His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  Reverend Eldridge picked up the card. “Do you, Arthur Langley...” His face crumpled, making him look like a distraught child. “Did I already ask...?” Appearing lost, he darted his gaze between the few occupants of the small church, and then he fastened his attention on the entrance.

  “Come in,” he called out, waving a hand. “Don’t be shy.”

  Charlotte turned. A big blond man stood framed in the sunlight, hat in his hand, the Sunday suit with a mended sleeve straining across his wide shoulders. He set into motion with slow, deliberate steps.

  Behind him, the crowd filed in and settled into the pews. Art Langley stepped out of the way. Thomas handed his hat to Doc Timmerman and took his place beside Charlotte. Like a skilled pickpocket, Art swiped one card from the preacher’s fingers and slipped another one in its place.

  The reverend smiled. “You remind me of another couple I married recently.” He lifted up the card, peered at it through his spectacles and said, “Do you, Thomas Greenwood, take this woman, Charlotte Fairfax, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  “I do.”

  “But what about the other bride?” she whispered to Thomas.

  He looked startled. “What other bride?”

  “Gus Junior said you sent for another mail-order bride.”

  His gray eyes narrowed, then sparkled with amusement. “You should know better than to believe everything you read in that scandal sheet.” He leaned closer to her. “I sent for your sister.”

  “My sister? Oh, Thomas.” She flung her arms around his neck.

  “Not yet,” the reverend said. “I must ask you first. Do you, Charlotte Fairfax, take this man, Thomas Greenwood, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

  Not releasing her hold around his neck, Charlotte smiled up at Thomas. “I do.”

  “You may kiss the bride.”

  Strong arms closed around her. Then Thomas dipped his blond head and his warm, hungry lips settled over hers. It seemed forever ago that he had kissed her, when she first arrived in his valley. That kiss had been only a light touching of their lips. Now he kept the kiss going, his mouth slanting across hers, lips parted, the heat of his mouth burning against hers, the pressure of it causing an odd tingling sensation low in her belly.

  It felt so right. It felt like coming home.

  When Thomas lifted his head again, Charlotte was standing on tiptoe, her hands on his shoulders, her face tipped up toward him. He spoke softly, his eyes searching hers.

  “I’ll lose the farm. I can’t offer you a home. It will be a hard life with me.” His hands slid down to her waist, eased her closer against him again. “But I promise to love you.”

  At first, Charlotte could only focus on the happiness that filled her as she heard his promise to love her. Then the rest of what he had said penetrated her mind.

  “Lose your farm?” she said with a frown. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You’ve seen the notices. I borrowed money from the bank against the crops but the harvest is ruined. I can’t pay back the mortgage. The bank will foreclose.”

  She eased out of his embrace and clasped her hands together in front of her, scowling at him with a mix of frustration and triumph. “Thomas, why do you think Cousin Gareth tried to force me into marriage? Because he is madly in love with me?” She made a disparaging sound to dismiss the suggestion. “Because I have lots of money and he wants it. But he can’t have it, because now it’s yours.”

  Even if she hadn’t loved Thomas, it would have been worth marrying him for the expression of utter incredulity that now flashed across his features. His lips moved. Then he said in a hoarse voice, “There aren’t any more secrets you’ve forgotten to tell me, are there?”

  “No, Thomas. I think that was the last. But there’s work for us to do.” She ticked with her fingers. “We must take a train to San Francisco. Engage a lawyer and prove that I’m not dead. Get the family lawyer in Boston to transfer us some money. Employ detectives to find Miranda. She is probably in jail. And we have to send money for Annabel to travel out to Gold Crossing.”

  Gus Junior burst in. “Telegram for you.”

  Charlotte took the sheet. It was another Maude Greenwood message, so it had to be from Miranda or Annabel. She unfolded the slip and read the text out loud. “‘Money arrived from Thomas Greenwood. Miranda already on her way so I will travel. See you soon. Annabel.’”

  She launched into his arms again. “Oh, Thomas, I do love you.”

  Behind her, the bemused preacher said, “You may kiss the bride.”

  * * *

  The cart rattled through the desert in the late-afternoon sunshine. Charlotte curled her hands around the wooden bench to control the bouncing. A sparrow darted in the scrub, but by now she’d learned the birds didn’t sing during the day, only at dawn and dusk.

  She turned to her husband. Art Langley had offered them a free night at the Imperial Hotel as a wedding present but she had told Thomas she wanted to go home. She wanted to re-create the evening of their first wedding, but this time she would do everything right.

  “Do you notice I’m wearing a plain cotton dress?” she asked.

  Before they set off after the reception at the Imperial Hotel, she’d gone back to the schoolhouse to change into the olive green four-dollar dress she had bought at the mercantile.

  Thomas glanced at her. “You look lovely in anything.”

  “Just you wait and see,” Charlotte muttered under her breath.

  When at the end of the journey Thomas took a sharp left and urged Trooper into a canter to clear the brow of the hill, Charlotte craned her neck to take in the view that spread in front of her.

  “What a pretty valley!” she cried out. “And you have a lake!”

  Thomas shot her a frowning glance, as if he couldn’t quite figure out her remarks. Charlotte tried not to smile. He’d soon catch on.

  When the cart rolled to a halt in the small clearing at the top of the path, she waited for Thomas to apply the brake and dismount. He circled the cart and reached up with his arms to lift her down. Just like before, Charlotte rested her hands on his shoulders for support, but this time she didn’t release her hold when her feet touched the ground.

  She tipped her face up toward him. “You are supposed to kiss me now.”

  Thomas smiled down at her, lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, his lips sliding over hers, tasting, tempting. His arms came around her, anchoring her to his chest. On and on the kiss went, and once again Charlotte felt that strange coil of excitement low in her belly.

  “My,” she whispered when Thomas lifted his head. “That certainly was an improvement.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows in question. She gave him a little shove. “You should charge ahead now, as if the devil is chasing at your heels. I’ll follow.”

  With a baffled shake of his head, Thomas turned on a sturdy boot heel and strode down the path toward the cabin. Charlotte suppressed a grin as she hurried after him. Her normally clever husband appeared a bit slow-witted today, but it was understandable. A man did not think clearly on his wedding day.

  He was waiting for her by the porch steps. The sun was sinking below the hills and a cool breeze blew in from the lake. Leaves rustled in the tall cottonwoods. The pair of blue jays she remembered from that first day hopped around on the ground, screeching and flapping their wings.

  “Now you have to show me the cabin,” she prompted him.

  Thomas led the way and threw the door open. Charlotte clattered up the steps and entered the cabin, sweeping her gaze around the familiar room, the kitchen cabinets, the big window at the back, the floor where the setting sun threw dappled shadows on the smooth timber boards.

  “What a beautiful home.” She strolled over to the hand-carved love s
eats, ran her fingertips over the scalloped edge of the back of one. “It must take a lot of skill to make something like this.”

  She spun around and rushed up to the stove. “And a brand-new cookstove, with an oven compartment. How wonderful.” She gave the green enamel front a pat with her hand. “I’m going to call it Vertie. It’s for vert, the French word for green.”

  Finally, Thomas was catching on. The humor she loved so much sparked in his eyes.

  “I’d best go and see to the animals,” he said. “You can fetch water and make coffee.”

  She beamed him a smile. “I was just going to suggest the same. You might also like to fetch my bag from the wagon and put it in the bedroom.”

  She waited for Thomas to go, and then she picked up the steel bucket from the kitchen counter and set off toward the well behind the cabin.

  Outside, rodents rustled in the grass, and the distant splash of a beaver tail came from the creek. Frogs croaked in a pond, and the inquisitive pair of blue jays chased after her. Nature’s rush hour, Charlotte thought with a contented sigh as she hung the bucket on the well spigot.

  Caution slowing her motions, she cranked the pump handle and achieved a steady flow of water that hardly splashed at all. She gave a tiny shriek, just in case Thomas was expecting it. As if on cue, he charged out of the woods.

  He gave her a long glance full of regret. “I was looking forward to seeing you in a soaked dress and your hair hanging all disheveled.”

  “There are limits to the lengths one is prepared to go for authenticity,” she said primly, and handed him the bucket. “You carry this. I’ll go and change into my nightgown in the privacy of the bedroom.”

  Her heartbeat quickened as she darted back up the path toward the cabin. She wanted to give Thomas a perfect evening, a perfect wedding night, but how could one make something perfect when it was something one had never done before?

  In the light of the setting sun that slanted into the bedroom, Charlotte opened the leather traveling bag Thomas had fetched from the wagon. She took out a nightgown of old silk and lace, the color of faded roses, hand embroidered with tiny seed pearls around the neckline.

  It was the most beautiful garment she had ever seen, and of all people it had been Mrs. Duckworth who’d given it to her. On the morning of the wedding, the thin, sour-looking widow had knocked on the schoolhouse door with a parcel in her hands.

  I’ll never have an occasion to wear this again, she’d said with a touch of sadness. But I’d like to see it put to use. She had lowered her voice and went on, a blush heating her cheeks. It has seen many happy nights. I hope it will see some more.

  With a wistful thought of how she had misjudged the lonely widow, Charlotte slipped out of her green cotton dress and into the silk nightgown. For a second, she stood still and took a deep breath, one hand pressed to her chest. Then she gathered her courage, coaxed her feet into motion and returned to the parlor.

  Thomas was seated at the table. She could feel his eyes on her, bold and possessive and perhaps a little impatient. “You look...” He paused, searching for the right words.

  “Like a bride on her wedding night?” Charlotte supplied.

  Thomas nodded. For another minute, he simply stared at her. Then he started, like an actor remembering his lines. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Would you like supper?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll make coffee.”

  She went to the kitchen counter and bustled about, measuring the coffee, filling the pot with water, lighting the stove. Through it all, she could feel Thomas watching her, and a new seductiveness entered her movements. She could never have imagined she possessed such boldness.

  Thomas didn’t mention eating again, although that last time he had set out bread and cheese. Neither did he offer to give her the shawl his mother had made. Charlotte knew he was saving his gift until morning, the way it should have been.

  “See?” she told him when the coffee was brewing. “Not a grain scattered on the ground.” She sat down opposite him. “Now we should talk and get to know each other while the water is boiling.”

  Thomas contemplated her. “I already know everything I need to know, but there is something I’m curious about. You said you want to go to San Francisco and engage a lawyer to draw money from your inheritance. How are you going to claim your fortune if everyone thinks you’re dead? You can’t telegraph your sisters to confirm who you are because you don’t know where they are right now. Isn’t it best to wait until they get here?”

  “No,” Charlotte said firmly. “I want some money quickly, in case Miranda and Annabel are in trouble and I need to bail them out. And we’ll need money to pay back the mortgage on your farm.”

  She got up to check on the coffee and spoke from the stove. “And it won’t be a problem to prove who I am. I told you, Papa was a sea captain, and he often brought business associates to Merlin’s Leap. Shipping agents, ship owners, sailors, merchants. San Francisco has a big seafaring community. We’ll be able to find someone who recognizes me and can confirm my identity. And I had another meeting with Mr. Wakefield before he left town. He has signed an affidavit to confirm that the woman buried at Merlin’s Leap is his fiancée, Maude Jackson, and that there was a mix-up with our identities because we had exchanged gifts.”

  Using a cloth to protect her hands from the heat, Charlotte picked up the coffeepot, carried it to the table and poured into the cups waiting there. Before she lowered the pot, she slid a slate pot holder beneath it to protect the tabletop.

  Thomas took a sip. “Good coffee. Just right.”

  Charlotte nodded, took a mouthful. It was perfect.

  Outside, the darkness was thickening. Thomas got to his feet. “I’ll light the lamps. And I’ll have to go out again, to check on the animals.”

  Charlotte watched as he lit two lamps, a storm lantern for him to carry when he went out to take care of the chores, and an oil lamp to leave burning on the parlor table. Nerves twisted in her belly. She hated to waste such good coffee, but her throat seemed to have closed up.

  “I’ll get into bed and wait for you.” Her voice revealed her tension.

  Thomas gave her a long look, then merely nodded and turned to go. She noticed that he too had left most of his coffee. At the door Thomas turned back. “It will be all right, Charlotte,” he said. “There’s no need to be nervous.”

  But nervous she was. She carried the lamp through to the bedroom with unsteady hands and settled in the big feather bed beneath the patchwork quilt. As an afterthought, she jumped out again and crouched to peer beneath the bed where Thomas usually stored the bundle board. There was no sign of the wooden divider. A thought crossed Charlotte’s mind: Thomas had probably burned it.

  She slipped back under the covers. It seemed only seconds had passed when she heard footsteps thudding up the porch steps, and then their trail traversed the parlor, and Thomas entered, his presence filling the room.

  He didn’t say anything, merely ran his heated gaze over her reclining shape beneath the covers. And then he began to undress. One by one, he shed his articles of clothing. Charlotte saw lamplight play on the magnificent lines of his chest and shoulders, shadows leaping and dancing as his muscles flexed with the movements.

  He bent to slide the long johns down his legs, and she admired the powerful arch of his back, the lean line of his waist. Straightening, he tossed the undergarment on the back of the chair and turned to face her, fully naked, not a stitch on him.

  “I thought you wear pajama bottoms,” she said on an intake of breath.

  “I lied. I sleep naked, but I didn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

  With the urgency of purpose in his step, he strode up to the bed and lifted the edge of the patchwork quilt. “But now,” he said in a husky murmur, “offending your delicate sensibilities is my duty as
your husband.” And with that, he jumped into bed and bundled her into his arms.

  Love welled up in Charlotte as she nestled against his warmth. He always knew how to protect her, how to reassure her, and now he was using humor to ease her anxieties.

  A few moments later, she felt the pressure of his arms ease around her as Thomas drew their bodies apart. “Shall we take this off you?” he said, tugging at her nightgown. “It would be a shame to ruin it.”

  Not waiting for a reply, Thomas slid one hand along her body, down to her knees, and gathered the flimsy silk in his fingers. Slowly, he edged the garment upward along her body and over her head. Charlotte helped, lifting her hips, raising her shoulders, holding her arms high.

  Thomas let the nightgown drop to the floor by the bedside. “There,” he said. “That’s better.” Bracing his weight on one elbow, he pulled the patchwork quilt aside and studied her. Charlotte could see his eyes flickering over her, and there was heat in his gaze—heat and hunger and longing.

  “It’s all right,” she told him. “I’m not scared. You can do anything you want.”

  Thomas laid his hand flat on her belly and held it there. He had big hands, and the weight of that simple touch reminded her of his strength.

  “I want to make a baby,” he said. “That’s what I want.”

  For a while, they lay in silence, his hand heavy on her belly. Outside, the wind rustled in the trees. An owl hooted in the darkness. One of the windows stood ajar, and through it came the faint scent of flowers from the lakeshore.

  Thomas spoke quietly. “I had a letter from my mother. She told me about my father. He was that big fair-haired drifter I mentioned before, but he didn’t rape her. She loved him. But she felt guilty about betraying her husband, so she lied about it.”

  Charlotte stared up at him. “How could she—”

  Thomas shook his head to silence her questions. “We’ll talk more about it some other time. You can read my mother’s letter. But tonight is not about the past. Tonight is about you and me, and the future.”