A Bride for Andrew

by Cat Cahill

  “I’d thought you far too civilized to come home brandishing a weapon,” he said, distaste evident in his voice, “but perhaps I expected too much from one who grew up with so little.”

  Fury wound its way through Ivy, pushing to make itself known in her words. How dare he insult her. How dare he belittle her family. They weren’t impoverished, but it didn’t matter if they were. Finally the words burst through, before Ivy could think of what she was saying. “You wouldn’t know family if it hit you between the eyes.”

  “On the contrary, I know more about duty to family than you, Ivy.”

  His use of her name, as if they were familiar with each other, rankled her even more. She wanted so badly to smack him across the face. Instead, she redoubled her grip on the useless shotgun.

  “As I recall,” he went on, “you stole away with two children who don’t belong to you, directly against the plans I’d made for us. You’ve cost me a lot of time and money, and you’ve angered both me and my parents. I had to board a train and come to this godforsaken place to find you. And once I arrive, what do I find?”

  Ivy didn’t answer, although she knew what caused his rant and the growing redness in his face. She’d embarrassed him by marrying Andrew. And now he’d ensure she paid for that humiliation. She cast a desperate look at Andrew, who stood, both hands balled into fists and seemingly ready to leap onto Mr. St. Clair at a moment’s notice. But beneath that stance, she saw something else in his eyes.

  Confusion.

  Ivy dragged her gaze away from Andrew only to find Mr. St. Clair eyeing him now with a look of utter distaste. “You have no sense whatsoever, Ivy, marrying a farmer too poor to give you anything good. What kind of life would the children have, growing up here?”

  Love, she thought. They’d have love, gentleness, a real family, and an appreciation for hard work—none of which they’d find with Mr. St. Clair.

  But she didn’t dare say it out loud. She’d already angered him enough. And she needed to keep his anger to a minimum as she worked through a plan in her head. She needed him to leave here, to leave Andrew alive and well, to leave the children behind.

  And there was only one way she might convince him to do that.

  Ivy swallowed hard and laid the shotgun against the wall of the house. When she straightened, she found Mr. St. Clair looking at her again. That was good. She had his attention.

  She flitted a gaze at Andrew and hoped he would understand. In one look, she tried to tell him everything she wanted to say out loud. That she was sorry for how she’d struck out at him. That she trusted him fully and wished he might forgive her. That he’d fulfilled her every hope in becoming a father to Oliver and Sarah. That she was sorry her own fear kept her from telling him everything about Mr. St. Clair.

  That she loved him, with all her heart.

  He blinked at her, the confusion still present, but the creases in his forehead evened out some, and Ivy hoped he might understand why she was making the choice she was now resolved to.

  She looked quickly back to Mr. St. Clair. She took in his smooth, unmarked face, the hair that remained perfectly combed despite the ride he’d had out here to the homestead, the fine clothing and the hat that must have cost more than what Andrew might earn in a year from selling vegetables and hay. And the empty eyes and soulless heart she knew lurked inside.

  “I’m prepared to leave with you,” she said, the words clear despite the way they tried to claw back into her mouth. “But I have two conditions.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ivy’s words tore Andrew’s heart open all over again. He stared at her, hard, unable to process what she was thinking. Even if she no longer wanted to be married to him, she would never choose St. Clair.

  And yet that appeared to be exactly what she was doing.

  St. Clair raised his eyebrows at Ivy’s words, as if he were surprised she wouldn’t simply hop onto his horse and ride off with him.

  “Conditions.” He said the word as if it were a despicable sort of thing.

  “Yes.” Ivy’s voice didn’t tremble. In fact, she sounded completely confident. It made no sense at all. She clasped her hands together and looked St. Clair in the eye. “My first request is that you leave Mr. Chisholm and his property unharmed.”

  Andrew caught his breath as St. Clair’s eyes flickered to him. The sad excuse for a man held Andrew’s gaze for a brief moment, disdain coloring every inch of his features as it had since he first arrived. He’d made no secret that he’d thought Andrew and everything he’d worked so hard to build was beneath him. It had angered Andrew at first, but now he realized it might just save him.

  That Ivy might be saving him.

  The fists he’d clenched since the moment Ivy showed up fell open as he scoured her face for the truth. Her expression remained impassive. The Ivy he knew smiled when she felt joy. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of happiness in the way she clenched her jaw or in the straight line her lips made.

  As St. Clair seemingly pondered Ivy’s demand, taking in the house and the barn, she glanced to Andrew. Her measured expression fell some and she pinched her lips together as if she was trying desperately to keep her emotion contained.

  And Andrew knew, right then and for certain, that she didn’t want St. Clair. She was sacrificing herself for him.

  Emotion welled up inside him as St. Clair turned and Ivy’s face grew hard again.

  He couldn’t let her do this.

  “All right,” St. Clair said, “provided you annul this . . . marriage . . . before we return.”

  Ivy flinched, just barely, at the way he’d said the word marriage. Just enough for Andrew to know that what they had meant something to her too. But she held St. Clair’s gaze and nodded.

  “And what is your second request?” he asked.

  “I want the children to remain here, with Mr. Chisholm.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. I won’t go with you if you insist upon bringing the children to Chicago.” Ivy’s hands were tightly clenched and her face was like stone.

  “My parents won’t stand for it,” St. Clair said.

  Andrew narrowed his eyes. St. Clair’s only concern was for the opinion of his parents, and not for the welfare of the children. If the man cared at all for Oliver and Sarah, he’d want to know what sort of father Andrew would be to them, how he could possibly raise them without a mother, what sort of education they might receive here. But he asked none of those questions. Which meant what he wanted—what he truly wanted—was . . . Ivy.

  Why hadn’t she told him?

  “Then you must choose. You can have me or make your parents happy.” Ivy stood firm, arms at her sides, and the breeze just barely lifting the hair under her simple hat as the valley spread behind her.

  She was as strong as the mountains that rose up in the distance and as firm as the earth beneath the house. And she held Andrew’s heart. She belonged to this place, this land, and . . . to him.

  He would not let her go, not while he still had breath to give.

  Andrew held his hands clenched so hard that his fingers began to cramp. But he waited, rooted to the floor inside the door of the house, for just the right moment. Even as St. Clair looked at Ivy as if she were some sort of prize to be won, Andrew waited.

  “I can’t promise they won’t send someone out here to collect the children,” St. Clair said. His stance had slackened some as the exchange had gone on, Andrew noticed. The revolver had dipped a little, though it still pointed at Andrew.

  “You must ensure that won’t happen. Else I’ll remain here.”

  “You forget I have the upper hand,” St. Clair said, shaking the revolver just a little. Andrew stiffened. Firearms were unreliable, untrustworthy. He knew that all too well.

  “Then you’ll have to shoot me too, because I’m not leaving otherwise.” Ivy tilted her chin up.

  Her words were too much. Andrew bit back a cry as memories flooded his mind, ones he’d
barely held at bay earlier when Ivy had left. Memories he’d tortured himself with for so long, images that he finally had stopped seeing each night only for these last few weeks. Only since Ivy had convinced him he might live as a whole man once again.

  Now they came back, quick and unbidden. The sound of the shotgun, louder and more explosive than normal. Mary’s cry. Racing through the snow, the pines and the stands of aspen, not able to move fast enough. Seeing her lying there in the snow and being unable to do a thing to save her. And the way she’d clutched his hand as she slipped away.

  The memories grabbed hold of him, threatening to pull him away, to consume him again with the grief and the guilt. He gripped the doorframe, briefly drawing St. Clair’s attention. The man turned quickly back to Ivy, but her gaze lingered on Andrew a moment longer. He tried to keep his mind on her, on this moment, but now all he could see was Ivy in Mary’s place in those memories.

  You ought to let her go, a voice in the back of his mind said. She’d be better off with St. Clair than with you.

  He fought against the words, the thoughts, the fears like a man trying to keep from drowning.

  “If I accept both your demands, do you agree to annul this sham of a marriage immediately and marry me as soon as it can be arranged in Chicago?” St. Clair spoke around the edges of the tumult in Andrew’s mind.

  “Yes,” Ivy said. “I agree.”

  Her words pulled him out, gave him reason to breathe again. She was here, standing just a few feet away from him, very much alive.

  And she needed him. Not the shell of a man he’d been. Not one who carried the burden of Mary’s death like a shield against the world. She needed her husband, the man who’d sworn to love and protect her as long as he had breath in his body. Despite the unusual way they’d married, they were still husband and wife.

  Now she needed him to act on his vows.

  Andrew straightened, slowly pulling his hand from the doorframe as he pressed the past back underwater.

  “I’ll pack my things,” Ivy said, taking a step forward.

  “No. Leave them. I’ll buy you anything you need.” St. Clair motioned to the horse and mule nearby. “Let’s go.” He eyed Andrew as he took a step backward, the revolver still in his outstretched hand.

  He couldn’t hold the gun forever, not if he was to get both himself and Ivy on the animals. Possibilities worked their way through Andrew’s mind.

  Ivy watched him over St. Clair’s shoulder. She said nothing, but everything he needed to know was in her eyes. She was doing this for him, and he was certain that if she spoke, she’d plead with him to stay here, take care of the children, and let her go.

  He would do no such thing.

  As St. Clair turned to retreat down the porch steps, Andrew’s gaze landed on the shotgun Ivy had left behind. Whether St. Clair had forgotten about it or whether he was too confident in himself, Andrew didn’t know. But there it was.

  Ivy and St. Clair reached Henry. St. Clair paused, as if considering whether to holster the pistol to help her up, finally unwinding the reins and leading Henry to the porch steps.

  Andrew didn’t move. Not yet. His stomach clenched as Ivy mounted the mule. Could he do it? Could he pick up the weapon that was just like the one that had killed Mary? Could he use it if he needed to?

  The fear threatened to wash over him again, and he ground his teeth together to keep it at bay. Ivy needed him right now. He couldn’t fail her.

  Ivy sat upon Henry, her back perfectly straight as she kept her eyes on Andrew. St. Clair moved to the gelding, pressed his foot into the stirrup, and grabbed hold of the horn, momentarily distracted from Andrew. Then he turned the horse, gathered up Henry’s reins, and led Ivy away.

  Now.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ivy twisted in the saddle as they rode away from the house. Something had changed in Andrew. She thought she’d seen it as they stood on the porch, and now she knew for certain. There was a fire in his eyes that threatened to consume Mr. St. Clair, but the man hadn’t noticed.

  Andrew watched them for a split second, and then crossed the porch.

  No! Ivy wanted to shout at him. To tell him to let her go. The safety of her family meant everything to her, and if he tried to stop them . . .

  Her insides lurched as he handled the shotgun. What was he going to do?

  “You’d do well to put this all behind you, Ivy,” St. Clair said in the slick voice that made Ivy’s entire being shiver in distaste. He faced forward on his horse, looking westward toward Crest Stone. He had no idea what was happening behind them.

  Ivy swallowed. Andrew stood on the porch, holding the shotgun as if it were something foreign. She recalled the dust that had covered the thing when she’d taken it earlier. It was as if he never used it.

  He disappeared inside the house finally, with the gun, and Ivy let out a breath mixed with relief and disappointment. It was good he was letting them go. He and the children could have a happy life together, far away from the St. Clairs.

  And yet . . .

  No, she shouldn’t wish for such a thing. It would only end badly. She could leave now knowing that Andrew truly did care for her. Perhaps he’d even loved her. And that would be enough to carry her through the rest of her life with Mr. St. Clair.

  Minutes passed, and something compelled Ivy to turn again. She nearly gasped when she saw what was behind them.

  Andrew, on Miriam, rode with the shotgun across his saddle. He was gaining on them, inch by inch.

  A jolt of fear quickly snuffed out the momentary burst of happiness Ivy felt. This was too dangerous. All Mr. St. Clair had to do was extract that pistol and point it back at Andrew.

  Go back, she thought. Please, go home!

  “What the . . .” Mr. St. Clair’s utterance drew her attention forward again.

  “Please don’t—” she started to say, certain he was about to turn and shoot at Andrew. But he wasn’t looking at Andrew. Instead, his neck craned forward, toward the horizon, where a cloud of dust stirred.

  “What is that?” Mr. St. Clair asked.

  Ivy squinted. Was that . . . horses?

  And just as the thought cleared her mind, a bullet whizzed past them.

  Ivy shrieked as Mr. St. Clair cursed and yanked hard on the horse’s reins, turning to face behind them. As he pulled the mule around with him, she saw Andrew again. He was lowering the shotgun as he came toward them. He’d shot wide on purpose, she realized as her mind spun with all that was happening. He wanted Mr. St. Clair to know he was there.

  The horse bucked and pranced, keeping Mr. St. Clair’s attention on him instead of letting him pull his revolver. She needed to get out of the way. To get off the mule. Not thinking twice, Ivy leapt off, landing hard on her hands and knees.

  Pain blossomed through her arms, tingling from her fingers to her elbows. Henry moved backward as St. Clair’s horse danced closer. She needed to move, to crawl, to do something to get out of the way of the frightened horse. But she couldn’t move. It was as if her entire body had frozen to the ground.

  Dust rose as the horse kicked the dirt, filling Ivy’s eyes and coating her lips. The horse whinnied. And then a cry from somewhere nearby, and a thud.

  The pain diminished just enough to allow her to crawl forward. The dust cleared as the horse raced away, and Ivy could just make out Mr. St. Clair in the dirt near Henry, who stood firm. He was crawling on his hands and knees in his fine suit. He raised his arm and something glinted in the dust-filtered sunlight.

  Ivy gasped, swallowing grit and sand, as she realized he was pointing his pistol at an oncoming rider.

  Andrew.

  “No!” she shouted, but the words were lost in the dust that swirled up again as Henry shuffled his feet and in the pounding that came with the hoofbeats to the west.

  A shot echoed across the valley, drowning out the sound of the oncoming horses.

  Ivy jerked her gaze toward Andrew. He seemed to fall from Miriam, and she choked o
n a scream. She had to get to him. She could save him, somehow, if only she could reach him. She pushed herself up to her feet, propelled by the desperate need to get to him.

  She ran even as Mr. St. Clair shouted for her. Andrew lay just before her, next to where Miriam had stopped, motionless in the dirt and sage and fine grains of dust. She was almost there. She whispered a feverish prayer as she grew closer.

  And then, just before she could reach him, he rose, like a specter in the haze, just enough to load the shotgun and aim it at Mr. St. Clair.

  Ivy ground to a stop just as he fired.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  With a groan, St. Clair fell backward, clutching his arm as the pistol dropped from his grip.

  The riders from the west closed in around him as Andrew rose fully, letting the shotgun fall to his side. Ivy closed the distance, propelling herself into his arms. He stood still for a moment, letting the feel of her bring him back to life. He set the shotgun down, and slowly, he raised one arm, then the other, and wrapped them around her waist, holding her to him.

  He’d done it. He’d not only picked up that shotgun, but he’d loaded it and fired it. And he’d stopped that madman from taking Ivy.

  He breathed in her lilac scent through the dust that coated both of them as a few of the riders dismounted. One of them saw to St. Clair as another called out for a doctor from the men still on horseback. St. Clair was sitting up, holding his arm to his chest. Andrew thanked God he’d only injured the man. He would have done more, if he’d had to, but he was grateful that wasn’t called for.

  Ivy tilted her head and pulled his attention back to her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, smoothing her hair away from her face.

  She nodded, her eyes searching his face. “Are you? I thought you’d been shot.”

  “I wasn’t.” He clutched her to him again. Holding her made him feel whole. “Where are the children?”

  “In town. I left them with Caroline Drexel at the mercantile. I’m certain she’s been doting on them ever since.”