Bride by Arrangement

by Karen Kirst

  It wasn’t until she was back inside, arranging a damp cloth on Abigail’s forehead, that he finally showed.

  His impatient stride carried him through the cabin. He hovered in the bedroom entrance, gloved hands braced on either side. “I’ve got the wagon out front. Do you have a preference for how the trunks are stowed?”

  Straightening, Grace smoothed her hands down the front of her bodice, which seemed to have grown tighter with his arrival. He’d washed the grit from his face, and his hair was damp, rendering it a deeper hue, like pan-heated syrup.

  “No preference.”

  Nodding, his light blue gaze touched on Abigail huddled beneath the blanket and Jane, who stood on the opposite side of the bed, her demeanor subdued. He inclined his head toward Abigail.

  “Something wrong?”

  Grace forced herself not to cow before his commanding presence. She wasn’t a docile girl who shattered at a single unkind word or dark glare. Not anymore. She could handle his annoyance.

  What if he’s the type to act out his anger? a small voice prodded. Ambrose’s impatience with her had mostly manifested itself in fuming tirades. Occasionally he’d taken her by the shoulders and shaken her until her neck ached and vision swam. Only once had he risen his hand to her.

  Shutting out the unpleasant memories, she stiffened her spine. Sure, she wasn’t exactly welcome in his home, but this development was out of her control. Besides, his friend had given him a glowing recommendation. One of the original town founders, Will Canfield was also a wealthy and powerful property owner. Surely he wouldn’t have misrepresented the sheriff’s sterling reputation.

  “I believe she has a fever.”

  Pushing into the room, he came close and studied her daughter. “What are her symptoms?”

  “Her head hurts, and her skin’s dry and hot.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  His penetrating gaze lifted to Grace. “Has she been in contact with any sick folks?”

  “I’m not aware of any. The train car was crowded, but no one displayed outward symptoms.”

  Noah’s inspection was shrewd. Did he not believe her? This she wasn’t lying about.

  “What about you?” he asked abruptly. “And the other girl?”

  He wasn’t asking out of concern for their health, of course. They were a burden to him. A disruption in his ordered life, one he’d been on the verge of getting rid of.

  “We’re feeling fine.”

  A resigned sigh lifted his broad chest. Massaging the curve between his neck and shoulder, he said, “I can’t take her to the hotel and risk exposing the other guests to whatever this is. You’ll stay here until she improves.”

  Grace had to dig deep for gratitude. Her child was sick with who knew what, and all he was worried about were the fine people of Cowboy Creek.

  Dipping her head to hide her true feelings, she said, “I appreciate your generosity of spirit, Mr. Burgess. We’ll do our best to stay out of your way.”

  Chapter Three

  The widow’s words pricked Noah’s conscience. Generous? Hah. Anxiety and frustration built inside like a cannon about to blow. Grinding his back teeth together, he studied the wee girl.

  Her mussed curls were damp, and errant tendrils clung to her neck. She shivered a bit beneath the thick wool blanket. Not a good sign considering the air was hot and stagnant with the windows closed.

  He had no idea how to help her. Children in general made him antsy. Sick children made him downright skittish. To his shock and dismay, numerous soldiers had had their wives and children join them. The women had cooked meals and washed and mended uniforms. The children had assisted in these chores, their eyes haunted by the gory sights and sounds of war. One small boy had gotten caught in the cross fire—killed instantly by a stray minié ball.

  Noah had steered clear of the lot of them. They’d had no business being there.

  Abigail whimpered. Constance adjusted the compress, murmuring reassuring words. Alarm punched him in his midsection. Whatever was ailing the little girl could be serious. And while he hadn’t asked for their presence, they were under his protection for the time being.

  “Want me to fetch the doctor?”

  Constance’s head snapped up. “There’s one in Cowboy Creek? I wondered... Can you tell me about his reputation?”

  “Doc Fletcher set up his practice several years ago. While I personally haven’t needed his services, folks around here have nothing but good things to say about him.”

  Her lips pursed as she considered his words. “If she isn’t improved by morning, then I think that would be best.”

  He saw the unease and fear beneath her brave facade. She’s far from home. Her expected groom has blasted her plans to pieces. And her daughter is ill. Of course she’s afraid.

  As the urge to take her hand and reassure her fought its way to the surface, he backed up a step. Compassion was an unfamiliar emotion, one he’d thought the army had drilled out of him. “I’ll return the wagon to the barn and rustle us up some supper.”

  “I can help. Show me what you want me to do.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Noah hadn’t had a decent meal in days. He wasn’t about to let a pampered socialite loose in his kitchen. Constance Miller probably didn’t know the difference between a spatula and an egg beater.

  Not giving her a chance to respond, he left the house and tended his team, all the while mentally forming a rebuke that would singe the hair on Will’s and Daniel’s heads. Constance and her daughters shouldn’t be here. If Will hadn’t butted his nose where it didn’t belong, Noah would’ve been able to give the town’s problems his full attention.

  The bank heist wasn’t his only concern. There’d been other unsolved crimes in recent weeks. Poisoned cattle. A sabotaged lumber delivery that had delayed construction of several important buildings. An invader in Will’s private quarters at the Cattleman. The Murdoch brothers were a troublesome bunch, bent on getting rich off others’ hard-earned money. But they weren’t all that smart. Noah suspected someone else was behind the town’s troubles. Someone with an agenda.

  In the far-left corner, Wolf rested in the straw-strewn dirt, golden eyes tracking his jerky movements. Noah hung the bridles in the tack room.

  “We’ve got a fresh set of problems, old boy. The chief one’s name is Constance.”

  Wolf’s pointy ears perked up.

  “Can you believe she was scared of you?”

  The animal’s eyes closed as if in disbelief.

  “Crazy, huh?”

  Constance’s reaction wasn’t abnormal. Most folks kept their distance from Wolf, which suited Noah just fine. Since the wolf dog accompanied him most everywhere, it meant they kept their distance from Noah, as well.

  He forked fresh hay in the horses’ stalls. The damaged skin on his shoulder and upper chest protested the movements. Since his release from the hospital, he’d made a habit of applying honey mixed with lavender to keep the skin soft and supple. Skipping the past several days hadn’t been a good idea.

  “One of the twins is sick.”

  Wolf blinked.

  “Hope it’s nothing serious.” Leaning his weight on the pitchfork, he stared out the double opening to the cabin framed by gently rolling plains. “I thought my scars would disgust them, but they didn’t seem to notice.”

  He’d expected Constance to recoil as so many others had upon first seeing him. The first time it occurred had been days after his doctor proclaimed him on the mend and suspended the lead paint treatments. The coverings had been removed, and he’d been allowed a mirror to see his new appearance. Just as he’d been confronted with the monster he’d become, a wife or sister of one of the patients had passed by, taken one look at him and clapped he
r hand over her mouth. Her horror had seared itself onto his brain.

  He’d thrown the mirror to the floor, smashing it to bits, and sunk into a soul-deep melancholy that had lasted for months. If not for Daniel and Will, he might never have left the sick ward.

  Striding to the corner stall, he checked on his dairy cow. “Hey, Winnie.”

  Twisting her head, she gazed at him with molten brown eyes.

  “I see Timothy was here this morning to give you relief.”

  He hadn’t had to hire help until getting pinned sheriff. Daniel had suggested his employee’s adolescent son, and Noah had taken his advice. It appeared the boy had done a decent job, but he’d check the springhouse to see if the milk had been stored properly.

  The pangs in his stomach became audible. Pushing off the ledge, he left the barn and headed straight for the henhouse. His plans to dine at the Cowboy Café after settling the Millers at the hotel having been thwarted, he’d have to fix something fast and easy. Scrambled eggs and fried ham wouldn’t take but a few minutes. There wasn’t time to make biscuits, but he was sure the blue-eyed girl—Jean, was it?—would like flapjacks.

  The thought of little girls and flapjacks had him thinking about his sisters. The three of them had argued over the best way to eat them. Lilly had preferred them smothered with butter and jam. Cara insisted on molasses. The youngest, Elizabeth, wouldn’t eat them unless there were sausage links rolled up inside.

  In the henhouse, he tried to push aside thoughts of his family and failed. Lilly, Cara and Elizabeth were no longer little girls. They were in their early twenties now, likely married with children. His parents would’ve aged considerably. Were they well? Struggling due to the South’s defeat? He couldn’t help wondering how his family had fared during the long years of fighting.

  He could remedy that by writing them, but that last spectacular row with his father prevented him. That, and the fact he didn’t wish them to know that he was a shadow of his former self, that his inner self was as twisted by the war as his outer appearance.

  Quickly gathering the eggs into a basket he left hanging inside the henhouse door, he chose a container of milk from the springhouse and hurried to the cabin. He could imagine the widow’s disdain over this simple meal. Oh, she wouldn’t let it show. No doubt she’d had lessons on how to hide her true feelings. But the image of the refined lady tucking into a five-high stack of syrup-smothered flapjacks put a smirk on his face.

  When he entered, Constance emerged from the bedroom, her expression shadowed.

  “Abigail is asleep, and Jane is amusing herself with a picture book.” Her skirts swayed and swished as she moved to meet him beside the counter he’d crafted. “Since you won’t allow me to assist in the meal preparation, may I ready the place settings?”

  Her formal speech matched her appearance. He indicated the wall behind him. “The plates and utensils are in the hutch.”

  She worked without speaking as he lit the fire inside the stove box and mixed the flapjack batter. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed her frequent glances and wondered what was going on inside her head. He had little experience with females outside his family. He’d joined the army before he’d had the chance to properly court any of the local girls. His nurses had been kind and proficient, but they hadn’t had the time or desire to socialize.

  Having company in his home felt odd. Daniel and Will stopped by occasionally. Mostly they gave him space and waited for him to come to them.

  Noah snagged the kettle from the row of shelves above the dry sink. “Do you drink coffee?”

  “I never acquired a taste for it. Do you have any tea?”

  “Tea’s for ladies and little girls.”

  One flyaway brow arched, and he suspected she’d like to blast him with a tongue-lashing. Her composure fully intact, she said, “Milk will suffice.” Approaching the counter, she laid her ringed hand on the container. The gaudy jewels sparkled. “Do you mind if I pour some for Jane and myself?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Turning away, he procured a knife and, placing the ham slab on the plate, began to carve thick slices. He was acutely aware of her position in the room as she moved about. By the time he had the food ready to dish up, his skin prickled with tension and his appetite was long gone.

  “Where would you like for us to sit?” She stood framed by the window, Jane—not Jean—beside her.

  “Doesn’t matter.” He hated feeling flustered in his own home. The sooner this meal was over and he could make his escape, the better.

  Constance chose the seat opposite his. The girl sat on his right.

  Noah scooted his mug closer and cleared his throat. “I normally say grace in my head.”

  “Momma always offers the mealtime prayer.” Jane looked from her mother to him.

  Constance grimaced. “This isn’t our home, sweetheart.”

  “He’s gonna be our pa soon enough. You said so.”

  Jane’s large, cornflower blue eyes pinned him to his chair. This was a fine barrel of pickles. “Let’s get on with it,” he groused at the woman across from him. “I’ve got an errand to tend to.”

  An errand he wasn’t about to put off until tomorrow.

  * * *

  During the ride into town, Noah nursed his temper, the torturous meal replaying in his mind. His self-consciousness about his scar had trumped all else. Seated directly across from him, the widow had had a clear view. There’d been nowhere to hide. So he’d ducked his head, tucked into his meal and done his best to ignore his uninvited guests.

  Undulating fields gave way to the town proper. As his homestead was situated west of Cowboy Creek, he didn’t have to traverse the main thoroughfare to reach Will and Tomasina’s place. He traveled up Third Street. A handful of clapboard houses were interspersed between the businesses. Not as crowded in this section, but there was still a fair amount of activity as men went about their daily routines.

  On his right, a reed-thin man wearing an apron was in his shop’s entrance sweeping out debris. “Howdy, Sheriff!”

  Seconds passed before Noah realized the man was addressing him. You’re the sheriff now, remember? Folks normally didn’t initiate conversation. They treated him with wary respect.

  He belatedly touched a finger to his brim. The man’s gaze slipped to Wolf trailing behind and, smile slipping, he turned and reentered his shop.

  Similar exchanges were repeated as he proceeded along the dusty street. By the time Will’s manor came into view, Noah’s hand was tired from all the waving. He hadn’t pursued this position. He’d been asked to fill Quincy Davis’s spot after that man’s untimely death. Some said it was because he was one of the founding members, and they trusted him to do right by the townsfolk. Noah suspected it had more to do with the wild tales of his battlefield exploits that circulated about town. He didn’t consider himself a hero. Sure, he’d had to work hard to dispel the stigma of his Southern roots, to prove he was committed to the Union’s cause, but he hadn’t done anything to warrant the label of hero.

  And while committed to keeping Cowboy Creek safe, he wasn’t prepared to involve himself in the social goings-on.

  Guiding his sorrel onto Will’s property, they followed the grass-flattened path made by wagon deliveries. His friend’s new home was about 90 percent complete and promised to be a stunning testament to Will’s success. The front facade was designed to impress. Thick white columns supported a rounded rotunda high above. Arched windows lined the bottom floor, while the second-floor windows were rectangular in shape. Behind the columns and above the front entryway was a stone balcony. Open porches flanked both ends of the central structure.

  The sounds of hammers and men calling to each other greeted him. The newlywed couple, who’d spent their first few days as husband and wife on the trail of outlaws, had decided to move in before t
he house was complete. Noah didn’t blame them. A hotel suite wasn’t the place to begin their new life together.

  Still, the constant activity had to be irksome at times.

  When no one answered his summons, he stalked around the perimeter to where workmen were busy attaching pale-hued brick to the rear wall. Scaffolding covered the entire structure like a wooden spine. Behind the house, the lush, tree-dotted lot backed up to the church, its spire reaching for the blue expanse above.

  Noah scanned the milling workers. They cast wary glances at him and Wolf. Ignoring them, he spotted his quarry standing apart from the activity. Slightly taller than the other men, Will tended to be the finest-dressed gentleman around, his short brown hair covered by a smart derby hat. The silver-handled cane he was rarely without had been imported from Italy and was rumored to contain either a hidden blade or gun. Will had injured his leg in the same battle Noah had suffered his accident. He’d come close to being forced to having it amputated. Ignoring the doctor’s warnings, Will had chosen to forego surgery and wait and see if the wound healed. The risk had paid off. With the cane, his limp was hardly noticeable.

  Skirting a platform of bricks, Noah picked his way through the construction site. Will was in deep conversation with Gideon Kendricks, the Union Pacific’s representative, in town to sell railroad stocks.

  Gideon noticed his advance first and lifted his hand in a wave. Like Noah, the man hadn’t changed out of his trail-dusted gear following their unsuccessful search. Will, on the other hand, had taken the time to clean up.

  “Noah.” Will’s smile was rueful, but his brown eyes lacked contrition. “I’ve been expecting you.” He nodded at Noah’s companion. “Good day, Wolf.”

  His forehead pounded. “I would’ve been here sooner, but there was a complication.”

  Will looked intrigued. “What sort of complication?”

  Noah cut his gaze toward Gideon. While he’d grown to like the newcomer, he didn’t want to air his business in front of him. “I think you’ll agree it’s a private matter.”