Sierra Bride

By Suzanne Barrett

Sierra Bride
Widowed rancher Wade Guthrie needs help raising his unruly young daughter and advertises for a housekeeper. Instead, he finds himself saddled with a mail order bride.
Irish immigrant Corrie Kiernan needs a place to hide. Witness to a brutal murder at the mill where she worked, she’ll do anything to escape the killer who now threatens her life, even if it means marrying a stranger and weaving a web of deception. Falling in love with the handsome rancher is easy, but can a man who values honesty above everything else love a woman whose life is a lie?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Barrett
• Release date: Oct 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781944246327

Suzanne Barrett

Following a career in engineering, Suzanne has returned to her first love of writing and literature. Born in Southern California, Suzanne, along with her husband and a loving tuxedo cat, make their home in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Suzanne is also a jewelry designer, and her wirework has been shown at various arts and wine events throughout the county. When she’s not writing, Suzanne loves to garden.Her books have been published by Kensington Books and Turquoise Morning Press. Sierra Bride is Suzanne’s first published historical and is set near the eastern slope of the Sierras where she spent an enjoyable part of her childhood collecting rocks and riding horses. Late Harvest, a story about winemaking, was a two-time Golden Heart finalist for Romance Writers of America. In Love and War is set in Suzanne's favorite part of Ireland, County Cork and tells of the decades-old conflict between Irish Republicans and the Free State. Taming Rowan draws on Suzanne's career in engineering and is set in another favored location, Northern England.

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Sierra Bride

By Suzanne Barrett

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Suzanne Barrett

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Sierra Bride

Copyright © 2015, Suzanne Barrett

ISBN: 978194424632-7

Editor, Karen Block

Cover Art Design by Kim Jacobs

Electronic release, October 2015

Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

This edition is published by agreement with the author.

Dedication

To the man who pushed me to always do my best.

Dad, I wish you were here to enjoy this with me.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my critique partner and good friend of many years, Carolyn Woolston.

Special thanks to editor, Karen Block who prodded, pushed and suggested in the nicest way.

Sierra Bride

1Widowed rancher Wade Guthrie needs help raising his unruly young daughter and advertises for a housekeeper. Instead, he finds himself saddled with a mail order bride.

Irish immigrant Corrie Kiernan needs a place to hide. Witness to a brutal murder at the mill where she worked, she’ll do anything to escape the killer who now threatens her life, even if it means marrying a stranger and weaving a web of deception. Falling in love with the handsome rancher is easy, but can a man who values honesty above everything else love a woman whose life is a lie?

Chapter One

Sierra County, California, 1883

Jesus, Dan, you did what? Wade Guthrie slammed both fists down on Dan Sullivan’s mahogany desk.

Take it easy, bucko. The attorney pushed the oak chair away and stood. One of us has to take charge. You’ve been holed up in that cabin for six months, barely eating, and your daughter’s turning into a wild Indian. I’m trying to help. He leveled a steady gaze on Wade. That’s what friends are for.

Wade scowled. Some help. I ask you to find me a housekeeper and you advertise for a goddamn wife! You know I’d never agree to a fool scheme like that. What kind of friend are you?

The look in Dan’s pale blue eyes softened. Your only friend. He rocked back on his boot heels and locked gazes with Wade. Pull yourself together, lad, and hear me out.

Wade began to pace, listening with one ear as Dan blathered on. The attorney’s Boston-Irish accent grated on his already raw nerves, but Dan was the only man he could talk to, the only one who’d befriended him after his prison stretch. Sometimes he wished to God the prison guards had killed him and been done with it.

I asked around, and there’s not a single woman between Maiden Valley and Downieville willing to work as a housekeeper, Dan went on, so I looked for a wife. I sure had to offer something a damn sight more appealing than cooking and cleaning for an unsociable cuss of a rancher who lives five miles from his nearest neighbor.

Dan’s gaze ran up and down Wade’s creased shirt and trousers, the hair Wade knew was too long. But even with the prospect of marriage, the attorney smiled a toothy grin. She might have to look hard to find the attraction. Face it, boyo, what have you got to offer a woman, housekeeper or wife? A dirty cabin, a run-down horse ranch, and a daughter who’s running wild.

Charity and I are doing fine.

You’re not paying attention, my friend. Who’s going to care for her when you’re off in the Toyiabe roundin’ up bangtails? Who’s going to make sure she gets her schoolin’? Wears a clean dress? Eats a proper breakfast?

Wade’s mouth thinned. I thought. Hell, I don’t know what I thought, but I don’t want a wife.

He stared out the window at the mercantile across the street where Myra had bought a bolt of blue cambric for curtains. The cloth sat in the corner of their bedroom, still wrapped in brown paper. She’d been too sick to do anything with it.

Now, with Myra gone, Charity was his lifeline, his only reason for hanging on. He swallowed over the lump in his throat. I can’t hitch myself to another woman.

You think that now. But by the time winter comes, that bed of yours will be damned hard and damned cold. Dan poked a blunt forefinger at the telegram on the desk. This woman—name’s Corrie Kiernan—has good references. She worked in Boston for the Aldrich family. My parents knew them. Good, solid people.

Dan gave Wade a twinkly-eyed grin. I bet she’d be able to teach Charity some of those lady skills Myra was so set on her learning.

The rough pine walls of Dan’s cracker-box office suddenly closed in on Wade. The mere thought of another woman in his house, his bed, sent icicles along his veins.

I don’t want a wife. No one can replace Myra. Not now. Not ever.

He reached for the sheepskin jacket he’d flung over the chair. You write to this Kiernan woman and tell her there’s been a mistake. Tell her not to come.

Can’t do that, Wade.

Sure you can. Tell her I changed my mind.

‘Fraid it’s too late for that, boyo.

Wade pivoted to face him. A vague sense of unease crawled up his spine. Whaddya mean too late?

Dan tapped the telegram with a neatly trimmed fingernail. Your Miss Kiernan is arriving on the four o’clock stage.

****

Whoa, there. The driver slowed the four bay horses and the coach rattled to a stop in front of the Maiden Valley Wells Fargo office. Corrie straightened her second-hand, black straw hat with its snowy ostrich plume and waited for Mr. Green to help his elderly wife step down.

Corrie rose from the leather seat, smoothed the skirt of her navy serge travel dress and let the grizzled driver hand her down the step. Her black lace-up shoes had been shiny when she stepped off the train at Truckee, but six hours of coach travel on the dusty California road had covered them with a film of dirt.

The driver lowered her carpetbag to the ground. Hoisting it in one hand, she jockeyed it onto the wooden sidewalk and sat down on the slat bench outside the bank to wait. The telegram from Mr. Sullivan lay neatly folded in her reticule.

For the first time since she’d boarded the train in Boston, she felt the tension in her chest ease. She was safe. Far from the mill, in a place no one knew her. She allowed herself a good long look up and down the street of her new home.

Sweet Mary! She hadn’t pictured the town at all like this. The street, little more than a widened, rutted path, ran between false-fronted buildings, barely two blocks long. It was rough. Dirty. And no gaslights.

It didn’t matter. Here in Maiden Valley she would be safe. Married, with a new name. A new identity.

She scanned the people passing her, two men wearing denims and vests, a lanky woman in a work-worn brown dress, and a child in overalls and golden ringlets. After a curious glance at her, they moved on. In Boston she’d have passed unnoticed; here she was an outsider. Different. She straightened her shoulders and scanned the boardwalk.

A short, chunky man tipped his Stetson but kept walking. Obviously not her intended. The telegram said Wade Guthrie was tall. What did that mean? Was he tall and old? Tall and fat?

Her throat tightened. It didn’t matter what he looked like. A woman on the run couldn’t be choosy. It would have been better if she’d heard from Mr. Guthrie himself instead of the attorney. Would’ve made it seem more like Mr. Guthrie had done the asking. She couldn’t help longing for a man who might really want her. A man who would love her. A man she could love in return.

But whether her new husband came to love her or not as she’d once dreamed, she’d make him a good wife and that’s what mattered.

Across the road, a sturdy dun stood harnessed to a wagon being loaded with supplies. Short-legged with sloping shoulders, the animal resembled one of her father’s Connemara ponies.

A wave of homesickness for the rocky Galway coast swept over her. She swallowed over the lump in her throat. Nothing here remotely resembled the green patchwork fields of Ireland.

She couldn’t think of that now. Out here in the West, she could make a new life.

Boots clumped along the plank sidewalk and halted a few yards away. Miss Kiernan.

The voice was soft and low, the words more statement than question. A not unpleasant voice, she decided. She turned, stared into veiled grey eyes set in a chiseled, square-jawed face that looked anything but welcoming.

Corrie’s breath caught. Aye, she managed in a constricted voice.

Wade Guthrie.

She offered her hand, but he ignored it. There’s been a mistake. I don’t want a wife.

Her breath stopped. Mistake? There was no mistake. With shaking fingers she opened her reticule and withdrew the folded paper. I have the telegram right here. Mr. Sullivan says—

I know what he said. The eyes turned to cold steel. Mr. Sullivan acted without my consent. I wanted a housekeeper, not a wife. He had no business sending that telegram.

A housekeeper? You advertised all the way to Boston for a housekeeper? Her voice sounded very small. He didn’t want to marry her?

A knot formed under her breastbone. The promise that had buoyed her across the miles lay shattered in the California dust, her dream of safety suddenly evaporating. She drew in a steadying breath and faced him. Looks like I made a mistake, too. In believin’.

It wasn’t your fault. He gestured toward the stagecoach driver making his way toward the Wagon Wheel Saloon across the street. Josh’ll be returning to Truckee in the morning. I’ll see you’re put up in the hotel till then.

Panic clawed at her. She could never go back, not if she wanted to stay alive. Shush, lass. Don’t even think it. She had to appear calm, even with her heart pounding.

I left my position, she said in her best upstairs maid’s voice. I can’t go back. Another girl has replaced me. The lie slid like treacle off her tongue.

Wade’s eyes hardened. I won’t marry you, Miss Kiernan. There’s no place for you here.

Mother of God! If she didn’t do something quick, he’d have her back on that stagecoach before she could catch her breath.

She drew herself up to her full height, her line of vision even with his shirt collar. Her stomach churned. Planting both hands on her hips, she tilted her head up and studied the hard face.

I traveled three thousand miles to get here, Mr. Guthrie. I’m not going back.

His eyes narrowed, and she scrabbled for what to say next. Let’s strike a bargain. I can cook and sew and read and write. More lies! Let me stay as your housekeeper. I’ll do you proud.

Something flickered in the pale eyes. His gaze traveled from her chin to her hemline and back again. My cabin is small.

I don’t require much room, Mr. Guthrie. A cot is all.

Wade took a closer look at the young woman. She was a tiny thing, not much taller than Charity, with small, delicate hands. She was no more cut out for life on the frontier than Myra had been. He’d be a fool to take her on.

I need someone older, more experienced.

You’d reject me because of my age? Back home in Ireland I looked after my brother and sisters, cooked and cleaned and washed and tended the stock.

I need someone to look after my daughter, teach her the things a young girl needs to learn. You’re not what I envisioned. He sighed. You’re much too young.

She straightened her body until he thought she might salute. I can teach your daughter ever so many things, and I’m very quiet. I’d be no trouble to you.

Wade swallowed hard. No trouble? God almighty, just looking at her was trouble. He studied her face. A sprinkling of pale freckles dotted the bridge of a small, upturned nose and clear green eyes the color of moss shone with mounting indignation. Her lips were the color of mulberries. A ridiculous straw hat sat askew on a mass of red hair loosely tucked up beneath the crown, unruly curls escaping at her temple and nape. She reminded him of a water sprite. A very angry water sprite. Did the fiery color suggest a temper to match? Or a passionate nature? Curiosity niggled at the back of his mind.

His groin swelled. Ached. Damn, it had been a long time since he’d even looked at a woman. Answer’s still no, Miss Kiernan. I’ll see you to the hotel.

Her unusual eyes blazed. Don’t be troublin’ yourself on my account, Mr. Guthrie. I’ve managed meself these past seven years, and I can get to the hotel without your assistance, thank you very much. Her tone was crisp, her brogue pronounced.

Wade crossed his arms and stared at a wispy red tendril poking from under her hat. He bit back a chuckle. The Irish miss had a temper all right.

He reached for her arm. I’ll see you to the hotel just the same.

You’ll not! She jerked away, and in one quick movement grabbed her tapestry satchel and marched down the wooden sidewalk to the Excelsior Hotel. Her bustle bounced with each determined step, and beneath the swirl of skirt, he glimpsed a trim ankle and a white lace ruffle.

With purposeful strides, she reached the hotel, yanked open one of the painted green doors and swept inside.

Wade wiped the smile from his face. She was spitting mad, and he could hardly blame her. But no way was he was going to be saddled with Miss Corrie Kiernan. He had no place for a pretty young woman on his spread. Especially one with sparkling green eyes and flame red hair.

Hells bells, Daniel, he muttered. Next time you get a bright idea like this one, I’m leaving town.

He started toward the Excelsior and stumbled over Willie Watkus who sat hunkered down at the edge of the planked walkway. It was Willie’s favorite place after a bender. The wizened man raised shaggy salt and pepper eyebrows as Wade strode past. Watch where yer goin’, Willie snarled.

Wade sidestepped the older man and stopped in front of the hotel. For a long moment, he studied the oval glass insets in the hotel doors. He thought again of the desperate look in Corrie’s green eyes and felt something stir deep within him. Damnation. He needed a lot of things, but he sure as hell didn’t need her.

He pushed open the door to Dwyer’s Mercantile and slapped his list on the smooth wood counter. He’d wasted half a day arguing with Dan, and it would take at least a couple of hours to lay in provisions. Charity was staying with Old Sal, his neighbor down the road. The Paiute woman might be dirt-poor and untidy, but she was a good-hearted sort who, most of the time, understood Charity better than he did.

He eyed the shopkeeper and motioned toward a glass jar of the lemon drops Sal loved. A half pound of those, William.

Then he turned toward the door. He’d bunk with Dan and head back to the ranch in the morning. After he’d seen Miss Kiernan onto the morning stage. But tonight he’d take Dan over to the Wagon Wheel for a shot or two of Taussig’s Reserve.

After just one look at Corrie Kiernan, he needed it.

****

A dull ache hammered Corrie’s temple as she marched full tilt to the hotel’s front desk. How dare that—that cowboy reject her without even a try! After she’d spent all her money on the second-hand clothes in her satchel, not to mention the train ticket Mr. Sullivan had paid for. How dare he?

The devil take him. You’ve far bigger worries.

Would you be havin’ a room? she asked the pot-bellied man leaning against the far side of the counter.

The clerk eyed her over wire-rimmed spectacles, then swiped blunt fingers over his side whiskers. For yourself, is it?

It is.

He named a price and handed her a key. I can have your bag brought up later. The boys are out just now.

Never mind. I’ll be takin’ it meself.

She straightened to unknot the kinks in her back. Her legs felt weighted with lead after hours of jouncing over a washboard coach road. Even her arms ached. The tapestry satchel felt as if it was loaded with bricks.

She forced one foot in front of the other up the stairs. You can’t give over now, no matter how tired you feel. Her skin prickled under the heavy wool dress. If she wanted to stay alive, she had to stay in Maiden Valley.

There were no woolen mills here. She could do laundry, she supposed. It meant bending over a washboard from dawn til dusk, but if that’s what she had to do to survive, she’d wash clothes until her fingers bled.

Oh, how she wished Mr. Guthrie had been more like the man in the letters. A rancher needing a wife.

The house Mr. Sullivan had described sounded so peaceful, surrounded by blue sky, green trees, and horse corrals. And a little blonde-haired girl who needed a mother to care for her. Just the dream itself had kept her courage up throughout the long journey.

Ah, wishing for what might have been was a waste of time. Right now her very life depended on quick thinking and her Irish luck.

She stopped at room number two, turned the key in the lock, and pushed the door open. Inside the room, a narrow bedstead covered with a faded patchwork quilt stood against the far wall. Beside it a spindly pine table held a chipped blue wash basin. Stale tobacco smoke and something sour hung in the stifling air. She dropped her carpetbag on the rag rug and stepped to the window to raise the sash.

A breeze ruffled the faded curtain. She leaned her head out to breathe in the scent of dust, sweaty horseflesh, and leather from the rutted street below. It smelled like Ballinasloe on Horse Fair Day. If she closed her eyes she could see the white thatched cottage, see Da and Mam in front of the hearth, smell the turf smoke. Seven years she’d been gone. A lifetime.

No use dwelling in the past, she murmured, as a wagon pulled by a team of mules rumbled down the street. You’ve plenty to consider in the present.

An out-of-tune piano sounded from the saloon across the street, its tinny notes familiar and oddly soothing. She laid her straw hat on the dresser, fluffed the feather, and unpinned her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders. Then she slipped out of her travel jacket, draped it over the back of the straight-backed chair in the corner, and hummed a snatch of The Bard of Armagh.

The tune brought a lump to her throat. She reached in the travel bag for her hairbrush, forcing the bristles through her snarls in time to the music.

Suddenly her hand stilled. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

She knew hundreds of songs. Irish songs. American songs. Even some Scottish airs. And she could sing. The Heavenly Father had gifted her with a clear soprano voice.

She thunked the brush onto the dresser and peered out the window. Over the saloon entrance a wooden board advertised the establishment in bold yellow letters.

The Wagon Wheel.

It had a nice ring to it. And weren’t saloons always advertising for help? Just maybe she could sing for her

Reviews for Sierra Bride

[fairydragonstar · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Very well written with a lot of depth to the characters