The Anonymous Bride (Texas Boardinghouse Brides 1)

by Vickie McDonough

  Leah nodded. At least it had sounded like a good idea last night. “Mr. Abernathy made an agreement with Pa to marry me, but I just can’t.”

  Lifting her hand to her mouth, her friend stared back at her with wide eyes. “Oh, Leah, I’m so sorry. He’s so—old.”

  Leah crinkled her lip and leaned forward. “And he has hair in his ears.”

  “And hanging out his nose.” Sue Anne curled her lips inward, obviously fighting a smile. She lost the battle and giggled. “We can’t have that, can we? Here, let’s look at my paper.”

  Leah nodded, still wrestling inside. How could she marry a stranger? She’d only loved one man, but she’d lost him. She’d heard of people marrying who didn’t know one another, but could love grow from such a union? Yet anyone would be better than Mr. Abernathy. Scooting over, Sue Anne patted the settee, and Leah slid beside her. They leaned forward, looking at the paper spread out on the coffee table.

  “Do you want to marry a rancher? Lots of them need wives.”

  Leah considered that and shook her head. “No, I think I’d rather live in a town and preferably someplace that’s not cold.”

  “Hmm...” Sue Anne tapped her chin. “How about this one. ‘Bank clerk from Kansas City, Missouri, seeks wife. Has small house and regular income, 35, 5'6", brown hair and green eyes.’” Looking hopeful, she glanced over at Leah.

  “I don’t know. He’s rather old, though certainly younger than Mr. Abernathy, but Kansas City isn’t too far by train. I’d hate for Pa to come find me and make me come back home. He’s so stubborn, he just might do that.”

  “That’s true.” Sue Anne turned back to the paper. “‘Well-to-do saloon owner needs wife. Prefers a shapely woman who sings like a songbird.’ ”

  Leah gasped and swatted her friend’s arm. “No, thank you. Some friend you are.”

  Chuckling, they searched the ads again. Suddenly, Sue Anne sat up straighter. “Here’s a good one. ‘Town marshal, 6'2", with dark brown hair and eyes, wants pretty wife who can cook. Must be willing to move to Texas. Travel money provided.’”

  Leah’s heart leaped. She hadn’t considered the cost of traveling.

  “The address is Lookout, Texas. I don’t know where that is, but Texas is such a big state that surely the town is far away. Clear across Indian Territory. Your father would never travel that far—and oh my, six foot two inches—how wonderful.”

  Leah leaned back, staring at the ad. She’d read a lot about Texas and its wild beginnings, but now it was a state, and things had settled down there. At least she hoped they had. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea.

  Sue Anne nudged her arm. “I don’t think you’re going to find one better than a town marshal. Surely the man is honorable and trustworthy if he’s a lawman. I wonder why he wants you to write him through a solicitor.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want the whole town knowing he’s wife shopping.” Leah leaned back, took a cookie off the plate, and nibbled it. Could she do this? Would he even want her?

  Bouncing on the seat, Sue Anne squealed. “Say something, Leah. He sounds perfectly wonderful.”

  Leah looked at her friend. “Can I borrow some paper so I can write to him?”

  CHAPTER 11

  Shreveport, Louisiana Late May 1886

  Shannon O’Neil pulled open the tall double windows in the gentlemen’s parlor and stared out at the dreary countryside. A cool breeze blew in, clearing the room’s air of the stench of cigar smoke that had lingered overnight after the men’s poker game. The damp weather and cloudy sky reminded her of her homeland. Ireland. Would she ever see the brilliant green grass and rolling hills again?

  No, and ’twas best she put it from her mind. She would live the rest of her days in America, and though life here wasn’t easy, ’twas far better than how her family fared as poor tenant farmers. If only her parents hadn’t died so soon upon their arrival in New Orleans. Perhaps things would have turned out different.

  “Miss O’Neil!”

  Shannon jumped and spun around. Her hand clutched the paper in her pocket as if Mrs. Melrose could see the letter and knew her thoughts. A shiver ran down her spine.

  The plump woman lifted up her chin and glared at Shannon. “Mr. Wakefield does not employ you so you can spend the day lollygagging. Have you finished cleaning and dusting this room? And why is that window open?”

  Shannon’s gaze ran swiftly around the gentlemen’s parlor where each piece of furniture gleamed. “Aye, mum, the polishing is done, and I only opened the window to clear the air in here. ’Twas heavy with smoke from last eve’s socializing.”

  “Fine, then see to it that the chamber pots are emptied while the family is at breakfast.”

  Stomach curdling at the nasty chore, Shannon dipped her head. “Aye, mum.”

  “Make haste now, and when you’ve finished that task, come find me downstairs in the kitchen or laundry.” The head maid turned and strode out of the room, murmuring loud enough for Shannon to hear, “I declare, if I didn’t keep a watch on each and every one of these girls, nothing would get done around here.”

  Gathering up the crate of empty liquor and wine bottles, Shannon made her way down to the kitchen. She set the crate on the rear porch and returned upstairs to close the window and retrieve the wine glasses. Back in the kitchen, she placed the dirty goblets in the sink to be washed. She hurried to the south wing of the huge mansion, dreading the duty before her. Though she’d worked at the Wakefield Estate for nearly a year, she was the newest servant, so the worst jobs fell to her. “But not for long.”

  She fingered the letter burning a hole in her pocket. Had she made the right decision to respond to that advertisement in the newspaper? He’d written twice and now sent her the money to come to Texas to be his wife. But could she actually marry a man she’d never met before? A town marshal, no less.

  She’d dreamed of the six-feet-two-inch man last night. Dark brown hair and eyes. A marshal would be a man used to protecting people, but would she feel safe with him? Would he treat her kindly?

  She emptied and washed out the pots for the master and mistress’s room and their two daughters, but she dreaded entering their son’s bed chamber. He was known for sleeping late and for forcing the female servants to please his every whim; but as bad as he was, he didn’t have the cruel streak that his visiting friend and college roommate, Justin Moreland, had.

  Shannon knocked hard on the door, waited, then knocked again. She wiped her sweaty hands on her apron. When there was no response, she pushed open the heavy door and peered inside. Morgan Wakefield’s nightshirt lay in a heap on the floor, much to Shannon’s relief. She hurried inside, fetched the pot, took it downstairs to be emptied and washed, and quickly returned it to the room, lest the younger Mr. Wakefield return and find her in his chamber. In the hall, she leaned against the wall and heaved a heavy breath. Just one more, and then the horrid deed would be done for the day.

  She ventured out of the family wing of the home and into the north end where the guests resided. If the younger Mr. Wakefield was awake and at breakfast, he most likely had dragged his friend out of bed and downstairs with him. Shannon shook her head. How could anyone eat breakfast when it was nearly the noon hour?

  She knocked loudly then shoved the door open, greatly relieved that Mr. Moreland was not present. Fifteen minutes later, the deed was done. She pulled the door shut as she was leaving.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” Justin Moreland leaned casually against the hall wall staring at her with lecherous eyes and a cocky smile. “Trying to sneak into my room, were you?”

  Shannon jumped, her hand to her chest, and stepped back. “I was only tendin’ to your—your room, sir.” She curtseyed and stepped around him.

  The tall, lean man leaped in front of her. “I’ve had breakfast, but alas, there was no dessert.”

  Shannon scowled, thinking of the delicious pastries with creamy filling that the cooks made for the family. Often the rema
ining ones were thrown away or fed to the swine rather than given to the lowly servants. She forced a smile and held her hands behind her back so that he wouldn’t see them trembling. Though comely with his curly brown hair and blue eyes, something about the rogue scared her more than riding in the dark, smelly steerage on the ship that had brought her to America. “I’d be happy to fetch you a pastry, sir.”

  He stepped closer, grabbing her upper arms. “You’re the only dessert I need. Give me fifteen minutes of your time, and I’ll sweeten your pocket with a coin.”

  Gasping, Shannon struggled to pull free. Her virtue was not for sale at any price. “Nay, I cannot. I’ve duties to tend to.”

  “Come now, those other servants won’t miss you for such a short while.” Taller than she by a good nine inches, young and strong, he jerked her toward the bedroom door.

  Praying hard, Shannon dug her feet into the carpet runner but slid forward as he turned and pulled her against him. Father, help me.

  She shoved at the man’s solid chest. “Nay, leave me be.”

  “Hey, Justin. What are you doing?”

  At the sound of Morgan Wakefield’s voice, Mr. Moreland halted. He scowled, then grinned and looked over his shoulder. “I’m just about to have some fun with this wench of yours. She’s a comely thing, with all that dark red hair, don’t you think?”

  Morgan’s gaze ran down Shannon’s length. “She’s a servant, for heaven’s sake, Justin. Leave her alone. Did you forget that we’re supposed to go hunting?”

  Justin turned but held tightly to her with one hand. A leering grin twisted his features, and he waggled his brows. “I’m on the hunt for something else.”

  Morgan’s lips curled. “I know of far better women to please your fancy than that one. Older and more experienced.”

  Justin’s grip loosened. “Where, pray tell, would these lovely ladies be?”

  Grinning, Morgan leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his ankles. “Stick with me, and you’ll find out. But right now, the horses are saddled, and my father is awaiting us. Come.”

  Justin stared down at Shannon. Suddenly, he smiled and kissed her nose. “Tonight, my sweet tart. And next time, I’ll not be dissuaded.”

  He released her arm so quickly that she nearly stumbled. Shannon swerved around him and ran past Mr. Wakefield, flashing him what she hoped was a grateful look. He scowled at her as if she were nothing but refuse to be scraped off the bottom of his boots. No matter, she would always be thankful that he had arrived when he had.

  Hurrying down the stairs to the servants’ quarters, she shoved her hand in her pocket and clutched the letter in her fist. Her decision had been made. In her room, she quickly changed out of her black servant’s dress and hung it and her apron on the hook on the wall alongside its mate. She threw her few belongings into a worn satchel and donned one of her two dresses, saving the nicer one for when she’d arrive in Texas to meet her future husband, Luke Davis.

  Shannon all but held her breath until she was out of the mansion, and she hurried down the lane lest someone see her and try to stop her. She had needed this job—until the day the letter arrived with enough money for her to take the train to Sherman, Texas, where she could then catch a stage to Lookout.

  Her steps quickened as she reached the lane that would take her into town. “Please, Lord, let this be the right choice.”

  But what other choice did she have? She was alone in America with no hope of ever seeing Ireland again. She could only pray she wasn’t jumping off the ship and into the ocean.

  Southwest Missouri June 1886

  Carly shoved the last bite of scrambled eggs into her mouth, buttered another biscuit, and slathered peach jam on it. Normally, she had trouble eating before a robbery, but the restaurant’s food was so much better than she made that she couldn’t pass it up. “I wish I could fix biscuits this flaky. These are so good.”

  Her brother grunted an agreement and sipped his coffee, staring out the window at the small town of Decker. “Finish up. The stage is due in a half hour.”

  “I’m nearly done.” She leaned forward, the high neck of her dress clutching at her throat. She tugged at the collar, fearing it would cut off her breathing. “This dress is about to kill me. I’d much rather wear pants.”

  Tyson looked her direction, blue eyes narrowed. “For what we have planned, you need that dress, so get used to it.”

  Thankful that no one else was in the dining room since it was well past the normal breakfast hour, Carly sighed and fanned the bodice of her dress to allow in some air. She hoped the stage robbery went well so they could lie low for a while. She was sick of stealing and constantly moving from one hideout to another, but after her brother had gambled away their share of the money from the bank robbery, he’d started planning another heist. Why couldn’t she have been born into a decent family?

  Ty stood. “Let’s go.”

  Carly shoved the last bite into her mouth then downed the rest of her coffee. Standing, she gave the spacious hotel dining room a final glance. Each table was covered with a white tablecloth. Fancy chandeliers lit the room at night, but now sunlight reflected on the pieces of cut glass, making dancing rainbows on the walls. She’d miss feeling like a lady and being surrounded by such finery.

  Tyson took her arm. “Don’t forget your handbag.”

  “I don’t like carrying it. That gun makes it heavy,” she whispered. She’d taken to wearing a holstered gun partly to protect herself from the two newest gang members, but she couldn’t very well do that or the stage operators might get suspicious. Now that they were heading toward their destination, her legs began to wobble. What if there were several men on the coach? Could she hold them at bay with her gun until her brother and the gang could take over?

  She lifted her heavy bag, carrying it in the crook of her arm instead of letting it dangle. What if she had to shoot another passenger?

  Licking her dry lips, she allowed Ty to tug her along. When he’d proposed the plan of putting her on the stage to help with the robbery, she’d fussed and fumed, but to no avail. How could he expect her to shoot an unarmed person looking her in the eye? She doubted she could. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.

  “Hurry up. We need you on that stage.” Tyson yanked her arm, and she jogged to keep up.

  “I’m trying to hurry, but these confounded skirts keep tripping me.”

  Tyson slowed his steps as they rounded the corner and saw the stage still sitting there. “You’ll keep your story straight? Watch what you say to folks?”

  Carly rolled her eyes. “I ain’t stupid. I’ll just sit down and tell them all I’m an outlaw—a member of the infamous Payton gang—and if they give me any lip about it, I’ll shoot them.”

  A brief smiled tugged at Tyson’s mouth before he sobered. “Maybe it’s best if you don’t talk at all.”

  He didn’t trust her to keep up her end of the deal. She knew the stakes—that Ty had learned a large payroll was on this stage and that there weren’t going to be any additional guards so that nobody would suspect anything.

  Tyson stopped behind the stage and handed Carly her ticket. “You have a good trip, sis, and tell Aunt Sylvie that I hope to visit soon.”

  She offered him a sweet smile for the sake of anyone watching. “Oh, I will. Time will fly past, and you’ll be seein’ me again before you know it.”

  Tyson scowled at her. Another man and woman stood in front of the stage office window. She was pretty with her black hair swept up in a net thing and her blue eyes glimmering. Carly guessed her to be in her late teens.

  “Are you sure about this, Ellie? You know you’ll always have a home with me.” A short man about the same height as the woman stared at her with somber brown eyes. By the similarity in their features and coloring, Carly assumed they must be brother and sister.

  “I’m sure, John. I’ve corresponded several times with my intended, and he seems a perfectly nice man.”

  John shook his head. “I
t just doesn’t seem right for you to go off to Texas to marry a stranger. There are men here in Decker who’d be delighted to marry you.”

  The woman named Ellie patted the man’s chest. “Don’t worry, John. You have a new wife, and she doesn’t need to share her kitchen with me. I’ll be fine.”

  A stocky man dressed in denim pants and shirt and wearing a vest stomped down the steps to the street. He carried a Winchester rifle in one hand. His thick mustache twitched. “Load up, folks. We ain’t got all day.”

  John helped Ellie into the coach and then moved back, looking worried. Tyson handed Carly up, and she stepped on the edge of her skirt, falling to her knees on the floor of the coach.

  “You all right, sis?” Ty asked, sounding disgusted.

  Carly bit back a curse and managed to wrangle the skirt out from under her shoes. Stupid dress. She hadn’t worn one since shortly after Ma died and had forgotten how awkward they could be. Whoever invented them sure didn’t give a hoot about how a woman was supposed to get around and do everyday stuff while managing the strangling fabric. She flopped onto the seat and rearranged the despised garment.