His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  Rathke charged at him again, head dipped low. Thomas tensed his stomach muscles and took the impact. Behind him, Mortenson jumped onto his back. The man’s arms came around Thomas’s neck in a suffocating hold. In front of him, Jenkins danced and weaved. Thomas felt a blinding blow on the crest of his cheekbone.

  Enough.

  Time to end it.

  He brought up his left knee and heard a crunch when it connected with Rathke’s nose. The Austrian staggered back, blood pouring from his broken nose.

  One down.

  Next, Thomas curled his fingers around the arms that held his throat in a chokehold. He gripped tight and made a sudden twist, bending low at the waist. The force of the motion sent Mortenson spinning over his head. Thomas let go and Mortenson landed in a sprawl in the dust.

  Two down.

  In front of him, Jenkins bounced on the balls of his feet, delivering his little jabs. Lacking patience for such finesse, Thomas waited for his moment. When Jenkins lowered his left arm, creating an opening, Thomas waded in with his right, then followed with a left hook that lifted Jenkins into the air. Thomas pulled his right arm back for another blow but there was no need. Jenkins crumpled to the ground.

  Three down.

  “Go,” Thomas said to Rathke, who was standing to one side, spitting blood.

  “Ja, ja, ich gehe.”

  Thomas spoke no German, but the man’s hasty retreat said enough. On the ground, Jenkins groaned. Thomas reached down to pull the man up to his feet. This one, he could respect.

  Making a halfhearted attempt to beat the dust from the man’s clothing, Thomas shoved him on his way. “Go,” he said. “And don’t come back.”

  He turned to Mortenson, who lay sprawled on the ground, a dazed look in his eyes. Thomas picked him up by his collar and the seat of his pants and threw him after the others. “Don’t forget your friend.”

  His breathing was harsh. His pulse pounded in a frantic beat. Pain throbbed in his cheek and his cut lip and his grazed knuckles. His muscles were hurting from the blows and his left arm stung where the bastard Mortenson had bitten him hard enough to pierce his skin, even through the clothing.

  Somewhere at the edge of his blurred vision Charlotte was hovering, clenching and unclenching her fists. She’d been yelling something about not fighting in front of a lady. Thomas felt a quick burst of shame. What would she think of him? He took pride in being a peace-loving man, and now she had seen him engage in a brawl.

  “Thomas! Thomas!”

  “Huh.” He shook his head, like a bear coming out of hibernation. He heard the patter of small feet on the gravel. Cool hands closed around his face.

  “Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.

  He looked down at her. She was looking up at him. There was worry in her eyes, and something else that made them sparkle, bright and full of life.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  Charlotte let out an exasperated sound, something between a snort and a gust of laughter. “You’re a mess. Your suit is torn, your lip is bleeding and I wager you’ll have a black eye. Don’t tell me you’re all right.”

  Thomas felt himself being shoved backward. He didn’t resist. After a few shuffling steps he bumped against a chair behind him, and sank into it.

  “Stay there,” Charlotte said. “I have hot water on the stove.”

  Exhaustion swept over Thomas. He tipped his head back. The sun was low in the sky. It was past six o’clock. He’d have to get going soon if he wanted to ride home before dark.

  Charlotte returned outside, carrying a bowl of water. A small linen towel hung over her arm. She set the bowl on the table, dipped the cloth into it and bent over him.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Thomas did as he was told. Gently, she bathed his face, her fingers searching out the cuts and grazes, the hot water easing the sting on his skin. Thomas lifted his lashes a fraction and watched her. She leaned closer, studying the bruise on his cheek.

  He could slide his hand behind her head and pull her closer, and they would be kissing. He had only kissed her once, on their wedding day. He should have kissed her when he could. When he had the right. He should have bedded her, when he had the right. She couldn’t have left him then. She would have been forced to stay with him.

  And now, he could pull her down to him and kiss her, out in the open, for anyone to see, and the whole town would know it was not over between them. She would know it was not over between them.

  The aggression of the fight still pumped through him, driving needs that had festered inside him ever since he first laid eyes on Charlotte. The force of the temptation frightened him. All he wanted right now was to tumble her into his lap and tear off her clothes. Thomas closed his eyes, clamping down on the temptation, clamping down on the need.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, to break the tension of the silence.

  “What for?”

  “For fighting in front of a lady.”

  “Your right hook is weak and your footwork could be quicker.”

  He opened his eyes. “What?”

  Charlotte gave him a smug smile. “When we were children my sister Miranda took boxing lessons from an Irish stable lad. I couldn’t. He said I was too small, with small hands.” She flattened her palm against his chest and shoved. “Lean back. I’m not finished.”

  She went on applying the hot water to his battered cheek. “Aren’t you going to apologize for trying to sell me for two hundred dollars?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you still angry with me?”

  “Don’t I have a right to be?”

  Charlotte didn’t reply, merely continued her ministrations. A cool evening breeze had picked up. Golden orioles were darting about in the prickly pears behind the schoolhouse, chirping merrily. At the Imperial Hotel, Manuel Chavez was playing his trumpet.

  Charlotte gave a forlorn sigh. “Oh, Thomas. I wish...”

  Thomas reached up a hand and curled his fingers around her wrist. “I wish, too.”

  For a moment, it seemed to him they were communicating without words, her pulse beating frantically beneath his fingers. Should he fight for her? Should he ask her to stay? Should he forgive her lies and deceit, accept she had acted because she had no choice? Could he trust her with his life, his dignity, his heart?

  Clouds had drifted in front of the setting sun and twilight was falling quickly. The mournful sound of the trumpet drifted on the breeze. Thomas recognized the song. It was a Mexican ballad about a lost child. His child, the child he had hoped for, had been lost before it was even born. A child that had been no more than a mirage. A marriage that had been no more than a lie.

  He couldn’t ask her to stay. It would take too great a toll on his pride. If she wanted to stay, she should ask him. It would cost her much less.

  Thomas waited...waited...waited for her to ask, her frantic pulse beating beneath his fingertips. Charlotte shook herself, as if awakening from a dream. She pulled her hand free, poked at his gaping sleeve and spoke in an artificial tone of brusque efficiency.

  “Your coat is torn. It was your only good suit.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “When I get back home, I’ll order a new suit for you from a Boston tailor and mail it over. I’ll have to take your measurements before I go.”

  Thomas fell silent. It was no use thinking he could ask her to stay. It was no good wishing. Wishes were two a penny. He pushed up to his feet.

  “I’d best get going. It will be dark soon.” He adjusted the torn sleeve of his coat. “There is something I need to tell you. This is really important. There is a man, Sam Renner, up in the hills. Years ago, a small woman with curly dark hair stole his gold and shot him, leaving him for dead.”

  Thomas looked around for his hat, spott
ed it on the ground. As he bent to scoop it up, the pain in his sore muscles made him wince. He knocked the crown of the hat back into shape with his fist and propped the hat on his head.

  “Sam Renner has lost his mind. He is searching for her, the woman who stole his gold, but any small woman with curly dark hair will do. He won’t be able to tell the difference. If he gets you cornered, he’ll kill you. He is infirm. He can’t ride. He moves around on foot. He has a bad limp. He drags one foot and moves very slowly. Keep your eyes open. Keep your wits about you. If you see a limping man around fifty coming toward you, run away from him. Do you hear me? Run. He is slow, and he can’t catch you up.”

  Charlotte stared at him with worry stamped on her face. “Does he have a gun?” she asked. “I can’t run against a gun.”

  Thomas hesitated. He didn’t want to frighten her but perhaps it was better that she was afraid. “Sam Renner has a gun but he won’t use it to shoot you.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wants to slice you open with a skinning knife and tear out your guts.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thomas cranked the handle on the irrigation pump, ignoring the protests from his battered muscles. For several days now the sun had baked the land with a relentless heat. To save his crops, he had to irrigate every few hours.

  He missed Charlotte terribly. He hadn’t truly appreciated how much help she’d been. More than that, her cheerful presence had turned the chore into a joy.

  Thomas straightened, massaged his aching back. Everything seemed to be going wrong at once. Rosamund had developed an infection in her udders. His cabbages were infested with some kind of pest he’d never seen before. It made him realize he still had a lot to learn about vegetable farming.

  During the nights, restless dreams plagued him.

  Sometimes he was sitting in a chair outside the schoolhouse, and Charlotte lay languid in his lap. She was wearing the green cotton dress he’d seen her wear at the garden party, with a row of tiny buttons on the front.

  One by one, he slipped the buttons free, and then he slid his hand inside the bodice to cup her breast. The shape of it fitted perfectly in his hand. He’d known all along it would. Even in a dream, the pleasure left him breathless.

  At other times, he dreamed of Sam Renner waving his knife, and Charlotte standing like a pillar of salt, waiting for the blade to bite into her flesh. I’ll gut you like a fish, Sam Renner was shouting. Just before the knife flashed, Thomas would jolt awake, his body shaking, his skin coated in a layer of icy sweat.

  Every morning, every afternoon, he wanted to saddle Shadow and ride into town to see Charlotte, but he couldn’t afford the time. Not if he wanted to keep his farm.

  A rider thudded down the path toward the lake. Thomas jumped off the jetty and headed out to meet him. It was Gus Junior on his mustang. It was the second time the boy had ridden over, to bring news of how Sam Renner was progressing in his journey down from Desperation Hill.

  Gus jumped down from the saddle. “Howdy, Mr. Greenwood.”

  “Howdy, Gus.” Thomas stroked the shiny black flank of the horse.

  “He’s past Burnt Pine,” Gus Junior said. “Halfway to Hansen’s Creek. I seen him myself.”

  Thomas considered the landmarks on the trail he knew from his days of prospecting. “He is going slowly. I doubt he’ll make the Thursday train.”

  Gus Junior frowned. “Mr. Greenwood...how does Sam Renner know your wife—I mean Miss Jackson—is small and dark with curly hair? I didn’t put anything about it in the newspaper.”

  “He doesn’t.” Thomas unrolled the shirtsleeves he’d rolled up to crank the irrigation pump. “Do you want coffee, Gus?”

  “I’d kill for a coffee.” The boy looked flustered. “I didn’t mean...”

  “It’s all right, Gus.” Thomas gave the horse another pat and got a friendly whinny in return.

  “Sam Renner isn’t coming into town for Miss Jackson,” Thomas explained. “He is coming to see the women arriving on the train. With any luck, none of them will resemble his Frenchwoman, and he’ll go off on his way again. Or he might remember what he read in the newspaper about a new schoolteacher, and decide to take a look at her, too. We don’t know the way his mind works. With a madman one never does.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him for you, Mr. Greenwood. I’ll ride up the trail every day, and when he is close to town, I’ll come and let you know.”

  Thomas nodded, hiding his concern. There was no point in upsetting the boy.

  “That’s a good plan, Gus. I’m grateful for your help.”

  * * *

  Sam Renner made his clumsy way down the trail, bedroll and rifle dangling over his shoulder. Every step, agony sliced through him. He studied the ground with care, looking out for roots and stones that might trip him up, for the jolt of a fall might kill him.

  Finally, she was back.

  Madeleine Jacquinot. He let her image form in his mind. Long black curls, laughing brown eyes. Dimples in her cheeks and the devil in her heart.

  He had offered her everything. His money, his love and his trust. And she had paid him back by pitching him into hell.

  By the side of the path, Hansen’s Creek made a merry ripple. Tiny birds hopped on the rocks by the edge of the current. Once, Sam had taken delight in the wonders of nature. He’d even enjoyed the hard work of a miner, burrowing like a mole deep into the crust of the earth, coaxing Mother Nature to give up her treasures.

  But now his days were filled with agony and hate.

  There was gold in his mine, he was sure of it. But his crippled body did not allow him to dig for it. Others had tried but the gold was too well hidden in the folds of the mountainside for anyone to find.

  At the crossing of Hansen’s Creek Sam paused for a rest. Carefully, he lowered himself to a sitting position on the ground. A week ago, he’d walked into a mining camp, to beg for a bag of salt to go with the rabbits and wild turkeys he lived on. One of the miners had been reading a newspaper, and Sam had borrowed it.

  It had been right there.

  Madeleine Jacquinot was back. It had to be her. Madeleine had told him about her past. She’d gone to a convent school in New Orleans, had trained to be a teacher, but in her first position as a governess there had been an incident with the master of the house, and she’d been dismissed in disgrace. No one else had employed her, which had sent her down the path of a saloon whore.

  Sam had saved her from that path.

  And she had paid him back by betraying him.

  Maude Jackson, she called herself now. People did that, when they changed their name. Picked the same initials. Some did it for sentimental reasons. Most did it because they might have scratched their initials on something and wanted the letters to match the new name.

  When Sam got the revelation that his treacherous lover had returned, he asked someone what day of the week it was, and since then he had counted the days. Today it was Wednesday.

  Sam’s face puckered, like on a child about to burst into tears.

  He’d be late. He wanted to get into town for Thursday. The commotion that accompanied the arrival of the train would give him an opportunity to sneak up on Madeleine without getting noticed.

  From higher up along the path came the rattle of a wagon. Sam struggled to his feet and turned to watch the approaching vehicle. A farm cart, and on the bench sat a farm boy, no more than eighteen, clad in homespun.

  The boy pulled on the lines. “Whoa.”

  The cart horse, a buckskin with a white diamond on its nose, whinnied and came to a restless halt, eyes flashing in fear. Sam’s mouth twisted in dismay. Even animals shunned him now. They could smell the hate in him.

  “You go to town, old-timer?” The farm boy spoke with an accent.

  “Yes,” Sam replie
d. “I have a woman to see.”

  The boy grinned. “I hope you been saving your money.”

  A surge of bitterness rolled through Sam at the veiled reference to his crippled body and grimy clothing and long straggly hair. The one dignity he had clung to was to remain clean shaven, but that was only because he wanted to test the sharpness of his blade.

  “I already paid her,” Sam replied. She took all I had.

  The boy scooted along the bench to make room. “Hop on, mister.”

  Sam stared at the bench, frowning. The boy must be a newcomer who didn’t know he couldn’t take the jolting of a cart. But today was Wednesday. For six years, he’d lived with no other thought on his mind but revenge, and nothing must stand in his way.

  Carefully, not twisting his spine, Sam crouched to pick up his bedroll and rifle and threw them over his shoulder. “You have to help me up to the bench. I’m not as agile as I used to be.”

  He slipped his hand inside his unbuttoned duster and curled his fingers around the hilt of his long skinning knife. A ride into town wouldn’t be enough. He needed the cart to sneak up on Madeleine.

  The farm boy tied the lines around the brake and hopped down. He came to stand beside Sam and wrapped one arm around him, to help him up. When their bodies pressed together, Sam pulled the knife out of his belt and slammed it into the belly of the farm boy.

  The blade sank to the hilt. The boy emitted a strangled groan and sagged against him. The warm flow of blood spurted over Sam’s fingers. The horse neighed, stomped its hooves, but remained on the spot, too well trained to bolt.

  Sam jerked his knife free and thrust the lifeless body of the farm boy away from him. He wiped the blade clean against his shirt and slid the knife back in its sheath at his belt. Then he scrambled up to the wagon bench.

  The jolting might kill him, but he didn’t care. There was nothing for him to live for except his revenge. He’d drive into town, and if he survived the journey, he’d do what he had dreamed of doing for six long years. He’d kill the woman who had stolen his gold and pitched him into hell.