Bride by Arrangement

by Karen Kirst

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry about the cost of the ticket, either. It’ll be taken care of.”

  Grace grasped for the right words. “Have you ever considered your friends may be right?”

  His hand slapped to his side. “I don’t take your meaning, ma’am.”

  “Perhaps they see a need in your life you haven’t yet acknowledged. Why else would they do something so outrageous as to arrange a marriage for you without your consent?”

  She could practically hear his teeth grinding together. “Are you suggesting I don’t know my own mind?”

  Grace was accustomed to men’s displeasure. She’d endured Ambrose’s for five years. Ambrose was gone, however. If she had only herself to think about, she’d accept this mistake and walk away. But her daughters’ future was at stake. Her brother-in-law, Frank, would do anything to make her his, including threatening to separate her from Jane and Abigail if she didn’t comply with his wishes. She had to pursue her daughters’ best interests, no matter if she had to get on her knees and beg this man to take her as his bride.

  “I’m suggesting you give marriage to me some thought before you send me packing. I’m a proficient housekeeper.” She indicated the cabin’s clean but sparse interior. “I can sew. Cook. Surely you don’t have time to prepare adequate meals with all your other responsibilities.”

  His expression frustratingly inscrutable, he raked her with his cool blue gaze. His clear dismissal threatened to deflate her already shaky self-confidence.

  Humiliation licking her insides, she lifted her chin. “I may appear incompetent, but I assure you, Mr. Burgess, I know how to make myself useful.”

  He studied her a moment longer. “Go back to your pampered life in the city, Miss Miller. I don’t know what sort of glamorous accounts you’ve read about life out here, but they ain’t reality. One week on this homestead, and you’d be begging me to send you back.”

  Surely it was her appearance he was judging, not her, the woman. He didn’t know her. Couldn’t see her soul, her heart. “You’re wrong. I can prove you’re wrong.”

  A long-suffering sigh pulsed between his lips. “Let me be plain. It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re prairie material or not. I don’t want a wife. I don’t want you or any other woman.” He jerked a thumb to the open doorway. “I’ve just come off a three-day search for a gang of outlaws. I’m tired and hungry, and I need to see to my horse. So if you’ll excuse—”

  Behind her, the bedroom door creaked open. “Momma?”

  Grace froze. Exhausted from the interminable train ride, the girls had been drooping by the time they’d reached the homestead. She’d put them in the only bed in the house.

  The intractable sheriff’s focus shot past her, his eyes going wide. He blinked several times.

  “You have a kid?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have two.”

  Chapter Two

  Kids? She had kids? “I thought it was Miss Miller.”

  “You assumed.”

  The ardor with which she’d spoken moments ago cooled, and Noah witnessed a mother’s protective instincts surface. She beckoned to the little girls hovering in the doorway, a loving smile urging them not to be frightened. They had obviously been sleeping in his bed. Through the opening, he could see that the plain wool blanket atop his straw-stuffed mattress was creased.

  Children were a rarity in these parts. As were females, which was precisely why Daniel, Will and the other businessmen had conspired to locate willing mail-order brides. The railroad terminus had boosted their itinerant population, but they needed families to grow this town.

  Huddling close to their mother’s side, they watched him wordlessly. Their dark brown hair and delicate features resembled hers. White aprons overlay their dresses, both solid navy blue, and frilly pantaloons were visible from the knee down. Sturdy round-toed shoes completed the outfits.

  “Girls, this is the gentleman I told you about. Mr. Burgess owns this homestead. He’s also the sheriff of Cowboy Creek.” She ran a hand over the nearest one’s rumpled sausage curls. “This is Abigail.”

  Big chocolate-brown eyes regarded him solemnly.

  Constance reached over and touched the second one’s shoulder. “And this is Jane.”

  Jane’s bright blue eyes danced with curiosity. Her skin was a shade lighter than her sister’s, and freckles were sprinkled liberally across her nose and cheeks.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Jane offered.

  Abigail kept silent. Circling her mother’s waist with her tiny arms, she hid her face in the voluminous skirts.

  “How old are they?”

  “They recently celebrated their sixth birthday.”

  Twins. Not identical, but there could be no mistaking they were kin.

  Noah’s gaze skimmed Constance’s petite but curvaceous frame. Back home in Virginia, a neighbor woman had died giving birth to twins. The babies had perished, as well. He’d overheard his ma saying how dangerous the business of birthing one child could be, much less two. And that woman had been several inches taller and larger boned than the one standing before him.

  “Where’s their father?”

  “Passed on a year ago.”

  There wasn’t a flicker of grief in Constance Miller’s steady gaze. The girls didn’t react, either, which told him they were either too young to grasp the permanency of death or they hadn’t shared a close relationship with the man.

  His interest grew. Why was she dead set on hitching herself to a complete stranger? Had he misjudged her financial status? For all he knew, the clothes and jewelry were all that was left of her late husband’s wealth. She could be destitute. With small children depending on her, of course she’d be willing to marry anyone who struck her as decent.

  Had she somehow discovered Noah’s worth? The Union Pacific had paid him a small fortune for his original homestead because of its proximity to town and the terminus. He’d used a portion of that money to purchase this new tract of land farther outside town. The rest of it he’d placed in the bank for a rainy day.

  The trio stood watching him, waiting for him to speak. His ire stirred anew. His friends had put him in an untenable position.

  Snagging his hat, he settled it on his head. “I’m going to take care of my horse, then ready the wagon. You have about an hour before we leave for the hotel.”

  Ignoring the widow’s quiet gasp, he pivoted and strode for the exit, not stopping when he heard her order the girls to remain inside. His boot heels thudded across the porch, grew muted when he reached the short grass. The early-summer heat closed around him. Looping Samson’s reins around his palm, he scowled. She sure was desperate. Had to be if she was willing to overlook his disfigurement.

  The day his gun exploded in his face, Noah’s life had altered course. In those first days and weeks, he hadn’t known whether or not he’d survive. The risk of infection had been great. As time passed and he began to heal, slowly and painfully, he’d had trouble coming to terms with his new appearance. It had taken even longer to accept that love and marriage were out of his reach. Who could love a freak like him?

  These days, he steered clear of mirrors. He couldn’t stomach the sight of the twisted, nightmarish flesh. How could he expect any woman to regard it day in and day out? He couldn’t even grow a beard to hide the damage to his face.

  The door clicked shut, and his hold on his temper slipped.

  “Listen, lady, I’m sure you’re accustomed to men doing your bidding, but this ain’t Chicago. I—”

  All of a sudden, she launched herself at him. “Wild animal,” she exclaimed, seeking shelter behind him, her grip on his arms viselike.

  Samson shifted uneasily. Noah dropped the reins and, bracing himself, searched for the source of her fear. When he spotted the ra
ngy black wolf loping across the yard, golden eyes zeroed in on him, Noah’s muscles relaxed.

  “That’s not a wild animal. That’s Wolf. My pet.”

  Her grip loosened a hair, but she remained pressed against his back, using him as a shield against perceived danger. She peered around him. “That’s no pet. That’s a beast!”

  To a city gal like Constance Miller, the Kansas prairie must seem like a wildly beautiful yet untamed land. Made sense she’d be alarmed at the thought of a wolf as one’s pet.

  Her vanilla scent enveloped him. Noah hadn’t been this close to a female since before his enlistment. His ma had been liberal with hugs, much to his discomfiture, and his three younger sisters had begged him constantly for piggyback rides about the farm. As they were family, they didn’t count.

  Maneuvering around to face her, he gripped her shoulders and edged her back a step so he could concentrate. The top of her head came even with his throat. She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, putting her loveliness on full display. Her eyes weren’t an ordinary brown, he noted, but the hue of warm honey. Undeniable intelligence shone there. And indomitable spirit.

  “Wolf won’t hurt you. He’s half wolf, half dog. I’ve raised him from a pup.”

  Her attention shifted beyond him. “He looks...”

  “Intimidating. I know.”

  “I was going to say hungry for human flesh.”

  “I was just appointed sheriff,” he informed her. “How would it look if I allowed a visitor to our fine town to be eaten on her first day?”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Take my hand. I’ll perform the introductions.”

  She stared at his outstretched hand for long moments before laying her palm against his. Noah sobered. Her skin was incredibly soft and warm, the sensation too agreeable for his peace of mind. He focused on how her jewelry felt unnatural and prevented their hands from fitting together.

  Turning to greet his faithful companion, he signaled for him to stop with his outstretched hand. Wolf obeyed at once. Resting on his haunches, pink tongue lolling, he awaited their approach.

  “He’ll sense my fear and devour me,” Constance muttered under her breath.

  Noah fought a rare grin, astounded she could evoke humor in him when little else had these past years.

  “Wolf, meet Constance.” Moving their adjoined hands, he allowed the animal to sniff her. He could feel her stiffness, the jolt that shot through her the moment Wolf licked her fingers.

  “That’s his seal of approval,” he murmured, studying her profile. “Ready to pet him?”

  “Not yet.”

  That implied she was staying, and she most certainly wasn’t.

  Disengaging his hold, he pointed to the cabin. “You should wait inside while I get ready for our departure.”

  “Mr. Burgess, please... Won’t you give us a chance?”

  The entreaty in her expression was at odds with her dignified stance. Noah averted his face. Regret and frustration pulsed through him. “You don’t want to build a life with the likes of me. Trust me on this.”

  Signaling for Wolf to follow, he fetched Samson and headed for the barn situated directly across from the cabin, a wide expanse of land between them. He didn’t look to see whether or not she’d heeded his command.

  * * *

  What was she supposed to do now?

  Grace remained where she stood as the sheriff and his pet disappeared into the mammoth barn. Her corset dug into her ribs. The numerous layers of undergarments and skirts were heavier and more cumbersome here on the plains. Was it because, amidst the city’s brick and stone buildings, her view limited to whatever street she happened to be traveling down, she didn’t have the crazy urge to throw out her arms and twirl in a circle and race through fields of tall grasses and wildflowers?

  Cupping her hand over her eyes, she surveyed the endless prairie. The air here was fresh and earthy. After the hustle and bustle of the city, the quiet was somewhat unnerving. Her ears were accustomed to the clack of horses’ hooves on cobbled streets, the shouts of vendors hawking their wares, the cadence of a dozen conversations. They weren’t accustomed to nature’s music...the breeze rustling through the grass stalks, birds’ cheerful twittering, cattle calling to each other, insects buzzing.

  Noah Burgess had carved out a mighty nice life for himself.

  His rustic cabin, while not comparable to the Longstreet mansion, had its own charms. The barn and outbuildings appeared well constructed. In fact, the entire homestead looked as if it had been planned in a thoughtful, orderly manner.

  Her daughters would flourish here. Grow strong beneath the Kansas sun. Learn to appreciate people based on their character, not their social standing or worldly possessions. Most important, they’d be out of her brother-in-law’s reach. A sick feeling stole over Grace as Frank Longstreet’s coldly handsome features swam in her memory. Frank coveted what had belonged to his brother, and now that Ambrose was gone, there was nothing standing in his way. He was determined to step into her late husband’s shoes. Her feelings didn’t matter. She and the girls were like some sort of trophy to him.

  A large grasshopper landed on her outer skirt. Having only seen one on the pages of a book, she studied its fat green body for long minutes before urging it to land elsewhere. Scooping up the bulk of the stiff fabric with both hands, she pivoted and went inside, the opening not nearly wide enough for her dress. If she did succeed in becoming this homesteader’s wife, she’d need a more practical wardrobe.

  Why did her cousin’s intended groom have to be the most stubborn man this side of the Mississippi River? Why couldn’t she have been met by a man eager to end his solitude? If Frank ever managed to discover her whereabouts, a husband would help put an end to his relentless pursuit.

  Mr. Burgess’s refusal to even consider marriage complicated things.

  Jane sat playing with her doll at the only table in the room. Like the chairs and kitchen furniture, it was constructed of rough timber. Had he crafted everything himself? The cabin walls were made of shaved logs, the spaces between filled with a mixture of clay and other materials. A loft area ran along the right side. She couldn’t see what was up there because of the half wall running its length. The ceiling rafters soared high above her head, giving the living space an airy feeling. Or perhaps that was due to the limited amount of furnishings. There were only four chairs in the home, each seated around the table. The windows on either side of the massive stone fireplace didn’t have curtains. Neither did the one in the kitchen.

  This home—brown, boring and bare—was in desperate need of sprucing up. Grace moved to the mantel and ran a finger along the top edge. Dust coated the surface. She examined more closely a carved wooden replica of a plantation-style house. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Painted white with black shutters flanking the windows, there were four miniature columns along the veranda and chimneys flanking the roofline.

  The sheriff had spoken with a slow drawl. Perhaps this was a memento to remind him of his family’s home.

  Picking up the tintype she’d seen earlier, she studied the sheriff’s younger image. How handsome he’d looked in his uniform. Or was it his carefree expression that made him seem so different? There was a zest for life and adventure in his countenance that the real flesh-and-blood man lacked. The man she’d met carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  What had he meant by what he’d said? Was he truly so traumatized by his changed appearance that he didn’t feel worthy of marriage? The thought saddened her.

  “Momma?”

  Replacing the frame with care, she looked up and frowned. Abigail was reclining on the sheriff’s bed again. Sweeping past Jane, she entered the bedroom and sat on the mattress edge, crinoline and skirts billowing about her.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” />
  “I don’t feel well.”

  Grace tested the warmth of her forehead and cheek. Her skin was hot and flushed. Concern swept through her system. Her quieter daughter wasn’t one to complain.

  She smoothed her dark curls. “Does your head hurt? Or your tummy?”

  “My head.” Her deep brown eyes bore witness to her misery.

  Grace smoothed the alarm from her face to avoid upsetting Abigail. “I’ll get you a drink of water and a cold compress for your head. Perhaps Mr. Burgess has some tea on hand.”

  She called for Jane.

  The chair scraped across the floorboards. Stopping at the foot of the bed, she clutched her porcelain doll to her chest. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Sit with your sister while I go and locate the well.”

  Leaving them in the spacious, utilitarian bedroom, she searched the kitchen for a water pail, discovering a dented tin one on a lower shelf of the long counter opposite the stove.

  New worries brewed like a summer squall. Illness, especially in children, could turn deadly in a matter of hours. Did Cowboy Creek even have a qualified doctor? Residing on her mother-in-law’s estate, they’d had access to the finest medical care in Chicago. Here, she was among strangers. She didn’t know Noah Burgess well enough to guess whether he’d have compassion for a sick child or whether he’d force them to remove to the hotel as he’d stated, no matter the circumstances.

  Father God, I know You’re probably angry with me. Deception is not something You take lightly. I understand that. But I beg of You, please don’t let this sickness be serious. Please let Noah be sympathetic.

  She went outside again, and the heat struck her with more force this time. The air had gone still. She explored the yard and discovered the well behind the house, halfway between it and the stream. The procession of towering cottonwoods and the generous swath of shade they cast called to her, a sheltering oasis on the vast prairie. The entire time she was at the well, she expected to encounter the sheriff. But he was nowhere to be seen.