by Mary Burton
Abby stared at her cousin. Stewart and Gertrude had always thought their daughter perfect, especially in comparison to a niece who’d never been exposed to the finer social graces.
Abby managed a slight shrug of her shoulders. “He is a rancher in Montana.”
“And what business does he have with you?” Gertrude said.
A gold signet ring on Stewart’s right pinky finger winked in the morning light as he pulled the letter from his pocket. He laid it by his plate. “It seems this Barrington fellow is talking some nonsense about marriage to our Abigail.”
“Marriage!” Joanne laughed. “I thought you’d given up on love after Douglas made a fool out of you.”
Abby drew in a steadying breath, determined not to show her anger.
Annoyed, Gertrude tapped her finger against the linen tablecloth. “You told me nothing of this.”
Abby held out her hand. “May I have my letter?”
Stewart buttered his muffin. “Not until you tell us what this is all about. How could you even come to know such a man?”
Oddly, instead of fear she felt relieved to have it all in the open. “I answered his ad in the Chronicle for a mail order bride.”
Gertrude’s cup clattered down hard against its saucer. Stewart’s thin face whitened. “Why would you embarrass us in such a way? Haven’t we done right by you these last ten years? Lord knows we stood by you when we should have tossed you into the street.”
His words nearly rekindled the guilt that had kept her in check for so many years. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Everything you do is my concern. When it’s time for you to marry, I will see that you marry a suitable man.”
“When I marry?” For a moment anger tightened her throat. How many times had she heard this? “If I stay in San Francisco, I will never marry. Dearest Joanne and her gossip have seen to that. And I want a family of my own. It is time for me to move on.”
Joanne tossed her napkin on the table. “This is all very fascinating, but Mother, we’re going to be late to the dressmakers, if we delay too long.”
Aunt Gertrude nodded. “In a minute, dear.” She lifted her sharp gaze to Abby. “If it’s a husband you want, I’m sure we can find one. In fact, I heard the butcher, Joshua Piper, is looking for another wife. He seems rather fond of you.”
At forty-seven, the butcher had four unruly sons and a mother who still lived with him. It struck Abby then that on her last visit to his shop he’d spent extra time with her. It also explained the extra lamb chop in her order. “I want a fresh start,” she said. “Away from the city.”
Stewart pinched the bridge of his nose. “The city is far better than Montana. I’ve heard tales about that wretched land. It’s full of cutthroats and murderers.”
Abby could feel the tension building in the muscles at the base of her back. “It’s my choice.”
“You can’t marry without my permission,” Stewart said.
“I am five and twenty, Uncle, and well able to take care of myself. I no longer need your permission.”
His face reddened and his lips flattened into a grim line. “Since when did you get so independent?”
Joanne rose. “Father, I really don’t care if she stays or goes. As long as she’s here to cook for my wedding reception. Freddie’s parents do love her scones and teacakes.”
Stewart didn’t take his gaze off Abby. “Your cousin is not going anywhere.”
“I am,” Abby said, firmly now.
“How do you propose to pay for this trip east?” he said.
“Mr. Barrington said in his last letter that he was going to send me money.”
“He sent twenty-five dollars. And I pocketed it.”
For a moment her head spun. “You can’t do that, it’s mine!”
He stuck out his fleshy chin. “I can do anything I please in my house.”
Enraged, Abby snatched up the letter off the table. “You’ve no right to that money.”
He rose to his feet. “I’ve every right, young lady. And you will not talk any more about this farce of a marriage to a stranger. I will not have people in this town talking about me and whispering about another of your scandalous deeds.”
Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips together. “I think perhaps a marriage to the butcher is not such a bad idea. In fact, I will talk to his mother today.” She rose. “As soon as Joanne is safely wed, we will see to Abigail. It’s become quite clear to me that she doesn’t appreciate what we’ve done for her and it’s time she leaves.”
“I believe you are right, my dear,” Stewart said. “The matter is settled. Abigail will marry the butcher as soon as it can be arranged.”
Abby’s stomach curdled. “I’m not marrying the butcher. I am marrying Mr. Barrington.”
“Abigail,” Stewart said. “Don’t you have work to do in the kitchen?”
Clutching Mr. Barrington’s letter in her hand, she glared at her uncle. “You can’t dismiss me like this!”
Gertrude and Joanne stared at Abby in shocked silence.
“Return to the kitchens. I’ve my breakfast to finish.” He shifted his attention back to his paper.
Frustrated, Abby rushed out of the room. Instead of going to the kitchens she ran up the center staircase to her third-floor room. Breathless, she slammed the door to her room and sat down on her bed. Sweat beaded on her forehead as her heart pounded her ribs.
Minutes passed before she remembered the letter clutched in her hand. Slowly, she uncurled her clenched fingers and smoothed out the envelope.
Her frustration faded as she looked at the familiar handwriting. Lifting the letter to her nose, she inhaled the scents of wood smoke. She closed her eyes as she had done a hundred times before and tried to picture Matthias Barrington.
For reasons she could not explain, she pictured an older man, with weathered features and kind eyes that hinted at his loneliness. She imagined their marriage would be founded on friendship, hard work and the desire to build a life together.
Calmer, Abby pulled out the letter and unfolded it.
Miss Smyth, I am so pleased you’ve accepted my marriage offer. You will be a welcome addition to our little valley and everyone is quite excited to meet you. I have enclosed twenty-five dollars for your travel expenses. I spoke with the gentleman who runs the stage line into Crickhollow, a Mr. Holden McGowan, and he assures me that at this time of year, you should have nothing but a safe and pleasant journey. I count the days until you arrive.
M. Barrington.
Abby carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She moved to the small chest at the foot of her bed that contained everything that belonged to her—a faded tintype of her parents, a small mirror that had been her mother’s, her grandmother’s tablecloth, two dresses and the neatly bound stack of letters Mr. Barrington had written her.
She drew in a steadying breath. “By month’s end, Mr. Barrington.”
At midnight, only a small gaslight sconce flickered in the hallway as Abby slipped down the back staircase. Careful not to make a sound, she clutched her belongings, now bundled in her grandmother’s white linen tablecloth. The house was quiet.
Gingerly, Abby set down her bundle by the door and tiptoed into her uncle’s study. She’d long ago learned from one of the servants where he kept his money. Her uncle always thought himself clever with his secret hiding places but there was little the servants didn’t know or discuss about their employers.
Lighting a wall gas lamp, she moved across the thick-carpeted floor to his bookcase. She found the richly bound copy of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and opened it. Carefully, she counted out twenty-five crisp dollars and tucked them in her reticule.
Quietly replacing the book she moved across the room and turned the gaslight off. She picked up her bundle and opened the study door, wincing when it squeaked unexpectedly.
Abby swallowed her fear and hurried down the back hallway, her heart thunder
ing in her chest.
Like it or not, after tonight, there would be no coming home.
She was committed to Montana and Mr. Barrington.
Chapter Two
Every muscle in Abby’s body ached.
She’d been in the stagecoach for nearly twelve hours and was certain that if the wheels hit another rut or the wagon was forced to detour around another swollen river, or her traveling companion, Mr. Stokes, began snoring again, she’d scream.
The wagon came to an abrupt halt, and she toppled forward into the oversize lap of Mr. Stokes. He started awake and wiped the spittle from his mouth, staring down at her. He smiled. “Madam.”
Mr. Craig Stokes had been riding with her for the last ten hours. A scout for the railroad, Mr. Stokes chatted endlessly about his job. Dirt grayed his black wool suit and his cuffs and collar had long ago turned brown. Flecks of food still nested in his mustache and he smelled of sausages and sweat. When he was not snoring in his sleep, he was staring at her.
Abby scrambled off his lap and retreated to her corner of the coach. “Excuse me. I lost my balance.”
“Any time.” He tugged his vest down over his ample belly. “It’s beyond me why a woman of quality like yourself would be traveling alone in these parts. It’s rough county, miss, and no place for a woman.”
Abby had asked herself that same question a half-dozen times over the last couple of days. Living in her aunt and uncle’s San Francisco house, she felt her life had become an endless stream of work, but there she understood the predictable pattern. Here everything was unknown, including the man she’d intended to marry.
“I assure you, I am fine.”
Mr. Stokes shrugged. “If you insist.” Suddenly restless now, he banged on top of the carriage. “What is it this time, man?”
“A rider up ahead and a wagon with a broken wheel,” the driver shouted back.
Abby pushed back the carriage window drape and poked her head out to get a better look.
Twenty yards ahead, she saw an old man sitting on the side of the road next to a wagon. Two small young boys, their dirty faces peeking out from their floppy hats, squatted beside him, jabbing sticks in the mud. The wagon tilted to the right, the wheel burrowed deeply in the thick mud. The team of horses, two fine-looking chestnut mares, had been unhitched from the wagon and were grazing beside the road.
Her heart melted when she saw the two young boys. She raised her hand to wave when she spotted another man standing next to the wagon. Her appraisal took only seconds but it was enough to know the man was angry. The scowl on his rawboned face had her lowering her hand and retreating back a fraction.
The stranger glanced up toward the coach, his eyes narrowing. He started to walk toward them, moving with the grace and power of a wild animal. He was tall, with broad well-muscled shoulders that made her think of the bare-knuckled boxers she’d seen at a carnival years ago.
Utterly masculine. A hint of warmth had her blushing. Abby was surprised by her reaction. Passion was the last thing she needed or wanted.
Still, she looked deeper beneath his black Stetson and studied his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a piece of rawhide. His hair accentuated his chiseled features, and the uncompromising hardness of a jaw covered in dark stubble. His range coat flapped open as he moved, revealing muddied work pants and a dark blue shirt and scuffed boots that stretched to his knees.
Whoever this man was, he was dangerous.
Matthias Barrington was in a foul mood.
He nodded back to his father-in-law Frank and his sons. “I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on the boys. I need to talk to Holden.”
Frank stood, tapping his bony fingers against his thigh. “Looks like he’s got a woman aboard.”
“I don’t care.” He strode toward the stagecoach.
The day had started going sour from the minute he’d risen. Not only did his wagon have a broken wheel, but his father-in-law had announced this morning that he was leaving Crickhollow and heading back to Missouri. Matthias knew the old man wasn’t happy and that this past winter had been hard on him, but he’d thought Frank would stay at least the summer.
Without Frank to watch over the boys, he was in trouble. Matthias didn’t dare dwell on how far behind schedule he was already this early in the season.
Matthias glanced up toward the stagecoach driver, Holden McGowan, and extended his hand. He’d known Holden since Matthias and his late wife had arrived in the valley five years ago. The man always had a quick smile and a joke to share. But today when he looked at Matthias, his expression was tight, nervous even.
“Everything all right?” Matthias said.
Holden nodded, as if recovering from the shock of seeing him. “Right as rain. I just wasn’t expecting to see you here. Looks like you hit a bit of trouble, though.”
Frank came up behind Matthias. “Our wagon hit a rut and broke a wheel.”
Holden glanced quickly at Frank. “Shame.”
Matthias pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “You got room to take Frank and the children into town? I’ll fix the wagon and follow behind you in the next hour or two.”
Holden shifted in his seat. “Oh sure, will do.”
Matthias nodded. “Thanks.”
He glanced up and saw a woman staring at him. She had wide green eyes that testified to just how naive she was. Her cheeks turned pink when their gazes locked and she retreated back into the coach.
He swore under his breath.
Crickhollow was a barren, isolated town where few women ventured. If this Society Miss, with her wide-eyed expression, pale skin and fancy hat, had half a brain, she’d run from this wild territory, which chewed up nearly every woman that tried to call it home.
He strode back to the buckboard where his sons played. If Montana was going to be tamed, it needed women who knew how to work—not genteel ladies like Society Miss.
He glanced down at his boys, wondering what he was going to do with them now that Frank was leaving. At three and four, they were too young to leave alone at the cabin or take out on the range with him each day.
There was Mrs. Clements. She’d taken in the boys the first couple of weeks after Elise had died. He and Frank were so torn up with sorrow they weren’t able to properly care for the boys.
Mrs. Clements had done right by the boys but farming them out stuck in Matthias’s craw. He liked having his children close. But with so much work to be done he didn’t know what else to do.
When Matthias reached the wagon, his youngest, three-year-old Tommy, held out his hands and started to cry. Instinctively, he reached out and lifted the boy. The child laid his head on his father’s shoulder.
Tommy hated riding in wagons. They upset his stomach. Matthias glanced at his oldest boy’s dirty face. Four-year-old Quinn grinned up at him.
“Pa, do we get to ride in the coach?”
Matthias shoved out a sigh. “Sure do.”
Frank came up behind him. “We don’t mind waiting with you here while you fix the wagon.”
Matthias glared at Frank. “I’d rather the boys get into town so Mrs. Clements can give them a hot meal.”
“I got hard tack in the pack. We don’t mind helping you.”
“I want the boys in town by dark.”
“But…”
“No buts.” Irritation gave each word extra bite.
Frank’s sudden desire to stay behind puzzled him. The man was hell-bent on leaving, and Matthias had spent the better part of the morning arguing with Frank about his decision to leave. Later, pride had kept him from asking Frank to stay again, but seeing the boys now made him rethink a lot of things in his life. “Frank, any way you can postpone this trip East? Just a couple of months.”
Frank glanced toward the stagecoach. “Time I got on with my life.”
Matthias bit back the oath that sprang to mind. Frank’s leaving had put him in a predicament. “Get on the stage with the boys. When I’ve fixed the wheel
, I’ll follow.”
Frank picked up his bag. “Sure.”
Matthias took Quinn in his arms. The boys clung to his neck as he walked the twenty yards to the stage.
He nodded to Holden. “Again, I’m obliged.”
“Think nothing of it.” Nervous, Holden tightened the reins around his gloved hand. “There’s only room enough for the boys inside. Frank, you’ll have to ride up top with me.”
Frank glanced toward the coach’s interior as if he were worried. “Fine.”
Matthias set Quinn down so that he could reach for the door handle. The boy fussed and clung to his leg. Inwardly Matthias sighed. The boys, who both shared their mother’s blond hair and deep blue eyes, had been clingy and restless since Elise had died last year. He’d hoped time would take care of that, but lately the boys seemed more fretful than ever. Last night they’d been so restless he’d pulled them in bed with him. That had been a mistake. Quinn had ended up sleeping sideways in the bed, poking him in the ribs with his feet most of the night. While Tommy had snored so loud that Matthias would have sworn he was sleeping with a three-hundred-pound cowhand.
With a boy in each arm, Matthias strode to the wagon door. Society Miss, with her perky nose and fussy clothes stared at him. He could only imagine her thoughts. He looked rougher than a dried prairie and the boys looked just as bad.
But as they got closer, she didn’t cower, but studied him with sharp intelligent eyes that didn’t seem to miss a detail.
Her gaze shifted to the boys, who he had to admit smelled bad. Miss Society’s eyes softened when she looked at Tommy and Quinn. She pitied them, he reckoned. They looked wild and untamed as if wolves had raised them.
Pride had him straightening his shoulders. Elise had always kept the boys scrubbed clean, but since she’d died he’d not had the time to fuss over them.
Guilt ate at his gut. Lately, he did everything half-ass. Even with Frank’s help there was never enough time to do anything right. Before Elise had gotten sick it had been a struggle to keep up, but lately he was fighting a losing battle.
