Montana Sky: Anson's Mail-Order Bride (Kindle Worlds) (The Jones's of Morgan's Crossing Book 1)

by Kit Morgan

  He dismounted, untied her hands and pulled her off the horse. No sooner had her feet hit the ground than he re-tied her hands in front of her, dragged her to a tree where another length of rope had been tied and lashed it around one of her ankles. “There, that ought to hold you.”

  Zadie glared at him in lieu of a curse.

  Uncle Mort laughed. “Don’t give me that look. You’re in no position to demand anything of me.”

  Her glare turned into an arch look as if to say, really? You just wait! She stood straighter, hiding behind her bravado. It was all she had at the moment. As long as she kept her courage up, she might find a way out of this mess. Of course, she’d have to free herself, steal his horse, then ride like the wind, but she could do it … she hoped.

  “Now, my dear, let’s get down to business,” Uncle Mort said as he started to build a fire. Once he had it going, he turned to her. “You’re going to tell me where that money is hidden if I have to shake it out of you!”

  She sent one skeptical eyebrow up.

  He chuckled low in his throat, went to a tree several yards away and reached behind it. When he turned around, he had a branding iron in his hand. Her eyes widened as he placed the end of it in the fire. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, or wear your husband’s brand on that pretty face of yours forever …”

  Zadie’s bravado slipped. So did Zadie, as she fainted dead away.

  * * *

  Anson followed the trail to the tree line. Since no one took a shot at him, he must not have been spotted yet. Good.

  He entered the trees, dismounted and drew his gun. The tracks were fairly fresh, and he followed them as far as he dared. He could smell smoke. He certainly hoped he wasn’t accidentally tracking some rancher out hunting rabbits. The trail he’d followed across the prairie wasn’t the only one out there, and he’d almost lost it twice. He led King Lear some distance away and tied his reins around a thick branch. If Penworthy doubled back for any reason, he wouldn’t see the horse.

  That done, Anson crept his way through the trees listening for the slightest sound, especially Zadie’s voice. He didn’t see anything yet, but he knew he had to be close. Eventually he’d hear something …

  * * *

  Zadie screamed as best she could through the gag.

  “Now you’ll talk!” Uncle Mort spat as he slowly approached, branding iron in hand. The end wasn’t glowing hot – he didn’t have the patience for that – but it was hot enough to do the trick. He yanked the gag off violently, twisting her head to one side

  “All right!” she begged as loudly as she could. “I’ll tell you!”

  Uncle Mort gave her a triumphant smile. “Ah, I knew you’d come around.”

  She’d actually “come around” about five minutes before, but had kept her eyes closed, thinking as fast as she could, until she felt the heat from the approaching iron. As far round the bend as he’d gone, she’d have to use everything she had to save herself.

  Uncle Mort cackled and danced a little jig in front of her. Egads, he was loonier than she thought. “I need a shovel … where’s my shovel?” He danced to his horse, searching the ground as he went. “Where did I put that thing?”

  Zadie swallowed hard. Was anyone around to hear her if she screamed again? Hard to say – they were too far from town and too far from the ranch. But she had to try, or she was at her uncle’s mercy. The only other thing that could save her at this point was her father’s journals.

  Uncle Mort skipped back to her, a shovel in one hand, branding iron in the other. “Where? Where is it?”

  She took a deep breath and pitched her voice to carry. “I … don’t know exactly where, but …”

  “What?” he said, his facing turning an alarming shade of red. He tossed the shovel to the side as he stomped close to where she lay on the ground, then grabbed her bound wrists and yanked her to her feet. “You’ll tell me and tell me now!” He raised the branding iron before her face.

  For a second she wondered what would happen if she stomped on his foot, then thought better of it. “It’s in one of Father’s journals – I’m just not sure which one,” she lied. Then again, maybe she wasn’t lying.

  “Journals?” Uncle Mort repeated. His eyes suddenly widened. “Yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of that? John was always scribbling. Where else would he hide the information?”

  “Exactly.” She was still talking as loudly as she dared. If anyone was around, she’d be heard.

  “And, dear Zadie, where are these journals?”

  She hoped he didn’t lose his mind further when she told him. “In one of my trunks. Back at the ranch.”

  He scowled. “Not so fast – you’re trying to lure me back there! I’m not stupid, you know!”

  That was debatable. But then, she really was trying to get him to go back. She gave him her best put-upon look. “Uncle Mort … where else could I keep them? I have nothing left in Boston, or in Denver – all I own is in those trunks.”

  Fortunately, he seemed to buy the logic of that. “You’ll stay right here. I’ll get the journal.” He let her go, and she fell back to her knees. “Which journal is it in?”

  “I told you already, I don’t know which one. But if you leaf through them, you’ll find it.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “You’d better be telling me the truth, Zadie Barrett, or you’ll be wearing this brand on both cheeks!”

  Zadie didn’t have to fake a cringe – it came naturally. Bad enough she’d fainted earlier. But she didn’t want to let him know she had too much of a backbone. Thanks to that blasted rattlesnake from a couple of weeks ago, she’d resolved to toughen herself up as fast as she could. Anson had shared with her the story of his Aunt Constance and how she saved his Uncle Ryder. The woman was an inspiration and Zadie endeavored to have the same sort of courage.

  She’d gained enough not to be cowering in fear, but not enough to get her out of her predicament as yet. And her best bet for getting out lay in looking like she was cowering in fear.

  Uncle Mort cursed under his breath and gagged her again. He then made her sit against the tree and lashed her to it. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “And if I don’t find what I’m looking for, you won’t be going anywhere ever again.”

  She couldn’t help it – her eyes widened at the threat.

  She watched him mount his horse and give her the most evil look she had ever seen. “Just so you know I mean business, I’m going to shoot that husband of yours too.” He turned and rode off through the trees.

  Zadie struggled against her bonds and screamed through the gag, but to no avail. Now what was she going to do? She had no way of warning Anson, no way of freeing herself. Courage wasn’t going to cut the ropes. She struggled against them, her face straining with the effort. It was no use. She was still at her uncle’s mercy. If only she could …

  Bang!

  Zadie froze. A gunshot?

  Bang!

  Good heavens, what was happening? She renewed her struggles. Was Uncle Mort shooting at someone? Oh merciful heavens – what if it was Anson? No, no, no! She was too young to be a widow! Tears rolled down her cheeks with her efforts, but it was still no good. She was tied to that tree as sure as if he’d chained her to it.

  She stopped for breath … and noticed everything had gone silent. What was happening out there? The shot sounded as if it had come from where the trees met the prairie. If Uncle Mort had shot Anson, he’d come parading back to gloat no doubt, knowing he had her then. Her only option at that point would be to get him to kill her, just to spite him, so he’d never get his money.

  Only she had told him the most likely place the map was hidden already. Drat!

  A twig snapped! Then another. Someone was making their way through the trees toward her. Someone who didn’t care how much noise they made. “No,” she sobbed into the gag. But she didn’t have time for grief. The minute Uncle Mort freed her, she’d have to do something, fast. But what? Att
ack, she guessed, and brand and gun be hanged. Fight like a banshee and hope for a lucky break …

  “Zadie?!”

  The voice … it wasn’t Uncle Mort! It was …!

  “Zadie, sweetheart! Good Lord, what has he done to you?” Anson was suddenly on his knees before her, a hand on either side of her tear-streaked face. His eyes met hers, and he seethed. “He’s going to pay for this,” he said as he reached around and untied the gag. “Did he hurt you? Are you all right?”

  She nodded, too dumbstruck to speak. Anson was alive! But … “What happened to Uncle Mort?” she rasped.

  “I shot him,” he said as he took a knife from a sheath on his belt and cut her bonds.

  “What? Shot him?”

  “He’s still alive, though if we want to keep him that way we’ll have to get him to Morgan’s Crossing quickly. I got him in the shoulder and tied him to a tree.” He pulled her to her feet and held her. “Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?”

  She buried her face in his chest. “No, only threatened.” She looked up at him. “I heard two shots.”

  “The first was his. He must have seen me through the trees and thought he could pick me off. Thankfully your uncle’s a horrible shot.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” she whimpered. “Uncle Mort was never very good at anything.”

  “Except embezzlement,” he said sourly.

  Her head came up. “How do you know that?”

  He sighed heavily. “Where do I begin?”

  “I’d say at the beginning, but if Uncle Mort is wounded like you say, then there’s no time to tell me now.”

  “True.” He hugged her, then let his hands slip up her arms to her shoulders, and kissed her.

  That was enough for her. Anson said in that kiss everything she’d wanted to hear. It was powerful, demanding and drew from her like a man dying of thirst draws from a well. By the time he broke it, she was breathless. “There’s more where that came from, sweetheart, but first things first.”

  She nodded, speechless, and let him lead her to his horse. She hadn’t even seen the animal until now, but what else could have made so much noise earlier? Never assume, she thought to herself. Her mind had Anson the victim and Uncle Mort the victor, not the other way around.

  Once they were both on King Lear, she leaned against her husband in relief. “Thank you.”

  He put an arm around her in answer, turned the horse and set off through the woods. Only then did he put his mouth to her ear. “I love you.”

  Zadie’s body warmed as her limbs went weak. “I love you, too.”

  Soon they reached where Anson had lashed Uncle Mort to a tree. Anson untied him, got him on the man’s horse, tied his hands to the saddle horn just as Uncle Mort had done to her, and made a makeshift halter with the rest of the rope to lead the man’s horse. Anson then climbed back on King Lear and leaned close to kiss his wife.

  Uncle Mort began spewing out threats and curses at the both of them. Or did until Anson sighed and drew his gun. “The next word you say will be your last,” he said, drawing a bead on her uncle’s forehead. “You interrupted a moment I was having with my wife, sir, and that’s not something I take lightly. If you make another noise I don’t like, then by all that is holy I promise I will stick the barrel of this revolver in that big mouth of yours and pull the trigger until it goes click. Is that understood?”

  Uncle Mort, recognizing his position, nodded and stayed silent.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Anson made a chucking sound which got King Lear moving and wrapped the rope to her uncle’s horse around the saddle horn so he wouldn’t have to hold it. After making sure it was secure, he secured Zadie by wrapping both arms around her. “Now, where were we?” he whispered into her ear. “Oh yes, I remember. I love you, Zadie Jones.”

  Epilogue

  Five months later …

  “I love what you’ve done with the place!” exclaimed Mrs. Tisdale. “It’s lovely, Zadie, just lovely!”

  Zadie looked at her guests with pride. It was the first time she’d allowed visitors to the ranch since their new home had been completed. It wasn’t as big as the Morgans’, but was the same Queen Anne style, complete with the wraparound porch she’d wanted. Several ladies were in attendance besides the ones who’d attended the tea Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Tisdale hosted for her when she first arrived.

  She smiled at them as she thought about all that had happened since then. Her husband, it turned out, had worked for the very company her uncle had embezzled from, and as the company’s appointed agent he had been looking for her uncle ever since. Even once he’d decided to settle in his home town of Clear Creek and get himself a wife.

  “What an astounding turn of events,” Prudence Morgan commented. “To think you came to Morgan’s Crossing as a mail-order bride and had no idea what your husband was involved with. It is indeed a small world, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no,” Zadie said as Anson came into the parlor.

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Mrs. Tuccio.

  “If it wasn’t for Monsieur Pickles, I would never have come.”

  “Monsieur Pickles? What a peculiar name,” Mrs. Rivera commented. Several other women knew the story, and chuckled behind their hands.

  Zadie just smiled. That nasty little dog had turned out to be their savior. If it hadn’t been for him, they wouldn’t be husband and wife nor madly in love with each other.

  “Well, thank Heaven for Monsieur Pickles!” said Mrs. Garr as she raised her teacup in a toast. Bertha the cook and Freddy Chance’s wife Minnie did the same. Soon the others followed suit and toasted that wonderful little fluff of white fur.

  “My husband shall have to tell some of his men about your Mrs. Pettigrew,” Mrs. Morgan said. “In case they ever want to send for a mail-order bride.”

  “I’ve informed people in Clear Creek to spread the word about her establishment,” Anson said. “I highly recommend the woman.”

  “And her … assistant?” Zadie asked with a sly smile.

  He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Especially her assistant.”

  “Zadie,” Mrs. Tisdale said. “What’s that on your wall?”

  Zadie glanced at the frame hanging over the fireplace mantle. “Oh, that …” she said and pressed her lips together again. “That’s a reminder to Anson and myself never to assume.”

  “Assume?” Mrs. Rivera said.

  Anson crossed the room and plucked the frame off the wall. “Yes, Zadie and I both used to have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions. It’s a reminder not to let that happen.”

  “Or what?” asked Bertha.

  Anson gave Zadie a bemused smile. “Or my supper will be served to me as ash.”

  “What?” Mrs. Morgan said perplexed.

  Anson handed her the frame. It was the letter Zadie had written to Mrs. Pettigrew the day Uncle Mort had shown up. Anson, thinking Zadie had planned to mail it, almost gave it to El Davis when he saw him in town a few days later. Thankfully she’d caught him first. After she let him read it, they laughed about it for weeks – and sometimes still did.

  The ladies passed it amongst themselves and soon the parlor was full of giggles.

  “We’ve all had our rough starts, haven’t we, ladies?” Mrs. Morgan asked.

  “Yes, but we’ve weathered through,” added Mrs. Tisdale. She smiled at Anson and Zadie. “You two are no exception. I know I speak for all of us when I say we’re glad you decided to settle here. Our little community just keeps growing!”

  “And growing some more…” Zadie added with a wink and a blush.

  Anson couldn’t see it from where he stood, but the women could and several of them openly gawked.

  “Really?” Mrs. Garr said with a smile.

  “Really what?” Anson said as he noted their beaming faces. He turned his wife toward him to see her face. “What? What is it … why are you …” He glanced around the circle of smiling women seated in his parlor. “G
reat Scott, Zadie, are you saying …”

  “Maybe we should write Monsieur Pickles again – he can suggest a name for your son or daughter.”

  Anson’s mouth dropped open in shock.

  “Why, Mrs. Jones,” Mrs. Garr drawled. “You don’t think your husband is assuming anything, do you?”

  “No, but he’d better sit down before he falls down,” Bertha said with a grin.

  Anson didn’t wait for one of them to get him a chair. He plopped down between Mrs. Tisdale and Mrs. Morgan on the settee. “I’m going to be a father …”

  “Congratulations,” Mrs. Tisdale said happily. She leaned toward Zadie and looked at her belly. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of your papa until you come along.”

  Zadie put a hand over the spot Mrs. Tisdale spoke to. “And when you do, everyone here will make you feel as welcome as they did me.”

  “That we will,” Mrs. Tisdale said and raised her teacup to her. “After all, that’s what we do.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Kit Morgan, aka Geralyn Beauchamp, loves a good Western. Her father loved them as well and they watched their fair share together over the years. To sign up for Kit’s newsletter and find out about upcoming books and other fun stuff, visit www.authorkitmorgan.com. To check out Kit’s complete collection of stories and to find out more about Anson’s hometown of Clear Creek (Kit’s Prairie Brides and Prairie Grooms Series) click here. Also be watching for more tales of Mrs. Pettigrew’s Bridal Agency in Kit’s new series Mail-Order Bride Ink coming spring of 2016.