The Wrong Bride: A Christmas Mail Order Bride Romance (Brides and Twins Book 3)

by Natalie Dean

  Odd how reluctant she felt. A part of her hadn’t really wanted to know. A part of her had hoped that the train would slip by and they would be too late for her to join it. She would have an excuse to stay a little longer, hoping Joseph would change his mind about marriage. But as they drew closer to the riders, her reluctance grew stronger until it brought the same terrible pressure she used to feel each time the mail brought unimaginable horror through a letter, notice, or news item. Her knees began to shake and her hands felt clammy. This wasn’t just reluctance. This was dread.

  Joseph felt it as well. She could see it in the tight knots around his jaw, the paleness in his face. Something terrible had happened, and it had nothing to do with her. Greta shivered and drew her cloak tightly around her neck, blocking a cool gust of wind. Overnight, winter’s pall had rattled the trees so their limbs scraped lifelessly against the sky. A few large, circling birds appeared as black pencil marks that only added to the sense of foreboding.

  Greta watched Snake Bite’s breath snort out in purple plumes. The vapor reminded her of the giant feathers the dancehall girls wore. Dancehall girls reminded her of festivities. To keep her mind occupied, she turned to Joseph and said, “Do you realize it’s only a few more weeks until Christmas? If the wagon train would just stay until then, it would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?”

  Joseph snuggled her hand into both of his. She felt his thumb rub worriedly over the glove at the top of her hand, then squeeze her hand gently. “Winter is a bad time to attempt the pass. Higher up, the snowfall can be heavy. If the passage is still clear, the scouts will want to push on quickly, before a storm front comes in.”

  “You don’t think they’ll wait then?”

  “Three weeks? No. They won’t wait three weeks unless they’re snowed in. They’ve been lucky. The weather has been dry.”

  “Maybe it isn’t the wagon train at all. It could be something else.” She took both his wrists and leaned toward him, looking earnestly into his eyes. “I should like very much to spend Christmas here… with the children,” she added a bit hastily.

  “It would be safer travel if you waited until spring. Why leave in the middle of winter and guarantee a harsh journey?”

  “Is my safety all that concerns you?”

  He started to answer, then drew her attention to a new rider coming up the road. Nothing in his manner reflected the usual joy and excitement that the news of the wagon train caused. His horse clipped at a steady but controlled pace, and the rider kept his head down while his body swayed disinterestedly to the rhythm of his stead. Joseph waved him over. “Why is everybody leaving town?” he asked.

  “Not ever’body,” said the man. “Just those of us who were at peace with ‘im.”

  “And who is him?”

  “Why no less than Dodger Jim Nelson. He done lied his last lie and stole his last ounce o’ gold. He were lynched last night. They found him hanging from a tree about five miles up the road.”

  She felt first, a roaring in her ears, then slumped, nearly overcome with shock. She felt Joseph steady her from behind, his hands circling her upper arms. She leaned against him, listening to his quickening heartbeat and his sharply drawn breath. “I knew him. I teach his boy,” she whispered, clinging to him. She wanted to burrow in the safety of his arms and pull it up over her like soft cotton.

  He took his handkerchief and dabbed away the sweat from her brow. The rider tipped his hat and urged on his horse. “I’m sorry to disturb the gentler sex, but this be where we’re going, just to make sure it’s Dodger Jim who’s truly dead and it’s Dodger Jim who’s getting a proper burial. I never had no grudge with him, but I ain’t never had anything worth stealing, either.”

  “This is what I’ve been referring to,” said Joseph grimly. “This is the type of barbarism we have to face and fight. Miss Samuelson, I will not blame you if this life is too harsh for you. It is from incidents such as this one that I have tried to protect you.”

  Greta struggled to gain her composure, then sat straight up in her seat. “Mr. Marston, Dodger Jim is Noel’s father. Noel is enrolled with our school, and his mother is a member of the parish. It is our duty to give them consolation.”

  At her insistence, they took the buggy out and followed the line of people that had already thinned out to a few stragglers. When they arrived at the hanging site, the corpse had been laid out on the ground. Most of the good citizens felt he should be buried on the spot as none felt quite comfortable with having their loved ones resting next to a thief, nor did they feel his widow should pay out good money for a casket and a funeral.

  The widow stood to one side with her hands clasped to her son’s shoulders. She said nothing while the group discussed what to do with the body until Joseph spoke up. “We should take him to the parish and let the deacon decide his final resting place.”

  “Nay, Mr. Marston,” she said. “There is no need for that. Dodger was neither a God-fearing nor a respectful man. Let him be buried as the town wishes. I am done with him. I am done with it all.”

  The woman began to cry then, great heaving tears, and her body shook, yet it seemed to be fear more than it was grief. Greta put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and walked her away from the rest of the group. They were nearly all men. The three women who did appear among them stood back and whispered to each other. They were wives who knew very little about Mrs. Nelson, relying primarily on the information they received from their husbands.

  Greta’s own knowledge of the woman wasn’t much better. She knew that Mrs. Nelson kept a boarding house that had been slapped together with scrap lumber and rough planks. Her clientele was often dubious characters; swindlers and racketeers whose reputations had cornered them into desperate living conditions, failed entrepreneurs and gamblers whose bad luck streak never seemed to end.

  She knew that despite Dodger Jim’s light-fingered approach to life, Mrs. Nelson was an honest woman who attended church each Sunday and who sent her son to school each day in clean, carefully darned and mended clothing.

  “He wasn’t a bad man, not at first,” said Mrs. Nelson. “But everything he turned to did him no good. He wasn’t a good military man. He hated it. He hadn’t served more than six months when he deserted and just started pushing his way west. I’m from a small town in Iowa, close to the Nebraska side. That’s where I met him. I suspected he was a deserter, but I didn’t care. He was so young and so handsome. I was in love with him.

  He wasn’t a good prospector, or a good farmer or a good carpenter. The only thing he was really good at was the sleight of hand. It became his habit, along with boozing and loose women. He forgot about being a good man and only became a good liar. If his life has not been payment enough for the damages he has caused, then let his immortal soul suffice. But don’t ask my son to pay for the sins of his father.”

  “I wouldn’t ask that. Who would ask such a thing?”

  “It has been done! The same mob that murdered Dodger has beaten my boy, Noel. He barely escaped with his life.” Mrs. Nelson pulled up the boy’s shirt to show the bruises on his back. They were dark and swollen and looked especially painful where they wrapped around his small, delicate ribs.

  “Oh!” cried Greta, kneeling beside him. “Two of his ribs appear damaged. The deacon knows a great deal about medicine. You should take him to the church. We can judge then whether or not he needs a doctor.”

  “Miss Samuelson, I can’t go back. Don’t you understand? They’ll kill my son!”

  “Then you will stay with us.”

  “No! The settlement is the best thing to ever happen to the mining camp. I won’t endanger it by taking refuge with its people. I need a place where I can hide. You don’t understand this mob. The only reason they aren’t here now, causing trouble, is because they are sleeping it off from the night before. Once the memories come back, they won’t be ashamed of what they’ve done. They will want to finish the job.”

  Greta called Joseph over to discuss the dilemma.
“Mr. Marston, we cannot allow a mob to murder a child.”

  “What would you suggest, Miss Samuelson?”

  “We take them to Boulder. Hannah will give them shelter.”

  “Hannah is a dancehall girl.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, truly,” said Mrs. Nelson. “Boulder would be good. We would only need to be there until the wagon train comes.”

  “You wish to go out on the wagon train?”

  “Yes, it would be a chance to start over.”

  “Well, then,” said Joseph. “Miss Samuelson, would you like to take a ride out to Boulder?”

  “I think that would be agreeable, Mr. Marston,” she answered, linking her arm through his. “Did you bring a cart, Mrs. Nelson?”

  “We have a horse. He has everything we need.”

  Chapter 7

  It was the largest wagon train they had seen in years. It rumbled in slowly, the participants already heaving from exhaustion, their faces gaunt and lined, the prairie dust rolling in with them. From miles away, people crowded in to listen to the news, to ask questions about family members, and to see who would be dropping out of the train and who would be joining it.

  They arrived as clouds began to gather, thick and gray, and winter frost had choked away the last of the greenery, leaving only the brushy, long needle pine and an occasional fir. The kitchen scents of stew meat and freshly caught fish had been replaced by spicy ciders, pumpkin pies, and venison. Some of the homes had trimmed their doors with holly and decorated a tree with berries and gingerbread men, setting their display close to a window for everyone to see.

  Greta had been busy with her yarn, making mittens for the children and thick, wool socks for Joseph. She refused to let her mind dwell on the possibility that the train would begin its journey up the mountain range before Christmas. She wanted this time together with the community. Most of all, she wanted to spend it with the man who had become everything to her except her husband.

  Something had changed that week when they rescued the Nelson’s. It was more than his willingness to take her into town each day to check up on how the mother and son were doing. It was more than his growing tolerance of Hannah, who was outspoken and direct but kept a kind place in her heart for those who suffered. He was attentive, even anxious. When they bade each other good night, he lingered longer, his closeness stirring her in ways she had never thought possible. Each night had become more breathless, their parting more crushing, until she laid awake for hours, trying to still the rapid heartbeat and rushing thoughts.

  The Nelsons weren’t the only ones from the settlement who decided to join the wagon train. Lizbeth would be joining as well. Twice, her father had tried to forcibly make her come home and Lizbeth was afraid that the third time would bring violence to the headmaster’s doorstep.

  “They’ve been good to me,” she told Greta. “They made me feel safe. They made me believe in myself. I know that I can find my own way now, and so can you. You are coming along, aren’t you? It will be so exciting if you do. Imagine us choosing our own lives. And oh! We may find some young, handsome suitor along the way. We may get married or not. What would it matter? A new life is out there and I want it.”

  Greta squeezed Lizbeth’s hands fondly. “I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I like it here. I love working with the children. I didn’t get to have much of a childhood, and teaching them lets me be a child again, one who has the luxury of playing make-believe. I could make this my calling, but…”

  “You don’t want to be an old maid,” said Lizbeth astutely. “Half the mining camp would snap you up if given a chance, but I know you’re not that kind. You’ve got manners and you’re educated. It’s important. I look at the way the Haldeman’s are and the way my daddy is, and I know it’s a better life. Come with us. The people on this train are like you.”

  She didn’t answer yes or no, and she hadn’t packed yet. The train would be staying for several more days while folk rested up, bathed, and bought additional supplies. Between the excitement and the approaching holiday, there wasn’t even any point of holding classes. Visits back and forth from Boulder were so frequent, they made the road look like a bustling street in the city.

  It was possible, after all, to just become her own woman, reasoned Greta to herself. She had begun to learn more about Hannah, who had been so quiet on their journey and now so vocal in her opinions. Hannah had a business head. She didn’t want to marry for money. She wanted to make money on her own by establishing a shop that specialized in women’s clothing and accessories. “Think about it, Greta,” she had said. “Boulder is growing rapidly. Prosperous wives aren’t going to wish to sew their own clothing. They will want the latest in fashion design.”

  Hannah was frugal. She had two jobs, one as a waitress at the Palace during the day and the other as a chorus girl at the dancehall at night. She rented a large, one room flat and filled it slowly with nice things that would retain their value for years. Most of her paycheck she saved for her big investment.

  Hannah had not let her job detour her from compassion. When Greta and Joseph explained the situation, Hannah immediately accepted the Nelsons, comforting them, and assuring them they would be safe until the wagon train came, as long as they stayed off the streets.

  Lizbeth was striking out on her own. The parish had donated a wagon to the Nelsons, and the school had collected supplies from the neighbors. It was generally understood that Lizbeth and possibly Greta would also be going, so the donations were a little more generous than they would have been otherwise. Even among the most understanding, there was some suspicion that Dodger Jim had received his just dessert, and that Noel wasn’t far behind him. Lizbeth, though, was loved. The story that her father tried to sell her for five hundred dollars still scandalized their tongues, and they sympathized with the soft-faced, gentle girl.

  Greta stood in her room and looked at the trunk that had been completely emptied out over the weeks. She didn’t want to leave. It felt almost like a betrayal. Her kin people were on the train. Their familiar faces carried her customs, her culture. But in the tall Colorado Mountains, she had forged a friendship with a new people. Among her kin people, she was still a child. In the wilderness, she was a guide for children.

  Without warning, she felt a sudden surge of anger and kicked at the trunk. I’ll have it out with him, she decided. Before I leave on that wagon train, I’ll have it out with him.

  She stormed down the stairs, out into the yard, and stalked straight to the shed where Joseph was sharpening and preparing his tools for winter. “Mr. Marston, I need to ask you something. When I first came here, it was with the intention of marrying you. You felt I was too young and tender for this sort of life, but now I ask you, have I failed you in any way?”

  “No, you have not,” he said, but she continued without paying attention.

  “Have I given you any reason to doubt I would make a good companion? Have I done one thing to offend you?”

  “No, you have not,” he said more loudly. “And I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Are you still willing to be my wife?”

  “I’ve cooked for you, I’ve cleaned for you. I take care of the animal pens. I’ve applied myself to your goals. I… What did you just ask me?”

  “Are you still willing to be my wife?”

  She crossed her arms. “Why do you ask me now? To keep me here because it’s convenient? I warn you, I have come to expect much more than just a letter of agreement.”

  “You’ve been listening too much to Hannah.”

  “And she is quite right. We are strong women. We’ve worked beside men, doing the same chores that men do. We’ve worked without men, holding our society together. Not all of us chase a rich man or a handsome man, but we all want to be loved.”

  “And you are loved. The whole community loves you.”

  “And you, Mr. Marston? Do you love me?!”

  Instead of answering, he took her into his arms and held her tightly, before breath
lessly, yet gently kissing her on the lips. All the long nights of yearning leaped to the surface in that kiss. Just as he was about to release her, she locked her fingers behind his neck and drew him down, crushing his mouth against her own. His lips clung to hers thirstily, while he caressed her face and smoothed away her hair, his breath matching her own rapid breathing. She felt like thunder was roaring through her veins and throbbing a steady beat into her ears. She would have been willing to linger in his embrace for minutes instead of seconds, for hours into eternity, if not for a strange, yipping sound that interrupted their moment. “Oh,” he said, breaking away. “I got you a dog. The Silverman’s hound had puppies.”

  It was a bit of a hound; rather sad-eyed and floppy eared, but with a somewhat fluffy coat. “I think it’s more than one kind of hound,” he said awkwardly as Greta picked him up and examined him.

  The puppy stretched its neck to lick at her nose and she grinned. “He’s adorable!”

  “The Silverman’s say he comes from a line of very smart dogs. They make good watchdogs. They flush out varmints. They have even been known to protect babies. But they don’t like to travel much. They are stay at home dogs.”

  “He wouldn’t be very suitable to take on a wagon train.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Yet he is my dog.”

  “He is your dog, Miss Samuelson. Call it an early Christmas present.”

  “Well then, Mr. Marston. I believe you are going to have to draw up the buggy because we’re going to town. And our first stop is with the wagon train.”

  She picked up the puppy and hugged it close to her while Joseph hitched the buggy to Snake Bite. She ran one hand down the pony’s nose and he pulled back his lips for a treat. “Aw, you are terribly spoiled,” she said, offering him a few frost touched vegetables from the garden. She pulled back as he reached for more and said privately to the puppy, “You see, he’s a poor example of gratitude. Don’t pay attention to him.”