The Betrothed (Cutter's Creek Book 7)

by Vivi Holt

  Harry climbed gracelessly from the saddle and landed with a thud on the ground, one foot still hanging in the stirrup. Charlotte laughed and moved to help him. He frowned. “No, I haven’t. How about Pain In My –?”

  “Harry!”

  “Well, she is!”

  “I think you should call her Honey. She’s the color of honey, and she’s so sweet.” Charlotte stroked the mare’s nose and tickled her forehead beneath the thick forelock.

  “Honey, eh? Okay, we can call her that, but I still think my suggestion makes more sense.” He laughed and handed Charlotte the reins. “Here you are. Let’s see what you can do, although I have to say I’ve seen you ride before and I’m not sure I’ll ever ride like you.”

  “You don’t have to – you just have to get comfortable enough not to be thrown off.” She lifted a foot into the stirrup and threw her leg over the horse to sit astride, her skirts bunched up around her legs.

  Harry’s eyebrows shot skyward and he glanced at her stockinged calves. “Well, I like this lesson already.”

  “Please keep all lascivious thoughts to yourself.” She rolled her eyes and her cheeks flushed red as she tugged her skirts down as low as they would reach. Her lips betrayed her mock-horror with a half-smile. He grinned and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Charlotte squeezed the mare’s sides with her heels and the horse broke into a trot, then a canter. She leaned forward and her body flowed with the movements of the horse. She turned and circled around Harry, moving naturally and fluidly with the motion of the creature beneath her. “You see? I have the reins gathered firmly together and I’m leaning forward, just a little. My body moves with her, and I squeeze her sides with my knees and calves so that there’s no bouncing.” She pulled the mare to a halt beside him and climbed down. “Your turn.”

  Camilla and the oxen had pulled even with them now, and she smirked from the wagon seat. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown, you two are adorable!” she called with a laugh. She’d enjoyed teasing the two of them about their fake marriage ever since they’d set out on their journey, taking every opportunity to remind them of it.

  Harry waved and noticed that Charlotte’s face looked even redder than before. He climbed onto Honey’s back and urged her forward into a circle, the way Charlotte had done.

  “Your … um, rear … should leave the saddle with every second bounce – up and down, yes that’s it. Now, push her into a canter – it’s much easier to find your rhythm then. Good. Move back and forth with her.”

  He kicked gently and the horse fell into a rocking movement. He pressed himself into the saddle and tried moving with her. “I think I’m getting it! I …”

  Just then, Honey lowered her head to the ground and stopped suddenly, then ducked sideways, spooked by a hollow log lying on the ground, half-hidden in the tall grasses. Harry sailed over her head and landed heavily on the ground. He felt his breath leave him and lay unmoving with the grass swaying above his head. Honey immediately lowered her head beside him to graze.

  The warm sun beat down on him from above and he watched as a flock of ducks flew north in a V-shape through the azure sky above. Their calls echoed through the still air, joining the buzz of a nearby bee hovering above a flower. He heard and saw everything, but still he couldn’t breathe.

  Footsteps ran toward him. “Harry, are you okay?” Charlotte’s concerned face filled his vision, obscuring the flock of ducks. She knelt beside him and took his hand.

  He lifted his head and finally drew a breath into his lungs with relief. “I think so. Just had the wind knocked out of me.” He lifted a hand to rub the back of his head. Her hand still held his, and as he leaned on one elbow he looked deep into her eyes. He saw concern and affection there and a smile drifted across his lips. “I do believe you’re worried about me, Charlotte Beaufort.”

  She frowned and pushed at his chest playfully. “Not worried, just concerned.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  He pulled her hand away so that she fell toward him and planted his lips on hers. Her face reflected her surprise and she squeaked beneath his kiss. “Harry Brown! You forget yourself. You can’t just kiss me any time it takes your fancy.”

  He grinned and kissed her again. This time he lifted one hand to cup the back of her head and deepened the kiss. Warmth flooded through his body and his thoughts jumbled together in confusion. They shouldn’t be together; it didn’t make sense. But right now, nothing else made sense either. Nothing else mattered but this – this moment, this kiss.

  She returned his kiss with a hunger that made his head spin. A quiet moan escaped his lips and she pulled back, startled, her wide eyes looking dazed.

  “Charlotte,” he whispered. He stroked her hair with one hand, the other planted firmly on the ground, steadying him.

  “Harry, we can’t. You know how I feel about us – it can’t work and I won’t continue with something that’s impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “Yes, it is. You’re not right for me. You’re so completely different from me in every way. You’re …”

  His eyes narrowed and he dropped his hand to the ground. “Common?”

  She blushed. “No, not common. That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Yes, it is. Just say it. I’m common – I’m not good enough for you. Don’t worry, you can say it. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not – we’re just … different, that’s all.”

  “Not so different, Charlotte. Forget it. Forget me, forget all about it. I’m not good enough for you because you’re high class and I’m a commoner. I thought that didn’t matter to you. I thought you’d left all that behind you. But apparently not. So just forget it.” He leaped to his feet and strode over to collect Honey. He grabbed her reins and pulled her after him to follow the retreating wagon.

  She hadn’t let go of the past. And that was just fine with him. He could never marry a woman who didn’t love and respect him for who he was. If she wanted to live in the inflexible, closed-minded ways of her ancestors, in the culture of the old country, who was he to stop her?

  He heard her footsteps dragging behind him and turned to glimpse her over his shoulder. His heart softened when he saw her downcast face as she wandered slowly after them. He wasn’t being fair to her. Everything she’d known in life was gone, including her social status. She didn’t know anything different from what she’d been taught.

  And anyway, she was probably right. What did they have in common? How could it possibly work? He’d never be able to provide her with the life she was used to or the things she needed. It would be a constant pressure on him, one he’d never live up to. It was all for the best. They didn’t have a future together. He had to accept it, once and for all.

  Harry strode on, the wagon ahead of him, the horse behind him. He wondered what his future would hold and what Cutter’s Creek would be like. Whether his uncle would welcome him and Camilla with open arms, since he’d never actually told his uncle he was coming. Perhaps he should write a letter and mail it before they got too much further along the trail.

  He stopped and climbed onto Honey’s back, turning her toward Charlotte. When he reached her, he stared at her with a frown, then climbed down to hand her the reins. “Here, you can ride for a while.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed, forlorn look that sent a dagger of pity through him. She looked so lost and alone. He wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around her and comfort her, but she didn’t want that, and he had to honor her wishes.

  “Thank you, Harry.” She took the reins and climbed onto Honey’s back with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to upset you – you’ve been so kind to me. I do care about you, you know.”

  “It’s all right, Charlotte. I understand and you’re right. We wouldn’t work, you and I. So let’s just be friends, okay?”

  She smiled and rubbed Honey’s neck. “I’d like that.”

 
Chapter Thirty Two

  Estelle Todd strode down the main street of Cutter’s Creek, a bag of groceries in her arms. She had one last stop to make before she would go home and get started on supper. She headed for the Post Office. Inside the Mercantile was where all the mail was sorted and stacked waiting for the town residents to retrieve it. She bustled through the front door, noting the paint on the facade was in need of some work, and greeted the woman at the counter.

  “Good morning, Abigail. How are you on this fine day?”

  “And to you, Estelle. I’m well, thank you. Is Sam still working on painting your trim?”

  “He is. He’s almost finished though, and I know he’ll be glad to be done. It’s taken a lot out of him this time around.”

  “Well, it looks wonderful. I only wish I could get Jasper to do the same for this place.” She smiled brightly, and wiped her hands across her apron.

  “Thank you kindly,” said Estelle. “Any post for us today?”

  “As a matter of fact there is. Let me see.”

  Abigail Smith ambled over to the rows of square boxes beside the counter, and reached into the one marked ‘Todd’. She pulled out a single, thin envelope, and handed it to Estelle.

  “Thank you, Abigail. You have a nice afternoon. now.”

  “You as well. Say hello to Sam for me.”

  “Will do.”

  Estelle added the envelope to her bag of groceries, sitting it on top of a packet of cornflour, and shifted the bag in her arms. It was heavy, and she needed a break. The chapel was to her left as she exited the mercantile, and she always liked to take the opportunity to drop in on Mary Latsch or Willow Carlson. Either, if not both, of the women could often be found either in the chapel, the office or nearby in the garden.

  She hurried toward the chapel, wondering who the letter could be from. It sat, just beneath her nose, and there was no return address printed anywhere on its blank back. Perhaps it was from her cousin in Philadelphia, although the post mark had looked to be from Nebraska Territory. She frowned. Who did they know in Nebraska?

  “Hello Estelle,” called a sweet voice from behind a rose bush. A pretty face soon followed, peeking out from between the branches. It was Willow Carlson, her large round belly protruding in front of her as she waddled toward Estelle.

  “Willow! I was hoping I might catch you. Phew! I have to put this bag down, it’s getting heavy. There.” Estelle lay the bag on the ground, still eying the curious letter.

  “How are you feeling today, my girl?”

  “Oh, well enough I suppose. I feel as though my innards have become a punching bag, and my ankles have swollen to twice their size. But otherwise, I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Well thank you… I’m sorry. I’m just distracted. I have come from the Post Office where I picked up a letter, and I can’t for the life of me think who it might be from. It’s marked as coming from Nebraska Territory, but there’s no name on the back. Well, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. Now, tell me about your day so far.”

  “Never mind that. I’ll happily wait for you to read your letter before we catch up. I must say, my curiosity has been piqued as well. Let’s find out who it’s from.”

  The two women hurried to a nearby bench seat, and sat down, Estelle carrying the envelope in her hands. She ripped open the seal, and pulled a single sheet of paper from within. She unfolded it, and scanned the writing. It was in an unfamiliar hand, and signed at the bottom.

  “It’s from Harry Brown. Hmmm… Oh yes, my niece’s boy. His mother wrote to me that he was in New York, and might come out to Cutter’s Creek. It says here he’s on his way, and is bringing his sister Camilla, and their friend, Charlotte Baufort as well. He asks if there is free land to be had in Montana Territory. Well, he’ll be disappointed on that score, I’m afraid. Although he’ll likely do well enough here anyway.”

  “How exciting!” exclaimed Willow, with a bright smile. “Visitors are always a welcome diversion in Cutter’s Creek. It happens so infrequently.”

  “It is good news,” mused Estelle, “I’ll have to hurry home and tell Sam. He will be delighted. He loves having a full house, and I must admit I do as well. We’ve missed having Sarah around, you know. She brought us so much joy during her stay with us, however brief it may have been. But before I do, my dear, let’s talk about you. That baby is certainly growing!”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  They crossed the border from Nebraska Territory into Wyoming on a Wednesday just past Scott’s Bluff, a small town perched on the bank of the Platte River. Or at least Charlotte thought it must have been a Wednesday – she’d lost track of time. She kept a small journal, but even though she’d planned to write in it every day, the days had begun to blur together and she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t missed a few here and there.

  They decided to keep moving, since they still had several good hours of travel in the day, and before long found themselves facing the outline of an impressive mountain range on the horizon. It looked daunting, and Charlotte hoped they’d not have to cross it. The peaks jutted up, bare and jagged, reaching skyward. Ominous clouds hovered above the range, and the haze of rain obscured a section directly ahead of them.

  They witnessed a strange sight after stopping for lunch. A wagon sped past them on the trail without horses or oxen to pull it, only sails that caught the wind to carry it along. The driver and his friends waved as they passed and called good afternoon to Charlotte, Harry and Camilla, who looked on in surprise.

  For the past week, they’d traveled as part of a new group of wagons they’d met on the trail. They still hadn’t found out what happened to Bob, Hank and the others and had left them behind long ago. This train of a dozen or so wagons seemed more friendly and less likely to erupt into gunslinging or brawling.

  Having befriended a young couple, Fred and Maria Holloway, they spent the occasional evening with them by the fire. Otherwise, they tried to keep to themselves, not wishing for anyone to discover the secret of Harry and Charlotte’s pretense. An unmarried woman traveling with a man across the country would attract all the wrong kinds of attention. And Harry preferred they keep to themselves as much as possible after the shooting they’d witnessed so early on in their journey. They camped on the edge of the group and always lit their own fire to cook and sleep by.

  The rest of the group had crossed the border behind them and caught up to them as they finished eating. The train then moved on together, stopping only to rest and feed the animals. That evening they saw the sailing wagon parked up ahead. The sun was edging down over the mountain range, and it was clear the animals were getting tired and hungry.

  The leader of the wagon train raised his hand to signal a stop and all the wagons meandered around, finding a place to park and camp for the night near the sail wagon, whose occupants called a heartfelt greeting. They parked the wagons in a circular shape to allow for tents and campfires in the center of the group.

  Harry pulled their wagon to the furthest edge of the circle and Charlotte dropped from Honey’s back. She groomed her, then picketed her for the night. Camilla went in search of bison chips to use for kindling, since there wasn’t much in the way of timber to be had on the prairies. She built and lit a fire, and by the time Charlotte had finished watering and picketing Honey, Camilla had a pot of coffee simmering and a meal of beans, leftover corn fritters and beef jerky prepared and plated.

  The group was obviously tired, for there was little in the way of chatter as they set up camp. The quietness of the prairie was punctuated only by occasional conversation or laughter, or the cry of an animal somewhere on the prairie.

  Harry strolled over to join them by the fire after watering and picketing the oxen and their Guernsey cow. He threw himself down on his oilskin sleeping mat with a grunt and laid his hands behind his head to stare up into the darkening sky. “Wonders never cease,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” asked Camilla, carefully lifting the boiling coffee from the fire
with a rag.

  “A wagon with sails. Who would have thought it?”

  “It is amazing. Here’s your supper.” Camilla handed a plate of food to Harry, who sat up to receive it and set it on his knees.

  Charlotte took her plate and sat beside him. She could feel the heat of the crackling fire on her face and the cool of the prairie at her back. As they ate, she studied the blinking stars above her. She’d never imagined a sky could be as big as this one, nor so full of stars. The size of it made her shiver inside, and she thought for the first time in a long time about what it meant to be part of a bigger picture.

  Who could have created a world such as this? She and God had parted ways years earlier when she’d caught the local minister in her parish in an intimate embrace with one of his parishioners. She’d decided then and there that God mustn’t be real if even his servants didn’t take Him seriously. She’d never experienced anything of God in her life, and the sermons she heard each Sunday seemed to be fairy tales, told to keep people like her from doing the wrong thing.

  But sitting beneath a sky such as this, her mind wandered to thoughts of a creator. For how could this kind of beauty be anything but designed?

  “Do you think God is real?” she asked absently, fingering a piece of jerky before slipping it into her mouth to chew.

  Harry looked at her in surprise, his mouth full of beans. He chewed and swallowed before answering. “I do. Don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t think so, but this sky …”

  “It’s magnificent,” added Camilla, her eyes dreamy.

  “I feel so small out here,” continued Charlotte, “and the world so very big.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Harry. “It’s as if God is showing us his glory.”

  “I suppose so. Although God seemed small back in England. The God the rector used to talk about did, anyway.”

  “I remember. But maybe he had it wrong. Maybe he didn’t know this God, not really. Should we judge the size of God by the words of a man?”