Mistaken Bride

by Renee Ryan

  Determined to put William Black out of her mind, her gaze landed on a sizable building, a mill of some sort. The large wheel churning in the river filled the moment with the happy, trickling sound of rushing water. The scent wafting in the air was nothing she’d ever smelled before, a heavy, almost sweet aroma.

  Delighted, Bridget leaned out the carriage window. A few moments later they crested a hill and a small village came into view. The large green-and-white wooden sign in the shape of a rectangle identified the town as Faith Glen.

  The main feature of the town was a tidy village square. A white clapboard church dominated all the other buildings. A general store sat on one side of the church and on the other was—Bridget squinted to read the sign hooked to the porch ceiling—Rose’s Boardinghouse.

  On the opposite side of the square was the Sheriff’s Office. The bars on the windows gave it away, as did the fact that the structure had been built out of stone. Not brick or wood like the other buildings in town, but solid stone.

  “We’re nearly there,” Bridget said.

  Nora pulled the bottle from Grace’s mouth and gently swung the child to her shoulder. When the carriage drew to a stop Bridget scrambled out of the carriage ahead of her sister.

  The driver, an older man with thinning hair and a thick, handlebar mustache, had already released the ropes securing their trunks and was fast at work unloading their belongings.

  Bridget rushed forward. “What are you doing? We haven’t reached our final destination yet.”

  “This is as far as I go, miss.” His gruff voice had a Scottish burr underneath the words. And a hint of meanness.

  “But Dr. Gallagher paid you to take us to our new home.”

  “He paid me enough to get you to the town,” he corrected. “Not a foot more.”

  That was a bold-faced lie. Bridget knew Flynn would never leave them stranded like this.

  “It’s all right, Bridget,” Nora said, exiting the carriage with sure steps. “We’ll ask the sheriff for assistance once our business is complete.”

  Bridget relented, a little, but only because the driver was already in his seat and spurring his horses forward.

  “Well, now.” A deep, masculine voice drifted over her. “What have we here?”

  Heart lodged in her throat, Bridget swung around to face a tall man with kind eyes. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, the man looked to be of Nordic descent. The tin star pinned to his chest told her she was staring at the sheriff of Faith Glen.

  He was very handsome, in a rugged, earthy sort of way, and Bridget immediately noticed how Nora stood frozen in place, eyes blinking rapidly as she stared at him.

  Bridget’s sentiments exactly. In the next few minutes they would either lose Grace or their new home, perhaps both, or—God willing—take the next step in claiming a new life for themselves in America.

  When Bridget and Nora continued staring at him, neither making a move to speak, the man smiled warmly. “I’m Cameron Long. The sheriff of Faith Glen.” His gaze lingered a moment longer on Nora than Bridget. “What brings you two lovely women to our fair town?”

  When Nora remained surprisingly silent under the sheriff’s scrutiny, Bridget stepped forward. “My name is Bridget Murphy and this is my sister Nora. We’ve just arrived from Ireland—”

  Grace let out an earsplitting wail. Bridget smiled. “And that healthy-lunged child is Grace. One of the reasons we’ve come here today.”

  He glanced briefly at the bundle in Nora’s arms, then proceeded to ignore Grace. “You’ve come to Faith Glen because of a baby?”

  “No.” Nora found her voice at last. “We came to you because of a baby.”

  His eyes widened ever-so-slightly. “Me?”

  “You are the sheriff of Faith Glen?” Nora looked pointedly at his badge. “Are you not?”

  Instead of being offended by the haughty tone, Cameron Long appeared amused. “I am, indeed.”

  His lips quirked at an attractive, lopsided angle, making him look even more handsome than before.

  And if Bridget wasn’t mistaken, she heard Nora’s breath hitch in her throat. Interesting. But unsurprisingly, her sister recovered quickly and explained how they’d found the baby in the ship’s galley. “When no one came to claim her, we realized the child had been abandoned. And we,” Nora said as she smiled at Bridget, “plan to care for her until someone comes forward to claim her.”

  “Commendable, to be sure,” he said, his eyes again holding Nora’s a beat too long. “But that doesn’t explain why you’ve brought the baby to me. Why not report her situation to the authorities in Boston?”

  “Can you not do that for us?” Nora asked.

  “Of course I can.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “But that doesn’t explain why you are here, in Faith Glen.”

  Nora turned to Bridget. “Show him the deed.”

  She dutifully reached inside her reticule and retrieved the precious document that had led them to America.

  The sheriff accepted the deed and Bridget held her breath. After what seemed an endless eternity, he raised his head. “Who is Colleen Murphy?”

  “Our mother,” Nora answered. “She died ten years ago.”

  He considered her response a moment then redirected his gaze to the document once again.

  “Is the deed legal or not?” Nora demanded, her patience evidently reaching its end.

  “It would appear so.”

  “Well, then.” She plucked the paper out of his hand, relief softening the tight lines around her mouth. “If you would be so kind as to direct us to our home we would be ever grateful.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  Bridget gasped. “But you said the deed was legal.”

  “I said it appears to be legal.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, there’s no way of knowing for certain until we check your document against the official copy in the County Clerk’s Office.”

  Bridget’s heart sank. “But we were told the deed was all we needed to claim the property.”

  “That may be true in Ireland, but not in the state of Massachusetts. Every land deal requires two copies of the transaction.” He spoke with genuine remorse, as though he understood how important this was to them.

  “Two copies.” Bridget pushed the words past a very tense jaw. No one had warned them of this possibility.

  “The law originated back in the early colonial days,” he explained. “When fraud was at a premium.”

  Nora rose to her full height. “We did not travel all this way to commit fraud.”

  “Didn’t say that you had.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a gesture surprisingly elegant for such a big man. “Nevertheless the law requires that the original deed be compared against the copy, the one that is kept in—”

  “The County Clerk’s Office,” Nora finished for him. “And where is this…office?”

  “In Dedham, about eight miles due north.”

  Bridget glanced at the afternoon sky in frustration. Even if they left now, there wouldn’t be enough time to travel eight miles north and back again before the sun set.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

  The question had been rhetorical, but the sheriff answered her anyway. “You will be able to verify the deed come Monday morning. I’ll escort you there myself.”

  It was a gallant offer, but Monday was three days away.

  “It’s just a formality,” he promised, his voice full of encouragement, his smile wide.

  “Will you at least show us the house?” Bridget asked.

  Not quite meeting her gaze, he shook his head no. “I would suggest you wait until we’ve verified ownership.”

  He wasn’t telling them something
, something important about the house. “But we only wish to see the property.”

  “Not today.”

  And with those concise words, spoken in the brief, decisive tone of a determined lawman, Bridget accepted the reality of the situation at last. She would have to put her dreams on hold for another three days. Three…more…days.

  * * *

  Early the next morning Will entered his private study with a heavy heart and a mind full of turmoil. Regret played with his composure as he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and closed his hand in a tight fist. Bridget Collins had, indeed, fallen to her death. And now he was in possession of the girl’s luggage, the undeniable proof of her identity.

  Closing his eyes, he sucked in a harsh breath. He’d been responsible for the woman, having taken on the cost of her passage and ensuring the details of her trip were in order. Yet he’d failed her. And, in the process, his children, as well. His sad, motherless children.

  Will swallowed back the hard ache rising in his throat. He was in no better position than before he’d decided to acquire a mail-order bride. Acquire. What a miserable way to put it, as though finding a wife was a matter of walking over to the general store and pointing to the woman he liked best. There. That one, I want that one to be my wife.

  He should have known better.

  Yet what other choice had there been? His aging mother was doing her best with the children. But the physical demands were taking their toll.

  Running a hand through his hair, Will looked out the bay of windows on his right. The sun was making its grand entrance for the day, spreading tentative, golden fingers through the hazy dawn. A kaleidoscope of moving shadows flickered across the floor at his feet, creating an eerie accompaniment to his somber mood.

  Pulling out the ledger he’d brought home with him from the mill, Will went to work. Despite the early hour, the air already felt hot and sticky and promised to turn unbearable once the sun was fully in the sky. He’d made the right decision to close the mill for the next two days. Grinding cocoa beans and turning them into blocks of chocolate was hot work on any given day. Deadly during a heat wave like this one.

  Will was proud of the fact that the Huntley-Black Mill had a reputation for treating its workers well. He employed most of the residents of Faith Glen, including many of the Irish immigrants unable to find work elsewhere.

  An unexpected image materialized in his head of the pretty Irish lass he’d met yesterday on the docks in Boston. Bridget Murphy had been beautiful and compassionate. But not his. His Bridget was dead.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered, rubbing his forehead with his palm. The gesture did nothing to relieve the ache growing stronger behind his eyes.

  He had to find someone to care for his children, a stable woman who wouldn’t leave them when boredom struck and then show up again when the round of parties ceased to amuse her. In other words, a woman nothing like their mother. At least in death Fanny had finally offered her children the consistency she’d denied them in life.

  But her loss had still come at a cost to both Olivia and Caleb. They were far too subdued for their age. Will had never wanted perfect children in his home. He wanted happy children.

  A tentative knock sounded at the door. He set down the quill and called out, “It’s open.”

  The door creaked on its hinges and soon a head full of white-silver hair poked through the tiny opening.

  “Well,” his mother said with a smile. “You’re up early.”

  “No earlier than usual.”

  “I suppose not.” She stepped deeper into the room, looking especially tired this morning with the dull light emphasizing the purple shadows under her eyes.

  He’d intended to bring home his new bride last night, one who would take the burden off his mother and love his children as much as he did. A beautiful woman with wild, dark hair, mesmerizing green eyes, a soft Irish lilt and…

  Wrong woman, Will. You’re thinking about the wrong woman.

  He slammed the ledger shut. No more work today. Not for him, or his mother.

  Rising, he shoved the chair out of his way and then circled around his desk. Everything in him softened as he caught sight of two small heads peeking out from behind his mother’s skirts.

  He might have vowed never to love another woman after Fanny, but Olivia and Caleb were a different matter altogether. His love for his twins grew daily, his heart nearly bursting with emotion at times like this.

  If only he could figure out a way to let them know they were allowed to be happy, playful. Even noisy and messy sometimes. He feared they followed too closely after his own sober, saddened behavior, and wished he knew how to bring some joy into their lives. And his own.

  “I see we have more early risers.” He bent low enough to look into both children’s eyes. “Good morning, Olivia, Caleb.”

  They each gave him a wobbly smile in return. Will hated these moments, when he couldn’t read his own children’s moods. Their three-year-old thoughts were impossible to decipher behind those solemn masks.

  Nevertheless, he forged ahead. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered in unison, their words filled with that polite tone he dreaded most.

  Hoping to alleviate their shyness, Will opened his arms in silent appeal and went for the direct approach. “Can I have a morning hug?”

  Caleb toed the ornate rug at his feet, his eyes huge and luminous. Olivia’s mouth slowly quirked into a sweet, tentative grin. A heartbeat later she rushed forward and flung her spindly arms around Will’s neck.

  His throat tightened.

  With Olivia tucked in close, he reached out and ruffled Caleb’s hair. The little boy lifted his chin, the look so full of adoration Will found himself struggling for his next breath. These two beautiful, perfect children were the best thing he’d done in his thirty years of life. He would not fail them.

  Letting go of his shyness, Caleb launched himself into the air and landed on top of his sister, tumbling all three of them to the ground. Will shifted midair to soften the children’s fall. In the next moment the sweetest sound of all filled the air. Laughter. His children were laughing.

  Will levered himself onto an elbow. Peace filled him as he watched his smiling, happy children. But he knew the moment wouldn’t last long. Far too soon they would grow somber again. His poor, innocent children had faced too much sorrow in their short lives, and here was the sad result. Even if they wanted to continue their moment of playfulness, they simply didn’t know how.

  He couldn’t bear it. Not today. “What do you say we go on an outing, just the three of us?” Even Will was surprised at the words that had come out of his mouth. But then again, why not go on an outing? Maybe all three of them could use a lesson in having fun.

  Both children froze, their mouths gaping open at him. Caleb was the first to speak. “Truly?”

  Will confirmed it with a nod. “Truly.”

  “Where?” the little boy asked. “Where will we go?”

  “Well…” For a moment his mind went blank. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  Olivia scrambled onto his lap. “Can we go to the store?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

  The store? He’d had something a little more exciting in mind. Say, fishing. He hadn’t gone fishing in years. Maybe even a decade, before his father had died. “I was thinking about taking you down to the river to try some fishing.”

  “Oh.” Olivia clasped her hands together and her tiny shoulders heaved with the force of her disappointment.

  Not the reaction he’d hoped for. “You don’t want to go fishing, sweetheart?”

  “I’ll go with you, Papa.” Caleb wiggled onto Will’s lap.

  “Well, I suppose I could, too, if…” Olivia turned her big bl
ue eyes in his direction, “I can get a new dolly first.”

  Now her earlier suggestion to go to the store made sense. His daughter was mad about dolls.

  “I think a new dolly is a definite possibility.” He wrapped his arms around the children, pulling each of them close against his chest. “And perhaps a toy ship for Caleb.”

  Caleb gasped. “Truly?”

  “Truly.” Will squeezed both sets of shoulders. “Now go get dressed and then we’ll leave.”

  They sped out of the room, Caleb leading the way. Will smiled after them, pleased by their excitement. They so rarely showed enthusiasm since their mother left.

  He clenched his jaw against a jolt of ugly emotion. He tried not to give in to his anger, anger he could just as easily turn inward. Fanny might have started this, with her selfish abandonment of her family, but Will hadn’t done enough to rectify the situation.

  That changed today.

  Chapter Five

  Two. More. Days. Bridget thought she might go mad from the wait. She didn’t know what to do with herself. Rose of Rose’s Boardinghouse was friendly enough. She’d offered Bridget and Nora a place to stay until they discovered if Laird’s house was theirs free and clear. But sitting in someone else’s front parlor and sharing tea with a roomful of strangers, many also from Ireland, wasn’t how Bridget wanted to spend her first full day in America.

  The decor didn’t help matters. The room was too ornate, the wallpaper too bold, the furniture too fragile. Taking tea in here, where she was afraid she might spill and ruin the brocade upholstery was—well, not something she wished to endure.

  She decided to take a walk instead. She needed to be alone. To think. To plan. And, God forgive her, to worry. With their money running low, she and Nora would have to find jobs soon. But how many prospects were available in a town this size? Surely not many.

  With nothing but her depressing thoughts to keep her company, Bridget allowed herself a moment to wallow as she made her way down the boardinghouse stairs. Five steps out she’d remembered God’s faithful promise: Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.