Katy Madison - Bride by Mail

Olivia had cautiously unfolded the two sheets to discover his portrait. Anticipation and excitement had thrummed through her just like the Christmas morning when she’d unwrapped a porcelain doll and a miniature china tea set.

The photograph showed a man with dark curls brushing his shoulders, a clean-shaven face with strong planes and a full mouth with the slightest of tilts, as if her request had amused him.

He looked like a man accustomed to danger and the wild. He looked like a man who would think a cabin with a stove was the height of civilization. He looked like a man afraid of nothing, and nothing like a man she had expected to marry.

Her knees had gone weak and her mouth had watered anyway. A tightening sensation like fear had settled low in her gut. After sneaking peeks at the picture again and again, she’d grown sure he was a man who could protect her from the world.

Laughter and shouts emanated from the saloon, but no man from the photograph. Had he been delayed? Her chest tightened.

Her optimism was fast disintegrating. Her friends and roommates had thought her crazy for suggesting they answer advertisements for brides. Perhaps they had been right.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

Olivia spun around. Her throat tightened.

“Can I help ya ta find a place?” A man with an untrimmed beard and wearing stained red suspenders approached.

Not Jack. She deflated. “No, thank you. I’m waiting on someone.”

A group of bricklayers worked on a building. Men on foot and horseback passed, but not a single woman was in sight. Her spine tightened. Was she alone in a world of men?

Surely her husband-to-be hadn’t spent a small fortune on her passage only to abandon her at the last stop. Had an accident or illness befallen him? Was she here in this rough place without a protector?

“Care ta wet your whistle? I can buy you a sarsaparilla across the street.” He gestured toward the saloon.

Ladies didn’t go into drinking establishments. Even in this wild place, she doubted the rules were different. “Thank you, but I had better wait here.”

She turned to dismiss him.

“Who’s fetching you?” he persisted.

“I’m sure he will be along directly.”

The man crossed his arms and spit a stream of tobacco, narrowly missing the lavender skirts of her carriage dress.

Gentlemen didn’t spit in a lady’s presence. Pulling her skirts back, she hoped he would take the hint and go away.

He didn’t.

Indians moved up the sidewalk. Loincloths and open vests exposed bronzed skin. Their long black hair glistened with blue lights. Olivia drew in a sharp breath at the sight of muscular legs and smooth bare chests covered in strange patterns. Behind the men trailed women wearing buckskin sack dresses. In contrast to the silence of the men, the females chattered in birdlike coos and calls.

They stopped and looked Olivia up and down. Bursting into giggles, they scurried after the men. Heat rose in her cheeks.

“Damned Arapaho.” The suspender-clad man spit again.

Realizing her jaw had dropped, she pressed her lips together. She couldn’t have said if her shock was because the natives walked down the sidewalk as if they owned it, or if it was because the men wore so few clothes. She felt as if she’d stepped into China or Africa instead of a territory of the country she’d been born and raised in.

Her throat dry, Olivia scanned the street again. The signs around her indicated the ticket office, the livery stable, the BK saloon, and Pike’s Mercantile, but no man in buckskins was in sight. Where was her husband-to-be? The bricklayers ceased their work and openly stared at her. Her heart raced and the back of her neck felt as if a cold demon blew on it. She swallowed hard to suppress the outward signs of nervousness.

The scruffy man scratched his armpit. Was the brown stain on his suspenders tobacco, food or just plain dirt?

She shuddered.

One side of his mouth slid up. His gaze dropped to her chest. “You answer one of them ads for a wife?”

Olivia backed up. Her heels clicked against her mother’s trunk and she nearly fell on it. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

“Might as well come with me. One of us is as good as another.”

He had to be kidding. She curled her fingers in so tightly her nails bit into her palms through her gloves. What kind of place was this?

A man in a green-and-white-striped waistcoat and a shiny black jacket pushed the man in suspenders to the side. “Leave the lady be.” His pomaded hair was combed straight back and his penetrating eyes appraised her. “Is he bothering you, ma’am?”

Letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her tension eased. The gentleman would be of assistance. “I’m sure he is just trying to be helpful.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ben Kincaid.” He doffed his hat and made a slight bow.

She nodded but didn’t answer in kind.

He extended his arm. “Why don’t you come with me, ma’am? I’m sure you don’t want to be standing in the street.”

“I’d rather wait a bit longer. I am expected.” But she’d be grateful if the gentleman would get rid of the man in the dirty suspenders. Ironic that she, who couldn’t seem to attract a single man’s attention back in Connecticut, had two men vying for her attention. She reached to take the proffered arm.

“You ain’t safe waiting here all alone,” Mr. Kincaid said, shattering the illusion of being a well-bred man while clamping her hand into the crook of his arm. He insolently looked her up and down.

His bold appraisal made her feel unclean. Her heart thudded in her chest, threatening to break through her ribs. Where was Jack?

A frisson of fear sliding down her spine, she tugged, but Mr. Kincaid didn’t let her loose. She gave up trying to free her hand rather than create a scene. He was at least preferable to the unkempt man. Or was he?

The scruffier man folded his arms across his suspenders. “Better off comin’ with me. Leastwise, I’d marry you.”

Mr. Kincaid flashed a big smile. “Now, I have a private room over yonder where you could...freshen up after your journey. I’d be happy to see to your...comfort.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Olivia wasn’t at all sure she would be fine. But at this point she’d opt for tagging after the Indian braves who had ignored her, rather than with Mr. Kincaid, who offered an unsavory sort of assistance, or with the man who needed a bath.

Several men toddled out of the saloon. They took various poses along the opposite sidewalk. What on earth were they doing?

“I’m sure I don’t want to keep you.” Perhaps she should go down to the mercantile and inquire within, but she couldn’t manage her trunk without help. Inside were the last of her links with her parents. She didn’t want to abandon it.

She suspected if she asked Mr. Kincaid to assist her, he’d take her trunk into the saloon. Her throat closed and she swallowed.

Her friend Anna would have laughed at the men. Selina would have shooed them off, but Olivia’s tongue was tied and it was all she could do to keep from trembling.

Where in heaven’s name was Jack, and why was he leaving her alone to contend with these uncouth men? Horrors that could befall an unprotected woman cast big black blots in her thoughts.

“I’m waiting for Mr. Trudeau. P-perhaps you know him.”

Mr. Kincaid’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “I ain’t seen Jack, nor his mules, lately.”

Mules? Olivia again looked around for Jack or mules, but no mules were in sight. A new buckboard wagon and horses waited in front of the mercantile, but no Jack. Her stomach somersaulted.

“Jack’s got him a woman already. He don’t need you,” objected the scruffy man.