Brighter Tomorrows

by Beverly Wells

  This town would be her new home, her new family. It had to be better than the type of life she’d endured up till now. She eyed the four unpainted log buildings that made up the town proper: a general store, a good-sized saloon, a livery of sorts, and one community catchall serving as post office, bank, church, and anything else it was needed to be. Each building stood by itself. Hand painted signs over doors bore no fanciness: Carl Turner’s General Store, Wet Your Whistle, Hank’s Livery, Town’s Building. She couldn’t read the many papers nailed to the outside of the latter. Set a few feet away from the row of buildings, a large bell hung from a wooden stand.

  At the edge of town, about ten one- or two-room cabins, each on an acre or so of clearing, lined both sides of the wide road. Some boasted rough-sawn siding while others were constructed of logs, all weathered gray, with either round metal or stone chimneys. Hans had informed her Luke Kincaid’s cabin was one of many nestled throughout the dark, tall-pined forest. Her new home.

  This isolated, desolate community of hardworking loggers appeared a far cry from anything she’d envisioned. Had she made the biggest mistake of her life? She was too tired, hungry, cold, and annoyed to think it all out at the moment.

  Hans squatted, took her chilled hands within his and rubbed them. “Ya can stay another half hour. Then, yur comin’ inside. Ya upset about Rosie? Is that why ya won’t come in?”

  Morgan smiled at his misplaced concern. She’d not been the least bit insulted when he’d chosen the robust, red-haired dance hall girl, Rosie O’Hara, over her. The two had taken one look at each other and that had been that.

  “Not at all. I’m very sure the two of you were made for each other. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.” After knowing him only a few hours, she liked this man—as a friend. She’d felt no attraction to him, as a wife-to-be should. But Rosie O’Hara had. Stars had danced in the woman’s eyes the minute she laid eyes on him. And his eyes had mirrored Rosie’s.

  What will I feel when I see Mr. Luke Kincaid?

  Now, why had she thought there would be any instant attraction? They were strangers, for heaven’s sake. As long as they got along, that would be as good a start as any. She intended to be a good wife. Love, if she was lucky, might come over time. If not, she reminded herself, she’d need to be content with his friendship, a true and everlasting type of partnership.

  Once again, the fleeting thought—disheartening, to say the least—whisked through her mind. Would he find fault with the new arrangement? Well, she’d not think about that possibility right now. It was his fault for being late. She felt a wave of satisfaction at that reminder.

  Though Hans scowled as if still concerned, Morgan wanted none of the gaiety of the matched couples inside. Her anxiety fed her restlessness. Her temper needed the cool air.

  “Ja, ya can stay another half hour. Then ya come in. Ya hear? You’ll need a good stiff drink by then, to warm ya.”

  “Thank you. I promise I’ll come in then.” A stiff drink would probably put her to sleep. She’d never had more than small sips of delicate wine. Were the other women used to spirits? Besides the ten who claimed they’d been “dance hall girls” from various states, there was Sarah, a middle-aged widow, and eight spinsters ranging in age from their early twenties to forty.

  He reached in his coat pocket and withdrew a pair of rawhide gloves. “Put these on. Your hands’ll be so cold by the time ya come in; ya won’t be able to nurse yur own drink.” His blue eyes danced with laughter, his smile warm, friendly, and very welcome.

  She slid the large gloves on and was instantly toastier. “Thank you. They do help.”

  Unfolding from his haunches, he nodded and returned to the others without glancing back. The rickety door squeaked on its hinges as it closed to muffle the boisterous jubilee from within. Pulling the woolen shawl tighter around her, she leaned her head back. And waited.

  ****

  Rolling wheels and heavy plodding of hooves brought a half-asleep Morgan slowly awake. She pried her eyelids open.

  “Whoa.” The deep-timbered voice reached her on the evening breeze. Instantly alert, her eyes widened, her senses soared. She scanned across the wide ruts to focus on the tall man in a thin buckskin jacket and matching pants as he leaped down from his perch. He’d stopped his two-team flatbed in front of the livery across from the saloon.

  Could this be Luke Kincaid? With his broad-brimmed hat and the sky now gloomy gray, she could make out none of his features, other than a short-trimmed beard. He was tall, though, she’d noted when he’d jumped to the ground with ease. Straight, wide shoulders stretched his coat. He carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence as he strode to the back of the buckboard. Tough, lean, and sinewy came to mind. How was she to recognize him?

  The saloon door opened and three couples, talking and laughing, walked out onto the road. He paused in rearranging items on the flatbed to wave, and they steered toward him. As they congregated around the wagon, their laughter ebbed as they greeted him.

  Morgan leaned forward to hear their words. Useless. She watched handshakes and nodding as the men apparently introduced the women. They all laughed before turning away from the newcomer. Each man, an arm around his bride or bride-to-be, headed toward the cabins.

  The man in the street resumed shoving large crates forward in the wagon. She squinted to catch his every move. Surprisingly, her anger dissolved, yet apprehension jumped in. If he was Luke, he seemed amicable enough. But how amicable would he be about the switch? Again the saloon door squawked. Hans took two steps toward her before noticing the wagon.

  “Luke.” Hans’s voice boomed through the crisp air. “Ya son of a gun, where the hell ya been? I need to talk to ya, quick-like.” He lumbered toward the wagon.

  So this was him. Excitement mingled with trepidation. Her courage shrank away as fast as her anger had. Oh, why hadn’t she been able to meet him right off? Before her nerves got the better of her? Dare she join them? Knowing she must look as bedraggled as she felt, she hesitated. Well, she’d made the choice to come here. She’d best make the most of it. And now.

  She pushed herself up, halfway, only to sag back down. Her legs, her backside, even her arms had turned to tingling mush. She grimaced, clenched her teeth, took a deep breath, then pushed again, grunting as she stood on unsteady legs. Glancing down at her large bag, she thought better of trying to wrestle with it. She would, sure as the stars now dusting the sky, land on her nose if she tried to carry the cumbersome thing on such wobbly legs. He’d have to fetch her trunk, anyway. Let the oaf carry both.

  Forsaking the baggage, she removed Hans’s gloves, laid them on her trunk, and gingerly started across the dirt road. Her legs weighed a ton. Lifting her dress to clear her feet, she cautiously watched her footing as she sidestepped the deep ruts. Halfway there, she stubbed her right toe on a raised clump. “Oh!” Morgan flailed her arms and stiffened her left leg to bear her weight, and her foot drove into a mound of dirt as she fought for balance. The mound gave way as if made of fine sand.

  ****

  Luke swung around at her frenzied cry. His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened at the spectacle. He’d not seen anything more comical in a helluva long time—a woman frantically thrashing her arms every which way come Sunday as if batting at a swarm of bees. In a flurry of ruffled petticoats and yards of brown cotton, her legs flew upward till she was bent at the waist, the toes of her high-laced shoes saluting the sky. For a second, she seemed suspended in air, as if sitting on an invisible carpet hovering two foot above the ground. Or more like she’d been propelled through the air by a cannonball’s impact in the gut.

  Either way, he mused, gravity finally won out. With a resounding thud she landed flat on her rump, knees bent wide under the full skirt, a stunned look upon her colorless face. Despite the woman’s disaster, his usual manners—drilled into him by his loving mother—and better sense, Luke let loose a howl. Tears sprang to his eyes as he doubled over in a fit of chortles.
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  “Yur ass is showing, ya moron,” Hans said with a snarl.

  Luke roared all the more, thinking it a wonder the lady’s ass wasn’t showing.

  His expression cold and furious, Hans rushed toward the woman. Hans’s rancor sobered Luke. Well, almost. They’d clowned in mock anger, but they’d never crossed words. He found it difficult to totally suppress his mirth, but he, too, dashed to the middle of the road.

  “Missy,” Hans said, his concerned voice far different from a moment ago. Kneeling at her side, he brushed from her face the strands of hair that had pulled loose from her now-drooping upsweep.

  Hans gripped her shoulders. “Don’t try to move yet. Catch yur wind first.” The woman took a deep breath, shivered, then exhaled long and hard.

  Luke skirted them and retrieved her shawl from where it had flown. He turned, placed it over her shoulders, and stood silent behind her. Without acknowledging him, she wiggled her shoulders to adjust it.

  Hans leaned on his haunches. “Can ya move?”

  Clutching the shawl with both fists, she squirmed from side to side as if testing body parts. “It takes more than one clumsy fall to do harm to these tough bones.”

  Her laughter tinkled through the evening’s chill like soft chimes. Luke had to give her credit for her resilience. “Only my pride’s hurt, Hans. If you’d help me up, I’d appreciate it.”

  Hans assisted her till she found sure ground beneath her feet. Only then did she turn and look straight at Luke.

  “Thank you for rescuing my shawl.” Her voice held a bit of shyness, her dark brown eyes mirrored equal embarrassment. Though the sky had turned ashen, he noted her becoming blush. He’d first thought her quite plain in her drab brown dress and matching shamble of hair. But with cheeks rosy, her eyes gleaming like polished mahogany, Luke felt something stir deep inside. Her mere presence drew him. Warm and welcoming. Unsettling, to say the least.

  Luke nodded. “You’re more than welcome, ma’am.” Her eyes seemed to ask a gamut of questions before she turned to face Hans. Her footing faltered as she tried to balance between hilled clumps and valleys of dirt. Luke reached out instinctively. He caught her by the shoulders before she went down again. He couldn’t hold back his chuckle. Was the woman clumsy, or did she just have difficulty walking on uneven furrows?

  “Let’s get you off the road before you have all three of us wallowing in the dirt like pigs.”

  He guided her to the wagon, one hand clasping hers, the other at the small of her back. Hans followed at her other side. Releasing her hand, he noted how small, how warm it had felt within his. Thin as a sapling, she barely reached his shoulders, yet her hand had clutched his with a vise-like grip as she’d trekked across the road. No wispy willow here, he thought with a smile. Most women would kill for a waist as small as hers.

  Before he could introduce himself, Hans spoke. “Missy, I need to talk to Luke for a bit.”

  She lifted her chin and met Luke’s gaze with unforeseen boldness. Was this the same woman who had appeared so shy, topsy-turvy awkward, and hesitant a minute ago?

  “I know exactly what you have to tell him, Hans. So, please, speak freely...or I can, for that matter.” Her gaze remained fixed. Lord, how dark her eyes were, how they glistened under the abating light. Could it have been a glint of apprehension he’d just caught?

  Puzzled, he glanced at Hans. “Well, tell me. It must be something important.” Another accident? It couldn’t be. He’d just left the logging site. Yet sheer dread gripped his chest.

  Hans obviously read his gut reaction, shook his head. “No one’s hurt. Nothing like that.”

  “Thank God.” He felt a flood of relief. “So? Shoot.”

  Hans squared his shoulders, shoved his hands into his pockets. Luke knew the usually confident man fretted over something. Hands in the pockets always told the story.

  “We...we was matchin’ the list when I spotted the apple of my eye.” Hans glanced at Missy, cleared his throat. “I chose that apple for my wife, Luke. No matter she be paired with someone else. Couldn’t help myself.”

  Luke nodded. He might be foreman, but it didn’t mean he had a say in the love life of the men, or in the matching of pairs, if all agreed. Ah, the problem. “And was that apple equally interested in you?”

  He caught Missy’s broad smile, a smile so infectious he found himself grinning. He knew the answer before Hans replied. But had Hans picked this woman? She didn’t appear his type.

  “Ja. Just about attacked me.” Hans grinned, his chest inflating like a contented rooster’s.

  Well, the almost-attacking woman couldn’t be Missy. She seemed way too reserved for any attack. That left one problem. “That leaves a man to claim the woman you didn’t.”

  “Ja.”

  Since knowing Hans for four months, Luke had never seen him act so uneasy. Hans’s hands flinched in his pockets. Damn, trouble seemed to erupt when women were around a camp.

  It came to him in a flash. Missy remained. Yet, that couldn’t be. She didn’t fit the description of the woman Hans had chosen on paper two months ago. Hell, he lacked too much sleep to play guessing games. “So, spit it out. What happened?”

  Luke watched Missy lean against the wagon. Lean? It looked as if she wanted to burrow into the wood.

  Hans pulled his hands out of his pockets, gestured with them in front of him. “I chose my bride, and Albert claimed Lila.” Lila. Ah, yes, Hans had raved about her. “Tom chose Sarah instead of Roberta, and Peter wanted Roberta.”

  Was anything ever simple? After an exhausting day of catastrophes, and this hopscotch of brides, a headache threatened. “And now, the last two don’t match, is that it?” Hans studied his boots, drove his hands back into his pockets then glanced at Missy. “We don’t know if they’ll match. They’ve... just met.”

  It took a split second for Hans’s words to register, to become crystal clear. No, Hans knew why Luke had picked Rosie. Hans wouldn’t intentionally turn the tables on him. But lust and love would, by damn. It made men commit worse crimes.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You chose Rosie.” His words almost gagged him. He dreaded to hear Han’s confirmation. Hans nodded.

  Acid churned in Luke’s stomach, a sour taste spiraled past his throat to his mouth.

  He’d purposely picked a voluptuous dance hall woman. One who’d have no problem finding another man after he’d finished here. One who most likely would go along with his scheme and the proposition he offered.

  Jesus! He was in a world of shit.

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