Unclaimed Bride. Lauri RobinsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
looked away. He must know there was more to her story, just as he’d known there were more details to her past than she’d shared last night. An ugly glob of regret settled in her stomach. Stella hadn’t been wanted by the law, that much was true. The girl couldn’t be more than a few years older than Angel. She’d stolen Ashton’s letter from a stack of others that had been delivered to Rosalie’s—the large home down the street from the New Street Boarding House where Constance had first purchased lodging. Later, when her funds had become depleted, she’d washed laundry for room and board.
Stella had said Rosalie had dozens of letters from men who’d paid her to post notices for them. Rosalie never posted the advertisements. Instead she sold the letters to girls who thought becoming a mail-order bride would be better than working in one of Rosalie’s second floor rooms. Constance had no doubt as to what went on in those upstairs bedrooms even before meeting Stella. The young girl had stolen the letter, thinking she might like to travel west, but upon reading Ashton’s description of Wyoming, changed her mind. Stella said she didn’t dare replace the opened letter, but wasn’t going to part with it free of charge, either.
Constance had read the description, and though it didn’t sound rosy, it did seem like a brighter future than washing sheets until her hands bled the rest of her life. She’d responded to the letter the morning after seeing Byron’s headstone. A gravesite didn’t completely convinced her he was dead, but it did make her believe the inheritance from her aunts was gone, and when she was told the authorities would soon be after her, she’d known she had to leave New York.
“Constance? Are you all right?”
The concern in Angel’s voice had Constance twirling around, and searching for an answer. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m just wondering what we should fix all those men for lunch.” Could it be true? That a woman could choose being a mail-order bride over jail? Maybe, but what if the crime was murder? Not that she’d murdered anyone. But if Byron really was dead, they’d have to blame someone.
“Well, you could turn the roast you have in the oven into stew. Stew goes a lot further and will warm them up at the same time.” Angel walked toward the pantry off the side of the kitchen. “I’ll peel potatoes.”
The girl’s common sense was astounding, and the way she flashed those big brown eyes had the ability to catch Constance’s heart off guard. “How did you get to be so wise?” She followed Angel into the pantry. Shelves went from the floor to the ceiling and held more provisions than Link’s store had back in Cottonwood—not to mention it was better organized.
Angel handed Constance a big pot. “I don’t know. Living out here maybe. But I think it’s just one of those things you either have or you don’t. Like good horse sense. Some folks know a good horse when they see it, others get swindled every time.” Angel gathered items as she talked, plopping potatoes, carrots and onions into the pot. “There are times when I see an injured animal, and I just keep riding. I know no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to help it. Not because of its kind or the size of their injury, but because of their will to let me help.”
There was truth in Angel’s unabashed philosophy. Sometimes a person just had to keep riding. Ignore what they’d seen, where they’d been. Focus on the here and now—like a house full of hungry people.
Constance set the kettle on the table. Angel was a lot like her father. That explained why they got along so well, and how they’d occasionally butt heads. Ellis not only loved his daughter, he respected her, and because of that others did, too. It was evident in how the men responded to Angel, both yesterday in town and today at the ranch.
“I saw it in you,” Angel said as they transferred the vegetables onto the table. “I knew you’d let me help.”
Constance caught the authenticity in Angel’s admission, and a tender wave of warmth, similar to how a morning fire warms a room, spiraled inside her chest. Moved by the genuine fondness blossoming inside her, Constance wrapped her arms around Angel’s shoulders. “Thank you. I appreciate your willingness to help me. And I treasure your friendship.”
Angel snuggled in for an extended hug. “I knew we’d be friends right off. We’ll forever be friends.”
Constance rested her chin atop Angel’s head. Though their age difference was great, she felt a kinship to the girl like no other she’d ever known. Something else wafted over her, a sense of protection. Of keeping Angel safe. Perhaps if she wrote a letter to the authorities in New York, not necessarily telling them where she was, but explaining everything to them—again. When she’d gone to them before, they’d said without a body there wasn’t a crime. This time she could tell them where Byron’s headstone was. Surely the undertaker could identify who was buried there. Her heart balled itself inside her throat. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea. That might be the proof they needed.
In the crowded front parlor across the hall, Ellis lowered Jeb’s darkening toes back into the tepid water. “They’ll be fine, Jeb. Sore for a while, but they didn’t freeze all the way through.”
“Thanks, Ellis. They sure do sting.” Jeb spoke through clenched teeth.
“I’m sure they do. It was foolish to leave town in the middle of a blizzard.” Ellis sat back on his haunches, and included all of the men in his gaze. His frustration at the disaster that could have been laced his voice as he spoke, “Why would any of you do such a thing? You all know better.”
Every man started talking at once, pointing fingers at each other and creating excuses. Ellis crossed his arms and waited for the commotion to die down. When it did, he pointed to Buford Homer, the one man he’d been shocked to see huddled beneath a quilt. The banker had more sense than the rest of the room put together—or should, leastwise. The man lowered his head, clearly unwilling to speak. Ellis turned instead to Fred Westmaster, the blacksmith, and maybe the second smartest man in the bunch.
“Well, Jeb there said the storm was lifting and that he was gonna ride out to talk to Ashton’s bride.” Fred glanced around. “Word got out. We all want a chance at asking for her considerations.”
“Are there any others?” Ellis hated the thought, but if there were, he’d have to see about finding them.
Fred shook his head. His cheeks, burned from the elements, were now redder than the man’s hair and beard. “No, not that I know of.”
The rest of the men shook their heads. “Well, gentlemen,” Ellis used the term lightly, “I’m afraid your trip was useless. Miss Jennings hasn’t decided if she’ll stay in the Territory.”
“Not stay?”
“Why not?”
“Says who?”
Ellis held up his hand, stopping the onslaught of questions. He’d dealt with men for years. They were by far easier to deal with than women. Not that he’d had much experience with women—but that’s what he’d always heard. Christine had been the only woman he’d ever dealt with, and her tender and kind heart had never been a challenge. Matter of fact, there were times he wished she’d have been less amicable; it would have better prepared him for raising Angel. His daughter definitely had a mind of her own. So did Constance, traveling all the way from New York City on little more than the promise of marriage. There was more to it than that, and his mind tumbled with what he should do about it.
“Whatcha mean, Ellis? Not staying?” Jeb asked. His young eyes looked as sad as his frostbit toes.
“She’s had a shock, fellas, in learning about Ashton’s death.” He seized all of their attention. “Miss Jennings needs time to catch her breath and then decide what to do. Running her down like a rabbit won’t speed up her decision-making.”
The room filled with low grumbles as his statement hit home.
“Sorry, Ellis,” Mr. Homer offered. “We should’ve thought before we acted. Now, it appears we’re indebted to you to let us stay until the weather breaks. I have no desire to venture back out in that storm, as I’m sure is the case with the rest of the men.”