His Mail-Order Bride

The man adjusted the collar of his white shirt beneath the black waistcoat and gave her a measuring look.

“You’re late,” he said. “You were expected a week ago.”

“I’m here now.” She approached the counter. “I was told someone would meet me here with instructions. I have a letter from Mr. Thomas Greenwood.”

“Greenwood’s gone.”

Charlotte lifted her chin. “When will he be back?”

The man studied her, a sly smile hovering around his mouth. “He’ll hurry back like a bullet from a rifle once he hears you’ve arrived. I’ll send a message out to him. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Charlotte exhaled a sigh of relief. “I’ll go and rest. If you could be so kind and send dinner up to my room as soon as possible.” She hesitated, decided to find out rather than live in hopeful ignorance. “Has Mr. Greenwood arranged to cover my expenses?”

“Yes.” The man swept her up and down with bold eyes. “He’ll pay, all right.”

“Good.” Despite the man’s intrusive inspection, Charlotte’s sagging spirits lifted. “Will there be hot water to wash in the room?”

The innkeeper reached behind him to take a key from a row of hooks on the wall. “Room Four. The last one at the end of the corridor.” He handed the key to her and gestured toward the staircase on the far side of the deserted lounge.

“And water?” she prompted.

“I’ll fetch a bucket of hot water for you.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte picked up her bag and set off up the stairs.

She had assumed that no one in Gold Crossing knew what Miss Jackson looked like, but she hadn’t been certain. Now relief eased her frayed nerves. She was going to get away with it. New name, new life, until she no longer needed to hide. If Cousin Gareth came after her, he would never find her now.

Charlotte slotted the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Despite the musty scent that greeted her, hope flooded through her as she stood on the threshold. A coverlet in white lace topped the big brass bed. On the floor, a patterned wool rug softened the timber boards. A solid oak armoire stood along the wall.

Not the luxury she had grown accustomed to in Merlin’s Leap, but a paradise compared to the days and nights of sleeping rough on trains and in railroad stations.

She was safe.

As long as she could keep up the pretense of being Miss Jackson.

Chapter Two (#u2a1a8879-ccb4-56e3-9e77-86425ba6b06e)

Thomas Greenwood drove his horse and cart across the plateau, impatience throbbing through his veins. She had arrived.

Last week, when Miss Jackson had failed to appear as arranged, bitterness and disappointment had blotted out his hopes for a better future. He’d assumed he’d been swindled by some unscrupulous female who had taken his money and cashed in the railroad ticket he’d sent for her.

But now she was here.

His jaw tingled from the close shave and his fingertips smarted where he had scrubbed out the dirt beneath his nails. The Sunday suit strained across his wide shoulders. Thomas sighed as he considered the six years of heavy toil that had hardened his muscles into coils of steel.

It would be different now.

A woman in his life. A soft voice to ring in his parlor, the pleasure of a willing companion in his bed. A loving heart to beat in harmony with his.

That was the most important requirement for Thomas.

A loving heart.

Someone who would see him as he was. Not just a giant of a man with big hands and feet, and a chest so wide he had to slip sideways through narrow doors, but a man with a gentle soul and a keen mind, even though he lacked formal education.

He had no wish for a beauty. A beautiful woman would put on airs and graces, expect to be waited upon. He needed a woman who could do her share of the chores. Of course, he’d be willing to pamper her, when it seemed fitting. He took pride in being a protector of the weak, but even a female needed to be competent.

That’s why he’d asked for a plain woman. And of all the plain women the 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.