Renee Ryan - Mistaken Bride

“This is as far as I go, miss.” His gruff voice had a Scottish burr underneath the words. And a hint of meanness.

“But Dr. Gallagher paid you to take us to our new home.”

“He paid me enough to get you to the town,” he corrected. “Not a foot more.”

That was a bold-faced lie. Bridget knew Flynn would never leave them stranded like this.

“It’s all right, Bridget,” Nora said, exiting the carriage with sure steps. “We’ll ask the sheriff for assistance once our business is complete.”

Bridget relented, a little, but only because the driver was already in his seat and spurring his horses forward.

“Well, now.” A deep, masculine voice drifted over her. “What have we here?”

Heart lodged in her throat, Bridget swung around to face a tall man with kind eyes. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, the man looked to be of Nordic descent. The tin star pinned to his chest told her she was staring at the sheriff of Faith Glen.

He was very handsome, in a rugged, earthy sort of way, and Bridget immediately noticed how Nora stood frozen in place, eyes blinking rapidly as she stared at him.

Bridget’s sentiments exactly. In the next few minutes they would either lose Grace or their new home, perhaps both, or—God willing—take the next step in claiming a new life for themselves in America.

When Bridget and Nora continued staring at him, neither making a move to speak, the man smiled warmly. “I’m Cameron Long. The sheriff of Faith Glen.” His gaze lingered a moment longer on Nora than Bridget. “What brings you two lovely women to our fair town?”

When Nora remained surprisingly silent under the sheriff’s scrutiny, Bridget stepped forward. “My name is Bridget Murphy and this is my sister Nora. We’ve just arrived from Ireland—”

Grace let out an earsplitting wail. Bridget smiled. “And that healthy-lunged child is Grace. One of the reasons we’ve come here today.”

He glanced briefly at the bundle in Nora’s arms, then proceeded to ignore Grace. “You’ve come to Faith Glen because of a baby?”

“No.” Nora found her voice at last. “We came to you because of a baby.”

His eyes widened ever-so-slightly. “Me?”

“You are the sheriff of Faith Glen?” Nora looked pointedly at his badge. “Are you not?”

Instead of being offended by the haughty tone, Cameron Long appeared amused. “I am, indeed.”

His lips quirked at an attractive, lopsided angle, making him look even more handsome than before.

And if Bridget wasn’t mistaken, she heard Nora’s breath hitch in her throat. Interesting. But unsurprisingly, her sister recovered quickly and explained how they’d found the baby in the ship’s galley. “When no one came to claim her, we realized the child had been abandoned. And we,” Nora said as she smiled at Bridget, “plan to care for her until someone comes forward to claim her.”

“Commendable, to be sure,” he said, his eyes again holding Nora’s a beat too long. “But that doesn’t explain why you’ve brought the baby to me. Why not report her situation to the authorities in Boston?”

“Can you not do that for us?” Nora asked.

“Of course I can.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “But that doesn’t explain why you are here, in Faith Glen.”

Nora turned to Bridget. “Show him the deed.”

She dutifully reached inside her reticule and retrieved the precious document that had led them to America.

The sheriff accepted the deed and Bridget held her breath. After what seemed an endless eternity, he raised his head. “Who is Colleen Murphy?”

“Our mother,” Nora answered. “She died ten years ago.”

He considered her response a moment then redirected his gaze to the document once again.

“Is the deed legal or not?” Nora demanded, her patience evidently reaching its end.

“It would appear so.”

“Well, then.” She plucked the paper out of his hand, relief softening the tight lines around her mouth. “If you would be so kind as to direct us to our home we would be ever grateful.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Bridget gasped. “But you said the deed was legal.”

“I said it appears to be legal.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, there’s no way of knowing for certain until we check your document against the official copy in the County Clerk’s Office.”

Bridget’s heart sank. “But we were told the deed was all we needed to claim the property.”

“That may be true in Ireland, but not in the state of Massachusetts. Every land deal requires two copies of the transaction.” He spoke with genuine remorse, as though he understood how important this was to them.

“Two copies.” Bridget pushed the words past a very tense jaw. No one had warned them of this possibility.

“The law originated back in the early colonial days,” he explained. “When fraud was at a premium.”

Nora rose to her full height. “We did not travel all this way to commit fraud.”

“Didn’t say that you had.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a gesture surprisingly elegant for such a big man. “Nevertheless the law requires that the original deed be compared against the copy, the one that is kept in—”

“The County Clerk’s Office,” Nora finished for him. “And where is this…office?”

“In Dedham, about eight miles due north.”

Bridget glanced at the afternoon sky in frustration. Even if they left now, there wouldn’t be enough time to travel eight miles north and back again before the sun set.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

The question had been rhetorical, but the sheriff answered her anyway. “You will be able to verify the deed come Monday morning. I’ll escort you there myself.”

It was a gallant offer, but Monday was three days away.

“It’s just a formality,” he promised, his voice full of encouragement, his smile wide.

“Will you at least show us the house?” Bridget asked.

Not quite meeting her gaze, he shook his head no. “I would suggest you wait until we’ve verified ownership.”

He wasn’t telling them something, something important about the house. “But we only wish to see the property.”

“Not today.”

And with those concise words, spoken in the brief, decisive tone of a determined lawman, Bridget accepted the reality of the situation at last. She would have to put her dreams on hold for another three days. Three…more…days.

* * *

Early the next morning Will entered his private study with a heavy heart and a mind full of turmoil. Regret played with his composure as he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and closed his hand in a tight fist. Bridget Collins had, indeed, fallen to her death. And now he was in possession of the girl’s luggage, the undeniable proof of her identity.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a harsh breath. He’d been responsible for the woman, having taken on the cost of her passage and ensuring the details of her trip were in order. Yet he’d failed her. And, in the process, his children, as well. His sad, motherless children.

Will swallowed back the hard ache rising in his throat. He was in no better position than before he’d decided to acquire a mail-order bride. Acquire. What a miserable way to put it, as though finding a wife was a matter of walking over to the general store and pointing to the woman he liked best. There. That one, I want that one to be my wife.

He should have known better.

Yet what other choice had there been? His aging mother was doing her best with the children. But the physical demands were taking their toll.

Running a hand through his hair, Will looked out the bay of windows on his right. The sun was making its grand entrance for the day, spreading tentative, golden fingers through the hazy dawn. A kaleidoscope of moving shadows flickered across the floor at his feet, creating an eerie accompaniment to his somber mood.