A Rancher’s Surprise Mail Order Bride: Westward Hearts, #3

By Blythe Carver

Though Abigail's friends and neighbors are ladies of the night, that by no means is a life she wants for herself. One letter could change her life and her fate.

Rancher Ryan Belton's looking forward to his sister's nuptials. Poor Ryan has no idea that Abigail, the friend his sister's invited to the wedding, is a mail order bride. When he finds out and pushes her out of his life, she has no option but to find a position wherever she can.

When he finds her walking into the saloon, he realizes she will be a fallen woman and it's all his fault. How can he convince this hardheaded proud woman that she doesn't belong in a saloon?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BCP
• Release date: Feb 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393964445

Book preview

1

Ryan Belton stared at his sister, just as frustrated as ever. How many times do I need to tell you? I don’t need anyone here at the house to help me once you’re gone, no matter how you demand it. The entire world doesn’t turn around you, Lena.

Lena’s dark eyes narrowed in what he knew was a dangerous manner, but he could not help himself. She was entirely wrong about this, and she needed to hear it. Whether she would throw something at his head remained to be seen. He’d make her hear his side of the argument, at least.

The world doesn’t turn around me? she hissed. I see. Wait until I’ve married Edward and moved away from here. You shall see in short manner how much of the household revolves around my work, my forethought, my oversight. It will be a very rude awakening.

I’m a man. I can take an awakening, rude or otherwise.

She shot up from the supper table like a bolt, throwing down her napkin and storming from the dining room. He sat back in his chair, eyes rolling up to the ceiling.

There were times when he wished Edward Cunningham had never come to ask for his sister’s hand.

Edward was a good man. Solid, strong, honest. Boring? Yes. The man was rather dull, but Ryan supposed a banker could not be expected to keep listeners enthralled. He counted money all day. How could that ever be made to sound interesting or exciting?

Ryan much preferred his own life. And he preferred living it without a woman telling him what to do, where to be, when to be there. A rancher could not live by the sort of schedule a banker did, or any man of business. A man who sat behind a desk all day.

He could not imagine anything worse.

A wife would expect him to spend time with her, would she not? To be available when she needed him. He couldn’t guarantee that this would be possible. He would only make her unhappy, whoever the unfortunate woman happened to be.

How could he put a woman through such unhappiness? He was not a brute.

Lena would hear none of it. She demanded he bring someone on to run the household after she’d wed and fretted over how he would handle himself. Who did she believe she was to him? A mother?

No, she wouldn’t make that mistake. They’d been without a mother far too long, but they’d had one long enough for both of them to know what it meant.

He got up from the table, touching his napkin to the corners of his mouth before tossing it to his chair. He already had someone to run the household. Mrs. Hughes had been the family cook since he and Lena were children.

She didn’t know what to do with the rest of the house, or so Lena swore.

In his more charitable moments, Ryan understood that his sister was merely concerned for him. Her expansive, loving soul simply wished for his safety and happiness and security. Nothing more.

The household was not what concerned her. He was.

Stepping out onto the porch allowed him a breath of fresh air and a view of the setting sun. It was lovely and peaceful. Just what he needed when he was in such turmoil. The wedding was a mere two months away, and he found himself longing for the time to pass quickly.

He loved his sister, but she brought him to the end of his sanity.

The hands were finishing supper in the longhouse which sat alongside the stables, judging from the number of them enjoying a pipe or cigar outside. He waved to them and reminded himself that he was well within his rights to enjoy a quiet supper with his sister, rather than with them.

Though the supper had been anything but quiet.

And he would rather have taken it with them.

One thing which had always weighed on his mind was the question of whether they felt he was one of them. He wished very much to be. Yet they were the hands, and he was the owner. Their employer.

Like his best friend, Mark Furnish, he felt himself no better than the men who worked to keep his ranch running smoothly. He owed them everything. Every comfort he enjoyed, every night spent in a warm bed with no question of where the next day’s meals were coming from was a result of their work.

Theirs and his father’s.

He ought to be there to give Lena away, and their mother ought to have been fretting over Lena’s dress and flowers, her trousseau and the setting up of her home.

A momentary flash of guilt hit him then. Lena had so much with which to concern herself, yet she worried about him. And all he could do was make life difficult at every turn by refusing to hear her out.

But the woman would not tell him what to do. She simply would not. He would not allow that.

He headed inside, to his study. The house he and his sister shared was nowhere near as large as the one Mark had built for his bride—the bride he believed he would wed, rather. The woman he had made his bride was far different from the one he’d first sent for by way of a newspaper ad.

That damned ad was what gave Lena the idea that he ought to place the same ad for himself. You see how well things turned out for Mark and Jed, she was fond of reminding him.

Mark didn’t find a wife through an ad, he was quick to correct every time she did.

No, but he found an excellent foreman, if indirectly.

We have a foreman. He is quite excellent.

That was when she’d lost her temper during supper. She did so hate to be proven wrong. A trait they shared, along with so many others.

Yet where she was mercurial, rather highly strung at times, he was of a far more laid-back temperament. Yes, he could indeed be quite serious and driven. He hadn’t kept the ranch thriving after his father’s death by lying abed until all hours and shirking hard work.

But Lena was something else entirely. When she got an idea into her head, there was no ridding her of it. She reminded him of a bull, charging forward with its head down, little regarding anything or anyone in its path.

His freedom happened to be in her path just then.

His study sat at one of the front corners of the house, overlooking the little garden she tended. He’d expected to find her out there—she normally went out there to walk or work when she was in a state such as the one he’d put her in—but all was quiet.

She must have fled upstairs.

He sighed at the thought of being the one to reach out first with an olive branch. It wasn’t in his nature to admit when he was wrong, especially when he didn’t entirely believe himself to be in the wrong at all. But he knew his sister too well, and she certainly wouldn’t be the one to own her fault—or, worse still, she would apologize for caring too much and wanting to ensure he didn’t die after her wedding.

How he hated when she did that. Her sanctimonious behavior was most difficult of all to live with. He’d found a way over the years, just as she’d found a way to live with his stubbornness and refusal to listen to anyone but himself.

It was a wonder they didn’t both bear permanent bruises from all the times they’d butted heads.

The downstairs hall was cool and dark as he passed through on his way to the stairs. Peaceful. He liked his peace. Another thing Lena found it difficult to understand. Having somebody else in the house would mean upheaval.

He tapped on the door with his knuckles. Lena. I want to talk to you.

Come in! The woman all but sang it.

He frowned at the door, wondering if he was about to walk in and find her leveling a shotgun at his head. Was it worth the risk?

He supposed so.

Still, he took his time in opening the door, just in case.

She sat at her desk, in its place beneath the window which looked down on her garden. Her dark curls hung in front of her face, normally held back by their customary ribbons but loosened now. She had already begun dressing for bed, he supposed.

I got a letter today, she announced without looking up. I’m writing back as we speak.

Oh?

Yes. I’m quite busy, truth be told. What do you need?

Had he imagined their fight? Or was she simply out of her mind? Yes, there were times when he’d told himself she might be, but that was never serious. The sort of thing a brother thought about his sister from time to time, or so he assumed.

I wanted to talk about what we said to each other downstairs. It was unfair of me—

Oh, that. Lena waved a hand, dismissive.

The fight had already blown over, though he was not foolish enough to believe it would not flare up again. His sister tended to live by extremes, like a summer storm.

She pointed to the letter in her hand. I received this from my friend Abigail. She’ll be here for the wedding. Rather than having her stay in town, I would much rather have her here at the house. With us. We haven’t had enough time to catch up on each other’s lives, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to do so once the wedding takes place.

Ryan frowned. There was more than enough room for a guest, certainly, but he was a creature of habit. He was not in the habit of living with more than one woman at a time. I’ve never heard of this Abigail. Why have you never mentioned her to me before this?

Lena shrugged. I’m sure I did. You simply weren’t paying attention. You have a bad habit of not paying attention, you know.

Where is she from?

Back East. She barely glanced up as she said it. I will go down to the station tomorrow and purchase tickets for her to ride out. She’ll need to leave right away if she’s to make it in time to assist in planning the wedding. It will be so nice to have a woman here, in the house. Belinda is wonderful, but she is too far away to be of much help.

East? he asked, standing behind his impossible sister. She’d said a good many words, but all he’d heard was that her friend was from the east. How did Lena have a friend in the east of whom he was unaware?

Mm-hmm.

He knew her well enough to know that when she made such noises without bothering to look up at him, it was over. She would no longer entertain the possibility of speaking on the subject, or on any subject at all. She had moved along.

Perhaps it was for the best, since he had no desire to discuss his future. This Abigail could not have written at a better time. He would have to thank her when they were face-to-face.

2

A bigail! Abigail, dear! You’ve a letter! Mrs. Mahon called to her from downstairs, her booming voice carrying up the stairs to Abigail’s tiny room.

Abigail’s heart skipped a beat. She never received letters, not ever. Nobody knew her—even if they did, they didn’t know where she was. Where she’d been living.

A quick glance in the looking glass over her washbasin told her she looked presentable, brown hair in a braid which she’d wound around the back of her head, face freshly scrubbed. Her green eyes sparkled with the promise of what might be waiting in her landlady’s hand when she reached the kitchen.

The narrow hall and even tighter staircase, winding its way down to the first floor, was always rather treacherous. It had been a month, more or less, since she’d first come to Mrs. Mahon’s Boarding House, and she still took her time on the unlit staircase.

She’d never been graceful, to begin with, and needed no assistance in injuring herself.

The cramped-yet-cozy kitchen was warm thanks to the fire in the oven. Abigail held her hands close to the stove for a moment to heat her chilled fingers before holding them out to accept the letter. It was thick, the envelope heavy.

My goodness, she whispered, her hands trembling.

Open it! Open it, dearie! Mrs. Mahon, already halfway through a cup of milky tea, settled her impressive girth into a wooden chair which creaked under the strain.

I’m afraid to, Abigail admitted with a breathless giggle. Doesn’t that sound silly? I’ve been waiting to hear for weeks from this person in Carson City, and here we are.

The way I see it, dear, ye have to take a chance. Just as ye did when ye wrote in answer to the advertisement in the newspaper. Isn’t that true?

It is, Abigail sighed, taking a seat across from the woman who owned the house in which she lived. A kind woman, a lovely woman, a woman who understood too well what it meant to be desperate. And Abigail was certainly desperate. No doubt could be had.

Hurry, now! Mrs. Mahon laughed. I must admit, I’m likely more excited over this than ye are, dear.

I owe it to you, Abigail reminded her. I never would have thought to write in, if it weren’t for you. And if it didn’t work out, Abigail thought with a wry smile, she would know who to blame. For Mrs. Mahon had convinced her of the virtues of becoming a mail-order bride.

They’d been sitting in this very kitchen only two weeks earlier. Midnight had long since come and gone, with Abigail unable to sleep. This was normally the case as of late, while in her little room.

She’d never suffered from sleeplessness before, but she’d never shared a home with young women who invited men into their rooms prior to this point, either. They peddled themselves at all hours of the night, and they were never exactly quiet in their work. Nor were the men they brought home.

She had been lamenting her lack of money, and the lack of any job prospects. She’d poured her heart out to her new friend, a motherly figure she trusted.

It had been many years since she’d had a mother.

That was when Mrs. Mahon had told her own story and suggested Abigail take the course of action she, herself, had taken.

I suppose I ought to get it over with, she whispered, tearing at the corner of the envelope. It had been addressed in a fine hand, the writing of an educated person. Abigail had little education, though she could read and write. Her script was nothing as lovely as this.

The writing inside was just as lovely, written on thick paper of good quality. Along with the letter was a ticket. Abigail stared at it before reading the letter.

A train ticket. She was to take a train.

Mrs. Mahon held out her hands to examine the ticket while Abigail turned her attention to the letter. A rancher, she whispered as she read, her heart racing. Carson City, Nevada, as per the advertisement. I’m to take the train leaving from Boston tomorrow morning.

Her head snapped up, eyes meeting those of Mrs. Mahon.

Abigail gulped. Tomorrow morning!

Mrs. Mahon frowned. So soon. It’s a grand thing the letter arrived when it did, lass.

I suppose it is. Why, then, was there such an aching in her chest? I never believed this would happen. Not for me, not ever. I was certain I’d never hear from the man who placed the advertisement, this… She skimmed the contents of the letter once again. Ryan Belton.

Ryan Belton. She would be Mrs. Abigail Belton. It had a lovely sound to it, she had to admit, though she of all people knew there was more to marriage than simply changing one’s name.

I shall be sorry to see ye go, and that’s a fact. Mrs. Mahon groaned upon standing, as she tended to