His Mail-Order Bride

Charlotte couldn’t breathe. An alien tension tugged deep in her belly.

She’d hated it when Cousin Gareth touched her, but this was different. She fought the temptation to slide her fingers into the golden hair of Thomas Greenwood, so she could hear him make that sound of longing again.

The cart sank into a rut and bounced into sudden lurch that jolted them on the bench. Greenwood released his fingers from her wrist and turned to study the trail ahead, controlling the reins with both hands.

Charlotte gripped the edge of the wooden platform and clung on tight. As she slowly regained her mental balance, her imagination rushed ahead.

She saw the coming year unfold. They would forge a companionship, a life together, with shared domestic routines and moments of leisure. And, even though she had to find a way to keep Thomas from consummating the marriage, some level of intimacy might develop between them. And then, when it became safe for her to return to Merlin’s Leap, it would all come to an end.

A premonition added to her guilty conscience.

She would end up breaking Thomas Greenwood’s heart.

* * *

The journey over the rolling scrubland lulled Charlotte into a fatigue that bordered upon sleep. After those few tense moments of staring at each other, with the hot desert air between them sizzling with unspoken emotion, they had retreated behind neutral manners, conversing in awkward snatches.

Thomas Greenwood was what she’d heard the people on the train call a sodbuster. He grew wheat and corn and vegetables. Because of his isolated location, he didn’t get caught in the feuds that raged between cattlemen, who demanded open range, and farmers, who sought to fence their fields to protect their crops.

“It’s after the next turn,” he told her, pride evident in his tone.

Charlotte sat bolt upright on the hard bench and surveyed the hillside ahead. The trail snaked in twists and turns between clumps of cacti. Greenwood took a sharp turn left and urged the horse into a canter to clear the steep rise of the hill.

As they crested the ridge, a small fertile valley spread before them. Speechless, Charlotte stared at the creek that cut a sparkling ribbon through the middle. Beyond the tall trees that shimmered with silvery leaves, she caught sight of the blue glints of a lake.

“Water?” She turned to Thomas. “You live by a lake?”

“A reservoir.” A satisfied smile curved his lips. “The beavers built the dam. I merely improved their design.”

“Beavers?”

His smile broadened into a grin. “That’s right. But don’t get any ideas about a fur coat. They are my friends and neighbors.” He jumped down from the bench, circled the cart to her side and reached up with both arms.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Greenwood.”

Charlotte braced her hands on his shoulders as he lifted her down. Thomas set her on her feet, but instead of stepping away, he bent toward her. Pausing to snatch off his hat, he lowered his head and brushed a kiss on her lips.

It was over in a heartbeat, but the tingling sensation clung to Charlotte’s lips, even after Thomas had drawn back to his full height.

She’d never been kissed by a man before, and it seemed to her there should be more to it. She stole a glance at Thomas. He was scowling, as if something had annoyed him.

“I’ll show you the house,” he told her in a voice that sounded rough and impatient. With an abrupt turn on one worn boot heel, he strode away, across the small clearing and along the path between trees with their silvery leaves.

Charlotte hurried after him, her heart pounding. Why had he suddenly grown so terse? Had he felt the flatness of her belly when he lifted her down? Was he suspecting something?

Panic unfurled in her chest when she considered the hurdles she would have to navigate as part of her deception. She could do nothing but go on living as she had lived in the past ten days, since she fled out into the cold spring afternoon at Merlin’s Leap—by her wits, one minute at a time.

* * *

Thomas strode down the path to the front door, his boots thudding in an angry beat against the hard-baked earth. He needed to get ahold of himself. After just one tiny kiss, lust flamed like a brushfire through him, and it was scaring him witless.

He must let his bride get used to him first, to his strength and size, to his constant presence. The best strategy was to win her over gradually. Allowing greedy passions to rule his mind could ruin any hope of a happy marriage.

Thomas believed in creation. God had given men the capacity to enjoy the intimacy necessary for the survival of mankind and, being equitable in His creation, God must have given women the same capacity. But it was the man’s duty to make it so. Be gentle and patient. He would weave a web of temptation around his wife, until her own senses guided her into his arms.

Behind him came the rustle of light footsteps, and he knew she had hurried after him. Satisfied that he had his urges under control, Thomas turned to face his wife. She peered up at him, alarm stamped on her lovely features. He wanted to kick himself for having kissed her too soon. He lowered his voice, as if she were a frightened doe he sought to tame.

“Ready to take a look at the house?”

She nodded but did not speak.

He kept up a steady stream of talk as he climbed up the front steps, pushed the door open and waved her inside. “The house is built with split logs. I couldn’t dress the lumber properly on my own. You need two men to operate a whipsaw. I had plenty of timber, so I just sliced the logs down the middle.”

“You built this house yourself?”

“Every single groove and joint.”

He watched her as she surveyed the big central room. Light flooded in through the open doorway and from the wide window on the opposite wall. Slowly, she untied the laces of her green bonnet and removed it from her head. His stomach tightened at the way the slanting sun picked out coppery glints in her black hair and painted dappled shadows over her slim frame, as if nature itself wanted to touch her, just as badly as he did.

She drifted around the room, in front of the window, past the row of kitchen cabinets, to the long table flanked with two benches.

“If you don’t like the benches, I can make chairs,” Thomas told her.

She glanced at him, crossed the room to the pair of carved wooden love seats that faced each other in front of the massive stone chimney. She ran her fingers along the scalloped back of one of them.

“Did you make these?”

“Yes.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“The winter evenings offered me plenty.”

He wondered if she understood the skill that went into carving wood, or appreciated the financial outlay he’d incurred for the new cookstove. He’d ordered it all the way from Flagstaff, right after Miss Jackson had agreed to marry him if he sent the funds for her passage.

His bride gestured at the doors on either side of the fireplace. “What’s in there?”

“That’s the bedroom.” His body tightened as he strode across the floor and flung the door open. The wide room had windows on both sides. A tapestry depicting a winter woodland scene hung on the wall above the bedstead.

“Did you make the bed too?” she asked.

“Yes, and the pair of nightstands, and the blanket box, and the two chairs, and the chests of drawers beneath the windows. The bed is in the shape of a sled. Reminds me of the snow in Michigan.”

“Is that where you are from?”

He nodded, keeping his face empty of expression.

“Why did you leave?”