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

An ugly expression flashed across the beautiful man’s face, but it was gone before Carrie caught it, replaced by a bitter smile. “That old goat has all the luck.”

“Is there something wrong with Mr. Donovan?” Carrie blurted. She’d held her tongue with the shopkeeper, but the newcomer’s twinkling eyes teased it out.

Mr. Martin opened his mouth but Lyle Wilder beat him to it.

“Wrong with him? Other than he’s a stern old stick-in-the-mud who acts as if he’s better than anybody?” His tone was light hearted, but the words had a bite to them. He stared at her as if waiting for her to challenge him.

“Now, Lyle,” Mr. Martin said. “That’s not what she meant. She’s never met the man.”

The blue eyes went astonished. “Never met him? And you’re here to marry him?”

“I am.” Carrie drew herself up. “We corresponded, and he is to be my husband.”

Wilder noted her stiffened backbone and changed tacks immediately. “Well, I’ve got it all wrong then. All this time I’ve been carrying letters and I should have been writing them. Then maybe you’d be here for me instead of Dour Donovan.” He winked at her and Carrie jerked back as if she’d been stung.

“That’s enough, Lyle.” Mr. Martin lost some of his meekness. “Miss Winters doesn’t need to hear talk against Mr. Donovan.”

“She knows I mean no harm.” Lyle grinned, but his charm only put her guard up further. She’d had enough of charming men with silver tongues back east. The black clad rider gave a small bow. “Miles’ homestead’s not far from my land, so we’ll be neighbors, if you do go through with the marriage. So I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Winters.”

“Pleasure’s all yours,” she snapped and he chuckled.

“So you do have some spirit hiding under that little bonnet. Good for you. Maybe Donovan won’t snap your will in two like he does his horses.”

“Have you gotten all you need, Lyle?” The shopkeeper thumped his hand down on the counter to get the mail rider’s attention.

“Oh yes, Mr. Martin, all I came for and more.” With a smirk in Carrie’s direction, Lyle picked up his hat and set it on his head, reversing his smooth dance from horse to shop. Once he was gone, Carrie heaved a sigh of relief. Pretty though he was, she was relieved she hadn’t come all this way to marry the likes of Lyle Wilder. She might as well have stayed back east.

As the black stallion galloped off, Mr. Martin came around the counter. “Watch yourself with that one. No love lost between him and your new husband, I’ll tell you that. Lyle wants the land Miles laid claim to.”

“Why’s that?”

“Thinks there’s gold on it.”

“Is there?”

“Haven’t you heard of the mines? Pike’s peak?” He tossed his head to the north as if she could see through the wall. “Ever since they struck gold up there, prospectors come from all over the country. Not too many round Royal, which is why Donovan moved here. Then Wilder found some gold flakes in the river, and said he had claimed the land before Donovan. So there’s a land dispute. Out here, that’s enough cause for a fight, and worse.” Mr. Martin frowned at her. “I’m surprised Donovan didn’t tell you. I figured he did to get you out here.” The shopkeeper read her puzzled look and added, “Most gals hear a fella’s got land with gold on it, that’d be enough for them to trot out here.”

Carrie picked up her bag. “I don’t need gold, Mr. Martin. I need a good man to marry.”

Mr. Martin’s speech had worn off the last of his shyness, and he met her eyes boldly. “Plenty of men around.”

“Not of the right morals.” She glanced out the door at the route Lyle had taken, then back at Martin. He nodded, but still seemed put out.

“Well, Donovan has morals all right. Wilder wasn’t lying about that. He’s can be a soggy strip of leather, make no mistake.”

Carrie frowned. “I don’t take your meaning.”

“He’s just very…” the shopkeeper searched for the word, “stern. Has a firm set of rules and lives by them.”

She liked the sound of that, but instead of saying so, she shrugged. “What’s the harm in that?”

“This is the free West, ma’am. We don’t care much for rules.”

*****

She spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the porch, perched on an old barrel Martin rolled out for her. Feet propped on her bag, she stitched, resisting temptation to draw out her Bible and the letter she’d hidden in its pages.

My name is Miles Donovan. I am a farmer and homesteader in Royal, Colorado. I seek a wife…

The words of the letter cycled through her head as she stitched. The sun sank under the porch roof and stole away her shade, but she didn’t look up until a shadow fell over her hands, breaking her trance.

Mr. Martin was leaning over her. “Brought you more water.”

He set the cup down on a stack of feed bags and lingered after she’d thanked him.

“What’s that you’re working on?”

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.