His Mail-Order Bride. Tatiana March
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plain woman. The tintype photograph he carried in his coat pocket weighed on his mind. He’d taken the picture out for a good look while he drank his coffee in the lounge of the Imperial Hotel, waiting for his bride to come downstairs.
He’d turned the image this way and that, studying it close and squinting at it from afar, but however hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to reconcile the homely woman in the picture with the enchanting creature in a frothing white petticoat.
And what about the baby on the way? Even now, with the heavy wool skirts padding out her waist, his bride was slender, but Miss Jackson had to be with child. Why otherwise would a woman like her consent to marry a stranger? Without the disgrace of an unwed pregnancy she’d be fighting off suitors.
Thomas halted by the cart where the chestnut gelding whinnied and beat its hooves against the dusty ground, eager to start for home. He lifted his wife’s bag over the side of the cart and turned to her. “If you like, you can lie down on the wagon bed, instead of sitting up on the bench. I’ve made a bed with straw.”
She craned up on tiptoe to inspect the canvas-covered mound of straw in the roughly constructed wooden conveyance. “Why would I want to do that?” she asked, with a quick glance at him. “If I lie down I won’t be able to see where we are going.”
“I thought it might be better for the baby. Allow you to rest, instead of bouncing up and down on the hard bench.”
“The baby?”
“It’s all right,” Thomas said. Gingerly, he touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. The feel of her soft skin filled him with wonder. “I know you’re with child,” he said quietly. “The agency told me. I asked them not to put it in the marriage contract. I didn’t want any record that the baby isn’t mine, in case you didn’t want the child to know.”
He saw her eyes grow wide, and he noticed their exact color, a rich hazel that glowed like dark gold against the long lashes. She hesitated a moment, then spoke in a low voice. “Why would you be willing to marry a woman carrying another man’s child?”
Thomas turned to soothe the horse, which had grown nervous by the wait. What could he say? To save you from shame and destitution. To make sure this child does not have to grow up as I did, unwanted and unloved. He gritted his teeth and kept silent. Some things were too personal to reveal, too painful to discuss.
“Why did you pick me as your wife despite the child?” she pressed.
Thomas cleared his throat. “The child deserves a home. He’s done nothing wrong. You might have made a mistake, but I can’t see why you should spend the rest of your life paying for it, and the child should not pay for it at all.”
Thomas finished untying the horse and faced his wife. He wondered if his breath would ever stop catching in his throat when he looked at her. She stared up at him, an odd, stricken expression on her exquisite face. Regret rippled through Thomas at the thought that she might be comparing him with the man who had fathered her child.
“Let’s get going,” he said gruffly. “Do you want to sit on the bench, or lie down in the cart?”
“I’ll sit with you.” She eyed the high bench. “Provided I can find a way of getting up there.”
Thunderstruck, Thomas froze before her. His heart kicked into a gallop. He curled his hands around her narrow waist, wondering once again how she could remain so small with the baby growing inside her. Holding her carefully, the way one might handle a precious ornament, he lifted her up to the bench of the cart.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” he asked as he noticed the beads of perspiration glinting on her brow. She had strapped on a green bonnet, and the sunshine filtering through the fabric gave her pale complexion a sickly hue.
“I’m fine,” she replied with a strained smile.
For the first time, Thomas saw the dimples that decorated her cheeks. He could do nothing but stare. After a moment, he shook himself awake and climbed up beside her. Conscious of her pregnant state, he kept the horse to a slow walk.
As they left Gold Crossing behind and turned onto the desert trail, Thomas could feel his body tingling at her nearness. How had it happened? He had chosen a plain wife, abandoned by another man. But instead, he had gained a wife who could start a riot in any gathering of males, and the feelings she stirred up in him alarmed as much as fascinated him.
* * *
Charlotte bounced on the rattling bench. The sun beat down on her. Her skin itched inside the thick wool skirt. Dust clogged her nostrils. Her thoughts churned round and round in her head. Beside her, her husband sat in silence, controlling the cart horse with practiced ease. Every now and then, he slanted a hungry glance at her.
Each time, her breath stalled and her body tensed.
He thought she was with child.
Charlotte bit her lip as she recalled the lifeless body of poor Miss Jackson. If Thomas Greenwood had accepted the pregnancy, what had caused the young woman to sacrifice her life and that of her unborn child? Had she been unable to overcome the shame of being abandoned by the suitor who had ruined her? Or could it be that she had loved him so much that she could not tolerate the thought of becoming someone else’s wife?
With a sigh, Charlotte pushed Miss Jackson out of her thoughts. It was unlikely she would ever find out the answer, or hear anything of Miss Jackson again.
She slanted another look at Thomas Greenwood from the corner of her eye. He sat leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, dust painting streaks of brown on his black suit. A jolt of guilt struck her as she remembered the denim trousers and flannel shirts she’d seen most of the men in Gold Crossing wear.
Her husband had dressed up for her, had done his best to celebrate their wedding. Getting a wife must be important to him. When the time came for her to make her confession, she would explain, beg for his forgiveness. Perhaps he would understand. And she would offer him ample financial compensation for the inconvenience of having to find another wife.
“Did the agency tell you how far gone the baby is?” she asked.
Thomas arched his brows and cupped one hand behind his ear, to indicate he hadn’t been able to hear her words. She repeated her question, raising her voice to carry over the clatter of the horse’s hooves and the grinding of the wagon wheels.
“Five months,” he replied. “I’ve arranged to take a job at the copper mine in Jerome to earn enough to pay for the doctor when the baby is due in September.”
Five months. By the end of the summer, he’d expect her to waddle about. Experimentally, Charlotte puffed out her stomach, until her muscles strained against the waistband of her green wool skirt. It was no good. She couldn’t fake a belly ballooned in pregnancy, even if she gorged to gain weight.
And, judging by her husband’s comments about scraping the money together to cover the medical expenses of childbirth, overeating wouldn’t be a solution, even in the short term, for food would be too scarce. Charlotte gritted her teeth. She had a month. Two at best. Then she would have to either make her confession or escape.
The bouncing of the cart made her stomach twist with nausea. Charlotte swallowed hard to keep down the bile rising in her throat. If she retched up the remains of last night’s beef stew perhaps she should blame it on the plight of a pregnant woman instead of motion sickness.
“How long before we get there?” she asked.
They had been traveling at least an hour. After the first few miles, they’d left behind the sandy plateau and were now weaving between rolling hills covered with desert scrub. It seemed impossible fertile farmland could be located anywhere nearby.
Her husband turned to her, his gray eyes flickering over her with concern. “Are you all