The Unexpected Wife (3 page)

Abby stared down at her now-wet lap as she heard Mr. Stokes shout several oaths. For a moment she thought she’d retch.

Mr. Stokes pressed a cloth to his face. He stood so quickly he bumped his head on top of the wagon. Stepping over her soiled skirt, he pushed past the stranger to get out of the carriage. “Good Lord, I’ll bet they have cholera or measles. I’ll be riding on the top.”

Abby didn’t have to look over at the boys’ father to know he was still there. His presence filled the silent carriage. The man’s fingers tightened on the coach door, and she half expected the brittle wood to crack in his powerful fist.

She looked into the watery, sad eyes of the boy beside her. A mixture of horror and fear straightened his tiny mouth into a grim line as his eyes wavered to his father and then back to her.

Despite Mr. Stokes’s declaration, she doubted the boy was ill. She’d heard children often got motion sickness when they rode in wagons. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

Managing her best smile, she chucked the boy under the chin and faced the man. To her surprise, the man wasn’t angry. Behind his frustration she saw sadness.

Lifting her skirt, she started to climb down.

The man instantly took her elbow.

She stared at his long tapered fingers, calloused by hard labor. His dark eyes cut into her and suddenly the idea of going anywhere with him unsettled.

“It’s all right,” she reassured the boy. “A damp cloth and it’ll be good as new.”

The stranger peered past her. “Tommy, you all right, son?”

Tommy shrugged. “I feel good now.”

The father shook his head. “That’s good. Can you sit tight for a minute with your brother while I clean up this lady?”

“Yes, Pa.”

“I’ll help her,” Frank, the old man, said from behind him. “I know you got that wagon wheel to fix.”

“Climb on up to your seat, Frank. I can handle it on my own.”

Frank exchanged glances with Holden then reluctantly climbed up top.

He took her hand in his. Through her crocheted black gloves she felt the heat and strength of his fingers. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks.

But the father was all business. Instead of cajoling, he tugged her forward and before she could react banded his long fingers around her narrow waist. Without a word, he lifted her out of the carriage and set her on the hard ground.

Abby stumbled back, shocked at her own reaction. “This really isn’t necessary.”

Still silent, he pulled a bandanna from his coat pocket and grabbed the hem of her skirt, lifting it so that her petticoats showed.

Abby searched for her voice as she yanked her skirt from his hand. “I am engaged to be married. This kind of interaction can’t be proper.” She’d not spoken of her engagement out loud before and it sounded strange, so unfamiliar as if she were talking about someone else.

“I don’t have time for niceties.” He brushed her hand away and finished cleaning the skirt.

The bite in the stranger’s tone rankled her nerves. “There’s no need to be rude,” she said, using the tone she reserved for difficult shopkeepers and surly chimney sweeps.

He looked at her as if she’d grown a third eye. “You want polite, then go back to wherever you came from. I don’t have time for it.”

“I shall tell my fiancé about this.”

He glanced up at Stokes, who still had a handkerchief pressed over his nose. “Your man doesn’t look willing to help you.”

Abby followed his angry gaze to Mr. Stokes. “Mr. Stokes is
not
my fiancé.”

A flicker of surprise flashed in the stranger’s eyes but was gone as quickly as it came.

Mr. Stokes shifted in his seat. “Lady, get in the carriage. I want to make town by nightfall.”

“Time is wasting, lady,” the coachman said.

Irritated, she snatched her skirt back and reached for the handle by the door with the other. Her shoe heel caught on the hem of her skirt and she cursed vanity for choosing to wear her gray Sunday best dress. At the time, she’d wanted to make a good impression on her husband-to-be. But the dress’s full skirts and high-heeled shoes, which were fine
for church in the city, were completely impractical in Montana. Now she wished she’d remained in her simple calico with the streamlined skirt.

Strong hands again wrapped around her waist. Away from the stifling air of the coach, she caught a whiff of the stranger’s masculine scent. No coiling aftershaves or scented soaps like Mr. Stokes. His scent was purely masculine and not unpleasant, she realized.

This stranger had stirred more emotions and reactions in her in the last five minutes than the butcher had in a year. She couldn’t say if it were him or that all her senses had been heightened by her unknown future. She hoped her intended didn’t make her feel like this, too. She wanted safety and comfort, not passion.

He set her in the carriage and waited until she’d retaken her seat next to the boys. She could still feel his fingers on her as she straightened her skirts.

“Thank you for your help.”

“Ma’am.” He winked and smiled at the children. The smile vanished when he shifted his gaze to her. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll see you in town, Miss Smyth. Take good care of my boys.”

The softly spoken words were laced with warning. This man protected his own.

A shiver passed down her spin as she wondered
what it felt like to be protected by this man. She swallowed amazed at the direction of her thoughts.

Oily peacocks like Mr. Stokes and hard, dangerous men like this stranger.

What was her new husband going to be like?

T
he tingling in Abby’s limbs quickly faded when she saw the two boys huddled together on the seat. Both looked pale, their lips drawn into tight lines.

Abby sat next to the boys. She placed her hand on the forehead of the little boy. “What’s your name?”

He sniffed, and then popped his thumb in his mouth.

She’d never been around children before. She had no younger brothers or sisters. Joanne, though she was three years younger, was twelve when Abby had moved in.

Of course, she’d seen children of all shapes and sizes in the park with their mothers or nannies, but she’d never actually had to deal with one.

“How does your stomach feel now?” She glanced down at her damp skirt. “Better, I hope.”

The little boys stared at her, silent. She waited an extra beat, expecting them to say something. Nothing.

She glanced down at the mirror Tommy held tightly in his dirty hands. “Want to make another rainbow?”

Again, nothing.

Hoping for a better response from the older one she smiled at him. His face was covered in dirt and he looked on the verge of tears. She remembered one of the mothers in a San Francisco park. She’d picked up her son and held him close when he was upset. That child had brightened up instantly.

She reached and picked the little boy up. Before she could lift him on her lap, he started kicking and screaming. She struggled to hold on to him, but he arched his back and started to swing his arms. One pudgy hand caught her in the eye.

Abby put the boy down instantly. The child scrambled back next to his brother and started to cry. She rubbed her injured eye.

Oh Lord, what was she going to do? She’d always assumed she’d be a natural with children. That they’d love her if she were only kind and loving in return.

But these children seemed to hate her.

Nothing Abby said or did would quiet them until
the older one discovered that he could stand on one seat and jump to the other across the aisle. The smaller one’s eyes had immediately brightened, and he’d begun to copy his brother. Abby was so relieved that they’d stopped crying that she let them keep jumping. She’d never expected such a mindless pastime would keep boys busy for over an hour.

Finally, they settled on the other seat and lay their heads down. The younger smiled and laid his head against his brother’s shoulder. The older patted his brother gently on the leg and they fell asleep. She untied the curtains over the window, dimming the interior of the coach.

A meager ring of light around the edges of the worn fabric provided enough light for Abby to watch the boys. She couldn’t help but feel the tug of sadness. The older of the two, who couldn’t be four yet, had already learned that he must look after his younger brother. Too young, she thought to be so independent.

Abby had lost her parents at the age of fifteen to cholera. Their loss had slashed through her heart and for a time she’d thought she’d never be able to live without them. But in time, she’d learned to cherish the memories of her parents.

Her mother, Caroline, had been raised in privi
lege. She’d grown up attending balls and wearing silks. The expectation was that she’d marry into another well-connected family. Instead, she’d done the unpardonable. She’d fallen in love with a young vicar, Richard, who didn’t have two wooden nickels to his name, and she’d eloped with him. When her family discovered what she’d done, they’d cut her off completely.

So Abby hadn’t grown up with silks or fancy parties. Instead, she’d lived in a simple Arizona parsonage that ministered to miners, harlots and the poor. To her parents’ sorrow, her mother had never carried another baby to term. There’d never been much money, but she always had enough to eat and there’d always been plenty of laughter and music. Her father played the fiddle and her mother the piano. Many a night her parents would play while she sang.

Smiling at the memory, she studied the boys. They weren’t underfed. Despite the dirt and grime, they looked to be a healthy size. She’d doubted there was music in their house and she couldn’t imagine their father laughed often.

Abby let her head drop back against the wall behind her. The now steady rocking of the coach coupled with the silence had her eyes drifting closed. She released a small sigh and let her shoulders sag.
Perhaps she could steal a few minutes of sleep. Just a few minutes.

The coach jerked to a stop.

Her eyes popped open immediately and the boys started awake. Tommy, confused about his surroundings, rolled off the seat and hit the floor with a thud. He started to cry.

Immediately, Abby picked him up. Tired and disoriented, the boy didn’t struggle with her this time. Instead he laid his head on her shoulder and popped his thumb into his mouth.

Quinn pushed himself up. His hair stuck straight up and a wrinkle in the cushion had creased the side of his face. He looked around and stuck his lip out.

Abby held her hand out to him and he scrambled off the seat and came to sit beside her. “You two just rest easy. The coach driver should be here to tell us where we are.”

Men’s voices drifted from above as she heard the driver set the brake. The coach shifted to the right and she heard booted feet hit the ground outside her door before it swung open.

“Welcome to Crickhollow!” Holden the driver said, sweeping his hand wide. His face was deeply tanned by the sun and his eyes were clear and bright.

A fresh batch of butterflies fluttered in Abby’s stomach. “Thank you.”

“Looks like you and the young ones fared pretty well,” said Holden.

Behind him stood the man she’d overheard the boys call Grandpa. “They look right at home in your arms.”

Quinn and Tommy both grinned when they saw their grandfather, but neither seemed in a hurry to move away from Abby.

A silent communication passed between Frank and Holden. Both grinned at her as if they were Cheshire cats.

“We did just fine,” Abby said sitting a little straighter. She righted her hat, which had slipped too low over her forehead. “I need to find Mrs. Hilda Clements. She is to board me until my fiancé arrives.”

Holden unhooked a small block of wood from the side of the carriage and placed it below the door. “Just step right on down, Miss Abigail, and stretch your legs. I know you got to be stiffer than wood after that ride.”

Frank leaned in and took the tired boys, while Abby unlocked her joints and rose in the coach, which was only tall enough for her to stand hunched over. Her knees groaned as she moved the
few steps to the door. Holden took her hand as she gathered up her skirt and climbed down.

She longed to stretch her arms over her head and work the kinks from her body but realized that would have to wait until she reached Mrs. Clements’s house.

Mr. Stokes placed his bowler on his balding head. “Where can I find a place to get a drink?”

Holden nodded toward a small dugout. “That’s the saloon. Danny’s got good whiskey.”

“Excellent.” Scratching his chin, he moved slowly toward the saloon.

Abby looked out at the collection of buildings. Just over a half-dozen in all, they sat low to the ground, had pitched roofs and small doorways. Only the one had a window.

The first bubble of alarm rose before reason took over. She glanced from side to side, half expecting to see the rest of the town, where the real buildings were. But to her west there was nothing but the single dusty road that snaked toward the mountains. “This is Crickhollow?”

“Sure is,” Holden said, his pride clear. “I know with you coming from the city it may seem a bit small but we’re growing by leaps and bounds.”

Mr. Barrington’s letters had described a thriving town. A growing mercantile, a bustling stagecoach
line and populated community. “Growing, did you say?”

“Population fifty-six if you count the homesteaders.” He laughed. “Fifty-seven now that you’re here.”

Despite the cool June air she could feel a trickle of sweat run down her back. She’d walked away from San Francisco right off the end of the earth.

Abby lifted her chin. She even managed a smile. “When will Mr. Barrington arrive?” she said. Her voice sounded surprisingly steady.

Again Holden and Frank exchanged glances.

Frank leaned down and whispered something to the boys, who took off running toward the one building with windows—the mercantile. “He’ll be here before the day’s out.”

“You know my fiancé?” she said.

Frank shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Everybody knows everybody in the valley.”

Just then a portly woman hurried out of the mercantile. She wore black and her graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Her white apron flapped in the breeze and she hurried across the dusty street toward them. “I was beginning to worry about you, Holden. You’re four hours late.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You name it and it went wrong today.”

“The boys okay?” Frank said.

The woman smiled. “I gave them each a piece of candy. They’re quite content.” The woman looked past him and the boys to Abigail. “Miss Smyth?”

“Yes,” Abby said hopefully.

“Welcome! We have been waiting for you.” She hurried forward and took Abby by the arm. “You must be exhausted. I’ve got cookies and tea for you and the boys. Holden, Frank, you want to join us?”

Holden raised up his hand. “I’ll pass for the moment. I’ve got to get the horses changed and get the stage unpacked and repacked. If I’m lucky, I can leave at first light.”

Frank’s eyes brightened. “Make sure you load my luggage.”

Surprised, Abby shifted her gaze to the old man. “You’re leaving town?”

“Time I got back east. I only came out here to care for the boys when my daughter became ill. Now that’s she’s passed there’s no need for me to stay.”

The boy’s didn’t have a mother. And their father didn’t have a wife. Of course his marital status was none of her business but that didn’t stop the ripple of emotion that tingled through her body.

With an effort she forced her mind back to what
really mattered. “Who’s going to take care of the boys?” It was none of her business, of course, but Abby wanted to know they’d be cared for.

Mrs. Clements glared at Holden and Frank. “You didn’t tell her?”

Holden shoved his hands into his pockets. “I figured it was best the news came from another woman.”

“Is something wrong?” Abby said.

Mrs. Clements was the first to recover. “I just thought that these men would have seen to the introductions while you were out on the road.”

“There were no introductions,” Abby said.

“On the road, the man you met?” Mrs. Clements asked.

“Yes.”

Mrs. Clements glanced at the other men, her jaw jutting forward.
Men.
Without fanfare or nonsense, she said, “He is Matthias Barrington. He is your fiancé.”

Abby’s mind reeled. “He is my fiancé? He didn’t say a word to me, and I’m quite sure that I mentioned I was here to meet my intended.”

Mrs. Clements’s smile was quick and too bright. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, dear. He just had a lot on his mind. Everything will be fine as soon as he gets to town.”

It was just past nine the next morning when Matthias pulled his wagon to a stop in front of the Clements’s Mercantile. The night chill still clung to the air, and Matthias’s back and arms were stiff from sleeping on the ground.

He’d hoped to make town by last night, but the repairs, like most everything else lately, had taken much longer than he’d imagined. By the time he’d finished, the sun was setting on a moonless night. And unless he wanted to risk another broken wheel, his only choice was to bunk down. He knew Mrs. Clements and Frank would look after the boys, so there were no worries there.

Now, as he set the hand brake he realized just how weary he was. He would have traded his soul for a hot bath and eight solid hours of sleep but he had to talk with Frank. Somehow he had to find a way to get his father-in-law to stay another few months.

As he hopped down, he was struck that things weren’t as they should be. The wind blew as it always did, but Mr. Clements and Danny weren’t sitting out front of the saloon, as they were most mornings. And there was no sign of Holden’s coach.

Matthias’s gut clenched. Something was wrong. The boys.

He strode straight to Mrs. Clements’s store. A blast of warm air and the smell of bacon and biscuits greeted him as he stepped into the store. Children’s laughter drifted out from behind the army blanket that separated the shop from Mrs. Clements’s living space. The tightness around his heart eased. The boys were fine and for the first time in a good while, they sounded happy.

Suddenly, the memory of his late wife sliced through the fatigue and worry. Elise’s laugh had been clear and bright, like church bells. No matter how many worries he had, his mood had always lightened when she laughed.

Matthias shoved aside the thoughts that only made his days feel longer.

He pulled off his hat and started down the center aisle cut between rows of barrels filled with flour, sugar and dried beans. In front of him, a plywood counter was piled high with cans of peaches, a jug of white lightning, tin cups and a scale for measuring sugar and spices. From low-lying rafters hung buckets, baskets and three lanterns.

“Mrs. Clements?” Matthias called out.

The storekeeper emerged from the curtained door behind the counter, her blue calico dress and a white apron hugging her full hips. Her hair was piled high on her head in a loose topknot. “Ah, you
finally made it. Frank was a little worried when you didn’t arrive by nightfall. I told him not to worry. Chores always take twice as long as we ever imagine plus you’re as tough as a mountain goat.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Mr. Clements was called out of town three days ago—delivery to Ephraim Collier’s ranch. And Mr. Stokes went with him so he could have a look at Collier’s stock.”

“Who is Stokes?”

“That greenhorn on the stage. Turns out he’s with the railroad, looking for ranchers to supply him with beef and horses.”

Matthias flexed his fingers, tight with tension. “Of all times to break a wagon wheel.”