by Cat Cahill
A Bride for Andrew
The Proxy Brides, Book 47
by Cat Cahill
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at:
http://www.catcahill.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Cat Cahill
Cover design by Black Widow Books
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue
Books by Cat Cahill
About the Author
Chapter One
Plainfield, Illinois - February 1877
Ivy Grant had hardly begun mourning the loss of her oldest sister when the letter arrived. It came from Chicago and was addressed to her. She knew the moment she laid eyes on it that it contained the news her family had been dreading.
But she didn’t know why it was addressed to her.
Wind whipped across the icy plains that surrounded the little town, and Ivy drew her coat tighter around her as she walked through the snow toward home. She’d tucked the letter inside her coat, but a little part of her wished the wind would carry it away, back to Chicago, back to the horrible man who’d sent it.
She waited to open it until that evening, after her five younger siblings and her niece and nephew were tucked into bed. Mama and Papa sat comfortably in the worn chairs before the fire, and her older brother, Luke, leaned against the stone of the fireplace, his face set into a grimace the moment Ivy announced what she’d received.
“You ought to toss it into the fire without opening it,” Luke said. “Nothing good can come from that man.”
Part of Ivy wanted to do just that. Her fingers trembled as she opened the letter, so much that she had to take a moment to still them. Her sister had found love with the most unlikely man. Noble Rawlings had been traveling through Plainfield on business when he’d met Lucy. They married, despite his wealthy family’s disapproval, and had lived happily with their two children until they’d both passed from a fever a month earlier.
None of the St. Clair family had attended the funeral services in the nearby town where Noble and Lucy had lived. They were far too important to come to such a small town. But now here was a letter from Noble’s brother—a man Ivy had the misfortune of meeting once last summer when she’d stayed with her sister and brother-in-law for a month. Edward St. Clair had arrived, demanding his brother’s signature on some sort of family document. The cold manner in which he’d interacted with his own brother, the dismissive attitude he’d held toward Lucy and the children, and the way he’d watched Ivy as if she were some delectable dessert had left her with the greatest aversion to the man. And that was before Lucy had told her anything about him.
“Perhaps he only wishes to help provide for the children,” Mama said with a hopeful smile.
Luke shook his head but said nothing, while Papa pressed his lips together. “Open it, child,” he said to Ivy.
Ivy tried again, her fingers steadier this time. She didn’t want to think about why this letter was addressed to her, and not to her parents or to her elder brother. She retrieved the missive from the envelope, and as the fire crackled, she read the words out loud.
“My Dearest Miss Grant—” Ivy repressed a shudder at the phrasing.
“I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to inform you that I will be arriving in Plainfield this coming summer to escort you and Noble’s children to Chicago, where we will be—” The words tangled in Ivy’s throat.
“What is it?” Luke asked.
Ivy shook her head, her eyes scanning the remainder of the short letter.
. . . where we will be married. It is imperative the children are raised with my family. Given that my parents are advanced in age and my brothers have their own families, the duty falls upon me to raise them as my own. For that I need a wife, and as I found you quite pleasant last year, I proposed this solution to my father. He agreed it was for the best, despite your family’s poverty and lack of standing, as children ought to know both parents’ families. I will come for you and the children in the summer and ask that you be prepared to leave immediately.
Yours,
Edward St. Clair
Luke appeared beside her and Ivy mutely handed the letter to him. She stared at the wooden floor, the hem of her skirts just barely cresting it, and willed the words she’d read to make sense in her head. Surely she hadn’t read it correctly. What Mr. St. Clair had said was impossible. It was some sort of cruel joke.
It had to be.
“Absolutely not,” Luke said, crushing the paper in his fist after reading it. “This St. Clair wants to waltz down here and marry Ivy, and take both her and the children to Chicago.”
Mama gasped, and Papa made a sort of growling sound.
“Are you certain that’s what he said?” Papa asked.
Ivy could feel them waiting for her to acknowledge the truth of Luke’s words. She raised her eyes and nodded.
“It makes no sense,” Mama said. “Noble’s family nearly disowned him when he married Lucy. Whyever would they agree to this? He’s not even met Ivy.”
Ivy swallowed hard. “He has.”
Three pairs of confused eyes, all the same shade of hazel as Ivy’s, looked back at her.
She laced her hands together, willing her mind to focus on one thing at a time. To not completely fall apart at what Mr. St. Clair had proposed—no, demanded—in that letter. “Last summer, when I visited with Lucy, he arrived unannounced one afternoon with a document that required Noble’s signature. He . . .” Images of the way he’d looked her up and down, his eyes hardly leaving her the entire hour or so he was at Lucy’s house, flooded her mind. She’d told herself it didn’t matter. After all, she thought she’d never see him again.
“He what?” Luke seemed to simmer with barely contained rage, while her father sat forward in his chair, frowning hard.
“He seemed taken with me, that’s all,” she said, although speaking the words aloud made her stomach turn.
Luke stared at the crumpled letter in his hand before flinging it into the fireplace. “He’s using Lucy’s children as a means to an end.”
Papa nodded in agreement. “The St. Clairs would never agree to such a marriage, unless it meant their grandchildren were raised under the roof of one of their own.”
“We won’t let it happen,” Mama said.
Ivy looked into those familiar eyes and gave her mother a brave smile. Mama had always made everything better, from torn clothing to skinned knees to grave disappointments. Even when Ivy’s dearest friend Maggie had left to join a husband she’d never met before out West, Mama had been there with just the right words and a steady hand for Ivy to cling to.
But now, Ivy feared, nothing could fix this problem.
As she glanced at her parents and her brother, she knew that wouldn’t stop them from trying, though. The Grants didn’t have much in the way of money or fine things, but they had more determination and more love than Edward St. Clair could ever imagine. But what if that wasn’t enough? Even if Ivy refused Mr. St. Clair, he’d likely still take the children—and he might find a way to take her too. His family had money, power, and who knew what else on their side.
They needed to hide somewhere he could never find them. Ivy straightened her back and squeezed Mama’s hand as an idea bloomed in her mind.
She would take care of this impossible situation herself.
Chapter Two
Near Crest Stone, Colorado
Andrew Chisholm clutched the top of the simple wooden chair and stared at the envelope on the table as if it might explode or grow teeth and chew off his fingers.
He had no right to place that advertisement. He had even less right to open the envelope that came in response.
Andrew ran a hand through his hair and glanced about the small kitchen. It wasn’t much, but he’d built it himself, along with three other rooms, not even two years ago. He’d been so full of hope then, with a new wife and a new homestead to prove up. His life was planned out, and he couldn’t have been happier—until it all fell apart.
In a moment of weakness just after a bleak and lonesome Christmas, he’d found himself inside the newly constructed post office building in the little town of Crest Stone, a hastily written advertisement and payment stuffed into an envelope. He’d nearly turned and strode out the door, but something pushed him forward and made him hand the envelope to the clerk.
He’d thought about it from time to time in the weeks following, and just as he’d convinced himself no woman would agree to the terms he’d put forth in that advertisement, this letter arrived, clear from Illinois. The handwriting on the outside was light and feminine, with loops and swirls he could never replicate.
He ought to throw it into the fire, forget that it ever came, and go check on the livestock. It had begun snowing again, and flurries drifted past the window, reminding him of the chores he needed to complete before sundown. But instead, he found himself taking a seat and lifting a knife to tear open the envelope.
A single sheet of ivory paper sat inside. Andrew drew in a breath before pulling it out. It would be wise to temper his expectations. After all, what sort of woman would agree to marry a man she’d never met? Yet, his heart beat faster as he unfolded the paper and pressed it against the table.
Dear Mr. Chisholm,
I am writing in response to the advertisement you placed in the matrimonial paper. My name is Ivy Grant. I am twenty years of age, and while I am rather plain, I am kind, cheerful, hard-working, and possess an easy disposition. I have capability at all sorts of household work and am happy to assist in any chores that might come with your homestead.
Miss Grant went on to describe her particular talents at cooking (which made Andrew’s mouth water) and needlepoint (which made him imagine his simple home all fancied up with pillows and framed samplers), and how much she enjoyed meeting new people, attending church services, and learning new things. He’d begun to believe she was too good to be true. Why would such a woman agree to a marriage by proxy? Then he reached her last paragraph:
I suppose you wonder why I would agree to marry you sight unseen. I have my deceased sister’s children in my care—a boy, eight years of age, and a girl, who is six years old. I know it is a lot to ask of a man to take in two children who are not his own, but I hope you will find it in your heart to do just that. They are sweet and well-behaved, and having several younger siblings of my own, I’m well-practiced in child-rearing. Due to family circumstances, we must be on our way before summer. Please reply and let me know if this is amenable to you.
Andrew sat back and rubbed his chin. His late wife, Mary, had always wanted children. Three boys and three girls, she’d laughingly said, and he’d laugh too, because at that time, he didn’t know what it meant to live with a raw, aching pain inside him each and every day.
And that was precisely why he should act as though this letter had never arrived. How could he marry another woman when he still mourned Mary? How could he trust himself to keep her safe? Not to mention how people in town would talk.
He folded the paper and stuffed it back into its envelope. He had chores to do.
But as he fed the mules and the cow and ensured their water hadn’t frozen, his mind drifted to those days when Mary had supper waiting when he finished work. How she helped with the chickens and with harvesting the small amount of crops they’d planted that first year. How she kept their little home warm and welcoming. But more than anything, he missed the conversation.
He missed not being alone.
And as he penned a return letter to Miss Grant by lamplight, he told himself it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement. She and her charges needed a home and a husband, and he needed someone to help on the homestead. The children in her care were nearing an age in which they could be useful, too. Besides, he knew what it was like to lose parents at a young age, as these children had.
As he climbed into bed that evening to the silence of a snowy night, he reminded himself that this wouldn’t be a betrayal of Mary’s memory. After all, he couldn’t love any other woman when he still loved Mary.
As he carried the letter into town the next day over the snow, he told himself that enough time had passed since Mary’s death that no one would think twice about him taking another wife.
And when he handed the letter and payment for the post to the clerk, he resolved to take pains to ensure Miss Grant wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Mary. After all, he no longer went hunting and the shotgun sat dusty on the wall, there only for purposes of protection.
And then he returned home to drown his doubts in work.
Chapter Three
After ensuring Oliver had the empty food basket and little Sarah had her favorite rag doll, Ivy led the way off the train car at the Crest Stone depot.
The children had been the perfect distraction the entire trip. They’d peppered her with questions and insisted she tell them fanciful stories of knights and princesses and dragons. Ivy was exhausted, but grateful that she hadn’t been given a moment to think about Lucy, Mr. Chisholm, how strange it felt to have his ring on her finger, or how Mr. St. Clair would react once he discovered she and the children had left Plainfield. She’d told no one outside her family and the judge—the one two towns away who had conducted her proxy marriage—where she was going.
As they stood now on the platform, with snowcapped mountains towering to the west and more chill in the air than when they’d left Illinois, she drew a deep breath. They would be safe here in this valley. Mr. St. Clair would never know where they were.
“How do we find him?” little Sarah asked, clutching the doll to her chest. Ivy had done up her hair that morning in two neat braids, and the little girl was the picture of sweetness, even after days on a train.
“Well, there aren’t too many children leaving this train, so I suppose he’ll be the one who finds us.” Ivy clutched the children’s hands as people swarmed about them. The platform was small, crowding together the relatively few folks debarking the train, and the last thing Ivy wanted to do was lose either of the children in the cha
os.
She managed to locate a porter to retrieve their trunk, and after parting with a few precious coins, she stood waiting with the children. Oliver and Sarah took turns guessing which of the men milling about the platform might be Mr. Chisholm, as a knot began to form in Ivy’s stomach. She was here, finally, and about to meet her husband.
Husband. It hadn’t felt real until now. Not even the quick ceremony Judge North had performed with his eldest son standing in for Mr. Chisholm. More than once, Ivy had wondered why Mr. Chisholm wanted a proxy marriage, but she’d reassured herself with the same reasoning she’d used with Maggie. Maggie, too, had married a man from this same mountain valley by proxy. When Maggie had shared concerns that the man was surely too old or too ugly and that was why he’d insisted on marriage before even meeting, Ivy had told her it was more likely that he didn’t want to waste his time or train fare on a woman who wasn’t serious about their union.
Of course, Maggie had wound up marrying an outlaw.
It all turned out just fine, Ivy chided herself. But now she had a new worry to mull over as they stood near the depot building. She tried to drown it with thoughts of visiting Maggie now that they were somewhat near each other again. Her friend was expecting a baby soon. But the worry grew and sprouted into ten new worries before a tall man in working clothes with a neatly trimmed beard and a battered hat moved her way.
Was this him? Ivy pushed her shoulders back and put a smile on her face before checking that the children were presentable. Oliver stood up from where he’d been sitting on the trunk, tall for his age with the same dark hair Ivy and his mother shared. Sarah held on to her doll for dear life, her braids resting against her shoulders. Pleased that they made a good impression, Ivy shifted her gaze back to the man.
He stopped in front of them, nearly a foot taller than Ivy herself. His chiseled features and dark blue eyes made her breath seem hard to come by, and when he removed his hat, the sunlight traced strands of gold against the brown. This was not a man who should have had a difficult time finding a wife, was all Ivy could think.