Unclaimed Bride

by Lauri Robinson

  Constance gave a slight nod, not as confident as it had been earlier, which was just as well. He had more to say before he completely agreed to her suggestion. “I appreciate you coming to me and sharing part of your story. I know there’s a lot you haven’t told me, but I respect your privacy. I do, however, want you to know I’m going to deal with this situation just like I do when Angel hauls home an animal. I’ll stand back, not interfere unless she asks…” He paused so his next statement would be more effective. Holding Miss Jennings’s gaze, he added, “Or if I feel she’s in danger. If that occurs, I will put an end to the arrangement—immediately.”

  The color had drained from her face, but she held her stiff posture. “I understand, Mr. Clayton, I wouldn’t expect any less. I assure you, the last thing I’d want is to see Angel injured.”

  He held her stare. “There are many types of injuries, Miss Jennings. The ones we can’t see are often worse than the ones we can.”

  She blinked, and respectfully bowed her head. “I agree, sir.”

  The word grated his nerves too deep this time. “I’d appreciate if you called me Mr. Clayton, or simply Ellis.”

  “Very well, Mr. Clayton.”

  “I’ll run some figures by you tomorrow as far as pay is concerned. I ask that you complete a list of duties you feel should fall to your position.”

  “I’ll have it ready first thing in the morning. I’d also like to document the funds I already owe you.” She clarified, “The coat, scarf and mittens.”

  He stood and extended a hand. “Very well, Miss Jennings. I wish you a good night, then.”

  She rose and gave his hand a surprisingly firm shake. “Thank you, Mr. Clayton. I appreciate the opportunity.” Pulling her hand from his, she nodded. “Good night.”

  Straight-backed and head held high, she left the room. It wasn’t until the door quietly snapped shut that he repeated, “Good night.”

  A log rolled in the fire, shooting sparks against the wire mesh grate. Ellis walked over and rather than remove the grate, slid the poker between the grate and the stones. Breaking apart the glowing log until it was little more than small-sized coals that would soon die out, he wondered about the arrangement he’d just agreed to. Constance Jennings hid a very large secret. It was written on her face as bold as the headlines of the Territory Gazette.

  His brother Eli still ran the family plantation back in the Carolinas. He’d write Eli, ask a bit about pre-war plantations near Richmond. Protecting Angel came before all else, which meant learning more about Constance Jennings. After replacing the poker, he went to his desk and penned a short letter before he blew out the lamps and made his way up the stairs.

  The lamp in his room had been lit, as well as the fire set. Tugging his shirt off, he paused near the dresser where the picture of Christine, taken shortly before her death, sat. He picked up the silver filigree frame. “I saw you tonight,” he whispered, “shooting across the sky. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  She didn’t answer of course, but his mind did. Christine always knew what she was doing, and had rarely, if ever, been wrong.

  He set the picture down. “There’s always a first.”

  * * *

  Day comes early on a ranch, and a morning that carried a blizzard meant the first set of chores would take twice as long as usual. Ellis donned layers, knowing how the wind could steal away the body’s heat, and made his way down the front set of stairs. A scent caused him to pause on the bottom step. Coffee? Beans never entered the house in the morning. He and Angel dealt with that meal themselves.

  He made his way to the swinging door off the foyer.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clayton.” She didn’t turn from the stove.

  The fine hairs on his neck stood. How had she known he was here? He’d barely pushed the door open, and it didn’t squeak. “Miss Jennings,” he greeted, stepping into the room.

  “Coffee’s on the table. The biscuits will be done in a few minutes as well as the gravy.” Her trim hips swayed as she stirred a spoon about in the pan.

  “I usually wait until after chores and breakfast with Angel.” He hadn’t meant to sound as rude as it came out, but his nerves were ticking again.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed with the storm you’d need to be out early this morning. I’m sure it’ll keep if you want to wait.” She pulled the pan off the heat and set it near the back of the stove before she spun about. Dressed in the same dark blue outfit she’d worn last night while they’d talked in his office, he wondered if she’d slept.

  There were no bags under her eyes. Actually, she looked quite rested and healthy. Her black hair was neatly pinned in a bun, and she’d tied a flour sack around her waist for an apron, which enhanced the feminine curves he had to drag his eyes off.

  He gripped the back of the closest chair, but needing something more to do, snatched the steaming cup off the table. The wondrous smells filling the kitchen had his stomach growling. “As long as it’s ready, I might as well eat. It may be a while before I make it back in.”

  “Wonderful.” She spun back to the stove.

  Did she mean it was wonderful that he wanted to eat, or wonderful that he’d be gone for a while? He sat, scratching his head at the conflicting thoughts. It was almost as if he was in the wrong skin, the way his nerves twitched and itched. Mere seconds later, a plate of biscuits smothered with glossy gravy was set down in front of him. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  She hovered near the table. “Angel gave me a tour of the house last night. I assumed our arrangement would start this morning.” Tugging her fingers apart, she pointed to a sheet of paper on the table.

  Written in slanted, perfect penmanship, was a long list of duties. He didn’t take the time to read them all. “Yes, that’s fine.” He picked up his fork. “I’ll meet with you later today, to go over your wage and such.”

  “Very well,” she replied, walking across the room. “Enjoy your breakfast. There’s more on the stove.”

  There were times she acted like a scared little girl, others where she appeared to be a wise old woman and still others—especially when a slight hint of an English accent filtered her words—where he was convinced she should be sitting in a tea parlor surrounded by ladies-in-waiting. All in all, she made him feel as confused as a cat with two tails.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

  “I’ll wait for Angel.” She transferred the pan of biscuits into a basket and covered them with a cloth, and then stirred down the bubbling gravy.

  He pulled his eyes back to the breakfast before him, and lifted his fork. Beans had never made something taste this delicious. The gravy had big chunks of sausage and had soaked deep into the golden-brown biscuits. He ate two helpings before he excused himself to gather his outerwear from his office.

  A scraping noise said someone was in the front parlor when he reentered the foyer. Walking to the doorway, Ellis paused. Crouched down, Miss Jennings swept the cold ashes from the fireplace in the large front room and deposited them in the ash bucket. Frowning at the sight, he said, “Thomas Ketchum is my wood man.”

  She flipped loose strands of hair aside with the back of her hand as she turned. “Excuse me?”

  The action teased his mind, made him think of her attractiveness. “Thomas,” Ellis repeated, reminding himself of what he’d been saying. “I pay him to cut wood during the summer and tend to the fires in winter. He does other things as well. Part of his job is to clean out the fireplaces and keep them burning all day. He should be in any minute.”

  She finished the job, replaced the ash brush to its holder and then stood. “I thought that was just because you were gone yesterday. He comes in even when you’re home?”

  “Yes. That’s his job.” He gestured toward the front door. “A ranch this size requires a lot of wood. It takes one person dedicated to it.”

  Wiping her hands on the flour sack, she said, “I do apologize. I’ll remember that in the future.”

  H
e nodded, but a feeling as if he’d just chastised her for no reason settled in his chest. Shrugging against the sensation, he went to the door and stepped out into what might prove to be one of the biggest blizzards of all time.

  Chapter Three

  The wood man, Thomas Ketchum, turned out to be a bulk of a man with a cheerful disposition. Upon his arrival, he’d not only cleaned out and set fires in the fireplaces but had refilled all of the wood boxes—which totaled over a dozen—shortly after Ellis had left the house. During the morning hours, Constance had explored the home thoroughly, making notes of things that needed immediate attention, such as cobwebs in hidden corners a child or man wouldn’t notice. She’d noted other things that could use slight adjustments in the future—rugs showing wear and curtains that had become sun-faded—but overall the home was in excellent condition and was well run.

  During that quiet, early morning time, the expanse and elegance surrounding her had childhood memories dancing in her head like a figurine on a music box. Matter of fact, part of her had wanted to skip along the halls and slide down the wide banister. The house, the surroundings, produced a contentment she’d never found in England, one she already cherished.

  Curiosity had led her to ask Angel why the home was so large, for just her and her father. “Pa said he promised my mother the exact home she’d left behind in the Carolinas—only bigger,” Angel had said.

  Now, several hours later, Constance listened with one ear as Angel explained the upcoming holiday party. The other ear was tuned into the doors of the ranch house, both the front and back. Ellis had yet to return. Noon would soon be upon them, the roast a ranch hand had delivered to the back door which she’d seasoned and set to bake was nearly done. She’d gone to the door several times, wondering if she heard something, but the blizzard created a whiteout that made seeing the edge of the front porch impossible.

  She and Angel were settled in the large yet cozy front parlor, where the fire roared with warmth and the wide windows, despite the blizzard, filled the room with light.

  “Last year, I made divinity. I found the recipe in a cookbook, but it didn’t turn out very well.” The girl scrunched up her face. “Not even the animals would eat it.”

  Constance focused her waning attention on Angel and smiled. “We’ll make it again. It’ll help with two people. Whipping the egg whites becomes tiring for one.”

  “It certainly did,” Angel admitted. “And turned out as hard as rocks. Good thing Pa didn’t break a tooth. He was the only one brave enough to try it.”

  “That sounds like something my father would have done,” Constance admitted.

  “Oh? Where does he live?”

  “He used to live in Virginia, but he passed away many—” A thud outside the front door had Constance jumping to her feet. Regardless of Angel’s earlier assurance that Ellis was fine, was used to working in such extreme conditions, Constance couldn’t help but fret for his well-being.

  The noise came again, and Angel ran from the parlor, pulling the front door open as Constance turned the corner.

  The bitterly cold wind swirled into the house, stinging Constance’s face and eyes, but it was her heart that froze. The blizzard had made her compliant. Let her believe travel would be hampered. The man lying on the front porch wasn’t Ellis. It was a complete stranger. Could he be the authorities? All the way from New York? Who else would travel through a blizzard? Though fretful, concern for his lifeless state flared inside her. “Help me get him inside.”

  Between the two of them, Angel tugging and Constance pushing, they managed to roll the man over the threshold. His face was beet-red and ice hung on his eyelashes.

  “Mr. Homer?” Angel patted the man’s ruddy cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

  The man groaned, and Constance sighed with relief he was indeed alive. “Mr. Homer?” she asked, brushing aside the snow covering his clothing.

  “One of the men from town. He works at the bank,” Angel explained as she pushed the door shut.

  Constance now recognized the man as the one she’d compared to a rain barrel yesterday. “What’s he doing out here?”

  Angel, with her long blond curls bouncing about, shook her head ruefully. “My guess would be to claim you.”

  Constance pressed a hand to the alarm thudding in her chest, recalling the men outside the stage. “In a storm like this? He must be crazy.”

  The man groaned again.

  For a few hours the reason for her being at the Clayton home had escaped her. The panic in her chest turned into annoyance. It was a dismal situation she found herself in, but in all circumstances there was a solution, and she’d find one now, too. As soon as she saw to the tasks at hand. Constance huffed out a puff of frustrated air. “Help me drag him into the parlor so he can thaw out. The poor man’s lucky he didn’t freeze to death.”

  Along with much tugging and pulling, she and Angel managed to get Mr. Homer in front of the fireplace in the parlor. Pressing her hands against her muscle-strained thighs, Constance took a moment to catch her breath from the laborious job before she began removing the man’s coat by rolling him from side to side while Angel went upstairs for a blanket.

  After a few minutes, the man regained consciousness. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” he mumbled several times as he flopped closer to the fireplace. “Heat. Heat.”

  “Not too close, Mr. Homer,” Constance warned, glad the grate kept the man from climbing into the flames.

  A rap sounded on the front door. She and Angel stared at one another for a brief moment before they rose and went to the door again. This time the man was upright on the porch, but he leaned heavily on the door frame, shaking and shivering from head to toe. “G-g-g-goo-d-d-d d-d-d-ay.”

  Constance ran a hand over her aching forehead. This was too absurd to be happening. Surely these men didn’t believe she was so destitute she’d— A lump formed in her throat. She was destitute. Lord knew where she’d be right now if not for Angel and Ellis.

  Angel grabbed the man’s arm. “Good day to you, too, Mr. Aimes. Get in here before you freeze to death.”

  Constance took his other arm as the man stumbled in, mumbling and leaving a trail of snow on the rug.

  After that, there was barely time to get one man settled when another would be knocking, or in some cases, falling against the door. The final count was five. Mr. Homer, Mr. Aimes, Mr. McDonaldson, Mr. Westmaster and Jeb. Angel said she didn’t know Jeb’s last name, and the way his teeth chattered, Constance couldn’t understand what he’d said.

  Constance had just removed Jeb’s frozen coat when the front door slammed shut. “Oh, no, not another one,” she groaned, much louder than intended, but she was quite exasperated. Was every man in the Wyoming Territory without a lick of sense?

  “Not another whaaat the hell?” Ellis stared into the front parlor from the doorway, his gaze making a full circle of the room.

  Constance held her breath. It was quite a scene. Men wrapped in blankets, some holding hot water bottles on their frozen heads, others soaking their feet in tubs of warm water. Some had water dripping from the ice chunks still clinging to their hair, and most were groaning with shivers or their teeth were chattering loud and uncontrollably.

  “They came,” Angel said, squeezing around her father to enter the room, “to claim the bride.” She walked over and flipped the blanket in her arms around Jeb. “I knew they wouldn’t wait. I should’ve made a post with the date we’d start the interviews and left it with Link.”

  Constance’s heart sank, and then jolted. Quickly, she stepped around and between the men. Though his face held an astonished look, Ellis must be furious. Rightfully so. This was all because of her. Stalling until she could come up with an appropriate explanation, she asked, “Mr. Clayton, can I get you some hot coffee?”

  He glanced at the steaming cups set beside some of the men. “Is there any left?”

  “Yes, I just put on a fresh pot.” Constance froze midstep. His broad frame fill
ed the doorway and she didn’t dare squeeze around him as Angel had. “It should be about done,” she offered, glancing toward the kitchen door on the other side of the arched opening.

  He stepped aside, providing the space she needed to slip through the doorway. His attention remained on the parlor. “This explains the horses that showed up at the barn door.”

  Constance scrambled across the foyer to the swinging kitchen door. Once beyond it, she took a breath and slowed her pace, wishing she could slow her pulse as easily. The pot was perking loudly on the stove, and she grabbed a cup from the cupboard along the way. The last thing she’d expected was a horde of men traveling through a blizzard to claim her hand in marriage. A heavy foreboding once again pressed on her chest. Besides being overly disconcerting, it gravely added to the long list of debt she owed Ellis. He’d probably send her back to town with the men—tired of the problems she caused in such a short span of time. Heat stung her palm and she pulled her hand away from the hot pot.

  “Did you burn yourself?”

  Shy of jumping out of her skin, Constance shook her head. How had he come to stand right beside her and she not hear him? Ignoring the smart in her palm, she grabbed a towel before attempting to lift the pot this time.

  “Thanks.” He took the cup and moved a few steps away to drink the coffee.

  Constance sought solace in the space separating them.

  His silence lasted several minutes. “How many are there?”

  Her relief was short-lived, if it had existed at all. “Five.” She set the pot on the back burner, wishing she could make the unexpected visitors disappear as fast as they had arrived. An apology seemed trivial, and the justification she hadn’t expected the men sounded like a flimsy excuse.