Mail-Order Groom. Lisa Plumley
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She felt something clump beneath her searching fingers. Trembling, she pulled out a bundle of letters. Her letters. She recognized the handwriting, the postmark … the sappy sentiments she’d imprudently confessed to her fiancé.
Peering over her shoulder, Mose read aloud. “’My Dearest, Kindest, Most Longed-For Mr.—’”
Flushed, Savannah folded the single letter she’d perused.
“Why, Savannah. That’s very … impassioned of you.”
“Hush. I’m a romantic at heart, that’s all.”
“So.” Mose arched his brow. “Did you mean any of it?”
Hurt by his question, she gazed up at him. Her fingers tightened on the letters. She brought them to her heart, then raised the bundle to her nose. The papers and ink now smelled of fresh air and leather and damp wool. They smelled of him.
“I refuse to pretend for my whole life,” Savannah said. “That’s why we’re here. To have a life that’s real.”
“And yet you’re starting it with a lie.”
“Finding myself a mail-order groom isn’t a lie. We’re both here willingly. We’re both lonely, and we don’t want to be.”
Mose made a gruff, tentative gesture. “You’re … lonely?”
His tone of sadness wrenched her. Savannah wanted to save him from it … but she couldn’t. She couldn’t lie about this. She swallowed past a lump in her throat. Wordlessly she nodded.
“But if all goes well, I won’t be lonely for much longer. And neither will he.” In dawning wonder, she and Mose stared at the man in the bed. “It’s him, Mose!” She breathed in. “It’s really him. My new life is finally beginning.”
Chapter Three
Adam dreamed of baby-faced killers and swinging tree branches and a dark swirling pain that centered on his skull. Hot and restless, he thrashed on the fallen pine needles.
“Shh,” a woman said. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.” But he wasn’t. “Mariana!” he tried to say. “Mariana!” His voice emerged in a croak, hurting his throat. The forest moved around him, dark and light, always changing. He needed to find his partner. He needed to find out what Bedell and his brothers had done to her. Soon it would be too late.
Something touched his head. At the contact, Adam flinched. A shameful groan burst from his chest, making the pain worse.
“Just raise your head a little,” the woman urged. “Please.”
Wetness touched his lips. It tasted bitter. Adam screwed up his face. If Bedell wanted to poison him, he’d have to do it without his cooperation. Swearing, he smacked away the liquid.
Something clattered to the ground. It rolled and smashed.
“He’s still fitful,” the woman said. “All night he’s been—”
He didn’t catch whatever else she said. Her voice, low and cautious, wavered in and out of his hearing. Several of her words made no sense. Adam thought he heard his gelding nearby. The horse shook its traces with equine impatience—or maybe with prescient concern. Once he’d been rifle-shot in an ambush, and his horse had carried his limp body all the way to Mariana.
Mariana. He had to rescue her. He was running out of time.
He tried to call her name again. All that emerged was another groan. Soft hands touched his face, then moved lower.
The hands patted his chest. With effort, Adam opened his eyes. The world wavered, showing him a lopsided view of a blond-haired woman. He knew her. But he didn’t. He couldn’t remember.
Weakly he grabbed her wrist. “Mariana?” he mumbled.
“Yes, it’s me. Savannah.” She slipped from his hold, then set aside his hand with a soothing pat. “Just rest now.”
Adam frowned. She was treating him like a child. Annoyed and still hurting, he clenched his fingers. They encountered soft quilted fabric, a cushy mattress. Where the hell was he?
“You gave me quite a scare,” she said. “But you made it here, and you’re going to be fine. That’s all that matters.”
Savannah. Savannah. Drowsily Adam pondered the name.
His eyes drifted shut. Damnation. He forced them open.
Savannah’s concerned face swam above him. She smiled as she tucked a blanket snugly around him. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
He couldn’t be happy. There was something wrong with Mariana. Something awful … But he couldn’t remember what.
A heartbeat later, Adam crashed into the blackness again.
The next time Adam awakened, he opened his eyes on a cozy, dimly lit room. Frowning with concentration, he took stock of his surroundings. They were small and modest, framed by split-log walls and crammed with furnishings. A medicinal tang hung in the air, along with a flowery fragrance he couldn’t place.
Beneath him was an unfamiliar bed. Nearby, an old bureau hunkered with a lighted oil lamp atop it. To his left sat an empty ladder-back chair. Rhythmic tapping came from the next room. Adam recognized the sound as a telegraph machine in use.
He was inside the telegraph station. Hazily he remembered confronting Bedell. He remembered going down, remembered hitting the man, remembered his last words: You do have a weakness.
They made less sense to him now than they had then, but Adam didn’t have time to consider the matter further. He had to get to Mariana. He threw off the coverlet, then wrenched upward.
The motion sent searing pain through him. Gasping with it, he clutched his middle. Gingerly he spread his fingers apart.
Two bandages met his unsteady gaze. He blinked at them, then sucked in another breath. Next, he twisted to touch his back. More bandages had been wrapped near his shoulder blade. Tentatively he patted them. He was hurt. That didn’t mean he could stop moving. He had to find Mariana and save her.
Another agonizing movement brought him to his feet. Adam teetered, clenching his jaw. Pain throbbed through his head, making him dizzy. His ribs hurt; so did his shoulder. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him. He grabbed the chair. A few more raspy, painful breaths fortified him enough to go on.
The tapping of the telegraphy equipment ceased. He sent a cautious glance toward the other end of the station, straining to hear. All he sensed was the occasional rustle of papers. A distant chair scraped across the floor; a shadow moved across the wall. He wasn’t alone here. Propelled into motion by the realization, Adam sighted the latched door. He surged toward it.
An involuntary moan escaped him. Tightening his jaw, he made himself keep moving. His fingers scrabbled clumsily on the latch. Frustrated, he tried again. The door finally swung free, revealing the darkened woods surrounding the telegraph station.
Adam staggered outside, leaving his shirt and suit coat behind him. Warm nighttime air swirled over his exposed skin. Sweating and breathing heavily, he lurched across the station’s yard, looking for his horse. He hardly felt the stones and grass beneath his bare feet. All that mattered was finding Mariana.
“Whoa there, stranger!” someone called. “Hold up.”
At the sound of that deep male voice, Adam whipped his hand to his belt. His empty belt. His usual firepower wasn’t there.
Hell. In his muzzy-headed haste to leave, he’d forgotten to arm himself, he realized. Too late. Instinctively Adam flexed his knee, but his backup knife was gone, too. He was forced to stand on weakened legs, defenseless and light-headed, as a big, dark-skinned man tromped toward him with a handheld lantern.
“Let me help you.” The