Katy Madison - Bride by Mail

They hadn’t encountered any other travelers. She’d rarely seen such long stretches without a town or a farm.

Jack rolled his shoulders. The basted stitches at his shoulders gaped. He hadn’t been willing to wait for her to finish the shirt.

His silence made her tense. His presence made her tense. His despairing gaze on her made her tense.

“Have you known Mr. Kincaid long?” Olivia stared ahead where the trail rose up and up into the robin’s-egg-blue sky as she waited for his answer. And waited. She wanted to ask what the preacher had meant, but she dared not.

He scowled.

She wanted to retract her question, yet he would have to acknowledge her sooner or later. What kind of a life would they have if they never talked to each other?

“He seemed to know you.” Both men had known Jack, but the other man hadn’t given his name.

“Long enough.”

Not willing to let the grudging opening go, she asked, “What does he do?”

“He gambles and provides whor—runs a saloon.”

“He seemed to want to let me know he was rich.”

“Because he dupes the prospectors out of the gold they find.”

“He seemed more gentlemanly than the other—”

“He fools women into working on their backs for him, too.” Jack glared at her.

“—man.” Olivia cringed, her ears heated. “I didn’t think he could be trusted.”

“No. He can’t be.” Jack drew the wagon to a halt at the base of the hill and wrapped the reins around the brake handle. “You need to get out and walk.”

Her jaw dropped and her fingers curled in. “Because I asked about Mr. Kincaid?”

“No, Olivia.” The corner of his mouth curled up.

That look mirrored the look in his photograph. She’d anticipated seeing his bemused half smile for a thousand miles. Her heart skipped a beat. She wanted that look, rather than the look of impatient disgust he’d greeted her with.

“Because the horses have to haul the weight of a loaded wagon up a steep grade.” Jack leaped out of the wagon.

Olivia stood. Preparing to climb down, she grasped the footboard. Walking might be a relief. In spite of the blanket folded on the wooden seat, the jolting wagon was not so kind to her posterior.

Jack disappeared around the back.

The width of her skirts made it impossible to see where to step. She would have changed to a more serviceable gown if Jack hadn’t been in such a rush to get her out of the church. Reaching back, she searched for a foothold.

His hands closed around her waist.

Her heart skipped.

He swung her down as if she weighed nothing. Awareness of him jangled along every inch of her skin. “Th-thank you.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. Her cheeks heated. Her breath hitched. How foolish must she look staring at the wagon? She slowly turned to face him. His hands slid along her waist. A rush of emotions swamped her. He was her husband, but she hardly knew him. They would become intimate, except he’d said he wouldn’t rush her.

She stared at a middle button. The stitches around the hole were even and neat, not so small the edges scalloped but not so big as to appear clumsy. Her hopes of a perfect marriage had been in every thrust and pull of her needle.

“Just get over the rise, then you can ride again,” he encouraged. Dropping his hold on her, he moved toward the team. Gripping the leather strap between the horses’ bridles, he clucked to the horses and started them up the slope.

Olivia followed. The horses pulled the wagon faster than she could walk. Her squished toes protested. Her mother’s demi-boots were too small.

The hill stretched out before her like a small mountain. Sucking air between her teeth, she trudged forward.

The wagon pulled away. She pressed at the stitch forming in her side. Before long, spots danced in front of her eyes. To fit in her mother’s dress she’d laced her corset tight. While sitting, the extra cinching hadn’t mattered.

The wide flare of her hoop skirt hid the best path. Loose rocks twisted her feet while her toes and heels painfully rubbed inside the demi-boots. The steepness increased. Her skirt snagged on a rock. Impatiently she raised her dress high enough to continue.

She plodded forward, one foot after another for as long as she could, only stopping to regain her breath. The wagon disappeared over the ridge. After a few minutes the wagon’s rattle and the endless chirping of the chicks no longer drifted back. How far ahead was Jack?

Resuming her trek, she climbed.

The sun disappeared behind the peaks and the light faltered to a shadowlike dusk and then went darker. She took a step, then another. The darkness was not all because of the quality of the light, but the result of her inability to get more than a short puff of air into her lungs. Her foot twisted in a hole she couldn’t see and she fell to her hands and knees. Her palms stung.

She stayed like a dog, her head hanging as she waited for the faintness to pass. If she couldn’t make it up the hill, would Jack leave her here?

* * *

Jack had planned to be another dozen miles up the road before stopping, but Olivia had dropped so far behind, the plateau a half mile past the crest of the hill would have to be far enough today.

He guided the blowing and snorting horses into the meadow. Listening for Olivia, he released them from their traces. The horses needed to be watered, curried and dried before the temperature dipped overnight.

Jack unlashed the wagon bed and retrieved a spade. He picked out the best place for a fire pit. So much needed to be done before the night closed in and Olivia didn’t look to be much help.

Wetonga would have already gathered the makings of a fire by now. Hadn’t he made it clear in his advertisement that he needed a helpmate, not another helpless animal to care for?

He attacked the sod, turning it over and away from his fire pit. He viciously scraped the dirt. What healthy young woman couldn’t walk up a quarter mile of steep hill in less than half an hour? Apparently his wife.

He jabbed the spade in the ground and straightened. As he’d led the horses up the steep grade, he’d seen her slogging forward.

He’d wanted to go back for her, but he couldn’t let the horses stand with the weight pulling on them. Nor could he trust them to continue up the hill without guidance. They’d already been huffing and puffing. Stopping and restarting would’ve put unnecessary strain on his livestock and risked the loaded wagon rolling backward and doing serious damage.

He squinted toward the road. A cool breeze wafted across his brow. The temperature was dropping. He needed to make camp, not fetch Olivia. Why hadn’t she made it over the ridge yet?

Her froufrou dress was the height of absurdity in this rugged land. The wide skirt must make walking harder, but her frivolousness irritated him all the same.

He frowned. How the hell was Olivia to know that hoops shouldn’t be worn out here? He should have insisted she change. But he’d figured he might as well get the satisfaction of driving a beautiful woman dressed like a princess through town.

So it was his fault that she was struggling to climb a ridge in a dress better suited for a parlor than a mountain pass.

He stomped over to the wagon and shoved aside the animal skins until he found his rifle. Taking a hasty look around, he reckoned there weren’t any skulkers about. Too many men in the recent influx of speculators would steal his goods, or worse.

He stalked to the road and back up the slight dip that followed the nasty incline. Many a man would find his pretty bride worth stealing. His heart stepped up a notch.

He jogged to the ridge. His heart pounded as he scanned the tall grass. The road was empty. More than a hundred yards down a scrap of lilac material lay on the ground. His throat tightened.