by Mary Burton
If he hadn’t loved this land so much, he’d have left when Elise died. But with only three months before he owned his land free and clear, he hated to quit. If he could hold on, he’d have a legacy for his boys that they would be proud of.
Matthias reached for the stagecoach door handle.
Frank pushed past him and grabbed it first. “I’ll settle the boys inside. You get back to the wagon.”
Tommy started to fuss and cling to Matthias tighter. “I want Pa.”
Matthias held on to the boy. “I’ll settle the children.”
Matthias opened the door and was surprised to see that Society Miss was not alone. A large man wearing a dusty black suit glared at him. Society Miss’s wide-eyed expression had given him the impression that she wasn’t married. Of course, it only made sense that she was and that this man was likely her husband. Only a half-witted woman would travel to Montana alone.
More irritated than before, he met the man’s gaze. “My boys will be riding with you as far as Crickhollow.”
The man puffed out his chest and tugged his vest down.
“I paid for my seat,” the man said through tight lips. “And I’ve no intention of sharing it with a couple of dirty children.”
Matthias yearned to toss the man on the side of the road, but before he could respond, Society Miss scooted over in her seat to make more room.
“They may sit with me,” she said. “There’s plenty of room on my seat.”
Matthias lifted his gaze to the woman and for the first time looked past the yards of fabric and the netting of her hat that covered her face. Her hair was blond and it curled at the ends as if the stands strained against the pins that held it in a tight chignon.
Her face was all angles, plain by most standards, and nothing like Elise’s soft, round features. But Society Miss’s vivid green eyes brought an energy to her that made her anything but nondescript.
His gaze skimmed to her full lips. For just an instant, he wondered what they tasted like. His reaction was not only unexpected, but unwanted, as well. He chalked it up to too many lonely nights.
“I’m obliged, miss,” Matthias said.
“Abigail Smyth,” she supplied.
Suddenly, Holden coughed. “Best get a move on, I have a schedule to keep.”
Matthias’s eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare. Holden was right. Time was wasting.
He lifted Quinn and set him in the coach. The boy turned to him as if he’d bolt when Society Miss said softly, “I promise I don’t bite.”
The boy clung to his father.
“Let loose, boy,” Matthias said.
“I’ve a mirror in my reticule,” Society Miss offered. “Would you like to see it?”
Tommy never passed on a gadget. He turned and stared at her.
She reached in her purse and pulled out a small oval mirror in a mother-of-pearl case. The mirror reflected the afternoon light, creating a rainbow on the roof of the coach.
Tommy grinned, watching fascinated as the colors danced. Relaxing, he let loose of Matthias and climbed up on the seat next to the woman. Quinn, gaining strength from his brother’s bravery, leaned forward and held out his hands. Matthias lifted him into the coach.
The woman gave her mirror to Tommy and reached out and set him on the seat beside her.
“You’ll take care of my boys,” Matthias warned, his voice coated with steel.
Society Miss met his gaze. There was no hint of fear. “I shall take good care of them until you arrive in town.”
The faintest hint of her perfume teased his nose. Roses. It had been a long time since he’d smelled the scent of a woman. In the last twelve months since his wife’s death, he’d been too busy to miss the sensation of having a woman under him.
Now, he was acutely aware of how long it had been.
Matthias cleared his throat. “Their grandfather will ride on top. When they get to town, Frank will see that they get to the mercantile and a Mrs. Hilda Clements.”
“Of course,” Society Miss said.
For the first time in a good while, Matthias felt as if he was getting a lucky break. Tommy, the little one, nestled next to Society Miss, fascinated by the pearl buttons that trimmed her cuff.
Matthias turned, ready to tackle the wheel of his wagon. He’d taken only a step when he heard the retching sound. He whirled around in time to see Tommy throw up all over Society Miss.
Abby stared down at her now-wet lap as she heard Mr. Stokes shout several oaths. For a moment she thought she’d retch.
Mr. Stokes pressed a cloth to his face. He stood so quickly he bumped his head on top of the wagon. Stepping over her soiled skirt, he pushed past the stranger to get out of the carriage. “Good Lord, I’ll bet they have cholera or measles. I’ll be riding on the top.”
Abby didn’t have to look over at the boys’ father to know he was still there. His presence filled the silent carriage. The man’s fingers tightened on the coach door, and she half expected the brittle wood to crack in his powerful fist.
She looked into the watery, sad eyes of the boy beside her. A mixture of horror and fear straightened his tiny mouth into a grim line as his eyes wavered to his father and then back to her.
Despite Mr. Stokes’s declaration, she doubted the boy was ill. She’d heard children often got motion sickness when they rode in wagons. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
Managing her best smile, she chucked the boy under the chin and faced the man. To her surprise, the man wasn’t angry. Behind his frustration she saw sadness.
Lifting her skirt, she started to climb down.
The man instantly took her elbow.
She stared at his long tapered fingers, calloused by hard labor. His dark eyes cut into her and suddenly the idea of going anywhere with him unsettled.
“It’s all right,” she reassured the boy. “A damp cloth and it’ll be good as new.”
The stranger peered past her. “Tommy, you all right, son?”
Tommy shrugged. “I feel good now.”
The father shook his head. “That’s good. Can you sit tight for a minute with your brother while I clean up this lady?”
“Yes, Pa.”
“I’ll help her,” Frank, the old man, said from behind him. “I know you got that wagon wheel to fix.”
“Climb on up to your seat, Frank. I can handle it on my own.”
Frank exchanged glances with Holden then reluctantly climbed up top.
He took her hand in his. Through her crocheted black gloves she felt the heat and strength of his fingers. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks.
But the father was all business. Instead of cajoling, he tugged her forward and before she could react banded his long fingers around her narrow waist. Without a word, he lifted her out of the carriage and set her on the hard ground.
Abby stumbled back, shocked at her own reaction. “This really isn’t necessary.”
Still silent, he pulled a bandanna from his coat pocket and grabbed the hem of her skirt, lifting it so that her petticoats showed.
Abby searched for her voice as she yanked her skirt from his hand. “I am engaged to be married. This kind of interaction can’t be proper.” She’d not spoken of her engagement out loud before and it sounded strange, so unfamiliar as if she were talking about someone else.
“I don’t have time for niceties.” He brushed her hand away and finished cleaning the skirt.
The bite in the stranger’s tone rankled her nerves. “There’s no need to be rude,” she said, using the tone she reserved for difficult shopkeepers and surly chimney sweeps.
He looked at her as if she’d grown a third eye. “You want polite, then go back to wherever you came from. I don’t have time for it.”
“I shall tell my fiancé about this.”
He glanced up at Stokes, who still had a handkerchief pressed over his nose. “Your man doesn’t look willing to help you.”
Abby followed his angry gaze to Mr. Stokes. “Mr.
Stokes is not my fiancé.”
A flicker of surprise flashed in the stranger’s eyes but was gone as quickly as it came.
Mr. Stokes shifted in his seat. “Lady, get in the carriage. I want to make town by nightfall.”
“Time is wasting, lady,” the coachman said.
Irritated, she snatched her skirt back and reached for the handle by the door with the other. Her shoe heel caught on the hem of her skirt and she cursed vanity for choosing to wear her gray Sunday best dress. At the time, she’d wanted to make a good impression on her husband-to-be. But the dress’s full skirts and high-heeled shoes, which were fine for church in the city, were completely impractical in Montana. Now she wished she’d remained in her simple calico with the streamlined skirt.
Strong hands again wrapped around her waist. Away from the stifling air of the coach, she caught a whiff of the stranger’s masculine scent. No coiling aftershaves or scented soaps like Mr. Stokes. His scent was purely masculine and not unpleasant, she realized.
This stranger had stirred more emotions and reactions in her in the last five minutes than the butcher had in a year. She couldn’t say if it were him or that all her senses had been heightened by her unknown future. She hoped her intended didn’t make her feel like this, too. She wanted safety and comfort, not passion.
He set her in the carriage and waited until she’d retaken her seat next to the boys. She could still feel his fingers on her as she straightened her skirts.
“Thank you for your help.”
“Ma’am.” He winked and smiled at the children. The smile vanished when he shifted his gaze to her. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll see you in town, Miss Smyth. Take good care of my boys.”
The softly spoken words were laced with warning. This man protected his own.
A shiver passed down her spin as she wondered what it felt like to be protected by this man. She swallowed amazed at the direction of her thoughts.
Oily peacocks like Mr. Stokes and hard, dangerous men like this stranger.
What was her new husband going to be like?
Chapter Three
The tingling in Abby’s limbs quickly faded when she saw the two boys huddled together on the seat. Both looked pale, their lips drawn into tight lines.
Abby sat next to the boys. She placed her hand on the forehead of the little boy. “What’s your name?”
He sniffed, and then popped his thumb in his mouth.
She’d never been around children before. She had no younger brothers or sisters. Joanne, though she was three years younger, was twelve when Abby had moved in.
Of course, she’d seen children of all shapes and sizes in the park with their mothers or nannies, but she’d never actually had to deal with one.
“How does your stomach feel now?” She glanced down at her damp skirt. “Better, I hope.”
The little boys stared at her, silent. She waited an extra beat, expecting them to say something. Nothing.
She glanced down at the mirror Tommy held tightly in his dirty hands. “Want to make another rainbow?”
Again, nothing.
Hoping for a better response from the older one she smiled at him. His face was covered in dirt and he looked on the verge of tears. She remembered one of the mothers in a San Francisco park. She’d picked up her son and held him close when he was upset. That child had brightened up instantly.
She reached and picked the little boy up. Before she could lift him on her lap, he started kicking and screaming. She struggled to hold on to him, but he arched his back and started to swing his arms. One pudgy hand caught her in the eye.
Abby put the boy down instantly. The child scrambled back next to his brother and started to cry. She rubbed her injured eye.
Oh Lord, what was she going to do? She’d always assumed she’d be a natural with children. That they’d love her if she were only kind and loving in return.
But these children seemed to hate her.
Nothing Abby said or did would quiet them until the older one discovered that he could stand on one seat and jump to the other across the aisle. The smaller one’s eyes had immediately brightened, and he’d begun to copy his brother. Abby was so relieved that they’d stopped crying that she let them keep jumping. She’d never expected such a mindless pastime would keep boys busy for over an hour.
Finally, they settled on the other seat and lay their heads down. The younger smiled and laid his head against his brother’s shoulder. The older patted his brother gently on the leg and they fell asleep. She untied the curtains over the window, dimming the interior of the coach.
A meager ring of light around the edges of the worn fabric provided enough light for Abby to watch the boys. She couldn’t help but feel the tug of sadness. The older of the two, who couldn’t be four yet, had already learned that he must look after his younger brother. Too young, she thought to be so independent.
Abby had lost her parents at the age of fifteen to cholera. Their loss had slashed through her heart and for a time she’d thought she’d never be able to live without them. But in time, she’d learned to cherish the memories of her parents.
Her mother, Caroline, had been raised in privilege. She’d grown up attending balls and wearing silks. The expectation was that she’d marry into another well-connected family. Instead, she’d done the unpardonable. She’d fallen in love with a young vicar, Richard, who didn’t have two wooden nickels to his name, and she’d eloped with him. When her family discovered what she’d done, they’d cut her off completely.
So Abby hadn’t grown up with silks or fancy parties. Instead, she’d lived in a simple Arizona parsonage that ministered to miners, harlots and the poor. To her parents’ sorrow, her mother had never carried another baby to term. There’d never been much money, but she always had enough to eat and there’d always been plenty of laughter and music. Her father played the fiddle and her mother the piano. Many a night her parents would play while she sang.
Smiling at the memory, she studied the boys. They weren’t underfed. Despite the dirt and grime, they looked to be a healthy size. She’d doubted there was music in their house and she couldn’t imagine their father laughed often.
Abby let her head drop back against the wall behind her. The now steady rocking of the coach coupled with the silence had her eyes drifting closed. She released a small sigh and let her shoulders sag. Perhaps she could steal a few minutes of sleep. Just a few minutes.
The coach jerked to a stop.
Her eyes popped open immediately and the boys started awake. Tommy, confused about his surroundings, rolled off the seat and hit the floor with a thud. He started to cry.
Immediately, Abby picked him up. Tired and disoriented, the boy didn’t struggle with her this time. Instead he laid his head on her shoulder and popped his thumb into his mouth.
Quinn pushed himself up. His hair stuck straight up and a wrinkle in the cushion had creased the side of his face. He looked around and stuck his lip out.
Abby held her hand out to him and he scrambled off the seat and came to sit beside her. “You two just rest easy. The coach driver should be here to tell us where we are.”
Men’s voices drifted from above as she heard the driver set the brake. The coach shifted to the right and she heard booted feet hit the ground outside her door before it swung open.
“Welcome to Crickhollow!” Holden the driver said, sweeping his hand wide. His face was deeply tanned by the sun and his eyes were clear and bright.
A fresh batch of butterflies fluttered in Abby’s stomach. “Thank you.”
“Looks like you and the young ones fared pretty well,” said Holden.
Behind him stood the man she’d overheard the boys call Grandpa. “They look right at home in your arms.”
Quinn and Tommy both grinned when they saw their grandfather, but neither seemed in a hurry to move away from Abby.
A silent communication passed between Frank and Holden. Both grinned at her as if they were Cheshire cats
.
“We did just fine,” Abby said sitting a little straighter. She righted her hat, which had slipped too low over her forehead. “I need to find Mrs. Hilda Clements. She is to board me until my fiancé arrives.”
Holden unhooked a small block of wood from the side of the carriage and placed it below the door. “Just step right on down, Miss Abigail, and stretch your legs. I know you got to be stiffer than wood after that ride.”
Frank leaned in and took the tired boys, while Abby unlocked her joints and rose in the coach, which was only tall enough for her to stand hunched over. Her knees groaned as she moved the few steps to the door. Holden took her hand as she gathered up her skirt and climbed down.
She longed to stretch her arms over her head and work the kinks from her body but realized that would have to wait until she reached Mrs. Clements’s house.
Mr. Stokes placed his bowler on his balding head. “Where can I find a place to get a drink?”
Holden nodded toward a small dugout. “That’s the saloon. Danny’s got good whiskey.”
“Excellent.” Scratching his chin, he moved slowly toward the saloon.
Abby looked out at the collection of buildings. Just over a half-dozen in all, they sat low to the ground, had pitched roofs and small doorways. Only the one had a window.
The first bubble of alarm rose before reason took over. She glanced from side to side, half expecting to see the rest of the town, where the real buildings were. But to her west there was nothing but the single dusty road that snaked toward the mountains. “This is Crickhollow?”
“Sure is,” Holden said, his pride clear. “I know with you coming from the city it may seem a bit small but we’re growing by leaps and bounds.”
Mr. Barrington’s letters had described a thriving town. A growing mercantile, a bustling stagecoach line and populated community. “Growing, did you say?”
“Population fifty-six if you count the homesteaders.” He laughed. “Fifty-seven now that you’re here.”
Despite the cool June air she could feel a trickle of sweat run down her back. She’d walked away from San Francisco right off the end of the earth.
