The Other Bride. Lisa Bingham
the women to make the journey.”
She frowned. The gold would be on that train. She could feel it. Gabe Cutter, the trail boss for the Overland Settlers Organization, had decided at the last minute that the mail-order brides would not be allowed to accompany the rest of the group—and his arbitrary decision merely strengthened her suspicions.
Damn that man and his meddling. Since it would prove suspicious for her to travel on her own, she had agreed to pose as one of the brides so that she could journey West with her lover. She’d been left out of so many raids against the Overland Express that she didn’t want to miss this one as well.
Her gaze darted around the luxurious hotel suite with its hand-painted frescoes, gilt and antique furnishings.
She loved money and everything it could buy. By becoming this man’s mistress, she’d been showered with riches such as she had never imagined. But she feared that her lover was beginning to grow restless—not with her, but with the effort of stealing so many payroll shipments. He had decided that this would be his last raid.
She shivered, knowing that there was more to the enterprise than mere greed. This time, with an old enemy guarding the shipment, the plots had become personal.
Her lover meant to have revenge.
Which was also her greatest fear. If he managed to punish Gabriel Cutter and ruin the man’s reputation, she feared that her lover’s darker needs might be met…
And he would suddenly find her superfluous.
No. She wouldn’t let that happen.
Biting her lip, she reached for her own clothes, knowing that it was past time she returned to the boardinghouse. Once there, she would begin her role as a mail-order bride anxious to head West.
She could only pray that someone would find a way to get Gabriel Cutter to change his mind and allow the brides to travel with the train as originally promised. She wanted—no, she needed—to be there when all of their plans came to fruition. Then her lover would turn to her again, this time in exaltation.
Chapter Two
The moment the woman formerly known as Louisa Haversham debarked from the ship, she donned her new identity. Although she was a few inches taller than her former cabinmate, she wore Phoebe Gray’s clothes. She’d claimed the other woman’s more modest trunks as her own, and had even signed Phoebe’s name on the ship’s register.
I am Phoebe in word, deed and thought, she repeated over and over to herself. Now and forever.
Despite the serious nature of her transformation, “Phoebe’s” heart was light as she joined the throng of people at the quayside and arranged for the delivery of her belongings to a local boardinghouse. Once there, she would meet the other mail-order brides destined for the Oregon Territory. Tonight she would sleep in a real bed with real pillows, and tomorrow she would board the train for the West.
Her steps were almost jaunty as she wove through the throngs of passengers eager to make their way into New York proper. She paused only once to turn and wave to her friend and fellow conspirator.
“Louisa” returned the greeting, looking every bit “the lady” in her silk visiting gown and tiny bonnet, and Phoebe knew her friend’s eyes must be snapping with mischief.
In the short time they’d spent together, Louisa had grown to love Phoebe Gray and look upon her as an adopted sister. The woman was impulsive, witty and nearly as headstrong as Louisa. But where Louisa tended to defy authority and carry her grudges like a badge of honor, Phoebe hid her frustrations with laughter, an eccentric imagination and a tendency for retribution.
Physically, Phoebe was very nearly Louisa’s twin, and throughout their journey, the two women had often been mistaken as sisters. They were of the same age, slim, fashionably pale, their features regally exotic. Mere inches separated them in height. But while Louisa had curly red-gold hair and eyes that were more blue than gray, Phoebe had deep auburn tresses and eyes that were more gray than blue.
So alike.
And yet so different.
Phoebe smiled ruefully. Her father would be appalled if he could see her now—blithely throwing away her birthright without a second thought and allowing a stranger to take her place. She’d kept only a few reminders of her past—the indigo gown she’d worn the night before, two sets of delicate underthings and two pairs of shoes. The items were hidden deep in one of her trunks, along with a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present.
She grimaced. She doubted that the heavy piece had been a sentimental endowment. Instead, she was sure that the ring was meant to remind her of the name and title her father intended to pass on to her firstborn son. He would never discover that his daughter had abandoned his legacy until it was too late to rectify the mistake.
Pausing for a moment, she opened the catch to a carpetbag and withdrew the paper where she’d copied the boardinghouse’s address. There she would meet the eight mail-order brides who would make the journey by rail. Once in San Francisco, she would wed Neil Ballard—a simple farmer looking for a woman to take care of his house.
“Let go of me! Unhand me, I say!”
“Watch out, miss! Move over!”
At the sound of a scuffle behind her, Phoebe flattened herself against the wall. To her horror, she saw a grizzled old man being hustled down the street by a pair of uniformed policemen.
Phoebe recognized the old man instantly. Poor Mr. Potter. Halfway through the Atlantic crossing, the scruffy octogenarian had been discovered on board as a stowaway. Within minutes, he’d been locked in one of the lower cabins. He’d spent the remainder of the journey there or shackled in chains on the deck of the ship.
“Lass, lass!” the man shouted as he passed her. “Tell them I’m too old to be sent back to England. Help me, please! Don’t let them do this to me! I’m good for the fare!”
Startled, Phoebe found herself unable to say anything, so Potter turned his attention to the policemen on either side.
“If they’d only let me have a day or two, I could raise enough to pay for my passage. Tell them that, will you?”
But neither gentleman seemed inclined to listen. Instead, they bundled him into an enclosed wagon with iron bars over the windows. Phoebe could only wave to him as the team jolted into a quick walk and the vehicle lumbered away.
Inexplicably, the glow of the sun seemed slightly tarnished. What would become of Mr. Potter? He’d wanted to go West, and in that respect, Phoebe had felt a kinship with him. That was why she’d taken to sneaking him bits of food whenever she could.
“Out of the way, miss!”
She jumped, noting that she was about to be overrun by a pair of men attempting to load a heavy crate marked Farm Equipment onto a wagon. For a moment she stared at the men, noting the way their faces gleamed with perspiration and their bodies strained to lift the heavy box.
Eager to be on her way, Phoebe crossed the street, avoiding the foot traffic and buggies that tangled the thoroughfare. Although she would have enjoyed lingering on her journey to the hotel, time was of the essence. She needed to meet with the other mail-order brides and ensure that her trunks had been delivered. Then she would make a few purchases to augment those items from her friend’s wardrobe that had proved to be too small. She would need sensible shoes and hose, as well as needles, thread and other sewing supplies to alter the hems of those garments that were too short.
Phoebe hailed a hansom cab. Although she was “purse poor” and likely to remain so for some time, she decided that the extravagance would be worth the time saved.
Climbing into the cab, she clutched her carpetbag in her lap, straining to see as much as she could of the city through the narrow window. But even with the plethora of sights, she found her mind wandering back to the night