Weddings Under a Western Sky: The Hand-Me-Down BrideThe Bride Wore BritchesSomething Borrowed, Something True Read online

  The water was over the wheel hubs, but the spring-mounted bed of the buckboard wagon remained dry. Arabella thought of Grandma Peabody’s silk wedding dress. She had wrapped the precious garment in oilcloth, but little good that would do if the trunk slipped into the creek and washed away. She willed herself to focus on holding the horses. They were making slow but steady progress. Now, through the rainy darkness, she could make out a stand of willows on the far side. They were almost there.

  “Whoa!” McIntyre’s shout rang out above the rush of the current. Arabella jerked back on the reins, but not fast enough. As the wheels rolled forward, the rig sagged toward the right front corner and groaned to a halt.

  McIntyre was cursing. “Damned hole. We’re stuck.”

  “Can we get loose?”

  “Not likely. All we can do is try. Hold the horses steady.” He left his place at the head of the team and made his way around to the sagging side of the wagon. Taking the branch he’d used to test the creek bottom, he wedged it behind the stuck wheel. Keeping the reins taut, Arabella watched him.

  “As long as you’re using a lever, it would help to have a fulcrum,” she said.

  He glared up at her with murder in his eyes. “It would help to have a lot of things. But right now I’m up to my ass in muddy water and it’s all I can do to push on this damned wheel. So I’ll thank you to just keep your pretty mouth shut and do what I tell you. All right?”

  “All right,” Arabella snapped. She’d only meant to help. But clearly McIntyre wasn’t the sort to take advice from a mere woman.

  “When I push, you ease the team forward. But not too hard, mind you, or the wheel will break and spill everything overboard, including you. Understand?”

  “Go ahead. I’m ready.” She gripped the reins, pretending they were wrapped around his neck.

  He braced against the limb, water rippling around his lean hips. “Now!” he grunted, pushing with his full weight.

  Arabella flicked the reins, keeping them tight. The horses leaned forward in their traces, their massive shoulders bulging. The wagon creaked fearfully with the strain but the wheels didn’t move.

  “Whoa!” McIntyre straightened, breathing hard. “Give me a minute, and we’ll try it again.”

  Arabella risked a furtive look past her shoulder. He was soaked with muddy water, his denim work shirt clinging to his muscular frame. His hat was gone, his hair wet and flat against his head. His craggy features looked as if they’d been chiseled from living rock.

  McIntyre could never be called handsome. The raw, masculine aura that hung about him was more frightening than appealing. He was like an untamed beast. Yes, that was the word for him. Untamed.

  He took a deep breath. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” As he shoved his weight against the branch, she coaxed the team forward. The wagon strained and quivered like a living thing. Just when she thought it might shift free, Arabella heard a snap and a curse. She stopped the horses. McIntyre was standing next to the mired wheel, the broken branch in his hand.

  “That’s it,” he growled. “This damned rig’s not going anywhere till morning.”

  Her heart sank. “You mean we’re just going to sit here all night in the middle of the creek?”

  He tossed the broken branch into the flood. “Horses can’t stand in the water that long. I’ll have to unhitch them and lead them to the bank. We can ride the team the rest of the way home. At first light I’ll come back with some men and haul the rig out.”

  “Fine. But I can’t leave my trunk.”

  “Your blasted trunk weighs sixty pounds. I’ll get it tomorrow and drop it off for you.”

  “My grandmother’s wedding dress is in that trunk. I’m not leaving without it.”

  His eyes narrowed to wolfish slits. “Fine, woman. I’ll take the horses home and you can sit here all night with your trunk. If any Blackfeet come by you can pour them a cup of tea!”

  “Blackfeet?” Arabella’s heart lurched into her throat. “You mean Indians?”

  “They’ve been known to wander this way. Most likely they’d have enough sense to stay home on a night like this, but you never know…” Letting the words hang, he sloshed forward through the water and began unbuckling the first horse from the traces.

  Without a second glance at Arabella, he led the horse to the far bank, tied it in the willows and started back. The current was strong enough to carry a man away. Without support, it was all McIntyre could do to keep his footing. Watching him struggle, Arabella knew she’d never make it to shore without his help.

  Would he really leave her? She wouldn’t put it past him. McIntyre was, without doubt, the most exasperating man she’d ever met. But he was right about one thing—there was no way to get her heavy trunk ashore or carry it on a horse. For now, it would have to stay on the wagon. The only question was whether or not she would stay with it.

  What if the flood rose and swept the trunk into the water; or what if someone came by and took it? She couldn’t imagine what an Indian would do with Grandma Peabody’s wedding gown, but the thought did give her a sudden idea.

  Looping the reins over the seat, she scrambled into the back of the wagon, found the trunk under the canvas and opened it with the key she wore on a ribbon around her neck. Rummaging through the tightly packed layers of clothing, she lifted out the precious bundle—the one thing in the trunk that couldn’t be replaced.

  “Change your mind?” McIntyre had made it back to the wagon and had started unbuckling the second horse.

  “You knew I would! Indians, indeed! Why not man-eating tigers?” Arabella locked the trunk and shoved it back under the sheltering canvas. “My grandmother’s wedding dress is coming with me. Rain or shine, I mean to be married in it!”

  She’d expected a sharp retort, but McIntyre had turned away. He didn’t look up until she’d returned to the front of the wagon. “I’ll have to carry you to the horse.” He moved to stand below her. “Let’s go.”

  Arabella stood on the edge of the wagon, clutching her precious bundle. Seized by hesitation, she stared down at the rushing water.

  “Stop wasting time. I’ll catch you. Trust me.”

  Trust was the last thing Arabella felt. Few things, she suspected, would give the man more pleasure than dropping her in the creek. But she had little choice. Gulping back her fear, she leaned over the water and willed herself to let go.

  He caught her handily, one arm supporting her back, the other cradling her legs. Through his wet clothes, his chest was as solid as a granite wall. She could feel the strong, steady pulsing of his heart.

  Gazing up at his face she noticed, for the first time, a slashing white scar running from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. Had he been in the war—or maybe fought

  Indians? He was an intriguing man, and she couldn’t deny the curiosity she felt. But something told her he wouldn’t welcome personal questions.

  McIntyre held her as if she were covered in poison ivy. Arabella could sense the resistance in him. He strode toward the horse, pushing through the current as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Clearly she made him uncomfortable. But why? What had she ever done to him? Maybe he had something against women—or against redheads.

  The second horse was still harnessed to the wagon. Clutching the bundled wedding dress, Arabella clambered from

  McIntyre’s arms onto its back. She’d never ridden astride, but this was no time to be fussy. Rucking her skirts above her knees, she straddled the slippery barrel of its body. Her free hand kept a death grip on the harness. All she wanted was to be on solid ground again.

  “Hang on.” McIntyre climbed back into the wagon. He found his sheepskin coat, rolled it tightly and slung it over his shoulder. Then he reached under the bench and lifted a rifle from its hiding place. Maybe he hadn’t been fooling about Indians af
ter all.

  He was still in the wagon when it happened. A twisted piece of broken limb came washing down the flooded creek. The limb wasn’t large enough to do much damage, but it was headed straight toward the horse.

  The nervous animal screamed and bucked. Grabbing the harness with both hands, Arabella managed to stay mounted, but her precious bundle flew out of her grasp and into the fast-flowing water.

  “No!” Ignoring safety and common sense, she flung herself off the horse and into the flood after it. Here at the ford, the water wasn’t much higher than her waist, but the current was rough and shockingly cold. A dozen yards ahead she could see the yellow oilcloth bundle, bobbing along the stream.

  McIntyre was shouting at her, probably swearing a blue streak. Ignoring him, she plunged after her treasure. Not far ahead, a dead alder had washed free of the bank and fallen across the stream. The current had formed an eddy there. She caught glimpses of the bundle as it swirled round and round. Could she reach it before the eddy pulled it under?

  She pushed ahead. The water was deeper here, almost up to her armpits. Arabella was no swimmer, but as long as her feet could touch bottom she felt safe enough; and she had almost reached the eddy. The bundle was circling toward her now. She lunged for it. Her fingers touched the slippery oilcloth. Another lunge and she had it. She clasped it close to her chest.

  Only then did she realize her feet could no longer feel bottom. She’d been swept into the eddy’s powerful current. It was pulling her down. She groped for the fallen tree with her free hand. The twig she managed to catch snapped off in her fingers.

  “Help!” she shouted, but her cry was lost in the muddy water that filled her mouth and blinded her eyes. Her feet thrashed helplessly. She was drowning. This was the end.

  Strong arms jerked her out of the current. Her head broke water. She gulped life-giving air.

  McIntyre’s arm was hooked around her waist. He didn’t speak, but she could feel the anger in his taut body as he dragged her back upstream, toward the bank. Incredibly her grandmother’s wedding dress was still clasped tightly under her arm. She had saved it after all.

  He hauled her ashore and dropped her, none too gently, on the wet grass. From under his dark brows, his deep-set eyes blazed lightning fury. “Not a word, woman!” he snapped. “Not till I get you to where you’re going!” He swung back toward the creek where the second horse waited, still harnessed to the wagon. At the water’s edge he paused and turned. His expression made Arabella shrivel.

  “Damn that wedding dress!” he growled. “I should’ve let you drown for it!”

  * * *

  By the time they were underway again, the rain had let up. Wrapped in her dripping cloak, Arabella clung to the harness in shivering silence. The horse’s broad frame stretched her thighs and chafed her legs to the point of misery. She’d be doing well to get out of bed tomorrow.

  McIntyre rode beside her. He’d lost his coat in the plunge to rescue her, but he’d saved the rifle. It lay across his knees, ready if needed. For all Arabella knew, he was thinking of shooting her with it.

  She couldn’t blame the man for being annoyed. If not for her, he could’ve left town ahead of the storm and crossed the creek before the bridge washed out. If she hadn’t insisted on fording the creek, the wagon wouldn’t have become stuck, and she wouldn’t have risked drowning to save her grandmother’s wedding dress.

  Any man short of sainthood would have been angry. But McIntyre’s resentment appeared to go deeper. It was almost as if he’d hated her on sight.

  Could he have something against Charles? But if that were so, why had he agreed to pick her up in town?

  Never mind the questions, Arabella told herself. When she was safe with Charles, the answers would be made clear enough. She could wait that long.

  The moon had come out, painting the rain-washed

  prairie with silver. It was eerily beautiful. But the most beautiful sight of all was the distant barn, surrounded by sheds and corrals and, on a little knoll, a two-level white frame house with a broad porch, commanding a view of the countryside.

  Her heart skipped as they rode closer. She clutched the bundled wedding gown against her chest. The place was just as Charles had described it in his letters. At last she was home.

  The hour was late, but lamps lit the porch and the curtained front window. McIntyre stopped the horses at the gate, where a walkway led up to the front steps. Dismounting, he came around to help Arabella to the ground. She was so chilled and sore she could barely stand, but he made no move to assist her the rest of the way to the house.

  She did owe him, at least, a token of politeness. “You’re welcome to come in,” she said. “There’s bound to be something to eat, and I’m sure Charles will want to thank you for bringing me home.”

  He stepped back. For a moment his gaze held hers. In his shadowed eyes she glimpsed impatience, frustration and something else—something unreadable. With a shake of his head, he turned back to the horses, mounted and rode off into the night.

  “Arabella!” The front door had opened. Charles stood in the rectangle of light that spilled onto the porch. He hurried down the walk. Numb-footed she stumbled toward him and fell into his arms. For a moment he held her close, then shifted her away, so he could look at her.

  “My word, Arabella, what happened?” he gasped. “We were worried about you.”

  “It’s a very long story. Get me warm and I’ll tell you.” She leaned on him going up the walk. It struck her as odd that he hadn’t kissed her, but she could hardly blame him. She must look a fright.

  Another figure had appeared in the doorway. Half silhouetted by the lamplight was a tall young woman wearing a man’s robe over her nightgown. As she stepped out onto the porch, the light revealed a fresh, pretty face and flaxen braids that hung over her ample breasts.

  How thoughtful of Charles, Arabella thought, to hire a female near her own age to be her maid and companion. She mustn’t forget to thank him.

  Charles paused for a moment, nervously licking his lips. “I sent you a letter,” he said. “But I couldn’t be sure it would arrive in time to keep you in Boston. That’s why I asked

  McIntyre to wait till the stage showed up.”

  She stared up at him. “A letter? To keep me in Boston after you sent me the stage ticket to come here? Why, Charles, what on earth are you talking about?”

  The young blonde woman had come down the steps to stand beside him. She smiled timidly. Charles cleared his throat. “Arabella, dearest,” he said, “this is Sally—my wife.”

  Chapter Two

  It was as if the earth had turned to quicksand under Arabella’s feet. She stared at the woman who’d stolen her rightful future—her husband, her unborn children and her home. Her eyes took in the sweetly wholesome face, the flaxen hair and the figure that tapered from voluptuous bosom to…

  Oh, merciful heaven…

  Sally’s robe was tied several inches above her waist. Below the knot, the bulge of her pregnant belly was slight but unmistakable.

  It was too much. Chilled, exhausted and shocked beyond her capacity to cope, Arabella felt her world crumbling like a plaster wall in an earthquake. She wanted to run back outside, track down McIntyre and demand that he take her…somewhere. Anywhere but here. And yet when she tried to turn away, her legs refused to cooperate. Sally’s face blurred before her eyes. Charles’s hands reached out to steady her as she reeled. Then her legs buckled beneath her, and everything went black.

  * * *

  McIntyre stabled the horses, fed them some hay and toweled their wet coats before leaving the barn and stumbling up the steps of his rambling log and stone house. He felt like the raw edge of hell; but he’d be lucky to get much sleep before dawn, when he’d have to round up some help and go after the mired buckboard.

  Blast the
woman! Why couldn’t she have gotten Charlie Middleton’s damned letter and stayed in Boston where she belonged? He’d known how things stood when he’d picked her up in town. But it hadn’t been his place to tell her. That, as he’d made clear, was Middleton’s job.

  He’d been hard on her, letting her wait in the rain, then telling her that story about the royal flush. When the stage pulled in, he’d been settling a quarrel between two friends. He could’ve dropped everything and rushed outside. But his friends had needed him. And given what he knew, he’d been none too eager to face Charlie Middleton’s jilted fiancée.

  By now Arabella would have learned the truth about the man she’d loved and trusted. McIntyre could imagine how she’d take the news after coming all this way. It might have been kinder to tell her in town. But then what? She’d have been stuck in the rain in Buffalo Bend with no place to stay and no easy way to leave. For all he knew, she might’ve tried to jump out of the wagon and drown herself.

  Hellfire, she’d nearly done just that, going after her damnfool wedding dress in the flood. The woman was a willful brat. Middleton would have an easier life with sweet, patient Sally. But McIntyre couldn’t help admiring the little redhead’s spunk. Even half drowned and spitting fury, he had to concede she was uncommonly pretty.

  That made him even more eager to see her leave. Charles had been reluctant enough to do his duty by Sally. Throwing the woman he’d wanted to marry into the mix wouldn’t do the newlyweds any favors as they settled into married life. And the last thing McIntyre wanted was to see Sally hurt again.

  Yes, it would be better for all of them if Arabella Spencer left—and left soon. If he never saw the little snip again, it would suit him just fine.

  A glance at the clock next to the massive stone fireplace told him it was nearly 3:00 a.m. Since he would need to rescue the buckboard at first light or risk losing the cargo to thieves, it was scarcely worth going to bed. But he was chilled to the bone, and the old hip wound, a souvenir of Gettysburg, was throbbing. Even a couple of hours of sleep would be better than nothing.