Читать книгу Bride by Mail - Katy Madison - Страница 9

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?”

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.

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.

“Olivia,” he called, and then louder, “Olivia!”

Farther out was a pool of white. His chest tight, he ran down the slope. As he drew near he made out a petticoat and her lilac-colored jacket. What had happened? A disgruntled miner or a rogue brave could have stripped her of her clothes. Jack’s heart caught in his throat.

Horrible images flashed in his mind of her knocked out, gagged and bound.

Was she even now being abused in the worst possible way?

His boots thudded against the ground and his hands grew slippery on the rifle. Oh, God, was his wife being raped because he was more worried about his horses and supplies?