by Kaki Warner
Pru was nowhere in sight. But instead of pounding up the stairs in search of her, Edwina veered toward the clerk at the front desk, desperate for some reassurance about the man waiting outside. What if her husband was a known desperado or murderous villain intent on carving out their hearts as soon as they reached the edge of town? What if the reason he had to advertise for a new wife was because he had murdered his last one?
Reaching the desk, she glanced back, then stiffened when she saw that her husband had moved inside the doorway where he now stood, arms crossed over his chest, watching her.
Heart thudding against her ribs, Edwina motioned the clerk closer. “Do you know that man, Mr. Yancey?” she whispered, tipping her head in the lump’s direction. “The one by the front door. No, don’t gawk!”
The clerk peered past Edwina’s shoulder. “You mean Big Bob?”
“Big Bob?” Who the dickens is Big Bob?
“Everybody in these parts knows Big Bob.”
Not Declan Brodie? Had her husband sent this lummox in his stead? Hope soared. “You’re sure,” she pressed. “The big man by the door.”
Oh, please, oh, please.
“Yep. Big Bob. Highline Ranch. That’s him.”
Not my husband. Not Declan Brodie. Edwina almost sagged in her relief. But euphoria abruptly died as suspicion took its place. “Is he a dependable man? Honorable?” Will we be safe traveling with him? was what she wanted to ask but was afraid to alert her hulking escort to her fears.
Mr. Yancey scratched at his bald scalp. “Well, yeah. I suppose. He was the sheriff, after all. Before the trouble, that is.”
Trouble? She looked back at Big Bob—what an absurd name—and found him still watching her, those dark eyes gleaming like two chips of wet flint in his sun-browned face.
“Wait a minute,” the clerk blurted out, reclaiming her attention. “You’re that Mrs. Brodie!” Tilting his head to peer around Edwina, he waved to Big Bob.
Big Bob didn’t wave back.
“You’re the new missus.” The clerk grinned happily, showing gaps in his rust-stained teeth. Edwina had noticed such dental discolorations on several other locals and deduced the water in Heartbreak Creek must be as ghastly as the conductor had said. She resisted the impulse to rub a gloved finger across her own front teeth.
She was about to question the clerk further when Pru came down the stairs, trailed by the freckled bellboy tottering under the weight of their two carpetbags. On his heels came Maddie and Lucinda, who stopped beside the front counter to stare at the man waiting by the front door.
“Is that your husband?” Maddie whispered in a voice low enough for Edwina and Pru to hear, but hopefully not Big Bob.
“God help her if it is,” Lucinda murmured.
Panting, the boy let the bags drop beside Edwina, then stood back with an expectant look, rather like that of a spaniel after laying a fresh kill at his master’s feet. Edwina turned her own expectant look toward Big Bob. She was down to so few coins she was reluctant to part with a one if she didn’t have to.
After a long hesitation, and with a scowl of irritation that didn’t bode well for the long ride to the ranch, Big Bob came forward. Ignoring the four women staring at him, he reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a coin, and held it out.
Grinning, the boy snatched it up. Before he could dart away, the dark-haired man rested his hand on the youngster’s thin shoulder.
“Why aren’t you in school, son?”
“It’s closed, sir.”
“Closed?”
“It’s always closed on Saturday, sir.”
Big Bob shot a surprised glance at Mr. Yancey. “It’s Saturday?”
The clerk showed rusty teeth and nodded. “All day.”
“Hell. I’m two days late.” And with an accusing look at Edwina, as if the delay and his own inability to keep track of it were somehow her fault, he snatched up the carpetbags and headed toward the door. “Come on. We’re burning daylight.”
Edwina stared after him, thoughts of escape racing through her mind. Then Pru’s hand pressed against her shoulder blades, shoving her through the door and onto the boardwalk.
“You poor thing,” Lucinda muttered, stepping out behind them.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Maddie argued. “I think your husband is rather handsome. And big, like Angus.”
“He’s not my husband,” Edwina said over her shoulder.
Pru stopped pushing. “He’s not?”
Edwina repressed a giggle. “That’s Big Bob.” She drew out the name, adding a flourish, like a barker at a county fair announcing the prize hog. “Apparently he was sent to fetch us.” Seeing Pru’s frown, she quickly added, “But don’t fret. The clerk said he was once a sheriff, so we’ll be fine. I think.”
Taking advantage of her sister’s befuddlement, Edwina turned to give hugs to Maddie and Lucinda. “I shall miss you,” she said, fighting tears.
Lucinda blushed and looked away, obviously uncomfortable with emotional displays.
“Not for long,” Maddie announced. “Since we’re staying. We decided last night.”
“Staying?” Edwina reared back. “Here? In Heartbreak Creek?”
“Only for a while,” Lucinda warned, even though she was smiling, too.
Edwina glanced at Pru, saw a reflection of her own happy confusion in her sister’s expression. “But why?” she asked, turning back to her friends.
“Why not?” Maddie grinned and looked around, her eyes alight with excitement. “This is the perfect place to start my photographic expedition. The real West. And this way, if we stay together, rather than traveling on alone, we’ll both be safer.”
“And also,” Lucinda added, with a nod toward the tall figure heading down the boardwalk, “if this foolish proxy marriage of yours doesn’t work out, we’ll be close by to spirit you away.”
Three
Patience was not something Edwina had in abundance. And boredom only depleted it further. Granted, as the wagon rolled out of Heartbreak Creek and into the wooded canyons, the lovely mountain scenery had kept her distracted for several miles. But moving along as slowly as they did, she had ample time to peruse the road ahead, which greatly diminished any anticipation she might have harbored about what lay around the next bend.
Trees. Then more trees. Occasionally even a tree with actual leaves, instead of varying lengths and shades of green to blue-green needles. And so many cones of all differing shapes and lengths . . . my, it fair boggled her mind. For an hour, anyway.
Then there were rocks of all sizes and composition to draw her attention—from giant boulders to tiny shards of glittering quartz to stones as black as pitch. Back home, there was more dirt than rocks. In fact, large rocks—as opposed to tossing-size rocks—were so scarce her grandfather had had to import quarry stone to build the entrance pillars. So at first, Edwina had found such an endless display of stones and rocks and boulders quite interesting. But then...
Well, really. They were only rocks. She doubted even her sister’s prodigious intellect could be challenged by a rock for very long. If Prudence was even awake.
Swiveling on the front seat, Edwina glared down at her sister, dozing on a blanket-covered bed of straw, cushioned by soft sacks of flour and sugar, while she—the one who had spent a sleepless night worrying—bounced around on a hard wooden seat next to a giant mute. Honestly.
For the next hour, Edwina amused herself watching birds flit through the high branches. But riding with her head at such an upward angle put a crick in her neck, and since the birds flew away well before the wagon drew near enough for her to be able to identify them, that pastime soon lost its appeal as well. The high point of the first ten miles was the sighting of a deer, which quickly bounded into the brush at their approach.
Then more of the same. Trees. Rocks. Flies perching on the horses’ rumps. Boredom grew and patience shrank. Until finally, after being tossed about atop the poorly sprung seat for over three hours in utter silen
ce, Edwina could bear no more.
“How did you get your name?” she asked in near desperation. “Big Bob is . . . unusual.” Surely his parents wouldn’t have named him that.
He turned his head and frowned at her.
Edwina frowned back, unable to decide what lay behind that flat stare. Amusement? Interest? Nothing?
“Well,” he finally said, facing the road again. “I’m big.”
Edwina gasped. “Are you? I hadn’t noticed.”
No response. Perhaps he believed her. Perhaps he was deaf. Perhaps he was such a dimwit he couldn’t recognize sarcasm.
Aspens were interesting, she decided a while later. Wind blowing through their leaves created such a lovely watery sound, like a rushing stream or trickling brook, which might have been enjoyable to listen to had she not needed to relieve herself. But rather than mention that to the lump, she squirmed in silence, repeatedly checking the watch pinned inside the pocket of her coat, convinced they would surely stop soon.
Forty-five minutes later, she turned to the man beside her and said, “Stop the wagon.”
He reared back. “What?”
“I have to get out.”
“But—”
“Now. I have need of privacy. Now. This minute.”
“Oh.”
Without waiting for the wagon to roll to a full stop, Edwina poked Pru awake, waved her to follow, then leaped to the ground and dashed into the brush.
“He’s a cretin,” she muttered to her sister a few moments later as they put their skirts to rights. “Dumber than wet mud. A giant mute with the brains of a flea and the personality of a pound of rancid lard. He’s so—”
“Hush,” Pru whispered, fighting laughter. “He’ll hear you.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to ride anymore. I don’t want to sit by that man another minute.” She turned to Pru with a pleading look. “If I walk back to Heartbreak Creek, will you come with me?”
“No. Now let’s return to the wagon before a bear finds us.”
“A bear?”
Their journey resumed.
The sun arced, then started its slow westward slide behind the tall trees crowding the rocky road. Shadows lengthened and the air grew cooler.
Pru hummed softly in the back and Edwina sat stonily in front. The mute coughed once, proof that he was still alive, but other than the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the steady jangle of harness chains, all was quiet.
It was driving Edwina insane.
“Tell me about my husband,” she said, thinking if someone didn’t speak soon she might burst into song. Or tears. Or throw herself beneath the horse’s hooves.
Big Bob flicked the reins on the matched bay geldings’ rumps. Flies scattered, circled, then resettled. “What do you want to know?”
He had big hands, she noticed. As expected in a man his size. Yet they were surprisingly elegant, with wide palms and long blunttipped fingers. Rather beat-up and callused, and the little finger of his left hand had apparently been broken in the past, and had healed crookedly with an outward bend. It looked oddly vulnerable on such a strong hand. Edwina mused that in an easier life, had Big Bob the brains and imagination, he might have been a stonemason or even a sculptor.
Realizing he was looking at her, still waiting for an answer, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Is he a good man?”
The question seemed to surprise him. Facing forward again, he stared past the horses’ ears and gave it some thought—such a great deal of thought, Edwina feared again for the quickness of his mind. But then, he’d already demonstrated an inability to keep track of the days of the week, so she shouldn’t have been surprised.
“He tries to be,” he finally said.
Don’t we all. “Is he handsome?” A ridiculous question, but she was becoming irritated with his terse responses and hoped the absurdity of it might shock some life into that stony expression.
It worked. He actually rocked back on the seat as if trying to distance himself from the idea. Or her. “I don’t know about that,” he muttered, studying the trees beside the road as if they were of sudden keen interest.
Edwina watched color inch up his thick neck and across his bristly jaw. A blush? His sun-browned skin was only a shade or two lighter than Pru’s, so it was hard to tell. But the tips of his ears were decidedly red, which told her the question had confounded him. Intrigued, she pressed harder. “Has he a sense of humor?”
“Never thought about it.”
No surprise there. “Is he a wise man?” She appreciated a fine mind. She spoke three languages, herself—if one counted a smattering of church Latin and garbled French patois—and she could add four columns of numbers in her head. But Pru was the smart one. She had read every volume in the library at Rose Hill.
Back when they had books. And a library to put them in.
“He’s made a mistake or two,” Big Bob allowed.
Edwina didn’t doubt it, if her husband was forced to advertise in a catalog to get a woman. Which didn’t say much for her, she thought glumly, since she had responded to it. “Have you known him long?”
“All my life.”
“Do you think we’re well suited?”
He shot her a quick, surprised glance. “Time will tell, I guess.”
Not much of an answer. A feeling of hopelessness swept through her. What had at first appeared an acceptable way out of an untenable situation now seemed a series of terrible mistakes—from answering that matrimonial advertisement, to the proxy marriage and accepting Mr. Brodie’s travel money, to climbing into the wagon that morning. But every time she came to the conclusion that she should have done things differently, the same tired question arose—like what? What else could she have done?
Back home there were few employment opportunities and dismal matrimonial prospects, and racial resentment on both sides had been nearing the breaking point. There had already been riots and lynchings and night riders creating havoc. She and Pru had both been threatened. They had to escape while they could and before something dreadful happened. And since they had no money and no family left, and the only thing of value Edwina had was herself, what presented a better chance of a fresh start somewhere else than offering herself up as a mail-order bride?
From the fat to the fire. Edwina sighed. Maybe she was worrying for nothing. Maybe her husband was the honest, upstanding man his letter indicated he was. Maybe he would be all she had hoped.
She glanced at the taciturn man seated beside her. For all his disapproving looks and high-handed ways and rough manners, he seemed a sensible, straightforward man. She doubted he would work for a complete fool or someone he couldn’t hold in some small respect.
“Do you like him?” she asked.
His big shoulders rose and fell on a shrug. “Most of the time.”
“And the rest of the time?”
Another long pause. “He’s impatient,” he admitted finally. “Some might say stubborn, but I think that’s a bit harsh. And not much of a talker.”
“Like you.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. He turned his head and looked at her, his gaze so focused Edwina felt skewered. “Exactly like me.” And as she watched, the quirk widened into a wicked grin.
Mercy sakes.
Edwina almost tipped up her heels in astonishment. No rust-stained teeth for Big Bob. No missing teeth, either. She stared, so captivated by those dark, mocking eyes it was a moment before his words sank in.
Realization hit with a thud. Heat rushed into her face. You idiot! she railed inwardly. You utter ninny! How could you not have known?
Under his amused regard, rational thought deserted her. It was several moments before she was able to muster sufficient wits to form a sentence. “It occurs to me, sir,” she said through stiff lips, “that I haven’t asked your full name.”
“No, you haven’t. But then, it’s only been . . . what? Six hours?”
Sarcasm? Edwina narrowed her eyes. Perhaps the
lump wasn’t so slow, after all.
He touched his left index finger to the brim of his hat. “Declan Brodie, ma’am.” He put the emphasis on the first syllable—Deck-lan. “Robert Declan Brodie. But some folks call me Big Bob.”
Her husband. Good Lord. She truly was the nitwit Pru said she was.
Pru! Whipping around, Edwina scowled at her half sister who grinned back at her from her nest of burlap sacks and blankets in the back of the wagon. “You knew,” she accused.
Pru nodded, her dark brown eyes alight with laughter.
“How long?”
“About ten miles. I can’t believe you’re just figuring it out.”
She turned back to glare at her husband—her husband, for heaven’s sake. “Why didn’t you say something? Tell me who you were?”
“I thought you knew.”
“Knew what? That you had a pseudonym? Why would I think Big Bob was Declan Brodie?”
“Who’d you think I was?”
Some nincompoop sent to fetch us, she almost shrieked in his face. Then realizing she was about to make a fool of herself—again—Edwina took a deep breath. By the time she slowly released it, she had regained her composure. Somewhat.
“I am not calling you by that ridiculous name. Big Bob. It’s absurd.” Blithely, she brushed a chaff of straw from her skirt. “Sounds like a character in a dime novel. Hardly dignified.” Clasping her hands in her lap, she stared down the road. “I shall call you Mr. Brodie.” You great hulking lump.
“Mr. Brodie. I like that. Sounds respectful.”
She didn’t look his way, but could hear the laughter in his voice. It was an odd voice, low and rich and . . . rumbly. Perhaps it was damaged. Perhaps in a fit of pique, some poor woman he had pushed beyond the limits of sanity had tried to choke the life out of him. She smiled, imaging it.
“I don’t much like Edwina, either,” he added after a pause.
“Oh?” She turned with raised brows. “And why not?”
“Sounds like something a shoat would say.”
