Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1) (6 page)

Briggs shot her a glare. “You wrote in your letter that it was four months.”

“No, I couldn’t have. Perhaps my writing was a little—”

“Your writing was fine.”

“Are you sure that—”

“I’m positive.” His tone was so sharp, she knew he was telling the truth. As she remembered the haste in which she wrote and sent the letter, she began to wonder if she might have made a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. Oh, how could she have been so careless?

Then again, maybe it wasn’t a mistake, she thought miserably. Maybe she’d known that marrying Briggs was wrong—that she wasn’t fit to be an honest man’s bride—and she had purposefully tried to create a new identity for herself. It certainly seemed that way now.

“You’ve been living on your own in Boston for four years?” he asked. “Has
everything
been a lie?”

Sarah shook her head and spoke firmly. “No.”

Briggs plucked a long blade of grass and wrapped it around his forefinger. His silence was more unnerving than any reprimand. He was so calm, when most men would be shouting at her.

All she could do was sit in the tangled growth and suffer, knowing what he must think of her now—that she was completely unreliable and untrustworthy.

But who was she trying to fool? She
was
unreliable and untrustworthy, because Briggs didn’t know the first thing about her, and she had no intention of revealing the whole truth to him, or to anyone.
Ever
. It was too dangerous. If she told him why she had needed to escape Garrison, Briggs might report him to the authorities and she might be implicated in his crimes. Besides that, she
knew
what Garrison would do if he ever found out she’d told someone. He’d made that more than clear. She couldn’t put herself or Briggs in that kind of danger.

“What else did you tell me?” Briggs asked. “Oh, yes. That you went to church. And I suppose you’re about to tell me the church in your neighborhood burned down and you haven’t seen a Sunday worship in what, four years?”

“No,” Sarah said. “I do go to church. I wouldn’t lie about
that.
”

He continued to stare coldly at the distant, rolling hills. “But you’d lie about everything else.”

Briggs tossed the grass away. “Do you still love this man that you parted from only three weeks ago?”

Sarah shut her eyes and faced the wind. “No, I don’t love him. I hope I never see him again. And I give you my word—for whatever it’s worth: That is the honest truth.”

She met his gaze directly, with conviction.

“And what will you wish for three weeks from today?” Briggs asked. “That you could be on your way again? Will you leave me when you get bored, and leap into another man’s bed to drive the one you really love from your heart?”

His words were like a slap across the face. She deserved it, she knew, but it didn’t make it any easier. Rising to her feet, she spoke unwaveringly. “I’m sorry for all this, Briggs. Truly I am. And I understand if you regret bringing me here. We can go back to town right now if you want, and get a divorce or an annulment. I won’t argue, and you won’t have to worry about me. I’ll make my own way.”

She turned and started walking back to the wagon, angry with herself for getting into this mess in the first place. Not just with Briggs. All her problems had started when she’d met Garrison. She wished she had listened to her instincts then. Something about him had made her uncomfortable from the start, but his behavior had always been impeccable. Too impeccable. He’d said all the right things and looked the part of a gentleman. Handsome and wealthy, he had wooed her well and ruined her life in the process. Now Briggs thought the worst things about her, and he deserved a way out.

She reached the wagon and climbed onto the seat, realizing wretchedly that Briggs had every right to judge her the way he had. She
was
a liar.

But what did it even matter now? Their marriage was over. It was time to move on.

* * *

From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Briggs approach the wagon, but she resisted the urge to acknowledge him. She sat with dignity, her backbone as straight as a steel skewer while he vaulted himself onto the seat, making the vehicle bounce, squeak and wiggle.

He’s going to turn this old wooden box back toward town, and that will be the end of it
.

Sarah gripped the side of the wagon in preparation for its sudden lurch, but nothing happened. Briggs held the reins in his large, sun-darkened hands, as if thinking.

She had been brave and strong a moment ago. Where had those feelings gone? Now she was uncertain and more than a little intimidated. She could do nothing but wait for his decision.

After another agonizing moment, he slapped the reins and the horses plodded forward. They flicked their ears back and forth while Sarah held onto the wagon seat, waiting for them to shift direction and turn back toward town, but they did not alter their course. The horses lumbered along the straight and narrow road, lightly jingling their harness.

“We had an agreement,” Briggs said coolly. “Whatever you did in Boston is your business and I’d rather not know about it. But you assured me you’d be a good worker and that much I hope is true. The rest doesn’t concern me. Like I said, we had an agreement and I plan to stick to my end of it.”

Surprised and hopeful, she snuck a glance at Briggs, but was disappointed to find all traces of tenderness gone from his face. The word “agreement” held less allure than her dream of a real marriage, but at least it was something, however miniscule, to cling to.

Chapter Five

It was late afternoon when they finally approached a homestead. Sarah saw a barn built of sod and roofed with hay, a noisy chicken coop, a vegetable garden, acres and acres of tall green corn to the west and golden wheat to the east, but no house. Perhaps it was over the next hill, she thought, then wondered why anyone would build a house so far from the animals.

The muffled sounds of moos and snorts from inside the barn interrupted the constant roar of wind as they drew closer. Sarah inhaled the scent of fresh manure and animals, and strangely, she found the smells agreeable. She realized how accustomed she had become to the city smells of sewage and rotting garbage.

She sat forward in her seat, feeling like her behind had been battered with a washing board. Stiff and sore, she wanted to ask if this was to be her new home, but hesitated when she glanced at the scowling face beside her.

“Darn,” he whispered.

Briggs pulled the wagon to a hard stop and hopped down. A wandering hen clucked and flapped his wings, scurrying out of the way.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked a pig. The swine was licking the cuff of a pair of work trousers hanging from a clothes line strung across the yard. “How’d this happen?”

Sarah waited in the wagon while Briggs strode toward the barn door. “Darn dog,” he said, barely loud enough for Sarah to hear. He flipped the door latch with his finger, then called out, “Shadow! Come out here!”

Sarah felt a nibble of concern as she imagined what he was going to do to this poor animal who had let the pig out of the pen. Just then, a flash of movement whisked past the wagon. It tore across the yard toward Briggs.

He knelt down to meet a golden retriever who bounded into him and nearly knocked him over. The dog whimpered and licked Briggs’s face and hands. Sarah couldn’t suppress a smile.

So this was his land. But where was the house? Looking all around, she hopped down from the wagon and splashed into a fresh, wet pile of manure that soiled the hem of her petticoat.

“Oh,” she groaned, lifting her skirt and stepping back to examine the sole of her boot.

“You gotta watch where you step around here,” Briggs said. He disappeared into the barn, then returned a moment later towing a white goat. “Go stretch your legs, Gertrude, but stay away from my trousers on the line.” He let her loose to wander the yard.

Sarah, still scraping the bottom of her boot on the hard ground, watched Briggs walk back into the barn. She heard him apologizing to someone. “Sorry Maddie. Didn’t mean to be gone all night.” He stayed in the barn a while this time, and after a few minutes, Sarah wondered what she should do. Should she get her bag and find her own way to the house, or should she wait for him to escort her? Most definitely, she did not want to invade his home without his permission.

But she was his wife. It was her home, too.

Feeling an overall uneasiness, Sarah wandered around the yard while a pulsing, squirting sound reverberated from inside the barn. She entered the fenced pen which was attached to it, then peeked through the door to see Briggs sitting on a small wooden stool, milking a cow. He had removed his coat and had draped it over the side of the stall, and now sat with his loose white shirt stretched across his back.

Leaning forward, he squeezed and pulled at the poor thing’s feminine underparts while milk squirted in thin, forceful streams. Sarah stood watching, entranced by the muscles in Briggs’s back, tensing and relaxing in unison with the steady sound of milk striking the wooden bucket. She realized with some surprise that she’d never really watched anyone milk a cow before, not for any length of time.

All of a sudden, a brown flash came bounding out of the barn and tackled her. Tired and less alert than she ought to have been, she toppled backward into the mud, only then realizing her face, sun-burned and stinging from the long drive, was being licked clean with unbridled enthusiasm. The dog snorted, his long wet tongue making its aggressive way up her nose. “Ugh!” she screamed, trying to cover her face with her white gloved hands.

“Shadow!” Briggs hollered. “Get off her!”

The big dog skulked away with his ears pressed back and his tail between his legs, while the pig watched the entire spectacle with interest.

“Sorry about that,” Briggs said, striding through the mud and wrapping his strong hand around Sarah’s elbow. “Look what he did.” He pulled her swiftly to her feet, but she lost her balance and fell forward on one knee into the mud before he scooped her up again.

Sarah fought to control her temper and wondered how she had ever survived the past month without pulling her hair out. She tried to catch her breath, but it seemed no use. All her troubles were catching up with her. She picked at her skirt with shaky, muddy fingers. “My Sunday dress. It’s covered with mud.” It was the least of her worries, but it seemed the only problem she could talk about.

“It ain’t mud,” Briggs said matter-of-factly.

“It’s not mud,” she repeated, refusing to accept what possibilities remained.

“Aw, hell,” he said again. “You’re gonna have to go down to the creek.”

“The creek? Don’t you have a tub?”

“A tub. Not out here, I’m afraid.” He turned away from her, then pointed. “Creek’s that way. You’ll find soap on the big rock.”

Sarah glanced hopelessly in the direction of his outstretched finger, and guessed the water was just over the hill. Struggling to mentally prepare herself to wash out of doors with the animals and insects, she staggered out of the pen alone. At least the dog had followed Briggs back into the barn and was no longer a threat.

She treaded across the yard, and with no shortage of grunts and groans, lifted her valise out of the wagon. She lugged it in the direction she hoped would bring her to water.

When she approached the top of a small hill, she saw the creek in the distance. It was at least a half a mile away. She certainly wasn’t about to lug her bag all the way there.

Whispering an oath, she set it down and withdrew a clean skirt and bodice. She left the bag in the grass and hobbled wearily the rest of the way.

After stumbling down the creek bank, she found the soap in a battered tin bowl. How was she going to do this? she wondered, turning to check if anyone could see her. Of course not. There wasn’t another soul for miles.

She unlaced her boots and kicked them off, then removed her dress and underclothing, feeling one level beyond nakedness. She was outdoors, stepping into a creek with God-knows-what kind of creatures swimming around in it. She forced those thoughts from her muddled brain as she waded in, shivering at the sudden ice-cold shock upon her skin. Gooseflesh covered every part of her body that had a name, so she decided to bite the bullet and plunge in head first with a splash.

Her body soon adjusted to the cool temperature, and she began to swim around in circles, feeling surprisingly refreshed, but nevertheless wondering how she was ever going to survive out here. No wonder Briggs had to advertise for a wife.

But surely he wouldn’t expect her to crack the ice and bathe here in the winter. There must be some alternative plan.

Treading water and looking in all directions, she realized she had not once imagined that it would be like
this
. She’d honestly believed there would be other farms nearby. She’d thought it would be a small community with charming country houses painted yellow, a church and a school within walking distance. Children playing games together. She’d fantasized about quilting bees and spelling bees and honey bees. There was none of that here or anywhere near here.

Nevertheless—and she was sure some would be surprised by this—she felt lucky and blessed. Maybe there weren’t any quilting bees, but there was hope for a new beginning.