“I thought caring for the boys was going to be my job.”

He swung his gaze to meet hers. He was certain that he’d heard wrong. “Ma’am?”

She held his gaze, though he sensed she was nervous. Still she pulled back her shoulders. “I mean, since I am going to be your wife, it only seems right that the children stay with us.”

For a moment his head swam as if a prizefighter had landed a knockout punch. “My what?”

Mrs. Clements stepped forward, wearing a broad grin that hinted at trouble. “Miss Smyth is the bit of news I was referring to.”

Matthias’s head started to throb. The last thing he needed was a riddle. “What the devil are you talking about, Mrs. Clements?”

The older woman smoothed her hands over her white apron and cleared her throat. “We ordered you a wife. Miss Smyth is your fiancée.”

Acclaim for MARY BURTON’S recent works

Rafferty’s Bride

“Ms. Burton has written a romance filled with passion and compassion, forgiveness and humor; the kind of well-written story that truly touches the heart because you can empathize with the characters.”

—Romantic Times

The Perfect Wife

“Mary Burton presents an intricate theme that questions if security rather than attraction defines the basis of love.”

—Romantic Times

The Colorado Bride

“A heart-touching romance about love, loss and the realities of family. In her finely crafted historical, Mary Burton manages to vibrate some sensitive and intense modern issues.”

—Romantic Times

“This talented writer is a virtuoso, who strums the hearts of readers and composes an emotional tale.

I was spellbound.”

—Rendezvous

The Unexpected Wife
Mary Burton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mike and Nancy,

the Montana cowboy and his Portuguese bride

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Crickhollow, Montana

May, 1879

H ilda Marie Clements held open the door to her mercantile, as two men with low crowned hats and upturned collars filed through. Each carried a lantern, but the meager lights did little to chase away the predawn shadows that stretched across the assortment of boxes, barrels and crates. A chill clung to the early morning air, a reminder that even though June was but weeks away, winter had not fully released its cruel grip.

Mrs. Clements moved toward her counter as her visitors took seats on twin barrels nearby.

Closest to her was Holden McGowan. His long lean body, draped in buckskin, was well muscled by years of driving a stagecoach team. Nearing his thirty-fifth year, Holden had been in the valley for seven years. A trapper first and later a miner, he’d moved into town three years ago to open the Starlight stage line.

Next to Holden sat Frank Trotter. He’d moved to the valley eighteen months ago to help his daughter, Elise, and his son-in-law Matthias when Elise had become ill during her third pregnancy. Elise and her stillborn child had died six days after Frank had arrived. Trotter’s graying beard and hollow eyes testified to the sorrow he’d endured since he’d buried his wife and then his only child. He’d aged fifteen years in the last two years.

Mrs. Clements was impatient to get the meeting started. Her husband, Seth, would wake soon and she wasn’t interested in a lecture on meddling. “I know Frank ain’t got much time. He’s got to get on the trail at first light so he can get back to the ranch in time for lunch. So let’s get to business.”

Frank nodded, silent and grim. Of the three, he looked the most uneasy, the most worried.

Holden swung his gaze to Mrs. Clements. The plump Virginian had agreed to handle all their correspondence. “You said she wrote us another letter.”

Mrs. Clements pushed back a stray wisp of hair before she dug pudgy fingers into the deep pockets of her apron and pulled out a wrinkled envelope. “She sure did.”

Holden leaned forward a fraction, nervously tapping his long fingers on his thigh. “So did she accept our marriage proposal?”

Mrs. Clements grinned. “She’s ready and willing to travel to Crickhollow on our instruction.” She shifted in her seat with excitement. “And she has sent along a tintype for us to look at. Now she’s warned us that it’s a couple of years old, but she says it’s still very accurate.”

Holden’s gaze brightened as he held out his hand to Mrs. Clements. “A woman who thinks about the details. I like that.”

Mrs. Clements hesitated before she handed Holden the picture. “She’s not a real beauty,” she said, passing the picture to the coachman as he moved closer. “But she looks sturdy—good hearty peasant stock as my mother used to say. Looks like she’d weather many a winter here.”

Holden tilted the picture closer to the lantern light as he studied it. Frank stayed seated, nervously tapping his knee with his hand.

The coachman’s eyebrows knotted as he studied the tintype. A small oval face, slightly pointed chin, and peaches-and-cream complexion. A simple hat obscured most of her hair, but her unsmiling lips were full and her pale eyes filled with a softness that made her approachable. She wore a dark gray dress with a high collar. No hint of lace adorned the simple dress. “She looks a bit severe.”

Mrs. Clements waved away his concern. “I never put too much stock in pictures. Those big city photographers make you sit still for so long your muscles cramp. No one’s interested in smiling by the time the flash explodes.”

“I’ve never had my picture taken, so I’ll take your word for it. How old did you say she was again?” Holden handed the picture to Frank.

Frank shifted on his barrel, uncomfortable. He glanced at the image. “Sure hope she ain’t as rigid as she looks.”

“She’s not rigid,” Mrs. Clements said, defending her choice of the original six applicants to their mail-order bride ad in the San Francisco Morning Chronicle. Abigail Smyth had the neatest handwriting and her letters had been full of rich details. She spoke of dreams, new beginnings and making a home for them. “We’ve all read her letters. They’re lovely, full of wonderful ideas and plans. I can tell she has a fine heart.”

Frank scrutinized the picture, and then released a sigh. “Looking at her face makes this all so real. I never thought it would get this far.”

Impatient, Mrs. Clements rubbed her thigh. “Frank, you’re the one that came to us with the idea of finding your son-in-law a wife in the first place.”

Frank nodded wearily. “I know. I promised Elise I’d find someone to care for Matthias and the boys.”

“So what’s your problem?” Mrs. Clements said.

Frank rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Talking about finding a wife for Matthias and actually getting a wife is worlds apart. He’s not a man to cross.”

Holden stretched out his long legs as if to get comfortable. “I got to admit, I’m a little nervous about this myself. I don’t want to be around when he finds out what we’ve been up to.”

Mrs. Clements bit back her growing impatience with Frank. Men. They didn’t have the stomach for the hard work. “Holden, now you aren’t waffling on me, are you?”

He sat straighter. “Nope. I am committed to this. What’s her name again?”

“Abigail Smyth,” Mrs. Clements supplied.

“Matthias is going to be furious,” Frank said.

“There’s no way Matthias can handle his homestead and take care of the young ones,” Mrs. Clements added. “They need a mother. He needs a wife.”

“And we need Matthias to stay in the valley,” Holden said. “He’s a damn good man who loves this land. He’s also a crack shot who’s not afraid to deal with renegades and outlaws, both of which we don’t need especially now that the railroad is scouting a rail line this way.”

Mrs. Clements nodded. “This community is just starting to thrive and we can’t afford to lose ground now.”

Frank rose and walked to the window. The morning sun’s orange-and-red lights simmered below the horizon. “I ain’t so sure if he’ll ever love another woman.”

“This ain’t about love, Frank,” Mrs. Clements said. “It’s about marriage. The two don’t have much to do with each other in Montana.”

Frank nervously tugged at the cuffs of his jacket. “And what are we gonna do if Matthias digs his heels in? What if he tells this Abigail to go on back to San Francisco?”

“We won’t allow it,” Mrs. Clements said. Steel coated each word.

Frank tightened his long fingers around the rim of his weathered felt hat. “All this lying just don’t set well with me.”

Mrs. Clements waved away his concern. “I have faith that the two of them will work this out.”

Despite her words, she said a silent prayer that they had done the right thing. Matthias was a man of few words, and he was friendly enough. Sure, his ice-blue eyes burned like Satan’s when he was angry, but he never threw the first punch or stirred up trouble. A soldier, bounty hunter and most recently a rancher, there wasn’t a better man to call if you were in trouble. When Matthias Barrington gave his word, he moved heaven and earth to keep it.

Still, crossing Matthias Barrington was about as smart as tangling with a rattler or a grizzly. “Matthias will be glad in the end.”

Holden rolled his eyes heavenward. “If he don’t kill us all first.”

Chapter One

“A bby, quick, grab the muffins!” Cora O’Neil shouted from across the basement kitchen. The heavyset Irish woman punched her meaty fist into a mound of leavened bread dough. “By the smell of them they’re about to burn.”

Abby set down the bag of flour on the wide kitchen table and, wiping her hands on her apron, hurried to the large cast-iron stove. Using her apron as a mitt, she opened the heavy door and pulled out the tin. The heat of the hot metal quickly burned through the thin cotton fabric and scorched her fingers. She dropped the pan on top of the stove with a loud whack.

“Hurry up, now,” Cora said. “Fill that basket on the tray with the muffins while they’re still hot. You know how your Uncle Stewart gets when ’is muffins is cold.”

Abby pushed a sweaty strand of hair off her face. She’d been anxious to get her chores done early today so that she could intercept the postman before he dropped off the morning mail and Uncle Stewart read it. She checked the heart-shaped watch pinned to her blouse. Nine-fifteen. She’d have to hurry.

She dropped the hot muffins into the basket lined with linen. She’d been corresponding with a man in Montana for months now. In his last letter, he’d asked for her hand in marriage. In her last letter, she’d accepted. Now all that remained was the final travel details. Her hands trembled with excitement as she tried to picture her new life, her fresh start.

Since her parents’ deaths and her move to her uncle’s house in California ten years ago, she’d been an unwanted annoyance to her relatives. Because they’d been unwilling to sponsor her in society, she’d soon found herself trapped between the world of the people who lived upstairs and those who lived downstairs.

Eight years ago, she’d fallen in love with a young lawyer she’d met through her uncle. His name had been Douglas Edmondson. Blessed with blond hair and blue eyes, he had a poet’s heart and a gift for words that made her knees go week. She’d fallen in love almost immediately.

Words of love tripped easily from Douglas’s tongue, but love had not been what he was after. A night’s romp in the gardens had been his only desire. Abby learned of his shallow heart too late and in the end he’d made a fool out of her.

Her uncle had been furious about the scandal, but he’d not thrown her out. As an unspoken payment, she’d retreated to her kitchens and taken her place with the servants.

In January, when her cousin Joanne announced her engagement, Abby suddenly realized life was passing her by. Her years of hiding ended. She wanted a fresh start, a new beginning.

So, she’d taken action. She’d answered the ad in the San Francisco Morning Chronicle for a mail-order bride and taken her life into her own hands.

Abby shoved aside the memory and hurried up the stairs. Several deep, even breaths erased the tightness in her chest.

A year from now she’d be married, living a new fresh life filled with possibilities. In Montana she’d not be trapped between social circles, and perhaps, God willing, she’d be cradling her own babe in her arms.

“Stop your daydreaming!” Cora shouted.

Abby straightened. “Sorry, Cora.”

Her dreams were within her grasp, but she’d have to move carefully. Uncle Stewart would stop her f he knew her intentions. His society friends would frown upon him if word got out his ward, who’d already disgraced him once, had become a mail-order bride.

So far she’d managed to keep the letters a secret. Normally, Uncle Stewart read the mail in the evening, so it had been easy for her to sift through the letters unnoticed. However, today her uncle had taken a day off from work in preparation for her cousin’s engagement party, which was to be held in two days. He’d chosen to sleep late and was having his breakfast an hour later. The entire household, which worked around his schedule, was in a tizzy over the change.

As she reached the top step, she nudged open the door that led to the dining room with her foot.

Her Aunt Gertrude, Uncle Stewart and cousin Joanne sat at the large finely polished dining table. Her uncle, as he did each day, was reading the Chronicle, while her aunt and cousin chatted about her cousin’s upcoming wedding. None turned to greet her as she entered the room.

Abby set her tray on the side table. She glanced nervously through the double doors of the dining room toward the front door. The post always arrived at nine twenty. If she hurried, she’d make it.

Managing a smile, she placed the coffee cups in front of her uncle first, then her aunt and her cousin last. As she filled each cup and placed the muffins on the table, Stewart reached for the strawberry jam on the table and started to spread it on his muffin.

Wiping her hands on her brown skirt, she moved toward the door that led to the foyer, grateful for the first time that they’d not acknowledged her.

As she reached the threshold, her uncle set down his knife on his white porcelain plate. “Abigail, a letter arrived for you yesterday.”

The nerves in her body tightened and she could feel the blood draining from her face. Slowly she faced her uncle. “I got the post yesterday. There was no letter for me.”

“The postman held it back. He thought it odd that you’ve been receiving so much mail lately.” He bit into the muffin and carefully set it back on the plate.

“If it’s my letter, then I’d like to have it,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm.

“Who is Matthias Barrington?” he said.

Abby felt the color drain from her face.

Aunt Gertrude’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “I don’t know any Barringtons in San Francisco.”

“He’s not from San Francisco,” Stewart said. “He’s from Montana.”

Gertrude poured cream in her tea. “Good Lord, Montana? I wasn’t sure if anyone really lived there, let alone anyone who could write.”

Abby crushed back the welling panic. “You opened my letter.”

“I did,” said her uncle. “And why shouldn’t I? This is my house and everything that happens in it is my business. “Now answer my question. Who is Matthias Barrington?”

She’d known this day would come. She’d rehearsed what she would say to her aunt and uncle a thousand times, but the words suddenly caught in her throat.

Joanne lifted her gaze from several trousseau sketches she was examining. Golden curls framed a heart-shaped face and emphasized pale skin and lavender eyes. The blue watered silk morning wrapper hugged her delicate figure to perfection. “Cat got your tongue?” she purred.

Abby stared at her cousin. Stewart and Gertrude had always thought their daughter perfect, especially in comparison to a niece who’d never been exposed to the finer social graces.

Abby managed a slight shrug of her shoulders. “He is a rancher in Montana.”

“And what business does he have with you?” Gertrude said.

A gold signet ring on Stewart’s right pinky finger winked in the morning light as he pulled the letter from his pocket. He laid it by his plate. “It seems this Barrington fellow is talking some nonsense about marriage to our Abigail.”

“Marriage!” Joanne laughed. “I thought you’d given up on love after Douglas made a fool out of you.”

Abby drew in a steadying breath, determined not to show her anger.

Annoyed, Gertrude tapped her finger against the linen tablecloth. “You told me nothing of this.”

Abby held out her hand. “May I have my letter?”

Stewart buttered his muffin. “Not until you tell us what this is all about. How could you even come to know such a man?”

Oddly, instead of fear she felt relieved to have it all in the open. “I answered his ad in the Chronicle for a mail order bride.”

Gertrude’s cup clattered down hard against its saucer. Stewart’s thin face whitened. “Why would you embarrass us in such a way? Haven’t we done right by you these last ten years? Lord knows we stood by you when we should have tossed you into the street.”

His words nearly rekindled the guilt that had kept her in check for so many years. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Everything you do is my concern. When it’s time for you to marry, I will see that you marry a suitable man.”

“When I marry?” For a moment anger tightened her throat. How many times had she heard this? “If I stay in San Francisco, I will never marry. Dearest Joanne and her gossip have seen to that. And I want a family of my own. It is time for me to move on.”

Joanne tossed her napkin on the table. “This is all very fascinating, but Mother, we’re going to be late to the dressmakers, if we delay too long.”

Aunt Gertrude nodded. “In a minute, dear.” She lifted her sharp gaze to Abby. “If it’s a husband you want, I’m sure we can find one. In fact, I heard the butcher, Joshua Piper, is looking for another wife. He seems rather fond of you.”

At forty-seven, the butcher had four unruly sons and a mother who still lived with him. It struck Abby then that on her last visit to his shop he’d spent extra time with her. It also explained the extra lamb chop in her order. “I want a fresh start,” she said. “Away from the city.”

Stewart pinched the bridge of his nose. “The city is far better than Montana. I’ve heard tales about that wretched land. It’s full of cutthroats and murderers.”

Abby could feel the tension building in the muscles at the base of her back. “It’s my choice.”

“You can’t marry without my permission,” Stewart said.

“I am five and twenty, Uncle, and well able to take care of myself. I no longer need your permission.”

His face reddened and his lips flattened into a grim line. “Since when did you get so independent?”

Joanne rose. “Father, I really don’t care if she stays or goes. As long as she’s here to cook for my wedding reception. Freddie’s parents do love her scones and teacakes.”

Stewart didn’t take his gaze off Abby. “Your cousin is not going anywhere.”

“I am,” Abby said, firmly now.

“How do you propose to pay for this trip east?” he said.

“Mr. Barrington said in his last letter that he was going to send me money.”

“He sent twenty-five dollars. And I pocketed it.”

For a moment her head spun. “You can’t do that, it’s mine!”

He stuck out his fleshy chin. “I can do anything I please in my house.”

Enraged, Abby snatched up the letter off the table. “You’ve no right to that money.”

He rose to his feet. “I’ve every right, young lady. And you will not talk any more about this farce of a marriage to a stranger. I will not have people in this town talking about me and whispering about another of your scandalous deeds.”

Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips together. “I think perhaps a marriage to the butcher is not such a bad idea. In fact, I will talk to his mother today.” She rose. “As soon as Joanne is safely wed, we will see to Abigail. It’s become quite clear to me that she doesn’t appreciate what we’ve done for her and it’s time she leaves.”

“I believe you are right, my dear,” Stewart said. “The matter is settled. Abigail will marry the butcher as soon as it can be arranged.”

Abby’s stomach curdled. “I’m not marrying the butcher. I am marrying Mr. Barrington.”

“Abigail,” Stewart said. “Don’t you have work to do in the kitchen?”

Clutching Mr. Barrington’s letter in her hand, she glared at her uncle. “You can’t dismiss me like this!”

Gertrude and Joanne stared at Abby in shocked silence.

“Return to the kitchens. I’ve my breakfast to finish.” He shifted his attention back to his paper.

Frustrated, Abby rushed out of the room. Instead of going to the kitchens she ran up the center staircase to her third-floor room. Breathless, she slammed the door to her room and sat down on her bed. Sweat beaded on her forehead as her heart pounded her ribs.

Minutes passed before she remembered the letter clutched in her hand. Slowly, she uncurled her clenched fingers and smoothed out the envelope.

Her frustration faded as she looked at the familiar handwriting. Lifting the letter to her nose, she inhaled the scents of wood smoke. She closed her eyes as she had done a hundred times before and tried to picture Matthias Barrington.

For reasons she could not explain, she pictured an older man, with weathered features and kind eyes that hinted at his loneliness. She imagined their marriage would be founded on friendship, hard work and the desire to build a life together.

Calmer, Abby pulled out the letter and unfolded it.

Miss Smyth, I am so pleased you’ve accepted my marriage offer. You will be a welcome addition to our little valley and everyone is quite excited to meet you. I have enclosed twenty-five dollars for your travel expenses. I spoke with the gentleman who runs the stage line into Crickhollow, a Mr. Holden McGowan, and he assures me that at this time of year, you should have nothing but a safe and pleasant journey. I count the days until you arrive.

M. Barrington.

Abby carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She moved to the small chest at the foot of her bed that contained everything that belonged to her—a faded tintype of her parents, a small mirror that had been her mother’s, her grandmother’s tablecloth, two dresses and the neatly bound stack of letters Mr. Barrington had written her.

She drew in a steadying breath. “By month’s end, Mr. Barrington.”

At midnight, only a small gaslight sconce flickered in the hallway as Abby slipped down the back staircase. Careful not to make a sound, she clutched her belongings, now bundled in her grandmother’s white linen tablecloth. The house was quiet.

Gingerly, Abby set down her bundle by the door and tiptoed into her uncle’s study. She’d long ago learned from one of the servants where he kept his money. Her uncle always thought himself clever with his secret hiding places but there was little the servants didn’t know or discuss about their employers.

Lighting a wall gas lamp, she moved across the thick-carpeted floor to his bookcase. She found the richly bound copy of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and opened it. Carefully, she counted out twenty-five crisp dollars and tucked them in her reticule.

Quietly replacing the book she moved across the room and turned the gaslight off. She picked up her bundle and opened the study door, wincing when it squeaked unexpectedly.

Abby swallowed her fear and hurried down the back hallway, her heart thundering in her chest.

Like it or not, after tonight, there would be no coming home.

She was committed to Montana and Mr. Barrington.

Chapter Two

E very muscle in Abby’s body ached.

She’d been in the stagecoach for nearly twelve hours and was certain that if the wheels hit another rut or the wagon was forced to detour around another swollen river, or her traveling companion, Mr. Stokes, began snoring again, she’d scream.

The wagon came to an abrupt halt, and she toppled forward into the oversize lap of Mr. Stokes. He started awake and wiped the spittle from his mouth, staring down at her. He smiled. “Madam.”

Mr. Craig Stokes had been riding with her for the last ten hours. A scout for the railroad, Mr. Stokes chatted endlessly about his job. Dirt grayed his black wool suit and his cuffs and collar had long ago turned brown. Flecks of food still nested in his mustache and he smelled of sausages and sweat. When he was not snoring in his sleep, he was staring at her.

Abby scrambled off his lap and retreated to her corner of the coach. “Excuse me. I lost my balance.”

“Any time.” He tugged his vest down over his ample belly. “It’s beyond me why a woman of quality like yourself would be traveling alone in these parts. It’s rough county, miss, and no place for a woman.”

Abby had asked herself that same question a half-dozen times over the last couple of days. Living in her aunt and uncle’s San Francisco house, she felt her life had become an endless stream of work, but there she understood the predictable pattern. Here everything was unknown, including the man she’d intended to marry.

“I assure you, I am fine.”

Mr. Stokes shrugged. “If you insist.” Suddenly restless now, he banged on top of the carriage. “What is it this time, man?”

“A rider up ahead and a wagon with a broken wheel,” the driver shouted back.

Abby pushed back the carriage window drape and poked her head out to get a better look.

Twenty yards ahead, she saw an old man sitting on the side of the road next to a wagon. Two small young boys, their dirty faces peeking out from their floppy hats, squatted beside him, jabbing sticks in the mud. The wagon tilted to the right, the wheel burrowed deeply in the thick mud. The team of horses, two fine-looking chestnut mares, had been unhitched from the wagon and were grazing beside the road.

Her heart melted when she saw the two young boys. She raised her hand to wave when she spotted another man standing next to the wagon. Her appraisal took only seconds but it was enough to know the man was angry. The scowl on his rawboned face had her lowering her hand and retreating back a fraction.

The stranger glanced up toward the coach, his eyes narrowing. He started to walk toward them, moving with the grace and power of a wild animal. He was tall, with broad well-muscled shoulders that made her think of the bare-knuckled boxers she’d seen at a carnival years ago.

Utterly masculine. A hint of warmth had her blushing. Abby was surprised by her reaction. Passion was the last thing she needed or wanted.

Still, she looked deeper beneath his black Stetson and studied his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a piece of rawhide. His hair accentuated his chiseled features, and the uncompromising hardness of a jaw covered in dark stubble. His range coat flapped open as he moved, revealing muddied work pants and a dark blue shirt and scuffed boots that stretched to his knees.

Whoever this man was, he was dangerous.

Matthias Barrington was in a foul mood.

He nodded back to his father-in-law Frank and his sons. “I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on the boys. I need to talk to Holden.”

Frank stood, tapping his bony fingers against his thigh. “Looks like he’s got a woman aboard.”

“I don’t care.” He strode toward the stagecoach.

The day had started going sour from the minute he’d risen. Not only did his wagon have a broken wheel, but his father-in-law had announced this morning that he was leaving Crickhollow and heading back to Missouri. Matthias knew the old man wasn’t happy and that this past winter had been hard on him, but he’d thought Frank would stay at least the summer.

Without Frank to watch over the boys, he was in trouble. Matthias didn’t dare dwell on how far behind schedule he was already this early in the season.

Matthias glanced up toward the stagecoach driver, Holden McGowan, and extended his hand. He’d known Holden since Matthias and his late wife had arrived in the valley five years ago. The man always had a quick smile and a joke to share. But today when he looked at Matthias, his expression was tight, nervous even.

“Everything all right?” Matthias said.

Holden nodded, as if recovering from the shock of seeing him. “Right as rain. I just wasn’t expecting to see you here. Looks like you hit a bit of trouble, though.”

Frank came up behind Matthias. “Our wagon hit a rut and broke a wheel.”

Holden glanced quickly at Frank. “Shame.”

Matthias pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “You got room to take Frank and the children into town? I’ll fix the wagon and follow behind you in the next hour or two.”

Holden shifted in his seat. “Oh sure, will do.”

Matthias nodded. “Thanks.”

He glanced up and saw a woman staring at him. She had wide green eyes that testified to just how naive she was. Her cheeks turned pink when their gazes locked and she retreated back into the coach.

He swore under his breath.

Crickhollow was a barren, isolated town where few women ventured. If this Society Miss, with her wide-eyed expression, pale skin and fancy hat, had half a brain, she’d run from this wild territory, which chewed up nearly every woman that tried to call it home.

He strode back to the buckboard where his sons played. If Montana was going to be tamed, it needed women who knew how to work—not genteel ladies like Society Miss.

He glanced down at his boys, wondering what he was going to do with them now that Frank was leaving. At three and four, they were too young to leave alone at the cabin or take out on the range with him each day.

There was Mrs. Clements. She’d taken in the boys the first couple of weeks after Elise had died. He and Frank were so torn up with sorrow they weren’t able to properly care for the boys.

Mrs. Clements had done right by the boys but farming them out stuck in Matthias’s craw. He liked having his children close. But with so much work to be done he didn’t know what else to do.

When Matthias reached the wagon, his youngest, three-year-old Tommy, held out his hands and started to cry. Instinctively, he reached out and lifted the boy. The child laid his head on his father’s shoulder.

Tommy hated riding in wagons. They upset his stomach. Matthias glanced at his oldest boy’s dirty face. Four-year-old Quinn grinned up at him.

“Pa, do we get to ride in the coach?”

Matthias shoved out a sigh. “Sure do.”

Frank came up behind him. “We don’t mind waiting with you here while you fix the wagon.”

Matthias glared at Frank. “I’d rather the boys get into town so Mrs. Clements can give them a hot meal.”

“I got hard tack in the pack. We don’t mind helping you.”

“I want the boys in town by dark.”

“But…”

“No buts.” Irritation gave each word extra bite.

Frank’s sudden desire to stay behind puzzled him. The man was hell-bent on leaving, and Matthias had spent the better part of the morning arguing with Frank about his decision to leave. Later, pride had kept him from asking Frank to stay again, but seeing the boys now made him rethink a lot of things in his life. “Frank, any way you can postpone this trip East? Just a couple of months.”

Frank glanced toward the stagecoach. “Time I got on with my life.”

Matthias bit back the oath that sprang to mind. Frank’s leaving had put him in a predicament. “Get on the stage with the boys. When I’ve fixed the wheel, I’ll follow.”

Frank picked up his bag. “Sure.”

Matthias took Quinn in his arms. The boys clung to his neck as he walked the twenty yards to the stage.

He nodded to Holden. “Again, I’m obliged.”

“Think nothing of it.” Nervous, Holden tightened the reins around his gloved hand. “There’s only room enough for the boys inside. Frank, you’ll have to ride up top with me.”

Frank glanced toward the coach’s interior as if he were worried. “Fine.”

Matthias set Quinn down so that he could reach for the door handle. The boy fussed and clung to his leg. Inwardly Matthias sighed. The boys, who both shared their mother’s blond hair and deep blue eyes, had been clingy and restless since Elise had died last year. He’d hoped time would take care of that, but lately the boys seemed more fretful than ever. Last night they’d been so restless he’d pulled them in bed with him. That had been a mistake. Quinn had ended up sleeping sideways in the bed, poking him in the ribs with his feet most of the night. While Tommy had snored so loud that Matthias would have sworn he was sleeping with a three-hundred-pound cowhand.

With a boy in each arm, Matthias strode to the wagon door. Society Miss, with her perky nose and fussy clothes stared at him. He could only imagine her thoughts. He looked rougher than a dried prairie and the boys looked just as bad.

But as they got closer, she didn’t cower, but studied him with sharp intelligent eyes that didn’t seem to miss a detail.

Her gaze shifted to the boys, who he had to admit smelled bad. Miss Society’s eyes softened when she looked at Tommy and Quinn. She pitied them, he reckoned. They looked wild and untamed as if wolves had raised them.

Pride had him straightening his shoulders. Elise had always kept the boys scrubbed clean, but since she’d died he’d not had the time to fuss over them.

Guilt ate at his gut. Lately, he did everything half-ass. Even with Frank’s help there was never enough time to do anything right. Before Elise had gotten sick it had been a struggle to keep up, but lately he was fighting a losing battle.

If he hadn’t loved this land so much, he’d have left when Elise died. But with only three months before he owned his land free and clear, he hated to quit. If he could hold on, he’d have a legacy for his boys that they would be proud of.

Matthias reached for the stagecoach door handle.

Frank pushed past him and grabbed it first. “I’ll settle the boys inside. You get back to the wagon.”

Tommy started to fuss and cling to Matthias tighter. “I want Pa.”

Matthias held on to the boy. “I’ll settle the children.”

Matthias opened the door and was surprised to see that Society Miss was not alone. A large man wearing a dusty black suit glared at him. Society Miss’s wide-eyed expression had given him the impression that she wasn’t married. Of course, it only made sense that she was and that this man was likely her husband. Only a half-witted woman would travel to Montana alone.

More irritated than before, he met the man’s gaze. “My boys will be riding with you as far as Crickhollow.”

The man puffed out his chest and tugged his vest down.

“I paid for my seat,” the man said through tight lips. “And I’ve no intention of sharing it with a couple of dirty children.”

Matthias yearned to toss the man on the side of the road, but before he could respond, Society Miss scooted over in her seat to make more room.

“They may sit with me,” she said. “There’s plenty of room on my seat.”

Matthias lifted his gaze to the woman and for the first time looked past the yards of fabric and the netting of her hat that covered her face. Her hair was blond and it curled at the ends as if the stands strained against the pins that held it in a tight chignon.

Her face was all angles, plain by most standards, and nothing like Elise’s soft, round features. But Society Miss’s vivid green eyes brought an energy to her that made her anything but nondescript.

His gaze skimmed to her full lips. For just an instant, he wondered what they tasted like. His reaction was not only unexpected, but unwanted, as well. He chalked it up to too many lonely nights.

“I’m obliged, miss,” Matthias said.

“Abigail Smyth,” she supplied.

Suddenly, Holden coughed. “Best get a move on, I have a schedule to keep.”

Matthias’s eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare. Holden was right. Time was wasting.

He lifted Quinn and set him in the coach. The boy turned to him as if he’d bolt when Society Miss said softly, “I promise I don’t bite.”

The boy clung to his father.

“Let loose, boy,” Matthias said.

“I’ve a mirror in my reticule,” Society Miss offered. “Would you like to see it?”

Tommy never passed on a gadget. He turned and stared at her.

She reached in her purse and pulled out a small oval mirror in a mother-of-pearl case. The mirror reflected the afternoon light, creating a rainbow on the roof of the coach.

Tommy grinned, watching fascinated as the colors danced. Relaxing, he let loose of Matthias and climbed up on the seat next to the woman. Quinn, gaining strength from his brother’s bravery, leaned forward and held out his hands. Matthias lifted him into the coach.

The woman gave her mirror to Tommy and reached out and set him on the seat beside her.

“You’ll take care of my boys,” Matthias warned, his voice coated with steel.

Society Miss met his gaze. There was no hint of fear. “I shall take good care of them until you arrive in town.”

The faintest hint of her perfume teased his nose. Roses. It had been a long time since he’d smelled the scent of a woman. In the last twelve months since his wife’s death, he’d been too busy to miss the sensation of having a woman under him.

Now, he was acutely aware of how long it had been.

Matthias cleared his throat. “Their grandfather will ride on top. When they get to town, Frank will see that they get to the mercantile and a Mrs. Hilda Clements.”

“Of course,” Society Miss said.

For the first time in a good while, Matthias felt as if he was getting a lucky break. Tommy, the little one, nestled next to Society Miss, fascinated by the pearl buttons that trimmed her cuff.

Matthias turned, ready to tackle the wheel of his wagon. He’d taken only a step when he heard the retching sound. He whirled around in time to see Tommy throw up all over Society Miss.

Abby stared down at her now-wet lap as she heard Mr. Stokes shout several oaths. For a moment she thought she’d retch.

Mr. Stokes pressed a cloth to his face. He stood so quickly he bumped his head on top of the wagon. Stepping over her soiled skirt, he pushed past the stranger to get out of the carriage. “Good Lord, I’ll bet they have cholera or measles. I’ll be riding on the top.”

Abby didn’t have to look over at the boys’ father to know he was still there. His presence filled the silent carriage. The man’s fingers tightened on the coach door, and she half expected the brittle wood to crack in his powerful fist.

She looked into the watery, sad eyes of the boy beside her. A mixture of horror and fear straightened his tiny mouth into a grim line as his eyes wavered to his father and then back to her.

Despite Mr. Stokes’s declaration, she doubted the boy was ill. She’d heard children often got motion sickness when they rode in wagons. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

Managing her best smile, she chucked the boy under the chin and faced the man. To her surprise, the man wasn’t angry. Behind his frustration she saw sadness.

Lifting her skirt, she started to climb down.

The man instantly took her elbow.

She stared at his long tapered fingers, calloused by hard labor. His dark eyes cut into her and suddenly the idea of going anywhere with him unsettled.

“It’s all right,” she reassured the boy. “A damp cloth and it’ll be good as new.”

The stranger peered past her. “Tommy, you all right, son?”

Tommy shrugged. “I feel good now.”

The father shook his head. “That’s good. Can you sit tight for a minute with your brother while I clean up this lady?”

“Yes, Pa.”

“I’ll help her,” Frank, the old man, said from behind him. “I know you got that wagon wheel to fix.”

“Climb on up to your seat, Frank. I can handle it on my own.”

Frank exchanged glances with Holden then reluctantly climbed up top.

He took her hand in his. Through her crocheted black gloves she felt the heat and strength of his fingers. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks.

But the father was all business. Instead of cajoling, he tugged her forward and before she could react banded his long fingers around her narrow waist. Without a word, he lifted her out of the carriage and set her on the hard ground.

Abby stumbled back, shocked at her own reaction. “This really isn’t necessary.”

Still silent, he pulled a bandanna from his coat pocket and grabbed the hem of her skirt, lifting it so that her petticoats showed.

Abby searched for her voice as she yanked her skirt from his hand. “I am engaged to be married. This kind of interaction can’t be proper.” She’d not spoken of her engagement out loud before and it sounded strange, so unfamiliar as if she were talking about someone else.

“I don’t have time for niceties.” He brushed her hand away and finished cleaning the skirt.

The bite in the stranger’s tone rankled her nerves. “There’s no need to be rude,” she said, using the tone she reserved for difficult shopkeepers and surly chimney sweeps.

He looked at her as if she’d grown a third eye. “You want polite, then go back to wherever you came from. I don’t have time for it.”

“I shall tell my fiancé about this.”

He glanced up at Stokes, who still had a handkerchief pressed over his nose. “Your man doesn’t look willing to help you.”

Abby followed his angry gaze to Mr. Stokes. “Mr. Stokes is not my fiancé.”

A flicker of surprise flashed in the stranger’s eyes but was gone as quickly as it came.

Mr. Stokes shifted in his seat. “Lady, get in the carriage. I want to make town by nightfall.”

“Time is wasting, lady,” the coachman said.

Irritated, she snatched her skirt back and reached for the handle by the door with the other. Her shoe heel caught on the hem of her skirt and she cursed vanity for choosing to wear her gray Sunday best dress. At the time, she’d wanted to make a good impression on her husband-to-be. But the dress’s full skirts and high-heeled shoes, which were fine for church in the city, were completely impractical in Montana. Now she wished she’d remained in her simple calico with the streamlined skirt.

Strong hands again wrapped around her waist. Away from the stifling air of the coach, she caught a whiff of the stranger’s masculine scent. No coiling aftershaves or scented soaps like Mr. Stokes. His scent was purely masculine and not unpleasant, she realized.

This stranger had stirred more emotions and reactions in her in the last five minutes than the butcher had in a year. She couldn’t say if it were him or that all her senses had been heightened by her unknown future. She hoped her intended didn’t make her feel like this, too. She wanted safety and comfort, not passion.

He set her in the carriage and waited until she’d retaken her seat next to the boys. She could still feel his fingers on her as she straightened her skirts.

“Thank you for your help.”

“Ma’am.” He winked and smiled at the children. The smile vanished when he shifted his gaze to her. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll see you in town, Miss Smyth. Take good care of my boys.”

The softly spoken words were laced with warning. This man protected his own.

A shiver passed down her spin as she wondered what it felt like to be protected by this man. She swallowed amazed at the direction of her thoughts.

Oily peacocks like Mr. Stokes and hard, dangerous men like this stranger.

What was her new husband going to be like?

Chapter Three

T he tingling in Abby’s limbs quickly faded when she saw the two boys huddled together on the seat. Both looked pale, their lips drawn into tight lines.

Abby sat next to the boys. She placed her hand on the forehead of the little boy. “What’s your name?”

He sniffed, and then popped his thumb in his mouth.

She’d never been around children before. She had no younger brothers or sisters. Joanne, though she was three years younger, was twelve when Abby had moved in.

Of course, she’d seen children of all shapes and sizes in the park with their mothers or nannies, but she’d never actually had to deal with one.

“How does your stomach feel now?” She glanced down at her damp skirt. “Better, I hope.”

The little boys stared at her, silent. She waited an extra beat, expecting them to say something. Nothing.

She glanced down at the mirror Tommy held tightly in his dirty hands. “Want to make another rainbow?”

Again, nothing.

Hoping for a better response from the older one she smiled at him. His face was covered in dirt and he looked on the verge of tears. She remembered one of the mothers in a San Francisco park. She’d picked up her son and held him close when he was upset. That child had brightened up instantly.

She reached and picked the little boy up. Before she could lift him on her lap, he started kicking and screaming. She struggled to hold on to him, but he arched his back and started to swing his arms. One pudgy hand caught her in the eye.

Abby put the boy down instantly. The child scrambled back next to his brother and started to cry. She rubbed her injured eye.

Oh Lord, what was she going to do? She’d always assumed she’d be a natural with children. That they’d love her if she were only kind and loving in return.

But these children seemed to hate her.

Nothing Abby said or did would quiet them until the older one discovered that he could stand on one seat and jump to the other across the aisle. The smaller one’s eyes had immediately brightened, and he’d begun to copy his brother. Abby was so relieved that they’d stopped crying that she let them keep jumping. She’d never expected such a mindless pastime would keep boys busy for over an hour.

Finally, they settled on the other seat and lay their heads down. The younger smiled and laid his head against his brother’s shoulder. The older patted his brother gently on the leg and they fell asleep. She untied the curtains over the window, dimming the interior of the coach.

A meager ring of light around the edges of the worn fabric provided enough light for Abby to watch the boys. She couldn’t help but feel the tug of sadness. The older of the two, who couldn’t be four yet, had already learned that he must look after his younger brother. Too young, she thought to be so independent.

Abby had lost her parents at the age of fifteen to cholera. Their loss had slashed through her heart and for a time she’d thought she’d never be able to live without them. But in time, she’d learned to cherish the memories of her parents.

Her mother, Caroline, had been raised in privilege. She’d grown up attending balls and wearing silks. The expectation was that she’d marry into another well-connected family. Instead, she’d done the unpardonable. She’d fallen in love with a young vicar, Richard, who didn’t have two wooden nickels to his name, and she’d eloped with him. When her family discovered what she’d done, they’d cut her off completely.

So Abby hadn’t grown up with silks or fancy parties. Instead, she’d lived in a simple Arizona parsonage that ministered to miners, harlots and the poor. To her parents’ sorrow, her mother had never carried another baby to term. There’d never been much money, but she always had enough to eat and there’d always been plenty of laughter and music. Her father played the fiddle and her mother the piano. Many a night her parents would play while she sang.

Smiling at the memory, she studied the boys. They weren’t underfed. Despite the dirt and grime, they looked to be a healthy size. She’d doubted there was music in their house and she couldn’t imagine their father laughed often.

Abby let her head drop back against the wall behind her. The now steady rocking of the coach coupled with the silence had her eyes drifting closed. She released a small sigh and let her shoulders sag. Perhaps she could steal a few minutes of sleep. Just a few minutes.

The coach jerked to a stop.

Her eyes popped open immediately and the boys started awake. Tommy, confused about his surroundings, rolled off the seat and hit the floor with a thud. He started to cry.

Immediately, Abby picked him up. Tired and disoriented, the boy didn’t struggle with her this time. Instead he laid his head on her shoulder and popped his thumb into his mouth.

Quinn pushed himself up. His hair stuck straight up and a wrinkle in the cushion had creased the side of his face. He looked around and stuck his lip out.

Abby held her hand out to him and he scrambled off the seat and came to sit beside her. “You two just rest easy. The coach driver should be here to tell us where we are.”

Men’s voices drifted from above as she heard the driver set the brake. The coach shifted to the right and she heard booted feet hit the ground outside her door before it swung open.

“Welcome to Crickhollow!” Holden the driver said, sweeping his hand wide. His face was deeply tanned by the sun and his eyes were clear and bright.

A fresh batch of butterflies fluttered in Abby’s stomach. “Thank you.”

“Looks like you and the young ones fared pretty well,” said Holden.

Behind him stood the man she’d overheard the boys call Grandpa. “They look right at home in your arms.”

Quinn and Tommy both grinned when they saw their grandfather, but neither seemed in a hurry to move away from Abby.

A silent communication passed between Frank and Holden. Both grinned at her as if they were Cheshire cats.

“We did just fine,” Abby said sitting a little straighter. She righted her hat, which had slipped too low over her forehead. “I need to find Mrs. Hilda Clements. She is to board me until my fiancé arrives.”

Holden unhooked a small block of wood from the side of the carriage and placed it below the door. “Just step right on down, Miss Abigail, and stretch your legs. I know you got to be stiffer than wood after that ride.”

Frank leaned in and took the tired boys, while Abby unlocked her joints and rose in the coach, which was only tall enough for her to stand hunched over. Her knees groaned as she moved the few steps to the door. Holden took her hand as she gathered up her skirt and climbed down.

She longed to stretch her arms over her head and work the kinks from her body but realized that would have to wait until she reached Mrs. Clements’s house.

Mr. Stokes placed his bowler on his balding head. “Where can I find a place to get a drink?”

Holden nodded toward a small dugout. “That’s the saloon. Danny’s got good whiskey.”

“Excellent.” Scratching his chin, he moved slowly toward the saloon.

Abby looked out at the collection of buildings. Just over a half-dozen in all, they sat low to the ground, had pitched roofs and small doorways. Only the one had a window.

The first bubble of alarm rose before reason took over. She glanced from side to side, half expecting to see the rest of the town, where the real buildings were. But to her west there was nothing but the single dusty road that snaked toward the mountains. “This is Crickhollow?”

“Sure is,” Holden said, his pride clear. “I know with you coming from the city it may seem a bit small but we’re growing by leaps and bounds.”

Mr. Barrington’s letters had described a thriving town. A growing mercantile, a bustling stagecoach line and populated community. “Growing, did you say?”

“Population fifty-six if you count the homesteaders.” He laughed. “Fifty-seven now that you’re here.”

Despite the cool June air she could feel a trickle of sweat run down her back. She’d walked away from San Francisco right off the end of the earth.

Abby lifted her chin. She even managed a smile. “When will Mr. Barrington arrive?” she said. Her voice sounded surprisingly steady.

Again Holden and Frank exchanged glances.

Frank leaned down and whispered something to the boys, who took off running toward the one building with windows—the mercantile. “He’ll be here before the day’s out.”

“You know my fiancé?” she said.

Frank shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Everybody knows everybody in the valley.”

Just then a portly woman hurried out of the mercantile. She wore black and her graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Her white apron flapped in the breeze and she hurried across the dusty street toward them. “I was beginning to worry about you, Holden. You’re four hours late.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You name it and it went wrong today.”

“The boys okay?” Frank said.

The woman smiled. “I gave them each a piece of candy. They’re quite content.” The woman looked past him and the boys to Abigail. “Miss Smyth?”

“Yes,” Abby said hopefully.

“Welcome! We have been waiting for you.” She hurried forward and took Abby by the arm. “You must be exhausted. I’ve got cookies and tea for you and the boys. Holden, Frank, you want to join us?”

Holden raised up his hand. “I’ll pass for the moment. I’ve got to get the horses changed and get the stage unpacked and repacked. If I’m lucky, I can leave at first light.”

Frank’s eyes brightened. “Make sure you load my luggage.”

Surprised, Abby shifted her gaze to the old man. “You’re leaving town?”

“Time I got back east. I only came out here to care for the boys when my daughter became ill. Now that’s she’s passed there’s no need for me to stay.”

The boy’s didn’t have a mother. And their father didn’t have a wife. Of course his marital status was none of her business but that didn’t stop the ripple of emotion that tingled through her body.

With an effort she forced her mind back to what really mattered. “Who’s going to take care of the boys?” It was none of her business, of course, but Abby wanted to know they’d be cared for.

Mrs. Clements glared at Holden and Frank. “You didn’t tell her?”

Holden shoved his hands into his pockets. “I figured it was best the news came from another woman.”

“Is something wrong?” Abby said.

Mrs. Clements was the first to recover. “I just thought that these men would have seen to the introductions while you were out on the road.”

“There were no introductions,” Abby said.

“On the road, the man you met?” Mrs. Clements asked.

“Yes.”

Mrs. Clements glanced at the other men, her jaw jutting forward. Men. Without fanfare or nonsense, she said, “He is Matthias Barrington. He is your fiancé.”

Abby’s mind reeled. “He is my fiancé? He didn’t say a word to me, and I’m quite sure that I mentioned I was here to meet my intended.”

Mrs. Clements’s smile was quick and too bright. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, dear. He just had a lot on his mind. Everything will be fine as soon as he gets to town.”

It was just past nine the next morning when Matthias pulled his wagon to a stop in front of the Clements’s Mercantile. The night chill still clung to the air, and Matthias’s back and arms were stiff from sleeping on the ground.

He’d hoped to make town by last night, but the repairs, like most everything else lately, had taken much longer than he’d imagined. By the time he’d finished, the sun was setting on a moonless night. And unless he wanted to risk another broken wheel, his only choice was to bunk down. He knew Mrs. Clements and Frank would look after the boys, so there were no worries there.

Now, as he set the hand brake he realized just how weary he was. He would have traded his soul for a hot bath and eight solid hours of sleep but he had to talk with Frank. Somehow he had to find a way to get his father-in-law to stay another few months.

As he hopped down, he was struck that things weren’t as they should be. The wind blew as it always did, but Mr. Clements and Danny weren’t sitting out front of the saloon, as they were most mornings. And there was no sign of Holden’s coach.

Matthias’s gut clenched. Something was wrong. The boys.

He strode straight to Mrs. Clements’s store. A blast of warm air and the smell of bacon and biscuits greeted him as he stepped into the store. Children’s laughter drifted out from behind the army blanket that separated the shop from Mrs. Clements’s living space. The tightness around his heart eased. The boys were fine and for the first time in a good while, they sounded happy.

Suddenly, the memory of his late wife sliced through the fatigue and worry. Elise’s laugh had been clear and bright, like church bells. No matter how many worries he had, his mood had always lightened when she laughed.

Matthias shoved aside the thoughts that only made his days feel longer.

He pulled off his hat and started down the center aisle cut between rows of barrels filled with flour, sugar and dried beans. In front of him, a plywood counter was piled high with cans of peaches, a jug of white lightning, tin cups and a scale for measuring sugar and spices. From low-lying rafters hung buckets, baskets and three lanterns.

“Mrs. Clements?” Matthias called out.

The storekeeper emerged from the curtained door behind the counter, her blue calico dress and a white apron hugging her full hips. Her hair was piled high on her head in a loose topknot. “Ah, you finally made it. Frank was a little worried when you didn’t arrive by nightfall. I told him not to worry. Chores always take twice as long as we ever imagine plus you’re as tough as a mountain goat.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Mr. Clements was called out of town three days ago—delivery to Ephraim Collier’s ranch. And Mr. Stokes went with him so he could have a look at Collier’s stock.”

“Who is Stokes?”

“That greenhorn on the stage. Turns out he’s with the railroad, looking for ranchers to supply him with beef and horses.”

Matthias flexed his fingers, tight with tension. “Of all times to break a wagon wheel.”

Mrs. Clements’s eyes brightened as if she could read his mind. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back in early July. I told him your horse flesh was the finest in the valley.”

If he were going to show the man his stock, he’d have to spend the next month rounding them up. More work. And still not enough time.

“Thank you.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Where’s Frank?”

Her eyes dimmed a fraction. “Why, Frank left with Holden at first light on the stage. He’s on his way to Salt Lake.”

Shock and bitter disappointment tightened his throat. “I’d wanted to speak to him before he left.”

The anger in his voice had her smile fading a fraction. “He said you two had talked a good bit already.”

His fingers bit into the rim of his hat. They’d talked but to his way of thinking, they’d not come to a satisfactory conclusion. “Damnation.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Matthias shoved out a sigh, tamping down the anger coiling in his gut. Frank was gone and there was no sense worrying about what couldn’t be fixed. Time to cut his losses. “I’ve a list of supplies,” he said, his tone as matter-of-fact as he could manage.

“Of course. Holden brought in some fresh supplies. A few candies and couple of bolts of a nice thick wool.”

Matthias hoped by the end of the summer when he took his cattle and horses to the railhead there’d be money for a few extras but for now every cent counted. “Just the basics this trip.”

Again, children’s laughter drifted out from behind the curtain. He was surprised the boys hadn’t come running when he’d first spoken. Then he heard a woman’s soft voice speaking to them. This last year the boys gravitated toward women—a sure sign they missed their mother.

For just a moment, he imagined Elise holding the boys, singing to them as she did when they were real little.

But when the curtain opened, it wasn’t Elise but Society Miss who was staring at him.

Disappointment slashed at his heart.

He’d forgotten all about Society Miss.

He nodded his head. “Ma’am.”

She’d gotten rid of that awful hat and changed out of that fancy traveling dress into a simple calico. Her cheeks looked pinker, a sign that she’d picked up some sun yesterday. She’d also unpinned her hair and tied it back at the nape of her neck with a simple ribbon. Her hair was thick, lush and despite a slight curl nearly reached her narrow waist. He imagined it felt like silk.

The smell of roses drifted around him again. His gut tightened and he grew hard. His body was letting him know loud and clear that it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman.

“I’d like you to meet Miss Abigail Smyth from San Francisco,” Mrs. Clements said.

Miss Smyth nodded as a faint blush colored her cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to meet you formally, Mr. Barrington.”

“Ma’am.”

Miss Smyth smiled. “Things were rather hectic by the wagon yesterday. No time for formal introductions.”

“No, I suppose not.” As much as he liked her feminine scent, he was burning daylight. There was a lot of work to do before the sunset today. “Pleasure meeting you. Thank you for your help with the boys.”

“They’re good children.”

“Yes.”

She looked as if she wanted to say something else. Another time he would have indulged in the conversation. He liked the sound of her voice. But he turned away from her now. He had more important matters on his mind.

“Mrs. Clements, can I talk to you outside?”

Mrs. Clements glanced at Society Miss. “Here’s fine, Matthias.”

He didn’t like airing his business in front of strangers. “I need to talk to you about the boys.”

Mrs. Clements didn’t look interested in stepping outside. “Go ahead.”

“With Frank gone and all, I’m in a bind. I was hoping they could board with you for the summer.”

He heard Miss Smyth’s sharp intake of breath. No doubt, Miss Smyth thought him hardhearted for sending his children away. He couldn’t blame her.

Mrs. Clements’s smile faded to embarrassment. “Before we talk about that, there is another more pressing matter you and I need to discuss.”

“Is there a problem with those renegades again?” he said. So much anger and frustration bunched his muscles now he wouldn’t have minded a fight to work off the heat inside him.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. There’s a matter you and I need to discuss.”

Discuss. Hilda Clements could talk a man’s ears off if given half the chance. He decided to head her off. But before he could answer, Miss Smyth spoke.

“I thought caring for the boys was going to be my job.”

He swung his gaze to meet hers. He was certain that he’d heard wrong. “Ma’am?”

She held his gaze, though he sensed she was nervous. Still she pulled back her shoulders. “I mean, since I am going to be your wife, it only seems right that the children stay with us.”

For a moment, his head swam as if a prizefighter had landed a knockout punch. “My what?”

Mrs. Clements stepped forward, wearing a broad grin that hinted at trouble. “Miss Smyth is the bit of news I was referring to.”

Matthias’s head started to throb. The last thing he needed was a riddle. “What the devil are you talking about, Mrs. Clements?”

The older woman smoothed her hands over her white apron and cleared her throat. “We ordered you a wife. Miss Smyth is your fiancée.”

Chapter Four

“Y ou ordered a what?” Matthias shouted.

Abby started at the sound of Mr. Barrington’s bellow. His voice, rich and full of anger, hinted at a man who was used to giving orders, a man who didn’t like surprises.

She watched the color drain from Mr. Barrington’s face and his full lips flatten in a thin grim line.

He hadn’t been expecting her.

Of course, it all made sense now. On the road yesterday and moments ago when he’d arrived he’d acted as though she was a complete stranger to him. Which of course, she was. Why hadn’t Mrs. Clements told her the truth last night?

For a moment her knees nearly buckled. She’d come so far, and given up so much. For what? A lie. “Mrs. Clements, what do you mean, we ordered you a wife? Who is we?”

Mr. Barrington glared down at the older woman. The children’s voices drifted from behind the curtain. He lowered his voice. “Very good question.”

There was no hint of remorse in Mrs. Clements’s eyes. “Frank, Holden and I decided you needed a wife,” she said, her tone clipped and practical.

“Tell me this is a joke,” Mr. Barrington said, his voice laced with fury.

Abby closed her eyes, clinging to her composure. If this was a joke, she was the one who’d been fooled.

Mrs. Clements’s smile remained intact but her gaze reflected steel. “No mistake, Matthias. We put an ad in the San Francisco Morning Chronicle.”

“Was she in on this?” he asked, jabbing his thumb toward Abby.

Annoyance flickered in Abby. Her life was dissolving into a mess and Mr. Barrington was blaming her. “I can assure you, I had no idea. I believed your letter…the letters to be genuine and from you.” Abby pressed her hand to her unsettled stomach. Now she understood why Mrs. Clements had artfully dodged many of her questions last night.

Mr. Barrington’s gaze pinned her. “What letters?”

The heat in his blue eyes made Abby take a step back before she turned and went to her reticule. Frustrated by her cowardice, she pulled out a neat bundle of four letters tied together with a blue ribbon. Anger and frustration quickened her step. “Letters from you.”

He took the letters and thumbed through them, before he handed them back to her. His warm fingers brushed hers. There was nothing tender about his touch. Strictly matter-of-fact. “They are not from me.”

Abby lifted an eyebrow. It took everything in her not to run screaming from the room. “Yes, I surmised that much.”

Her sarcasm seemed to catch him by surprise. She imagined a glimmer of respect in his eyes.

“I wrote the letters,” Mrs. Clements said. “I acted on your behalf, Matthias.”

Mr. Barrington’s face looked as if it had been etched from granite. “Why would you stick your nose into my life? I did not ask you to do anything like that.” His voice rose again.

Mrs. Clements shrugged, but she did take a half step back. “You’ve done so much for everyone in the valley and you’ve been struggling so since Elise died. You are not the kind of man who asks for favors, so we took matters into our own hands.”

“Did anyone stop to think that I don’t want a wife?” he said tersely.

“In Montana one must be practical. It’s not always about what we want,” the older woman shot back.

Abby felt as insignificant and unwanted as she had in her uncle’s house. “Mr. Barrington, perhaps we need a moment to talk alone.”

Mr. Barrington speared her with a hard look. “Look, Miss…”

“Smyth,” she supplied.

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly tired and very frustrated. “We have nothing to discuss.”

Abby blinked at Mr. Barrington. “I beg to differ. There is a great deal to discuss, considering I just uprooted my life to be here.”

He was clearly a man who relished control. He worked his jaw and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling as if he were trying to keep his temper in check. “When will Holden be back, Mrs. Clements?” He fired the question like a bullet.

Mrs. Clements tucked her hands in the deep pockets of her apron. “He said he’d be gone at least a week.”

“If he’s smart he’ll stay away a hell of a lot longer. It’ll take longer than a week for my anger to cool on this one,” he said. “Damn his scrawny hide.”

Abby pinched the bridge of her nose. At this moment, she was sorely tempted to take the last three dollars she had and buy a stage ticket to anywhere. The unknown was far more appealing than Mr. Barrington at the moment. But like it or not, she was stuck. “Mr. Barrington, you and I really do need to discuss this matter.”

He swung his gaze to her. “Lady, you were brought here under false pretenses and for that I’m truly sorry. But I’m not marrying you.”

Pride had her lifting her chin a notch. “Nor was I expecting you to.”

“Good.” He stared at her with bone-jarring intensity. Never had a man looked at her so intently. A soft shiver danced down her spine.

“Matthias…Abby,” Mrs. Clements said sweetly. “I think you’re both being a bit hasty. Miss Abby is right. You need time alone to get to know each other.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Time is the one thing I don’t have, Mrs. Clements. I got two boys to raise and a ranch to run. I don’t have time to be a nursemaid, let alone court a city woman.”

Abby clenched her fists. “I am not helpless, Mr. Barrington.”

He let his gaze roam the length of her body. “Lady, you don’t know the first thing about life out here.”

“I’ve learned many skills in my life. Montana is no different than many of the other challenges I’ve faced.”

He lifted a gaze. “That so?”

“Absolutely,” she said all bravado as she stepped toward him. Inches away, the energy from his body radiated.

“So you know all there is to know about working back-breaking hours, milking cows, planting gardens, churning butter and chopping wood.”

In truth, she didn’t know a lot about those things. “I know about hard work.”

“That doesn’t cut it. And I don’t have the time to teach you.” He swung his dark gaze to Mrs. Clements, dismissing Abby completely. “Put Miss Smyth up and when Holden arrives she can catch the next stage home. I’ve got a ranch to tend.”

Abby grabbed his arm. The muscles tightened like steel. “You can’t dismiss me like this. I’ve come too far to turn back now.” He was her only real connection to this land—the man she’d thought she’d marry. And Uncle Stewart would never take her back a second time, nor would she ask him.

For a moment she imagined his eyes softened before a wall of ice descended over them. “I’d help you if I could, lady. But I can’t.”

The boys’ voices had grown silent. She imagined they were on the other side of the curtain listening to every word. She wondered how much of this they understood.

Mrs. Clements started to stack the can of peaches in a neat triangle. “Like it or not, Matthias,” she said, “you need a wife.”

“I had a wife,” he bit back.

“You loved Elise, but she’s dead and gone,” the older woman said softly. She jabbed her thumb toward the curtain behind her. Their laughter had stopped. “But those boys of yours need a mother. And you need a helpmate.”

“We’re surviving.”

“Not for long. You’re running out of choices,” Mrs. Clements said.

Sadness rose in Abby. This scene was nothing like what she’d pictured. If she had a lick of sense, she’d follow her first inclination.

But she didn’t.

Abby was through hiding in the kitchens and watching life pass her by. “Excuse me for saying this, Mr. Barrington, but you and the boys don’t look like you’re doing so well.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “How the hell would you know?” he roared.

Quinn and Tommy appeared at the curtain then. Their freshly scrubbed faces tight with worry, their gazes darted between their father and Abby. They were holding the rag balls she’d made for them last night. She’d never imagined a handful of rags could be so entertaining.

“Pa?” Quinn said. He ran to his father with his younger brother on his heels.

“It’s all right, son,” Mr. Barrington said. He stabbed his fingers through his hair. It was clear he hated seeing the worry in their young eyes. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

“Ball,” Tommy said.

Quinn held his up proudly. “Miss Abby made it.”

He brushed a lock of clean hair off Tommy’s face. “Who cleaned you up?”

“Miss Abby.”

Mr. Barrington’s gaze locked on her for an instant. Dark blue eyes reflected a mixture of gratitude, anger and frustration.

Abby looked past Mr. Barrington to Mrs. Clements. “Would you do us a small favor and take the boys outside? The boys can toss their new balls, while Mr. Barrington and I talk.”

Mrs. Clements hustled around the side of her counter. “That’s an excellent idea. You two just need time alone.” She took Tommy from Mr. Barrington and grasped Quinn’s little hand. “Come on boys, let’s play a game of toss with those fancy new toys of yours.”

Tommy started to whimper and reached out to his father. “No.”

Mrs. Clements kept moving toward the door. “I’ve a new horse you two boys haven’t seen yet.”

Tommy stopped whimpering immediately. “Horse.”

“That’s right,” she said as she opened the door. “I bought him off an Indian. He’s got white and brown spots.”

The door closed behind them. Abby could still hear Mrs. Clements’s cheery voice but it quickly faded until nothing remained but an uncomfortable silence.

Abby shifted her gaze from the door to Mr. Barrington. Dark circles smudged under his eyes and three or four days’ growth of beard covered his square jaw.

“I thank you for what you’ve done for my boys, but I don’t want a wife.”

She was used to not being wanted. But she understood her value. “But you need one.”

He shoved out a deep breath. “I’ll make it without one.”

“Pride is a wonderful thing, Mr. Barrington, but there is a time and place for it. Believe me, mine has taken a sore beating today. This is not how I pictured our first meeting.”

Frowning, he shoved his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry for that, Miss Smyth. If I’d known what Mrs. Clements and the others were up to, I’d have stopped it instantly. But that doesn’t change anything.”

She shrugged, trying to look casual when she felt anything but as she watched her dreams fall apart. “I have spent the last ten years swallowing my pride and doing what was practical. I’d leave now if I had any other options. I severed all my ties with my family to move out here. Going back is not a choice for me, even if I did have the money to finance the trip.”

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