Unclaimed Bride

by Lauri Robinson

  A sob mushroomed in her throat. She didn’t belong here. Never had. Never would. He’d never understand why she’d lied—withheld the truth from him for so long. He’d never understand about Byron, not after the way she’d behaved last night.

  The sob threatened to suffocate her. He’d hate her for that, too. Pretending she could replace Christine, the mother of his child. Something she could never be, no matter how hard she wished. It was as if a great fist of fire squeezed her chest.

  For a few weeks she’d had everything she’d ever wanted. Ever dreamed of. But it had been a farce. She was a farce. There had to be someplace she could go. Where she wouldn’t impose her selfishness on others.

  A rap sounded on the door and before she could respond, it opened. “Constance?” Angel poked her head in. “You are up here. What are you doing?”

  Constance balled her hands, searching for an ounce of control. “Oh, just straightening up,” she lied, jumping off the bed and jutting across the room as chaotically as a bumblebee trying to fly in the rain. It would break her heart to leave Angel, but it couldn’t be helped. She fluffed the curtains, and the brilliant white out the window had her eyes burning.

  “Pa’s back. He’s ready for lunch.”

  Constance’s heart went crazy. First it leaped to her throat, screaming with the joy his name had instilled, and then it hit her toes, pouring dread all over her feet.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Yes,” Constance managed to say. “I’m coming.”

  By the time she reached the bottom few steps, she had her emotions under control—at least that’s what Constance thought until her feet refused to move. How could a simple brown hat, creased with wear and hanging innocently on a hook, stop someone dead in their tracks? Praying she wouldn’t stumble, she forced her feet to glide off the last step and across the kitchen floor.

  Without glancing left or right, she walked to the counter. Ellis didn’t say anything, but she knew he was there. Her senses tick-tocked faster and louder than the mantel clock in his office. Every tick saying he’s here. Every tock saying right behind you.

  Angel, on the other hand, hadn’t yet learned the act of silence. “What are we having for lunch? I’m about as starved as a spring bear. Thought you’d never finish dusting.”

  Constance closed her eyes, drawing an ounce of fortitude that would prevent her from snapping at the child—or swooning at Ellis’s feet. Moving to the ice box, she asked, “Have you finished your book report?”

  “Yup.”

  “What are you working on now?” Ellis asked.

  The sound of his deep voice had the bowl slipping from Constance’s hand. She set it back on the metal shelf, and clenched her fingers momentarily before attempting to carry the leftover stew to the counter.

  Luckily she set the bowl down seconds before Angel answered her father, “A schedule for Constance’s intendeds.”

  “A what?” Constance and Ellis asked at the same time.

  Constance spun around, keeping herself upright with a hold on the edge of the counter. The frown on Ellis’s face had his brows almost touching.

  “Hank brought these from town last week. I’ve finally read them all.” Angel pointed to a stack of letters on the table. “I figure I’ll do most of the interviewing during the holiday party this weekend. That way the men won’t have to make two trips to the ranch.”

  For the past week, Constance had been embedded in the plans for the party only three days from now, but that had been before Ellis’s kiss, and last night. Complacent and content—up until yesterday—she’d forgotten Angel’s plan to interview the men.

  Ellis remained as silent as she. When he did speak, it was a question to Angel. “When did you send a post to Link?”

  “I didn’t. The men just started writing.”

  Constance shot away from the counter. Her mind fought her every step of the way—to the pantry and back to the counter with a pot. It might be a way out. Accepting one of the men’s offers would get her out of Ellis’s life. The word he’d teasingly called her last night rang through her head. She was a coward. Furthermore, she didn’t want to wed anyone. Leastwise no one that wanted to marry her.

  After setting the pot on the stove, she moved back to the counter and lifted a loaf of bread wrapped in cheesecloth out of the cupboard. The authorities were never there when she needed them. Not in England, and not now when she wished they’d arrive and haul her off to a prison. It really didn’t matter if she was innocent of Byron’s murder or not. She just had to leave—as soon as possible.

  The knife handle wobbled in her hand as she drew the blade through the top crust, and the slight weight that settled on her shoulder was enough to make her jump. Quick pain had her dropping the knife and wrapping her fingers around her opposite thumb.

  “You cut yourself.”

  Constance stepped back, out of Ellis’s reach, squeezing her thumb to stop the blood trickling between her fingers.

  “Here, let me see.”

  “No.” She skirted around him. “Where’s Angel?”

  “I asked her to leave us alone for a moment.” Ellis took her clutched hands, but she twisted from his grasp.

  Thrusting her thumb into the sink, she pumped water with the other hand. Blood mixed with the water, but remarkably, there was very little pain. Probably because it was all in her chest.

  Ellis took her hand with a hold too strong to break. She gritted her teeth at the way her skin betrayed the will she conjured up to ignore his touch. Instead of aching from the injury, even her thumb quivered with delight as he dried it and wrapped a strip of cloth tightly around the gash.

  Drawing a hidden ounce of reserve, she pulled her hand from his grasp and secured the bandage by tucking in the edges.

  He took her elbow. “We need to talk.”

  The image she’d seen earlier filled her vision, as if she was looking out the office window at the grave again. The pain in her chest created a crust around her heart. “Yes, we do, Ellis.” She feigned interest in the stew. Retrieving a long spoon, she stirred the pot, watching the bubbles disappear and assembling her wayward thoughts.

  “Constance, I—”

  Not willing to listen, she interrupted, “I locked my bedroom door last night.”

  He stiffened, nothing but his eyes moved, and they intensely searched her face. “What?”

  Concocting tales was not common for her, but the desperation gnawing at her gave little choice, seemed to create the tale on its own. She pushed the pot to the back of the stove. “What happened between us should never have happened.”

  “I—”

  She had to continue before she lost her nerve. “It was my fault.” That much was the truth, but the rest was conjured straight out of thin air. “I—I’ve been missing my husband lately. We met during the holidays last year, and with Christmas being next Tuesday, our short time together has been on my mind.” Unable to meet his gaze, knowing he’d catch her lies, she covered her face with both hands. “Last night I was imagining you were him.” The sob burning the back of her throat let loose, and the tears forcing their way forward were real. That much she couldn’t pretend. “I’m sorry.”

  “Constance.”

  His touch was too gentle. “I just loved him so much,” she lied, stumbling backward.

  The grip he had on her arm increased. “Then why’d you agree to marry Ashton?”

  She should have known one lie would lead to more. “I thought I could pretend with him, too.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

  Long fingers of fear, or perhaps anger, gripped her heart. “You don’t believe me? You, the man who’s still in love with his dead wife?” Instant regret sent a groan rolling up her throat that threatened to choke her.

  His hand left her arm, and the anguish on his face made her spin around and dash toward the stairs. “Please tell Angel lunch is ready.” Without looking back, she ran up the staircase and didn’t stop until she was b
ehind her locked bedroom door.

  In the kitchen, Ellis stared at the staircase that had swallowed Constance until his eyes blurred. His insides had grown as hollow as a log infested with termites. Every breath he took stalled between his throat and chest.

  All of a sudden he wanted to yell and hit something until it hurt as bad as he did. The urge was foreign. He’d never turned to violence, not even in the darkest days following Christine’s death.

  Damn, he was a fool.

  He twisted and, pulling his hat and coat from the hook, stormed out the door. His fury-filled growl sent the dog on the porch yelping and tearing down the steps.

  Ellis slapped his hat on his head, but the coat, he whacked against the porch rail. It didn’t help. Neither did the cold air stinging his lungs.

  Only a fool would fall in love this hard. This fast.

  The coat hit the porch rail again, but this time when it flayed in the air, he caught it and thrust a hand in an arm hole as he barreled down the steps with no particular destination in mind. He ended up in the barn, where he saddled a horse.

  “Mr. Clayton, where you going? You need help?” one of the hands asked.

  He didn’t bother to look to see which ranch hand, and not holding an ounce of trust in his burning throat, waved the man away.

  Whoever it was held the barn door open. Kneeing the horse, Ellis rode out, daring the wind to freeze his face and hands. Then they’d match his heart.

  * * *

  Three days later, Ellis was no worse for wear. That’s what he’d convinced himself anyway. Leaning against the tree near the headstone, he watched a wagon glide into the yard. The holiday party was an annual event that brought visitors from far and near. This year there’d be even more, with every man in the territory wanting the chance to ask Constance for her hand.

  His heart hitched up a notch, but he ignored it. Bracing the bottom of one boot against the tree trunk, he folded his arms and pressed his back against the thick bark. The past few days they’d barely spoken.

  A ranch hand jogged across the yard and took the visitor’s team, then led the horses and wagon toward the barn. Ellis let out a gust of air. He couldn’t blame Constance for not talking to him. In all honesty, he’d kept his distance, even taken his meals in the bunkhouse, telling Beans Constance had her hands full getting ready for the party. A smile attempted to grace his lips. She had her hands full all right. The decorations Angel had ordered and strung around the parlor had the place looking like someone had tarred and feathered it. Paper lanterns and bells and balls of all colors had hung in a disorderly fashion around the room when he and Thomas had carried in the tree.

  Constance must have worked her magic on Angel, convinced the girl too much was sometimes worse than none. The smile won this time, making a small chuckle bubble in his throat. He could almost hear Constance’s sweet voice explaining things in the remarkable way only she could do that must have made Angel understand how elegant the room would look with fewer gaudy things swaying about. And elegant it did look. He’d taken a quick gander of the room this morning, as he’d made his way out the front door without peeking into the kitchen where he’d heard the clatter and clang of last-minute preparations taking place.

  The ranch house was impressive, he knew that. It was how he’d meant it to be while nailing every board together. Lately, with Constance’s subtle touches, the place had become more than just a house, it was a home. The kind he’d always wanted. He hadn’t completed the house until after Christine died. There had been a few months where he wondered if he’d ever finish it.

  His brows tugged. The melancholy he’d carried in his chest the past few years had left, but there was another hole there now.

  A ray of sun bounced off the headstone. When he blinked a faint whisper touched his mind. It’s about time you moved on.

  Eyes back on the house, he whispered, “I know that, now. But she’s not ready. May never be.”

  Give her time.

  He nodded as the rattle of harnesses echoed across the frozen ground. “I will.”

  Another wagon with thick wood and iron gliders in place of wheels slid over the snow, coming to stop in front of the house. Link jumped off the side and then turned, lifting both arms up to aid Lula Mae as she stepped down. Several other people climbed out of the back of the wagon, all carrying packages and bundles.

  Ellis pushed off the tree. As much as he’d rather just stand out here and freeze to death, he’d best make his way inside. With the toe of his boot he kicked a fluff of snow and watched it dance and twirl while falling back to the earth. Yeah, he was putting off the inevitable. He really didn’t want to be anywhere near the house today. Not because of the holiday party, but because he didn’t know if he could watch all those men begging for Constance’s attention.

  His fingers curled into his palms, and he squeezed, hoping the action would give him a bit more control. How long would she need? How long would it be before he could ask her to be his wife? Now that he’d made up his mind, impatience had set in. He understood time healed all wounds, and he’d give her all she needed, but the way she’d responded to his kisses contradicted his rationalization.

  Two more vehicles glided into the yard, and letting out air until his lungs screamed to be refilled, Ellis trudged his way over the snow.

  A few yards from the house, he planted a smile on his face and returned a wave from those climbing out of the wagon.

  “Ellis!” Mr. Homer shouted. “Help me with this, would you?”

  Ellis arrived at the side of the wagon and took a large basket from the banker as the man rolled his round shape over the tailgate. Once they’d climbed the front steps, waiting in line for their turn to enter the house, Mr. Homer reached over. “Here, I’ll take that now.” The man lifted the edges of the red and green plaid covering, peeking inside.

  Ellis’s curiosity was piqued. “What’s in there?”

  “Oranges,” Mr. Homer whispered as if it was the secret of the day. “Link bought them off the army wagon master. He said Miss Jennings really likes fruit.” Homer’s eyes took on a hopeful glint. “She does like oranges, doesn’t she?”

  Ellis’s molars locked top to bottom.

  “Hey, Pa!” Angel greeted, holding the door wide as the line of guests entered. “Constance was wondering where you went.”

  Of its own accord his heartbeat increased.

  “Where is Miss Jennings?” Homer asked, glancing around the area.

  “She’s in the parlor,” Angel answered.

  Ellis elbowed his way through the standing-room-only-crowd. There were faces he’d never seen before, had no idea who they were or where they’d come from. Ninety percent of the guests were men—a fact that made his teeth clench harder. He searched the room, finding Constance on the far side, accepting a large package from a thin man. Ellis couldn’t decipher if he knew the man or not. Constance nodded her head agreeably and turned to place the package on the overflowing table beside the tree.

  Making a beeline for her and the tree, Ellis was roughly nudged aside by Mr. Homer barreling across the room like a boulder rolling down a mountain slope.

  “Ellis,” Link said, stepping in Ellis’s path. “Happy holidays.”

  Tugging his eyes from Constance, Ellis turned to the storekeeper. “Happy holidays, Link.” He gave a slight nod to include the man’s wife. “You, too, Lula Mae.”

  “The house looks wonderful, Ellis. So festive and homey,” Lula Mae said while sipping a frothy mixture out of a tiny glass cup. “This is delicious.” She nodded at the cup before she continued, “And the house is bursting with so many people. You must have invited the entire state.”

  As far as he knew invitations hadn’t been issued. It was just the annual holiday party, and anyone that heard about it was welcome to attend. His gaze roamed the room. Half the nation must have heard and decided to attend.

  A tingle racing along Ellis’s neck had him turning back to the tree. The sounds of the room faded, as if h
is head was stuck in a hole. Constance’s eyes were on him, and the trepidation glistening in them had him glancing to her surroundings. John Hempel stood beside her, and the look of distress on the man’s face told Ellis all he needed to know.

  The lawyer had told her about Ashton’s place. Something Ellis had never gotten around to mentioning. A log formed in his throat and his stomach sank to his knees. Without offering an excuse to Link and Lula Mae, Ellis shoved his way forward.

  “Call me Buford, Miss Jennings, that’s my given name,” Mr. Homer offered as Ellis drew closer.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Homer for the oranges,” Constance replied sweetly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have some things I need to see to.” She stepped around John Hempel, the opposite direction from where Ellis approached.

  He angled across the room, heading off her trail. “Constance.” He caught her arm near the doorway.

  She tugged from his hold. “Wonderful party, isn’t it?” Her tone held no delight. “Excuse me. I have things to see to.”

  Physically restraining her wouldn’t solve anything. Reluctantly Ellis let her maneuver away, watching as she smiled and nodded at guests along the way.

  He followed on her heels though, weaving his way through the crowd and biting his tongue. Once they arrived in the kitchen, he opened his mouth, but the room was as full as the parlor had been. The table was laden with food and a crowd circled it, filling their plates as they stepped from platter to platter.

  The widow Wagner caught Constance’s arm, pulling her to the counter and pointing to several pies. They were her meat pies, which he’d grown quite fond of. A couple other women crowded closer, intently listening as Constance explained the contents.

  A hand landed on Ellis’s shoulder.