The Mail-Order Brides Collection

by Megan Besing

  The justice of the peace remained, a lonely figure on the now-empty stage.

  “Here’s our chance!” Delia leaped to her feet and snatched the colonel’s hand. “We’ll tell him the truth, and take our chances.”

  The colonel remained as immovable as a bronze statue of a war hero. “No.”

  Delia set her jaw. She’d been taking orders from her father for the past twenty-one years. For the first time in her life, she was free, and she wasn’t letting this stubborn man drag her back into submission. “We’ll just see about that.”

  Sean grasped his hat and dusted the brim. His brother had embroiled him in one of his crazy schemes for the last time. He’d only agreed to come this far because he hadn’t expected Becky to arrive for the wedding. What woman in her right mind agreed to marry a man she’d met only once? He slanted a glance at Miss Lawrence. Eccentricity must run in the family.

  The aggravating woman was completely out of place in the grimy saloon. She wore an expensive satin dress in burnt umber over a matching checked underskirt. Her feathered hat was worthless against the sun, and the thin fabric of her matching gloves was suitable only for decoration. She stood out like a gold piece in a bag full of plug nickels. She needed a bodyguard, not a proxy, but protecting greenhorns was a distraction he avoided whenever possible.

  Sean replaced his hat. “There isn’t going to be a marriage today. Neither the bride nor the groom is available. I suggest you return to your sister. If she still feels the same way next fall, perhaps you can try again.”

  “Then you’re going back on your word?” Miss Lawrence challenged. “I expected better of a soldier.”

  A flush of heat swept through his body. No one questioned his integrity. No one. He wasn’t the youngest man since the War Between the States to be promoted to colonel because he lacked veracity. No one challenged his honor. Least of all this slip of woman who had no business traipsing through the wilderness dressed as though she were the guest of honor at a tea party.

  A blistering set down balanced on the tip of his tongue, and Sean took a deep, fortifying breath. He’d never lost his head in battle, and he wasn’t letting his legendary control slide because of Miss Lawrence. Besides, her determination to see her sister wed didn’t quite ring true.

  He sensed she was hiding something, and her perfidy was her weakness. “If you think you can convince the justice of the peace to agree to a double proxy wedding, then be my guest. Tell him our story.”

  There was no merit in such a crazy scheme. Surely even the drunken justice of the peace had commonsense reasoning skills.

  Miss Lawrence’s hazel eyes glinted. “I’m certain once I explain the circumstances, the justice of the peace will agree.”

  “The truth, however,” Sean amended. “No altering the facts. No lies.”

  Rules, much like the chain of command, were set in place for a reason.

  The glint in her striking eyes was challenging. “Deal.”

  As the petite brunette charged ahead, a twinge of unease scuttled over him. Constructing the telegraph lines across the territory of Montana had tested his endurance to the breaking point. He was exhausted but near enough to his goal to ignore his discomfort. Thus far, his weary unit had battled the weather, Indians, raging rivers, and wild animals. Not to mention territorial settlers who didn’t appreciate a bevy of men and equipment plodding over their land to reach the easement the army had negotiated alongside the railroad tracks.

  Their worst skirmish had been with an outlaw named Littlebury Helm, the current leader of the Innocents Gang. The outlaws had earned the nickname because their code phrase had once been, ironically, “I am innocent.” They’d stolen horses and gear and killed two of his men during a botched raid on their unit’s supplies. Sean had promised to complete the line by the end of the month, despite the outlaws, and he’d never gone back on a promise. Once he finished, he was going after Littlebury Helm. That promise was personal.

  He must have hesitated, because Miss Lawrence tugged on his hand. “You can’t change your mind.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  As they made their way toward the raised platform, two men jumped in line ahead of them. One of the men had an untrimmed mustache reaching clear to his jaw, and the other wore a fancy bowler hat he’d probably stolen off an unsuspecting prospector from back East.

  Sean took advantage of the delay and set the ground rules. “The minute the justice denies our request, I’m leaving for my unit. You understand that, I presume? I’ll even give you the fare back to Denver. You and your sister can’t stay in Montana alone. It’s too dangerous.”

  While Paul had his heart set on the marriage, he’d have to wait. His brother should be accustomed to disappointment by now. There was no way this lovely distraction could survive more than a few days in Montana, which meant her sister was better off back home in Denver—safe in the bosom of her family.

  As the pair of line jumpers argued their case to the justice of the peace, their voices rose and the men gestured frantically. Lest the situation escalate, Sean casually stepped between Miss Lawrence and the feuding litigants. The justice banged his gavel and declared the mustachioed man the winner of the case. The fellow in the incongruent bowler hat scowled and stomped toward an exit door at the rear of the stage.

  Without letting the drunken justice of the peace pause for breath, Miss Lawrence rushed forward. “I’m Adelia Lawrence and this is Colonel Sean Morgan. We’re here to marry in proxy for our siblings.”

  The bleary-eyed man thumbed through a stack of papers. “Fill out this form in quadruple. One for each of you. One for each of your siblings.”

  “Just like that?” Sean elbowed nearer. “You can’t be serious!”

  Chapter 2

  Call me Elroy.” The justice of the peace burped noisily.

  “Isn’t this highly irregular, Elroy?” Sean enunciated the last word through clenched teeth.

  “Don’t make me no never mind,” the justice replied, tugging at a loose thread attached to his fraying shoulder seam. “Long as the paperwork is filed with the county, I don’t care who says the words. By the by, the cost for a double proxy marriage is double.”

  Sean pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes until he saw stars. He hadn’t considered the fee. The justice was paid by the case. No wonder he was so accommodating. Sean glared at the man. “You’re doubling the fee?”

  He’d been neatly hoisted by his own petard. Paying more for the privilege seemed unnecessarily cruel.

  Miss Lawrence shot him a triumphant grin. “Price wasn’t part of the ground rules.” Sean dutifully counted out the bills and Miss Lawrence followed suit.

  “Double the fee for both of ya’,” Elroy amended. “You, too, miss.”

  With only a slight pursing of her full, pink lips, Miss Lawrence retrieved the balance from her flimsy velvet bag. Grumbling, Sean filled out his brother’s name and reached for the second document where he dutifully scribed his name in proxy. Beside him, Miss Lawrence did the same. Much to his surprise, her handwriting was crisp and neat with no unnecessary flourishes. Given her looks, he’d anticipated a flowery script with loops and whirls.

  Elroy scanned their answers, placed their paperwork haphazardly on the pile at his elbow, and nudged a Bible toward the edge of the table. “Right hand on the cover, left hand in the air.”

  Miss Lawrence tugged off her glove and touched the Bible first. Sean’s hand dwarfed hers, and her fingers trembled. A jolt of pure, masculine pride vibrated through him. Despite her self-certainty, she wasn’t completely indifferent to him. If they were marrying for real, he’d slip his hand around her waist and draw her nearer.

  Great Scott! Sean snapped to attention. Where had that thought originated?

  He recited complicated battle plans of legendary military campaigns in his head. Despite his attempt at distraction, he noted that her fingers were tapered and elegant with a smudge of ink marring her middle knuckle.

&nbs
p; Elroy crookedly adjusted his tattered neck cloth. “Do you promise that the answers you have provided here are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” they both replied in unison.

  “Do you…Hold on here.” Elroy shuffled through the papers once more, his head bent. “Do you, Colonel Sean Lawrence, take Miss Adelia Morgan in proxy matrimony for Mr. Paul Morgan and Miss Rebecca Lawrence?”

  Sean ground his back teeth together. “I, Sean Morgan, take Miss Adelia Lawrence, in holy proxy matrimony for Mr. Paul Morgan and Miss Rebecca Lawrence.”

  “Right, righty then,” the justice mumbled. “Do you, Miss, ah, never mind.” He tossed the papers back on the pile. “Just repeat what he said. I can’t keep the names straight.”

  Miss Lawrence repeated the words, her voice hushed. Their gazes caught and held. Sean’s mouth went dry and heat curled in his stomach. He shook off the odd sensation. They were only saying the words; the marriage had no personal meaning to either of them. They were simply proxies for the true bride and groom. Whatever sense of gravity he felt was simply the result of too little sleep and too many difficulties.

  Elroy took a sip from his glass. “Do you both swear to love, honor, and obey each other in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?”

  “I do,” they replied.

  “Did you hear that?” Miss Lawrence whispered victoriously near his ear. “The groom has to obey, as well.”

  “Paul,” Sean rectified, grateful the earlier heated awareness had dissipated somewhat. “Paul has to obey. I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

  “Let’s not get distracted.” Elroy hiccupped. “By the powers invested in me by the Territory of Montana, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

  “Vested,” Sean corrected.

  “They ain’t invested in you, they’re invested in me.”

  Sean rolled his eyes.

  The mustachioed man from the previous case had taken a seat at the bar. He lifted his mug and offered a weak cheer. “Here, here!”

  Elroy replaced the Bible in the center of the table and offered a gap-toothed grin. “Would you like to kiss the bride?”

  “No!” Miss Lawrence cried, snatching back her hand.

  “Proxy marriage,” Sean corrected. “Proxy husband and wife.”

  Much to his surprise, he discovered he wasn’t entirely averse to kissing Miss Lawrence. Her lips drew his attention, and his heart thudded in his chest. Sean gave a sharp tug on the hem of his jacket. This physical reaction was both unwanted and unwelcome. Women were of little use to a military man. His own father had given up a thriving career in the army to marry a woman half his age. The pair had subsequently settled in San Francisco, where his father currently repaired clocks for a living. Clocks. How a man could pivot from the battlefield to mind-numbing gears was unfathomable.

  “Is that all?” Miss Lawrence asked, her voice clipped. “Are we finished here?”

  “That’s all.” The justice poured a generous two fingers of whiskey into his glass. “Looks like I have time for tipple. Remind me to thank Maud for clearing out the place for lunch.”

  An uneasy sensation snaked down Sean’s spine. He immediately surveyed his surroundings for any signs of a threat. The saloon was nearly empty save for a few blurry-eyed patrons and the mustachioed man at the bar. As Sean’s gaze swept over the remaining customers, one of the card player’s eyes widened at something on the stage. The hairs on the back of Sean’s neck stirred, and he pivoted on his heel.

  The man in the fancy bowler hat had returned, and he looked fit to be tied. He snatched Miss Lawrence around the neck and pressed the barrel of his pistol against her temple.

  For a split second, Sean’s reaction time slowed. Shaking himself free of the unexpected torpor, he rapidly searched for the nearest exits and gauged his best course of action.

  Bowler Hat gave Miss Lawrence a shake, fluttering the reddish-brown feather on her hat. “Nobody move.”

  Spurred from his initial shock, Sean’s focus grew icy.

  Elroy sprang to his feet, his whiskey bottle clutched against his chest. “Sure thing, mister. Whatever you say. I don’t want no trouble.”

  “I said, nobody move!” Bowler Hat repeated, his harried attention directed at the justice of the peace. “Especially you.”

  Sean splayed his arms in a placating gesture and stepped toward the man. “Let the woman go. You don’t need a hostage.”

  “Stay out of this, soldier boy.” The man tightened his grip and backed up, tugging a stumbling Miss Lawrence before him. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot her.”

  “I believe you,” Sean soothed. “We’re going to help you, aren’t we, Elroy?”

  The justice nodded eagerly. “Whatever you need, mister.”

  Bowler Hat gestured with his chin. “That feller over there with the mustache owes me fifty dollars. I don’t care what that drunken judge says. I want my fifty dollars.”

  As though the glass might somehow protect him from a bullet, Mustache Man held his beer stein like a shield before his face.

  “Give him the money,” Sean directed quietly, a knot of anxiety twisting in his gut. Mustache Man reluctantly set down the mug. “I won fair and square.”

  “You ain’t holding the gun!” Bowler Hat waved the pistol in the man’s general direction. “I make the rules now.”

  The shouted declaration jolted Mustache Man into action. He frantically dug in his pockets, spilling coins and bills on the floor before clumsily retrieving them. He fumbled to gather the money in his cupped hands and jerked upright.

  “Here it is.” Mustache Man extended his arms. “Fifty dollars.”

  “Bring it this way.” Bowler Hat gestured with his gun. “Hurry.”

  Sean flinched. The outlaw was treating the gun far too carelessly considering the proximity of his hostage.

  “This is as fast as I can go with my bum knee,” Mustache Man grumbled.

  The closest door was behind them. If the outlaw exited from the rear of the stage once more, he gained the advantage.

  “The stairs,” Sean called, pulling Bowler Hat’s attention toward him once more. “You’re better off leaving through the saloon. You’ve got a clean exit to the livery if you leave out the front door. If anyone stops you, you’ve got the woman as insurance.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Miss Lawrence gasped.

  “Shut up,” Bowler Hat shouted. “Nobody move or the woman gets a bullet. Stay put, all of you. Especially you, soldier boy.”

  Keeping Miss Lawrence in position as his shield, the outlaw’s attention swiveled, searching for any impediment to his escape.

  “You don’t need me,” Miss Lawrence called, her heels scuffing along the floor. “Take your money and leave.”

  Nausea roiled in Sean’s stomach, and he steeled himself against her distress. This was the only way. He kept his gaze fixed on the abductor, his glacial focus never wavering. The moment Bowler Hat ducked his head to traverse the stairs, Sean jerked his gun from his holster.

  Miss Lawrence purposefully collapsed, abruptly bringing down her captor. Sean’s bullet narrowly missed its mark, splintering the wood behind where the man’s torso had been only a moment before.

  Elroy’s whiskey bottle crashed to the floor. The justice tossed the table onto its side and scurried behind the barricade.

  Bowler Hat shrieked and flailed. He and Miss Lawrence tumbled out of view in a flurry of arms and legs and amber skirts. A gun discharged, and the report echoed through the cavernous space.

  The acrid scent of gunpowder assaulted Sean’s nostrils and his knees went weak.

  An ominous silence descended over the saloon.

  The air whooshed from Delia’s lungs. She frantically struggled beneath the dead weight of the man crushing her. The next instant she was freed, gasping for air, only to be crushed once again. Barely able to open her eyes, she recognized the dark blue suit of the colonel�
��s uniform.

  “Were you trying to get yourself killed?” Colonel Morgan demanded, his voice hoarse.

  “I saved us.” She pushed off from his chest. “Why were you shooting? You might have hit me!”

  He didn’t loosen his protective hold, and her heart hammered in her chest. Surely this odd, breathless reaction was from her recent brush with death. She certainly wasn’t responding to the elusive scent of sandalwood clinging to his wool uniform jacket.

  As she clasped his upper arms, the colonel’s strong muscles rippled beneath her fingers. Having been raised exclusively with sisters, she hadn’t expected a man’s arms to be quite this firm. She glanced at the flabby man writhing on the floor. Then again, perhaps the colonel was special.

  “I wasn’t aiming for you,” he said. “I had a plan.”

  Gracious, the man was nothing but muscle and sinew. Her heart fluttered and her pulse quickened.

  She clutched his arms tighter. “How was I supposed to know that?”

  The door to the saloon burst open and a whip-thin, dark-haired man with a tin star pinned to his checked shirt appeared. “Did I hear gunfire?”

  “Brilliant deduction.” Colonel Morgan released her and stood then clasped her hand. “What took you so long?”

  “I was eating.” The sheriff flicked at a sticky blob on his shirtsleeve. “Until my meal was rudely interrupted, that is.”

  “What about me?” The prone man groaned, his expensive bowler hat crushed beneath his hip. “I’m dying! I’m bleeding to death here.”

  Delia struggled upright, but her legs trembled, and her limbs were oddly weak. The colonel hooked his hands beneath her arms and effortlessly hoisted her to her feet. He kept his hold until she was steady, then stepped back. His brisk, impersonal manner infused her with a sense of independence, and she brushed at her skirts with quaking hands. If he had coddled her or attempted to appease her in any way, she feared she might have burst into hysterical tears from the shock of it all. Which simply wouldn’t do.