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

by Julianne MacLean

  He stared through the darkness at the ceiling, listening to Sarah’s steady breathing beside him. If Isabelle held onto some hope that he would take her back again, she would have to learn straightaway that he was married to someone else now, and he had no intention of breaking his vows. Isabelle would have to learn that what once existed between them was dead and buried.

  Sarah woke the next morning, her arm throbbing. She groaned and remembered the horrors of the night before—the doctor pulling and twisting. It was like something out of a nightmare. She’d never endured anything so physically painful in all her life. And it seemed the pain intended to stay a while....

  She listened to voices downstairs. Briggs and George were talking, but she could not make out what they were saying. Feeling thirsty, she noticed a glass of water on the bedside table, but when she reached for it, she accidentally knocked it over. It fell to the floor and broke.

  “Drat.” She tried to rise but felt sick and dizzy and flopped back down onto the bed.

  A knock sounded at the door. When she didn’t answer, it opened, and Briggs walked in. “Are you all right?” He shut the door behind him and crossed the room.

  “I feel terrible, actually, like I’ve been trampled all over again this morning.”

  “No wonder. The doctor gave you quite a dose of whiskey last night. And morphine. How’s your arm?”

  “Sore.”

  He reached up to sweep a tendril of hair away from her eyes. Despite her rolling stomach, her body calmed at his touch, and she felt her love for him explode in her heart.

  “We don’t have to go anywhere until you’re feeling better,” he said. “George says we can stay as long as we need to.”

  “What about the plowing?”

  “That can wait a few days, and Frank will take care of the milking until we get back. The important thing is that you get well.”

  “I feel like such a nuisance. I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”

  Briggs caressed her face tenderly and gave her a reassuring smile. “Hardly.”

  Sarah sighed with contentment. “You don’t have to stay here just because of me. You could go back and finish your work, and I’ll come when I’m better. I’ll be fine, really.”

  But in all honesty, she didn’t want to be away from him, not even for a single day, because she longed for his touch, constantly. Just to be in the same room with him now was the best medicine she could ask for. He was so handsome, so appealing to her in every way, he distracted her from the pain and whatever other hardships might lay ahead.

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” he replied. “The doc said you’ll be feeling better in a couple of days. You’ll just have to take it easy for a while. I’ll look after the milking when we get back, and I’m sure Martha would be more than happy to help out.”

  Sarah smiled appreciatively. “Did you run the errands?”

  “Not yet. I’ll go after breakfast.” He stood up to leave. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, but you’ll need this.” She reached into her skirt pocket and dug out the wrinkled letter to Garrison.

  He moved to take it, but she didn’t let go right away.

  “I’ll feel a lot better when I know you’ve sent it.” She finally released it and dropped her hand to her side.

  He bent to kiss her again and walked out.

  Bells jingled when Briggs opened the door to the General Store and postal office, anxious to send the letter to Garrison and put all that behind them. But as he approached the counter, every man, woman and child seemed to stop what they were doing and fix their eyes on him. He had a funny feeling the whole town knew about Isabelle’s latest tragedy.

  He walked to the postal wicket with his head down. “Morning, Roger.”

  Roger Crosby sniffled and blew his nose. He’d lost some hair since the last time Briggs had seen him. “Morning, Briggs. Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

  “I’ve been busy on the claim. You heard about the locusts, I reckon.”

  “It’s a darn shame. Folks are having a rough time.” He turned around and began sorting through a pile of letters. “There’s something here for Martha Whitiker. Came in just this morning. You want to take it?”

  “Sure.” Briggs dug into his pocket for the letter to Garrison and tapped it on the counter.

  “Anything else I can do for you today?” Roger asked.

  Briggs handed him the letter. “Yes. You can post this to Boston.”

  Cupping one lens of his spectacles between his thumb and forefinger, Roger studied the address. “Boston, you say.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain? Because there’s a Garrison McPhee right here in town.”

  Briggs felt the walls begin to close in around him. “You sure? Maybe it’s a different Garrison McPhee.”

  “Possibly, but this one just arrived from Boston a few days ago. In fact, he came in to hand deliver that letter Martha picked up. Is he a relation?”

  Briggs turned to walk out, his boots pounding heavily across the floorboards. “No, he’s most definitely not.”

  “You don’t want to post that letter?” Roger called after him.

  “Nope,” Briggs replied as he pushed through the door and felt his vision turn red. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

  Chapter 22

  Walking back to George’s house, Briggs fought to keep his anger in check. Sarah didn’t know about Garrison’s presence in town—at least he didn’t think so. God only knew what was in that letter she burned.

  As he walked, he had to force his suspicions down and try not to assume the worst. He had to trust that she had told him the truth about everything, and that she had no idea Garrison had followed her here.

  And Heaven help the man if he tried to see her or talk to her. After what he did to Sarah, it would take every ounce of self-control Briggs possessed not to beat the despicable worm to a bloody pulp.

  As Briggs approached George’s house, he considered what he was going to say if Sarah asked if he’d posted the letter. He stopped on the covered veranda for a moment and stared down at the unpainted wood planks under his boots.

  Laughter from the kitchen startled him. Sarah was feeling better, it seemed. Briggs pulled the screen door open and walked in to find her sipping tea with her shawl pulled over her arm in the splint, listening to George tell the story of how Briggs had bloodied Little Charlie Tomkins’s nose twenty years ago.

  Briggs moved into the room. The laughter died away. George slid his chair back and stood. “Briggs. We were just talking about you.”

  “I gathered that.” He looked down at his wife’s curious face and shrugged out of his coat. “You were saying?”

  George cleared his throat. “Um, I was just telling Sarah why no one calls you Arthur.”

  Briggs glanced from George to Sarah, and back at George again. The two of them looked like children caught spying on their teacher before school.

  Briggs draped his buckskin coat over the back of a chair. “Little Charlie Tomkins was in bad need of a bloody nose. In fact, he told me afterwards it cleared up his head cold.”

  George and Sarah glanced at each other, then began to laugh. Briggs backed up against the dry sink, watching them and wondering how he was going to tell his injured wife that her former betrothed—who had abused her unforgivably—was here in town, and that her current husband wanted to hunt him down and give him far worse than a mere bloody nose.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he eyed his coat pocket and saw the top corner of the letter peeking out. It wouldn’t be long before Sarah saw it too and asked why he hadn’t posted it.

  “I guess you noticed I’m feeling better,” she said cheerfully. “My arm is still sore, but I think I just needed to eat something. If you want to go home today, I think I could manage it.”

  Go home. She wo
uldn’t want to leave so soon if she’d come here expecting to see Garrison. That provided Briggs with some relief. They could drive straight out of town and be long gone before he even mentioned Garrison to her. He’d eventually have to tell her of course. He only hoped it wouldn’t matter.

  “Sure, we could leave today,” he said. “Only if you’re certain you feel well enough.”

  Sarah stood up with care. “I think so. Did you run all the errands? You weren’t gone very long.”

  “I still have a few things left to do.” He thought mainly about the necklace and the blankets they needed, and maybe having a word or two with a particular worm from Boston, if he could find him.

  “We could run the errands on the way out of town,” Sarah suggested. “If someone would help me gather my things?”

  Briggs reluctantly agreed, knowing that if Sarah was with him, he couldn’t very well track Garrison down. Wondering what to do, he watched her go upstairs, then felt the weight of George’s curious stare.

  “What’s the matter?” Briggs asked.

  George cocked his head. “Nothing. You just look bothered.”

  “Wouldn’t you be, if your horse trampled your wife?”

  “I suppose,” George replied, as if he wasn’t convinced that was the problem.

  Sarah let Briggs assist her into the wagon, but with the movement of vehicle as they lurched forward came a stabbing pain in her arm, all the way up to her shoulder. She suppressed the urge to complain about it, wondering if she’d made a mistake in suggesting they travel home today. She had honestly felt better at the time. She just hadn’t imagined how difficult it would be to climb into the wagon with one arm in a splint.

  Briggs climbed up beside her and freed the brake. They waved to George, who was out on the veranda leaning on the railing, then they rolled down the dusty street toward the business district.

  A few minutes later, they were driving along Front Street, passing other wagons, carriages, and roaming livestock. The street seemed to play music, like a grand orchestra of clip clops, jangling harnesses, cow bells, and nickering horses.

  “We’ll stop in at Wright’s to sell the butter and eggs,” Briggs said, pulling the wagon to a halt out front, “but why don’t you stay here and wait for me?”

  She knew it would be painful to get in and out, but she also knew the trip home would leave her sitting in the wagon for many hours to come. “I’d prefer to go with you.”

  He agreed and helped her down, withdrew the wooden box from the back, then led the way into the store.

  The door swung closed behind Sarah, and she stood for a moment looking at everything from saddles and rifles to barrels of salt and molasses, canned goods, ashes for soap-making, and bolts of calico fabric. Customers roamed around, inspecting items and chattering constantly, and the air was thick with the scents of tobacco, spices, and leather.

  Briggs made his way to the counter and set the box down. “Morning, Austin.”

  “Briggs.” He glanced over Brigg’s shoulder at Sarah, who approached and linked her arm through his.

  “This is my wife, Sarah Brigman. Sarah? This is Austin Moore.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise. I don’t recall seeing you in town before. You must be from away.”

  “That’s right. I’m from—”

  “She’s from out east,” Briggs finished for her.

  Bewildered, Sarah slid him a look, but he was already changing the subject, and she could only guess that he didn’t want folks to know that he’d ordered her like a catalogue item.

  “We have some butter and eggs here…” Briggs continued.

  While Sarah watched the transaction take place, a cowboy approached and leaned on the counter beside her. He held soiled, brown gloves in his hands, and Sarah wondered uncomfortably how long it had been since the man had taken a bath. She raised a gloved finger under her nose, then unexpectedly, she gagged.

  Briggs immediately turned his attention to her. “You all right?”

  Eyes watering, she quickly nodded, unable to speak for fear of gagging again.

  “I just need some air. I’ll wait outside.” She hurried to the door.

  “What about picking out the blankets?”

  Without turning back, she replied, “You can choose them.”

  Outside, she sucked in a mouthful of fresh air. Well… as fresh as could be expected with the stockyard less than a mile away. At least the gagging sensation had passed.

  Sarah walked leisurely along the boardwalk to the wagon, and climbed awkwardly onto the seat while favoring her sore arm. She sat down and spread her shawl over her legs, waiting. Wagons and buggies rattled by, the gentlemen tipping their hats at her, ladies smiling. On horseback, cowboys trotted down the center of the wide street.

  Just then, a familiar voice spoke from behind. “Well, well. What a coincidence.”

  Her body exploding with shock and apprehension, Sarah stared straight ahead, praying she was imagining things, because she would know that voice anywhere.

  But unfortunately for her, the voice was real. Garrison moved into her line of vision and tipped his elegant top hat at her. “That arm must be awfully painful if you’re going to let your husband choose your bedding,” he said. “Aren’t you worried he’ll choose the wrong color?”

  Briggs stared blankly at the pile of blankets for sale. There were gray ones, red ones, and blue ones. He wondered what Sarah would prefer—something like the red blanket she had hung in their house, or something different?

  Ah, what did it matter? All he needed was something to keep them warm at night—in the big, comfortable feather bed he intended to build for them very soon. Besides, he’d kept her waiting long enough.

  Briggs chose a red one and a blue one, and proceeded to the counter. He had to wait a moment while the lady ahead of him paid for her dry goods. At last, he stepped up and set down the blankets. “I’ll take these.”

  “Fine. I gave you a credit for the butter. Tell your wife I already sold half of it.”

  “She’ll be pleased to hear it.” He thought of how worried she’d been that no one would want the butter. He couldn’t wait to tell her. Right after that, he’d deliver the news about Garrison and hope that she wouldn’t care—that she’d simply want to go home.

  Sarah slid across the hard seat, away from Garrison, but winced in pain. “What are you doing here?”

  She watched helplessly as he leaned against the side of Briggs’s wagon and crossed one ankle over the other. He brushed a fleck of dust off the shoulder of his black coat. Panic—raw and icy—froze her to the seat.

  He removed his hat. “What do you think I’m doing here? I came to take you home, where you belong.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. Didn’t you get my letter? The train master in Boston was very cooperative, and once I got here... Well, this town is exactly what I imagined it would be. It seems everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

  “Then you must know that I’m married,” she said with a note of warning in her voice. “His name is Briggs and he’ll be out of the store any minute now.”

  “Yes, I know about Briggs. The heartbroken farmer. Sad story, that is.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” she practically spat. “Or about him.”

  Garrison’s expression was one of pained tolerance. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Sarah stared at him, unable to speak. He leaned toward her, his eyes calculating and sinister. “You must realize that your marriage to that man isn’t legal.”

  The panic she had felt when Garrison had bound her to the chair in the hotel room began to creep up on her, causing her heartbeat to accelerate. “It is legal. It was done at the courthouse.”

  Garrison shook his head, as if he considered
her to be a fool. “I’m assuming you didn’t tell him about us.”

  “It’s none of your business what my husband and I discuss.”

  “Your husband? You say it with such conviction. It makes me want to laugh, Sarah.”

  She leaned toward him and spoke heatedly through gritted teeth. “Make no mistake about it, after what you did to me, I hate you, Garrison. If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll report you, and everything I know about you, to the authorities. But you should know that that would be a far better fate than what my husband would do to you if he catches you talking to me. So just leave us alone. Don’t ever contact me again.”

  Garrison strolled to the front of the wagon and stroked Gem’s forelock. “Looks like someone developed a backbone since her arrival here. Did Briggs beat that into you?”

  “He would never—”

  Garrison scoffed. “How much longer are you going to keep this up, Sarah?” When she gave no reply, he returned to her side and rested his hand on the wagon seat. Sarah slid across, away from him, to avoid his touch.

  “Perhaps I deserve the cold shoulder,” he said gently and apologetically in that charismatic voice that had wooed her in the beginning and had made her feel as if he truly cared about her happiness. “But I told you I was sorry for not explaining everything sooner. You know I love you more than anyone. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I want you to come home. Put all this foolishness behind us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she firmly told him. “I’m with Briggs now.”

  He gave her a look. “Surely, you couldn’t love a farmer who makes you live in a house made of dirt. You’re better than that.” He glanced at the splint on her arm. “Besides, it looks like he doesn’t treat you very well.”

  “He didn’t do this. Unlike you, he would never hurt me.”