Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  “I’ve been busy on the claim. You heard about the locusts, I reckon.”

  “It’s a darn shame. Folks are having a rough time.” He turned around and began sorting through a pile of letters. “There’s something here for Martha Whitiker. Came in just this morning. You want to take it?”

  “Sure.” Briggs dug into his pocket for the letter to Garrison and tapped it on the counter.

  “Anything else I can do for you today?” Roger asked.

  Briggs handed him the letter. “Yes. You can post this to Boston.”

  Cupping one lens of his spectacles between his thumb and forefinger, Roger studied the address. “Boston, you say.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain? Because there’s a Garrison McPhee right here in town.”

  Briggs felt the walls begin to close in around him. “You sure? Maybe it’s a different Garrison McPhee.”

  “Possibly, but this one just arrived from Boston a few days ago. In fact, he came in to hand deliver that letter Martha picked up. Is he a relation?”

  Briggs turned to walk out, his boots pounding heavily across the floorboards. “No, he’s most definitely not.”

  “You don’t want to post that letter?” Roger called after him.

  “Nope,” Briggs replied as he pushed through the door and felt his vision turn red. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Walking back to George’s house, Briggs fought to keep his anger in check. Sarah didn’t know about Garrison’s presence in town—at least he didn’t think so. God only knew what was in that letter she burned.

  As he walked, he had to force his suspicions down and try not to assume the worst. He had to trust that she had told him the truth about everything, and that she had no idea Garrison had followed her here.

  And Heaven help the man if he tried to see her or talk to her. After what he did to Sarah, it would take every ounce of self-control Briggs possessed not to beat the despicable worm to a bloody pulp.

  As Briggs approached George’s house, he considered what he was going to say if Sarah asked if he’d posted the letter. He stopped on the covered veranda for a moment and stared down at the unpainted wood planks under his boots.

  Laughter from the kitchen startled him. Sarah was feeling better, it seemed. Briggs pulled the screen door open and walked in to find her sipping tea with her shawl pulled over her arm in the splint, listening to George tell the story of how Briggs had bloodied Little Charlie Tomkins’s nose twenty years ago.

  Briggs moved into the room. The laughter died away. George slid his chair back and stood. “Briggs. We were just talking about you.”

  “I gathered that.” He looked down at his wife’s curious face and shrugged out of his coat. “You were saying?”

  George cleared his throat. “Um, I was just telling Sarah why no one calls you Arthur.”

  Briggs glanced from George to Sarah, and back at George again. The two of them looked like children caught spying on their teacher before school.

  Briggs draped his buckskin coat over the back of a chair. “Little Charlie Tomkins was in bad need of a bloody nose. In fact, he told me afterwards it cleared up his head cold.”

  George and Sarah glanced at each other, then began to laugh. Briggs backed up against the dry sink, watching them and wondering how he was going to tell his injured wife that her former betrothed—who had abused her unforgivably—was here in town, and that her current husband wanted to hunt him down and give him far worse than a mere bloody nose.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he eyed his coat pocket and saw the top corner of the letter peeking out. It wouldn’t be long before Sarah saw it too and asked why he hadn’t posted it.

  “I guess you noticed I’m feeling better,” she said cheerfully. “My arm is still sore, but I think I just needed to eat something. If you want to go home today, I think I could manage it.”

  Go home. She wouldn’t want to leave so soon if she’d come here expecting to see Garrison. That provided Briggs with some relief. They could drive straight out of town and be long gone before he even mentioned Garrison to her. He’d eventually have to tell her of course. He only hoped it wouldn’t matter.

  “Sure, we could leave today,” he said. “Only if you’re certain you feel well enough.”

  Sarah stood up with care. “I think so. Did you run all the errands? You weren’t gone very long.”

  “I still have a few things left to do.” He thought mainly about the necklace and the blankets they needed, and maybe having a word or two with a particular worm from Boston, if he could find him.

  “We could run the errands on the way out of town,” Sarah suggested. “If someone would help me gather my things?”

  Briggs reluctantly agreed, knowing that if Sarah was with him, he couldn’t very well track Garrison down. Wondering what to do, he watched her go upstairs, then felt the weight of George’s curious stare.

  “What’s the matter?” Briggs asked.

  George cocked his head. “Nothing. You just look bothered.”

  “Wouldn’t you be, if your horse trampled your wife?”

  “I suppose,” George replied, as if he wasn’t convinced that was the problem.

  * * *

  Sarah let Briggs assist her into the wagon, but with the movement of vehicle as they lurched forward came a stabbing pain in her arm, all the way up to her shoulder. She suppressed the urge to complain about it, wondering if she’d made a mistake in suggesting they travel home today. She had honestly felt better at the time. She just hadn’t imagined how difficult it would be to climb into the wagon with one arm in a splint.

  Briggs climbed up beside her and freed the brake. They waved to George, who was out on the veranda leaning on the railing, then they rolled down the dusty street toward the business district.

  A few minutes later, they were driving along Front Street, passing other wagons, carriages, and roaming livestock. The street seemed to play music, like a grand orchestra of clip clops, jangling harnesses, cow bells, and nickering horses.

  “We’ll stop in at Wright’s to sell the butter and eggs,” Briggs said, pulling the wagon to a halt out front, “but why don’t you stay here and wait for me?”

  She knew it would be painful to get in and out, but she also knew the trip home would leave her sitting in the wagon for many hours to come. “I’d prefer to go with you.”

  He agreed and helped her down, withdrew the wooden box from the back, then led the way into the store.

  The door swung closed behind Sarah, and she stood for a moment looking at everything from saddles and rifles to barrels of salt and molasses, canned goods, ashes for soap-making, and bolts of calico fabric. Customers roamed around, inspecting items and chattering constantly, and the air was thick with the scents of tobacco, spices, and leather.

  Briggs made his way to the counter and set the box down. “Morning, Austin.”

  “Briggs.” He glanced over Brigg’s shoulder at Sarah, who approached and linked her arm through his.

  “This is my wife, Sarah Brigman. Sarah? This is Austin Moore.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise. I don’t recall seeing you in town before. You must be from away.”

  “That’s right. I’m from—”

  “She’s from out east,” Briggs finished for her.

  Bewildered, Sarah slid him a look, but he was already changing the subject, and she could only guess that he didn’t want folks to know that he’d ordered her like a catalogue item.

  “We have some butter and eggs here…” Briggs continued.

  While Sarah watched the transaction take place, a cowboy approached and leaned on the counter beside her. He held soiled, brown gloves in his hands, and Sarah wondered uncomfortably how long had it been since the man had taken a bath. She raised a gloved finger under her nose, then unexpectedly, she gagged.

  Briggs immediately turned his attention to her. “You all right?”
/>   Eyes watering, she quickly nodded, unable to speak for fear of gagging again.

  “I just need some air. I’ll wait outside.” She hurried to the door.

  “What about picking out the blankets?”

  Without turning back, she replied, “You can choose them.”

  Outside, she sucked in a mouthful of fresh air. Well…as fresh as could be expected with the stockyard less than a mile away. At least the gagging sensation had passed.

  Sarah walked leisurely along the boardwalk to the wagon, and climbed awkwardly onto the seat while favoring her sore arm. She sat down and spread her shawl over her legs, waiting. Wagons and buggies rattled by, the gentlemen tipping their hats at her, ladies smiling. On horseback, cowboys trotted down the center of the wide street.

  Just then, a familiar voice spoke from behind. “Well, well. What a coincidence.”

  Her body exploding with shock and apprehension, Sarah stared straight ahead, praying she was imagining things, because she would know that voice anywhere.

  But unfortunately for her, the voice was real. Garrison moved into her line of vision and tipped his elegant top hat at her. “That arm must be awfully painful if you’re going to let your husband choose your bedding,” he said. “Aren’t you worried he’ll choose the wrong color?”

  * * *

  Briggs stared blankly at the pile of blankets for sale. There were gray ones, red ones, and blue ones. He wondered what Sarah would prefer—something like the red blanket she had hung in their house, or something different?

  Ah, what did it matter? All he needed was something to keep them warm at night—in the big, comfortable feather bed he intended to build for them very soon. Besides, he’d kept her waiting long enough.

  Briggs chose a red one and a blue one, and proceeded to the counter. He had to wait a moment while the lady ahead of him paid for her dry goods. At last, he stepped up and set down the blankets. “I’ll take these.”

  “Fine. I gave you a credit for the butter. Tell your wife I already sold half of it.”

  “She’ll be pleased to hear it.” He thought of how worried she’d been that no one would want the butter. He couldn’t wait to tell her. Right after that, he’d deliver the news about Garrison and hope that she wouldn’t care—that she’d simply want to go home.

  * * *

  Sarah slid across the hard seat, away from Garrison, but winced in pain. “What are you doing here?”

  She watched helplessly as he leaned against the side of Briggs’s wagon and crossed one ankle over the other. He brushed a fleck of dust off the shoulder of his black coat. Panic—raw and icy—froze her to the seat.

  He removed his hat. “What do you think I’m doing here? I came to take you home, where you belong.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. Didn’t you get my letter? The train master in Boston was very cooperative, and once I got here… Well, this town is exactly what I imagined it would be. It seems everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

  “Then you must know that I’m married,” she said with a note of warning in her voice. “His name is Briggs and he’ll be out of the store any minute now.”

  “Yes, I know about Briggs. The heartbroken farmer. Sad story, that is.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” she practically spat. “Or about him.”

  Garrison’s expression was one of pained tolerance. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Sarah stared at him, unable to speak. He leaned toward her, his eyes calculating and sinister. “You must realize that your marriage to that man isn’t legal.”

  The panic she had felt when Garrison had bound her to the chair in the hotel room began to creep up on her, causing her heart beat to accelerate. “It is legal. It was done at the courthouse.”

  Garrison shook his head, as if he considered her to be a fool. “I’m assuming you didn’t tell him about us.”

  “It’s none of your business what my husband and I discuss.”

  “Your husband? You say it with such conviction. It makes me want to laugh, Sarah.”

  She leaned toward him and spoke heatedly through gritted teeth. “Make no mistake about it, after what you did to me, I hate you, Garrison. If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll report you, and everything I know about you, to the authorities. But you should know that that would be a far better fate than what my husband would do to you if he catches you talking to me. So just leave us alone. Don’t ever contact me again.”

  Garrison strolled to the front of the wagon and stroked Gem’s forelock. “Looks like someone developed a backbone since her arrival here. Did Briggs beat that into you?”

  “He would never—”

  Garrison scoffed. “How much longer are you going to keep this up, Sarah?” When she gave no reply, he returned to her side and rested his hand on the wagon seat. Sarah slid across, away from him, to avoid his touch.

  “Perhaps I deserve the cold shoulder,” he said gently and apologetically in that charismatic voice that had wooed her in the beginning and had made her feel as if he truly cared about her happiness. “But I told you I was sorry for not explaining everything sooner. You know I love you more than anyone. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I want you to come home. Put all this foolishness behind us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she firmly told him. “I’m with Briggs now.”

  He gave her a look. “Surely, you couldn’t love a farmer who makes you live in a house made of dirt. You’re better than that.” He glanced at the splint on her arm. “Besides, it looks like he doesn’t treat you very well.”

  “He didn’t do this. Unlike you, he would never hurt me.”

  Garrison shook his head at her. “As you say. But with all that aside, I’m your true husband, Sarah, and I mean to remind you of that.”

  Sarah’s vision clouded with fury. “Don’t you dare remind me of anything. You are not my husband. Our marriage was never legal. It was completely meaningless.” She leaned forward and realized too late that she’d attracted some attention. Quickly, she sat back.

  “Come home with me, Sarah. It’s time to stop this.”

  “I told you I’m not going. And I’m warning you…”

  “Warning me, are you?” He chuckled. “I should think you’d know better than to threaten me.”

  Despite the pain it caused, she climbed down the other side of the wagon to get away from him.

  “Where are you going?” Garrison calmly asked, following her to the boardwalk.

  “Away from you.” An unexpected raindrop landed on her cheek.

  “But we’re not finished yet.”

  “Oh, yes, we are.” She heard the sound of his footfalls on the boardwalk behind her, and felt her dander continue to rise.

  “If I thought we were done,” he said, “would I have come all this way to find you? To make sure you’re keeping your mouth shut?”

  Sarah stopped, recognizing the threatening, manipulative tone she’d thought she had escaped. An unpleasant chill shivered through her as rain suddenly fell from the sky in a torrential deluge, pattering on the overhang above them. She moved into a doorway. “Get out of my sight, Garrison.”

  “You know I can’t. I love you too much. I live for nothing else.”

  “That’s rubbish.” She knew this was another one of his great performances. She may have fallen for it before, but she was no longer that same naïve young woman.

  Garrison glanced toward the wagon parked outside the mercantile. “Oh look. Your farmer has finished his shopping.”

  Sarah’s stomach exploded with apprehension. Part of her wanted to call for Briggs and tell him what was happening, but Briggs would most certainly blow a gasket. He’d go after Garrison, and knowing Garrison, Briggs could end up dead.

  Briggs stopped just outside the store, saw the empty wagon, then glanced up and down the street.

  Her stomach in knots, Sarah watched Briggs pause while wai
ting for the pedestrians on the boardwalk to clear. His golden hair blew across his face. The brown fringe on his coat whipped in the misty wind.

  “Will you introduce us?” Garrison asked.

  Sarah shot him a glare. “He doesn’t want to meet you.”

  “I doubt that. I think he’ll want to meet me, very much so.”

  Just then, Briggs looked in her direction. He stood motionless, staring at her. Sarah felt as if she were choking.

  “Oh, good, he’s seen us,” Garrison said, cheerfully.

  Sarah wondered if she should run to Briggs before Garrison had a chance to say anything. She had to try. She could not let him find out this way.

  When Briggs started toward her, she made a move, but Garrison closed his fist around her good arm and jerked her back to him. She winced in pain.

  “Not so fast, love,” he breathed into her ear. “I want to meet your latest husband.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sarah felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering, about to be pushed over the side.

  Setting the wooden box full of supplies in the back of the wagon, Briggs walked sternly toward them, not once releasing Sarah from his intense green-eyed gaze. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance and rain poured like a curtain from the slanted awning above.

  Time seemed to slow down as Briggs neared. Sarah tried to take a step forward, but Garrison tugged her back again. He’d always been brazen, but this was beyond belief.

  Briggs arrived with a frown, a muscle twitching at his jaw. “Sarah?”

  She shook her head frantically, trying to tell him with her eyes that she hadn’t planned this, that Garrison was her enemy, and that she had not known he’d followed her all the way from Boston.

  Briggs’s eyes shifted to Garrison.

  She felt the grip on her arm loosen. She immediately moved closer to Briggs.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Garrison said, holding out his hand. “You must be Arthur, but I hear they call you Briggs. I’m Garrison McPhee. I’ve heard a lot about you.”