The Agent's Mail-Order Bride

by Heidi Vanlandingham

  She walked across the small room and knelt in front of Cat, laying her hands over Cat’s knees.

  “And he has...been there. I’ve watched him go into the springhouse on two different occasions, both times in the middle of the night. I followed the small flame of his lantern as he moved through the house. The first time he stayed downstairs, but the second time... Are you and Tate sleeping in the larger room to the left of the stairs?”

  “Yes,” Cat whispered.

  “That’s what I feared. The second time he went into your room. He only stayed a few minutes, but he was there.”

  Cat’s hand flew to cover her mouth, her chin trembling as her stomach churned in feat.

  “Oh my gracious! What am I going to do?”

  Chapter 13

  Rose Marie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to fight him, that’s what you are going to do. With everything you’ve got because that’s what it’s going to take for you to escape his reach. And, believe me, that reach is a far one. He has enough money to buy anything he wants, including the law. Why do you think nothing is ever done here? The sheriff gets his paycheck from John.”

  Rose Marie stood and paced the small room, her agitated movements a telling sign of how upset she was.

  “Thank you,” Cat whispered, some of her own worry leaching away.

  The other woman turned to her with a scowl. “For what? Why on earth would you be thanking me?”

  Cat’s lips twitched, but she knew Rose Marie wouldn’t appreciate her smiling, and she somehow managed to keep a straight face.

  “For helping me. For not being my enemy. I can count on three fingers the women in this town who have shown me kindness. Ayana, Matilda, and now you.”

  Rose Marie shook her head, but the scowl lessened. “You might not say that after you hear my entire story,” she muttered.

  Cat reached around the dressing table and pulled out another stool and placed it in front of her.

  “So sit down and tell me. Let me be the judge of how I feel after you unburden yourself.”

  Rose Marie chuckled but sat down, not bothering to straighten her wrinkled skirt. A few more creases wouldn’t hurt.

  “You are a strange person, you know that?”

  Cat laughed. “My parents told me that every day. My mother gave up trying to school me in the art of being a proper lady when I was thirteen. I loved causing too much trouble.”

  She leaned forward, supporting her aching back by resting her crossed arms over her knees. “Now, tell me. What has you so certain I won’t like you after I hear your story?”

  “Late yesterday, a few of the girls met in my room for tea. It always turns into a gossip session, but it’s a great way for me to learn what’s going on. Evidently, Alice was entertaining a man named Biggers, who mentioned that he and Adams learned from Black that your husband isn’t who he says he is. Tate’s an outlaw and known to run with men like Jesse Evans and the Kid.”

  The pressure in Cat’s chest returned with a vengeance, squeezing her heart and stealing her breath.

  “What? That can’t be...”

  Rose Marie gave her an apologetic look.

  “I’m sorry, Cat. The Adams Biggers mentioned is my older brother, Jason. He verified what Biggers said was true. They heard the news from John themselves. Jason always did fancy himself an outlaw.”

  Cat stared down at her clasped hands, her white knuckles a sharp contrast to the burgundy material of her skirt.

  “There’s a hesitation in your voice. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “Not much gets by you, does it? All right then, here’s something more for you to chew on. No one will tell me what happened to Monty, but I believe Black killed him for his mine to add to John Sutton’s collection.”

  “I think the same thing.” Cat stared at the other woman then sighed. “We would have been sisters.”

  For the first time, Rose Marie smiled at her.

  “I would have liked that. So, what are you going to do? Will you concede and do what your husband wants? Or are you willing to up the ante a bit and set whatever John’s plans are in motion? If it’s the latter, I think we will be able to turn the tables on him by upping his timeline and forcing his hand.”

  “Can I give you my answer tomorrow morning?” Cat asked.

  “You care for him, don’t you? Your Tate. Even with doubts about who he may be?”

  Cat thought about her response, wanting to be as truthful as she could. Oh, she definitely had doubts, but something about Tate had never seemed quite right, like he was at odds with himself. She always suspected he was hiding something from her, especially when he never directly answered her questions. Now she knew why, but even this didn’t seem true to his nature. It was as if he was playing a role somehow.

  She met Rose Marie’s brown gaze.

  “I’m afraid I do. I haven’t told a soul how I feel, not even Ayana, although she’s too smart not to have guessed by now. I’m not innocent in this marriage either. I barreled my way in because of desperation. Big John scares me silly, and I thought that if I was married, he would look the other way and leave me alone. Guess I was wrong.” Cat stood and smoothed the wool material of her skirt, not because of wrinkles but trying to get rid of the clamminess clinging to her palms. “Now Tate is stuck with me. At least until this, whatever this is, is all over.”

  “I will give you my answer tomorrow morning.” Cat didn’t wait for Rose Marie’s response and left, her quick gait taking her through the saloon in record time. She grabbed her wool cloak from the coat rack.

  As she draped it over her shoulders and buttoned up the large wooden buttons down the front, the back of her neck prickled, the small hairs rising, as if someone watched her. Turning toward the bar, she caught the dark glimmer of Welder’s eyes as his gaze followed her.

  In a quick spark of defiance, she glared at him and pulled her hood over her head then turned and stalked through the door without a backward glance. Praying he wasn’t following her, she walked into the relentless torrent of snow as it fell. Everything was coated in white, and the wondrous scent of burning piñon wood filled her nostrils, boosting her spirits.

  Stepping up onto her front porch, she stomped the extra snow from her boots and let herself in. She stood still, listening to the quiet of her home, as if to pick up the tiniest unfamiliar sound, but the house was silent. Pulling off her gloves and cloak, she hung them on the coat tree by the front door and added wood to the simmering ashes in the stove. Next, she placed several pieces of wood on top and stuffed bits of paper between them in hopes the ashes were still hot enough to stoke the flames, but it didn’t work.

  As her shivering increased, she pulled out a match from the small box on the mantle and lit it then placed it in the center of the wadded paper, which immediately caught on fire. Thankfully, it only took a few minutes until bright orange flames lit up the sitting room. She stepped back and looked at the room she stood in.

  Just that morning, she had hung several pine wreaths a few of the dance girls had made. Festive red ribbon hung around the mantle, and a small branch of mistletoe tied with a thin pink dangled a few inches above the front door. Christmas was tomorrow, and the last thing she felt like doing was celebrating.

  With her emotions still in an uproar, her appetite all but gone, she still didn’t want Tate coming home to an empty kitchen and no supper. Staring into the cupboard, she got an idea and pulled out the flour, eggs, sugar, and several other ingredients. She placed a cast iron skillet on the stove then dumped measured amounts of each ingredient into a bowl and stirred it all up. Once the skillet was hot enough, she dropped two cupfuls onto the surface and waited for the bubbles to form then flipped them over to cook on the opposite side.

  Just as she flipped the last two pancakes, a muffled thumping came from the front porch. A few seconds later, Tate walked in. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. He was covered head to toe in snow and looked like a giant snowman. She scraped
out the pancakes and moved the skillet to the back of the stove to cool off then placed the plate of pancakes on the table along with a half-filled crock of butter and jug of maple syrup.

  She hesitated then turned to face Tate, who stared at the table with a confused look on his wind-whipped face.

  “I’m not very hungry...” She shrugged and tried to smile.

  He glanced at her then returned his gaze to the table.

  “Why are we having breakfast for supper?”

  Her smile widened. She moved closer and began helping him out of his heavy coat, which she carried to the chair by the fireplace and draped it over the back to let the heat from the fire dry it out. She did the same for his boots, which he’d already pulled off.

  He fixed a huge stack of pancakes, smothering them in butter and syrup. In what seemed no more than three bites, he devoured the entire plate and began fixing another.

  “These are delicious! You can fix these anytime you’d like—breakfast, lunch, or supper.”

  He took a bite and moaned, rolling his eyes.

  “And don’t tell Thad. He loves pancakes—he’d never leave.”

  Cat giggled and shook her head. She pulled two light brown cakes onto a plate and added much smaller portions of butter and syrup. Closing her eyes as she chewed, she savored the taste filling her mouth.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She opened her eyes to find Tate giving her a curious stare.

  “My mother. Every Sunday evening, she would fix enough pancakes to feed a small army, and the three of us would devour each and every one.”

  She smiled. “After she died, I couldn’t eat them anymore. They reminded me too much of those times—happier times.”

  “What changed?” He stuck the last bite in his mouth, chewing slowly. He swallowed then drained the remaining milk from his cup.

  “You’re eating them now.”

  She shrugged and continued eating. She didn’t want to tell him how much it had meant for her to share her one-time favorite meal with him, or the precious memory.

  “I guess growing up helped me get over a few things.”

  “What else could have happened in your childhood that you would need to get over?”

  She stood and gathered the plates and set them in the sink, which was already filled with soapy water. Letting them soak, she put up the butter and the syrup and wiped the tabletop clean.

  “Are you wanting to exchange stories?”

  He hesitated. “Well...”

  She washed the first plate and grinned.

  “I’ll share one story if you do.”

  She finished the dishes and, as they lay on the countertop drying, she let the water out of the sink and wiped her hands on a clean towel, which she hung on the small hook beside the window. She frowned at the snow-covered yard outside.

  The snow had stopped and sometime while they ate, the moon had appeared, lightening the darkness so she could almost make out the nearby shadowy areas. Not liking the idea of anyone watching her, she pulled the curtains closed and turned around. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned back against the countertop.

  “I’ll even begin. I can’t remember whether I’ve told you or not, but my mother died at the end of the war. She refused to leave her home after a confederate captain threatened us. He told my father he’d be damned if any Yankee soldier was going to use the house for safety, so he set the place on fire. Mama locked herself in my bedroom. Papa tried to break down the door, but with his injured leg...”

  “I’m so sorry. No one should watch their mother die.” He scrubbed his face with suddenly nervous hands.

  She could see their subtle shaking when he dropped them back down on the table.

  “I don’t remember much about my parents, and I have vague memories of a younger brother.” His voice was monotone, and he kept his gaze focused on the tabletop, a few inches away from his fingers.

  “One afternoon, I went searching for food and when I got back to the house, I found strangers inside. They claimed squatters rights and kicked me out.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve. It wasn’t that much later that I met Thad and Welder. They were digging in the garbage that was piled higher than we were tall behind the grocery. We scavenged enough for a week and holed up in an abandoned store a few blocks away. When someone bought the building, we moved to another. We left Texas soon after and struck out to make it on our own.”

  “What did you do for money? How did you survive?”

  Tate squirmed in his chair then stood and walked to stand in front of the fire.

  “We managed—together.”

  Frustration gnawed at her. She had just given him the perfect opportunity to come clean about his past, but he hadn’t taken the bait. Without just blurting out the question, how else could she discover what he was hiding? Maybe she didn’t need to ask him anything...

  “I have a confession to make. I’m not sure when it happened, but I recognized you from the war.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Pardon?”

  She took a deep breath.

  “You were the Union captain the Confederates wanted to stop from using our farm...”

  Gathering her nerve, she walked toward him, not quite sure what she was doing, but wanting to do something all the same. In his tight embrace, her problems disappeared and she felt safe. His kisses made her forget everything but him, and she ached to feel like that again.

  She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around him from behind and linked her fingers just above the waistband on his pants. His body stiffened then relaxed the longer she held on. Content for now, she pressed her cheek against his back and listened to his heart beating strong against her face.

  “I don’t think this is very wise,” his deep voice rumbled in her ear.

  “We aren’t doing anything wrong, Tate. Just relax and enjoy the feeling of someone caring about you.”

  “You care? About me? Why? I’ve done nothing but interrupt your life and insult you, and now you’re telling me I’m the one ultimately responsible for your mother’s death.”

  “That’s just silly. My mother is responsible for her actions, not you. Besides, I’m the one who butted into your plan and have caused all sorts of disruptions, not the other way around. You have done none of those things.”

  She loosened her grip around his waist and edged her way around to stand in front of him. Giving him a slight push, he stepped back from the fireplace so her dress wouldn’t catch on fire. She threaded her arms through his and hugged him to her. She dropped her head back so she could look up at him.

  “You aren’t alone anymore, Tate. I will be here for you, whether you like it or not because, for now, I am your wife. The one thing I learned from watching my parents is that together we can get through anything.”

  He stared down at her for what seemed like the longest time. Just as she was about to lay her head against his chest to ease the muscle cramp in the back of her neck, his hands cupped her face. The pads of his thumbs, rough from hard work, eased the anxiety coiling inside her stomach. He inched closer. She held her breath, praying he would kiss her.

  “I can’t believe you’re really her. I’ve dreamed about the adorable girl with the beautiful red hair and easy smile. You really are her?”

  She nodded.

  His lips touched hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. Heart racing, she let him pick her up and carry her toward their bedroom.

  He laid her on the bed and stared down at her a moment. His fingers unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons from her neck to her waist then pushed her shirt apart until the soft material draped around her shoulders. She wasn’t sure what to do until Tate’s head dropped to her chest, his mouth suckling her breast.

  She gasped. The wonderful sensations filled her body until she thought she would explode from pleasure. She pulled his head back up to hers, pressi
ng her lips to his, their tongues dueling until Tate pulled back, his body tense as he raised his head, tilting it to one side as if listening to something in the other room.

  “Tate?”

  He frowned down at her and shook his head, placing one finger over his lips. Cat took the hint and stayed quiet, letting him ease off the bed and softly walk across the room. Now she knew how he silently snuck out of the house every morning without waking her. It was as if he glided over the wooden planks without actually touching them with his feet.

  She heard another sound, this one further away. She pulled her shirt back in place and, holding the ends together, scooted off the bed. Focusing on Tate as he moved through the house, she remembered what Rose Marie told her about the hidden passageway. Stepping on her tiptoes, she hurried after him and caught up to him in the middle of the parlor. Her fingers moved from the top button to the next as she refastened her shirt.

  Tugging on his arm, she mouthed the words root cellar and pointed toward the door. He walked to where she had indicated and again raised his finger, placing it against his lips. She glanced at the door and noticed the latch wasn’t fully engaged.

  Tate noiselessly twisted the knob and, without warning, jerked back on the door. Darkness greeted them. Cat grabbed the lantern from the center of the kitchen table and lit the kerosene-soaked wick. Handing it to him, the eerie yellow light flickered over the cellar walls. Other than a shelf filled with canned goods and a several hanging baskets with a few potatoes and onions in them, the small room was empty.

  “Damn,” Tate muttered, his gaze skimming the room. He turned around to face Cat.

  “What’s going on?”

  Her head ached. She tried rubbing away the furrows between her eyebrows.

  “I was warned about a hidden tunnel going from the springhouse to the root cellar. It slipped my mind when we—”

  She shrugged and moved toward the shelves. Picking up one jar then another, she realized they now had enough food for at least a week.