The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1)

by Lena Goldfinch

  Every inch a proper young lady.

  She stared up at him with a pair of soulful eyes—greenish-gray, maybe?—and it seemed to him her expression was one of vulnerable expectation.

  She’s anxious. Afraid even.

  Why wouldn’t she be? What did she know about him, a stranger?

  Why had she come?

  He tried to imagine what would prompt a woman to leave her home, travel all that distance, all to marry up with a man she’d never met. It didn’t seem quite—comprehensible. In fact it seemed a little desperate.

  She must have fallen on hard times.

  Something about her tiny form facing him so bravely stirred up an uncomfortable desire to protect her. How could he possibly go back and tell his father he’d sent the girl away without giving her a chance? How could he look into her questioning eyes and send her away?

  Isaac ducked his head in confusion.

  All his hard resolve began to melt off. So Pop had sent for a bride without asking him? His father meant well, and the thought of him going to his grave without seeing his grandchildren tore at Isaac. Pop had never asked much of him.

  Isaac stared down at his hat in desperation.

  What was he thinking?

  He couldn’t let Pop have his way.

  He firmed his weakening resolve and set his jaw. He was sensitive to Pop’s desire for grandchildren, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He had a business to grow, men who were counting on him. Their livelihoods—not just his and Pop’s—depended on him succeeding.

  He had to send the girl away. There was no call for him to feel guilty either. He hadn’t sent for a bride. Hadn’t asked for one.

  He closed his eyes briefly against the sight of her.

  She was clearly more than her weight in trouble. Best to get it over with fast.

  FIVE

  Becky blinked at the man standing before her in the Pearsons’ foyer. He stepped closer, until she was staring level with the vee of his brown leather vest. It was the kind of vest she’d expect a man of the West to wear: serviceable, a bit weathered. She took notice of his tanned throat, square jaw, and a mouth that was now set in a firm line. Dark hair. A nice straight nose. A rather handsome man, when you added it all up. Youngish, but not as young as she was. Quite a bit older than that. Twenty-three or -four perhaps? And he was so tall. Exceptionally tall, and not just because she was on the short-ish side. He was the kind of tall that would put him a head over most of the men she knew. He practically loomed over her.

  She swallowed uneasily.

  He’s here to meet you, Becky, just like you’re here to meet him.

  He wants you here. He wouldn’t have sent for you if he didn’t.

  She tipped her head back and met his eyes resolutely. She even attempted a small smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Miss Sullivan,” he said and extended his hand, “pleasure to meet you too.”

  So formal. Almost...cold. Which completely went against the impression she’d had of him a moment ago. She was sure she’d seen something else in his eyes: interest. Maybe even sympathy. Kindness. But now that was gone. Like he’d put up a wall.

  Don’t be silly, she told herself. He’s likely just anxious.

  Becky slipped her hand into his, and he shook it firmly. She blinked in surprise. What a strange way to greet her. He was her husband-to-be, but that was more of a business handshake, like someone you might meet at a social function, someone you never expected to see again. It wasn’t like she’d expected him to scoop her up in a warm embrace—that would have been too forward, of course—but he could have kissed her hand. That would have been perfectly acceptable. She shrugged ever so slightly and dismissed the thought.

  Mrs. Pearson cleared her throat, looking as put upon as ever. “Excuse me while I fetch some tea,” she said and strode off toward the kitchen.

  It was left to Becky to lead Isaac Jessup into the parlor. After seating herself beside him on the Pearsons’ strawberry chintz settee, she found herself at a loss for words. He seemed similarly afflicted, and an awkward silence fell between them.

  “Miss Sullivan, there’s been a...” His voice trailed off, and he suddenly looked a trifle unwell.

  “Call me Be–” She stopped, remembering her resolution to be a perfectly prim and proper young lady. She’d always thought of herself as Becky, but that name didn’t fit anymore. “Please, call me Rebecca.”

  And with that the words were out.

  She wasn’t Becky anymore.

  It was like losing one more piece of herself.

  How long would it take until she was entirely gone?

  “Rebecca,” Isaac repeated with a slight frown, as though testing it.

  He hadn’t smiled at her once, which gave her the distinct feeling he wasn’t entirely pleased with her. She tried to push aside her mounting insecurity. She’d done her best with her appearance. Gone completely was the hoyden of Pepperell, Massachusetts. She’d carefully wound up her hair into a tidy knot and selected a perfectly ladylike gray dress—complete with a hooped crinoline, perfectly ladylike slippers, and white gloves. She folded her hands demurely in her lap.

  Jack Duncan had spurned her for a perfect lady, and a perfect lady she’d do her best to be for this Isaac Jessup. He would, after all, be her husband soon. She shifted restlessly at the thought. No matter how she tried, her heart still belonged to Jack. She wasn’t free to love Isaac Jessup, the man perched like a great oak next to her. Sneaking a peek at his profile, she noticed him staring off toward the window, as though searching for something to say. Maybe he was a shy sort of man. Not that he appeared to be, but it was entirely possible.

  Well, she needed to set him at ease was all. She cleared her throat and flashed a glance into his deep brown eyes, which were now looking right at her. He certainly was handsome, if you liked your men tall, strong and dark-haired, which she didn’t.

  An image of Jack’s fair hair and slim build flashed through her mind.

  She bit the inside of her cheek, completely mortified to have brought Jack to mind when her husband-to-be was sitting right next to her. That had to stop.

  It wasn’t fair to Isaac. Didn’t he deserve a woman who could love him?

  But then, what man ordered a bride sight unseen and expected true love?

  Perhaps the best they could expect was to become close companions, perhaps even friends. And maybe that was enough. They didn’t have to be head-over-heels in love to build a family together. She was determined to be a good wife. She’d respect him and help with—whatever help he needed as a logging boss. His books, maybe? She was good with numbers. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could try. And she’d wear the corset that cinched her waist, these uncomfortably tight gloves, and the dratted crinoline that felt like she was wearing an umbrella upside down...whatever she needed to do to appear the impeccable lady. If that was what a man looked for in a wife, well, she’d do her utmost.

  A gentle and quiet spirit, she reminded herself.

  Becky, the wild hoyden, was gone.

  “I’m not expecting a love match, Mr. Jessup,” she finally said.

  He frowned and cleared his throat. “I see you’re a—uh—practical young woman, Miss Sullivan.”

  So they were back to formal names. That was her doing, she realized. She’d just called him Mr. Jessup.

  Becky pressed her lips together to stop a frown. He thought she was practical? No, not by nature, she wasn’t. If she was practical she would have been able to forget Jack the moment she found out he was married. She would have been able to set thoughts of him completely out of her mind. But they were still there, taunting her. Her shoulders drooped a little, as she was swept back to the moment she saw Jack and Melody buying flannel in Papa’s grocery store.

  They were going to have a baby.

  What practical woman would keep thinking about that?

  Becky grasped the tiny, square remnant of baby flannel in her gloved hand. She couldn’t fe
el its softness, but her memories of it were so strong she almost could. Her heart swelled with a longing so sharp it hurt. What practical woman would have kept this? She closed her hand more tightly around her precious scrap. Well, there was no use hiding what she wanted from this marriage, was there? Isaac deserved honesty from her, and she would give it to him. Squaring her shoulders a little, she lifted her chin.

  “I hope we can be friends, but, to be honest, what I really want from this marriage is a baby.” There, she said it. Her words broke through the silence with all the force of a crack of lightning.

  ***

  A baby? Isaac almost fell off the seat. She certainly got to the point quick enough.

  “Is that right?” His head spun, making word retrieval a trifle difficult.

  “Yes, and though the Pearsons have been—hospitable—I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome here. So, if you’re agreeable, I’d like to arrange the wedding as soon as possible.”

  Tell her, tell her now, he urged himself. But the whole thing had been dumped on him that morning, and he felt swept along like a log headed downstream.

  What have you done, Pop?

  He wanted to bury his head in his hands and take a moment to think, but she was looking at him again with those expectant, hopeful green—gray?—eyes, and he heard himself replying, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Not a problem? Had he lost his head?

  First of all, she was far too delicate and fragile to endure such a rough life. He’d be watching her all day to make sure she didn’t get hurt, or worse, killed. How could he run a logging operation that way?

  “Would you agree to three days from now?” she asked.

  “That sounds fine.” That was his voice he heard. He’d lost command of his senses again. Had he just agreed to marry a stranger in three days?

  After he returned home to the cabin that evening, he found Pop waiting with an expectant expression.

  “So I’m getting married, Pop.”

  “You are?” he exclaimed, jubilant.

  “It would seem that way,” Isaac said. Inside, his heart was heavy as a rock. Some of his dread must have shown on his face for Pop gave him a hard look.

  “Son?”

  Isaac waved him away. “A touch of headache.”

  His father nodded. “Maybe you should get some rest. Go to bed early. It’s been a lot all of a sudden, I ’spect.”

  “It certainly has been,” Isaac said dryly.

  “Watch yourself, Son.”

  Isaac chuckled at his father’s warning.

  “I was hoping as much,” Pop said. “Had a team of our strongest lads come by this afternoon. Adding a room off the back. Someplace private for you and your lady.”

  Of course. Because why wouldn’t he add a room on the cabin without waiting for Isaac to come back?

  That was it.

  “Goodnight, Pop.” Isaac ducked behind the potato-sack curtain that separated the sleeping area from the main room. Let Pop stay up and celebrate by himself, he thought. Meanwhile, he needed some time alone to think.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. He hadn’t lied about the headache. The pain hadn’t let up since he left the Pearsons’ house. Whatever time that was. He’d completely lost track of time.

  Aw, Pop, what have you done?

  Pop hadn’t seemed all that surprised by his news. In fact, he’d already organized a crew to add a room onto the cabin. Unbelievable.

  Isaac shook his head in disbelief, imagining a rough-framed structure protruding off the back of the cabin.

  He was marrying a woman he didn’t know.

  In three days.

  He dug his fingers into his scalp. What did he know about women? His whole life had been work. After his mother died about fourteen years back, his father had sold off their Colorado parcel, and they’d spent years wandering across the Western frontiers looking for a home. They came to Seattle a little over eight years ago, when he was sixteen.

  At first, they’d worked for another logging outfit, stayed there a few years learning the ropes, saving every cent of their money, and since then they’d bought land. They were focused on building their own logging operation. But that hadn’t come without a price. All that hard work left no time for a social life. Not that there were any acceptable women to be had in the logging camps up here. The only unmarried women available were of questionable repute.

  And Isaac had been raised on the Bible. As a God-fearing young man he’d stayed away from “that type of woman”—well, except for one time. He remembered with shame the young woman who’d taken in wash and “serviced” the men at their first logging camp. Rosie had been a worn shell of a woman at nineteen. He’d slipped into her tent on his seventeenth birthday to “prove his manhood,” as the other boys had urged him to do, egging him on. Rosie had welcomed him into her tent without the slightest sign of surprise. He remembered how she’d taken his hand and led him over to her dingy pallet on the ground. They’d had to duck because the roof of her tent sagged down on the sides. He hadn’t seen through her false eagerness at first. He’d been so nervous, his heart pounding, struck dumb by equal parts excitement and terror. And shame, even then in the moment. He’d hesitated, listening to the squawk of his conscience. That was when he’d looked into her faded blue eyes and really seen her. He’d seen past what he’d been thinking of doing. Seen past her brazen, come-on look and only found emptiness underneath. His desire had fled in a hurry, leaving behind only feelings of guilt and pity.

  He’d stolen a quick kiss and hurriedly pressed a coin into her hand. Backed away. She shrugged it off with a puzzled frown, tucked the coin into the pocket of her skirt, and returned to scrubbing a tub of wash. She hadn’t shown the least flicker of emotion.

  He’d ducked out of the tent to breathe some fresh air. He remembered it was an effort just to stand upright, he was shaking so hard, as if he’d run up the mountain.

  So he’d never been with a woman—not for more than that one stolen kiss anyway—in all his years. He was twenty-four now, boss of his own business. His men looked up to him. But he didn’t know a thing about women. And now he was marrying a stranger. In three days.

  He returned to the cabin to find his father already snoring in the narrow bed next to his. Thoughts of marriage and a woman with reddish-gold hair and green eyes soon swirled into a fog as sleep claimed him.

  SIX

  In a one-room shanty just outside Seattle...

  Icy rain leaked through the gaps in the roof, chilling Jem Wheeler’s face and soaking his sheets. He shivered and tried to remember a time when the roof didn’t leak. He was sixteen now, and it seemed like raindrops had been splashing against his skin his entire life. When he was really small, he’d wake up in terror feeling cold water on his face. Back then, he’d thought the ceiling was gonna cave in on him. Even though he knew now that it would hold, he still lay awake, uneasy. Waiting.

  The front door crashed open, and he saw the shape of a man standing in the doorway, not much more than a shadow in the night. The shape staggered in, coming toward his bed. Thunder cracked, making Jem jump, then there was a moment of deathly quiet.

  He jerked upright, his pulse deafening in his ears. “Pa?”

  “Hush up, boy!” The slurred command sounded like a gunshot. It was Pa, drunk again. He struck Jem across the jaw with the back of his hand.

  Something broke inside of Jem. He finally snapped, like a branch bent back too far.

  “No, Pa! You hush up!” He scrambled out of bed and shoved Pa away.

  His father stumbled backwards. He roared in anger, swearing. A flash of lightning lit the room. Jem saw the glint of metal in his pa’s hand. It all happened so quick. Pa rushed him before he could get out of the way. Pain lashed across his chest. It was hot at first, then icy cold, all over.

  “Git on out of here, boy!”

  Pa’s string of cusses weren’t anything Jem hadn’t heard before, but he was already at
the breaking point.

  “I hate you!”

  “You good for nothin’! Go on. Git!”

  Jem didn’t wait for a second swipe of Pa’s hunting knife. He ran out the door. For a second, he glanced back, hating to leave his one treasure behind, but there was no way to get it now. He ran through the storm, feeling the safety of the black night immerse him.

  He was done with Pa. He was done with Pa’s cussing. He was done with Pa’s drunkenness. He was done with Pa’s beatings. He was finally on his own.

  SEVEN

  The Pearsons’ household was quiet with sleep. The sound of thunder woke Becky, returning her to her anxious thoughts. She’d be a married woman soon. Shivering from the cold and perhaps something else as well, she rubbed her feet against the sheets to warm them. She turned her head into her pillow, but sleep eluded her. Doubts had plagued her on the long voyage to Seattle—three seasick months with nothing else to do but think. She’d doubted her sanity, her common sense, her judgment.

  His name had convinced her to come.

  An Isaac for her Rebecca, as if God placed his approval on the match.

  But perhaps God hadn’t been telling her that at all.

  Maybe she’d made it up in her mind. Maybe she’d just wanted to believe it so bad. She’d wanted to leave.

  A soft sigh escaped her lips.

  It was a little too late for doubts now.

  Yesterday, Isaac’s height had dismayed her. She smiled to herself, remembering her relief as she’d met his dark brown eyes for the first time. They were nice eyes. Warm eyes. The eyes of a good man—if you could tell by a man’s eyes alone. Isaac seemed like a good man anyway, and they’d have the next few days to get to know one another.