Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1) (18 page)

Sarah looked sheepishly toward the dirty panes. With all her work, she’d forgotten to wipe them these last few days. “With the wind, it gets dirty so fast, and I just haven’t had time to—”

Martha held up a hand to hush her. “Please, do not apologize. I know what it’s like.” She picked up a wet cloth from the table, went outside and scrubbed off the dust. Welcome sunlight beamed into the house. “What you need is a little helper or two,” she said, returning. “Things will get easier when you have children old enough to take over some of your chores.”

Still thinking about Isabelle’s necklace beneath the bed, Sarah replied, “I’m sure you’re right. Why don’t we sit down?”

Martha sat and dug into her bag. “I have something for you. Howard returned from town this morning and it’s our habit to pick up the mail for the entire vicinity.” She pulled out a letter and handed it over.

A warning voice whispered in Sarah’s head as she reached for it. Who would write to her? No one knew she was here. There must be some mistake. But when she accepted the tattered envelope, she saw it was addressed to Sarah MacFarland. Her maiden name.

Cold fingers of fear slowly crept up her neck. She’d snuck away from her old life without even informing her employer. This letter could only be one person, determined enough to search for her, and find her.

She ran her finger over the tidy, familiar penmanship. All it said was, “Sarah MacFarland, Dodge City, Kansas.” How could she open this in front of Martha? What would she tell her?

Sarah walked toward the window, keeping her back to her neighbor, fighting the panic that took her breath. She hesitated, then gently tore open the seal and began to read.

My dearest Sarah,

I don’t know if you’ll ever receive this. All I know is that your ticket took you as far as Dodge City. The train master was kind enough to help me.

My heart forces me to write to you, regardless of where you may have traveled beyond Dodge. Why, my dear? Why did you leave? And why so far away? What are you hoping to find in such untried country? Who there could give you the things you deserve? Fine things, for a fine woman. That’s what you were meant for.

Please, love, come home to me. Couldn’t we put that misunderstanding behind us? I know you love me. You said so in your vows. And surely I don’t need to remind you what will happen if you’ve betrayed me. Come home, Sarah. Come home to me before I am forced to come there and fetch you.

Your truest love, Garrison

Numb with shock, Sarah folded the letter. She stared unblinking out the window at the frolicking children, hearing their muffled laughter, as if it came from a distant world.

A hand on her shoulder startled her.

“Sarah, my dear. Is it bad news?”

She was breaking out in a sweat. Her head was throbbing as she tried to find an answer to Martha’s question. “No, everything’s fine. I…I was just churning butter before you arrived, and I must have worked a little too hard. I feel a bit dizzy.”

Martha led her to a chair. “Perhaps you should sit.”

Sarah knew her friend was right. If she didn’t get off her feet, her knees might buckle and she might collapse to the floor. But when she sat down, the tension in her neck and shoulders failed to leave her. The pulsing of rushing blood continued to pound inside her ears.

“Is that better?” Martha asked.

Sarah could barely respond. She didn’t know what to do. Her hand trembled as she stuffed the letter back into the envelope. She wanted to burn it now, but she couldn’t. Not in front of Martha.

“Tell me, Sarah, what is it?”

“It’s nothing. Just a note from my old employer. It seems he wants me back.” She laughed nervously and slid the letter under the pot of flowers on the table.

“The patrons must have adored you.”

Feeling flustered, Sarah stood up again, but realized immediately that Martha noticed her sudden restlessness. Searching for something to do, Sarah stoked the stove.

“Do you need help?” Martha asked.

“No, I’m fine.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

While Sarah moved around the kitchen, she couldn’t help but sense that Martha knew something was wrong. After sitting in silence for a moment, Martha began to talk about the locusts. Sarah nodded and tried to respond accordingly, hoping she hadn’t driven a sharp wedge into this blossoming friendship.

Sarah finally served the coffee and sat down again, finding it difficult to ignore the letter that was screaming at her from under the flower pot.

She couldn’t let Briggs find out. She couldn’t drag him into this. He would try to do something about it, with no idea who he was up against. Garrison would kill him. She had to figure out a way to solve this problem on her own. In the meantime, she would simply have to burn that letter.

Chapter Seventeen

Holding the soft leather reins in his hands and resting his elbows on his knees, Briggs steered his creaky wagon into the yard. Behind him, he could hear Howard’s team rolling in, the horses nickering and jangling their harness as they came to a stop. With Howard’s help, Briggs had plowed more field than he’d expected. He decided just this once to quit early. Besides, Howard had brought his fiddle.

Mollie and Frank came darting out of the house, shouting, “They’re back! They’re back!”

“Hello there!” Briggs called out.

Little Mollie ran straight into her pa’s arms while Frank ran toward Briggs and grasped Gem’s bridle, eager as usual to help in some way.

“How about unhitching the team, Frank?” Briggs suggested.

As he hopped down from the wagon and landed with a thud in the dirt, he couldn’t mistake the pride and excitement in the young boy’s face.

Just then, the ladies’ melodic voices emerged from the house. He turned. Something happened inside him in that moment—a sudden burst of joy, an unexpected contentment.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Sarah, who bent forward to pick up little golden-haired Mollie, then approached him with the wee girl straddling her hips.

One day, Sarah would be the mother of his children. He wondered if that time would come sooner than he thought. He’d just have to wait and see….

“How was your day?” she asked.

“It was excellent.”

For some reason, she wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she watched Martha speak to Howard.

Briggs took Mollie into his arms. “What do we have here? A little mermaid?” Mollie giggled and planted a wet, smacking kiss on his cheek. “Why thank you, Miss Mollie,” he replied, chivalrously. “I was waiting for that.”

“You need to shave!” she blurted out, rubbing her tiny soft hand over his stubbly chin.

Martha marched over. “Mollie! You shouldn’t say such things!” Martha smiled playfully at Briggs as she took the child from his arms. “Hello, Briggy,” she greeted, touching her cheek to his. “It’s nice to see you. Did Sarah tell you we brought a letter?”

Briggs looked at Sarah. Her face went pale. “No, she didn’t. Not yet, I mean.”

“My old employer,” Sarah said, too quickly. “The restaurant is busy and….” She stopped talking and her smile quivered.

A sick feeling crept into Briggs’s gut. “He wrote to you?”

“Yes,” Martha answered for Sarah. “He wants her to come back to work, but we shouldn’t be surprised. Who
wouldn’t
want her back?”

Briggs barely heard what Martha was saying. All he could do was stare at Sarah, whose eyes were shifting about.

“Thank you for delivering the letter,” he said to Martha, never taking his eyes off his wife.

“My pleasure.” Martha stood with them for a moment, but when nothing was said, she smiled awkwardly and walked back to her husband.

Without looking Briggs in the eye, Sarah turned toward the house. “Coffee’s on if you all want to come inside.”

“Where do you want the horses?” Frank asked. “In the stalls or the pen?”

Briggs had to search his mind for an answer. “In the stalls.” The boy began leading them one at a time into the barn. When Briggs turned around, Sarah had already gone into the house.

He wanted to trust her about who had written the letter, but at the same time, he wanted to take a look at it for himself.

Martha hurried in behind Sarah. He supposed he would have to wait to ask.

He hated himself for assuming that Sarah was keeping something from him, but how could he help it? She’d been so vague about her past, and even now, she seemed nervous about something. He hoped the letter wasn’t from who he thought it was from.

* * *

With her heart racing like a runaway wagon, Sarah pulled open the door to the dugout and hurried down the steps. She fixed her gaze on the letter on the table. Was the stove still burning?

Just before she could reach for the envelope, the door squeaked open. Sarah whirled around, expecting to see Briggs, but it was Martha with Mollie in her arms. “Shall we set the table?” Martha asked.

Sarah tried to breathe normally. “I was just about to do that.”

Martha set Mollie down. “Why don’t you play with your doll? I have to help Mrs. Brigman.”

Sarah glanced at the letter. She had to hide it.

With the pretext of clearing away the flowers, she picked up the cup, set it on the window sill, and stuffed the letter into her pocket. First chance she got, she would toss it into the stove.

* * *

Briggs and Frank swung the barn door closed. They walked together to the little dugout, Shadow at their heels. Once inside, Briggs paused on the bottom step, inhaling the delectable scent of freshly baked bread mixed with coffee and spices.

Sarah stood at the stove stirring the supper in the cast-iron pot and humming quietly. He stared at the back of her head with its loose bun of raven-colored hair, and noticed his palms had become clammy. What if her lover had asked her to come back to him? How would she respond to that?

He cleared his throat and pulled his gaze away to see Howard lighting his pipe in the far corner. Mollie was sitting on the floor playing with a ragged doll. It was the scene of his dreams—a house full of loved ones.

Briggs took the last step down and tried not to think about the letter and what it might mean. It might not even be what he thought. Maybe the letter was as she had said—from her employer.

“Smells good.” He removed his hat and set it on the nail keg by the door. “What is it?”

“Rabbit stew,” Martha replied. “Howard caught it special for tonight.”

“Much obliged, Howard.”

Howard held his pipe in one hand, looping the other hand through a suspender. “Well, that fool rabbit leaped right in front of my wagon on the way back from town. Stopped and stared at me like he wanted to treat me to dinner.”

Everyone laughed. “Howard has always been rather lucky that way,” Martha said to Sarah. “Animals seem to fall over themselves trying to get in line to be his next meal.”

Sarah laughed, but Briggs noticed that the usual sparkle in her eye was missing.

Frank proceeded to tell every last yarn about his pa’s good fortune with a rifle, while the ladies served up the meal. They all ate the delicious stew, laughing and going on about Briggs’s comparatively poor luck when it came to hunting.

After supper, the ladies cleaned the kitchen, while Howard, Briggs, and Frank sat outside watching the sun streak the sky with pinks and purples. They listened to the clanging of dishes inside while talking about their plowing, and when the sky finally grew dark, they started a small fire in the center of the yard to warm their hands against the evening chill.

“What’s this?” Martha asked, appearing unexpectedly behind them. “We clean the dugout until it sparkles, and you want to sit out here with the snakes?”

Howard reached for his wife’s skirt and pulled her onto his lap. “I picked out a star for you, my dear. We’ve been waiting for you to come out, so we could show it to you.”

“No, we haven’t!” Frank broke in. “We were talking about butchering the pig!”

They all burst into a fit of laughter, except for Frank who didn’t see anything funny about it. The hysterics were just dying down when Sarah came out of the house holding Mollie’s hand. When she reached their little gathering, Briggs stood and offered his chair to her. She nodded politely and sat down, lifting Mollie onto her lap. Briggs sat on the ground beside her.

“How’s about some music?” Howard asked.

Frank sat up on his heels. “Yes, Pa! Play something good!”

Martha rose from her husband’s lap to let him stand, then took the chair for herself. “He’s been itching to play that thing ever since we got here.”

Frank fetched the fiddle from the case, handed it to his father who cupped it under his chin. “Any requests?”

“Play ‘Buffalo Gals!’” Frank hollered.

“‘Buffalo Gals’ it is.” He touched the bow to the strings and filled the night with music. The children leaped to their feet to dance, hooking arms and skipping in circles.

Briggs laughed as he watched their faces light up like a hundred candles burning at once. He glanced up at Sarah, wanting to be alone with her, to ask her about the letter. How could he enjoy all this when he needed to ease his mind?