Bride By Arrangement. Karen Kirst
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Cowboy Creek, Kansas
June 1868
Noah Burgess wasn’t cut out to be sheriff. He’d worn the badge less than three days and had already failed the town he’d helped found. Seemed one simple task—rounding up the Murdoch brothers and their band of outlaws, men who’d managed to relieve the bank of its gold and end Sheriff Davis’s life—was beyond him.
Muscles stiff from long hours in the saddle, his shirt clinging to his sticky, sweat-slicked skin, he welcomed the sight of his homestead rising up from the sea of prairie grass. The steadfast sun painted everything in a butter-yellow haze. The one-and-a-half-story cabin wasn’t grand or vast like his friends’ houses. In fact, with its awkward roofline and porch awning dissecting the front facade, the home he’d designed and constructed was somewhat of an eyesore.
Unlike Daniel Gardner and Will Canfield, his best friends and cofounders of Cowboy Creek, he didn’t plan on taking a wife and filling his home with offspring. His cabin may not impress folks, but it was practical. Kept him warm during the brutal prairie winters and cool enough during the summer months. Kept the rain and snow out. What critters managed to breach its walls the cat took care of.
He’d done a better job with the barn. Granted, he’d gone a tad overboard. The structure was large enough to house five wagons abreast and ten deep. Straight ahead, stately cottonwoods lining the creek bank blocked the frequent breezes sweeping across the undulating plains. Above him, a hawk’s cry sliced the air, the bird’s broad wings outstretched as it dipped and peaked searching for a meal.
The tight ball of tension between his ribs unraveled as his sorrel horse, Samson, carried him closer. This slice of Kansas granted him sanctuary and tenuous peace after years of fighting on chaotic battlefields and months of inescapable suffering in filthy field hospitals.
Ranching was in his blood. Working the land and tending livestock came naturally. Running thieves and outlaws to ground? Not a profession he’d ever aspired to.
Noah was headed for the barn when he noticed the cabin’s front door ajar. Pulling up the reins, he slid out of the saddle and had his revolver unholstered by the time his boots hit the ground. His senses sharpened. The vegetable garden was undisturbed, and the fields dotted with shorthorn cattle revealed nothing unusual.
Multiple scenarios ran through his mind. Outlaws like the Murdochs wouldn’t think twice about helping themselves to others’ property. An unattended homestead presented the perfect pickings. Indians in these parts weren’t too pleased with the locals, either, the needless slaughter of buffalo solely for their hides provoking some to violence.
His ears strained for unfamiliar sounds.
Jerking down the loading lever, he fumbled in his tiny cap box for the percussion cap. When he had it in place, he gently replaced the hammer. He could get off one good shot. Weapon outstretched, he eased the door open inch by inch. Narrow steps ascended into the loft. Perfect place for a body to hide. He scanned the half wall’s top ledge. Farther in, the pie safe and hutch came into view, as did the Waterloo step-stove he’d ordered because it was the same kind his ma had used.
A chair creaked and Noah reacted.
He lunged into the room. “Make another move, and I’ll shoot you where you stand...” He trailed off, jaw sagging. Had he entered the wrong house?
“Don’t shoot! I can explain! I—I have a letter. From Will Canfield.” A petite dark-haired woman standing on the other side of his table lifted an envelope in silent entreaty. Her jewel-adorned fingers trembled. “Are you Noah Burgess?”
At the mention of his friend’s name, he slowly lowered his weapon. But his defensive instincts still surged through him. It was difficult to make sense of encountering a female in his home. Not an ordinary female, either. This one belonged on the finest streets of Paris, France or New York City. What she was doing in an isolated, male-dominated Kansas cow town he couldn’t fathom.
From the polished boot tips peeking beneath her bell-shaped skirts, to the orderly perfection of her hair swept up and off her neck, she oozed sophistication. Elegance. She may as well have stepped from the pages of a child’s fairy tale. He got an impression of creamy, rich fabric, dainty pink bows and skirts that formed a cascading cloud of perfect folds. A thin pink ribbon encircled her neck. Noah had no words for the hat atop her crown. Too small to provide shade, the ivory-colored contraption was drowning in pink and red bows.
She was dainty. Ethereal. And clearly lost.
When he didn’t speak, she gestured limply to the ornate leather trunks stacked on either side of his bedroom door. “Mr. Canfield was supposed to meet us at the station. His porter arrived in his stead... Simon was his name. He said something about a posse and outlaws.” A delicate shudder shook her frame. “He said you wouldn’t mind if we brought these inside. I do apologize for invading your home like this, but I had no idea when you would return, and it is June out there.”
Her gaze roamed his face, her light brown eyes widening ever so slightly as they encountered his scars. It was like this every time. He braced himself for the inevitable disgust. Pity. Revulsion. Told himself again it didn’t matter.
When her expression reflected nothing more than curiosity, irrational anger flooded him.
“What are you doing in my home?” he snapped. “How do you know Will?”
“I’m Constance Miller. I’m the bride Mr. Canfield sent for.”
“Will’s already got a wife.”
Pink kissed her cheekbones. “Not for him. For you.”
Shock nailed his boots to the floorboards. “Excuse me?”
“You are Mr. Burgess, are you not?”
She looked deliberately to the tintype photograph propped on the mantel. Three young, naive soldiers stood proudly in their freshly issued uniforms. He was in the middle, flanked on either side by men who had become like brothers, Daniel Gardner and Will Canfield. The same men who’d followed him out here as soon as the war ended. Men who’d pestered him to pitch in for the bride train and order one for himself.
His throat closed. They wouldn’t have.
“That’s my name,” he forced past stiff lips.
“I was summoned to Cowboy Creek to be your bride.” She was looking at him with encroaching desperation, silently imploring him to confirm her statement.
He closed his eyes and mentally pummeled his blockheaded friends. They’d stirred up a hornet’s nest with this one. How many times had he told them he wasn’t interested? Why couldn’t they accept he was resigned to a solitary life?
“Your friend didn’t tell you.” The dismay coloring her tone snapped his eyes open. A sharp crease brought her brows together.
“I’m afraid not.” Slipping off his worn Stetson, Noah hooked it on the chair and dipped his head toward the crumpled parchment. “May I?”
Miss Miller didn’t appear inclined to approach him, so he laid his gun on the mantel to unload later and crossed to the square table, keeping it as a barrier between them. He took the envelope she extended across to him and slipped the letter free, aware of an undertone of vanilla. Was it coming from her? He’d expected garish perfume, not sweet subtlety.
The words scrawled in neat, succinct rows were indeed Will’s. The handwriting was unmistakable. Heat climbed up his neck as he read the description of himself. His friend had embellished his finer traits while downplaying the disfigurement he’d earned during the battle of Little Round Top.
Tips of his ears burning, he stuffed it back inside and tossed it on the tabletop. “I’m afraid you’ve come all the way out here from...”
“Chicago.”
“Chicago.”