The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1)

by Lena Goldfinch

  He was jealous of Jem Wheeler. Some sixteen-year-old boy.

  He couldn’t deny the feeling raging inside him. She wasn’t romantically involved with the young man—he felt certain of that—but she’d come out fighting for Jem like a mountain lion protecting her cub.

  She cared for the boy.

  He was jealous because she cared enough to defend Jem and yet she’d cut right through him with one comment: I don’t even know you. The truth cut. All his wanting it to happen couldn’t make his wife love him.

  It was time he accepted the fact.

  ***

  Becky dragged her trunk over to the wardrobe and started flinging dresses inside with total disregard for order.

  Isaac wanted her to leave.

  He’d said she didn’t belong here, and he was right. She didn’t belong here. Of course she didn’t. She didn’t belong back home either, so why should here be any different? Thinking of her father’s frowns, she knew she couldn’t return to Pepperell. When she’d left, it was with the knowledge that she was going forever. Papa could finally be free of her. He could live the life he wanted to live. Whatever that was.

  Where could she go?

  Perhaps Meggie’s father-in-law would hire her on as a milkmaid. Her hours of practice with Trouble might convince them she could do the job. If she could milk a goat, surely she could learn to milk a cow? A flash of memory brought to mind the worn-down wagon Will had driven out of town that day she’d talked to Meggie outside the general store. She remembered Meggie’s words about things being tight, but that they were managing. The last thing they needed was another mouth to feed.

  God, why’d you bring me all the way out here if I don’t belong here either?

  Maybe she didn’t belong anywhere.

  What was left for her to do, but strike out on her own? Would the general store owner hire her on as a bookkeeper? Unlikely. The man already had a whole family to help him out. She did know how to hunt... Perhaps she could become a trapper. But how long could she survive alone in this untamed territory?

  She sighed, defeated. That was beyond what she knew she could do. She wouldn’t know the first thing about surviving the winters here, for one. Plus, she’d get lonely. She wasn’t the most sociable of women, but she needed some company, even if it was just one companionable soul to talk to.

  Regardless of where she went, it was time to let Isaac live the life he wanted to live. A life that didn’t include a wife. Fortunately, they hadn’t let their relationship go any farther than that one sweet kiss. Things would certainly have been more complicated if she was in a family way...

  She pressed a hand to her mouth and kneeled in front of her trunk.

  With shaky hands, she gathered up the simple red cotton work shirt she’d made for Isaac. She fingered the collar. The red cotton fabric was so soft, but, looking at it now, she could see how far from perfect her stitches were. How had she ever thought she could make a shirt? Foolish girl. She should have known she wasn’t wife material. Setting the shirt down in front of her, she dug in her skirt pocket and pulled out the little square of flannel she’d carried with her since leaving Massachusetts. All her dreams for a baby, a family... Her lips pressed into a sad smile. She held the soft cloth to her cheek for a moment, and then tucked it into the pocket of Isaac’s work shirt.

  She’d likely never have a family to call her own now. The knowledge didn’t pierce her nearly as deeply as knowing she’d never have Isaac’s heart. All that mattered was he didn’t want her.

  Carefully folding the shirt, she reached over and placed it on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe. Even if it wasn’t perfect, she might as well leave it for him. What use was it to her now?

  Tomorrow, after things had cooled off between them a bit, she’d calmly let him know she planned to leave.

  She plopped onto her side of the bed and let out her breath. She felt so empty inside. As if she’d already left. As if she were already alone.

  Her gaze fell on the table next to the bed. The Bible Isaac had given her was there.

  She picked it up and held it quietly in her lap.

  Surely it meant something that he’d given it to her. He’d seen that she liked reading his Bible. He hadn’t berated her for that, as her father would have. He’d simply bought a Bible for her, a gift she could call her own.

  He’d bought her a horse too: Siren.

  He’d laughed with her at the dance, held her close that night.

  That day in the woods, he’d kissed her. And she could have sworn he liked it too.

  Maybe they just needed time.

  After all, what had she done to convince him she could fit in here?

  With a twinge of guilt, she realized all her efforts to appear a “proper young lady” had worked against her. In fact, all she’d done since the first day they’d met was convince him she didn’t fit in.

  She set the Bible back down and drew her knees up to her chest, propping her heels on the edge of the mattress, feeling much like a small girl sitting like that.

  If she ever had any hope of belonging anywhere, maybe she needed to be herself. Meggie had said she liked to ride fast too, and she was every inch a lady. She’d even said she liked riding astride. Her Will had seemed happy with her. Catherine, Dally’s wife, could shoot—and she had her own well-used rifle displayed proudly over their door. If ever a woman fit in around here, she did.

  Meggie had said something or other to that effect...that the scripture Becky had quoted might not mean what she thought it meant. Maybe Meggie was right. Maybe it did mean more about showing respect and being kindhearted—not forcing her opinions on people, not striking out. Maybe it did.

  Becky looped her arms around her shins and squeezed herself into a tight ball.

  So what if everything she’d believed up until now was wrong? Or at least a good portion of it?

  And what if—what if—she could fix it?

  By being herself.

  The thought was beyond terrifying. Could she do it?

  She looked at her trunk, mounded haphazardly with clothes, and wondered what she was doing. There was no way she was ever going to leave Isaac. He’d have to throw her out first. She wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t.

  TWENTY

  Jem slowly pushed open the door of the little shanty he’d lived in all his life. The dusky shadows of early evening gave him an extra measure of confidence. Pa was never home this time of day. But Jem still hung back, both feet on the porch, ready to bolt. He peered into the window to make sure. It looked deserted, at least from the outside. This might be his last chance to get his picture. Pa had no use for it. If he ever found it, he’d likely just use it as kindling. To Jem though, having that one piece of paper might help loosen the bitter rock lodged in his chest. He’d give anything for that.

  As he edged closer, the musty odor of old whiskey hit him, bringing back hard memories. Ready to run at any sign of life, Jem stood in the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. He cautiously poked his head through the opening.

  Pa’s bed was empty.

  Jem’s old cot stood in the corner, now littered with a pile of laundry and empty bottles. Seeing his bed that way caused his stomach to sink. That was his bed, not a table or a shelf.

  No, not anymore, he reminded himself with an angry shake of his head.

  Pushing his thoughts aside, he dropped to the floor beside the cot and reached his arm underneath. He ran his fingers along the underside of the frame, feeling for the length of twine wrapped around the wood. There. He pulled on the string and a rolled-up piece of paper fell into his palm.

  Unrolling it like a scroll, he looked down at a picture he’d drawn when he was little. It wasn’t a good likeness—just a circle and lines scrawled on the page—but he knew it was his mother. And there, up in the corner, written in neat strokes, was his name. She’d put it there. Although he couldn’t remember her doing it, he’d always known she had. Sighing, he rolled the picture up and tuck
ed it into his pocket.

  He was still on his knees, pushing himself up to stand when the door creaked on its hinges.

  “Jem?” The wondering tone in Pa’s voice brought Jem around straight away, his pulse hammering.

  “Pa.” His voice was little more than a croak.

  “You come back.”

  “I’m not staying.”

  “Aw, Son, you know I didn’t mean nothin’ by that. I never meant for you to take off.” Pa lurched forward.

  “I’m not staying,” Jem repeated desperately, backing into his cot.

  “But ya gotta stay.” Pa gestured to the filthy room. “Ain’t eaten good since you left.”

  Jem took in his father’s hulking frame. His cheeks did seem leaner, and his belly might have been a little flatter, but Pa was nowhere near starvation—just a whiskey-fed, sickly looking man.

  “You don’t need me,” Jem said. “And—and I don’t need you.” He threw the words out recklessly, feeling a small jolt of victory when his father flinched as if he’d been struck in the face. But then those eyes of his turned hard and cold. His right hand closed into a fist.

  Oh, Lord, what have I done?

  Pa swung at his face. Jem dodged, but he was too slow. The blow blinded him. Staggering, he opened his good eye in time to see Pa’s boot slam into his thigh. Pain exploded deep in his brain. His vision blurred, but then there was Pa, groping for a log next to the stove. Jem watched, but it didn’t seem real. It was a scene on a stage. It couldn’t be real.

  Then Pa lunged. The log in his hand. Striking Jem in the head.

  Jem reeled. He dug deep and threw himself forward with a roar that came from the bottom of his feet straight up through him. The impact knocked Pa backward, and he fell into the edge of the woodstove. He just lay there groaning. Still breathing, but some of the fire seemed to have gone out of him. Before he could recover and take another swing at him, Jem hobbled out as fast as he could.

  Where could he go now?

  This beat up, with his head bleeding and his leg throbbing, he wouldn’t last a full day without collapsing.

  The thought of wolves finding his body in the woods spurred him on. Instinctively, he headed up the mountain in the direction he’d come from. He pressed on through the night, stopping at the stream to drink and wash his face as best he could. The throbbing in his leg thankfully eased, and he slept a while under a tree stump, using a pile of pine needles as a blanket.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Early the next morning, Isaac rolled out of bed, intent on a new purpose. His mind had raced all night. Rebecca’s comment that she didn’t know him had kept him awake. He’d been dealt quite a hand with this marriage. Pop had set the whole thing up without asking him. Then, on top of that, Isaac had found out his bride loved another man. Now she claimed she didn’t know him. Having a normal marriage someday seemed impossible.

  But didn’t God specialize in the impossible?

  Until Rebecca had been plunked into his lap, he’d thought a successful business was all he needed to make him happy. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He wanted a real marriage and, after the past month, he couldn’t imagine living without Rebecca. She’d pretty much turned him inside out, upside down. Though she was undeniably unsuited for rigorous mountain living, she’d managed daily life so far and survived a felling accident to boot. She’d even taken up a rifle and tried her best to learn to fire the unfamiliar weapon, all without a word of complaint. It wasn’t her fault she had no skill for it.

  Visions of her waving a stick at him at Dally’s camp still made him smile. Holding her in his arms at the dance. The sweet torment of sleeping beside her in the small alcove. The kiss he’d stolen in the woods the day he’d started teaching her to shoot. All proved his attraction to her was strong.

  So, what was holding him back?

  Well, there’s her feelings for Jack, he reminded himself as he yanked on his pants and tucked his work shirt in.

  One thing at a time.

  First, he needed to harness all the ideas that had swirled around in his head and taken shape in the middle of the night. He’d need time to put those into action, and then they could move on to dealing with past hurts and talking about expectations and feelings and such. Feelings. The idea of voicing feelings aloud and talking for any length about them brought on a slight headache. And then, as quick as that, he was back to their wedding night and memories of her confessing her love for Jack.

  Determined to cast those thoughts aside, he reached into the trunk at the foot of his bed for a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil. Nothing like a blank piece of paper to settle the mind. He’d make a list. Lists he could handle.

  The one thing she’d asked of him was to fix the privy. He’d done that, but he could do better. He’d build her a whole new house, complete with an indoor necessary and all the comforts he could afford. While it didn’t make sense to build anything too fancy up here on the mountain, he could certainly pull together something better than this drafty old place.

  He pushed through the tattered potato-sack curtain and quickly checked the door to Rebecca’s room. Still closed, which was as he expected. It was early yet, and hopefully she wouldn’t be up for a while. Paper and pencil in hand, he crossed to the table. Didn’t take more than a few strides. Their kitchen was really just a corner of the room after all. And the table had seen better days. So had the chairs, he thought as he straddled one and set the paper on the table in front of him. Pretty much everything had seen better days, which had been fine for Pop and himself, but he couldn’t imagine Rebecca caring for their future children here. Maybe a new home would settle her heart, or at least he could hope it would.

  Thinking of her face lighting up at the news, Isaac felt a weight lifting off his shoulders. He’d do this for her. He’d make up for the harsh words he’d said yesterday. Surely, once she learned of his plans, she’d realize they could put all that behind them. Better yet, he’d build the new house as quickly as possible and surprise her with the news when he had it all ready.

  He liked that. He liked the idea of getting things done. Being busy. Accomplishing something.

  Perhaps they could make a go of this marriage yet...

  Meanwhile, he’d make a better effort to help her adjust to mountain life. This was no place for a delicate flower, but he had to admit she’d already proven she was willing to learn new things. And she wasn’t afraid. Maybe a little too unafraid for his comfort at times, but it helped that she hadn’t locked herself up in the cabin and refused to go out at all. As to her inexperience with mountain life, he’d simply have to break her in slowly. He’d persevere with her rifle training, convince her to get rid of that awful sidesaddle, and do whatever else it would take to transform her into a real live frontier woman.

  He chuckled at the thought.

  Well, he wouldn’t go so far as that, but he could hope to better equip her to face the challenges of wild Seattle.

  ***

  Jem was back on the trail before dawn. The short rest revived his strength a little, but his stomach growled without relenting. He’d need food and maybe a bit of doctoring—but only enough to get him back on his feet again. Then he’d be off for San Francisco. He’d come up with the fare somehow.

  For now, he had one destination in mind.

  Only one person had shown a shred of concern for him in his whole life: Becky Jessup. He focused on the image of her face and stumbled forward.

  ***

  By the time Becky got up that morning, Isaac was gone. She’d slept in a little, having tossed all night, but a look at the sky told her it wasn’t that late. Figuring he was out tending to the horses, she started on breakfast, her resolution to stay put firmly in place. He’d have to kick her out, she told herself, as she helped herself to the bowl of eggs and pitcher of goat’s milk he’d left out on the table.

  Didn’t belong here.

  She’d show him.

  When a loud thud sounded on the front door of the
cabin, she dropped her spatula, pushed the skillet of eggs to the back of the stove, and rushed across the room.

  Jem. How she knew it was him, she couldn’t say. She just did. He’d come back.

  Opening the door, she gasped as she caught sight of his blood-streaked face.

  “Jem! What happened? Was it your pa?”

  His response wasn’t much more than a groan, but she took that as a yes.

  “Why’d you go back?” Ducking under his arm to support his weight about her shoulders, she led him over to the kitchen table and helped him sit in a chair.

  His lopsided grin must have hurt, because he winced. “I needed to git something, and I got it,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Oh, you ‘got’ it all right. You got beaten up.” She dipped a cloth into the water pail and wrung it out. She bent over him and started dabbing at his wounds as gently as she could.

  He patted his pocket. “Nope, I got something else. Something I needed. And now I’m headed for California, if I can rustle up the fare.” He stopped and looked at her hopefully.

  She shook her head. “Sorry, Jem, I don’t have a single cent. I’d give it to you if I did though.”

  Hoping to take the sting out of her words, she served him her share of the eggs she’d cooked. He gobbled them down like a starved man, so she gave him her flapjacks as well.

  “Shoulda guessed you wouldn’t have any money of your own. Why would you?” he mumbled as he ate.

  “What’s in California?” Isaac’s voice caused Becky to jump, Jem too.

  “Boss.” Jem sounded so miserable she wanted to put her arm around his shoulders and give him a protective hug.

  “Jem’s just here to get patched up,” she told Isaac, realizing she was actually trembling. The spatula in her hand was shaking. “His Pa lit into him.” Her words came out as an accusation.

  “Your pa did this to you?” Isaac asked. The incredulous look on his face told its own story. His own father was the best of men, the kind of man who wouldn’t lay a finger on a child, let alone his own son.