Cantrell’s Bride
Suzanne Ferrell
Blush sensuality level: This is a sensual romance (may have explicit love scenes, but not erotic in frequency or type).
Spinster librarian Laura Melbourne is in danger. She’s the only witness to the murder of a senator, and the assassin is hunting her. Desperate to flee, she agrees to become a mail-order bride.
The last thing Nathan Cantrell wants is a new wife, especially one with secrets. What he needs is someone on his Colorado farm to help care for his daughter, a child who has limited contact with the world around her. For his daughter’s sake, he advertises for a mail-order bride.
Nathan is surprised to find himself tempted by Laura, but her ability to care for his daughter prevents him from sending her packing. Soon their marriage is more than one in name only, but the secret from her past threatens not only their tentative union, but their very lives.
Cantrell’s Bride
Suzanne Ferrell
Acknowledgments
Thank you doesn’t begin to cover the appreciation I have for those who have supported me in my writing endeavors.
Thank you to my husband and children who have graciously understood my obsession with the writing process and assumed when I talked to myself it was just me doing characterization and not schizophrenia.
To my wonderful editor, Jillian Bell. Thank you for loving my voice enough to take a chance on a new author. One of these days I might write a short story.
To the Writer Foxes, Alice, Sandy, Julie, Jo, Addison, Tracy, Jane, Lorraine and Kay, thank you for the laughter, the wine and all the support. I wouldn’t be here without each of you behind me.
To the Romance Bandits, 19 of the best supporters a writer could have. I was blessed to have finaled in 2006 with y’all and even more blessed when we formed our blog.
To my critique partners. Julie Benson who taught me to fear the word “why?”, Jo Davis whose timeless advice “write fearlessly” haunts me daily, and Sandy Blair who has been my rock and sounding board throughout the publication process. Thank you all for being there for me.
Finally, my mother, Mary Willis, who taught me to read and love books. Thank you, Mom, for loving me and this story from the beginning. I’ll never forget your words when I told you I was writing my first romance story. You said, “I was wondering what took you so long to decide to write.”
Prologue
Northern Colorado, November 1880
The high-pitched scream rent the peaceful Colorado morning, bouncing off the mountains and echoing across the farm’s valley.
Oh God, Rachel!
Nathan Cantrell lurched off his chair. Heart jumping into the double-time cadence of a drummer leading troops to battle, he dropped the leather thongs of the lariat he’d been braiding and sprinted past the animals stamping nervously in their stalls and out the barn, his feet pounding across the frozen earth.
At the farmhouse, he flung open the kitchen door, startling his latest housekeeper as she held the screaming child whose unfocused eyes were filled with terror. He wanted to snatch his daughter from her. He wanted to throw the woman out of his house. He wanted to shake her for her stupidity.
Instead, he kept a tight leash on his anger and stalked across the room. Gently prying Rachel from the gray-haired woman’s arms, he growled, “I told you before. Never try to hold her.”
His back to the woman, he sat at the table and crooned softly to his daughter. She’d stopped screaming the minute he held her, but the stillness that settled over her scared him as much as her screams. His hands shook as he stroked her small back with awkward tenderness.
“I’m not staying here another night with that…that…” The woman swallowed whatever insult she was about to utter at the scathing look he gave her.
“You will have to wait until tomorrow, Mrs. Peters. I cannot leave the farm tonight to take you to Doverton.”
She stomped off to her room upstairs. Nathan listened to her slamming things around over his head while he sat comforting Rachel as best he could.
A few minutes later, horses’ hooves thundered toward the house. Heavy footsteps sounded on the back porch and a large shadow crossed the door, marking the arrival of his friend Micah Turner, who’d been spreading hay to the cows in the upper barn. The blond-haired, bearded giant filled the entrance.
“Is she all right?” Micah asked, concern etching the corners of his eyes.
Nathan shook his head. “The idiot woman picked her up again.”
Just then Mrs. Peters, his housekeeper of a week, stepped into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed like candy apples in her pale, wrinkled face, her coat on and her suitcase in hand. She pointed a gnarled finger at Rachel sitting stiffly on Nathan’s lap. “The devil possesses that child. I’ll not stay another minute in a house with her.”
She stalked past both men and out the door. Carrying Rachel to the door, Nathan watched as the old biddy marched down the mountainside.
“I could go with her to see she gets to Doverton in one piece,” Micah offered with a halfhearted shrug.
Nathan closed the door. “No, let her go. With a heart as cold as hers, the weather won’t bother her a lick on the five-mile walk.”
“Her skin is as tough as old leather, so the wolves shouldn’t bother her either.” Micah chuckled and hung his coat on a peg by the door.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do come spring. I need someone to take care of Rachel while I work on the farm. She’s too little to leave by herself, and needs too much watching for me to take her with me.” Weariness settled deep into Nathan’s bones.
Micah rubbed his beard a moment or two. “What you need is a wife.”
“Nope. Never again. One female viper was enough for me. I promised myself after Kirsten died I’d never go down that path again.” At the mention of his late wife’s name, bile rose in his throat. Nathan didn’t even try to conceal the hatred in his voice. Micah was one of the few people who knew every detail of his late wife’s betrayal. “What I need is a housekeeper who won’t leave. And won’t torment Rachel when I tell them not to touch her.”
Micah straddled a chair, draping his arms over the back. “Just hear me out. The way I see it, if you get the right kind of wife, then she won’t be able to just up and leave like the last four housekeepers have.”
“Six,” Nathan corrected through clenched teeth. “Six housekeepers in a year and a half. What do you mean by the right kind of wife?”
“Get yourself a mail-order bride from back East, someone who is legally bound to stay for a while, unlike all these housekeepers. At least long enough for you to figure out how to handle raising Rachel.” Micah nodded as he spoke, a slow grin spreading over his long face. “You can make it a business deal. Five years and then you either renegotiate or she gets some money and goes her happy way.”
Nathan set Rachel on her quilt in the corner. The toddler rocked back and forth, staring out into space. He studied his daughter’s dark hair and light-blue eyes, similar to his own, as he contemplated Micah’s crazy suggestion. Who in their right mind signed a contract before they got married? It was insane.
“How do I go about getting a mail-order bride? I don’t relish the idea of advertising my problems to the world. Enough people out here think Rachel is possessed without my laying her story out in the local papers.” Being a source of gossip for his neighbors once was enough for him.
“You could ask your brother to search in Baltimore for a woman. With Neil’s lawyer connections, maybe he could find someone who wants to start a new life out West.”
Maybe Micah’s idea wasn’t all that crazy. Lord knew he needed help. And Rachel needed someone to stay around for more than three months, which was the longest any of his housek
eepers had stayed. That’s all he wanted from a woman. Someone to cook, clean and care for Rachel.
Years ago he’d learned never to trust another woman with his heart. That was a fool’s path. The South would rise again and conquer the North before he’d open himself to that kind of pain and humiliation again. But a business arrangement with a woman? That, he could handle.
Decision made, he retrieved a pot of ink, pen and a sheet of paper before he changed his mind. Then he sat across the table from his friend. “You could be right. If I find a lady just desperate enough to stay a year or two, it might just solve my problems.”
Chapter One
Washington, D.C., January 3, 1881
Only the soft rustle of Laura Melbourne’s skirts broke the silence in Goldberg’s Library, a short walk from the nation’s Capitol Building. One patron remained at this late hour—elder statesman Senator Anderson.
As she walked back to the stockroom to catalogue the new editions Mr. Goldberg had received earlier in the day, and in preparation for closing for the night, Laura turned down the lamps in the rear of the library, casting the aisles of bookshelves into darkness. The eeriness of the nearly deserted building sent shivers coursing over her like spiders from a nest. Aunt Ellen would say someone had walked across her grave. Which only sent a second set of shivers along the same route.
An hour later, her task finished, Laura put on her coat and collected the pages of her unfinished manuscript to place in her carpetbag.
The front door opened and closed. The distinct click of the lock sounded and she laid down the manuscript in surprise. The senator, who’d received his own key from the library’s owner, must’ve left for the night.
That was odd. He didn’t come to tell her goodbye like he usually did.
She brushed her hands on her skirt, then headed to the main entrance to turn out the remaining lamp.
A loud thud sounded near the front stacks.
She froze on the workroom threshold. Her hand flew to her throat and her breath was sucked from her like air from an extinguished candle.
What was that sound? Oh Lord, what if someone else is here?
As softly as possible, she eased her large frame past several bookshelves, praying the crinolines beneath her skirts wouldn’t betray her presence. Hidden in the darkened Greek and Roman history aisle, she peered around the edge of the oak bookshelf until she could view the front of the library. The sight illuminated in the single oil lamp froze her in place.
Senator Anderson’s white-haired body lay facedown on the newspapers strewn across the floor. Something dark oozed from his neck and pooled in the papers beneath him. Laura lifted her gaze to see a tall, lean figure standing over the body. From the man’s hand hung a long, thin wire.
Oh my God! Oh my God! He’s killed the senator.
Swallowing hard, her hand clamped tight against her mouth, she moved back behind the bookshelves, hoping to hide herself better from the killer, who busily searched through a pile of papers on the desk.
Think, think. I have to get out of here before he sees me. She dared to peek forward again.
For a brief moment he looked up, turning his head slightly as if trying to determine whether anyone remained in the library.
Her chest ached from the breath frozen in her lungs. The room faded around the edges, the shelves grew into long, dark cliffs. The world centered on the single lamp spotlighting the scene before her.
Nigel Blackwood, an attaché to the British Embassy and a frequent late-night visitor to the library, stared in her direction.
Her pulse pounding in her ears like waves crashing, she forced herself to take deep breaths and shrank further back behind the books.
Dear God, please don’t let him see me.
After a moment he returned to his search.
Trying not to make any noise, she backed into the storeroom, holding her skirts in both hands to stop any sound.
Breathe. Careful, don’t make a sound.
What if he caught her?
Don’t think about that. Just move.
She needed to get out of the building. She needed to tell someone. Who? The authorities? They’d think she was crazy.
She needed someplace to hide. Someplace close by. Someplace safe—Claudia’s.
On her way out the back door, she gave up all hope of remaining quiet, snatched her coat and handbag, then flew up the alley toward her friend’s home.
For once she appreciated that the alley had no lamps to light the way. The night’s blackness swallowed her as she hurried from doorway to doorway.
Reaching the corner at the end of the alley, she stopped to suck in air and hold the catch in her side. She looked to see if anyone followed her. In the library’s open rear door, a man stood silhouetted by the lamplight behind him. He looked from side to side, then toward where she watched. In his hands he held a pile of papers.
Laura pressed herself against the wall, gulping in air. When she didn’t hear him following, she willed her shaking legs to move and hurried into the night.
Arriving at Claudia’s a few minutes later, Laura glanced down the lane in the direction from which she’d just come. Nothing moved in the dim lamplight shining over the snow-covered streets. Her side hurt so much from running in spurts doorway to doorway in an effort to stay hidden. Panting hard to catch her breath, she turned and knocked on the door.
Claudia Davis was her oldest friend. She lived independently in the house her father left her when the evil man had the good sense to die a few years back.
Laura knocked rapidly once more. Why weren’t Claudia or Henderson answering? She needed to get inside before Blackwood found her. She strained to hear any footsteps behind her on the cobblestones peeking through the layer of snow.
Nothing. Thank goodness.
Just as she lifted her hand to knock again, the door opened.
“Miss Laura?” Henderson stood in the doorway, his usually impeccable attire minus cravat and overcoat—obviously he was not expecting a visitor so late at night.
“Laura? What’s wrong? Why are you here at this hour?” Claudia asked, standing just behind her stalwart butler. Her dark copper hair hung in a single braid over one shoulder and she clutched a shawl around her thin shoulders, the lamp in the hallway shining behind her.
Henderson stepped aside to allow Laura inside. She quickly closed and locked the door behind her. “Put out the light, Claudia.”
Claudia obeyed without hesitation, but then she’d learned at an early age to follow directions without question. “My goodness, Laura, you look as if the devil is after you. You’re pale as a ghost and shaking all over. What has happened?”
“I’m sorry to drag you into this, but your house is closer than Aunt Ellen’s.” Laura stepped into the dark parlor and lifted the edge of the heavy curtain to peer out the front window. Nothing moved outside except wisps of snow across the lane. “As soon as I’m sure he’s not following me, I’ll leave out the back way.”
“Who’s following you?” Claudia grasped her by the arm and steered her through the parlor into the kitchen. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
Her suddenly wobbly legs no longer able to support her, Laura sat hard onto one of the chairs. “I’ve just witnessed a murder. At least I think he’s dead,” Laura whispered, half to herself. She stared at the damask wallpaper on the walls of Claudia’s kitchen, seeing the horrific images from the library instead. “With all that blood, he’d have to be dead, wouldn’t he?”
Claudia pulled out the chair beside her, grasping her hand. “What are you talking about? What murder? Whose blood?” She chafed her warm hands over Laura’s cold, clammy ones. “You’re not making any sense. Start at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened to you tonight.”
Her terror at the time had been so acute all she could think about was escaping with her life. Now that she sat safely in her friend’s kitchen the entire story flowed unchecked from Laura between deep breat
hs and pauses to calm her trembling hands. “Did he see you, miss?” Henderson asked, standing at the doorway.
His question caught Laura off guard and she shook her head. “I don’t think so. I already had my coat when I left the library through the back room. When I stopped to look back, he just stood in the doorway. He held a large sheaf…of papers…” The room began to spin. She felt as if she were going to be sick.
“What, Laura?” Claudia gripped her hands tight, her brown eyes filled with concern. “What is the matter?”
Laura’s eyes widened and her heart raced with renewed fear, a drip of perspiration ran down her neck. “My manuscript.”
“What about your manuscript?” Claudia, one of the few people who knew about her writing career, leaned closer.
“The papers in his hand had to have been my latest manuscript. I’d been making corrections on it. I left it on the table when I went to investigate the noise in the front room. I didn’t grab it when I ran out. I’m sure that’s what he was holding. And if he has it, then he knows who I am and that I witnessed his crime.”
“I’m puzzled,” Claudia said. “How would he know the manuscript pages belong to you? I thought you always wrote under your male pseudonym.”
“That’s when it’s finished. The publisher insists that I use my real name on the manuscripts in case someone stumbles upon them while I’m writing them. He doesn’t want anyone to associate me with the author named on the books.”
“What if your aunt or cousin found it? Wouldn’t they be suspicious?”
Laura shook her head. “No. They might be nosy enough to read what I was writing, but neither would ever read a book, especially not a dime novel.”
No longer able to sit still, the fear inside her making her nerves jump as if they were kernels in a hopper, Laura thrust herself from the chair and paced the length of Claudia’s kitchen. “I can’t go home now. Everyone who knows me at the library knows I run Aunt Ellen’s boarding house near the Capitol. All Blackwood has to do is ask anyone.”
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