Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  Briggs took Mollie into his arms. “What do we have here? A little mermaid?” Mollie giggled and planted a wet, smacking kiss on his cheek. “Why thank you, Miss Mollie,” he replied, chivalrously. “I was waiting for that.”

  “You need to shave!” she blurted out, rubbing her tiny soft hand over his stubbly chin.

  Martha marched over. “Mollie! You shouldn’t say such things!” Martha smiled playfully at Briggs as she took the child from his arms. “Hello, Briggy,” she greeted, touching her cheek to his. “It’s nice to see you. Did Sarah tell you we brought a letter?”

  Briggs looked at Sarah. Her face went pale. “No, she didn’t. Not yet, I mean.”

  “My old employer,” Sarah said, too quickly. “The restaurant is busy and....” She stopped talking and her smile quivered.

  A sick feeling crept into Briggs’s gut. “He wrote to you?”

  “Yes,” Martha answered for Sarah. “He wants her to come back to work, but we shouldn’t be surprised. Who wouldn’t want her back?”

  Briggs barely heard what Martha was saying. All he could do was stare at Sarah, whose eyes were shifting about.

  “Thank you for delivering the letter,” he said to Martha, never taking his eyes off his wife.

  “My pleasure.” Martha stood with them for a moment, but when nothing was said, she smiled awkwardly and walked back to her husband.

  Without looking Briggs in the eye, Sarah turned toward the house. “Coffee’s on if you all want to come inside.”

  “Where do you want the horses?” Frank asked. “In the stalls or the pen?”

  Briggs had to search his mind for an answer. “In the stalls.” The boy began leading them one at a time into the barn. When Briggs turned around, Sarah had already gone into the house.

  He wanted to trust her about who had written the letter, but at the same time, he wanted to take a look at it for himself.

  Martha hurried in behind Sarah. He supposed he would have to wait to ask.

  He hated himself for assuming that Sarah was keeping something from him, but how could he help it? She’d been so vague about her past, and even now, she seemed nervous about something. He hoped the letter wasn’t from who he thought it was from.

  With her heart racing like a runaway wagon, Sarah pulled open the door to the dugout and hurried down the steps. She fixed her gaze on the letter on the table. Was the stove still burning?

  Just before she could reach for the envelope, the door squeaked open. Sarah whirled around, expecting to see Briggs, but it was Martha with Mollie in her arms. “Shall we set the table?” Martha asked.

  Sarah tried to breathe normally. “I was just about to do that.”

  Martha set Mollie down. “Why don’t you play with your doll? I have to help Mrs. Brigman.”

  Sarah glanced at the letter. She had to hide it.

  With the pretext of clearing away the flowers, she picked up the cup, set it on the windowsill, and stuffed the letter into her pocket. First chance she got, she would toss it into the stove.

  Briggs and Frank swung the barn door closed. They walked together to the little dugout, Shadow at their heels. Once inside, Briggs paused on the bottom step, inhaling the delectable scent of freshly baked bread mixed with coffee and spices.

  Sarah stood at the stove stirring the supper in the cast-iron pot and humming quietly. He stared at the back of her head with its loose bun of raven-colored hair and noticed his palms had become clammy. What if her lover had asked her to come back to him? How would she respond to that?

  He cleared his throat and pulled his gaze away to see Howard lighting his pipe in the far corner. Mollie was sitting on the floor playing with a ragged doll. It was the scene of his dreams—a house full of loved ones.

  Briggs took the last step down and tried not to think about the letter and what it might mean. It might not even be what he thought. Maybe the letter was as she had said—from her employer.

  “Smells good.” He removed his hat and set it on the nail keg by the door. “What is it?”

  “Rabbit stew,” Martha replied. “Howard caught it special for tonight.”

  “Much obliged, Howard.”

  Howard held his pipe in one hand, looping the other hand through a suspender. “Well, that fool rabbit leaped right in front of my wagon on the way back from town. Stopped and stared at me like he wanted to treat me to dinner.”

  Everyone laughed. “Howard has always been rather lucky that way,” Martha said to Sarah. “Animals seem to fall over themselves trying to get in line to be his next meal.”

  Sarah laughed, but Briggs noticed that the usual sparkle in her eye was missing.

  Frank proceeded to tell every last yarn about his pa’s good fortune with a rifle, while the ladies served up the meal. They all ate the delicious stew, laughing and going on about Briggs’s comparatively poor luck when it came to hunting.

  After supper, the ladies cleaned the kitchen, while Howard, Briggs, and Frank sat outside watching the sun streak the sky with pinks and purples. They listened to the clanging of dishes inside while talking about their plowing, and when the sky finally grew dark, they started a small fire in the center of the yard to warm their hands against the evening chill.

  “What’s this?” Martha asked, appearing unexpectedly behind them. “We clean the dugout until it sparkles, and you want to sit out here with the snakes?”

  Howard reached for his wife’s skirt and pulled her onto his lap. “I picked out a star for you, my dear. We’ve been waiting for you to come out, so we could show it to you.”

  “No, we haven’t!” Frank broke in. “We were talking about butchering the pig!”

  They all burst into a fit of laughter, except for Frank who didn’t see anything funny about it. The hysterics were just dying down when Sarah came out of the house holding Mollie’s hand. When she reached their little gathering, Briggs stood and offered his chair to her. She nodded politely and sat down, lifting Mollie onto her lap. Briggs sat on the ground beside her.

  “How’s about some music?” Howard asked.

  Frank sat up on his heels. “Yes, Pa! Play something good!”

  Martha rose from her husband’s lap to let him stand, then took the chair for herself. “He’s been itching to play that thing ever since we got here.”

  Frank fetched the fiddle from the case, handed it to his father who cupped it under his chin. “Any requests?”

  “Play ‘Buffalo Gals!’” Frank hollered.

  “’Buffalo Gals’ it is.” He touched the bow to the strings and filled the night with music. The children leaped to their feet to dance, hooking arms and skipping in circles.

  Briggs laughed as he watched their faces light up like a hundred candles burning at once. He glanced up at Sarah, wanting to be alone with her, to ask her about the letter. How could he enjoy all this when he needed to ease his mind?

  “Play ‘Jimmy Crack Corn’!” Frank suggested, when the first tune came to an end. Howard quickly drew bow to strings again and started anew. Mollie giggled and leaped onto Briggs’s lap, and he promptly squeezed her with a bear hug, growling at the same time.

  Frank reached for Sarah’s hand. “Come dance with me, Mrs. Brigman!”

  Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her out of her chair and looped his arm through hers. Briggs watched his wife skip around in circles with young Frank, her face alight with joy, her skirts flapping as her feet came off the ground. Despite everything, how could Briggs help but smile, too?

  When the song finally ended, Sarah flopped into her chair, panting and laughing at the same time. “That was wonderful!” she said to Frank, who stood in front of her, still holding her hand, waiting for the next song to begin.

  “Come and sit with me, Frank,” Martha said. “Give Mrs. Brigman a chance to catch her breath.” Frank went obediently to his mother and climbed onto
her lap.

  “How about something for the newlyweds?” Howard suggested, rubbing his chin.

  He began to play ‘Lorena,’ a haunting ballad, and Martha began to sing, her voice as deep and rich as the dark sky above. The sounds floated upward with the crackling sparks from the fire.

  Briggs whispered into Mollie’s ear and gently set her onto the ground.

  He stood and held his hand out to his wife. She looked up at him, hesitated briefly, then allowed him to help her rise. Briggs led her away from the fire, slid his hand around her waist, and stepped into a fluid waltz. The night closed in around them, drowning out the fears locked in his heart, while only the sad sound of the fiddle and Martha’s voice remained. Briggs squeezed Sarah’s hand gently while he led her through the dance, admiring her lightness as she followed without falter.

  When the last note floated up to the stars, Briggs reluctantly stepped back. He still held Sarah’s hands, however, and they stood facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes.

  “Play something good now, Pa!” Frank called out.

  Briggs let go of Sarah’s hand. She lowered her gaze to the ground and sat down.

  Within seconds, lively fiddle music struck a new mood and the children leaped up to dance. Briggs, all too aware of the melancholy place he’d just been, sought to pull himself out of it by tugging Martha out of her chair. Sarah clapped her hands while the rest of them danced around the fire.

  They laughed and hooted, but for the remainder of the evening, Briggs never quite recovered from the affection he’d felt while dancing with his wife.

  When midnight came, Mollie fell asleep in Martha’s arms. “It’s time to go,” she whispered to Howard, touching his hand, preventing him from lowering the fiddle bow for another song.

  Howard rubbed his chin. “I suppose you’re right. My arm’s about to fall off.”

  Everyone giggled. “Thank you so much for calling on us,” Sarah said, rising. “I can’t remember ever having so much fun. We must do it again soon.”

  “We will.” They exchanged hugs and goodbyes. After loading their family and belongings into the wagon, the Whitikers left Sarah and Briggs standing outside their door, waving as their neighbors drove off, into the night.

  Soon all was quiet. Briggs was finally alone with Sarah.

  “Shall we go in?” he suggested, letting his hand rest on the small of her back.

  She glanced up at him, all smiles gone. “You go ahead. I’ll put out the fire.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t be silly. You worked hard today. I’ll make sure it’s out.” She reached forward and brushed his hair away from his forehead.

  They stared into each other’s eyes in the dark until Sarah swept her lashes downward, then she walked toward the roaring bonfire. Briggs watched her go. He had the most uneasy feeling but wanted more than anything to trust her.

  After hesitating for a moment, he turned and went inside.

  Chapter 17

  Sarah sat down in front of the bonfire and felt inside her pocket. The letter was still there, and she reconsidered what she was about to do. If she burned it, wouldn’t Briggs wonder why? Paper was a valuable commodity on the prairie, and for her to be so wasteful....

  Oh, if only Martha hadn’t mentioned it!

  She sat in the chair, staring at the yellow flames, wondering if it would be better to simply tell Briggs the letter was from Garrison. Then she could rip it up in front of him to prove she didn’t want to go back.

  But what if he asked to read it? I know you love me. You said so in your vows.

  Dear Lord, she would have to confess everything.

  She looked at the house with growing dread. She hated keeping all these secrets from Briggs, but she couldn’t put him in danger either.

  Besides that, what would it do to him if he knew? Their relationship had come such a long way in the past few weeks, but not far enough to handle anything like this. He would be angry and probably devastated. She couldn’t bear to think of it.

  Oh, if only they had been married longer. Surely, in time, when their rocky beginning was a more distant memory, Briggs would be more forgiving. She would tell him one day, she promised herself, when Garrison was no longer a threat.

  But not now. Not until Garrison was in jail.

  Sarah looked up at the black sky and made up her mind. She would burn the letter. Now. If Briggs asked to see it, she would tell him that she’d used it to light the stove and foolishly hadn’t considered keeping the paper for future use.

  Sitting at the table and fiddling with a spoon, Briggs didn’t like what he was thinking. He just couldn’t stop being suspicious, could he? Why had Sarah been so bent on putting out that fire?

  Growing more impatient with every passing second, he went to the dark window and cupped his hands to the cool, clean pane. Sarah was sitting in one of the chairs, staring up at the sky.

  It shamed him not to trust her, but he had to know what she was doing. He crossed the room, climbed the steps and pushed open the door. Its creaky hinges drew Sarah’s attention. The fire illuminated her face, and he saw a flash of panic. She quickly dropped what must have been the letter into the fire. It sparked and crackled, then disappeared.

  Sarah stared at Briggs from across the yard. Seconds passed. All she could do was wait for the other shoe to drop.

  He walked toward her, his face tense with anger. Or was it disappointment?

  “What did you burn?” he asked. “The letter Martha brought?”

  Sarah nodded, her heart sinking.

  “It wasn’t from your employer, was it,” he said.

  “No,” she answered, truthfully.

  She saw his jaw clench. “Why did you burn it? Weren’t you going to tell me who it was from?”

  “I thought you’d be angry.”

  “Should I be? You didn’t encourage him to write, did you?”

  “No.”

  Briggs glanced at the fire, still crackling loudly, the flames quivering in the wind. “What did he write that you didn’t want me to see?”

  Sarah paused and took a deep breath.

  “He wants me to come back,” she replied. “That’s why I burned it—because I have no intention of ever leaving you.”

  Briggs glared uncertainly at her.

  She stood and moved toward him, but he stepped back. She halted, then breached the space he’d tried to keep as his own. “I had to wait for Howard and Martha to leave before I could tell you about it.”

  He considered her answer, then kicked dirt over the fire and smothered the flames. “You say he wants you back. Doesn’t he care that you’re another man’s wife?”

  Sarah regarded him steadily. “He doesn’t know about you. I left Boston without telling him anything. I didn’t even say good-bye.”

  Briggs grabbed hold of her arm and squeezed. “Are you telling me the truth, Sarah?”

  Fear rioted within her. Briggs had never been rough with her, not even on their wedding night, but she’d seen enough in life to know where a man’s anger could lead. She frantically nodded.

  Briggs let go of her arm and turned away. He kicked more dirt onto the dying fire.

  “Well. I hope, if you decide to put an end to our arrangement here, you’ll at least tell me when you’re planning to go.”

  Her stomach dropped, and her heart throbbed painfully in her chest. “I told you, Briggs, I have no intention of leaving.”

  His eyes met hers. “You haven’t given me much reason to believe you, burning that letter without letting me see it for myself.”

  He turned away from her and walked back to the house. Desperate to make things right, Sarah picked up her skirts and followed. Once inside, Briggs sat down at the table and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked, her voi
ce quavering.

  “The question is, what do you want to do?”

  “I’ve already told you, I want to stay here. With you.”

  “Why?” he asked with a frown. “You have a lover back in Boston who wants you back. If you want to go to him, I’ll survive. I only wanted help around here anyway. I can find someone else.”

  He may as well have punched her in the stomach. “You have no right to say such a thing to me. And I was going to tell you about the letter. I just didn’t get the chance.”

  “But I’ll never know for sure, will I?”

  Sarah knelt before his chair. “Please, Briggs, I know it’s hard for you to believe in me, after what happened with....” She stopped herself.

  “After what happened with what?” he asked, his tone accusing.

  “After what happened with Isabelle.”

  Briggs sat back, staring at her as if she had slapped him.

  “Just because she left you doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you, too,” Sarah said.

  Briggs frowned at her and scoffed. “Who told you about that? Martha?”

  Sarah nodded. “She had to tell me. I needed to know why you were so angry with me, why you were so determined not to care for me.”

  “I thought you knew why. Because you married me while you already had a man in Boston. Did you tell her about that? Did you tell her how you’d kept that from me?

  “No.”

  Briggs looked away. “I didn’t think so.”

  Sarah sat back on her heels, feeling suddenly defensive. “I’m not the only one keeping secrets, Briggs.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the trinket under our bed.”

  “What trinket?”

  She could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew exactly what she was referring to. “I found the necklace that you said you sold.”

  All the color drained from his face. He glanced at the bed, as if he were trying to imagine her moving it aside in order to search through his private belongings. “When?”

  “Today.”