Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  He loved her. Had loved her for over a year. Would continue to love her.

  Despite everything.

  And that was that.

  Balance restored, he read through the letter one more time, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it into the unlit grate.

  Then he picked up the pen and began again . . . and this time, he wrote from his head rather than his heart.

  He still had some pride, thank God.

  Sixteen

  “How is Edwina today?” Maddie asked as she peered through the back of the camera while twisting the lens mounted on the front.

  “Vomiting. Why are you taking a photograph of a mule’s eye?”

  “It’s beautiful, is why. I swear if you look into it you can see to infinity.”

  Lucinda mentally rolled her eyes. “Of course you can. The sky is reflected in it. Are you coming to work on the schoolhouse this afternoon?” Cal Bagley from the mercantile had sent word that the paint had arrived, and Lucinda wanted to get the project completed. She had a lot to do before going to the statehood convention in Denver.

  “Of course. I think it’s having a salubrious effect on Pru, don’t you?”

  “One never knows.” It had been several weeks since the Great Turmoil—as Lucinda had begun to think of the time stretching from Pru’s abduction to that final horrid confrontation between Declan and Lone Tree and Edwina up on the mine scaffold. Now Sally lay in the fenced graveyard at the Come All You Sinners Church, and Declan was out at the ranch, working to repair the damage from the Indian attack, and Pru was back where she belonged.

  But things hadn’t settled back to normal, and Lucinda wondered if they ever would. Pru was still not speaking of her ordeal—although she seemed quite excited about Edwina’s idea of turning one of the abandoned cabins into a school where she could teach reading and writing to anyone who wanted to learn. Thomas was moping about like a lovesick Indian, which he surely was. And Declan had hardly spoken to Edwina since Sally’s funeral. Granted, he’d been busy with the house and settling any lingering animosities with Lone Tree’s tribe, but really. Was the man ever going to come back to town and remarry Edwina so their union would be legal, or did he plan to leave her at the hotel forever?

  Lucinda was wearing herself out worrying over all these people. She didn’t have time for it. In addition to preparing the proposal to present to the various railroads when they were in Denver at the statehood convention, she was trying to refurbish a dilapidated hotel and start a business project that she hoped would save the entire town now that the mine was closed down. It was exhausting.

  “There,” Maddie said, her voice muffled by the black drape that protected the plates from premature exposure. “Now hold Buttercup’s halter, will you, Luce? And keep her head as still as you can.”

  Lucinda did as instructed.

  Buttercup didn’t. And with a snort of disgust, she pulled the halter free and walked haughtily away, her swishing tail almost catching Lucinda across the face.

  “You rude thing,” she scolded the retreating mule.

  “Damn and blast!” Maddie muttered, flinging back the drape. “I will never get that stubborn creature to stand still.”

  “Well, she is a mule,” Lucinda observed, checking her palm for mule dirt, although she secretly thought Maddie was the more stubborn of the two. One would have to be, she supposed, to be a photographer. Either that or infinitely patient—which in some ways, was the same thing. “So I guess you’re done for the day?”

  “I might as well be.” Maddie began loading her various supplies into the pushcart she used to transport her photography equipment around town. “Do you think Edwina will feel up to going with us to the schoolhouse?”

  “She’s not sick, Maddie. She’s pregnant. And it’s her own fault. I gave her a preventative.”

  The Englishwoman straightened to blink at her. “A French letter? Why would she want one of those?”

  “In case she was serious about not wanting children.”

  Edwina was convinced that madness ran in her family—an opinion Lucinda didn’t question, having seen the scars both she and Pru bore—and the poor woman was naturally fearful of passing along tainted blood to her own children. A sound decision, Lucinda thought, since Edwina was southern, and who knew what sort of inbreeding might have occurred in the past.

  “Besides,” she went on to Maddie, “every woman should have one. Even you.”

  “Me? But I’m not—that is to say, I haven’t—what I mean is, my husband isn’t even in the country.”

  “Exactly. So if you meet some handsome—and understandably lonely—miner or mountain man or mule skinner or whatever, you will have no worries about conception.”

  “But that . . . that means I would have to be . . . intimate with them.”

  “Well, that’s the point, dear.”

  A sudden commotion arose as a rider charged into town at breakneck speed, hauled his lathered horse to a stop outside the hotel, tossed a pouch to Yancey, then tore off again.

  “Looks like the mail courier has brought something.” Perhaps there was a letter from Tait. She hadn’t heard from him in several weeks. “When you’re finished here, come to my room, Maddie. If Edwina has her head out of her bowl by then, we’ll go on to the school and start painting.” And feeling suddenly perky, she walked briskly back to the hotel.

  There was, indeed, a letter from Tait. But this time it came directly to her, and not through Mrs. Throckmorton. Had her guardian told him of her location? Filled with a sense of foreboding, Lucinda carried it into the empty dining room. Taking her usual seat by the window overlooking the dirt track that ran between the back of the hotel and the woods along the creek, she opened the envelope, pulled out several sheets of fine stationery, and began to read.

  Lucinda—

  Doyle knows where you are. As you can see by this letter, I do, as well. So I trust we can dispense with the tiresome game of writing through your guardian.

  Doyle also knows the name you call yourself now, and about the loans you took against the shares. He learned all this through Pinkerton detectives. I was not aware they were still in his employ. Since Doyle and I are not as close as we once were, he does not confide in me as he did in the past. But I know he is very angry and intent on getting his money back. Even now, he has sent Pinkerton Agents to report your every move back to him.

  I worry about you. I care about you. I am working hard to convince him to let you and the stock certificates go. But if I fail in that, I will come to Heartbreak Creek to protect you. It is my duty. And my right. You hold my heart in your hand, and therefore, your safety is my own.

  Fondest regards,

  Tait

  She sat staring at the bold handwriting, her mind struggling to accept what she had read. Pinkertons were still after her? Watching her? A sudden prickle between her shoulder blades brought her whipping around to check the room behind her.

  But it was only Miriam, laying fresh tablecloths over the tables. She saw no one but Yancey in the lobby, and no shadowy figures lurked in the trees bordering the creek.

  She wondered if she should alert Declan Brodie. Surely he would know if any strangers were in town. But he was no longer sheriff, and was miles away at the moment, doing repairs on his ranch. Thomas Redstone was here, but he probably knew fewer faces than she did, despite being Declan’s temporary deputy for a while. The new sheriff would likely laugh at her. No, she would have to take care of herself.

  Reaching down, she felt the hard shape of her little pistol in her skirt pocket. Since the Indian trouble, she never went anywhere without it.

  And anyway, from what Tait had written, the Pinkerton men were only there to watch and report back to Doyle. They weren’t an actual threat to her.

  She glanced back over the letter again. I worry about you
. I care about you. You hold my heart in your hand.

  A fanciful notion. But one that brought an empty ache in her chest.

  I could have loved you, he had said that day on the train. Hell, I probably already do. But . . .

  There would always be that “but,” she knew. The past would ever stand between them, poisoning any chance they might have had, and she needed to accept that. So she would. Slipping the letter into her pocket, she rose.

  And anyway, being a spinster might not be so bad. She would be accountable to no one but herself—an excellent inducement—and she would be surrounded by these dear friends who were becoming her new family. She could enjoy their children without the bother of having her own. She could become the town matriarch, Lady Bountiful, the fairy godmother who made all the kiddies’ dreams come true. It could be a good life. Certainly better than the one she might have had with Doyle.

  And if her friends drifted away into their own lives without her?

  She wouldn’t think about that.

  Resolved to be happy, she went back to her office to make her pantry lists and linen lists, set up work schedules for Miriam and Yancey and Billy, and plan menus for Cook. And later, after the ladies came back from the schoolhouse and dinner was over and the hotel had settled down for the night, perhaps she would write a short note to Tait, telling him she didn’t need his protection, and in view of the lack of future between them, thought it best if she held neither his heart—nor any other of his body parts—in her hand.

  Then she would climb into her lonely bed and cry herself to sleep.

  August 1870

  Dear Mrs. Throckmorton,

  Wonderful news! We are finally going to have a wedding! It promises to be quite the spectacle, with a fully costumed Cheyenne Dog Soldier standing as best man, four restless children crowded around the little altar of the Come All You Sinners Church, and of course, the pregnant bride. I just hope Biddy Rickman, the pastor’s wife and choir director, doesn’t become so enthusiastic in her accompaniment that she falls off her piano bench. (It’s happened before.) After the ceremony, we will all retire here to the hotel for a grand wedding feast.

  I regret that this letter will be so short, but I have much to prepare and only a short time to complete the decorations, menu, etc. (In deference to Edwina’s delicate condition, we thought it wise to hold the nuptials as soon as possible.)

  I so wish you could be here to celebrate with us and meet my wonderful friends. Perhaps soon.

  Much love,

  Margaret

  PS: I forgot to relay my other good news. We have purchased five more right-of-ways! Let’s hope with the mine shut down and the water cannon no longer in operation, Heartbreak Creek’s water problem will resolve itself. If not, I fear we shall have to have Edwina find us a new water source (I did tell you she’s a water douser, didn’t I? A remarkable woman). M.

  * * *

  “Do stand still, dearest,” Maddie mumbled around the pins clamped between her lips. “Or I’ll never get the fit right.”

  “What fit?” Edwina looked dejectedly down at her body. “I look like I’ve got a bustle strapped to my stomach.”

  She had a point, Lucinda thought, looking up from the wedding veil she was hemming that would eventually be attached to the beaded coronet Pru had almost completed. Before she had begun increasing, Edwina had been so slim she had scarcely cast a shadow. Declan was constantly reminding her to eat so the eagles wouldn’t carry her off. But now, she truly did look like she was wearing a bustle on the wrong side. Ignoring Pru’s please-don’t-get-her-started look, Lucinda grinned and said, “I’d advise you not to fit it too tightly, Maddie. At the rate she’s expanding—”

  “Well, thank you so much for noticing!” Edwina’s moods—while always a bit mercurial—had, of late, become downright volatile.

  “Well, really, dear,” Lucinda said in a soothing tone. “How could I not? You’re either carrying a rather substantial baby—which, considering its size, I fervently hope is a boy and not a girl—or you’re mistaken about when conception took place.”

  “Lucinda!” Maddie, aghast.

  “Oh, dear.” Pru, shaking her head.

  Undeterred, Lucinda pushed on. “I only say that because if it happened sooner than we’ve calculated, then the baby isn’t so oversized, after all.”

  “Oversized?” Maddie glared at her over her shoulder. “Truly, Lucinda? You want to use that word around a bride—enceinte or not?”

  “I know exactly when conception took place,” Edwina announced. “And when and where it happened is none of your business, Lucinda Hathaway!”

  “Where? Hmm . . .” Lucinda cocked her head. “I didn’t think to question where it happened. But that raises some interesting possibilities, does it not?”

  “Enough of your troublemaking, Luce,” Maddie scolded. “You’ll have her in tears, and you know how that upsets Declan.”

  “Then let’s talk about the next wedding, shall we?”

  “Next wedding?” Maddie stopped pinning. Edwina looked confused. Pru bent over her beading.

  Lucinda laughed. “I mean Pru’s and Thomas’s, of course.”

  Edwina’s mouth fell open. “You and Thomas are getting married, Pru? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Pru raised pink palms in a slow-down gesture. “Because there is nothing to tell. I swear it. Thomas is a good friend, and that’s the extent of it.”

  “And yet . . .” Lucinda put on a puzzled look. “You did spend all that time with him in the mountains in that—what did he call it?—oh, yes, sweat lodge.”

  “He was just trying to help me,” Pru defended. “I was upset about . . . what happened. He believes sweat lodges have great healing powers.”

  When she saw that haunted look had returned to Pru’s dark eyes, Lucinda could have kicked herself. She had only meant to lighten the mood, not remind Pru of her ordeal at the hands of that madman, Lone Tree. Leaning over, she rested her hand on Pru’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pru. That was thoughtless of me to make light of your pain. Please do forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” Pru reached up to pat the hand on her shoulder. “You ladies are my dearest friends. I wouldn’t have survived any of this without you. And my friend Thomas, of course.”

  “Well, anyway,” Edwina cut in with forced joviality. “I’m not sure Indians believe in marriage. Or kissing. Or any such goings on.”

  Lucinda laughed. “Oh, I’ll bet they do. How else would you account for all the little Indians running around? What do you think, Pru?”

  “I heard from my publisher again,” Maddie broke in with another glare at Lucinda.

  “About extending your stay?” Lucinda didn’t know how she would bear it if Maddie went back to England.

  “No, about that man inquiring about me.”

  “What man?” Edwina asked.

  “I think it’s her husband,” Lucinda told her. “The wretch probably just now noticed she has decamped. What did he want, Maddie?”

  “It appears he went to the newspaper and questioned my publisher directly. Mr. Chesterfield described him as ‘tall, overbearing, and unpleasant.’ He also called him ‘persistent and determined.’ That does sound a bit like Angus. He could be quite imposing. Especially in his uniform.”

  Pru tied off the last knot, inspected her handiwork, then nodded in satisfaction. Closing the tin of beads, she set the coronet aside for Lucinda to attach to the veil, and folded her hands in her lap. “I wonder how he found you. Since you sign your work A. M. Wallace, rather than using your full name, how would he know to go to your publisher?”

  “Precisely my thought.”

  “Did your publisher tell him where you were?”

  Maddie shook her head.

  “Sounds like someone you’d do well to avoid,”
Edwina remarked. “If he tracked you to the newspaper, I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up here.”

  Maddie’s eyes grew round in her lightly freckled face. “Surely not.”

  Lucinda finished the slip stitch around the top of the veil and pulled it into loose gathers she could attach to the coronet. “We shall have to keep an eye out for him.” And she definitely had some questions for the bounder—assuming he was Maddie’s husband and he showed up here in Heartbreak Creek—such as why he had treated her dear friend so shabbily.

  “I’ll be sure to tell Declan,” Edwina said. “Now that he’s sheriff again, he should know of any strangers lurking about.”

  Lucinda wondered if that extended to Pinkertons. She would ask but was afraid of arousing suspicion. Declan was too smart not to question why detectives would be watching her, and the poor man had enough on his mind right now. The wedding, his wife’s delicate condition—which was why he’d temporarily moved the family back to town and taken the sheriff’s position again—the upcoming statehood convention to which he was a reluctant delegate, and dealing with out-of-work miners who spent far too much time in the saloon.

  Lucinda was delighted to have the Brodies back in town, of course. Now that she counted Declan and his brood as part of her family, she wanted them all close by. Besides, the children needed schooling, and once the schoolhouse was finished, Pru would be able to teach them every day. From what Lucinda had seen, she was an excellent—and thankfully, patient—teacher.

  But now, if the man inquiring about Maddie was indeed her soldier husband and he showed up here expecting to take her back to Scotland, Lucinda wasn’t sure what she would do. Without even meeting the man, she already disliked him intensely.

  “Then I shall simply have to see that my little gypsy wagon is finished as soon as possible.” As she spoke, Maddie pinned up the last section of hem on Edwina’s ivory underskirt. “That way, if he does come to Heartbreak Creek, I shall be long gone on a photographic expedition. Do stop fidgeting, Edwina.”