Susan Mallery - Justin's Bride

She smoothed her hair, then made her way back into her store. Andrew, her assistant, was wrapping up a purchase of bleached muslin for one of the young women in town. No doubt she would be making a pretty dress for the Fourth of July dance. The celebration was months away, but people started preparing well in advance. Thinking about that dance didn’t ease her mind nor make her forget Justin. In fact, it made her think of other dances when she’d been held by proper young men but had watched Justin out of the corner of her eye. He’d danced with almost everyone but her. He’d made those girls laugh with his easy humor and flirtatious winks.

Once, at one of the dances, on a magical night filled with stars, he’d found her out walking through a grove of trees. No one had been around, although they could still hear the music of the fiddler. Without saying a word, Justin had taken her into his arms. He’d pulled her closer than the other boys did. Close enough that she’d felt the heat of his body, his warm breath on her face. Close enough that her heart had pounded harder in her chest. They’d danced for what felt like a lifetime, circling, staring into each other’s eyes. His fingers had burned into her back. For a moment, while they’d waited between songs, his head had dipped low and he’d brushed his mouth against her cheek. Then he’d looked at her and—

“Oh, Megan,” she heard someone say. “I need to order a few yards of silk.”

Megan blinked several times and found herself standing in her general store. The woman in front of her went on about her daughter’s upcoming wedding and the need for the young woman to have something pretty to wear her first night married.

Megan flushed. She’d never had a wedding night. Had never had a wedding. At twenty-four, she was an old maid. And a businesswoman, she reminded herself as she hurried forward to help the customer. So what if Justin had come back? She didn’t care. She didn’t have time to care. But as she continued to work that afternoon, she could hear the faint sounds of the fiddle from that long-ago night and her cheek tingled with the soft echo of Justin’s kiss.

* * *

By three-thirty, Megan couldn’t stand it anymore. If one more person came into the store and asked if it was true that Justin Kincaid had come back, she was going to scream. Everyone wanted to talk about the possibility, but no one was willing to find out the truth.

Widow Dobson talked on and on about what a mistake it was going to be, and how someone born to trouble usually died from trouble. Even if it wasn’t his fault.

“You mark my words,” the older woman said for at least the fortieth time that day. “It’s easy to hope a boy like that will turn out right. But a body never knows for sure. I can just see—”

Not willing to listen to the widow for one more minute, Megan marched to the rear of the store and slipped behind the curtain. In her tiny office, she picked up her hat and set it on her head. She paused in front of the oval mirror long enough to make sure the hat was straight and that no stray hairs had escaped from her morning coiffure, then she picked up her cloak and drew it over her shoulders. After closing the fasteners at her throat, she reached for her gloves and reticule, and headed back into the store.

“Andrew, watch things for me, please,” she called as she sailed down the center aisle.

“Where are you going?” the widow asked.

Megan paused by the door and pulled on her gloves. “To find out the truth.”

The older woman gasped. “You mean—”

“I’m going to the sheriff’s office.”

“But you can’t. My dear girl, if it is him, well, he’s one of those kind of men. What will people think?”

The question made her hesitate. Megan knew the power of what other people thought. She lived her life by what other people would or would not think of her actions. Between her late father’s rules and having a minister for a brother-in-law, she always had to think about other people’s opinions.

But she also had to know. She would go mad if she didn’t find out the truth. If it wasn’t the Justin Kincaid she knew, then she would simply introduce herself and come back. And if it was him...well, she would figure that out when she saw him.

“It’s the middle of the day,” she said, and opened the door. “The sheriff’s office is a place of business. It’s not as if I’m going to a man’s hotel room, Mrs. Dobson. Why would anyone say anything?”

Before she lost the little courage she had, she stepped out into the afternoon and turned right.

Her ankle-high buttoned shoes clicked on the wooden planking in front of her store. The boardwalk continued to the stage office, then came to an abrupt end ten feet from the butcher shop. From there it was a wide river of mud until the planking started again in front of the sheriff’s office.

Spring was almost here, she thought as she took a firm grip on her skirts and pulled them up several inches. She eyed the moist muck, planning out her path to avoid the worst of the puddles and a still-steaming pile of manure left by the stagecoach horses. With a quick prayer for the state of her shoes, she stepped daintily across to the planking several feet away.

A couple of farmers nodded as she passed them. A lady she knew said hello. Megan smiled and kept on moving, hoping no one would ask where she was off to.

When she reached the safety of the wooden sidewalk, she stamped her feet to get rid of the loose mud, then dropped her skirts to the ground. Her heart thundered loudly. She raised her chin slightly, trying to ignore the fear that fueled the pounding in her chest and made her palms damp against the kid leather of her gloves.

She approached the one-story wooden building. Two windows flanked the door. They hadn’t been washed in weeks, so she couldn’t just peek inside and find out if the man in question was the Justin Kincaid she had known. Besides, she scolded herself, it wasn’t seemly for her to go around spying on others. She would simply open the door and step inside, as any good citizen could. She would see for herself, then leave.

“Afternoon, Megan.”

She spun toward the voice. Mrs. Greeley, the butcher’s wife, strolled by her.

“Good afternoon.” Megan almost choked on the words. She’d forgotten that guilt made her throat dry. “Fine weather we’re having.”

The older woman hiked up her skirts to almost her knees and waded through the mud. “If you don’t mind a little mess,” she called over her shoulder.

Megan stared at the front door. Indecision gripped her. Oh, just get it over with, she told herself firmly. She had to do it now before someone else she knew came along. What was the worst that could happen?

She gripped the door handle and turned it. The door swung open silently, and she stepped inside. Until that moment, Megan hadn’t realized she’d never been inside the sheriff’s office before. She’d had no reason to come here. She’d never sworn out a warrant against another or been accused of a crime. Her father had conducted his business with the sheriff in the small office in the back of the general store.

Standing by the door, she slowly studied the room. The walls hadn’t been papered. Posters of wanted men hung on the bare wood. Dappled sunshine highlighted the floor scarred by boot heels, spurs and tobacco burns. Three desks, two smaller ones on each side and a larger one in the center of the room, took up most of the space. There were two doors leading into the back. Both of them were closed. Except for the furniture and herself, the room was empty.

She stepped inside and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one to witness her potential humiliation at the hands of Justin Kincaid. Of course, there wasn’t any Justin Kincaid, either.