Rocky Mountain Bride (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 2) Page 2

  She held up her cross stitch. “A sampler for my trousseau.”

  “You like needlework, I have a pile of shirts inside that need mending.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Martin. Perhaps when I’m finished with this.”

  “You’ll be stitching Mr. Donovan’s clothes then.” Martin shook his head. “Wilder’s right. That old goat has all the luck.”

  He started to walk away when Carrie burst out, “Mr. Martin, I must ask you. How old is he?”

  “Who, Donovan?” Martin scratched his balding head. “He’s middling old, I suppose. How old are you?”

  “I’m three and twenty. Four and twenty next Christmas.”

  “Then, he’s older than you. But whether that’ll matter much, you’ll have to decide yourself.”

  Another long hour passed with the sunbeams marching over the porch to fall at her feet. Carrie raised her head from her needlework. The sun was an orange ball sinking behind the mountains.

  Mr. Martin came out to squint at the starting sunset. “Reckon he might of forgot you were coming.”

  Setting her sewing up on the sacks of meal, she squinted at the horizon with him.

  “If so, I’ll share my dinner, and we’ll find a place to put you up for the night.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Martin,” she said, but her mouth was dry. She waited until the shopkeeper had gone back inside before letting her hands dive into her bag and bring out her little Bible. The white calfskin book had been a gift at her christening. It had her birthdate and full name in the front, and, tucked carefully between the pages of Isaiah, the letter that brought her so many miles from home.

  She unfolded it and reread the spidery lines.

  My name is Miles Donovan. I am a farmer and homesteader in Royal, Colorado. I seek a wife, age 18-25 and in good health, willing to journey west and join me on my homestead. I am a good man, hard, but fair. I believe the husband is to be the head of household, and desire a woman who will know her place at my side…

  Her heart beat faster as she read the words. Her brother had gave her the letter, knowing that Carrie, an old maid at three and twenty, needed a fresh start and a good man by her side. Stern and rule-abiding didn’t bother her.

  The next part of the letter was what drew her.

  To my future wife: life on the frontier is hard, but I have made my way and done well. If you join me, I will be a good husband to you, a good father to our children. “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31.

  Folding up the parchment, she tucked it into its place in her Bible.

  What sort of man knows he wants a wife, and writes a letter, casts it out and waits for its return? A man of faith, she’d decided. So her brother had written back, telling Mr. Donovan about her, and sent the letter along in the spring rain. The reply had come two months ago, and she’d started the journey August third, first taking a train, then a stagecoach out of St. Louis, Missouri.

  Smoothing the pages of her Bible, she reread the verse in Isaiah. A wild cry rang out, and she raised her head to see a bird circling over the small town, gliding as if the thick gold light lifted its wings.

  “An eagle,” she whispered, watching it wheel across the lonely sky, before bending to put her Bible and the comforting letter away.

  If Miles Donovan had faith, then so could she.

  When she looked up again, the bird was gone, but a cloud of dust was rising over the scrub brush, with horse hooves beating rhythm to match her heart’s.

  Out of the shimmering light, a beautiful bay morgan galloped over the reddened ground. Its rider sat tall and proud, face obscured by a broad-brimmed hat, moving with the horse’s strides as if he and beast were one.

  Carrie caught a glimpse of a stern jaw and solemn mouth before the rider dismounted on the other side of the great, sweating bay. She waited on the porch, unable to move, as the man checked his mount, running a hand over its withers.

  The wind caught her sampler and blew it to the ground, catching the horse and rider’s attention. The hat swung her way, then tilted. Tawny eyes swept over her, taking her in head to toe. The man gave the bay a final pat, then moved towards her with measured steps.

  He looked the same age as the impertinent Mr. Wilder, but there the similarity ended. Broad and built, he wore rough clothes that spoke of many hours work. His face was strong-featured and striking, with dusty skin burnt almost as tan as the mountain range. As he approached, he took off his hat and she saw his hair, though darkened with sweat, was a reddish brown like his horse.

  He never took his eyes off her. Halfway to her, he leaned down and lifted up her sewing. The sampler seemed tiny in his hands.

  “Here you are, Mr. Donovan.” Martin came out of the shop, wiping his face again with his kerchief. “A few things came for you. I’d thought you’d forgotten.”

  Both men looked at Carrie, but she still couldn’t move. This tall, rugged man who rode a horse easy as breathing, this man was going to be her husband.

  After a pause, Mr. Martin cleared his throat. “Miss Winters.” He emphasized the Miss. “May I present Mr. Miles Donovan. Donovan, Miss Carrie Winters. I’ll, uh, leave you two alone.”

  Carrie barely heard the shopman’s chuckle as Miles Donovan walked the rest of the way to her, his tanned face intense and unsmiling.

  His jaw seemed a shade lighter than the rest of his face; the paleness proof of a regular beard he’d shaved off that morning. He’d cleaned up for her, and put on his best clothes, a faded white shirt and tan breeches, clean but with a hole in the side that needed darning.

  He was still watching her, and she realized how drab and dirty she must look. After six days in the stage coach, her skin had a new crop of cursed freckles, despite all her prayers that her cheeks would remain pale and unsullied. Back home, her curvy form under her dress drew many approving stares, but on this trip she’d taken to covering her charms under layers of calico and a carefully draped shawl. The men had still stared as if she was the only woman for a hundred miles. Perhaps she was.

  But now her dress was dusty, she’d lost the shawl, and her formerly fresh white collar and cuffs looked faded and worse for wear. Reaching up, she reassured herself that her hair was still behaving; only one unruly curl had escaped from her bonnet. She pushed it back, and bit her lip, feeling small and inadequate.

  Mr. Donovan still hadn’t said a word. She wondered if he was disappointed. But no, the fierce eyes seemed impartial. Miles Donovan looked like a man who waited to pass judgment, and when he did, spoke his mind and didn’t recant it. A good man, hard, but fair.

  He was nothing like she’d imagined. Not even her most secret thoughts could conjure up such a handsome face with such a stern set to his jaw and intense stare.

  Swallowing hard, she tried to clear her throat, or at least uproot her body from its seat, when he bent down and held out her sewing to her. She took it, thinking his hand looked as large and rough as the floorboards.

  “Miss Winters,” he said in a deep voice that matched his stern face. “I take it the journey went well.”

  She nodded, unable to find her voice.

  He returned the nod.

  “You hungry?”

  She shook her head.

  He cast about as if looking for something else to say, then looked her square in the eye.

  “Well, then, Carrie Winters, I’d best take you home.”

  *****

  An hour later, the sun was almost a memory beyond the mountains, and Carrie sat on the morgan, her arms wrapped around the man she’d come two thousand miles to marry.

  Back on the porch, Miles had told her to gather her things, then left her to speak to Mr. Martin.

  “I’ll have to be back for my order. My other horse took lame and I couldn’t bring down the wagon, and Belle’s breeding.”

  “Order will wait here for you, Donovan. I’m just glad
you didn’t leave Miss Winters here overnight.”

  Miles regarded Carrie as she trotted up to the two men, carrying her small bag. “I thought if I was late, the Reverend would be here to look after her until I came.”

  “He got called out this morning. Whole family took sick in Florence.” Martin shrugged. “What can you expect from a Reverend who’s also the only doctor for thirty miles?”

  “Wait,” Carrie said. Both men’s gazes dropped down to her, and moved her lips several times before she could speak. “Shouldn’t we wait for the Reverend before going to the homestead? I mean…” She quailed under Miles’ steady gaze. “Shouldn’t we wait until we’re married?”

  Mr. Martin snickered and slapped Miles’ shoulder. “I’ll let you both talk this out.” He retreated into his store.

  “It’s a day’s journey to Florence. Reverend won’t be back before tomorrow, may not even be back before the end of the week. I have the marriage license. We’re as good as married in the eyes of the law.”

  “Not in the eyes of God.” Her will buckled under his stubborn stare, but she refused to be cowed, even though it took the last of her energy. “Perhaps I could stay in a hotel.” Her brother Thomas had given her some money before she left, and she would hate to use it now, but propriety insisted she marry a man before she went home with him.

  Mr. Donovan replaced his hat and shook his head. “No, you can’t.”

  She stiffened. “Why not?”

  “Because there isn’t any.”

  Carrie felt her hopes sink under his unsmiling expression.

  He sighed, and one hand went to rub the back of his neck. “Miss, I know we just met. But you have to start trusting me sometime. Where else are you going to go?”

  Looking over the bleak landscape, she felt the truth of his words. She’d come all this way for a fresh start, and even if she couldn’t make it here, she couldn’t go back.

  Miles Donovan seemed sympathetic. “Come home with me, Miss Winters. See my home, learn the land. If everything goes well, I’ll bring you back Sunday, and we’ll be wed.”

  “But to go with you now, as an unwed woman…” She recalled her shady past, the scornful looks she endured back home, and felt like crying. “What will people think?”

  He tipped his face closer. “Do you see many people around to judge us? People will think what they like, no matter what we do.” His words were like a caress.

  Her shoulders slumped. “All right.”

  “Will that bag keep you until we can come back with the wagon for the rest?”

  “I have no other bags.” She hugged hers to her like a shield.

  He blinked, as if he’d expected her to come from the city with five bags and a fancy trunk. His surprise melted away so quickly she wasn’t sure she’d really seen it. “Good. Then we’ll bring it all. Come on.”

  And just like that she was up on the bay, her bag strapped carefully behind her, and riding into the sunset with a man she’d just met.

  It was the first time she’d clung so closely to a stranger, much less one she’d barely exchanged twenty words with, but there was nothing for it. After a while, the horse found a trail and fell into an easy trot, and she leaned into Mile’s back, feeling the pulse and pull of his muscles. He rode with an easy grace and his movements inspired her to find the horse’s rhythm. Under the sweat-slicked hair, the back of his neck was reddened by the sun, and he smelled earthy and wild.

  At one point she loosened her arms around him, trying to put some distance between them, but he captured her wrists and pulled them firmly around his torso. Her belly fluttered and heat rose in her body, but she obeyed his silent command and held on tight.

  As the mountains drew closer, the land grew lush and green, and Carrie could hear the sound of a river rushing through the dark woods beside them. The trail broke out into a clearing beside the water.

  Miles said something Carrie couldn’t hear over the roaring river, so she pushed herself forward. “Pardon?”

  “That’s the Arkansas river,” he called back. She felt him guide the horse off the trail, then waited as he dismounted then reached up to help her down.

  As her feet hit the ground, she almost stumbled. Miles’ large hands steadied her until she could stretch her cramped legs.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded then hesitated, staring at the ground as if trying to find something common between them. “I would’ve been to town sooner, but Monty threw a shoe. Had to fix him up before I could ride him.” He slapped the bay’s side. “The Reverend would’ve looked out for you, but he’s the only doctor we have in these parts, so he does his best.”

  Carrie nodded. He was apologizing to her, as best he could. “I understand. Why do you live so far out of town?”

  “Like to have my own land. I like being able to stand on my doorstep and look out and see nothing that I don’t own.” Carrie saw the pride in his profile before he turned to put the canteen up.

  “So you have a large farm?”

  “No. A lot of land, a small garden. I have cattle, a horse ready to drop a foal. A garden and chickens—that’ll be your responsibility.”

  She nodded.

  “We’ll be at the homestead in an hour, just at dusk.” Miles nodded towards the mountains, and the gathering gloom. “I’m going to check Monty; he may have a rock in his shoe.”

  Miles moved around his horse, stroking the bay’s sides and soothing the beast with sure and gentle hands. Watching him coax the horse to lift its leg, Carrie relaxed a little. He didn’t seem rough or stern at all. Such a man wouldn’t be unkind to her.

  As she waited, she paced, her steps bringing her closer and closer to the water. Further downstream, the rocks pounded the current into froth, but the flow at her feet seemed dark and gentle. She wished she could jump in and wash the grime from her skin. Her foot started to slip, and she scrambled for purchase on the wet grass, then yelped as Miles’ hand gripped her arm and hauled her back.

  He held her close to his large body as she caught her breath. “Be careful around the river. It gets swollen with rain or melting snow from the mountains, and is sometimes stronger and colder than it looks.”

  She nodded, and started to break away from him, but he held her fast.

  “Carrie.” When he spoke her name, she couldn’t keep herself from looking up into his solemn face. “You received my letter.”

  “Y-yes. I have it.”

  This seemed to surprise him. “You can read?”

  “My brother taught me.” She waited, in his grip, wondering what this was all about.

  “He knows Reverend Shepherd?”

  “Yes. They were in school together.”

  “Then you read my way of thinking. As a man, I take the lead. My wife will follow.”

  So here they were already, having this conversation about rules. Carrie knew it was coming but didn’t realize it would be so soon. Her husband-to-be was a careful taskmaster.

  “Yes, I believe that should be the way of it.”

  He let her go but didn’t move away. “So, if I ask something, you will obey. And if I needed to teach you a lesson, I could take you in hand.”

  She heard the question behind the statements. “Yes, Mr. Donovan. And I would submit to correction, if it was fair.” With a deep breath, she added, “I want a strong man for a husband. I’d need one, to survive a place like this.”

  The moment stretched on a little longer, then his hand touched her back, guiding her back to the horse. “Call me Miles,” he said in his deep voice.

  He swung up, then reached down to help her settle behind him. Tiredness had seeped into her limbs, and she flailed a little before grabbing onto his clothes.

  “Steady, Carrie,” he said, and she recognized the soothing tone of his voice, at the same time she felt grateful for it. “Hold on to me.”

  He waited until she leaned forward and put her arms around him before prodding Monty forward onto the trail.

  Dusk
had fallen, but there was still plenty of light behind the mountains when Donovan steered the bay off the path again. Carrie had dozed on and off, the steady hoof beats lulling her to sleep, only for her to jerk awake when her cheek touched the rough cotton of Mile’s shirt.

  Monty walked through the trees, then stepped out into a clearing, and Carrie finally saw her new home. Miles had cleared a hill and built the homestead on a crest overlooking the meadows where his horses and cow herd grazed. To the right, just off the hill, was a stable, and gardens beyond that, all enclosed by a rickety fence. Neat rows of corn wrapped around the hill behind the house, leading down to the great river.

  Miles swung off and then helped her down, handing down her bag before taking Monty to the stables. The bay nickered and trotted through the gate to greet a painted mare. The two nuzzled before Monty went on to the water trough, leaving the painted mare to nudge Miles.

  “Easy, Belle,” Miles said, skirting the mare’s awkward bulk. His hands smoothed her sides and she immediately quieted. Carrie recognized the signs of the mare’s large and pregnant belly; Belle would soon drop a foal.

  As Miles forked hay into their manger, and then checked the water even as Monty kept drinking noisily, Carrie marveled at the farm, so neat and well-kept despite the vast amount of work for one man. That explained the hard, corded muscles in his arms, and the deep bronze of his skin.

  Her body felt cold and stiff with the long journey, but Carrie didn’t fuss, watching Miles care for the beautiful animals.

  “I’ve never seen such lovely horses,” she told him when he returned, hoping to capture some of the easy way he dealt with the animals, and transfer it to her.

  “Belle will foal within a fortnight. I built the stable for her. The rest of them are pastured further down, near the cattle.”

  “All morgans?”

  “Aye,” a gleam in his eye as he talked about the beasts he loved, “a few bays like Monty, bred for hardiness and speed across the wilderness.”

  “I’d love to see them.”

  “Tomorrow.” He seemed to remember himself, and the confident manner he used to discuss horses slipped a little. He held out his hand for her bag and then touched her back to guide her up the hill. “This way.”