Mary Burton - The Unexpected Wife

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 privilege. 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.”