Kate Bridges - Rancher Wants a Wife

“Oh, no,” said another, “My vote is on the reverend in Wyoming Territory.”

Cassandra’s dearest friend and roommate, dark-haired Natasha O’Sullivan, offered her perspective. “Which man stands out for you, Cassandra? Which one does your heart point to?”

Cassandra took a moment, pressed back against her chair and decided. “The man from California.”

She shuffled through the letters till she found his again. The one she’d been rereading ever since she’d received it three days ago.

“But he sounds as if he works too hard,” someone said.

“California,” Cassandra repeated. Of all the replies to her carefully worded advertisement, his clearly stood out.

“Because of all the sunshine,” Mrs. Pepik assumed.

“Because you’d like to find employment as a detective,” said Natasha. “And California would allow you that as a woman.”

“That is true,” said Cassandra. “But mostly it’s because I know him.”

Feet stopped shuffling. Women stopped talking. Hands froze on correspondence.

Cassandra peered down at his signature. Jack McColton. She was besieged with a torrent of emotions. How could she express to her friends all that she felt? Jack was a link to the loving past, a tender link to Mary and Father, a link to pleasurable times and heart-thrilling memories. Yet, he was also a link to painful times, to an explosive night and accusations she never should have made, to a time when her skin had been perfect and her looks had been whole. She’d behaved so shamefully when she was younger, assuming her good fortune would last forever.

Mrs. Pepik glanced at his name and cleared her throat. “How is it that you know this man, Jack McColton?”

Trying to ignore another wave of apprehension, Cassandra proceeded to explain.

Four Months Later Napa Valley, California

“I urge you to reconsider.”

“Is this why you called me to your office? It’s too late. She’ll be here any moment.” Jack McColton removed his Stetson. He ran a hand through his black hair as he stood by the door, exasperated at the contrary advice he was receiving from his attorney.

June sunshine and summer-fresh air poured in from the window, rustling the gauze drapes.

“Don’t throw it all away, Jack.” Hugh Logan was more than an attorney; he was slated to be best man at the wedding. Jack had come to trust him as a dependable friend in the three years he’d been living and working in the valley.

Hugh, in his mid-thirties and a few years older than Jack, rose from behind his mahogany desk to allow his tailor to mark his new suit. The tailor, a rotund man from eastern Europe who didn’t speak or understand English well, quietly pinned the gray sleeves.

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Jack insisted.

“A new ranch. Two dozen horses. A veterinarian practice. Neighbors who would like nothing more than for you to marry one of their daughters.” Hugh’s red hair glistened from a recent cut at the barber’s.

“I was intending to find a suitable wife in Napa Valley, but things don’t always work out the way you plan.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s time to throw away the plan.”

“I know this girl.”

“You mean you knew her five years ago.”

Jack, many inches taller with broader shoulders than his friend, disagreed. “I’ve got to go.”

“Reconsider, Jack. Take your time with this. Court her all over again. Then get married if you still want to. Maybe what she’s truly attracted to is that big ranch of yours.”

Jack scoffed.

“That’s the attorney in me speaking.” Hugh’s gaze flashed down to the tailor, who was kneeling and making his way round the edge of the waistcoat, giving no indication that he was intrigued by the conversation. Even so, Hugh lowered his voice. “You know it’s fair advice, Jack. Hell, last night in the saloon you told me yourself she spurned you when you were livin’ in Chicago. Now that my head has cleared, I’d like to bring it to your attention, for the record, that the only thing that’s changed since her rejection then and her acceptance now is your net worth.”

Jack frowned. “It’s not the only thing.” Yet the comments cut deep into his pride. Cassandra had never been the easiest woman to deal with; in fact, she’d been downright spoiled by her father. But she’d suffered through a hell of a lot since Jack had last seen her. Both physically and emotionally.

And five years ago, he hadn’t proposed marriage to her. Damn, at the time when he’d approached her, she was engaged to someone else. It had all been so complicated and convoluted.

Yet, he did recall that her rejection hadn’t been a gentle one.

Jack rubbed his jaw.

The tailor asked Hugh to turn, then continued pinning.

Mail-order brides weren’t uncommon in these parts. Jack didn’t know any personally, but he’d heard tales. There were so few women in the West that many men used any means necessary to procure a bride and start a family. Jack imagined that some of the women were desperate—as were the men—but some of the ladies were adventurous and wished to travel West. It was less restrictive here than in the East, for lots of women owned their own property and ran businesses, or worked just as long and hard on the ranches and vineyards as their husbands. At least, that’s what Cassandra had written—that in addition to the compatible marriage, she was looking forward to the freedom in choosing her own occupations to fill her time.

She’d always been ladylike and restrained, and had listened quietly to her father’s advice. Jack imagined she’d be just as respectful of his opinions, and that she likely only wished to start up a library, perhaps, here in town. Or a knitting group, or work with him in some capacity on the ranch.

The ground outside rumbled. A team of horses pulling a stagecoach suddenly thundered past the window. She was here.

Jack took a deep breath.

“See you at the wedding, Hugh.” He planted his Stetson back on his head and strode out of the office, trying not to let on that the words still bothered him.

* * *

Sitting in the cramped stagecoach, Cassandra peered up from the book she was discreetly reading, Tales of Bounty Hunters and Criminals. Through the dusty windowpane, she observed vineyards on the slopes and palm trees among the town’s buildings, and worried again how very late they were. She tried to suppress her rush of nerves. It was Wednesday afternoon at fifteen minutes past two—more than two hours behind schedule.

Would her soon-to-be groom still be here, waiting for her, or had Jack tired of it and left?

She opened her large satchel and slid the book in among her other things. There was a Chicago newspaper, another text entitled California Courts and the Legal Code, a silver-inlaid derringer pistol and a small box of .41 Rimfire cartridges.

The driver pulled the team of horses into a green valley and the pretty town called Sundial, and careened to a stop. The three other passengers with her—an elderly couple and a young cowboy—gathered their belongings as she quickly disembarked.

“Good traveling with you, miss,” said the old gent, blinking at Cassandra’s scarred cheek.

“Enjoy the last leg of your journey,” she replied, turning her injured side away.

The young cowboy nodded goodbye. Although she and he were roughly the same age—mid-twenties—in all the hours they’d spent together, he’d never once gazed at her with any masculine interest in his eyes. Not that she wished him to; only that she noticed self-consciously that since her injury, most men silently dismissed her in that way.

Wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat with a chiffon scarf pushed through the top and hanging at her temples as ties, Cassandra instinctively pulled the dangling fabric over her marred cheek. She slid into the awaiting crowd and searched the faces.