The room was luxurious enough to remind Hannah of the life she and her three sisters and two brothers had lost when their parents were killed in the Great Chicago Fire. That life had turned to ashes three years ago, when the six of them had ended up in the Chicago Institute for Orphaned Children at the mercy of the cruel headmistress, Miss Iris Birch.
The view of the fire escape through the fourth-floor hotel window blurred as tears of anger—terrible anger—and regret—enormous regret—filled her eyes.
Hannah felt trapped. Trapped by a moment of unselfishness that she regretted with her entire being. Why, oh why had she listened to her tormented sister Josie’s plea?
Two months ago, their eldest sister, Miranda, had left the orphanage in the middle of the night with hugs and tears, stealing away with ten-year-old Nick and four-year-old Harry to become a mail-order bride in faraway Texas. Hannah; her twin sister, Henrietta; and Josie had been left behind to await news of whether Miranda’s new husband might have room for all of them in his home.
They’d waited … and waited … and waited for a letter from Miranda. During the past two months, there had been no news that she’d even arrived safely. No news that she was now a wife. No news at all as to whether there might be a place for the three who’d been left behind.
Hannah and Hetty had been prepared to wait the entire year until they turned eighteen and were forced to leave the orphanage, if it took that long, for Miranda to send word to come. Josie had not.
Hannah tried to remember exactly what tactic her youngest sister had employed to convince her to answer that advertisement in the Chicago Daily Herald seeking a bride willing to travel to the Wyoming Territory.
“We should wait for Miranda to contact us,” Hannah remembered arguing.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Josie had replied. “You only have one more year of beatings from Miss Birch to endure. I won’t be eighteen for two endless years! You know she’s been meaner than ever since Miranda left with Nick and Harry. I can’t stand two more years here. I can’t stand two more days!”
Hannah had taken one look at the desperation in Josie’s blue eyes, owlish behind wire-rimmed spectacles, and agreed to marry a man sight unseen.
At least she’d had the foresight to get a commitment from Mr. McMurtry that he would bring her two sisters along on the journey, which entailed three arduous months traveling by Conestoga wagon along the Oregon Trail.
They would all probably die of cholera, or drown crossing a river, or be scalped by Indians, or trampled by a herd of buffalo long before they got to Fort Laramie. Besides, she and Hetty and Josie were headed away from Miranda and Nick and Harry, with little chance of ever seeing them again. Agreeing to marry a total stranger headed into the wilderness was seeming more corkbrained by the moment. What on earth had possessed her to do something so very … unselfish?
Hannah was used to thinking of herself first. That had never been a problem when she was the spoiled and pampered daughter of rich parents. It had even served her well at the orphanage, where food and blankets were scarce. Before Miranda had left to become a mail-order bride, Hannah had been perfectly willing to let her eldest sister do all the sacrificing.
Now she was the eldest, at least of the three who’d been left behind. Now it was her turn to sacrifice. Although marrying a perfect stranger seemed a pretty big leap from giving up food or blankets.
She was lucky the groom hadn’t turned out to be seventy-two and bald. In fact, he was only middle-aged. Was thirty-six middle-aged? To a girl of seventeen, it seemed ancient.
Her brand-new husband had a thick Irish brogue and an entire head of the curliest red hair she’d ever seen on a man or a woman. His nose was a once-broken beak, but it gave character to an otherwise plain face. His eyes twinkled, like two dark blue stars caught in a spiderweb of wrinkles. Oh, yes, she felt very lucky.
And very, very sad.
Her tall, gawky, rail-thin groom wasn’t the man of her dreams. He wasn’t even close.
Hannah was trying to decide how difficult it would be to open the window and retreat down the fire escape when she heard a firm—but quiet—knock at the door.
She scurried away from the window as though her presence there might reveal her desperate hope of avoiding the wedding night before her. There was no escape. She’d been well and truly caught in the trap Josie’s agonized eyes had laid for her.
Her husband had arrived to make her his wife.
Even knowing who must be at the door, she called out, “Who is it?” Her voice sounded hoarse to her ears, but no wonder, when her throat was swollen nearly closed.
“It’s Mr. McMurtry,” a quiet—but firm—Irish voice replied. “May I come in?”
Hannah realized her husband expected to find her in bed. She stared at the gold brocade spread that still covered the sheets. She needed to pull it back and get in the bed. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t!
To hell with being unselfish! She hated what she was being forced to do. She should have let Hetty do it. After all, Hetty was only a minute younger! Hannah should have insisted they wait until Miranda contacted them. She should have told Josie no, in no uncertain terms. She should have run when she had the chance.
But she was married now, like it or not.
Hannah curled her hands into angry fists and fought the tears that burned in her eyes and nose. She hoped the coming journey was as dangerous as it was touted to be. Maybe her husband would die and leave her a widow and—
She brought herself up short and looked guiltily toward the door, behind which stood the man she was wishing dead. Being selfish was one thing. Wishing another person dead was something else entirely. That wasn’t how she’d been raised by her parents. Hannah was ashamed of having harbored such an unkind thought.
No one had forced her to marry Mr. McMurtry. She’d volunteered to do it. She had to grow up. She had to put away childish hopes and dreams. This was her life, like it or not.
Hannah stared at the bed. She tried to imagine herself in Mr. McMurtry’s arms. She tried to imagine kissing his thin lips. She tried to imagine coupling with him. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t!
She groaned like a dying animal.
“Are you all right in there?”
Once again, Josie’s agonized gaze appeared in her mind’s eye. Hannah choked back a sob of resignation, then yanked down the covers, scrambled onto the bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
“Come in,” she croaked.
“Mrs. McMurtry? Are you there?”
Hannah cleared her throat and said, “You can come in, Mr. McMurtry.”
The door opened slowly. Mr. McMurtry stepped inside and closed the door behind him, but he didn’t move farther into the room.
Too late, Hannah realized she’d left the lamp lit, and that Mr. McMurtry would have to remove his hat, string tie, chambray shirt, jeans, belt, socks, and hobnail boots—and perhaps even his unmentionables—with her watching. Unless she took the coward’s way out and ducked her head beneath the covers. Or he had the foresight to put out the lamp.
Her new husband swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed, and said, “I had a cup of coffee downstairs.”
“Coffee will keep you awake.” Again, too late, Hannah realized there was a good reason why Mr. McMurtry might not want to go right to sleep.
Neither of them said anything for an awkward moment.
Then he said. “I’d better …”
Hannah watched as Mr. McMurtry blushed. His throat turned rosy, and then the blood filled his cheeks, causing a whole face full of freckles to disappear in a pink pool of blood.
He stammered, “I’ve dreamed about this … My whole life, I … You are so beautiful.”
Hannah found herself staring back into her husband’s very blue eyes with surprise. She’d known she was pretty, but this was the first time a grown man had remarked on the beauty of her blond curls and wide-spaced, sky blue eyes, full lips, and peaches-and-cream complexion. It
was surprisingly gratifying to hear such words from her husband.
Despite Mr. McMurtry’s speech, he came no farther into the room.
Why, he’s scared too! Hannah realized.
Her fear returned and multiplied. The situation was already mortifying in the extreme, but if he was inexperienced, who was going to tell her what to do?
“I’m really tired,” she blurted. Hannah put her hands to her cheeks as they flamed with embarrassment. “I don’t believe I said that.”
He chuckled.
She glanced sharply in his direction. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No, Mrs. McMurtry,” he said. “I was laughing at myself.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
He continued, “I’ve just married the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I’m standing rooted to the floor a half a room away from her.” His smile turned lopsided as he admitted, “You see, I’ve never undressed a woman before … or before a woman.”
Hannah swallowed hard and whispered, “Never? Not even a …” She couldn’t say the word prostitute or soiled dove or even lady of the night. Ladies didn’t speak of such things.
He shook his head. “I’m Catholic. Fornication is a sin.”
“Oh.” Hannah couldn’t breathe. It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. He was thirty-six, and he’d never been with a woman? This was going to be a disaster.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
Letter to Readers
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
Excerpt from Wyoming Bride
Texas Bride: A Bitter Creek Novel Page 29
