Читать книгу His Mail-Order Bride - Tatiana March - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThomas Greenwood drove his horse and cart across the plateau, impatience throbbing through his veins. She had arrived.
Last week, when Miss Jackson had failed to appear as arranged, bitterness and disappointment had blotted out his hopes for a better future. He’d assumed he’d been swindled by some unscrupulous female who had taken his money and cashed in the railroad ticket he’d sent for her.
But now she was here.
His jaw tingled from the close shave and his fingertips smarted where he had scrubbed out the dirt beneath his nails. The Sunday suit strained across his wide shoulders. Thomas sighed as he considered the six years of heavy toil that had hardened his muscles into coils of steel.
It would be different now.
A woman in his life. A soft voice to ring in his parlor, the pleasure of a willing companion in his bed. A loving heart to beat in harmony with his.
That was the most important requirement for Thomas.
A loving heart.
Someone who would see him as he was. Not just a giant of a man with big hands and feet, and a chest so wide he had to slip sideways through narrow doors, but a man with a gentle soul and a keen mind, even though he lacked formal education.
He had no wish for a beauty. A beautiful woman would put on airs and graces, expect to be waited upon. He needed a woman who could do her share of the chores. Of course, he’d be willing to pamper her, when it seemed fitting. He took pride in being a protector of the weak, but even a female needed to be competent.
That’s why he’d asked for a plain woman. And of all the plain women the agency had put forward to him, he’d chosen Miss Jackson, for she had the greatest reason to be grateful for a man’s protection. He hoped her situation might help her to accept the hardships that went with living on an isolated homestead.
When Thomas reached the cluster of buildings that formed Gold Crossing, he could barely summon up the patience to alight in an orderly manner from the cart and secure his horse. He thundered across the wooden sidewalk and burst in through the doors of the Imperial Hotel.
“Where is she?” he called out to Art Langley at the reception.
“Room Four.” Langley gave him a sly grin, jerked his thumb toward the staircase and resumed flicking over the playing cards lined up on the counter in front of him.
Thomas hesitated. It wasn’t proper for him to barge up into her room, but soon the right to see her even in the most private of circumstances would be his. What difference did a few hours make? Surely, Miss Jackson would not be offended if, in his eagerness to meet her, he brushed aside formal manners?
He set off up the stairs, the heels of his boots ringing with an urgency that matched the pounding of his heart. Room Four was at the end of the dimly lit corridor. He knocked on the door and snatched his hat down from his head, cursing the haste that had made him forget to stop in front of the mirror to tidy up his appearance.
He raised one hand to smooth down his unruly hair, as straight as straw and in the same golden color. Dust from the desert trail itched on his skin but he hoped the suntan from long days out in the fields would cover up any dirt on his face.
The key rattled in the lock. The door before him sprung open.
Thomas could only stare. Disbelief knocked the air out of his lungs.
In front of him stood a small woman, clad in a pale gray blouse and a frothing white skirt that looked more like a petticoat. Glossy black curls streamed down past her shoulders. Red lips, like strawberries ready for the picking, made a vivid contrast against the paleness of her skin.
“Miss Jackson?” he ventured.
“Yes?” She took a step away from him and measured him with a pair of wary hazel eyes.
Thomas felt his arm twitch as he fought the impulse to reach out and touch her, the way one might touch the petals on a bloom, or the carving of an angel in a church, or some other thing of beauty.
She was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. And she would be his wife. She would share his bed. At that last thought, an altogether more earthly sensation surged through the lower parts of him, as forceful as a kick from a stubborn mule.
But will she cook for you, clean for you, nurse you in sickness, tend to the chickens, help with the farm work? whispered a voice at the back of his mind, but Thomas refused to pay any attention to it.
“Have you been sent by Mr. Thomas Greenwood?” the woman asked as he simply stood there, observing her in stunned silence.
“I am Greenwood.”
Miss Jackson appeared to hesitate. Her gaze flickered down to her clothing, then back up to him. She whirled on her dainty feet and darted back into the room, where she tugged at the rumpled bedspread, as if to remove it from the bed. Then she gave up the effort, let out a small huff of frustration and hurried back to him.
“You may come inside, Mr. Greenwood. We shall conduct our meeting here. I shall leave the door open.” She stepped aside and waved him through. Crouching in a graceful motion, she picked up a wooden wedge provided for the purpose on the floor and jammed it beneath the door.
Thomas nodded his approval at the precaution to protect her reputation. It had been the right idea to send for a woman from the East, instead of seeking a saloon girl who might wish to turn her life around. He wanted an educated companion. Poetry instead of ditties. Shakespeare instead of rowdy tales.
“Perhaps you could tell me a little more about the employment,” Miss Jackson said. She was clasping her hands together in front of her. Thomas got the impression she did it to stop them from shaking. He hunched his shoulders, trying to appear smaller, in case it was his size that intimidated her.
“Employment. Is that how you think of it?” He pondered the idea. “I guess it’s not far wrong. You’ll certainly be busy with the chores. Cooking and cleaning and such. It’s not a big place. There are no hired hands, so it will be just the two of us, until the little one comes along.”
Thomas lowered his gaze to the frills on her white cotton skirt and frowned, puzzled by the slenderness of her waist. He let his attention drift back up to her face and saw her eyes snap wide. Her pale skin had turned chalky white.
“A wife,” she breathed. “You are expecting me to be your wife.”
A nagging doubt, like the persistent buzzing of a bee, broke out in Thomas’s head, but his overflowing emotions and his aroused body brushed aside all questions. In his pocket, the letter from the agency spoke of a plain woman, sturdy, well suited to life on an isolated farm. In front of him, a delicate beauty stared up at his face, confusion battling with terror in her huge hazel eyes.
Thomas nodded. “Wife. That’s what you’ve contracted for.”
“I...” She made a flicker of impatience with her hand, a totally feminine gesture that held Thomas enthralled. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding,” she informed him, her chin rising in a haughty angle. “Perhaps you might explain how I can extricate myself from this contract.”
Six lonely years of scrimping and saving to send for a woman of his own, six lonely years of building up the homestead, hacking out a living from soil never tilled before, working until his fingers bled and his muscles cramped with fatigue, crashed over Thomas like a spring flood.
He’d paid for a wife, and he’d have one. This particular one.
“I’ve paid two hundred dollars to bring you here,” he said in a voice that was low and tight. “If you wish to break the contract and marry someone else, I’ll have my money back.”
His hands clenched into fists. Thomas hid them behind his hat, but he knew his anger showed, on his face and in his rigid posture. From the woman’s terrified expression and from the strangled gasp that left her throat he understood how much his tightly controlled outburst must have frightened her.
“I’ll wait downstairs,” he said, trying to appear calm. “You have one hour to think it over. Either you’ll find a way to pay back the cost of your journey, or you’ll marry me, just as you’ve contracted.” Thomas turned to go but paused to glance back at her over his shoulder. “Wear something else for the wedding,” he told her. “That skirt looks like a petticoat.”
He shoved his hat on top of his head and strode off.
* * *
Charlotte stared at the empty doorway and listened to the clatter of footsteps as her visitor stomped away in anger. “It is a petticoat,” she whispered to herself.
In her anxiety she’d forgotten to pay attention to her clothing, and her state of undress had only dawned on her when she felt Mr. Greenwood’s intense gaze on her.
She’d considered covering up with the bedspread, but it occurred to her that an unmade bed might appear even worse. And the towel hanging from the bedpost had been too small to be of any use. So she had chosen to brazen it out. A lady did not draw attention to her faux pas.
Charlotte cast aside the lingering embarrassment over parading in front of the man in her undergarments and gave in to the panicked thoughts that crashed around in her head.
Miss Jackson was a mail-order bride.
She was a mail-order bride.
The image of Thomas Greenwood formed before her eyes. He was a giant of a man, taller even than Papa, and broad in the shoulder. The wide cheekbones gave him something of an Indian look, but he had fair hair and pale eyes. And in those pale eyes lurked the steely edge of an implacable will. Not even a storm would make him yield, Charlotte suspected. Against him she had the power of a gnat.
She would have to marry him, unless she found a way to come up with two hundred dollars. Which she couldn’t, of course. She hardly had any money at all, and Thomas Greenwood knew it. Wear something else for the wedding. She huffed as she recalled the male arrogance in his tone as he issued the command.
What could she do? Should she make a confession? Explain her plight and ask for his help? No. Charlotte discarded the idea at once. The man wouldn’t believe her. He would think it a lie, an attempt to break the contract without reimbursing him the money he’d spent on her passage.
She pinched her eyes shut. The fear she’d hoped to have left behind tightened like a snare around her once more. She could feel Cousin Gareth’s greedy hands groping at her breasts, could feel his whiskey-soaked breath on her lips.
Once I bed you, you’ll have to marry me, and your money will be mine.
It had been drunken talk, but for once in his life Gareth had told the truth.
She had no money, no means to support herself, and she couldn’t risk being found. Her thoughts returned to the fair-haired giant waiting downstairs. Despite his formidable physique and blatant masculinity, there was something gentle about him, something kind and patient.
She imagined being married to him, facing him across the breakfast table in the mornings, sleeping curled up in bed against him at night. The idea filled her with a sense of relief, as if she had sailed into a safe harbor. It might work...it might be just the solution...if she managed to keep it a marriage in name only...
Charlotte squared her shoulders, as if to balance the heavy weight of responsibility that rested over them. She had no choice. She needed to protect her inheritance, both for her own sake, and for that of her sisters.
She would have to marry Thomas Greenwood and find a way to keep him from claiming his husbandly rights for a year. Then, once she turned twenty-five and gained access to her inheritance, she could get the marriage declared invalid and return home to Merlin’s Leap.
* * *
Charlotte clomped down the stairs, kicking up a racket with the heels of her leather boots. Thomas Greenwood might be in a position to order her about, but if she wanted to retain some control of the situation, she would have to make it clear right from the start that obedience wouldn’t be part of her wedding vows.
She found him sitting at the table nearest to the exit, sipping coffee from a china cup that looked like a doll’s service in his hand. It occurred to her that he had positioned himself where he would have the best chance of intercepting her, should she attempt to make a run for it.
“I am ready for the wedding,” Charlotte informed him. She tried to make her comment tart but the tremor in her voice emphasized her failure.
The man took in her clothing, nodded with approval at the green skirt she had put on. As a concession to the heat, she’d left off the matching jacket, and only wore the pale gray blouse he’d already seen upstairs.
As she felt his gaze on her, her breath stalled. He was a handsome man, around thirty, and Charlotte had little experience in being the subject of a bold masculine inspection. It made her tingle in an odd way, in intimate places, stirring up a new kind of unease that had nothing to do with fear.
“Have you packed?” her bridegroom asked.
“No. I thought we’d be staying here for the night.”
The night. Their wedding night. The idea made a blush flare up on her skin, adding to the heat of the room. She fixed her attention on the toes of her half boots, refusing to look up, but she could hear the scrape of the chair against the floorboards as Thomas Greenwood hoisted his muscular frame out of the seat.
“We’ll leave immediately after the ceremony,” he told her. “I’ll settle the account while you pack.”
Charlotte sneaked a peek at him as he strode over to the counter and reached into a pocket on his black suit. The care with which Thomas Greenwood counted out the coins into the open palm of the innkeeper suggested that his financial situation was scarcely better than her own.
A somersault of guilt pitched in her stomach. He must have spent all his savings on a wife. Instead of the sturdy helpmate of his dreams, fate had saddled him with a woman who knew nothing about farming. Her domestic skills didn’t extend beyond embroidering undergarments or composing weekly menus with the cook.
And she wouldn’t even be able to make up for those shortcomings by showing willingness in the marital bed, Charlotte thought with dismay, another fiery blush flaring up to her cheeks. All in all, Mr. Greenwood might end up feeling that from his point of view the marriage was a very bad bargain indeed.
He turned around. “Go on now,” he said. “Get your things.”
There was kindness in his tone, kindness and patience. It might be possible for her to navigate the storms that lay ahead, Charlotte told herself as she took the stairs back up to her room. A sense of honor stirred in her. Thomas Greenwood was providing her with a sanctuary at a time of distress. During the year she remained in his custody, she would have to treat him with the respect and courtesy he deserved.
The decision eased her tension and she flitted about the room, gathering up her meager possessions. Two sets of cotton drawers and shifts hung on the back of a chair, where she had spread them out to dry after washing them last night. She folded the flimsy garments, smoothing her hands over the wrinkled fabric.
As she bent to retrieve her leather traveling bag from the floor, her eyes fell on a shadow in the open doorway. Thomas Greenwood stood watching her, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder propped against the door frame. A dark flush tinged his suntanned cheeks.
Charlotte swallowed the lump of nerves that clogged her throat at the possessive glint in his eyes. She jerked her attention back to the task of packing her belongings. A fiery blush surged all the way from her neck to the roots of her hair at the realization that he had witnessed her handling her intimate clothing. More than likely, he’d imagined her dressed in nothing else.
Her mind scattered. She tossed the bundle of undergarments into her bag, cramming them on top of the things already there—a book, a box of personal treasures, a nightgown, a pair of kid slippers and a white blouse. She added the silver-backed mirror and hairbrush from the top of the dresser and snapped the jaws of the bag shut.
“I’m ready,” she said, even though his heated gaze rooted her to the floor.
He cleared his throat and edged inside the room. “Is this all you have?”
“Yes.” Charlotte took a deep breath to ease her constricted lungs. “I only brought what I could carry, to make traveling on the train easier.”
“Did you send the rest as freight?”
“This is all I have.” She didn’t elaborate, merely grabbed the bag by the handle and set off marching toward the door.
“Let me.” He circled the bed in a few long strides and reached for her bag. His hand curled over hers, strong and warm. A shiver rippled along her skin. The reality she’d tried to push aside broke through her senses, and the truth of the situation turned her knees to water.
She’d be married to this man before the sun finished its journey across the sky. He’d be her husband, with the rights and expectations that went with the position. She intended to keep him from consummating the marriage, but how could she make sure? Despite the honor and decency she sensed about him, Thomas Greenwood might not have the patience to wait. He might simply take what he justly believed to be his.
* * *
When they got downstairs, Charlotte followed Thomas Greenwood out through the double doors, onto the wide porch of the Imperial Hotel. At the far end of the rutted street, she could see a small church gleaming white in the sun. She stared at the cross on the roof. It seemed to be pointing up to the heavens, like the finger of God lifted in fury to warn her against the sin she was about to commit.
In her anxiety she failed to notice that her bridegroom had come to a halt at the top of the porch steps. She kept on walking and slammed smack into his broad back. He didn’t even flinch at the impact, merely reached around with one powerful arm to propel her forward, until she was positioned beside him.
In front of them, an old man with pure white hair and wrinkled features stood clutching a prayer book between his hands. He wore an odd mix of clothing, a formal black coat with dirty denim trousers. He smiled at Charlotte, a benign, absent smile as he studied her through the thick lenses of his spectacles.
“The preacher will wed us here,” Greenwood said. He wrapped his fingers around hers in a steely grip, as though to quash any lingering thoughts of an escape.
Married. They were about to be married.
The realization broke through Charlotte’s panic, like the sound of a ship’s horn breaks through a fog. She’d dreamed of marriage, of course she had, every girl, every woman did. At twenty, she’d been getting ready to start searching for a husband, and then Mama and Papa had died...
She slanted another glance at the man standing beside her. Even leaving out his imposing physique, he was attractive, with healthy skin and an even row of white teeth. The prominent cheekbones gave him a stern look, but the sensitive curve of his wide mouth softened it.
If they had met in Boston, if they had courted and fallen in love, she’d be proud to be standing beside such a man in a church, family and friends sitting in the pews behind them, the organ playing a wedding march.
But now, she stood beside a stranger, on a ramshackle hotel porch, in front of a geriatric preacher who contemplated her with a pair of myopic eyes. Evidently, her husband-to-be didn’t consider it worth the trouble to walk over to the church. She embraced the gift, not pausing to question his motives. Telling lies on the porch of the Imperial Hotel didn’t seem nearly as great a sin as voicing the same untruths in a temple of God.
“Get on with it,” Greenwood told the preacher. “And make it quick.”
With an annoyed frown, the old man closed the prayer book he’d opened, and lowered it in his hands. He took out a small card from his coat pocket and read from it. “Do you, Thomas Greenwood, take this woman, Maude Jackson, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” The reply resonated clear and firm.
Charlotte swayed on her feet as she realized how close she’d come to being exposed. She hadn’t known the first name of Miss Jackson. If her bridegroom hadn’t furnished the preacher with the information in advance, she might have been caught in a lie before the marriage ceremony was even finished.
Behind them, the porch timbers creaked with heavy footsteps. Charlotte glanced back over her shoulder. A squat man in a long canvas duster had arrived. Another man climbed up after him, a battered hat clasped in his hands. Then a third appeared, a dark-complexioned man with a patch over one eye and a neatly trimmed beard.
“How much?” the first man grunted.
“Get it done,” Greenwood said to the preacher.
“Two hundred.” The reply came in an insolent voice Charlotte recognized. She whirled around and saw the lanky innkeeper lounging against the door frame. An amused expression brightened his narrow features.
“Three hundred,” said the man in a long canvas duster.
“Four,” one of the others called out.
Greenwood took a step toward the preacher, tugging Charlotte along with him. He scowled at the ancient reverend. “If you don’t finish it quick, there’ll be trouble.”
The preacher squinted past Charlotte at the gathered crowd of men, nodded and speeded up his words. “Will you, Maude Jackson, take this man, Thomas Greenwood, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Charlotte stole another glance behind her. The number of men had grown, and the amounts they were shouting had escalated to a thousand. She couldn’t understand the cause of the fracas, but she was left in no doubt about the urgency with which her bridegroom wanted the ceremony completed.
Instinct told her to stall.
“Excuse me.” She raised her chin and addressed her words to the preacher. “Is it really appropriate to ask him first?” Her eyes flickered to Greenwood, who stood by her side, bristling with impatience. “Shouldn’t you ask me first?”
“What does it matter?” The words rumbled out of her bridegroom in a harsh growl, as if they were his heart and guts yanked out. “The end result will be just the same.”
A solitary burst of laughter vibrated along the porch. Charlotte turned around and spotted the innkeeper chuckling on the doorstep. “What exactly about my situation do you find so amusing?” she asked, irritation overcoming her anxiety.
The man jerked his chin to take in the crowd of spectators. “You don’t get it, do you?”
She frowned at him. “Get what?”
“They are bidding for you.” He shook his head in wry amusement. “It’s like a cattle auction, and you are the cow on the auction block. Greenwood could sell your marriage contract to the highest bidder. If he had any sense at all, he’d make a profit on you and order another bride for himself.”
Charlotte spun to her bridegroom and tipped back her head to look up at his face. “Is it true?” she demanded..
His fingers tightened around hers. “Say your vows now, before I have a chance to consider what a thousand dollars might mean to me.”
Alarm soared inside Charlotte. She surveyed the group of men gathered on the porch and recognized the pair who had alighted from the train with her. One sent her a bold grin, his grimy fingers fondling the moustache that decorated his upper lip.
She spun back to the preacher and blurted, “I do.”
“With the powers vested in me by the Territory of Arizona, I declare you man and wife.” The preacher completed the ceremony in haste and invited two of the spectators to act as witnesses. Charlotte watched the strangers scratch their names on the piece of paper, and shivered with the knowledge that she had now become the property of Thomas Greenwood.
Another ripple of laughter came from the porch.
Charlotte darted a sour glance at the innkeeper. “What is it now?” she asked him tartly.
“Of course, if you’d had your wits about you, you could have taken charge of the auction yourself. You could have accepted a thousand, paid Greenwood back his two hundred and kept the rest. You could have taken your pick, married any one of these men.”
Charlotte swung her attention back to her new husband.
Greenwood finished passing a handful of silver to the preacher. “Let’s get going,” he said and turned toward her, but he was refusing to meet her eyes. From his reaction Charlotte understood the innkeeper had been telling the truth.
Thomas Greenwood had tricked her.
It occurred to her it was not out of laziness that he had chosen to have the wedding performed on the hotel porch, but that he had wanted to get it over with quickly, to minimize the time she would be bombarded with competitive offers.
Resentment unfurled in her belly at being treated like a fool, but another thought broke through her anger. Could it be that her new husband lacked the understanding of his own worth? Could he not see that she would have chosen to marry him a thousand times before any of the other men clustered on the porch of the Imperial Hotel? And if that was the case, should she enlighten him?
* * *
Unable to make sense of his turbulent feelings, Thomas tugged his dainty bride down the porch steps behind him. She was totally wrong. Small hands, delicate frame and a face that could make a man lose his sanity.
Considering she was wholly unsuitable, why had he been in such a hurry to marry her, instead of making a profit on the transaction? He could have accepted a thousand dollars for her and sent for another bride, someone better equipped for life on his isolated homestead. A plain woman would tolerate poverty more easily, would be grateful for the love and protection he could offer her.
A plain woman. The tintype photograph he carried in his coat pocket weighed on his mind. He’d taken the picture out for a good look while he drank his coffee in the lounge of the Imperial Hotel, waiting for his bride to come downstairs.
He’d turned the image this way and that, studying it close and squinting at it from afar, but however hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to reconcile the homely woman in the picture with the enchanting creature in a frothing white petticoat.
And what about the baby on the way? Even now, with the heavy wool skirts padding out her waist, his bride was slender, but Miss Jackson had to be with child. Why otherwise would a woman like her consent to marry a stranger? Without the disgrace of an unwed pregnancy she’d be fighting off suitors.
Thomas halted by the cart where the chestnut gelding whinnied and beat its hooves against the dusty ground, eager to start for home. He lifted his wife’s bag over the side of the cart and turned to her. “If you like, you can lie down on the wagon bed, instead of sitting up on the bench. I’ve made a bed with straw.”
She craned up on tiptoe to inspect the canvas-covered mound of straw in the roughly constructed wooden conveyance. “Why would I want to do that?” she asked, with a quick glance at him. “If I lie down I won’t be able to see where we are going.”
“I thought it might be better for the baby. Allow you to rest, instead of bouncing up and down on the hard bench.”
“The baby?”
“It’s all right,” Thomas said. Gingerly, he touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. The feel of her soft skin filled him with wonder. “I know you’re with child,” he said quietly. “The agency told me. I asked them not to put it in the marriage contract. I didn’t want any record that the baby isn’t mine, in case you didn’t want the child to know.”
He saw her eyes grow wide, and he noticed their exact color, a rich hazel that glowed like dark gold against the long lashes. She hesitated a moment, then spoke in a low voice. “Why would you be willing to marry a woman carrying another man’s child?”
Thomas turned to soothe the horse, which had grown nervous by the wait. What could he say? To save you from shame and destitution. To make sure this child does not have to grow up as I did, unwanted and unloved. He gritted his teeth and kept silent. Some things were too personal to reveal, too painful to discuss.
“Why did you pick me as your wife despite the child?” she pressed.
Thomas cleared his throat. “The child deserves a home. He’s done nothing wrong. You might have made a mistake, but I can’t see why you should spend the rest of your life paying for it, and the child should not pay for it at all.”
Thomas finished untying the horse and faced his wife. He wondered if his breath would ever stop catching in his throat when he looked at her. She stared up at him, an odd, stricken expression on her exquisite face. Regret rippled through Thomas at the thought that she might be comparing him with the man who had fathered her child.
“Let’s get going,” he said gruffly. “Do you want to sit on the bench, or lie down in the cart?”
“I’ll sit with you.” She eyed the high bench. “Provided I can find a way of getting up there.”
Thunderstruck, Thomas froze before her. His heart kicked into a gallop. He curled his hands around her narrow waist, wondering once again how she could remain so small with the baby growing inside her. Holding her carefully, the way one might handle a precious ornament, he lifted her up to the bench of the cart.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” he asked as he noticed the beads of perspiration glinting on her brow. She had strapped on a green bonnet, and the sunshine filtering through the fabric gave her pale complexion a sickly hue.
“I’m fine,” she replied with a strained smile.
For the first time, Thomas saw the dimples that decorated her cheeks. He could do nothing but stare. After a moment, he shook himself awake and climbed up beside her. Conscious of her pregnant state, he kept the horse to a slow walk.
As they left Gold Crossing behind and turned onto the desert trail, Thomas could feel his body tingling at her nearness. How had it happened? He had chosen a plain wife, abandoned by another man. But instead, he had gained a wife who could start a riot in any gathering of males, and the feelings she stirred up in him alarmed as much as fascinated him.
* * *
Charlotte bounced on the rattling bench. The sun beat down on her. Her skin itched inside the thick wool skirt. Dust clogged her nostrils. Her thoughts churned round and round in her head. Beside her, her husband sat in silence, controlling the cart horse with practiced ease. Every now and then, he slanted a hungry glance at her.
Each time, her breath stalled and her body tensed.
He thought she was with child.
Charlotte bit her lip as she recalled the lifeless body of poor Miss Jackson. If Thomas Greenwood had accepted the pregnancy, what had caused the young woman to sacrifice her life and that of her unborn child? Had she been unable to overcome the shame of being abandoned by the suitor who had ruined her? Or could it be that she had loved him so much that she could not tolerate the thought of becoming someone else’s wife?
With a sigh, Charlotte pushed Miss Jackson out of her thoughts. It was unlikely she would ever find out the answer, or hear anything of Miss Jackson again.
She slanted another look at Thomas Greenwood from the corner of her eye. He sat leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, dust painting streaks of brown on his black suit. A jolt of guilt struck her as she remembered the denim trousers and flannel shirts she’d seen most of the men in Gold Crossing wear.
Her husband had dressed up for her, had done his best to celebrate their wedding. Getting a wife must be important to him. When the time came for her to make her confession, she would explain, beg for his forgiveness. Perhaps he would understand. And she would offer him ample financial compensation for the inconvenience of having to find another wife.
“Did the agency tell you how far gone the baby is?” she asked.
Thomas arched his brows and cupped one hand behind his ear, to indicate he hadn’t been able to hear her words. She repeated her question, raising her voice to carry over the clatter of the horse’s hooves and the grinding of the wagon wheels.
“Five months,” he replied. “I’ve arranged to take a job at the copper mine in Jerome to earn enough to pay for the doctor when the baby is due in September.”
Five months. By the end of the summer, he’d expect her to waddle about. Experimentally, Charlotte puffed out her stomach, until her muscles strained against the waistband of her green wool skirt. It was no good. She couldn’t fake a belly ballooned in pregnancy, even if she gorged to gain weight.
And, judging by her husband’s comments about scraping the money together to cover the medical expenses of childbirth, overeating wouldn’t be a solution, even in the short term, for food would be too scarce. Charlotte gritted her teeth. She had a month. Two at best. Then she would have to either make her confession or escape.
