The Unexpected Wife

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.
”

For Mike and Nancy,
the Montana cowboy and his Portuguese bride

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. Cle
ments 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.”

“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.

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.