The Unexpected Wife. Mary Burton
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,