Katy Madison - Bride by Mail

He tied the leather straps down. “Not necessary.”

The sun glossed the hides of the two brown horses hitched to the wagon. She bit her lip. He was taking her to the church. The minister would bind them together forever. Or did Jack already have a wife?

Jack untied the horses, not mules, from the hitching post. He swung up and settled onto the bench beside her.

Mr. Kincaid had been wrong about Jack owning mules; he was probably wrong about an Indian wife.

“Mr. Trudeau—”

“Jack,” he corrected, just a hint of a French accent coloring his words. “Might as well call me by my given name, because I will call you Olivia.”

“Jack or Jacques, the French way?” she queried.

He shrugged. “My mother would call me Jacques, but Jack will do.” He clearly made a distinction between the “ah” and “ack” sounds this time.

“Must we be married so soon?” Olivia clamped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that. She wanted to ask if he had a wife, but she had no idea how to frame the question.

He drew the wagon to a halt and set the brake. Bracing a boot on the board running across the front of the box, he turned sideways and measured her with his warm brown eyes. “I have a one-room cabin.”

“Yes,” said Olivia.

“Two days’ travel from here.”

She nodded.

“One bed. Unless you’d rather live in sin,” he said with a slight lilt in his voice.

The point he was attempting to make suddenly became crystal clear. Olivia went hot and cold all over. “Oh.”

He turned to face the front. “Figured you’d rather be married.”

She ducked her head, hiding her flush.

“I can put you back on the stagecoach, if you’d rather.”

From his strong profile she tried to glean a hint as to what he preferred. Her heart sank. Even if he sent her back to Connecticut, her home wasn’t there anymore. Not that Connecticut had ever really been home. She’d just been stuck there after the train accident killed her parents.

“We can go to the cabin without benefit of marriage, but I’ll be damned if I sleep anywhere but in my own bed.”

“I see,” said Olivia slowly. She desperately wanted to change the subject. Blurting the first thing that came to mind, she said, “I brought you a shirt and coat.” Her voice rose to a squeak. “For the wedding, b-but I need time to finish them.”

The shirt she’d made from fresh cotton at the mill, and for the jacket she’d recut one of her father’s best broadcloth suits. She’d only basted the seams, wanting to check the fit before finishing.

Jack sighed. “We need to get home.”

Home. Her mouth opened and nothing came out. She yearned for a home. But nothing was going as anticipated. She wasn’t even sure he liked her. She closed her mouth.

“Look, I have no intention of forcing you to be a wife in all ways before you’re ready. But if you intend to leave, I’d rather you did it now.”

Was he as uncertain of her as she was of him? The idea startled her. Nothing had indicated he was anything less than supremely confident.

She wanted to tell him she’d slept with his photograph under her pillow for the past three months, but the words wouldn’t form. The detail seemed too intimate to reveal to a man who’d written her three letters. The man would be her husband quite soon. Her head spun.

Silence stretched out.

He scowled. “So what is it to be, Olivia?”

“All right,” she said in a low whisper.

* * *

Jack stood before the altar in the little brick chapel. The stiff collar of the crisp white shirt cut off his breath. The tight black jacket constricted movement. He hated wearing civilized clothes, but he suspected a refusal to wear the jacket and shirt would upset his tense bride.

The mother-of-pearl buttons had the look of expensive tailoring. Other than being a hair too tight, the shirt fit like a glove. His mother would have been ecstatic to see him so finely clothed. He’d probably never wear the shirt and jacket again. He wouldn’t have a need.

Beside him, Olivia trembled like aspen leaves caught in the breeze. He kept his hand near her elbow in case she fainted.

As he said his vows, a sick feeling settled in his stomach. He’d wanted a wife to ease his worries, but she had increased them tenfold. The pale beauty wouldn’t stand up to Indians who walked in uninvited. She wouldn’t be able to back down men tired of panning for gold and wanting easy pickings from his cabin. She hadn’t managed to stand up to the men in town, who had daylight and witnesses to prevent them behaving too uncivilized. He’d never be able to leave on a trapping run.

But he couldn’t back out.

Olivia whispered her pledge in a tremulous voice. Her head dipped low. Even though the top of her head was on level with his eyes, he couldn’t see her expression. He held his breath, fearing she might yet balk and choose to go back East.

“Do you have the ring?” asked the preacher.

When Jack produced the ring, Olivia jerked her head up. Pink tinged her cheeks.

When he slid the ring on her finger, she would be tied to him and this place.

He caught her hand in his. Her cool fingers were long and delicate like a bird’s wings, and fluttering in his grip. What would that fluttering feel like against his skin? Likely she would be gone before he knew.

She’d find the gold band too simple, too plain.

It was too loose. Like everything else about this marriage it didn’t fit right.

The preacher intoned the solemn words. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Olivia swayed.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Jack turned to face her, but Olivia stared down at her hand.

He waited for her to look up. The preacher cleared his throat.

Cupping her elbow, Jack eased her sideways, but she didn’t turn up her face. He nudged her delicate chin. She pressed her lips together. White rimmed her pale gray irises. Her trembling increased.

He sighed, then leaned forward and brushed a kiss on her smooth cheek. Her hat brim nearly poked out his eye. A tiny squeak left her throat. She blinked rapidly and lowered her gaze.

“Congratulations,” the preacher said heartily. “After you sign the certificate, won’t you join me in the rectory?”

Olivia swiveled back to face the preacher.

Jack began, “We need to get—”

“Yes!”

“—on our way.”

Now she speaks. Jack rolled his eyes. She couldn’t make her dread of being alone with him be more obvious. He kept his voice coaxing, rational. “We need to leave while we have daylight.”

She gave a short nod, but her lower lip trembled.

“Just one thing, then,” said the preacher. “We do things different out here in the territories. I won’t file the certificate for a month.”

Jack winced.

Olivia froze. Then she turned toward him with her eyes wide.

The preacher lowered his head and cleared his throat. “In case you find you don’t suit.”

“Wh-what?” asked Olivia on a shallow puff of air.

Jack caught her arm and tugged her toward the door. She looked over her shoulder at the preacher. “Nothing to worry about,” Jack mumbled.

But the V between her brows suggested she was plenty worried. She wouldn’t make it thirty days. And he wished the preacher hadn’t made it so damn obvious she could leave without repercussions.

* * *

Hours later, Olivia anxiously scanned the horizon for a dwelling where they might spend the night. Perhaps over the next rise would be a new settlement.

The horses’ heads bobbed, jiggling the harnesses. Their backs glistened with sweat as they pulled the creaking wagon over the twin dirt tracks through the long grass. The sun scraped the peaks of the green-and-purple-topped mountains far to their left. With every mile the menacing giants loomed closer.