Mistaken Bride

by Renee Ryan

  She smiled.

  “And where are you living?” At her lifted eyebrow, he explained, “I ask so I can make arrangements to pick you up in the morning.”

  “Not to worry.” She looked over her shoulder, her smile still firmly in place. “Sheriff Long has agreed to drop me off on his way out of town.”

  The dark emotion he’d suppressed earlier spread through Will again. One week, he reminded himself. He had one full week to discover if Bridget Murphy was a woman he could trust around his children. “Then it’s settled.”

  “Lovely.” She clasped her hands tightly together.

  Unable to stop himself, he touched her braided fingers. “Thank you, Bridget.”

  “You’re welcome, Will.” She held his gaze a moment. “Do you wish to tell the children about our arrangement, or may I?”

  He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He was still trying to process the fact that this woman would be in his home, everyday, helping to raise his children. Not as their mother, he reminded himself, but as their nanny. “You may do the honors.”

  Her eyes brightened and before two complete heartbeats passed she was stooping in front of Caleb and Olivia. After a brief conversation, the children squealed in delight and then launched themselves into Bridget’s outstretched arms. Laughing, she hugged them tightly to her.

  In that moment Will knew he’d made the right decision—for his children.

  But what about for himself? Had he just made the biggest mistake of his life, hiring a woman he knew so little about? Or would this turn out to be the best decision he’d ever made?

  At this point only the Lord knew for sure.

  * * *

  William Black left with his children soon after the hugging and smiling and laughing subsided, with the understandable excuse that he needed to check on his mother. Bridget watched their departure, tossing waves to the children and then staring after them long past the time they’d disappeared around the corner.

  “The twins are darling,” Nora said from behind her.

  “Yes, they are.”

  Coming around to face her, Nora studied her.

  Bridget knew that look in her sister’s eyes. “Speak, Nora. Just say whatever it is you have on your mind.”

  “All right. I will. Are you certain you want to work for William Black? He seems rather…severe.”

  Severe? Yes, perhaps he was. But today Bridget had gained a bit more insight into what drove the man. Not only did he love his family, his concern for them took precedence over his own preferences.

  A wistful ache pulsed through her. What would it be like to have a man care for her so completely, so sacrificially? Daniel had always been more concerned with appearances than Bridget herself. Why hadn’t she realized that sooner?

  “If Will seems severe,” she said in his defense, “it’s because he’s worried about his children.” She decided to keep his mother’s health crisis to herself for now. At least until she consulted Flynn. “I want this job, Nora. Truly, I do.”

  Her sister didn’t appear entirely convinced. “If you are certain.”

  “I am.” Bridget quickly changed the subject. “Oh, Nora, just think. We’re to get our first glimpse of our new home this afternoon.”

  The house was theirs, she told herself firmly. She wouldn’t allow herself to think otherwise. Determining the legality of the deed was only a formality.

  Smiling at last, Nora ran the tip of her finger over Grace’s cheek. The baby cooed softly in return. “It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, aye, it is.”

  They made their way down the church steps just as Cameron Long broke away from a young couple and ambled toward them.

  “Well, ladies. I’m at your disposal for the rest of the day.” He swept the hat off his head and bowed grandly. The gentlemanly gesture encompassed both of them, but his eyes kept straying to Nora. “Do you want to head to the house now, or later this afternoon?”

  “Now,” they chimed as one.

  “Right, then.” His lips curved in a lopsided grin. “Follow me.”

  He guided them toward a rickety wagon with an empty flatbed in the back. He apologized for the rustic accommodations, explaining that the three of them would have to share the lone seat up front. “It might be a bit cramped,” he warned.

  “It’ll be fine,” Bridget said for them both, not wanting to give him any reason to change his mind.

  Once they were settled on the hard seat, Nora and baby Grace first, then Bridget, the sheriff rounded the wagon and climbed on board, as well. A series of creaks and groans met the additional weight. Shifting forward, he released the brake. A flick of his wrist and they were off.

  “If you ladies don’t mind,” he said, “I need to stop by the jail before we head out of town.”

  The request sent a wave of impatience sweeping through Bridget, one she firmly clapped into submission. What was one more delay at this point in their journey?

  Thankfully the trek around the square took no time at all.

  “Hey, Ben,” the sheriff called as he drew the wagon to a halt, gruff affection in his voice. “Get out here, you old coot, and meet Faith Glen’s newest residents.”

  “I’m coming. I’m coming.” The door to the jailhouse swung open and an older gentleman sauntered onto the planked sidewalk. He had a pleasant, ruddy complexion, a full shock of white hair and wore a badge clipped to his chest.

  Bridget guessed him to be in his late sixties and immediately noted how his dark brown eyes gleamed with mischief and good humor.

  “Don’t tell me these lovely young women are the Murphy sisters.” He spoke with a pleasant, if somewhat thick Irish accent. The familiar brogue reminded Bridget of home.

  Nostalgia tried to overwhelm her, a sensation that felt as bittersweet as it did unexpected. Oh, how she missed the people of Castleville and the comfort that came from relationships built over a lifetime.

  Refusing to allow her melancholy to ruin this special day, Bridget blinked away the memories and forced a smile on her face. This was not a time for looking back, but for focusing on what lay ahead.

  “Ben.” Cameron Long jumped to the ground and slapped the man on the back. “Meet Nora and Bridget Murphy. Ladies, this is Ben MacDuff, the former sheriff of Faith Glen and now my acting deputy.”

  Without waiting for any of them to respond, he disappeared around the corner of the building with a cryptic explanation of needing to gather a few things.

  While he was gone, Nora introduced Grace to the deputy sheriff. As he admired the baby, Bridget said to his bent head, “Deputy MacDuff, I was wondering—”

  “Now let’s get something straight right now, young lady. I don’t answer to no formal title.” He winked at her, the gesture taking away the sting of his words. “Everyone calls me Ben.”

  “Oh, well, then, Ben.” She winked at him in return. “Did you know Laird O’Malley?”

  “Know him?” He yanked off his hat and slapped his thigh with the brim. “Yeah, I knew him. Met him the day he arrived here from Ireland. I was the town sheriff back then.”

  “Will you tell us about him?” Nora asked.

  Ben shrugged. “Not much to tell. He kept mostly to himself. Guess he weren’t the type for interacting with others, if you know what I mean.”

  Bridget’s heart sank. Laird O’Malley had been a recluse. Had he been so in love with their mother, so heartbroken she hadn’t returned his feelings that he’d shut himself off from the world? Or had that just been his nature? Either way…

  “How sad,” she whispered.

  Ben shrugged again. “It was what it was.”

  Cameron Long returned with a large basket in his arms, the contents covered with a colorless muslin cloth. He lo
aded the basket in the flatbed then strode toward his deputy with ground-eating strides. “You’re in charge while I’m gone.”

  “I figured as much.” Eyeing Nora and Bridget, he said, “Now don’t you two go worrying about that old house. You’re in good hands with Cameron. The boy will sort this out for you in good time.”

  A chill slid down Bridget’s spine. What, exactly, did the boy have to sort out? The confusion over the deed? Or was Ben referring to something else, something more specific to the house itself?

  Before she could voice her questions the sheriff released the brake, picked up the reins and they were on their way again.

  Bridget waved to Ben over her shoulder.

  Silence filled the majority of the ride through town. They eventually turned off the main road and began winding their way down a path overgrown with underbrush and scrub. As the wagon bumped along the lane their horse’s tail idly swished at the flies swarming around his flanks.

  Bridget fanned herself with her hand, her pitiful efforts useless in the rising midday heat. There was no breeze. Yet despite the hot, still air, birds chirped a happy tune from their perches in the towering trees up above. The smell of grass mingled with the fragrant flowers in bloom.

  An idyllic scene, to be sure. Yet Bridget could find no joy in the moment. Not only was the heavy underbrush growing thicker with each step the horse took, her nerves were winning the battle over her attempt to remain hopeful.

  No. Bridget refused to allow her apprehension to get the best of her. Whatever they found at the end of the lane, she would consider it an additional blessing among the many they’d already received since leaving Ireland.

  A month ago they’d faced destitution. But now Maeve was married to a good, honorable man. Bridget and Nora had acquired jobs perfectly suited to their talents. The Lord had guided their path every step of the way.

  Her optimism firmly in place, Bridget held her breath with eager anticipation. The wagon rounded a small bend and…

  “Oh, my,” she gasped, shaking her head blindly. The house, the very reason for their journey to America was…it was…

  A disaster.

  Chapter Nine

  Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, my. The words continued echoing in Bridget’s mind, making coherent thought impossible.

  She shaded her eyes from the sun and took in what amounted to years of neglect. The roof sagged, leaning dangerously off-center and slightly to the right. Loose shingles hung haphazardly in places. The paint, once white but now a faded gray, was peeling off in various places, giving the entire structure a chaotic, patchwork feel.

  They had traveled all the way from Ireland with so much hope in their hearts for—this?

  A disaster, she repeated to herself. The house was a complete and utter disaster.

  Speechless, Bridget drew in a shaky breath and lifted up a silent prayer. It seemed better than crying.

  Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked to her right, saw a garden overrun with weeds. There was a rickety old bench sitting under a large shade tree that had a sign tacked to its trunk. The sign read—she leaned forward—Colleen’s Garden. Bridget blinked back tears. Laird O’Malley had planted a flower garden for their mother. How—sweet.

  Off to her left she spotted a structure that looked like a barn, a barn that had seen better days a decade ago. A scrawny cow grazed on a patch of grass nearby and a few chickens scratched in the dirt.

  As the wagon slowed to a stop Bridget took her first look at the rich, black soil beneath the wheels and smiled for the first time since arriving. The fertile dirt would produce food abundantly, with a bit of hard work on their part. Bridget was not afraid of hard work. Neither was Nora.

  “This isn’t so bad,” she said aloud, warming to the burst of ideas swimming in her head now. A bit of paint, a few new shingles, a lot of weeding and they would have a fine home to call their own.

  “Not bad?” Nora swung her wide-eyed gaze in her direction. “It’s impossible.”

  “I did warn you,” Sheriff Long said under his breath as he set the brake and hopped to the ground.

  Ignoring him, Bridget scrambled down as well and grabbed a handful of the black dirt. “Look at this soil, Nora. It’ll grow whatever we plant.”

  Nora made a face, her unhappy expression indicating she was not feeling nearly as hopeful as Bridget.

  Undaunted, Bridget turned her gaze to the house. “We’ll give it a good cleaning, weed that garden over there then take stock of what repairs need addressing first.” She shaded her eyes again. “We’ll take this one step at a time. Isn’t that what you always say, Nora? One step at a time?”

  “Yes, Bridget, that’s what I always say.” Nora studied the dilapidated structure. “The house must have been truly lovely at one time.”

  “And it will be again,” Bridget said, remembering the sermon from this morning, the part about trusting their greatest burdens to the Lord. Yes, that’s exactly what they would do in this situation. “Faith, Nora. We just need a little faith.”

  “And a lot of elbow grease,” she mumbled.

  Bridget laughed. “Precisely. One step at a time, dear sister. Now come.” She reached for Grace so Nora could climb down from the wagon. “Let’s go inside and introduce ourselves to the Coulters.”

  She handed back the baby and started off.

  “Wait.” The sheriff’s voice stopped her midstep. While she’d been busy convincing Nora all was well, he’d retrieved the basket from the bed of the wagon and had rounded back to the front once again. “Let me lead the way.”

  The stoop wasn’t much, just a few steps on a raised slab. Nevertheless the sheriff tested each stair before he motioned for them to follow. They trooped up the steps single file, Nora and Grace bringing up the rear.

  “Agnes?” he called out, shifting his load so he could tap on the door frame. “You home?”

  A small, thin voice responded to his question. “Come on in, Cameron. I’m back in the kitchen.”

  He elbowed past the door and then held it open with his shoulder so Bridget and Nora could enter ahead of him.

  Once inside Bridget came to the unfortunate realization that the interior had been equally neglected. The walls were stark, with chipped paint their only adornment. The carpets were threadbare, holes literally worn in places.

  The furniture, what little there was, also sported holes in the tattered upholstery. At least the room was clean, not a dust mite in sight. That said something about the Coulters. They might be elderly, and probably didn’t have many resources, but they were doing their best.

  The sheriff led them through the sparse room, steering them toward the back of the house. Impressions slid over one another. Faded paint, broken furniture, torn rugs, there was little to recommend the place.

  And yet Bridget saw the possibilities.

  The rooms were clean and spacious, the windows positioned to allow the light in but not the summer heat. Laird O’Malley had thought through the design with an eye for functionality. Paint, a bit of pretty wallpaper and a few new pieces of furniture would do wonders.

  They ended their short jaunt in a spacious kitchen. Shoving past Bridget, Nora laughed in delight and made straight for the large black iron stove. Bridget understood her sister’s pleasure. They’d only had a fireplace in their home in Ireland.

  Glancing around the room, Bridget’s gaze landed on a frail-looking woman sitting at a sizable table in the middle of the room. Her fingers slowly shelled beans. She looked painfully thin and wore a dress as threadbare as the rugs in the front room. Lines spiked around her pursed lips, giving her a look of suppressed pain.

  Bridget smiled gently. “You must be Agnes Coulter.”

  “That’s me,” came the uneven reply. She didn’t make any move to stand
.

  Still smiling, Bridget sat down in one of the empty chairs next to her. “I’m Bridget Murphy and that’s my sister Nora. The baby she’s carrying is Grace.”

  “Murphy.” The woman’s eyes lit with recognition, and something else. Wariness, perhaps? “Would that mean you’re Colleen’s daughters?”

  “Well, yes. Yes, we are.” Bridget reached out and touched the woman’s bony hand, the skin practically translucent over the thin purple veins running across the knuckles. “You know about our mother?”

  She focused on her bowl of beans. “Laird spoke of her often, especially in the end.”

  Bridget squeezed her hand gently. “Then you must know about the deed he sent her.”

  She nodded. “You’ve come to claim the house.”

  “Yes—” she gentled her voice even further “—but since we both have jobs in town we’ll need your help running the place.”

  A deep clearing of a throat preceded an elderly man’s entrance. He shuffled into the room, his gait sporting a decided limp. His hair was a wild white cloud around his face. His eyes were a rheumy blue.

  “So,” he began, his narrowed eyes landing on first Nora and the baby then Bridget. “You’ve finally come to push us out.”

  “No.” Bridget jumped to her feet. “On the contrary, we want you to stay on as before. We need you to help us care for the house.”

  While we care for you, she wanted to add but knew by the mutinous look in his eyes she would insult him if she did. She’d met many like him in Ireland, men who had endured the potato famine and had come away proud and humbled, the kind who would rather die by their own effort than live on someone else’s charity.

  “Please,” Nora added. “We want you to live in this house with us and carry on as before. Nothing need change.”

  “Nothing,” Bridget reiterated. “Except you’ll have two extra pairs of hands to put this place back to rights.”

  “I warn you,” he said, then drew in a shuddering breath. “There’s a lot of heavy work ahead.”