The Wanted Mail Order Bride (#10, Brides of Montana Western Romance) (A Historical Romance Book): Brides of Montana Western Romance, #10

By Leah Laurens

The only thing harder than being a mail order bride is being an outlaw.

Meadow Reese isn't just a mail order bride.

She's an outlaw.

Wanted for a crime she didn't commit, there's just one way for Meadow to protect her sisters.

Run.

But just because she runs doesn't mean she can hide.

There's someone chasing her, and Meadow's not safe.

Booker Hanson thinks he has the perfect bride.

Caring for his two girls after his wife died has been hard, and he's grateful he's not alone anymore.

But soon he realizes something's not right with Meadow. She's hiding something from him.

Meadow's perfect. What could she be hiding?

She knows she can't hide the truth forever…

When someone shows up looking for her, Meadow knows it's time to go.

But how can she leave the family she loves?

Can she prove her innocence and earn redemption?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leah Laurens
• Release date: Feb 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393119449

Leah Laurens

Leah Laurens is a multi-voiced writer who always been a lover of historical romance novels since young, especially that of Western Romance. A romance set in the American West, Leah’s novels involve characters that are strong in character, each with a strong personality and with different pursuits in life. The Hero has his own adventures in life that he wants to pursue, the Heroine learning to survive and conquer the harsh challenges sometimes. Despite the many differences, there is somehow a destiny the hero and heroine must fulfil by meeting each other and to fall in love.  Through Leah’s writings, she hopes to inspire many who are waiting, questioning about love in a sometimes cynical world. That there will always be that silver linings in the clouds which one sees in their life. Some of Leah’s inspirations came from authors like Linda Lael Miller, Harper Sloan.

Book preview

prologue

*   *   *

Little Creek,

Kansas 1882

Something was burning.

What is that smell? Meadow Reese asked, already rising.

She wiped the tears from her blue eyes, now turned red, but her cheeks were still wet. Strands of bright blond hair were dark, damp, and matted to her face. She started to wipe at them but then forgot as she and her two sisters all began to cough.

Oh! Belle cried. I'm making biscuits!

She jumped up from the sofa, nearly knocking over her older sisters, and hurried to the kitchen. Meadow and Summer followed her. The smoke was thick and black. For a moment, Meadow was transported back in time to that day, ten years ago, when their house had burned, and their parents with it.

A new kind of panic gripped her, and fresh tears welled in her eyes. She quickly brushed them away before her sisters could see them. She should never have let them see the first ones. She just hadn't been able to help herself.

Working at the bank had always been a source of pride for her. At only twenty-three, she was already head teller, an enviable job for a man twice her age. David Carter had given her the chance of a lifetime when he'd promoted her, and she'd ruined it all.

Belle took the biscuit tin and hurried to the front door with it, setting it on the porch. It was still streaming black, the biscuits completely unrecognizable, nothing but the charred remains of what could have been part of a nice dinner.

Oh, well, Summer said. I wasn't in the mood for biscuits anyway. She put her arm around Belle's shoulders as Belle watched the smoke trail upward into the bright blue sky.

It's still early, Meadow said. We might make some more if you've a mind to.

Belle shook her head. No, I'm afraid they will fare no better. Today is simply not a good day for biscuits.

Summer laughed and shook her head. You are always saying the oddest things. Why, don't you know that any day is a good day for biscuits?

Meadow looked at Belle, and Summer was struck by the similarity of their features. All three of them had the same bright blond hair, the same sapphire blue eyes. Any variances were slight. Summer's hair was a shade lighter than the others, Belle's eyes a shade darker. Their figures were trim yet shapely, and they made quite the sight when walking together arm in arm down Main Street, garnering many looks from passersby, particularly the men, which certainly did nothing to help ingratiate them with the women of Little Creek.

Come, let us go inside and resume our discussion, said Summer. Later, perhaps, we shall revisit the biscuit situation.

Summer led them back inside, and Meadow could not help but marvel that though she was two years younger than Meadow herself, Summer had a way of acting older and, at least occasionally, wiser. Her advice was often couched in humor, but it was always sound advice nevertheless.

The small house they lived in was on the outskirts of Little Creek, Kansas, a small town that tried to act bigger than it was. The residents spoke importantly of their banks and farmhouses, their councils and schools, and were quite fond of putting on the odd festival at the most random of times—a pine cone festival in July, a berry festival in December, a dance festival at the beginning of farm season when only half the town could attend.

It was a good town with solid people, and the house the Reese sisters lived in, though small, was pleasant enough. It afforded them one bedroom that they all shared, a kitchen, washroom, and sitting area. They had no formal parlor, something Meadow had long lamented, but they had a large yard in which Summer had planted a garden.

Though their parents had been farmers, the girls had not followed in their footsteps. They could not afford the upkeep of the farm after their parent's deaths. When Meadow was sixteen, they had taken what little money they had and purchased this house with the help of their Uncle Charley, who lived in the next town over.

Meadow said, Perhaps we should discuss something else other than my disastrous day at work. I am tired of speaking of how badly things have gone for me in such a short time.

Is Mr. Carter certain of the amount missing from the vault? Belle asked, ignoring Meadow completely. She had a bad habit of ignoring the wishes of others when her own curiosity was piqued, but Meadow forgave her for it, supposing that to be nothing worse than the self-indulgence typical of most nineteen-year-olds.

He said he'd counted it five times already and could not account for it, Meadow answered.

But certainly, he does not blame you, Summer said.

I am head teller. The responsibility is mine whether the fault lies with me or not.

Summer pressed her lips together. What precisely did he say when he called you into his office?

Meadow sighed. I've already told you. He said there was some money missing from the vault, and he wanted to know if I knew anything about it.

He did not think you took it? cried Belle.

No, he expressed that to me very clearly. His main concern, I think, was that because he placed me in charge amidst something of a controversy—

Your age and womanhood should be of no controversy, cried Belle, furious.

That may be true, Meadow replied, and yet you know perfectly well what was said about me at the time. People thought Mr. Carter and I were having some affair. That I could not have received the job otherwise.

Well, people are foolish, Belle said, folding her arms over her chest.

Meadow said, He only sent me home today because he wanted to keep up appearances for the others. To show them that I would be dealt with just as any man in my position would be.

Meadow frowned and bit her lip, unaware she was even doing it until it began to hurt.

But he will reinstate you? Summer asked nervously. Though all three sisters worked, it was Meadow who made the majority of their income.

I have not be fired, Meadow said. I was merely sent home early so that things might be sorted out and no fresh rumors could touch either of us.

There was a knock at the door. Belle peeked out the window. It's him! she cried excitedly. It's Mr. Carter!

Meadow strode quickly to the door. She turned to her sisters. Give us some privacy.

At once, her sisters gathered their things and went out through the back, to the garden.

Meadow opened the door. Mr. Carter, she breathed. Come in.

She stepped aside, and Mr. Carter stepped into the room. He was in his forties and quite a large man, both in size and attitude. Most people found him off-putting, but Meadow had always defended him. How could she not? He'd given her a job at his bank at when she was only sixteen, helping her when most others were turning their backs. The job had enabled her and her sisters to remain together.

Just a few weeks before today, he had promoted her to head teller, something she would never have dared dream possible. He was a good man, even if others did not always see it that way.

Mr. Carter's face was somber as he removed his hat and set in on a side table. It was an expensive hat, she could tell from the felt if not from the label itself. Mr. Carter only wore expensive things. Some people found that alone enough to condemn him, judging him to think himself better than others, but Meadow had always found that silly. If she had money enough herself, would she not dress similarly? Would not anyone?

His hair was black with a patch of gray going up the side like a skunk. There were fine lines around his eyes that she suspected had been there for some time. They were not unbecoming, precisely, but they lent a certain hard edge to his appearance that she suspected was part of the reason people distrusted him. He looked like the sort of man you did not want to trifle with.

What word do you bring? Meadow asked him.

Mr. Carter smiled at her. That is one thing I've always admired about you, Meadow. You get straight to the point. I shall return the favor.

He paused in front of the sofa and took a seat without her invitation, then patted the cushion beside him. Meadow paused then joined him where he indicated.

I'm afraid the money in question is still missing, he said, and her shoulders slumped.

Mr. Carter put his arm around her shoulders. Now then, don't worry, I know you've nothing to do with it. Others, though...

She tensed against him and pulled away. Others? What of them? What are they saying?

They are saying you stole the money.

But... She was at a loss for words. These were people who knew her. How could they jump to such swift conclusions?

It's a large sum, he said. They do not believe it could have accidentally been miscounted in some way.

But how do they even know the exact sum? Why did you tell them?

I had to interview each of the employees who were there this morning and last night so that I might ascertain whether one of them could be responsible. I saw no reason not to tell them the meaning behind my interview. It would only have caused more rumors to spread had I not.

She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

Do you know how pretty you are when you do that? he asked, and she froze. Her heart thumped hard once against her chest. So like your mother. You know, I knew your mother before you were born, when she was just your age.

Yes, I know, Meadow said, inching away from him.

He was staring at her with a look she did not care for. She had always thought of him as an uncle, a friend. But this new look had nothing to do with friendship.

She cleared her throat. Mr. Carter, how may I help?

There are only three of us who have a key to the vault. Myself, Mr. Cummings... and you. And Mr. Cummings hasn't been there for two days due to his illness. Of course, I knew that was the case from the beginning, but I had hoped I might find out something from one of the other tellers that might put my mind in a different direction. Alas, nothing has turned up, and so I am stuck.

Stuck? Meadow asked, her throat running dry.

Two hundred dollars is missing from my bank, Miss Reese. Something must be done about it.

Of course, I just... She drew in a breath. Do you mean to fire me?

He laughed lightly. His hand crept slowly forward, toward her knee. That depends on you. I know you are a good woman. I know you've likely had nothing to do with this, except accidentally. Perhaps you gave the wrong amount to a customer or... accidentally took it home in your purse.

Her eyes widened. I would never! she cried out, her hands flying to her face.

I know, I know, he said soothingly. The thing is, I can cover your error, no matter what it may be, but I shall need something in return.

His hand squeezed her knee, and she quickly shifted her legs out of his reach.

I-I... she stammered.

Relax, Meadow, he said, scooting toward her. His hand resumed its place on her knee, inching farther up her leg now. I shall make you a promise. Give me what I want, and I'll make this disappear.

And if I don't? she breathed.

His grip on her leg tightened. She felt his fingers digging into her. Then I shall have no choice but to report the crime to the sheriff and see you arrested.

Arrested? You would not!

I would if you give me no choice. He leaned forward then, pushing her against the back of the sofa, pinning her in its corner. His tongue was wet and slobbery, and his lips dry. They scratched her face. Her heart thundered in her chest. She forced one hand to rise up and pushed as hard as she could against his chest. He fell back, and she jumped off the cushion.

His face was, at first, angry, but then his look changed to one of amusement. He rose and smoothed down his pants and coat, then took his hat up from the side table.

I'll give you the night to think it over, he said. I think that once you do, you'll find I'm being quite reasonable, after all. Your job and your freedom for a bit of time alone with me. Keep in mind that it needn't be a daily occurrence, perhaps only once or twice a week.

Meadow shuddered as she realized he meant for this to be an ongoing proposition. It would not be just a one-time thing.

He said, I think I make a rather nice alternative to jail, don't you? Think it over and let me know.

He opened the door and stepped outside. When he was gone, Meadow locked it, sweat dampening her dress. What was she going to do? What could she do? She only had one choice, so far as she could see, and she had to take it.

*   *   *

chapter 1

*   *   *

Elmwood,

Missouri

Booker Hanson was lying in his bed, his muscular body stretched out, unable to sleep. He listened to the storm raging outside his window and wondered how long it might last. He rolled over onto his side, then back the other way, and finally tried moving to the middle of the bed. That was the worst of all the positions he'd set himself in. He returned to his side and curled up into a ball, pretending that the feel of the pillow against his head was Mary's soft touch.

Pathetic, he whispered to himself and closed his eyes, stretching out once again.

The muscles in his chest twitched. He always slept shirtless, and the humidity from the storm combined with the heat to make sweat drip along his bare skin. His sheets grew damp, yet he did not push the covers back. He could not. Having the covers pulled up over him reminded him of Mary. She had always hated storms and had insisted on the covers being pulled over them at all times whenever one was underway. She said she felt safer that way.

Booker knew what his brother, Amos, would say, if he were here. Mary's gone. You need to move on. They’d had that conversation enough times before, and each time, Booker cringed. Amos was his younger brother. He was supposed to take advice, not give it, yet Amos only seemed capable of the latter.

Thunder struck near the house, it sounded as if it had come from right over their roof. It shook the house and rattled the windows. He propped himself up on his elbows and almost jumped out of bed. A figure was staring at him in the mirror, dark and shadowy. His heart started. He smiled, chuckling softly, when he realized it was only him. His dark hair blended with the shadows, making his face almost invisible.

If he'd had highlights of bronze like his brother or perhaps his skin was a shade lighter, he might have been able to make himself out, but his hair was all black, his skin a deep tan. People sometimes laughed about that, saying he looked more like a farmer than a banker, but Booker did not find it very funny. His parents had been farmers, and they had struggled all their lives. When they'd died, they'd had nothing. The farmhouse they'd still been living in had been falling down around them. They'd only been able to keep it because he'd paid for their land.

His father had gone first, his mother shortly thereafter. Heart problems, the doctor had said, though Booker suspected that was only half right. He'd long suspected that his mother had died from a broken heart. She'd married his father at only sixteen and had loved him all her life. When he'd died, she'd been devastated.

As for his father, it was the land that had broken his heart. It had dried up a decade ago and never recovered. It had hurt him bitterly to take money from his son, but Booker had insisted. In the end, his father had had no choice. He'd ended up resenting the land he had once loved, and it had killed him.

Lightning flashed outside the window now and Booker shut his eyes again. Perhaps if he kept them closed he might actually be able to fall asleep. He pictured lush green meadows and Mary's face as she danced barefoot through the rain. It brought a smile to his lips, and his body was finally able to relax. His muscles stopped twitching and the dull ache that had been present in his chest since her death a year ago began to subside.

He was dimly aware of his door opening. His mind had just begun to fall into unconsciousness, but it was still lingering between sleep and wakefulness. When two small bodies suddenly bounced onto his bed, his eyes shot open and any semblance of sleep that had been filling him hurried away.

Lizzie, he said, raising his voice. Ida. I've told you both not to come into my room unannounced.

They had come in once and nearly caught him and Mary having relations. It had been an awkward moment for him, though Mary had thought it funny. The children had been too young to understand and besides that, they'd seen nothing important, as things had only gotten started.

I don't like the storm, Lizzie said, coming up on his right.

Neither do I, said Ida, coming up on his left.

He sighed and put one arm around each of them. Even in the dark, they looked so like their mother. Curly red hair that was as eye-catching as it was unruly. He still had no idea how his wife had ever gotten it pulled back and put into ribbons. He tried each day to get the girls’ right but always failed miserably. His housekeeper had tried again and again after Mary's death but hadn't been able to do it either. She'd finally told him there was simply nothing to be done for it. The red curls would remain wild.

The largeness of their eyes they got from him, though theirs were a striking green. They shined with the light of their mother behind them. Her eyes had always shone brilliantly. It had been her eyes that had first struck him, two pools of blue-green as bright as the North Star.

Come now, Booker said, you know the storm can't hurt you.

I know, said Ida. But I still don't like it. She made a face and put her hand to her mouth as if she meant to suck her thumb, a habit she'd outgrown when she was three. Since her mother's death, however, she'd begun to revert.

Don't be a baby, Lizzie said.

Ida paused, pursed her six-year-old mouth, then returned her hand to her side.

Booker wanted to reprimand Lizzie for speaking to her twin sister like that, but he could not. If not for Lizzie, he sometimes thought that Ida might revert to her infancy, crying wildly throughout the night and sleeping all day. He'd nearly done that himself when Mary had passed, the rheumatic fever taking her life but sparing that of his girls.

For a while, it had looked as if all three might succumb, but the girls had been strong. Mary would have been happy to know that they'd not only pulled through it but had come out all the stronger because of it. If not a little more difficult to handle.

I don't want to sleep in our room, Ida said and snuggled her head next to his. I miss Mommy.

I miss her, too, said Lizzy. She reached across him and clasped her sister's hand.

Booker sighed. So do I.

They both gaped at him in the dark. It was rare that he spoke of Mary to them. It pained him too much to do so.

Lizzie hesitated then decided to take hold of this rare moment before it could pass. Will we get a new mommy?

Ida looked at him curiously. He looked at each of them in turn. Do you want a new mommy? He'd never before considered that they would.

Slowly, Lizzie nodded her head. Ida soon followed. He studied their faces as lightning continued to flash. You would not feel angry that she was replacing your old mommy?

No! Ida said, her eyes widening. She could never replace Mommy. She would just be a new mommy. That's all.

Lizzie nodded her agreement. They were six now, but they had grown so much in the last year. How much more might they grow in the next? And the year after that? What about when they reached womanhood? He groaned inwardly at the thought, unwilling to believe the day would come yet knowing