Katy Madison - Bride by Mail

Her head jerked back, and she stared at him as if he’d turned into a rattler. She swallowed hard, but then her chin slid up a notch. “No. I’m not a possession to be sold.”

Her voice had moderated from the thin, raspy screech she had greeted him with. She still sounded too breathy and young, but he reckoned he could live with the sweeter sound. Maybe, just maybe, she had a bit of grit. “Then tell him to leave you alone.”

She gave him an angry glare, then marched toward the mercantile. The way she floated over the ground in her swaying skirt mesmerized him.

“Sure you won’t sell her to me?” said Kincaid, breaking the spell. “Seems to me she took to me a mite better than you.”

His blood rising, Jack turned toward Kincaid. “You wouldn’t know how to handle a lady if you had one.”

“And you would?” Kincaid taunted.

“Yeah, I would.” His mother was a lady. And she’d never let anyone forget that her blue-blooded grandparents had fled France during the Reign of Terror.

Jack was off-kilter. Olivia was a huge miscalculation on his part. The last thing he wanted was a woman who reminded him of his mother. God help him if Olivia was as haughty. Watching the stiff set of her shoulders, he didn’t harbor high hopes.

She should have been a plain, sturdy woman. Mail-order brides wore calico and sunbonnets, not hoop skirts and beribboned straw hats. Pioneer women were ordinary, not pretty, not pampered. It wouldn’t be long before Olivia complained of the dirt, the primitive living conditions and him. It wouldn’t be long before she fled—just as his mother had.

Chapter Two

My name is Olivia Hansson. I work in a cotton mill. I live in a boardinghouse with my two dearest friends. They consider me the quiet one. I have light hair and am fair skinned. I am above average height for a woman. My eyes are more gray than blue. Please send me a photograph of you.

Spots danced in front of Olivia’s eyes, and she prayed she would reach the wagon. With her tight lacings, she could barely breathe. She needed to stop and catch her breath, but she wanted away from those awful men. Jack included.

Her lungs screamed and her vision closed in. She reached the wagon and gripped the side, trying desperately to breathe. Lying down would be prudent, but she suspected Jack would look at her with even more distaste in his brown eyes. Oh, God, he was even better looking than his picture. Yet his frowning appraisal had implied she was a bitter tonic to swallow.

Her eyes stung. She’d fantasized all kinds of greetings, but for him to look at her with distaste had never even crossed her mind. For a minute she’d feared he would sell her.

Her carpetbag thudded into the wagon bed. Her trunk followed. He’d shouldered it as if it weighed nothing. “I’d hoped to be done stocking up before the stage arrived.”

The planks of the wagon side bit into her palms. She couldn’t look at him. It wasn’t much of an apology, but his tardiness hadn’t upset her so much as his not protecting her from the swarming jackals. “I understand. The stage doesn’t always arrive on schedule.”

She strove to sound rational. He’d asked for a calm woman, and hysteria would not be endearing. Nor did she think fainting would project bravery.

Silence stretched between them. Olivia’s heart pounded.

“Men here so seldom see a pretty lady, they don’t know how to be civil,” he offered.

Had he called her pretty? “I am not used to being accosted in the street.” No, she was used to being ignored or studiously avoided by the men in Connecticut. She looked out of the corner of her eye at Jack.

He scowled at the trunk he’d just put in the wagon.

“Or offered up for sale,” she muttered.

He glared at her. “I didn’t offer to sell you. Besides, you were clinging to Kincaid.”

“Yes, well, it seemed better to choose one of them rather than to be torn apart.” Olivia chomped down on her tongue. Railing at Jack wouldn’t improve things.

“I’m sure they preferred you in one piece.” Jack shoved her trunk against the side of the wagon. A rigorous round of cheeps came out of a wooden crate holding a couple dozen half yellow, half brown chicks. They looked like they had a bad case of mange.

Olivia closed her eyes. She knew nothing about raising chickens. She forced herself to open her eyes.

Jack gave her a funny look. “Don’t you want eggs?”

Had she given away her apprehension? Determined to put a good face on it, she said, “Of course. I’ve just never raised chickens.”

She should tell him she didn’t have a clue how to cook eggs, but the confession froze on her tongue.

“I have to go back in the store. Do you want to stay here or go inside?”

Olivia cast a glance over her shoulder. Men still watched her. “I’ll go with you.”

Jack strode into the store without a backward look. Pushing at the stitch in her side, Olivia followed.

Her eyes took a second to adjust to the dark interior.

Three scruffy men and the group of Indians turned her way. Everyone looked at her, except Jack. Even the grocer stared over the goods piled on the counter. His mouth fell agape. Was she such an oddity?

Olivia took a step forward. Cracker boxes, pickle barrels and all sorts of dry goods from bolts of material to shovels crammed the space. Negotiating the narrow pathways with her hoops would be impossible.

The Indian women pointed, while this time the impassive native men watched, too. If she tilted her hoops to get through the maze of barrels and crates, they would all laugh.

One rough-dressed man’s gaze turned from surprised to speculative. His bold look ran down her front and stopped at her chest. Chills ran down her spine. Olivia backed away. Jack shouldered a flour sack and headed toward the door.

She stepped to the side, out of sight of the rude men inside.

Jack made several trips carrying supplies. He finally paused beside her. “Is there anything you need?”

She shook her head, staring down at the wilting bows of her dress.

Jack folded his arms. “You’ll need dresses you can work in.”

“I’m not an idiot.” She knew the carriage dress was impractical for everyday wear. Her mother had worn it visiting when the most strenuous thing she did was raise a teacup. Olivia lifted her chin. “I have work dresses.”

The Indians exited the store. The men left as unencumbered as they arrived, but the women bore bundles on their backs.

“Pale Eyes lazy squaw,” said a brave as he passed.

Olivia’s jaw dropped. She wanted to escape, but she had nowhere to go.

Jack rubbed his forehead as if pained. He looked off to the side. “The preacher is expecting us.”

Her stomach jumped to her throat and Olivia’s knees buckled.

Jack caught her elbow. “Are you all right?” The question sounded grudging.

“Of course I’m all right.” Her voice sounded breathy and strange to her ears. She locked her knees.

Jack guided her toward the wagon. His hands around her waist, he lifted her into the box, and she felt his touch everywhere. In spite of the warmth of the afternoon sun, she shuddered.

A bright woven blanket covered the wooden bench seat. After arranging her hoops so the front of her skirt would not shoot up in the air, she sat on the woolen blanket and folded her hands in her lap to still their shaking.

She was getting married. Today.

Even though she had come fully expecting to marry Jack, to meet and marry him in the space of an hour was whirlwind fast. Her pounding heart settled in her throat.

Jack spread thick brown animal skins over the supplies, and then lashed them down.

Olivia twisted in the seat to look at him. The Indian’s criticism had been cutting. “Should I help you do that?”