The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1) (3 page)

Becky soaked it in, willing her nerves away.

She was in the middle of all this beauty, surrounded by the best of nature’s glory. This place seemed an untamable land. It almost didn’t seem real, but then on the muddy ground near her, she saw a few hardy flowers peeking up between clumps of green grass. Their purple and yellow faces offered a cheerful welcome. The only real welcome she’d received to her new home.

As promised, Mr. Preston returned, and he escorted her to the Pearsons’ home, which, though modestly sized, spoke of money.

“Preston.” A tall, well-dressed gentleman answered the door.

“Mr. Pearson.” Mr. Preston cleared his throat, his eyes averted from Becky. “This is Miss Sullivan, the one I told you about.”

Mr. Pearson gave her a dismissive nod and immediately pulled Mr. Preston aside. The two of them held a private conference inside the foyer, while she stood like an awkward uninvited lump on the front porch. Finally, they nodded at each other and introduced her to Mrs. Pearson, a starchy-looking woman who immediately gave Becky the impression that she didn’t much appreciate having a house guest thrust upon her.

“Well, Miss Sullivan,” Mr. Preston said, “welcome to Seattle. The Pearsons will see to you now. I wish you much happiness.” Mr. Preston nodded as if this sealed the matter and quickly took his leave.

See to me?

What did that mean?

Becky stared after his departing figure, unable to shake off the feeling that she’d just been deserted.

Mrs. Pearson looked Becky over and compressed her lips. Her cheeks turned a purplish hue, like two indignant plums. “Well, Abe”—she turned to her husband, her fists planted against her hips—“this is a fine mess.”

As if Becky weren’t standing right there, hearing her every word.

She wished more than anything to disappear into the floorboards.

A fine mess?

Perhaps it was. She’d left her family, despite her mother’s pleas, and now she was putting the Pearsons out. Guilt hit her belly like a cold gulp of water, leaving her chilled.

Mr. Pearson pulled his wife aside. Becky couldn’t hear the hushed argument that followed between them, but the meaning was clear enough: she wasn’t wanted here, and Mrs. Pearson didn’t care if she knew it.

“Miss Sullivan”—Mr. Pearson turned to her, assessing her with cool, blue politician eyes—“I hope you find Seattle to your liking.” With a curt nod, he scooped up her bags and turned to carry them up the wide stairs.

He was leaving her alone with his wife?

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Pearson,” Becky called after him with a tiny frown. She swallowed and addressed the imposing woman before her. “I hope I’m not putting you out.” Her voice was hushed with worry.

She was beyond the point of weariness, her legs threatening to give way. She had traveled around the world, basically, and had no husband-to-be to show for it. Never had she felt so alone or out of place.

She only wanted to sleep. A bed, a pillow, cozy sheets. A floor under her that didn’t move.

Perhaps then she could think.

Perhaps then it wouldn’t feel as if her world had just toppled into the sea.

“My husband is sending a messenger up the mountain tomorrow to let your man know you’re here.” Mrs. Pearson’s unspoken words came across loudly enough:
And then we’ll be rid of you
.

Becky swallowed. So her day of reckoning was tomorrow then. Would Isaac Jessup step forward to claim her as his bride?

FOUR

“M
r. Jessup? I’ve got a message here for you from Mr. Pearson.”

At Isaac’s brisk nod, the gangly youth standing before him handed him a folded note and quickly stepped back, stroking the mane of his sandy mare.

The boy seemed winded as if the trek up the mountain from town had been a harrowing one for him. If his slightly awed glances at the dense green firs surrounding them were anything to go by, he hadn’t spent much time up here in the trees. Isaac sized him up and decided the boy was a little anxious about the sound of saws cutting through wood, as several of his men continued to work around them. That was good. It was good to be cautious where tree felling was concerned.

Isaac wondered if the boy was familiar enough with the forest not to get himself lost on his return trip, but then all he had to do was follow the stream down and eventually find his way.

He turned his attention to the note, curious as to why Mr. Pearson was sending him anything. He was an influential man, but the two had never met outside a town meeting or two, and even then the man hadn’t been particularly friendly.

Isaac read the note, then squinted and read it again.

His bride had arrived and was waiting for him at the Pearsons’?

His
bride
?

“Is this some sort of joke?” Isaac stared blankly at the messenger boy.

The youth gawked back at him with a nervous swallow. “No. No, sir!”

“Well, get along then.” Isaac pressed a coin into the messenger’s hand. The boy obviously didn’t know anything.

It was a mystery.

A mystery that could only lead to one person. His father. It had to be a joke. It sounded like something he’d come up with.

Pop would think this was hilarious. But why he’d gone to such lengths to set up a joke like this in the first place was another mystery. Pop didn’t much like going into town. Maybe he’d involved some of the men then, convinced them to help out. Even worse.

Isaac looked around, but none of his men seemed particularly interested in the messenger boy’s presence or Isaac’s reaction to the note.

He found his father uphill a ways, on the edge of their current swath. Isaac pulled him away from any prying eyes.

“What’s this about ‘a bride’ waiting for me?” Isaac cornered Pop with a tree at his back and nowhere else to go. He held the note out in front of his father’s face so he could read it.

Pop braced himself like a fortress against a siege, his face weathered with lines, tanned from years in the sun. He wore his long white hair gathered at the back of his neck and tied with a strip of leather, as usual. Same old Pop, but Isaac thought he caught a trace of guilt in his expression.

Pop’s eyes flicked over the note. He knew what it said.

Time for this joke to be over. It wasn’t funny at first, but maybe Isaac would be able to laugh about it later, say, over dinner.

“I thought it best.” Pop said.

Wait
.

“What?”

“It’s about time you married, Son. And the way things are going, you’re never going to.”

“You mean it’s not a joke?” Isaac felt the need to sit down.

“A joke? Why would it be a joke?”

That’s when it really hit Isaac. His father had sent for a bride for him. He’d actually done it. Hadn’t asked him. Hadn’t thought twice about it probably.

Unbelievable.

“Why, Pop? Why would you do such a thing?” Isaac felt a pulse beating extra hard at his temple.

“I did it for you—you need a wife.” Pop seemed to lose a bit of his bluster.

“I’m a grown man, Pop. I’m not a child.”

Somewhere down the mountain was some poor woman who thought she was about to get married to him. What had Pop been thinking? Did he actually think Isaac would just stand up with a stranger and exchange vows?

“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Pop said. “Why, that Preston man had a line of men just waiting to sign up for a woman from back East. I don’t know, maybe I got swept along...” His voice trailed off.

Back East
, Isaac registered that detail with a frown.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” he asked.

His father bowed his head with a look of disappointment, somehow managing to look old and withered, as only his father could. But Sam Jessup was a lively sixty-five, an American frontier original. He’d no doubt live into his nineties. Isaac sensed some of that steel come back in his father’s spine as he lifted his eyes and pinned Isaac in his gaze. His eyes were a steel-blue color, which seemed fitting.

“I know you weren’t expecting this, Son, but I’m asking you to give it a chance. I’m not a young man anymore.” His expression softened. “I want to see my grandchildren someday. I want to bounce them on my knee. Is that too much for an old man to ask? Won’t you at least meet the gal—give her a look-see?”

Pop sure had a way of pulling on the heartstrings. No mercy. And it was impossible to argue with him.
Meddling old man
, Isaac thought with equal amounts of frustration and affection.

“Aw, Pop.” Isaac would do anything for his father. His mother had died young, so Pop was his only family—and he’d given Isaac so much. But that did
not
give him the right to order him a bride. The last thing Isaac needed was some delicate,
Back East
woman. He was a man of simple needs, and all of them were focused on building his logging operation right now. He’d long since stifled any softer longings for a wife and family. His reasons were simple enough, which he’d already expressed a time or two. Why couldn’t Pop respect that? Why’d he have to keep treating Isaac like a boy in short pants who needed his nose wiped?

Surely he’d proved himself by now. Hadn’t he shown that he was a man who knew his own mind? His mind very clearly said having a woman around would mess up his logging operation. Why, it was still in its infancy. At this tender stage, the slightest disturbance could set off an avalanche of untold consequences.

A wife was definitely a disturbance, and slight didn’t even begin to describe it.

Isaac became aware of an audience forming behind them, as scores of his men hovered just inside hearing range. He turned on them with a scowl. “Get back to work! I’ll find you something to do if you feel you have enough time to stand around like a gaggle of geese.”

The loggers fell back and hurried off to where they should’ve been, felling trees.

Now, see
, Isaac thought,
it’s already happening.
I’m getting testy with the men
.

Wasn’t that a sure sign of “untold consequences”?

He turned back to his father with a sigh. “If I wanted a wife—and I don’t—I certainly wouldn’t have sent off for some citified, ‘Back East’ woman. Don’t you trust me? Don’t you think if I wanted to I could have picked a woman myself?”

His father arched a brow. His eyes were filled with a look of obvious challenge. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything.

“Forget it. I’ll go set things straight.” Isaac stalked off toward their cabin. He’d have to wash up, comb his hair, change his shirt, get the horse saddled...

Over the din of saws and cracking wood, he heard his father call out, “Hold on now. What does that mean—set things straight? Don’t go off and do something foolish.”

Isaac stifled a snort.
Don’t go off and do something foolish?
Pop had no right—no right at all—to talk about not acting foolish. A citified, Back East lady? What had Pop been thinking?

Trying to cool himself down, Isaac slowed to a deliberate stroll as he neared the cabin and took his own sweet time getting ready and saddling his great bay gelding. By the time he finally set out to meet the woman waiting for him, he had a speech in the making:

There’s been a mistake. I’m terribly sorry.

He continued to practice and refine his choice of words as his mount picked its way down the mountain path through the towering pines to the Pearsons’ place in town. But his speech froze in his throat like a lump of river ice when Mrs. Pearson presented him to a petite young woman and introduced her as “Miss Rebecca Sullivan.”

He removed his hat out of politeness and said, “Isaac Jessup.” But that was all he got out, for as he stared down at the young woman, he promptly lost his words. She was so...
tiny
. Her face seemed exceptionally smooth and pale to him, almost like she was a porcelain doll and not a real woman. Her hair was a nice reddish-gold color, he thought, except she had most of it scraped back into a rather severe schoolmarm’s bun. On any other woman, the style would have been downright unflattering, but on her...it wasn’t, maybe because a few strands had gotten loose and were curling softly against her cheeks. It made her look somehow softer, more delicate. He didn’t much care for that starched-up charcoal-gray dress she had on, or the overly wide skirt that seemed like it would get in the way of her doing just about anything, but he had to admit she looked pretty despite the awful color.

Every inch a proper young lady.

She stared up at him with a pair of soulful eyes—greenish-gray, maybe?—and it seemed to him her expression was one of vulnerable expectation.

She’s anxious. Afraid even.

Why wouldn’t she be? What did she know about him, a stranger?

Why had she come?

He tried to imagine what would prompt a woman to leave her home, travel all that distance, all to marry up with a man she’d never met. It didn’t seem quite—comprehensible. In fact it seemed a little desperate.