The Outlaw’s Bride (Mail Order Bride Adventures)

by Hope Sinclair

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  PREVIEW: THE NEW MEXICO BRIDE

  KEEP IN TOUCH!

  Copyright © Hope Sinclair 2018

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  For queries, comments or feedback please use the following contact details:

  hopesinclair.cleanandwholesomeromance.com

  hopesinclair.author@gmail.com

  Facebook: @HopeSinclairAuthor

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  ONE

  December 24, 1880 | Territory of Montana

  It was a bitterly cold winter’s night, and William “Bill” Wiley clutched the lapels of his cowhide jacket tight across his broad chest as his steed carried him along the smooth, ice-crusted banks of the Yellowstone River.

  The soft soil of the riverbank had long surrendered to the bitter winds that whistled over the valley, and the blanket of green grass that grew along the fertile soil had long been made dormant, replaced with a thick blanket of white snow that would remain until the first thaw of spring. The only thing left untouched by winter’s frigid touch was the river itself. The glassy black vein of the Yellowstone carved through the snowy plains and barren landscape as it flowed tirelessly.

  A full moon hung low in the sky, and its ruddy orange light reflected over the snow-frosted valley, filling the sky with a vermillion glow that Bill found most unsettling. Even though the eerie moonlight had saved him the trouble of carrying a lantern as he made the treacherous midnight journey towards town, the man would have happily accepted the burden, in exchange for the solace of darkness.

  But solace was a luxury that Bill had long forgotten. Much like the warmth of sunlight or a soft summer night’s breeze, any semblance of comfort or peace seemed like little more than a fleeting memory to Bill. All he knew now was winter. All he knew now was the heavy dread that plagued his heart and the frenzy of worry that consumed his mind at all hours.

  For miles, Bill had grown accustomed to the chorus of sounds that echoed through his eardrums: the slashing of horse hooves cutting through the freshly fallen snow, the steady flow of the river passing by, the drum of his own heartbeat, and the huff of his rugged breathing.

  He was reminded of his own loudness when he reached the small town’s main street. The icy road was silent, free of the usual business and bustle. The windows of the houses and shops that lined either side of the street were dark. Not so much as a candle or gas lamp was lit in all of the town and, were it not for the full moon overhead, the entire place would have been drenched in darkness.

  Bill was certain that there wasn’t a soul awake in the entire town besides his own. It was nearly midnight, after all. He couldn’t help but feel a bitter envy erupt in his chest as he imagined the residents of the town asleep, warm in their beds, nestled in the anticipation that, when they awoke, it would be Christmas morning.

  Much like solace, the spirit of the holiday suddenly felt like a luxury long forgotten to Bill.

  Though he knew that he was making a terrible ruckus, he made no effort to slow his pace or soften the beating of his horse’s hooves as he galloped through the quiet town. He only pulled back on the reins when he was within view of the doctor’s home.

  The abrupt tug on the reins caused the steed to buck up suddenly. Her hooves skidded across the ice and she whinnied in distress. Bill released his grip on the reins and allowed himself to fall from the saddle, plummeting towards a snowdrift. He barely felt the impact as he broke his fall in the soft dust of fresh snow, and he barely felt the bitter cold sting that bit through the exposed flesh of his hands.

  He quickly picked himself up and reached for the wrought iron knocker that was attached to the wooden door. But even the knocker had been claimed by the winter’s frost, and the metal was coated in a thick glaze of ice that held it frozen in place.

  Bill gave up on the knocker and instead began beating his bare fists against the door.

  “Doctor Farriday!” he bellowed. “Doctor Farriday, please!”

  If Bill’s mind hadn’t been so preoccupied with the urgency of his mission, he might have noticed that his disturbance had roused several town residents from their slumber. One by one, several windows lit up with the flickering of yellow candlelight, and noses pressed against glass to peer down at the man crying desperately in the street.

  But Bill was only barely aware of his surroundings. Though he stood on the town’s main street, his mind was still miles away, occupied with the grim scene he had left behind when he fled his log cabin home and raced into town to call upon the doctor.

  At last Bill heard something stir behind the heavy door. Still, he didn’t ease the pounding of his fist until he heard the sound of a metal key being inserted into a keyhole, followed by the mechanical unlatching of the door’s lock.

  The door swung open and Bill recoiled his fist, barely avoiding the pale face of Doctor Farriday.

  “Goodness sakes!” the doctor cried in a raspy voice, recoiling when he saw the massive frame of William Wiley. His pale face suddenly turned as white as the sleeping gown he wore, and the old man nearly slammed the door shut, but Bill stuck his heavy boot onto the threshold, holding the door open.

  Bill had never been one for pleading. He had been called a great many things in his lifetime—lying, scheming, no-good, and downright murderous, to name a few—but he had never once been accused of being humble. But now, standing on the doorstep of the town doctor, his heart racing in his chest and his blood boiling despite the bitter winter wind, humble was exactly how Bill Wiley felt.

  He fell onto his knees and pressed his large palms together, pleading up towards the doctor, “Please, Doctor Farriday, you have to help!”

  “Get back, Wiley!” the doctor seethed, trying with all of his might to sound brave. “I mean it! I’ll fetch the sheriff, and you know he don’t take too kindly to no-good villains like yourself.”

  Bill groaned at the reminder of his past. It had been nearly a decade since he had buried his revolver in the riverbank and given up his life on the lam to become a family man, but even after nearly ten years of living on the right side of the law, the folks in town hadn’t been keen on forgiving or forgetting his checkered past.

  They remembered Bill as William Wiley, the notorious bank-robbing, gun-slinging outlaw who rode through town on a black horse and kept a loaded pistol in the holster on his right hip.

  William Wiley had been a name feared as far as the Yellowstone River stretched in both directions, but that all changed when he took a wife. Laura Brent had been like an angel sent by the Lord, Himself, to cast light upon William Wiley’s darkened soul, and that’s exactly what she did. The young bride’s purity and goodness had been contagious, and with the resolution of prayer, she had led her husband to salvation—both spiritual and otherwise.

  William Wiley had given up his life of crime and vice and, with his young wife at his side, he had purchased a plot of land on the riverbank, fair and square. Those first few years were hard, but Bill gladly did what he could to provide for his bride. And when the Lord blessed them with two beautiful children, he worked even harder to make sure they never kne
w hardship or hunger. Life at the log cabin was modest, but it was honest, and that’s what mattered most.

  In his mind, he wasn’t William Wiley anymore, he was just Bill. But while Bill had made right in the eyes of his wife and the Lord, the folks in town still saw him as an outlaw—not to be trusted, and best avoided entirely.

  Bill’s reputation meant that the Wiley family had been all but cast out of polite society. Laura’s attempts to find fellowship with the other wives in town had been met with steadfast resistance. William Jr. and Bess had been refused admittance to the town’s schoolhouse, forcing Laura to teach the children at home. And though the merchants and traders in town had reluctantly agreed to do business with Bill Wiley, it was always on terms that were unfavorable and downright unfair.

  Bill had little choice but to accept these circumstances, even though they were a detriment to his young family. For the most part, the Wileys were content to live in isolation, several miles from town. But there were times Bill found himself wishing that he could be in the good graces of the town, and that Christmas Eve was one such example.

  As Bill fell to his knees, begging for the doctor’s compassion, he wished more than ever that he could undo the sins of his past.

  “Please,” Bill pleaded. “I wouldn’t call upon you if it wasn’t a matter of last resort, Doctor. I am in desperate need of help…”

  “Then I suggest you find it in the church,” Doctor Farriday snapped. “I’m a doctor of medicine, Mr. Wiley. I cannot remedy afflictions of the soul.”

  “The Lord has already made me whole,” Bill said. “But it’s not a matter of the soul that brings me here. It’s my wife, Doctor Farriday. She isn’t well.”

  The doctor’s face softened, and the hostility in his brow turned to one of concern. “Your wife?”

  “Yes,” Bill nodded. “She’s feverish. Her skin is red and swollen, covered in blisters…”

  “Oh Heavens, no,” the doctor murmured under his breath. “How long?”

  “A week,” Bill said. “She begged me not to fetch you. She hoped that prayer might be enough, but…”

  “Listen here, Wiley,” the doctor interrupted. “I’ve seen the power of prayer firsthand, and I believe that the Lord’s will is the strongest cure of all. But I’ve never heard a prayer that could cure pox.”

  Bill gulped.

  “How many days has it been since the rash formed?” the doctor asked.

  “Seven,” Bill said.

  “Seven.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “And what’s her current state?”

  “She’s in bed,” Bill said. “She’s asleep most of the time. I think the fever is starting to cloud her thoughts…”

  “Mr. Wiley,” the doctor said, “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  “No, Doctor, please… if you just come with me to the house, and take a look at her for yourself—”

  “I can’t do that, Mr. Wiley,” the doctor interrupted. “If your wife’s condition is as advanced as you’ve described, I expect she’ll be with the Lord by morning. There’s nothing that I can do, unfortunately.”

  “That can’t be true,” Bill pleaded. “Doctor Farriday, please…”

  “Mr. Wiley,” the doctor said, “I suggest you return home at once and enjoy what little time you may have left with your wife.”

  Bill felt defeat clench his heart, and he picked himself up from the icy threshold. The doctor’s face was ridged with a strange expression, and it took Bill several moments to realize that it was compassion. For years, the people in town had only looked at Bill with disgust or disdain. To see sympathy in the doctor’s eyes now was an indication of just how dire the situation was.

  “I understand,” Bill said shortly. He turned and began to head back to his steed, but the doctor stopped him.

  “Wait,” the doctor said. “You have children, don’t you, Wiley?”

  “Yes,” Bill nodded. “Two.”

  The doctor frowned reluctantly, then he disappeared into the dark shadows of the house. He reappeared a moment later, clutching a small paper bag.

  “There is nothing I can do for your wife,” he said. “But perhaps your children can still be saved.”

  “Still be saved?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “The virus is very contagious, Mr. Wiley, and your children have likely been exposed. They’ll still be vulnerable, but this vaccine will help to ward off any infection. You must administer this as soon as you return home, do you understand?”

  Bill took the package. Through the thin paper, he could feel the weight of two glass vials and a needle. He felt his cheeks flush red with a combination of emotions: gratitude for the doctor’s compassion and shame that he had been unable to protect his family on his own.

  “I understand,” Bill nodded.

  “Hurry,” Doctor Farriday said. “Before it’s too late.”

  Bill swallowed heavily and nodded. “Thank you, Doctor Farriday. I’ll never forget the kindness you’ve shown me tonight.”

  The log cabin was miles from town, but the journey home seemed to pass in a matter of seconds. This time Bill’s concentration wasn’t wasted on the river or the scenery or the rusty glow of the moonlight. This time, the only vision on his mind was returning home to his beloved Laura.

  When he threw open the door, he found the scene inside the log cabin unchanged from when he had left. William Jr. and Bess sat dutifully by their mother’s bedside.

  Sweet Bess was only five years old, but a sense of maturity and solemn understanding had carved itself into her young face. She held tightly onto her mother’s hand, and the depth in her sharp eyes depicted a wisdom and comprehension far beyond her years.

  Little William’s face was also filled with concern, but his brow was tight with concentration. Even at nine years old, he was determined to be strong. In his father’s brief absence, he had assumed the burden of being the man of the house, and he had accepted the duty of being brave for his sister and mother’s sake.

  “Leave me alone with her,” Bill instructed the children. He remembered the vaccine tucked inside the chest of his coat, but he decided that could wait. The children obeyed, and Bill crouched by the side of the bed and took his wife’s hand in his own.

  She was barely recognizable. The disease had stolen her youthful beauty and smooth skin, but when Bill cast his eyes downward, he still saw the tender eyes that he had fallen in love with all those years ago.

  “Where did you go?” she asked. Her voice was weak, little more than a faint whisper.

  “To see the doctor,” Bill said.

  “Oh, Bill,” Laura swallowed in opposition. “I wish you hadn’t…”

  “I had to,” Bill said. Then, knowing that it would put her mind at ease, he added, “He gave me a vaccine for the children.”

  “The children…” Laura’s voice sounded even weaker as it trailed off. “Bill, I know I’m dying.”

  Bill’s heart pounded in his chest and he squeezed his wife’s weak hand in his own.

  “Laura—” Bill tried to protest, but she interrupted.

  “Please,” she said. “I don’t have the strength to argue. I’ve prayed to the Lord for peace, and he’s granted it to me. I know where my soul is going, and I’m not afraid of death. But I need to make peace with what I’m leaving behind, too. And that’s why I need you to promise me something.”

  “Anything,” Bill said.

  “Promise me you’ll marry again,” Laura said.

  “Laura!” This time Bill was shocked.

  “Bill, you must,” his frail wife pleaded. “The greatest injustice of death does not befall the deceased, but rather those who they leave behind. I can’t bear the thought of our children growing up without a mother, Bill… nor can I bear to leave you without a wife.”

  “Laura, I can’t,” Bill said, and now he was the one pleading. Tears stung his eyes, and he held tight around his wife’s hand with both of his own.

  “You must,” Laura pleaded. “I beg of you, w
ith my dying breath, William Wiley. Don’t let darkness return to your soul. Please.”

  Those were the last words that she ever spoke. The doctor’s prediction had been right. By the time the sun appeared in the sky on Christmas morning, Mrs. Wiley had gone to be with the Lord.

  TWO

  April 23, 1883 | Livingston, Montana

  Bill Wiley tried his best to convince himself that the watery itch in his eyes could be attributed to the dense haze of spring pollen that hung in the air, even though he knew full well that it was sentiment, not irritation, that caused the tears to cloud his vision as he made his way towards the lone shade tree at the far end of the clearing.

  In his hand he carried a fresh bundle of wildflowers that he had spent the last hour gathering up. The stems scratched at the palm of his calloused hand and the sweet aroma wafted upwards in the gentle spring breeze. The smell of the flowers sent a heavy pang of regret through his heart.

  It was always the little things, like wildflowers, that got Bill Wiley down. Holding the bouquet in his fist was just a reminder of all the days he had returned home to the log cabin empty-handed, weary and exhausted after a long day’s work. Laura had always greeted him with the same grateful smile and peck on the cheek. In her eyes, the sweat on his brow from an honest day of labor had been the greatest gift that Bill could give her. But now he was haunted with the regret of knowing that he could have given her more.

  Every day he had spent married to Laura, he had had the opportunity to be a better husband, to bring flowers, or to sweep her off her feet, or to bring her something special home when he returned from town. Now that he’d never be able to do those things again, he realized that he had taken time and opportunity for granted. If he could go back in time, he would have brought his wife a bouquet of flowers every day. And if he had the chance to do it all over, he would have made sure that every kiss he gave her would have been good enough to be the last.