His Mail-Order Bride. Tatiana March
Читать онлайн книгу.
agency had put forward to him, he’d chosen Miss Jackson, for she had the greatest reason to be grateful for a man’s protection. He hoped her situation might help her to accept the hardships that went with living on an isolated homestead.
When Thomas reached the cluster of buildings that formed Gold Crossing, he could barely summon up the patience to alight in an orderly manner from the cart and secure his horse. He thundered across the wooden sidewalk and burst in through the doors of the Imperial Hotel.
“Where is she?” he called out to Art Langley at the reception.
“Room Four.” Langley gave him a sly grin, jerked his thumb toward the staircase and resumed flicking over the playing cards lined up on the counter in front of him.
Thomas hesitated. It wasn’t proper for him to barge up into her room, but soon the right to see her even in the most private of circumstances would be his. What difference did a few hours make? Surely, Miss Jackson would not be offended if, in his eagerness to meet her, he brushed aside formal manners?
He set off up the stairs, the heels of his boots ringing with an urgency that matched the pounding of his heart. Room Four was at the end of the dimly lit corridor. He knocked on the door and snatched his hat down from his head, cursing the haste that had made him forget to stop in front of the mirror to tidy up his appearance.
He raised one hand to smooth down his unruly hair, as straight as straw and in the same golden color. Dust from the desert trail itched on his skin but he hoped the suntan from long days out in the fields would cover up any dirt on his face.
The key rattled in the lock. The door before him sprung open.
Thomas could only stare. Disbelief knocked the air out of his lungs.
In front of him stood a small woman, clad in a pale gray blouse and a frothing white skirt that looked more like a petticoat. Glossy black curls streamed down past her shoulders. Red lips, like strawberries ready for the picking, made a vivid contrast against the paleness of her skin.
“Miss Jackson?” he ventured.
“Yes?” She took a step away from him and measured him with a pair of wary hazel eyes.
Thomas felt his arm twitch as he fought the impulse to reach out and touch her, the way one might touch the petals on a bloom, or the carving of an angel in a church, or some other thing of beauty.
She was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. And she would be his wife. She would share his bed. At that last thought, an altogether more earthly sensation surged through the lower parts of him, as forceful as a kick from a stubborn mule.
But will she cook for you, clean for you, nurse you in sickness, tend to the chickens, help with the farm work? whispered a voice at the back of his mind, but Thomas refused to pay any attention to it.
“Have you been sent by Mr. Thomas Greenwood?” the woman asked as he simply stood there, observing her in stunned silence.
“I am Greenwood.”
Miss Jackson appeared to hesitate. Her gaze flickered down to her clothing, then back up to him. She whirled on her dainty feet and darted back into the room, where she tugged at the rumpled bedspread, as if to remove it from the bed. Then she gave up the effort, let out a small huff of frustration and hurried back to him.
“You may come inside, Mr. Greenwood. We shall conduct our meeting here. I shall leave the door open.” She stepped aside and waved him through. Crouching in a graceful motion, she picked up a wooden wedge provided for the purpose on the floor and jammed it beneath the door.
Thomas nodded his approval at the precaution to protect her reputation. It had been the right idea to send for a woman from the East, instead of seeking a saloon girl who might wish to turn her life around. He wanted an educated companion. Poetry instead of ditties. Shakespeare instead of rowdy tales.
“Perhaps you could tell me a little more about the employment,” Miss Jackson said. She was clasping her hands together in front of her. Thomas got the impression she did it to stop them from shaking. He hunched his shoulders, trying to appear smaller, in case it was his size that intimidated her.
“Employment. Is that how you think of it?” He pondered the idea. “I guess it’s not far wrong. You’ll certainly be busy with the chores. Cooking and cleaning and such. It’s not a big place. There are no hired hands, so it will be just the two of us, until the little one comes along.”
Thomas lowered his gaze to the frills on her white cotton skirt and frowned, puzzled by the slenderness of her waist. He let his attention drift back up to her face and saw her eyes snap wide. Her pale skin had turned chalky white.
“A wife,” she breathed. “You are expecting me to be your wife.”
A nagging doubt, like the persistent buzzing of a bee, broke out in Thomas’s head, but his overflowing emotions and his aroused body brushed aside all questions. In his pocket, the letter from the agency spoke of a plain woman, sturdy, well suited to life on an isolated farm. In front of him, a delicate beauty stared up at his face, confusion battling with terror in her huge hazel eyes.
Thomas nodded. “Wife. That’s what you’ve contracted for.”
“I...” She made a flicker of impatience with her hand, a totally feminine gesture that held Thomas enthralled. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding,” she informed him, her chin rising in a haughty angle. “Perhaps you might explain how I can extricate myself from this contract.”
Six lonely years of scrimping and saving to send for a woman of his own, six lonely years of building up the homestead, hacking out a living from soil never tilled before, working until his fingers bled and his muscles cramped with fatigue, crashed over Thomas like a spring flood.
He’d paid for a wife, and he’d have one. This particular one.
“I’ve paid two hundred dollars to bring you here,” he said in a voice that was low and tight. “If you wish to break the contract and marry someone else, I’ll have my money back.”
His hands clenched into fists. Thomas hid them behind his hat, but he knew his anger showed, on his face and in his rigid posture. From the woman’s terrified expression and from the strangled gasp that left her throat he understood how much his tightly controlled outburst must have frightened her.
“I’ll wait downstairs,” he said, trying to appear calm. “You have one hour to think it over. Either you’ll find a way to pay back the cost of your journey, or you’ll marry me, just as you’ve contracted.” Thomas turned to go but paused to glance back at her over his shoulder. “Wear something else for the wedding,” he told her. “That skirt looks like a petticoat.”
He shoved his hat on top of his head and strode off.
* * *
Charlotte stared at the empty doorway and listened to the clatter of footsteps as her visitor stomped away in anger. “It is a petticoat,” she whispered to herself.
In her anxiety she’d forgotten to pay attention to her clothing, and her state of undress had only dawned on her when she felt Mr. Greenwood’s intense gaze on her.
She’d considered covering up with the bedspread, but it occurred to her that an unmade bed might appear even worse. And the towel hanging from the bedpost had been too small to be of any use. So she had chosen to brazen it out. A lady did not draw attention to her faux pas.
Charlotte cast aside the lingering embarrassment over parading in front of the man in her undergarments and gave in to the panicked thoughts that crashed around in her head.
Miss Jackson was a mail-order bride.
She was a mail-order bride.
The image of Thomas Greenwood formed before her eyes. He was a giant of a man, taller even than Papa, and broad in the shoulder. The wide cheekbones gave him something of an Indian look, but he had fair hair and pale eyes. And in those pale eyes lurked the steely edge of an implacable will. Not even a storm would