Jillian Hart - Montana Bride

“I reckon it’s mighty hard to wait and wonder, not knowing what you might walk into.” He knew that feeling. “Truth is, I’ve been so preoccupied with meeting you, for the last week I found myself walking into walls. Going into a room and forgetting what I meant to fetch. Even Calvin had a few choice neighs for me.”

“You were nervous?” She looked up at him, meeting his gaze squarely for the first time. Shy, she dipped her head again, breaking the contact, but that brief emotional touch was like a sign.

He squared his shoulders, seeing a way to lessen the uneasiness of two strangers sharing a meal. “I can’t tell you how much. I had no idea what to expect. I imagine it was the same for you.”

“Yes.” Relief telegraphed across her pretty face, framed by soft dark bangs. “Why did you choose to find a wife in an advertisement?”

“Didn’t have much of a choice, really.” He took a bite of chicken and chewed. Did he tell her his woe when it came to women? “There aren’t a lot of marriageable females in this part of the territory. It’s rugged and remote, and the railroad coming through hasn’t changed that. Every woman I knew up and married someone else.”

“Why?” Her blue eyes were like a whirlpool pulling him in.

“I was not enough for them, I guess. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the dashing type.” He shrugged, pushing away that old pain. “I own the livery in town. I run a business. I am no slouch when it comes to being able to provide for a wife.”

“Of course not.” Her eyes gentled, a hint of the woman within. “How could that not be enough?”

“I am average, I guess.” It was tough being an average man. He did fine in school, but not stellar. He had passable enough looks, but no woman had ever thought him handsome. “The few marriageable women who have come this way have tended to look right past me, so I thought, why not bring out my own pretty girl, and here you are.”

“You are a charmer. I’ll have to keep my eye on you.” But she blushed rosily, and it was good to see a glimpse of color in her cheeks and the promise of her smile.

Enough about him and his troubles. He didn’t have to feel looked over anymore. His days of being a lonely bachelor were gone. He had a beautiful wife to call his own. She grew more comely every time he gazed upon her. He couldn’t believe his luck. He set the gnawed chicken leg on his plate. “Why did you choose my letter?”

“You were the only man who wrote me.”

“What?” That surprised him. He wiped his fingers on the cloth napkin, stumped. “The only one?”

“Yes.” She set down her fork with a muted clink against the ironware plate. “I suppose admitting I was a pregnant woman looking for marriage wasn’t the most popular thing to say in my advertisement, but I had to be honest.”

Her words penetrated his stunned brain. He tried not to feel let down, that there had not been, as he’d hoped, a spark of something special in her when she’d read his words. She was truly here because of necessity only. He blew out a breath, holding back his emotions, and focused on her. “You must have been disappointed when you heard only from me.”

“I was grateful.” Across the width of the small table, she straightened her spine, sitting prim and firm, her chin up. “Very grateful. I had no place to live. The bank took the farm after Jed’s death.”

“And you had no relatives. No place to go.” Concern choked him. He popped up from the table, feeling mighty with his rage. It wasn’t right that she’d had no one to care and no one to protect her from the harsh aspects of life. His boots pounded on the puncheon floor and he filled the washbasin with hot water from the stove’s reservoir. “How did you get by?”

“The bank had locked up the house but not the barn, so I slept there for a spell.” She hung her head, heat staining her face. Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood rapidly. “You can see why I am so grateful to you.”

He wasn’t hoping for gratitude in a wife. He didn’t know how to tell her that. He eased the heavy basin onto the work counter in front of a pitch-black window and frowned at his reflection in the glass. His worry that she was disappointed in him returned. He was certainly disenchanted with the situation and concerned on her behalf. It was April, no doubt nights were chilly in South Dakota, too, and she was pregnant. His hands bunched into fists, and he was unable to know exactly why he was so angry.

The action made Willa shrink against the counter. Alarmed, she stared up at him with an unspoken fear in her eyes and her dainty chin set with strength. Confirming everything he’d suspected about this Jed she’d been married to. He felt sick as he grabbed the bar of soap and a knife and began to pare off shaves of soap into the steaming water.

“I should be doing that.” She might be afraid of what he could do with his anger, but she was no wilting flower. She reached for the soap, her slender fingers closing over his.

A jolt of physical awareness shot through him, hot and life-changing. She gazed up at him, clear-eyed and unaffected, concerned only with the fact he was doing her housework and not trembling from the shock of touching him.

He swallowed hard, gathering his composure. “I will take care of the dishes. You must be exhausted.”

“I am fine. I have to do the kitchen work, Austin. I want you to see I’m not a lazy wife.” Gentle, her show of strength, but she braced her patched shoes on the floor as if ready for an argument.

“Your being lazy never crossed my mind.” He swallowed, confused by the tangle of softer emotions sitting dead center in his chest. “I am more concerned about your condition.”

“Oh, the baby.” It was almost as if she’d forgotten the babe’s existence. A quick pinch of dismay down turned her Cupid’s-bow mouth. In a blink, it was gone and she drew herself up, as if searching for fortitude. “I’m fine. I’m a good worker, Austin. Just like I said in my letter.”

He could see that attribute was important to her, so he nodded and let her take the dishcloth from his hand. At the whisper of her fingertips against the base of his thumb, another electric shock telegraphed through him with enough force to weaken his knees. “For the record, I’m a good worker, too.”

“I see.” Her tense shoulders relaxed another fraction and what almost passed for a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. In the lamplight, with tendrils of dark curls framing her face, she looked like some magical creature out of a fairy tale, too beautiful and sweet to be real.

His throat closed and he was at a loss for words. He felt disarmed, as if every defense he’d ever had was shattered by her touch. He felt too big, too rough, too average to be married to a woman like her. He still couldn’t believe it was his ring shining on her finger. His bride. The last ten years of loneliness felt worth it because they would come to an end tonight.

“I’ll go see to the fire.” He blushed—he couldn’t help it—as he eased through the kitchen door.

“All right.” She nodded timidly, a vision in patched and faded calico. She plunged her slender hands into the soapy water, intent on her work. There was nothing else to do but to put one foot in front of the other and set about bringing in enough wood for the morning’s needs.

He hesitated at the door, casting one last look at her. The little splashing sounds, the clink of flatware landing in the bottom of the rinse basin, the swish of her skirts and the gentleness of her presence made the tangled knot of feelings within him swell.

Tonight . Tonight he would not sleep alone. She would lie beside him in his bed, his bride to have and to hold. This was his chance to truly belong and matter to a woman. His turn to find the meaningful, enduring love he’d watched his parents share.