A Wild West wedding!

Thomas Greenwood expected his mail-order bride to be plain and pregnant—not a willow-slim beauty! She’s clearly no practical farmer’s wife, but she’s his chance finally to have a loving family...

Runaway heiress Charlotte Fairfax fled the possibility of a forced marriage, yet now, assuming a stolen identity, she’s wed to a stranger the moment she steps off the train! She plans to stay only until it’s safe to leave. Except marriage to kindhearted Thomas is far more complicated—and pleasurable—than she ever imagined!

The Fairfax Brides

Three sisters find rugged husbands

in the wild Wild West

Beautiful heiresses, Charlotte, Miranda and Annabel Fairfax have only ever known a life of luxury in Boston. Now, orphaned and in danger, they are forced to flee, penniless and alone, into the lawless West. There they discover that people will risk all for gold and land—but when the sisters make three very different marriages to three enigmatic men they will find the most precious treasure of all!

Read Charlotte and Thomas’s story in

His Mail-Order Bride

Available now

Look out for

Miranda and James’s story

and

Annabel and Clay’s story

coming soon!

Author Note

I’ve always loved Westerns, and when I started writing historical romance Western settings were the natural choice. The idea behind His Mail-Order Bride is simple: a young woman on the run assumes another woman’s identity—an action that lands her in trouble and leads to difficult moral choices.

Charlotte Fairfax is a complex heroine. Born to wealth but then deprived of every security she is accustomed to, she needs to evolve from a naïve, innocent heiress into a resourceful young woman who is able to support herself in the frontier region.

In contrast with Charlotte, Thomas Greenwood is a straightforward hero. He has had a tough life, filled with rejection and hard work. All he wants is a woman of his own. A wife. A companion. Someone to love. Someone to help with the chores.

When the dainty, whimsical Charlotte turns up instead of the sturdy mail-order bride Thomas has been expecting his life turns into chaos—in more ways than one.

In the opening scene of His Mail-Order Bride you’ll meet Charlotte’s sisters: the feisty, daring Miranda and the clever but highly strung Annabel. They deserved their own stories, which have became a trilogy—The Fairfax Brides. And at the end of Annabel’s story comes a solution to the family feud that has forced the girls to flee to the West.

I hope you enjoy His Mail-Order Bride and will want to go on to read Miranda and Annabel’s stories.

His Mail-Order Bride

Tatiana March

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before becoming a novelist TATIANA MARCH tried out various occupations, including being an accountant. Now she loves writing Western historical romance. In the course of her research Tatiana has been detained by the US border guards, had a skirmish with the Mexican army and stumbled upon a rattlesnake. This has not diminished her determination to create authentic settings for her stories.

Books by Tatiana March

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

The Fairfax Brides

His Mail-Order Bride

Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks

The Virgin’s Debt

Submit to the Warrior

Surrender to the Knight

The Drifter’s Bride

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

For my sister,

who likes sea shanties.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Boston, Massachusetts, May 1889

Charlotte Fairfax stood on the balcony at Merlin’s Leap, her hands clasped around the stone balustrade. Down in the restless ocean, waves crashed against the cliffs with an endless roar. Spray flew up in white columns. A chilly mist hung in the air. In the distance, the lighthouse at Merlin’s Point, not yet lit up for the night, silhouetted against the dark bank of clouds.

Morbid thoughts filled Charlotte’s mind. A hundred years ago her ancestor, Merlin Fairfax, had leaped to his death from this very spot. Had he been pushed, as his widow claimed? Had his younger brother murdered him? Rumors persisted even today, suggesting that he had.

Did cruel nature pass down through generations?

Was one branch of the Fairfax family tainted with evil?

How far might Cousin Gareth go to get his hands on her inheritance?

A tap on her shoulder made Charlotte jolt and cry out in alarm. She whirled around, fear throbbing through every muscle. Her shoulders sagged with relief when she saw her sister Miranda.

“You scared me.” Her words came on a nervous sigh. “I didn’t hear you open the door.”

“Come inside,” Miranda said. “We need to talk.”

Charlotte followed her sister into the upstairs parlor that overlooked the ocean. Through the wide bay window, she could see a flock of seagulls dipping and wheeling over the foaming whitecaps, could hear the muffled sounds of their screeching.

Built of gray stone, solid as a fortress, Merlin’s Leap stood on a rocky headland just north of Boston. All three Fairfax sisters had been born in the house, had enjoyed a happy childhood there, and had been looking forward to entering adulthood. And then, everything had changed four years ago, when their parents drowned in a boating accident.

The middle sister, Miranda, was the tallest, and the only one who took after their father. Blonde, blue-eyed, she looked elegant and feminine, but she could outrun, outride and outshoot most of the men on the estate.

At twenty-four, Charlotte was the eldest. Small and slender, with curly dark hair and hazel eyes, she was dreamier than her sisters, and less practical. When circumstances called for it, though, the stubborn streak that usually remained hidden behind her gentle facade came out, turning her into a fighter.

Annabel, the youngest, was only eighteen. She shared the same petite frame and dark coloring as Charlotte, but her hair was straight instead of curly. They were alike in personality, too, quieter, not nearly as bold or feisty as Miranda.

In the parlor, the big stone fireplace had been lit in deference to the cool spring day. Annabel stood by the hearth, a wool shawl wrapped around her threadbare gown. The rigid set of Annabel’s shoulders and her fraught expression filled Charlotte with alarm.

We need to talk, Miranda had said.

Not sisterly gossip.

But the kind of talk that altered lives.

Her pulse accelerating, Charlotte hurried across the room to her youngest sister. She halted beside Annabel in front of the fire and held her hands out to the flames, fortifying herself.

Miranda tiptoed to the entrance and peeked into the corridor to make sure the housemaids were not spying on them. Then, taking care not to make a sound, she closed the door and returned to her sisters.

Turning to Charlotte, Miranda spoke bluntly. “You have to leave today.”

The fear inside Charlotte knotted tighter. “What did you find out?”

“Cousin Gareth has given the servants the day off on Saturday. He has given them money to spend, and offered them the use of the carriage to go into Boston.”

“He is getting everyone out of the way,” Annabel said. “He’ll ravish you, and then you’ll have to marry him, and he’ll get his dirty paws on Papa’s money.”

Charlotte flinched. Annabel was too young for such talk, but she had been the one to walk in on them and rescue her a week ago, the first time Cousin Gareth had tried to force his attentions on her. Gareth had been pursuing her since Mama and Papa died, but only recently had he made it clear that he would use any means to achieve his aim.

“At least the two of you are safe from him,” Charlotte reminded her sisters. “I don’t agree with the old English custom of leaving everything to the firstborn, but Papa did, and that means I’m the only one in danger.”

Miranda’s elegant features puckered into a frown. “Papa was a fool not to trust young women to manage their own fortune. You don’t get the money until you’re twenty-five, but if you marry your husband will get everything at once. Gareth has been gambling. He is in debt and desperately needs funds.”

“And he knows that on my next birthday we’ll be rid of him.” Anger rose in Charlotte. “I’ll throw him out of Merlin’s Leap. He’s been living on Papa’s money and keeping us prisoners here. One more year, and then we’ll be free of him.”

“He knows that,” Miranda said bleakly. “That’s why he is getting desperate. You’ll have to leave at once and find a safe place to hide from him. I stole a gold piece from his pocket this morning. Before the end of the day he’ll notice it’s gone.”

“How can I get away?” Charlotte spread her hands in a futile gesture. “Cousin Gareth has the footmen and the grooms watching every move we make. Even the cook and the housemaids are spying on us.”

Miranda leaned closer to her eldest sister and lowered her voice. “Annabel and I will distract the servants, so you can slip out. You must shelter in the forest and walk all the way to Boston. Once you get to the railroad station, you can blend in with the crowd and take a train to someplace where people don’t know you.”

“But I’ll only have ten dollars!”

“Twenty,” Miranda said. “The gold piece I stole was a double eagle.” She shifted her shoulders in an impatient gesture that brushed aside the obstacle of lack of funds. “You’ll have to find a safe place to hide, and come back to Merlin’s Leap next year, after your birthday, when you can claim your inheritance.”

“You can dress in boy’s clothing and—”

Miranda cut off Annabel’s excited chatter. “No, she can’t. She needs to look like a respectable lady. An educated person who can get a job as a governess or teacher, or a lady’s maid.”

“I can’t...” Charlotte inhaled a deep breath. “I wouldn’t know what to do...where to go...how to find a suitable position...”

“You have to,” Miranda said. “We can’t come with you, as we need to distract the servants so you can escape. If you stay here, Cousin Gareth will force you to marry him. You’ll be tied to him for the rest of your life.” Her tone hardened. “Of course, you can just let him bully you, and take Papa’s money, and anything else he might want.”

Like always, Miranda knew how to stir up courage in her sisters. Charlotte fisted her hands into the worn fabric of her ancient wool gown. One of Gareth’s petty tyrannies had been not to let them have any money, or buy anything new since their parents died. Up to now, they’d had enough to eat, but Charlotte suspected starvation might be his next weapon.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go and pack.”

I’ll go and pack. Just like that. The end of one life and a leap into the unknown—perhaps not as drastic as a leap from the balcony into the churning ocean below, but equally frightening to Charlotte.

“But what about you...” She swallowed the lump of fear that clogged her throat. “What if Cousin Gareth takes out his fury on you? He might suspect you know where I’ve gone to and try to beat the information out of you.”

“Beat the information out of me?” Miranda’s tone held scorn. “I’d like to see him try.” She raised a clenched fist. “I haven’t forgotten those boxing lessons I got from the Irish stable lad when I was small. If Gareth lays a finger on me, I’ll punch him right on the nose.”

“I don’t think he’ll bother us.” Annabel spoke slowly, mulling it over. “He is not a violent man, but a scheming one. He’ll see no benefit in harming us. He’ll leave us alone because he’ll be too busy trying to find you.”

“I think the same,” Miranda said firmly. “He’ll rant and rave and then he’ll take off to the nearest Pinkerton bureau and hire detectives to track you down. And that means you’ll have to be very careful not to leave a trail.”

Charlotte suppressed her misgivings. Most likely, Annabel and Miranda were right. Moreover, as the heiress she was responsible for Papa’s money. The best way to protect her sisters was to stop Cousin Gareth from getting his hands on their fortune, and that meant she had to leave, go into hiding, just as they had agreed.

Miranda glanced at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the room. “You must be ready to slip out exactly at one o’clock. The servants will be sitting down for their lunch. Annabel will create a commotion in the kitchen. I’ll set fire to the papers on Gareth’s desk in the library. I have a bottle of lamp oil put aside for the purpose. You have less than ten minutes to get out of the house and down the gravel drive and into the shelter of the forest.”

Miranda stopped talking. Her arms came around Charlotte in a fierce hug. For a few seconds, they held on to each other. Charlotte inhaled the familiar scent of the lavender soap they all used and drew courage from the feel of her sister’s warmth.

Then Miranda released her grip and stepped back.

“Go,” she said. “We have no time to waste.”

Annabel took her turn to hug Charlotte, clinging tight with trembling arms. The excitement she’d shown only moments ago had dissolved into weeping. The most sensitive of them, Annabel sometimes appeared high-strung, but it might have merely been her youth.

“I’ll write to let you know where I am,” Charlotte said. She saw Miranda scowl and hurried to reassure her. “I know Cousin Gareth will intercept the mail. I’ll find a way to write and let you know I’m safe.”

Miranda gave a quick nod, blinking back tears. Charlotte was surprised to remain dry-eyed, but she suspected her calm was far from natural. The terror of what she was about to do had rendered her too numb to feel anything else.

“Emily Bickerstaff,” Annabel said through her sobs. “When Mama and Papa insisted you try out that horrible boarding school, Emily Bickerstaff was the nearest you had to a friend. If you write to us under that name, we’ll know it’s you, and we can read between the lines.”

“Excellent suggestion,” Miranda said. “Take note of that, Charlotte. Write to us using the name Emily Bickerstaff, or mention her name in the letter.”

“I’ll remember.” Charlotte forced a shaky smile for the benefit of the weeping Annabel. Sometimes they forgot that when their youngest sister managed to control her volatile emotions, she was the cleverest of them all.

Miranda went to the door, eased it open and glanced down the hall once more to make sure no one had been listening. Turning to look back, she signaled with her hand. Charlotte walked out of the parlor, her heart hammering against her ribs as she headed along the deserted corridor toward her bedroom. If things went badly, the sisters might never see each other again.

* * *

Charlotte stood waiting by the tall window in the hall, hidden behind the thick velvet drapes. She wore leather half boots, a pale gray blouse, a green wool skirt and a jacket to match. Her oldest clothing. Something to blend in with the crowd. She’d packed a small traveling bag that contained a pair of kid slippers, two extra sets of underwear, a nightgown, another blouse, and a few toilet articles and personal treasures.

The clock chimed to announce the full hour. One o’clock. Charlotte strained her ears. A few seconds later, a high-pitched shriek came from the direction of the kitchens. Then a hysterical voice yelled something about a mouse. Well done, Annabel, Charlotte thought. A rodent would send the servants scurrying.

She could hear more voices, this time from the other end of the house. Masculine shouts. Then the tinkle of breaking glass and the acrid smell of smoke. Charlotte took a deep breath and emerged from behind the curtain. She hurried to the front door, unlatched the lock and darted out and clattered down the stone steps, speed more important than moving without a sound.

Her running footsteps crunched along the gravel drive. Arrow straight, the drive seemed to stretch ahead endlessly. In the sky the clouds had thickened, and were now shedding a fine drizzle that bathed the landscape in a curtain of mist.

Charlotte veered left, across the lawns, toward the forest. Her heels sank into the soft earth. The wide brim of her bonnet protected her face from the rain, but she could feel the dampness penetrate her clothing. Already, her skirts were heavy and clinging, hampering her speed.

The line of trees ahead formed a green wall that didn’t seem to get any nearer as she hurtled along. Her bag bounced against her thighs, a painful slam at every step. She didn’t dare to look back over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. She simply ran, legs pumping, muscles straining, skirts flapping. It seemed an eternity before she reached the thick canopy of the forest and dived into its shelter.

Her heart pounded, partly from fear, partly from the effort of the wild dash. She paused to catch her breath, and finally turned around to survey the house. Mist hovered over the lawns, but there were no signs that anyone had noticed her escape. Through the library windows she could see an orange glow, already fading.

Charlotte turned around, forced her way deeper into the forest. It was less than a mile to a streetcar stop, but she didn’t dare to take local transport. People might recognize her, remember her. She’d obey Miranda’s instructions and walk all the way to Boston. Four miles. Charlotte gripped her bag tighter in her hand, ducked between branches and set off through the forest, making her way south toward the city.

* * *

Twilight was falling when the train pulled in at the railroad station in New York. Charlotte gripped her leather bag in one hand and climbed down the iron steps from the second-class car of the New York and New Haven Railroad Company train. She came to a halt upon the teeming platform and swept a frightened glance around.

So many people. So much noise.

Porters dashed about, pushing through the crowds. Relations welcomed passengers with joyful greetings. Street vendors hawked their wares. Dogs barked. Beggars cried out their pleas. Street urchins raced about, yelling at each other. The cacophony of sounds filled her ears, booming and relentless, like the trumpets of doom.

The journey had taken her two days, even with the trains rushing along at speeds in excess of twenty miles an hour. Who could have imagined that apart from the costly express service there was no direct connection, but a bunch of local railroad companies, half of which seemed to be going bankrupt at any given time? She’d had to change trains three times, and the overnight stop in Hartford had made a further dent in her funds.

“Miss, do ye need a place to stay?”

Startled, Charlotte whirled toward the coarse voice. A man had stopped beside her. Short and stocky, he wore a gaudy brown suit. He whipped his bowler hat down from his head, exposing coils of oily black hair. His dark eyes raked over her in a bold inspection. His lips curled into a suggestive smile.

“New into town, ye’ll be,” the man said, with a note of satisfaction in his tone. “A pretty girl like you could do well in the right place. I’ll show ye where to go.”

He reached out to take her traveling bag. Charlotte gave an alarmed squeak and jumped backward. She gripped her bag tighter, spun around and hurried down the platform, away from the man. In her haste, she kept bumping into people. Rough hands groped at her and another man shouted a lewd comment after her.

She increased her pace, panic soaring inside her. She might be innocent, with no exposure to life outside of Merlin’s Leap, but she possessed common sense. A young female alone in a big city was easy prey to the worst elements of humanity.

Her hair was disheveled after her flight, her clothing dried into wrinkles from getting soaked in the drizzle, her face a mask of fear and uncertainty. Everything about her revealed that she was down on her luck and therefore an easy target for the predators.

Along the platform, a conductor was yelling instructions to board a departing train. “Train to Chicago and cities and towns west,” the dapper little man shouted. “All passengers to Chicago and cities and towns west must board immediately.”

Charlotte’s gaze fell on the open door of the railroad car. Her steps slowed. She knew she didn’t possess enough money for the long-distance fare, but boarding a train without a ticket seemed less terrifying than facing the dangers of New York City after nightfall.

The train blew its whistle. The iron wheels screeched, spinning into motion. Charlotte gripped her bag tighter and sprinted forward. Reaching up, she grasped the handle on the door and climbed up the steps into the railroad car.

* * *

The train chugged over the flat prairie with a dull monotony. Charlotte dozed in the hard wooden seat, crammed between a large woman on the way to her sister’s funeral and a thin salesman who sold farm equipment. Sunshine streamed in through the windows, making the air hot and stuffy.

All through the night, as the train rolled from town to town, making frequent stops to take in water for the steam engines, she had moved from compartment to compartment, snatching a moment of sleep whenever she could, while at the same time trying to avoid detection by the conductor.

The man beside her shifted in his seat. He fumbled in his coat pockets, his bony elbows butting into her side. Charlotte stirred from her slumber and cast an alarmed glance down the gangway. The conductor in a peaked cap and uniform had entered through the frosted glass door at the far end of the car, and he was inspecting tickets.

With a muttered apology, Charlotte jumped up and hurried in the opposite direction. At the end of the car, she darted through another door and lurched toward the convenience tucked away in the corner. She’d already made it without a ticket most of the way to Chicago, and she had no intention of being caught now.

The lock on the convenience door appeared stuck. In a burst of panic, Charlotte rammed her hip against the peeling timber panel. The door sprang ajar, and then jammed again, meeting some obstacle on the other side. Scuttling backward like a crab, Charlotte squeezed in through the narrow gap. She dropped her bag at her feet, kicked the door shut and turned around to survey her refuge.

A soundless scream caught in her throat.

In front of her, a young woman lay slumped beside the toilet bowl. The folds of her plain brown gown rippled in the draft that blew up from the iron rails below.

Her legs unsteady, Charlotte inched closer. Her breath stalled as she saw the marble white skin and the lifeless look in the open eyes of the woman.

The image of her parents flashed through her mind. Nothing in her twenty-four years had matched the ordeal of visiting the mortuary with her sisters to identify their bodies after they had been recovered from the sea.

Nothing until now.

Nearly swooning, Charlotte lurched forward and clung with both hands to the edge of the porcelain washbasin. In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her. Her face was ghostly pale, her eyes round with fear. Like a black cloak, her hair tumbled past her shoulders, her upsweep fully unraveled.

Scowling at her image, Charlotte struggled to contain the harsh breaths that tore in and out of her lungs. She couldn’t afford to give in to hysteria now. Dead is dead. A lifeless body presented no danger, required no rescue.

As her terror ebbed, her attention came to rest on a collection of items on the small metal shelf above the washbasin. A bundle of papers. Next to them, an empty apothecary bottle rattled from side to side, the stopper missing. Charlotte picked up the glass vessel and studied the label, neatly printed in blue ink.

Laudanum.

Pity clenched in her chest. What could have been such a dreadful burden? What had happened to extinguish the lust for life in someone so young? The urge to understand swept aside all hesitation, and Charlotte picked up the bundle of papers. Her fingers trembled as she shuffled through the documents.

Railroad ticket to Gold Crossing, Arizona Territory.

A letter, signed by someone by the name of Thomas Greenwood, referring to arrangements made through an agency. It confirmed that a room had been reserved for Miss Jackson at the Imperial Hotel, where someone would meet her with further instructions.

The last piece of paper had been folded over twice. Charlotte unfolded it.

The single page contained two shakily scribbled words.

“I’m sorry.”

Overcome with compassion, Charlotte sank to her knees beside the body and steeled her senses against the putrid odors of the shabby railroad convenience. As she studied the woman’s waxen features, desperation whispered its own cruel demands in her mind. Charlotte hesitated, then swept her scruples aside and searched the dead woman’s clothing.

“Please forgive me,” she muttered, shame burning on her face as she pulled out a small cotton drawstring purse and examined the few coins inside. “You don’t need this anymore, and I need it so very much.”

Tears of pity and shame stung her eyes as she continued her inspection. She found nothing more, but understanding dawned as her gently probing fingers encountered the contours of a belly swollen in pregnancy.

Poor Miss Jackson.

Charlotte ended her harrowing search and stood. Her hands fisted at her sides as she stared down at the wretched waste of a suicide.

God have mercy.

God have mercy on Miss Jackson. God have mercy on her own desperate flight that took her away from family and home. God have mercy on every young woman whose life had been ruined by a predatory male and on every child who never got the chance to be born.

“I’ll pray for your soul,” Charlotte said, her throat tight with emotion. She slipped the purse with coins into a pocket on her skirt and gathered her traveling bag from the floor.

Her gaze lingered on the slumped form of Miss Jackson a moment longer. What would they do to her? A suicide couldn’t be buried in consecrated ground. Would anyone speak words of understanding and forgiveness over her grave? Or would they only preach about hellfire and damnation?

In a quick motion, Charlotte set her bag down on the floor again. Her hands went to her neck, where a small silver cross hung on a chain. It seemed to take forever before her trembling fingers managed to unfasten the clasp.

Holding the cross in her hands, Charlotte crouched to reach around the slender neck of Miss Jackson and fastened the chain. Don’t you dare anyone steal it from her, she admonished in her mind.

The piece of jewelry, a birthday gift from her sisters many years ago, was not of great value, which was why Cousin Gareth had allowed her to keep it. Now the cross would be like a blessing for Miss Jackson, and the gesture eased Charlotte’s conscience over the money she had taken.

Charlotte finished by throwing the bottle of laudanum down the toilet chute and stuffing the suicide note in her pocket. There, she thought as she straightened and surveyed the scene. The cause of death might have been an attack from an illness, which might make all the difference in how they buried her.

Picking up her bag once more, Charlotte clutched the railroad ticket and the letter from Thomas Greenwood in her hand. She pulled the door ajar and peeked in both directions to make sure the corridor was empty before she slipped out.

A plan was forming in her mind, born as much of lack of alternatives as opportunity and impulse. Charlotte Fairfax needed to disappear until her twenty-fifth birthday. If she could become someone else for a year, she would be safe from the Pinkerton agents Cousin Gareth was bound to send after her. Too much money was at stake for him to simply let her run away.

Making her way down the corridor, moving up from third to second class, Charlotte strode along until she spotted a vacant seat. The compartment was occupied by a family. The parents sat on one side, feeding breakfast to a pair of sleepy children perched on the opposite bench.

“Excuse me,” Charlotte said, in a voice loud enough to capture their attention over the churning of the train. “Would you be kind enough to allow me to join you?”

“Don’t you have a seat in another compartment?” the woman asked. In her thirties, with delicate features and wispy brown hair hidden by a bonnet, she was pretty in a tired, worn-out way.

Charlotte fiddled with the clasp of her leather bag and lowered her gaze, pretending to be embarrassed. “I would prefer to move. Sometimes gentlemen act too familiar. It makes a lady traveling without a chaperone feel uncomfortable.”

The woman leaned across to wipe the mouth of the little girl in pigtails and glanced at her husband. A lean, bearded man in a wide-brimmed felt hat and a tightly buttoned black coat, he gave a silent nod of approval.

“You’re welcome to join us,” the woman said.

“Thank you.” Charlotte managed a strained smile as she settled next to the children. “I’m Miss Jackson,” she said. “I’m traveling to take up a position in the Arizona Territory.”

* * *

Afternoon sun scorched the dusty earth as Charlotte made her way from the railroad station along the single thoroughfare that ran through Gold Crossing. She lugged her leather bag with both hands. Sweat beaded on her brow and ran in rivulets down her back and between her breasts. In the Arizona heat the green wool skirt and jacket suitable for spring weather in Boston baked her body like an oven.

She had spent ten days traveling, sleeping rough on trains and railroad stations, exhausting her funds with the cheapest meals she could buy.

Each time she had to change trains, the town had been a little smaller, the passengers a little rougher, the train a little shabbier. The last legs of her journey had been westward from Tucson to Phoenix Junction with the Southern Pacific Railroad, and then a spur line north that terminated in Gold Crossing.

Only two other passengers had alighted at the platform where the train still stood huffing and puffing. The pair of grizzly men had stared at her, the way a hungry dog might stare at a juicy bone. Charlotte had hurried on her way, without giving them an opportunity to offer their assistance.

Imperial Hotel. She squinted down the street where a few equally rough men seemed to have frozen on their feet, like pillars of salt, ogling at her. Could this really be her destination? The town was no more than a collection of ramshackle buildings facing each other across the twin lines of dusty wagon ruts. Most of the windows were boarded up. It puzzled her how such a miserable place had merited a railroad spur.

A faded sign hung on a two-story building painted in peeling pink. On the balcony that formed a canopy over the porch a teenage boy stood watching her.

Summoning up the last of her energy, Charlotte closed the distance. The boardwalk echoed under her half boots as she climbed up the steps and swung the door open. A gangly man standing behind a polished wood counter looked up from his game of solitaire.

“Can I help you?” he asked. Perhaps forty, he had sallow skin and faded blue eyes that seemed to survey the world with wry amusement.

“Yes.” Charlotte dropped her bag to the floor with a thud. “I have a reservation. Miss Jackson.”

The man adjusted the collar of his white shirt beneath the black waistcoat and gave her a measuring look.

“You’re late,” he said. “You were expected a week ago.”

“I’m here now.” She approached the counter. “I was told someone would meet me here with instructions. I have a letter from Mr. Thomas Greenwood.”

“Greenwood’s gone.”

Charlotte lifted her chin. “When will he be back?”

The man studied her, a sly smile hovering around his mouth. “He’ll hurry back like a bullet from a rifle once he hears you’ve arrived. I’ll send a message out to him. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Charlotte exhaled a sigh of relief. “I’ll go and rest. If you could be so kind and send dinner up to my room as soon as possible.” She hesitated, decided to find out rather than live in hopeful ignorance. “Has Mr. Greenwood arranged to cover my expenses?”

“Yes.” The man swept her up and down with bold eyes. “He’ll pay, all right.”

“Good.” Despite the man’s intrusive inspection, Charlotte’s sagging spirits lifted. “Will there be hot water to wash in the room?”

The innkeeper reached behind him to take a key from a row of hooks on the wall. “Room Four. The last one at the end of the corridor.” He handed the key to her and gestured toward the staircase on the far side of the deserted lounge.

“And water?” she prompted.

“I’ll fetch a bucket of hot water for you.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte picked up her bag and set off up the stairs.

She had assumed that no one in Gold Crossing knew what Miss Jackson looked like, but she hadn’t been certain. Now relief eased her frayed nerves. She was going to get away with it. New name, new life, until she no longer needed to hide. If Cousin Gareth came after her, he would never find her now.

Charlotte slotted the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Despite the musty scent that greeted her, hope flooded through her as she stood on the threshold. A coverlet in white lace topped the big brass bed. On the floor, a patterned wool rug softened the timber boards. A solid oak armoire stood along the wall.

Not the luxury she had grown accustomed to in Merlin’s Leap, but a paradise compared to the days and nights of sleeping rough on trains and in railroad stations.

She was safe.

As long as she could keep up the pretense of being Miss Jackson.

Chapter Two

Thomas 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.

Chapter Three

The bouncing of the cart made her stomach twist with nausea. Charlotte swallowed hard to keep down the bile rising in her throat. If she retched up the remains of last night’s beef stew perhaps she should blame it on the plight of a pregnant woman instead of motion sickness.

“How long before we get there?” she asked.

They had been traveling at least an hour. After the first few miles, they’d left behind the sandy plateau and were now weaving between rolling hills covered with desert scrub. It seemed impossible fertile farmland could be located anywhere nearby.

Her husband turned to her, his gray eyes flickering over her with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little tired.” Charlotte tugged at the stifling fabric of her wool skirt. “And hot.”

“You ought to have changed into something cooler.”

She gestured at her leather bag that rocked up and down in the cart behind them. “Do you think I carry an entire wardrobe in there? All I have is another blouse, the undergarments you’ve already seen and the petticoats you complained about.”

His brow furrowed. “You should have told me. We could have stopped at the mercantile to get you a plain cotton dress.”

A plain cotton dress. Charlotte pursed her lips. She’d never owned such a garment in her life. Seeking to blend in with the crowd when she escaped from Merlin’s Leap, she’d worn her oldest clothing, but she hadn’t expected to end up in a hot climate.

“Dresses cost money,” she commented.

Thomas stiffened by her side. “I can provide what you need, and what the baby needs, even if it means selling my land and working for others.”

“Don’t say that!” Charlotte sat bolt upright on the bench, twisting around to stare at him. A gust of wind caught the brim of her bonnet, and she raised both hands to hold it secure.

Their eyes locked, and the naked longing in his gaze slammed into her heart like a blow. In that single look, all his dreams, all his hopes poured over her.

Every thought scattered from Charlotte’s mind as the strength of her new husband’s emotions flooded out to her. Without thinking, she released her grip on the bonnet and reached out to brush one fingertip along the curve of his cheekbone.

A strangled sound tore from Thomas Greenwood’s throat. His hand came up to capture her wrist and he pressed his cheek into her palm. His eyes closed, as if he wanted all his senses to focus on that simple touch.

Charlotte couldn’t breathe. An alien tension tugged deep in her belly.

She’d hated it when Cousin Gareth touched her, but this was different. She fought the temptation to slide her fingers into the golden hair of Thomas Greenwood, so she could hear him make that sound of longing again.

The cart sank into a rut and bounced into sudden lurch that jolted them on the bench. Greenwood released his fingers from her wrist and turned to study the trail ahead, controlling the reins with both hands.

Charlotte gripped the edge of the wooden platform and clung on tight. As she slowly regained her mental balance, her imagination rushed ahead.

She saw the coming year unfold. They would forge a companionship, a life together, with shared domestic routines and moments of leisure. And, even though she had to find a way to keep Thomas from consummating the marriage, some level of intimacy might develop between them. And then, when it became safe for her to return to Merlin’s Leap, it would all come to an end.

A premonition added to her guilty conscience.

She would end up breaking Thomas Greenwood’s heart.

* * *

The journey over the rolling scrubland lulled Charlotte into a fatigue that bordered upon sleep. After those few tense moments of staring at each other, with the hot desert air between them sizzling with unspoken emotion, they had retreated behind neutral manners, conversing in awkward snatches.

Thomas Greenwood was what she’d heard the people on the train call a sodbuster. He grew wheat and corn and vegetables. Because of his isolated location, he didn’t get caught in the feuds that raged between cattlemen, who demanded open range, and farmers, who sought to fence their fields to protect their crops.

“It’s after the next turn,” he told her, pride evident in his tone.

Charlotte sat bolt upright on the hard bench and surveyed the hillside ahead. The trail snaked in twists and turns between clumps of cacti. Greenwood took a sharp turn left and urged the horse into a canter to clear the steep rise of the hill.

As they crested the ridge, a small fertile valley spread before them. Speechless, Charlotte stared at the creek that cut a sparkling ribbon through the middle. Beyond the tall trees that shimmered with silvery leaves, she caught sight of the blue glints of a lake.

“Water?” She turned to Thomas. “You live by a lake?”

“A reservoir.” A satisfied smile curved his lips. “The beavers built the dam. I merely improved their design.”

“Beavers?”

His smile broadened into a grin. “That’s right. But don’t get any ideas about a fur coat. They are my friends and neighbors.” He jumped down from the bench, circled the cart to her side and reached up with both arms.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Greenwood.”

Charlotte braced her hands on his shoulders as he lifted her down. Thomas set her on her feet, but instead of stepping away, he bent toward her. Pausing to snatch off his hat, he lowered his head and brushed a kiss on her lips.

It was over in a heartbeat, but the tingling sensation clung to Charlotte’s lips, even after Thomas had drawn back to his full height.

She’d never been kissed by a man before, and it seemed to her there should be more to it. She stole a glance at Thomas. He was scowling, as if something had annoyed him.

“I’ll show you the house,” he told her in a voice that sounded rough and impatient. With an abrupt turn on one worn boot heel, he strode away, across the small clearing and along the path between trees with their silvery leaves.

Charlotte hurried after him, her heart pounding. Why had he suddenly grown so terse? Had he felt the flatness of her belly when he lifted her down? Was he suspecting something?

Panic unfurled in her chest when she considered the hurdles she would have to navigate as part of her deception. She could do nothing but go on living as she had lived in the past ten days, since she fled out into the cold spring afternoon at Merlin’s Leap—by her wits, one minute at a time.

* * *

Thomas strode down the path to the front door, his boots thudding in an angry beat against the hard-baked earth. He needed to get ahold of himself. After just one tiny kiss, lust flamed like a brushfire through him, and it was scaring him witless.

He must let his bride get used to him first, to his strength and size, to his constant presence. The best strategy was to win her over gradually. Allowing greedy passions to rule his mind could ruin any hope of a happy marriage.

Thomas believed in creation. God had given men the capacity to enjoy the intimacy necessary for the survival of mankind and, being equitable in His creation, God must have given women the same capacity. But it was the man’s duty to make it so. Be gentle and patient. He would weave a web of temptation around his wife, until her own senses guided her into his arms.

Behind him came the rustle of light footsteps, and he knew she had hurried after him. Satisfied that he had his urges under control, Thomas turned to face his wife. She peered up at him, alarm stamped on her lovely features. He wanted to kick himself for having kissed her too soon. He lowered his voice, as if she were a frightened doe he sought to tame.

“Ready to take a look at the house?”

She nodded but did not speak.

He kept up a steady stream of talk as he climbed up the front steps, pushed the door open and waved her inside. “The house is built with split logs. I couldn’t dress the lumber properly on my own. You need two men to operate a whipsaw. I had plenty of timber, so I just sliced the logs down the middle.”

“You built this house yourself?”

“Every single groove and joint.”

He watched her as she surveyed the big central room. Light flooded in through the open doorway and from the wide window on the opposite wall. Slowly, she untied the laces of her green bonnet and removed it from her head. His stomach tightened at the way the slanting sun picked out coppery glints in her black hair and painted dappled shadows over her slim frame, as if nature itself wanted to touch her, just as badly as he did.

She drifted around the room, in front of the window, past the row of kitchen cabinets, to the long table flanked with two benches.

“If you don’t like the benches, I can make chairs,” Thomas told her.

She glanced at him, crossed the room to the pair of carved wooden love seats that faced each other in front of the massive stone chimney. She ran her fingers along the scalloped back of one of them.

“Did you make these?”

“Yes.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“The winter evenings offered me plenty.”

He wondered if she understood the skill that went into carving wood, or appreciated the financial outlay he’d incurred for the new cookstove. He’d ordered it all the way from Flagstaff, right after Miss Jackson had agreed to marry him if he sent the funds for her passage.

His bride gestured at the doors on either side of the fireplace. “What’s in there?”

“That’s the bedroom.” His body tightened as he strode across the floor and flung the door open. The wide room had windows on both sides. A tapestry depicting a winter woodland scene hung on the wall above the bedstead.

“Did you make the bed too?” she asked.

“Yes, and the pair of nightstands, and the blanket box, and the two chairs, and the chests of drawers beneath the windows. The bed is in the shape of a sled. Reminds me of the snow in Michigan.”

“Is that where you are from?”

He nodded, keeping his face empty of expression.

“Why did you leave?”

“I had four older brothers. The farm wasn’t big enough for all of us, and land was too expensive to buy.” The explanation held some truth in it, and Thomas quickly closed his mind to the rest of the memories.

He watched his wife standing beside the bed and tried to keep his imagination under control. “Did you see the cookstove?” he asked, as much to distract himself as to keep her talking.

She threw him a questioning look. He pointed back to the living room. She returned to the parlor and studied the appliance. Thomas realized he had no idea of her competence as a housekeeper. They hadn’t corresponded. He didn’t know much about her beyond her name, her age, and that she had been abandoned by her lover and her pregnancy had caused her to be dismissed from her position as a maid in some rich man’s household.

Suddenly the room closed in around Thomas. He needed to soothe his mind, needed to see the sky soaring above him and hear the trees whispering in the wind. He turned and headed out to the porch.

“I’ll go and put the horse in the paddock.”

“Why is the house not by the water?” his bride called after him when he was already halfway out the door.

“The creek floods after heavy rain and the soil is firmer here.”

“Do you bathe in the lake?”

“Sometimes.” He raked his gaze over her, his imagination running riot. He forced his mind to focus on practical thoughts. “You must not drink from the creek. There’s a well behind the house for clean water.”

Thomas turned his back on her again and clattered down the steps, as if Lucifer himself was chasing on his heels. Whatever happened between him and his wife—even if she only spent one week on his isolated homestead and left because she could not face a future in such a lonely place—one thing was certain: his life would never be the same again.

* * *

Charlotte sank down to the wooden love seat. Disaster screamed at her from every carefully crafted corner of the rustic cabin. She closed her eyes and let Thomas Greenwood’s words, full of pride, echo through her mind.

Did you see the cookstove? A sigh of regret rustled out of her chest. She wouldn’t have known if the stove had been slotted upside down between the cabinets.

Grim determination surged inside Charlotte. Her hands fisted so hard her nails dug into her palms. She’d be the perfect wife. While she remained with Thomas Greenwood, she’d ease the harshness of his life. She’d work until her muscles ached and her fingers bled. And before she left, she would make sure the cabin had become a more comfortable home for him.

Jumping up, Charlotte rushed to the cookstove, an iron monster made pretty by a coat of pale green enamel on the front. “I’m going to call you Vertie,” she said and gave the top a friendly pat. “It comes from vert, the French word for green. And now you’ll have to help me make coffee.”

She found a tin of coffee on the open shelves, the beans already ground. A big copper pot hung from a peg on the wall. Two steel buckets stood on the counter, one empty, one half full. Rather than risk a musty flavor, Charlotte picked up the empty bucket and set off in search of the well.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the ridge of the hills and the air was turning cool. Clouds of tiny flies swarmed in the twilight. A pair of blue jays quarreled on the ground, screeching and flapping their wings. Rodents rustled in the undergrowth. It appeared the evening was the rush hour in nature.

The path rounded the side of the house and led to a stone circle rising from the ground. A crank handle and a spout protruded on the right. Charlotte hung the bucket on a hook under the spout and tentatively yanked the handle. A gurgling noise came from deep within the earth.

Encouraged, she attacked the pump with vigor. After a moment, a loud rumble erupted, and a jet of water exploded into the bucket with so much force it bounced up, drenching her face and chest.

A startled cry left her lungs, shattering the evening calm. Charlotte blinked away the droplets clinging to her lashes and mopped her face with her sleeve.

Down the path, she heard the heavy thud of footsteps heading in her direction. Twigs snapped and birds scattered in fright. She looked up and saw Thomas hurtling through the trees. When he reached her, he gripped her shoulders and towered over her. His eyes roamed her features in a frantic inspection.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded to know.

“No.” Laughter rose in her chest. “Only wet. And feeling stupid.”

“You shouldn’t be doing that.” He released his hold on her and stepped past her to the pump.

“Yes, I should.” She shoved him out of the way, her hip butting against his rock-hard thigh.

With a grunt of surprise, Thomas yielded and moved aside.

“I’m not made of glass, and I’m not made of sugar.” Charlotte cranked the pump handle, taking care to keep her movements slow and measured. When water started spurting out of the pipe, she ducked to avoid the spray from the bucket. “I won’t break if I fall, and I don’t melt if I get wet.”

She glanced over at Thomas to see if he’d understood her meaning. He hadn’t. She doubted he’d even heard her. His gaze was riveted on her breasts, which heaved up and down with the rhythmic motion as she operated the pump. She had discarded her corsets before setting off on the train journey, and the soaking wet blouse clung to her body, like lichen on a wood nymph.

Charlotte couldn’t think. She ceased cranking the pump handle. Suddenly, she felt a great surge of heat on her skin, so great it surprised her not to see steam vapors rising from her drenched garments.

A sense of inevitability filled her. Whatever her misgivings, whatever her desires, whatever her plans, the needs and wants of Thomas Greenwood might be more potent than hers. It might turn out that her married life would be a much harder ocean to navigate than she had allowed for.

“You’ll catch a chill.” Thomas spoke in a husky rumble. “You should change out of those wet clothes into something dry.”

She had to clear her throat before the words came. “I don’t have anything to change into, apart from a nightgown.”

“Are you hungry?” Thomas asked. “Do you want any supper?”

Charlotte shook her head, unable to speak.

“I’d like to see you in your nightgown.” He reached for the overflowing bucket and effortlessly lifted it down from the hook beneath the spout. “Why don’t you go inside and get out of those wet clothes. I’ll heat up water for you to wash.”

Thomas waited for her to move away but she stood rooted on the spot. His expression softened. “Go on now, Maude,” he said gently. “You can undress in the bedroom, in privacy.”

The name broke the spell between them. “Call me Charlotte,” she said, her voice rising with a touch of despair at how little control she seemed to possess over her situation. “I dislike the name Maude. I want you to call me Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” Confusion flickered across his features. Then his frown eased and he gave a slow nod, his eyes steady on her. “I like that.” He lowered his voice and added in a low murmur, “More syllables for a man to whisper in the throes of passion.”

Charlotte gave a shocked gasp and fled inside.

Chapter Four

Thomas sat on the porch steps and watched the twilight thicken over the valley. A chorus of frogs croaked in the muddy pond near his irrigation station. In the creek, a beaver splashed its tail. A hawk soared overhead. The scent of blossoms from the pomegranate orchard by the lake floated on the breeze.

Sundown was his favorite part of the day. The chores were done. Horses were safe in their stalls, the milk cow in its pen and chickens in their coop. It was the time to relax, time to allow his aching muscles a moment of rest. Time to look forward to supper, and then to sitting down by the fire to work on a piece of furniture, or to read a book by lamplight.

Ever since he’d finished building the house in his second year on the farm, Thomas had sat on the porch steps in the evenings. And every night, he’d wondered what it might feel like, to have someone inside waiting for him.

All his life, he’d longed for that.

To enter a room and feel welcome.

Would he achieve it now? Would his wife smile at him, her face bright with pleasure as he stepped across the threshold? Or would it forever be his fate to live with the silent hostility that had ruined his childhood and youth, until he could no longer take it and had chosen to leave his Michigan home.

There was a risk in marrying an unknown woman.

It was a risk he’d felt compelled to take.

For not trying at all would have been cowardice.

Thomas pushed up to his feet, slapped the dust from his knees. He should have changed into work clothes instead of taking care of the animals in his Sunday suit.

One corner of his mouth tugged up in a wry smile. Didn’t matter. He’d not wear the suit again until someone died. His smile deepened. Or perhaps for the christening of his child. Their child. For, according to the law, any child born to his wedded wife would be his, even if another man might have planted the seed.

“Charlotte.” He tasted her name on his tongue.

“My wife,” he whispered into the silence, enjoying the sound of it.

He raked one more satisfied glance over his valley, now shrouded in deep shadows, and then he walked up the porch steps into the house.

The parlor was empty, the lamps unlit. Thomas turned toward the bedroom. The doors were closed. He didn’t know what to make of it. He understood it was common for women to fear their wedding night. It made sense. Most women had little idea what to expect, and it was human nature to fear the unknown, but that should not be the case with Charlotte. The proof of her experience was growing in her belly.

With hesitant steps, Thomas set off across the floor. Before he reached the bedroom door to the left of the fireplace, the door on the right side opened. His wife stood in the opening. The last glimmer of daylight from the window behind her silhouetted her, rendering her thin white nightgown transparent.

Thomas felt his mouth go dry. His heart hammered in the confines of his ribs. He wanted to rush up to her, rake his hands down the dark curls that cascaded past her shoulders. He wanted to frame her face between his palms, tilt it up toward him and kiss her until his body hummed with joy.

She moved.

A step toward him.

Not away from him.

And then she laughed—a tingling, feminine laughter that crawled up his spine and fanned the needs he had just spent an hour trying to bank down.

“Why do you have two doors to the bedroom?” she asked. “I can see us going round and round, looking for each other, one of us going in through one door while the other one is coming out through the other door.”

Thomas had trouble speaking. He had to clear his throat before the words came. “It is so that the bedroom can be divided into two later, creating a separate bedroom for the children. That’s why I put in a window on both sides, rather than one big window at the end.”

She spun around to survey the bedroom. The transparent nightgown gave him a view of her back, different, but just as fascinating.

“I see,” she said. “What a clever idea.”

Thomas smiled. Tomorrow, he would show her his irrigation station, and some other inventions he’d made to ease the burden of farm chores. She might be surprised to discover that despite his lack of formal education he possessed as much knowledge of mechanics as a trained engineer.

“I’m hungry,” he told her. “Will you eat supper with me?”

She whirled back around to face him and edged closer. Either she lacked modesty, or she had no idea how much the flimsy nightgown revealed. Thomas would have bet his life on the latter. When she was only two steps away, she clasped her hands together in front of her in a manner that was becoming familiar to him.

“I haven’t cooked supper for you,” she said, her expression crestfallen.

Another wave of warmth spread in his chest. This was exactly what he had hoped for. A woman to help with the chores. “It’s all right,” he reassured her. “I didn’t expect you to cook anything. Not on your first night. I was just going to have some bread and cheese.”

She pressed the flat of her palm against her belly and held it there. Thomas guessed a pregnant woman might like to do that, to feel the new life growing inside her. His eyes lingered at her waistline. Five months. Shouldn’t she be bigger? Without thinking, he blurted out his thoughts.

“You look too thin. Is there something wrong with the baby?”

“No,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Are you sure? Have you seen a doctor?”

She shook her head in silent reply.

“Not at all?” he pressed. “Not even in the beginning?”

“No.” She came closer to him, touched the back of his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with the baby. Nothing at all. I’m just small, that’s all. Some women don’t show until they go into labor.”

He studied her guarded expression for a second, then nodded. He couldn’t help the niggling feeling that something was wrong. Maybe earlier Miss Jackson had tried to get rid of the baby. Maybe she had taken some potion and it had harmed the development of the child, stunting the growth in the womb.

Miss Jackson. Thomas frowned. Strange, how it seemed to him as if that person, the person in the tintype photograph he had filed away, was someone else altogether, and not his wife, the woman who had asked him to call her Charlotte.

Turning to the kitchen cupboard, Thomas took out a loaf of bread from a stone jar and a wedge of cheese from the milk safe. “If you keep the burlap cloth moist at all times, it will keep the milk and cheese fresh an extra day, even in the summer heat,” he told her, looking back over his shoulder.

Charlotte remained on her feet, hugging her arms around her body.

“Why don’t you put your coat on?” he asked.

She rubbed her arms, shivering. “The wool fabric is itchy.”

Thomas paused. He glanced back toward the bedroom. He’d intended to save his bridal gift for when he knew for certain she would stay with him, but it didn’t matter. Today was the proper day for giving marriage gifts.

“Wait here,” he said, and strode off into the bedroom.

He knelt by the linen chest at the foot of the bed, lifted the lid and searched inside. He pulled out the crocheted shawl and paused for a moment, smoothing his fingers over the soft texture of the fine wool. It was the only token of love he’d ever received, not counting the fact that he had been born. On the morning he’d said goodbye and walked out of the house that final time, his mother had hurried after him.

“Take this,” she had whispered. “I made one for you too, like I did for your brothers. For your bride.” She’d cast a fearful glance back at the house, where her husband’s shadow fell across the window.

“He doesn’t know I made it.” She’d drawn a breath, and Thomas had heard a sob in her voice. “I wish I could have been...stronger...that I could have defied him...but I couldn’t...not even for you.” She had looked up with a plea in her eyes. “You understand, don’t you?”

Thomas had taken the shawl, slipped it into his bag. Not a saddlebag, for they wouldn’t even let him have a horse to see him on his way.

His mother had clung to his arm. “Tell me you understand,” she’d begged. “Tell me you forgive me.”

Thomas had looked down at her from his height. Small and dark, like everyone else in the family, she’d stared up at him with tear-bright eyes. He would never understand, and he didn’t have it in his heart to forgive his mother for not loving him. Perhaps the man he’d grown into might possess the strength to forgive, but the child he’d once been and whom he still carried inside him clung to the hurt.

But he’d said it anyway, even though it was not true.

One final act of love for the mother who had never loved him.

“I forgive you,” he said, and asked God to absolve him for the lie.

Kneeling by the linen chest, Thomas lifted the shawl to his face. In the first two years, the scent of the rose water his mother used had clung to the wool. Then he’d made the chest and the spicy scent of cedar wood had replaced the scent of roses.

He pushed up to his feet and went back into the parlor. He shook out the shawl. It was patterned in earthy colors, rust and moss green and the rich red hues of maple leaves in the fall. He moved to stand behind Charlotte and spread the shawl over her shoulders. His arms circled her for a second before he pulled away.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It’s a wedding gift for my bride. My mother made it.” As Thomas spoke the words, a tiny edge of the old pain chipped away. Perhaps one day forgiveness would come.

“The custom is that I should give it to you in the morning after our wedding night, but I can see that you are cold, and our marriage isn’t a traditional one anyway.”

Charlotte fingered the soft wool, not meeting his eyes. “It’s lovely,” she said. “And very warm.” She glanced up at him. “Thank you.”

Thomas nodded. They needed to talk about it. Their wedding night. And all the nights that came after. But such a conversation might be easier for both of them if he waited until the darkness let them hide their thoughts from each other.

* * *

Charlotte clutched the shawl tighter around her. Night was falling, but she didn’t feel ready to meet the challenges the darkness might bring. The longer they remained in the parlor, talking, the longer she could postpone facing those challenges.

“I believe I’m hungry after all,” she said, and recalled the task that had sent her out to the well earlier that evening. “I was going to make coffee.”

She darted over to the kitchen counter, her bare feet soundless on the timber floor. The pail was full of water. An iron pot filled to the brim sat on the stovetop. Thomas came to stand beside her, nodded at the pot. “That’s water for washing. I didn’t light the fire yet. I stopped to sit on the porch steps for a moment.”

“Let me do it.” She nudged him aside with her elbow.

Obediently, he eased back, but instead of sitting down at the table, he settled a hip against the edge of the tabletop and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. Watching her. As if to inspect her household skills and pass judgment on them.

Charlotte glanced down at the pile of firewood and pursed her lips. The front of the stove had three hatches, one big, two small. She bent down, opened the biggest hatch and threw a few bits of firewood inside.

“That’s the oven,” Thomas said. “The wood goes into the smaller compartment on the left.”

Charlotte swallowed hard, nodded, removed the bits of firewood and placed them in the smaller compartment on the left, just as he had told her. She could see a round pit in the metal bottom of the compartment and guessed that the firewood, as it burned, would collapse into the third compartment beneath. That must be where a low fire burned for baking and where the ashes gathered for removal.

“How are you going to get the fire started?” Thomas asked.

She looked at him over her shoulder. He pointed at the small pieces of bark gathered in a metal bucket beside the firewood. “Kindling.”

Charlotte nodded, rebuilt her pile of firewood with kindling at the bottom and glanced once more over her shoulder, her eyebrows arched in question.

“You need to stack the wood loosely, to allow air to circulate in between. Wood stacked in a tight pile won’t catch flame.”

She nodded, did it all over again.

Thomas pointed. “Matches are on the shelf.”

Rising on her toes, Charlotte searched the shelf, found the small metal tin and clipped it open. Her eyes narrowed in victory. Something familiar. Papa had used matches to light his pipe, and she’d used them for candles. She snapped a match free from the row, looked around for a piece of sandpaper to strike it against but saw none.

Any abrasive surface would do. Her eyes darted from object to object, settled on a heavy cast iron frying pan sitting on the counter. Eager to demonstrate her competence, Charlotte shot one arm out and drew the match across the belly of the frying pan.

“No,” Thomas shouted, but it was too late.

The flame sparked, and blew up from the frying pan like a dragon’s breath. Charlotte screamed and jumped back. Strong arms closed around her, lifting her off her feet. Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, Thomas inspected her hands.

“Did you burn your fingers? Show me! Show me!”

Tears stung at the back of her eyes, but they were tears of misery and frustration and helplessness, not tears of pain. Charlotte clenched her hands into fists to keep away his probing fingers. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

It took a moment before the intimacy of their position registered in her mind. She was dangling in the air, anchored against his chest. A thick forearm cut like a band of steel across her waist. Thomas was looking down over her shoulder, his head bent next to hers. She could feel the rough stubble on his jaw rubbing against her cheek.

And yet, despite the hold that emphasized his superior strength, his touch was gentle. It was clear that he could subdue her without effort, but something in his manner told her he would never hurt a woman. She need not fear that he might take her by force. The realization eased her terror, but a new kind of tension crept in its place.

Slowly, Thomas released her, settling her on her feet.

“I never wash the frying pan,” he explained. “I just wipe it with a cloth, which leaves a layer of grease on the bottom. It keeps food from sticking to the metal.” He took another match from the tin, squatted in front of the stove, rearranged the wood, struck the match against his thumbnail and lit the fire. He spoke with his back to her, his eyes on the catching flames. “The coffee is on the shelf.”

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