A Bride for Isaac

by Cat Cahill

  “You Maggie?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I’ll get your things.” He climbed down from the wagon, slowly and wincing a bit as if the movement hurt him. As he lumbered toward her trunk and carpetbag, Maggie pressed a hand to her mouth.

  It couldn’t be. She’d left an old man in Illinois to marry an old man in the Colorado Territory. He’d either lied about his age—and his appearance—or the paper had misprinted another man’s information onto Isaac’s ad. It was all too much, and a giggle rose from her throat. First the outlaws, and now this.

  By the time Isaac had returned with her trunk, Maggie was laughing like a madwoman. He eyed her as he lifted the trunk into the wagon.

  “I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” Maggie tried to swallow the remainder of the giggles.

  He made a sound deep in his throat and went to fetch her carpetbag. Maggie gripped the side of the wagon and attempted to control the rising panic that had taken the place of laughter. She tried to imagine what Ivy would say if she were here.

  She’d tell Maggie not to be hasty. After all, she’d journeyed all the way out here, and she’d left behind nothing worth returning to at home. The least she could do was give the man a chance. Perhaps, if she got to know him, she might find him interesting and kind, even if he were old enough to be her grandfather.

  He placed her carpetbag into the buckboard, and then held out a hand to help her up onto the bench seat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Trenton,” she said, as demurely as possible. She supposed she should call him Isaac, but they had just met and it felt rude to address him by his Christian name, even if he’d shown no compunction in calling her Maggie.

  “Ain’t Mr. Trenton,” he said as she settled herself into her seat.

  Maggie’s hands stilled from rearranging her skirts. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said I ain’t Mr. Trenton. Name’s Pete Hemphill.”

  “Oh!” Maggie’s face went warm. She was so embarrassed she hardly knew what to say, which was indeed a rare occurrence.

  Mr. Hemphill said nothing. Instead, he clucked to the horses, and the wagon lurched forward, toward the north. Maggie gripped the side and tried to concentrate on her surroundings rather than the mistaken identity.

  The air was much cooler here than it had been back in Illinois. In fact, it barely felt like spring at all. Maggie drew her coat closer around her as she looked around. But despite the impressive mountains and the small but blossoming town around her, too many unanswered questions danced in her mind.

  “Pardon me, but why didn’t Mr. Trenton come to the depot? I’d understood that he was to be the one to meet me.”

  Mr. Hemphill spit out the side of the buckboard before he answered. “Trenton’s got himself busy with work. He sent me.”

  That made sense. Maggie knew very little about ranching, but she imagined it took a lot of time to ensure everything ran the way it should. “Do you work for Mr. Trenton?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have you been with him long?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s only had this land nigh on a few months. Helped him build the house and the barn, though, when it weren’t snowing.”

  Maggie turned away and pretended to observe the smaller, darker mountains to the east to hide her surprise. Isaac hadn’t indicated he’d been a rancher for very long, but she’d somehow assumed he had been. But, she reasoned, it must take time for a man to save enough money to start his own spread.

  Mr. Hemphill didn’t seem inclined to conversation, and so Maggie kept the remainder of her questions to herself, which wasn’t easy. After an hour, Mr. Hemphill turned the wagon slightly west, away from the train tracks. After a time, her stomach rumbled. It was long past noon, and she hadn’t eaten since she’d had a light breakfast in Cañon City. Right as Maggie was about to ask how much longer it would be until they arrived, a row of fencing appeared. Just ahead, she could make out tall wooden posts. Mr. Hemphill drove the horses through the posts, which Maggie supposed was some sort of entrance to the ranch.

  They went around a stand of pines, and there, just in front of them, was the house.

  Maggie gasped in delight. It was small, but beautifully made. A wide porch ran the length of the front of the house, which was made of cut pieces of wood. Two large windows flanked the front door, and just above the door, a dormer window rose from the roofline, indicating the house had a second floor.

  “Barn’s over there.” Mr. Hemphill nodded to his right, and Maggie turned to look. “Bunkhouse is about done, but still working on the rest.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Maggie said. “Truly. I can hardly believe you and Mr. Trenton built this yourselves.”

  Mr. Hemphill’s face reddened some, and it warmed Maggie’s heart. It seemed the tough old man had a soft spot.

  “You go on in,” he said. “I’ll put up the horses and bring in your things. Trenton said to make yourself at home.” He paused a moment. “We ain’t got a cook yet, so apologies about that. There should be some foodstuff in the cabinets.”

  Maggie nodded and leapt from the wagon before he could help her down. She was more than eager to explore her new home.

  She only hoped it wouldn’t be long before she got to meet her husband.

  Chapter Four

  It was long past sunset when Isaac Trenton reined up outside his new home. Though it was so dark he could barely make out the outline of the house, he took a moment to sit back in the saddle and smile. Something about this place—about this land and the house he’d built on it—set his mind at ease. It was as if this acreage was always meant to be his home and had waited patiently for him to find it.

  And now there was a wife waiting inside for him.

  As much as he’d looked forward to this moment, part of him wanted to turn tail and run back out into the valley.

  “Boss?”

  “Hey, Pete.” Isaac dismounted and removed the saddlebags from his horse. He gave her a good pat as Pete Hemphill took her reins. “How’d it go?”

  “All right.”

  Pete wasn’t one for words, and Isaac didn’t press. He supposed if the woman he’d gambled on was someone he’d wish he’d never sent for, Pete would’ve spared a word or two of warning. Since he hadn’t, it boded well.

  “All’s well?” Pete asked.

  “It’s done.” Isaac hefted the saddlebags over his shoulder. They weren’t heavy; they never were.

  “Good.” With that, Pete disappeared into the night toward the barn.

  Might as well get it over with. Isaac stepped onto the porch and took a moment to smooth down his hair and brush the dust off his coat. Then he pulled the latch and walked inside his house.

  “Hello?” he called. There was no answer. His heart slowed some as he dropped the saddlebags onto the floor near the door. He fumbled for a match and lit the lamp that sat on the small table just inside. Holding it up in front of him, he surveyed the parlor.

  Nothing appeared different or out of place. He didn’t know what he’d expected. The scent of something baking, perhaps, or evidence that a woman had come through and wiped off the dust that had accumulated in a fine amount on the surfaces of the tables and shelves. At the very least, he thought there might be a welcoming fire blazing in the fireplace. He shook his head. That was expecting quite a lot from a woman who’d only just arrived. Particularly one he hadn’t even met yet.

  He removed his hat and set it on the table, and hung his coat and gun belt from the peg near the door before he moved on. The dining room was much the same, as was the large kitchen and a small unfurnished room in the rear of the house. Returning to the hallway that ran between the kitchen and bedroom and the front two rooms, he began to ascend the staircase.

  “Hello?” he called again. “Mrs. Trenton?” The name felt strange in his mouth. He supposed he would get used to it with time.

  “Yes?” a voice called from above.

  Isaac smiled even as his heart p
icked up rhythm again. He stopped at the top of the stairs to adjust the vest that fit over his shirt and smooth down his hair again. It would serve him right if his new wife took one look at him and rejected him on the spot. But he prayed she wouldn’t. He’d wanted this life so badly—land of his own, a thriving business, and a woman to share it all with. Perhaps even children one day. His past no longer mattered. Only the future, which lay spread out before him.

  If he could gather the courage to open the door.

  He had just reached for the knob when the door opened for him. And there, in the flickering light from the lamp, stood a petite woman with wisps of dark blonde hair framing her face, eyes that were neither blue nor gray but some impossible shade in between, and a nose that turned up just slightly. She smiled at him, warm and welcoming. She was stunning, but didn’t seem the sort to know it. And there was something familiar about her . . .

  She opened the door wider and brushed her skirts with her hand. “Forgive me for my appearance. Mr. Hemphill brought my trunk up, so I set about unpacking.”

  That voice. It couldn’t be . . .

  She held tight to the door, still smiling up at him. “I’m Maggie Richmond. Trenton, I mean. Maggie Trenton.” She laughed, and it was as if church bells on Christmas morning had begun ringing. “I’m sorry. I suppose it will take me some time to get used to my new name.”

  Isaac almost didn’t dare speak. She hadn’t recognized him, that much was clear. He couldn’t go around forever without speaking, he supposed. Taking a deep breath, he raised the lamp to see into the room. “I’m Isaac,” he said unnecessarily. He paused a moment, and when she still smiled at him, he forged on. “I can see you’ve made yourself at home.”

  He stepped inside to better survey the room. A small fire crackled in the fireplace. The doors to the large wardrobe hung open, while the top drawer in the chest had been pulled out. Her trunk, which lay open in the middle of the room, appeared mostly empty. “I imagine you’ve found enough room for your belongings?”

  When he turned back toward her, she watched him with her head tilted and a puzzled look on her face. “Yes,” she said carefully. “I have, thank you.”

  She couldn’t recognize him, could she? Not without his coat and hat. He resolved to burn those before dawn. He could make do until he had a moment to get new ones. Surely Pete had an old coat he could borrow. “Tell me, Maggie, have you eaten?”

  She shook her head. “I found some cheese and bread when I first arrived, but I’ve had nothing else since then.”

  “Then let’s go downstairs and have supper.”

  She gestured at her trunk. “I should finish here first.”

  “Leave it be,” he said with a smile.

  Her eyes widened, and that was when he realized his mistake.

  “No.” The word was strangled, and she backed up to the doorframe.

  She knew him, and his heart sank.

  Chapter Five

  “Maggie, please. Let me explain.” The man she’d thought was so handsome, with his dark hair smoothed back and his eyes the color of the chocolate Mr. Etter had kept stocked at the mercantile, moved toward her.

  The same man who’d rescued her from the crueler outlaw on the train. The one who had then said she would be an old maid.

  He was here. He was her husband.

  Maggie clutched at her skirts and backed away, into the hall that was little more than a second-floor landing. “You’re an outlaw,” she managed to say, the words tinged with all the fear that rose from inside her.

  “Please, will you listen to me?” He’d stepped out of the room, too, reaching one hand out to her while holding the lamp with the other.

  She’d just as soon spit into his open palm, as unladylike as that was. “You told me you were a rancher.”

  “I am a rancher.”

  She gripped the top of the banister. “Did you steal this land the same way you stole from all of those people on the train?”

  His face hardened and he dropped his hand. “I did no such thing. I got it under the Homestead Act.”

  “Why would you send for me?”

  “I needed a wife.”

  There was something about the simplicity of his words that would’ve melted her heart—if she hadn’t known she was speaking with an outlaw. He held out his hand again, and she took a step down, her heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Why don’t we go downstairs, have some supper, and talk.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I cannot be married to an outlaw.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “It’s too late for that.”

  “It is not.” She took another step down. “I won’t stay here with you. You brought me here under false pretenses. And I want an annulment.”

  He looked as if she’d slapped him in the face. For a half-second, Maggie regretted her words. She’d hurt him, and she wasn’t the kind of person who willingly inflicted pain on others.

  No, she told herself. She needn’t feel bad about her words. This man was a criminal. What sort of marriage would they have? She couldn’t remain wed to a man whose very presence frightened her, much less one who was wanted by the law. Who knew what he’d done in his life? What if he’d murdered? He didn’t seem the sort, not after the way he’d acted on the train, but she’d be naive to assume he hadn’t.

  “Maggie,” he said again.

  “Don’t call me that.” She held tightly to the banister, ready to race down the stairs should he take a single step forward.

  “Mrs. Trenton—”

  “Don’t call me that either,” she snapped.

  He threw up his free hand. “Then what in all blazes should I call you?”

  “Miss Richmond. That’s my name, to you.” She lifted her chin a little, hoping to show him that he didn’t scare her.

  His mouth curved up in a smile. “Like it or not, you’re still married to me. Which means your name is Mrs. Trenton.”

  She wanted to rush forward and push him, yell at him, something. But she remained where she was, holding on to the smooth wood for dear life. He also stayed put, now even taller than normal because of the steps separating them. She’d been so worried that her new husband might be unpleasant to look at, but not once had it crossed her mind that he might be an outlaw. She could’ve laughed if she wasn’t so scared.

  “I want an annulment tomorrow,” she repeated.

  Isaac’s teasing grin fell away. His jaw worked, and for a moment she thought he might refuse her. Finally, he spoke. “I understand. It will have to wait until Saturday, however.”

  “That’s a week from now!” What would she do here for a week, with this . . . this . . . criminal?

  “I have obligations here that I can’t leave. It’ll have to wait.” And with that, he began to move down the stairs.

  Maggie shrunk against the banister. He stopped right next to her. The flickering light from the lamp cast his face into shadows, but there was no mistaking those deep brown eyes tracing her face. “You aren’t who I’d advertised for either.”

  He was so close that his breath tickled her cheek. Maggie started to look away, but forced herself to meet his eyes. “At least I’m not robbing innocent people on trains.”

  If her words had hurt him, he didn’t show it. In fact, something about the way he pursed his lips made her think she amused him. As if confirming that suspicion, one corner of his mouth rose. “I have to help Pete tend to the horses before bed.” And with that, he took the rest of the stairs two at a time, leaving Maggie in the darkness.

  Before bed. What did he think . . . ?

  “Wait!” she shouted. She ran back into the bedroom to grab the lamp she’d left behind, and then raced down the stairs herself. “Isaac! Mr. Trenton!” she corrected herself.

  But the rooms downstairs were empty, save for some saddlebags that had been left on the floor near the front door. Maggie stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard. If that man thought she would share a room with him, he was sorel
y mistaken. She’d sooner sleep in the barn with the horses.

  Maggie retreated upstairs. There was no point in repacking her things if she would be stuck here for an entire week. She collapsed onto the bed, letting herself bemoan her circumstances for just a moment. At least that week gave her time to figure out what to do next. If she returned home, she could stay with Ivy’s family. But she couldn’t live there indefinitely, and there wasn’t much in the way of work she could do in Plainfield.

  This marriage was supposed to be her salvation. Her way into living the life she’d always dreamed, with a home and family of her own, with perhaps a bit of adventure to be had here and there.

  But now it was a disaster.

  Fed up with feeling sorry for herself, Maggie began preparing for bed. After she’d located the privy outside, dressed in her nightclothes, braided her hair, and added more wood to the fire, she dragged the empty—yet still heavy—trunk to the bedroom door, where she placed it flush against the wood.

  It wouldn’t do much to keep anyone out, but it would at least alert her of Isaac’s entrance.

  As she extinguished the lamp, she felt a moment of guilt. This was Isaac’s room, and here she was, claiming it for herself. But it was only right. If he had any shred of gentlemanly decency buried beneath his criminal tendencies, he’d find no fault in her taking this room.

  As a final precaution, Maggie tiptoed across the floor. Grabbing the porcelain jug that sat in a matching washbasin, she brought it to the little nightstand that was next to the bed.

  She had no weapons, but a pitcher over the head would stun any man.

  Chapter Six

  The upholstered seating in the parlor was not made for a night of sleep. Isaac stretched and rubbed his neck. He should’ve taken Pete up on his offer of a pallet in the barn, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving Maggie alone in the house. Even if she despised every inch of him, it was his responsibility to ensure her safety.

  Besides, she was still his wife.

  The thought made him smile as he found his way to the kitchen to get something to eat. She was a fireball, this woman he’d married. She wasn’t at all what he’d thought he wanted, and yet there was something about her that intrigued him. On the train, she hadn’t seemed even remotely fearful, but here . . . The way she’d slunk away from him on the stairs, and that nervous look in her eyes—everything about her actions relayed the fact she was terrified, underneath her bravado.