Julianne MacLean

by Prairie Bride

  “I remember, and I feel terrible.”

  “I can see that.” He smiled, trying to make light of the situation. “How’s your arm?”

  “Sore.”

  He reached up to move a tendril of hair out of her eyes. Despite her rolling stomach, her body calmed pleasantly at his touch. “We don’t have to go anywhere until you’re feeling better. George says we can stay as long as we need to.”

  “What about your plowing?”

  “That can wait a few days. The important thing is that you get well.”

  “I feel like such a nuisance. I’ve caused you nothing but problems.”

  Briggs tenderly caressed her face and gave her a reassuring smile. “I won’t have you thinking such nonsense. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to get to town. I shouldn’t have asked you to lead the horses when—”

  “Briggs, you don’t have to stay just because of me. You could go back and finish your work and I’ll come home when I’m better. I’ll be fine, really.” But in all honesty, she didn’t want to be away from him, not even for a single day.

  “I wouldn’t think of it. The doc said you’ll be feeling better in a couple of days. You’ll just have to take it easy for a while. I’ll look after the milking. I’m sure Martha would be more than happy to help out.”

  Sarah gave him an appreciative smile. “Did you run the errands?”

  “No. I’ll go after breakfast.”

  “Please,” she said, holding up her good hand. “Don’t mention breakfast.”

  Her feeble attempt at a joke made him smile. “You should get some rest. Do you need anything?”

  When she shook her head, he slowly rose and moved to the door, taking the washbasin with him.

  “Briggs? You’ll need this.” She reached into her skirt pocket and dug out the wrinkled letter to Garrison.

  Hesitantly, he moved toward her. He reached out to take it but she didn’t let go right away.

  “I think I’ll feel better when I know you’ve sent it.” She finally released it and dropped her weary hand to her side.

  With a smile that seemed tainted with regret, Briggs turned and left the room.

  Bells jingled when Briggs opened the door to the postal office, anxious to send the letter to Garrison and to start fresh with Sarah. All that wretched business about her past had caused enough pain and heartache. Sarah had a broken arm because of it.

  When he walked into the building, every man, woman and child seemed to stop what they were doing and fix their eyes on him. Whispers and giggles filled the air. He stood in the doorway, trying to control his breathing. He had a funny feeling the whole town knew about Isabelle’s latest tragedy.

  Ignoring the gossips, he walked to the postal wicket. “Morning, Roger.”

  Roger Crosby sniffled and blew his nose. He’d lost some hair since the last time Briggs had seen him. “Morning, Briggs. Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

  “I’ve been busy on the claim. You heard about the locusts, I reckon.”

  “It’s a darn shame. Folks are having a rough time.” He turned around and began sorting through a pile of letters. “There’s something here for Martha Whitiker. Came in just this morning. You want to take it?”

  “Sure.” Briggs dug into his pocket for the letter to Garrison and tapped it on the counter.

  “Anything else I can do for you today?”

  Briggs handed the letter over. “Yes. You can post this to Boston.”

  Cupping one lens of his spectacles between his thumb and forefinger, Roger studied the address. “Boston, you say.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain? Because there’s a Garrison McPhee here in town.”

  Briggs felt the room begin to close in around him. “Maybe it’s a different Garrison McPhee.”

  “Possibly, but this one just arrived from Boston a few days ago. In fact, he came in to hand deliver that letter Martha picked up. Is he a relation?”

  “No, he’s not.” Briggs turned to walk out, his boots pounding across the floorboards.

  “You don’t want to post that letter?” Roger called after him.

  “No,” Briggs snapped as he flung the door open. “I’ll hold on to it for now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Walking back to George’s house, Briggs worked hard to keep his anger under control. Sarah didn’t know about Garrison’s presence in town—at least he didn’t think so. God only knew what was in that letter she burned.

  As he walked, unseeing, he forced the suspicions down. He had to trust her. He did trust her. He approached the house, considering what he would say when she asked if he’d posted the letter. He stopped on the covered veranda and stared down at the unpainted wood planks under his boots. What if she wanted to see Garrison again?

  Laughter from the kitchen startled him. Sarah was feeling better, it seemed. Briggs snapped the screen door open and walked in to find Sarah sipping on tea with her shawl pulled over her arm in the splint, listening to George tell the story of Briggs bloodying Little Charlie Tomkins’s nose twenty years ago.

  Briggs moved into the room. The laughter died and he felt uncomfortably like he’d just walked onto center stage.

  George slid his chair back and stood. “Briggs. We were just talking about you.”

  “I gathered that.” He looked down at his wife’s curious face and shrugged out of his coat. “You were saying?”

  “Uh, I was just telling Sarah why no one calls you Arthur.”

  Briggs glanced from George to Sarah, and back to George again. The two of them looked like children caught spying on their teacher before school. He draped his coat over the back of a chair. “Little Charlie Tomkins was in bad need of a bloody nose. In fact, he told me afterward it cleared up his head cold.”

  George and Sarah looked at each other, then began to laugh. Briggs backed up against the dry sink, watching them giggle.

  Sarah rose and approached him. She seemed weak and slightly hunched over as she reached around him to set her cup on the counter. Briggs let out a deep breath that seemed to come from nowhere.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he eyed his coat pocket across the room and saw the top of the letter. It wouldn’t be long before Sarah saw it, too, and asked why he hadn’t posted it. His mind filled with dread as he tried to decide what to tell her.

  “I guess you noticed I’m feeling better,” she said, sitting carefully at the table again. “My arm is still sore, but I think I just needed to eat something. If you want to go home today, I think I could manage it.”

  Go home. She wouldn’t want to leave so soon if she’d come here expecting to see Garrison.

  Briggs felt relief pour through him. They could drive straight out of town and be long gone before he even mentioned Garrison to her. He would have to tell her, of course. He only hoped it wouldn’t matter. “Sure, we could leave today. Only if you’re absolutely certain you feel well enough.”

  Sarah stood with care. “I think so. Did you run all the errands? You weren’t gone very long.”

  “I still have a few things left to do.” He thought mainly about the necklace and maybe having a word or two with a particular worm from Boston if he could find him.

  “We could run the errands on the way out of town. If someone would help me get my things?”

  Briggs reluctantly agreed, knowing that if Sarah was with him, he couldn’t very well track down Garrison. Wondering what to do, he watched her leave the room to go upstairs, then felt George staring at him.

  “What’s the matter?” Briggs asked.

  George cocked his head. “Nothing. You just look bothered.”

  “Wouldn’t you be if a horse broke your wife’s arm?”

  “I suppose,” George replied, as if he wasn’t convinced that was the problem.

  Sarah let Briggs lift her into the wagon, but with the movement came a sharp stabbing pain in her arm. She suppressed the urge to complain about it, wondering
if she’d made a mistake when she suggested they travel home today. She had honestly felt better at the time and she didn’t want to be a bother any longer. She just hadn’t imagined how difficult it would be to get into the wagon with one arm in a splint.

  Briggs climbed up beside her and freed the brake. They waved to George, who was out on the veranda leaning on the railing, then they ambled down the dusty street toward the business district.

  A few minutes later, they were rolling down Front Street, passing other wagons, carriages and roaming livestock. The street itself seemed to play music, like a grand orchestra of clip-clops, jingling harnesses, cowbells and nickering horses.

  “I’ll stop in at Wright’s to sell the butter and eggs,” Briggs said, pulling the wagon to a halt a few doors down. “Why don’t you stay here and rest?”

  She knew it would be painful to move, but she also knew the trip home would leave her sitting in the wagon for many hours to come. “I’d like to come in.”

  “You’d be more comfortable here.”

  Puzzled by his objection, Sarah said, “I’d like very much to go inside.”

  After a peculiar hesitation, Briggs helped Sarah down, withdrew the large wooden box from the back, then led the way into the store.

  The door jingled closed behind Sarah, the clatter of hoofbeats and wagon wheels now muffled behind her. Everything from saddles and rifles to common groceries, barrels of salt and molasses, canned goods, ashes for soap making, and bolts of calico fabric lined the aisles. People roamed around, looking and considering, inspecting items and chattering constantly, and the air was thick with the scents of tobacco, spices and leather.

  She and Briggs made their way to the counter where Briggs set down the box. “Morning, Austin.”

  “Briggs, my boy.” He glanced at Sarah, curiously.

  “This is my wife, Sarah Brigman. Sarah, this is Austin Moore. He’s in charge of the place.”

  “It’s a lovely store you run, Mr. Moore.”

  “Thank you. I don’t recall seeing you in town before. You must be from away.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m from—”

  “She’s from out east.”

  Bewildered, Sarah glanced up at her husband. He was already changing the subject, and she could only guess that he didn’t want anyone to know he’d ordered her like a catalogue item.

  “We have some butter and eggs here, Austin,” Briggs continued.

  While Sarah watched the transaction take place, a cowboy approached and leaned on the counter beside her. He held soiled, brown gloves in his hands, and Sarah wondered uncomfortably how long had it been since the man had bathed. She raised her gloved finger to hold under her nose, then unexpectedly, she gagged.

  Briggs stopped talking and turned his attention to her. “Are you all right?”

  Eyes watering, she nodded quickly, unable to talk for fear of gagging again.

  “Are you feeling ill?” he whispered.

  “I’m fine. I just need some air. I’ll wait outside.” She hurried toward the door.

  “What about picking out the blankets?”

  Without turning back, she replied, “You pick them.”

  Outside, she sucked in a lungful of fresh air. Well, as fresh as could be expected with the stockyard less than a mile away. At least the gagging sensation was gone.

  Sarah walked along the boardwalk to the wagon, and climbed awkwardly onto the seat while favoring her sore arm. She sat down and spread her shawl over her legs, waiting. Wagons and buggies rattled by, the gentlemen tipping their hats at her, the ladies smiling. On horseback, cowboys trotted down the middle of the wide street.

  Just then, a familiar voice spoke from behind her. “Well, well, well. What a coincidence.”

  Numb with shock and disbelief, Sarah could do nothing but stare straight ahead. She would know that voice anywhere.

  Garrison moved into her range of view and tipped his black hat. “That arm of yours must be awfully sore if you’re going to let your husband choose your bedding. Aren’t you worried he’ll choose the wrong color?”

  Briggs stared blankly at the pile of blankets for sale. There were gray ones, red ones and blue ones. He wondered what Sarah would prefer—something like the red blanket she had hung in their house, or something different?

  Oh, what did it matter? All he needed was something to keep them warm for the winter and he’d kept her waiting long enough.

  He chose a red one and a blue one, and went to the counter. He had to wait a moment while the lady ahead of him paid for her groceries. While he stood there, he found himself searching the store with his eyes, wondering ridiculously if he would somehow know Garrison if he encountered him. He sighed, watching the lady ahead of him count out her money.

  He stepped up to the counter and set down the blankets. “I’ll take these.”

  “Fine. I gave you a credit for the butter. Tell your wife I already sold half of it.”

  “She’ll be pleased.” He thought of how worried she’d been that no one would want the butter. He couldn’t wait to tell her. Right after that, he’d drop the news about Garrison and hope to the highest heavens she wouldn’t care.

  Sarah instinctively tried to slide across the hard seat, away from Garrison, but winced in pain. “What are you doing here?”

  She watched helplessly as he leaned against the side of Briggs’s wagon and crossed one shiny shoe over the other. He brushed a fleck of dust off his black suit at the arm. Panic—raw, icy panic—froze her to the seat.

  He removed his hat. “What do you think I’m doing here? I came to take you home, where you belong.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t difficult, my dear. Didn’t you get my letter? The train master in Boston was most cooperative and once I got here… Well, this town is quite friendly, I discovered. It seems everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

  “Then you must know I’m married. His name is Briggs and he’ll be out of the store any minute.”

  “Yes, yes. Briggs. The heartbroken farmer. Sad story, that is.”

  “You have no right to…” She stumbled over whatever she was going to say, then quickly recovered. “That’s none of your business. He’s married to me now, and we’re very happy.”

  “Married. Yes, I heard. But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Sarah stared at him, unable to speak. He leaned toward her, his eyes triumphant. “You must realize it’s not legal.”

  Panic like she’d never known stabbed at her heart. “It is legal. It was done at the courthouse.”

  Garrison shook his head, amused. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “It’s none of your business what my husband and I discuss.”

  “Your husband? You say it with such conviction. It makes me want to laugh, Sarah.”

  She faced forward, raising her chin. Her arm throbbed suddenly. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?”

  He strolled to the front of the wagon and stroked Gem’s forelock. “How much longer are you going to keep this up? Are you so angry that you want me to suffer indefinitely?” When she said nothing, he walked along the team and rested his hand on the wagon seat. Sarah slid across to the other side, holding her arm.

  “Well, perhaps I deserve it,” he said. “But I told you I was sorry for not explaining everything sooner. You know I love you more than anyone else. You’re far and away the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I want you to come home. Put all this foolishness behind us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I told you, I’m married to Briggs now.”

  “But surely, you couldn’t love a farmer.” He glanced at the splint on her arm. “It looks like he doesn’t treat you well at all.”

  “He didn’t do this! He would never lay a hand on me!”

  Garrison shook his head at her. “As you say. But with all that aside, I’m your true husband, Sarah, and I mean to remind you of that.”

  “You’re not! Our marriage was never l
egal. It was completely meaningless.” She leaned forward and realized too late she’d attracted some attention. Quickly, she sat back.

  “Come home, Sarah. Stop all this.”

  “I told you I’m not going. I’m warning you to leave me alone.”

  “Warning me, are you? I should think you’d know better than to threaten me.”

  She slid across the hard seat again, and despite the pain it caused, climbed down the other side of the wagon. She had to get away from him.

  “Where are you going?” Garrison asked, following her to the boardwalk.

  “Away from you.” An unexpected raindrop landed on her cheek.

  “But we’re not finished.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  His shoes tapped closely behind her. “If I thought that, would I have come all this way to find you? To make sure you’ve kept your mouth shut?”

  Sarah stopped, recognizing the controlling tone she’d thought she’d escaped. An unpleasant chill shook her as rain suddenly dropped from the sky in a misty curtain, pounding like a drum on the roof above them. She moved into a doorway. “Get out of my sight, Garrison.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I love you. I live for nothing else.”

  Sarah’s chest was heaving. She wanted to hide her panic, but could feel her face turning red, her expression cringing with rage. “I don’t love you.”

  His lips fell open in shock. “You can’t mean that.”

  She knew this was another one of his great performances, yet she still felt the urge to soften the blow. “I do. I’m sorry, Garrison.”

  He stared at her in disbelief, saying nothing. He seemed hurt. Genuinely hurt, but she would not give in. He was a liar, she reminded herself. And a good one.

  He glanced down the boardwalk. “I see that your farmer is coming.”