was like a little boy in a man’s clothing—only he was all man. In the ten years since she’d last seen him, his shoulders had gotten broader, but his blond hair hadn’t grayed at all. She knew he must be pushing forty, but he looked as if he could take on a man half his age. Maybe she’d been unwise stirring his ire. “Did Rachel send you to get me or not?”

  He leaned in again but this time didn’t look so menacing. His warm breath touched her cheeks, sending tingles up and down her spine. “She asked me to pick up a package at the depot. A package, not a woman.”

  “Oh.” No wonder he’d been so confused. Why would Rachel say such a thing? Had she gotten mixed up on the date she was arriving and actually meant for Mr. Corbett to pick up something she’d ordered? “Maybe she also had a package that needed picking up.”

  He shook his head. “Virgil said she didn’t. He just motioned me outside and said my package was out there. No wonder he was about to bust his gut laughing.”

  “I don’t see anything funny about the situation.” Carly rubbed her hand across her face. Making him feel guilty about the situation wasn’t very Christlike. “I’m sorry. I just assumed that when you saw me, you decided you no longer wanted to give me a ride—and that made me mad.”

  “Why would I care about who you are? I’ve never met you before.”

  Taken aback by his lack of recognition, she moved away from him. Was it really possible that he didn’t know who she was? Obviously, Rachel hadn’t informed him. If he didn’t know, then maybe the rest of the town wouldn’t remember her, either. But they would once they heard her name. And so would he.

  She strode over to the wagon, tossed her satchel in the back, and climbed up. It was best he didn’t learn the truth until he was too far along to turn back.

  Chapter 8

  Noah glanced down at the note again. Was he doing the right thing? Would his apology be as effective done anonymously rather than in person?

  Well it would have to be, because that was the only apology he could offer at the moment. He shoved the paper in his pants pocket and entered the mercantile. All manner of aromas tickled his senses, from coffee to spices to pickles to leather. Pushing his hat back on his forehead so he could see better, he gazed at the crowded shelves and colorful displays.

  A pretty woman with dark hair tucked up in a neat bun smiled at him as he glanced around the store. “Good morning. I’m Christine Morgan, and this is my store. Can I help you find something?”

  Noah lifted his hat. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. My name’s Noah Jeffers.”

  “Oh!” The woman’s hand flew to her chest. “You must be the new minister.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am that.” At least for the time being. Once people learned his true identity, he might be tarred and feathered and sent away on foot—barefoot. “I don’t need much and thought I might just look around to see what all you have.”

  She nodded. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Noah meandered down one aisle and up another until he found the pie tins. He peeked over his shoulder at Mrs. Morgan. How could an unmarried minister living in a boardinghouse explain purchasing pie pans?

  He blew out a deep breath. Well, there was no getting around it. There were two styles of pans: one a blue granite with white specks and the other a plain silver pan with wavy edges. He looked around the store, glad that no other customers had come in, and tucked two of the silver pans under his arms. Heat warmed his neck, and he shook his head. A grown man buying pie plates. Paying retribution was going to hurt more than his money pouch.

  He picked out a new comb and then stopped at the ready-made shirts. He needed a new white shirt for preaching in, but that would have to wait until he’d earned his first wages. Mrs. Morgan watched him approach, and her brows lifted when she caught sight of the pans.

  “What do you plan to do with those?”

  Noah shrugged. He didn’t want to tell a lie, but neither could her tell her the truth.

  “I guess they might make good collection plates for the church,” she said.

  He turned them over and knocked on one. “They might at that.”

  She tallied up the items and wrote something in a small ledger book. Noah paid her the required sum and picked up his purchase. “Will I see you and Mr. Morgan in church this Sunday?”

  She glanced out the open door for a moment then faced him again. “There is no Mr. Morgan. My Jarrod died years ago, Reverend.”

  Noah winced. He’d have to be more careful addressing people he didn’t know in the future. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  She swatted her hand in the air. “It was a long time ago. I will be at church Sunday, along with my daughter, Tessa, and my son, Billy, if I can get him to come. It’s getting harder and harder these days.”

  “I’ll pray for Billy, ma’am. That God would get a hold of him like He did me. Don’t give up hope.”

  Her sweet smile warmed Noah’s insides. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Mrs. Morgan, please let me know. I’m staying at the boardinghouse.”

  She nodded. “Thank you for your generous offer. You may have already met my daughter, I believe. She’s a good friend of Jacqueline Davis.”

  Noah’s heart quickened just hearing Jack’s full name. It was a beautiful name, and he’d never understood why she preferred being called by a boy’s name. “I don’t think I have met your daughter yet, ma’am, but I look forward to it.”

  Mrs. Morgan leaned back against the counter, a gleam sparking in her blue eyes. “Tessa is close to your age, and she’s quite a pretty girl. She has my blue eyes and her father’s blond hair.”

  A warning bell clanged in Noah’s mind. This wasn’t the first time a young woman’s mama had tried to get him to notice her daughter. He smiled and stepped toward the door. “If she looks anything like you, ma’am, I’m sure she is.” He tipped his hat and hurried outside, certain he’d seen a blush rising to Mrs. Morgan’s cheeks.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have made that last comment. When was he going to learn to think before he spoke? The Morgans hadn’t lived in Lookout when he was last here, so he’d never made their acquaintance. Was Billy older or younger than his sister? Either way, he must be a grown man. Suddenly, the vision of the young ladies he’d seen in Jack’s bedroom that day he’d first arrived entered his mind. Had one of those visitors been Tessa Morgan?

  Noah ventured away from the boardinghouse and down the street. He passed the marshal’s office but didn’t stop. Luke Davis hadn’t asked him again if he’d ever been in Lookout before, and for that he was grateful.

  He passed the stage depot and then the café, where his steps slowed. After living much of his life without decent food to eat, the scent of something baking always gave him pause. He inhaled deeply, wondering if Polly Dykstra still managed the café that held her name. The older woman had been kind to him, allowing him to chop wood for her in exchange for a meal or occasionally a pie. His mouth watered, even though his belly was still filled with Mrs. Davis’s delicious cooking.

  Pushing on, he noticed that the saloon had been moved to the far end of Main Street and sev
eral new businesses had been erected. A dentist office sat where the old saloon had been, and Noah noticed a sign on the door. He crossed the street, dodging a wagon, and loped up the steps. Squinting, he read the sign. CHECK AT THE SALOON IF I‘M NOT HERE. Staring down the street, Noah couldn’t help wondering if the dentist also worked at the saloon or spent his time drinking. Either way, he wasn’t too sure he’d contact the man if he ever needed a tooth pulled.

  He continued his tour of the town, making note of the other new buildings and businesses. At some point, he ought to stop in each one, introduce himself, and invite those working there to church. Pastor Taylor had told Noah in a letter he’d written about the church that only about one-half of the town attended services at his church, which was the only one in town. Noah sent a prayer heavenward. “Lord, help me to make a difference in this town while I’m here. Give me a chance to redeem my early years before I knew You.”

  He paused at the end of Apple Street and stared past the houses lining the lane. A half-mile northeast of town was the site of his old home, a shack really—if it was still standing. Part of him longed to go see if anything remained, but another part didn’t want to have anything to do with his past. He kicked a rock and sent it skittering across the dirt road. Most of his memories were bad ones, anyway.

  The pie plates under his arm slipped, and he pressed his arm tight against his body to keep them from falling. They’d reminded him of the task he still had to complete. His heart pounded harder the closer he got to the mayor’s house. What if someone saw him and asked what he was doing? How could he respond without telling a falsehood?

  Lord, I believe in my heart that You want me to make restitution for my past deeds, so give me the courage to complete this task.

  Jack moseyed into the store and searched the building, disappointed to find it empty except for Mrs. Morgan. She was certain she’d seen the parson enter when she’d glanced out her bedroom window a few minutes ago. There was nothing particularly odd about a minister going into a mercantile, but her reporter instincts sensed Noah Jeffers was up to something.

  “Morning, Jacqueline.” Mrs. Morgan smiled. “It’s good to see you up again. I hope you’re feeling better after your fall.”

  Jack grimaced at the mention of her plummet off the mayor’s roof. She’d been halfway surprised he hadn’t marched over to her house to lecture her about respecting people’s property. The fact that he hadn’t confirmed in her mind that he was working on some big plan for the city. She just had to discover what it was. She leaned against the counter and took the weight off her injured leg. “I’m still a bit sore, but I’m getting better. Thanks for asking.”

  “If you’re looking for Tessa, she isn’t here. She ran out the door, mumbling something about needing to go to Penny’s for a while.”

  “No. Actually, I was wondering…. Didn’t Noah Jeffers come in a little while ago?”

  Mrs. Morgan nodded, picked up a feather duster, and started swiping the cans of vegetables on the shelf behind the counter. “Yes, he was here about ten minutes ago. Bought a few things and left. He’s a nice young man, and quite handsome with that dark hair and eyes, don’t you think? Tessa can’t quit talking about him.”

  Jack wasn’t about to admit that she did indeed find Reverend Jeffers attractive, much to her consternation. Shouldn’t a minister be plain looking so a woman wouldn’t waste time dwelling on his features instead of his message? Why, the man had even invaded her dreams. How was she to fight something like that? Forcing her frustrations aside, she smiled at Tessa’s mother. “Yes, she made it clear to Penny and me that she intends to marry him.”

  Mrs. Morgan’s blue eyes widened. “She never said a thing about that to me. Isn’t it ironic that I just gushed about her attributes to the parson?”

  Jack pursed her lips. The poor man hadn’t been in town two days, and the Morgans already had him in their sights. At least she hoped she was no longer in Billy’s. A shudder wormed its way down her back.

  Mrs. Morgan paused. “Tessa told me that you don’t plan to marry Billy.” She nibbled her lower lip and stared out the door. Finally she met Jack’s gaze again. “I can’t say as I blame you, although I was hoping to welcome you into the family. Billy has always been a handful, and now that he’s far bigger than me, I don’t know how to handle him.”

  Jack shifted her feet, uncomfortable talking about Billy with his mother. From the day the Morgans first moved to town, she’d known Billy was a wild child. He seemed to pick up where Butch Laird left off when he left town. She hadn’t been very kind to the lonely youth. She’d thought Butch a big bully but had had second thoughts after she’d talked to him once. It seemed the boy who stank like pigs wanted to make something more of his life than his father had. What had happened to him?

  She shook Butch from her mind and refocused on Billy’s mother. The poor woman looked to be at her wit’s end. “Maybe you could get Reverend Jeffers to talk to Billy. There’s not all that much difference in their ages, I imagine.”

  Mrs. Morgan’s expression brightened, and she stood taller. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea. Do you think he’d do it?”

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t know why not. He seems nice enough.” Secretive, but nice.

  “I may come over and talk to him this evening, if you’re sure he won’t mind.”

  “It’s part of a minister’s job to counsel folks who need help, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Morgan nodded. “Yes, I do believe it is.”

  A shadow darkened the doorway, and Christine Morgan glanced past Jack, her face erupting into a brilliant smile. The woman—who had to be in her late thirties—reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then licked her lips. She dropped the duster on the floor and quickly shed her apron.

  Interesting.

  Jack slowly turned to see who had so effectively snagged the woman’s interest that she’d primp and grin like a school girl. A tall cowboy stood in the doorway, his gaze equally riveted to the store clerk’s. Jack smelled a romance in the making.

  Mrs. Morgan hurried toward the door. “How can I help you, Mr. Kessler?”

  Jack ambled down an aisle and paused in front of the ready-made dresses. She picked up the hem of a dark rose calico and pretended to be studying it. A person with better manners would leave and give the lovebirds some privacy, but she wouldn’t become a full-time reporter if she didn’t do a little snooping. Besides, neither Mrs. Morgan nor Mr. Kessler seemed to notice she was still there.

  Something tickled the back of her mind, and she struggled to grasp hold of the thought. Suddenly, as if someone had turned on one of those electric lights she’d read about, the memory was revealed: Rand Kessler had once asked her ma to marry him—so she’d heard. Then she remembered that he used to come around for a while but had stopped after Luke returned to town.

  Jack eyed him over the skirt of the dress. She’d heard Garrett talk about him over dinner before. The man owned a large ranch a few hours’ ride from Lookout, if she was remembering correctly. She dropped hold of the dress and fingered the trim on a dark green one that she actually liked. Pants were still her preference, but she rarely got to wear them now that she was grown up. Her ma nearly had apoplexy the last time she’d donned them, and that wasn’t a good state for a woman carrying a baby to be in.

  Mr. Kessler must have suddenly remembered his hat, because he yanked it off. His tanned cheeks and ears had a reddish cast to them. He was nice looking for such an older man. Jack guessed him to be in his mid-forties—far too old to come courting.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you in town mid-week, Mr. Kessler.” Mrs. Morgan leaned back against the counter, flashing a wide smile at him.

  “I … uh … had some business to tend to at the freight office, but Garrett wasn’t there.”

  “I saw him ride out earlier this morning, just as I was opening the store. Must have gone to pick up something, because his wagon was empty.”

  Mr. Kessler shrugged. “Don�
��t matter none. I just left him a note.”

  “Oh well, good thing your trip wasn’t wasted.”

  A smile tugged at one corner of the man’s mouth. “It’s never a waste when I get to see you, Christine.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Morgan fanned her face with her hand. “What a nice thing to say.”

  “It’s just the truth, ma’am.” He curled the rim of his hat and glanced down.

  Jack grimaced. If things got any more syrupy, she just might retch. Why did perfectly normal people become fools when romance came calling? Even big, tough ranchers who would never back down from a fight or could break the wildest bronc became sweet like honey when they fell for a woman. Would a man ever act like that toward her? Did she even want one to?

  A movement out the window and across the street snagged her attention. She strained her eyes to see who was walking toward her, past the mayor’s house. Her pulse picked up its pace. Noah Jeffers! What reason would he have to walk between houses? Most normal folks stuck to the boardwalks. The sun reflected off something under his arm. He ducked down—or did he bend to pick up something? Then he turned onto the alley and disappeared behind the bank. Intrigued, Jack started to follow but held her ground, hating to miss out on whatever happened in the store.

  “I was wondering. Would you … ah … consider going with … ah … me to the social this Saturday? That is if you’re not going with someone else already.”

  Sucked right back into the blossoming romance, Jack abandoned all thought of following the minister. How much trouble could a man of God get into, anyway? She lowered the skirt of the green dress, wishing she had something to write notes on. If Mrs. Morgan didn’t answer the man fast, Jack feared he’d be buying a new hat before he left.

  Mrs. Morgan’s hand flew up and rested on her chest. “Why, I’d be delighted, Rand.”

  The grins on their faces reminded Jack of when her ma and Luke had first gotten married.

  Mr. Kessler slapped his crumpled hat back on his head. “That’s great. I’ll pick you up a little before six, and I’d like to purchase a bag of that horehound candy and another of the lemon drops.”