Mail Order Bride : The Gunslinging Bride (Brides of the Western Reach #1) (A Western Romance Book): Brides of the Western Reach, #1

By Ashley Walter

Sometimes the best gunslingers are angels...

Estelle Eaton's been married before.

She learned long ago that she shouldn't trust men …

Especially as a mail order bride.

But this time, things will be different. Estelle's going to the West.

Her past is gone. She has a clean slate. A new husband.

When her wagon train is attacked by bandits, Estelle's wagon is left behind.

She and four other women must find their own way home.

When they discover a deserted town, a new dream is born.

Angel's Reach.

Women only.

No guns. No men. No pain.

Only there's no good without bad.

Someone wants these women gone, and they'll do whatever it takes to make them disappear.

When Sheriff Barrett Graham comes looking for the missing women, he finds more than he bargained for.

In a town where men are not allowed, can Barrett win Estelle's heart?

Can he show her that not all men are bad and help her trust again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Walter
• Release date: Feb 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393239116

Ashley Walter

Author of Historical Western Romance in Mail Order Bride theme. She writes poignant stories often with heart warming ending.

Book preview

chapter 1

*   *   *

1851,

Independence Rock, Unorganized Territory

Estelle Eaton trembled with anger. One bag! That’s what they’d told her when she’d signed up for this. One bag, no more. There wasn’t room for more. Yet the sight before her contradicted that in every way.

She had spent two anxious days and nights going through her things, deciding what to keep and what to give away. It had taken a shot of whiskey from her neighbor, Mrs. Tawney, to help her finish, and the results were mixed.

Her best dress was going. Her corset was staying. She had secretly harbored a resentment for corsets for years now, so losing one was more delight than agony. Her wedding ring? Definitely not going. She had thrown it in the trash along with her corset. Her father’s picture? Going, as was his gun. Her sister’s picture? She had thought it over for some time before finally ripping it in half and adding it to the rubbish heap. Her mother’s picture followed shortly thereafter.

In the end, she had settled on one change of clothes, the boots she kept for winter, even though they were worn to the soles, her father’s gun, and some dried beef she’d gotten from Mrs. Tawney, who’d begged her not to do this.

It’s not safe, Mrs. Tawney had warned her just last night. Women die. Men die, too, but mostly it’s the women and children.

How do you know that? Estelle asked.

Mrs. Tawney shrugged. I just do. Men say we have a weak countenance. I say it’s the men driving us there. She laughed to show she was joking. It’s probably the cold that kills us.

It’s spring.

It won’t stay spring.

I’ll reach California long before fall.

Mrs. Tawney had hugged her and told her not to let anyone near her things. You can’t trust people. Never forget that. Write to me as soon as you arrive. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll go looking.

Estelle grinned and assured her that she had but one bag, and in it were things no one besides her would find useful.

When the wagon train finally came into view, Estelle’s anxiety returned. She counted ten wagons, and that was just what she could see. The day was bright, the sun had just come up overhead, and the train stretched far beyond the horizon. Thirty, fifty, perhaps even as many as a hundred wagons were rolling together along the California Trail, an endless procession of covered wagons so dirty she could not even tell what color the covers were. She thought they used to be white, but now they were varying shades of dust and dirt.

She held her breath and wished she had packed more. Her anger grew as the first wagon went past her, never slowing. The driver glanced her way, saw her one bag clutched in her hand, and continued on. The wagon was covered but the back was open to her, and inside, she saw at least seven people sitting with their heads in their hands, their eyes glazed over. The wagon was stuffed to the brim with bags.

The oxen and horses pulling the wagons looked tired. Dozens of people walked beside them, looking even more so. She did not understand why so many walked when the wagons might pull them. Perhaps there was not enough room for everyone after all. She bit her bottom lip and watched the scene as the wind began to pick up.

Three wagons rolled past her... five... ten. She began to wonder how she was ever to get onboard. No one had told her how to join, just that there was room enough for one. Most of these people were families traveling together. She would be riding with strangers.

One wagon with a particularly dusty cover pulled away from the others. The driver slowed its pace. A skinny young woman was walking beside the horses, stroking their rich brown muzzles, which were covered in dust like everything else. Her hair was cut unusually short, and Estelle wondered if some misfortune had befallen her. She could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

She looked at Estelle as the wagon stopped only fifty yards from her. The driver spit over the side, a thick glob of brown landing in the dirt.

The woman with short hair glared at him.

That’s disgusting! she said and continued petting the horses.

Leave them horses be, he snapped at her.

They’re tired.

So’re we all, he said and pushed her hand away. The horse the girl had been petting whinnied, and the woman glared at him. The driver didn’t seem to care. His eyes landed on Estelle. You comin’?

Estelle looked around, as if perhaps he was speaking to someone else. The driver and the short-haired woman both laughed.

Well, come on! shouted the girl, running up and grabbing Estelle’s hand. I’m Tabitha.

Up close, Estelle realized Tabitha was slightly older than it had appeared from a distance. Her eyes were too hard for a sixteen-year-old. Tiny lines creased the corners—not wrinkles, just fatigue and hardship. This girl was closer to nineteen than sixteen.

You’re Estelle Eaton, Tabitha said, and Estelle nodded as the woman escorted her to the rear of the covered wagon. She smiled and shouted, She’s here! Heidi, you owe me two bits!

A woman with long brown hair that seemed impossibly tangled appeared from behind the wagon. She had a hairbrush in one hand and walked quickly forward. Her figure was full and curvy, made that much more obvious by the simplicity of her light muslin dress that showed off her curves rather than hiding them. She looked from Tabitha to Estelle, her eyes lingering on the latter.

You showed up, she said.

Estelle blinked and started to look around again. The woman smiled.

We had a bet, Tabitha said. The last three women didn’t show. I said you would. It was your name. I liked it immensely. It sounds like an artist’s name. Are you an artist?

Estelle shook her head.

Too bad, said Tabitha. I’d love to know an artist.

The driver spit his thick brown goo to the ground and said, Let’s go already.

Tabitha waved him off. Don’t mind Henry. He likes to act tough but he’s a pussycat.

Henry smiled crookedly at Estelle. His hair was dark brown with streaks of gray, though he looked too young for gray hair. Thirty, maybe only twenty-nine. His face had the same gray tinge, and Estelle realized it was more likely dust than age that had set in on him.

I’m Heidi, said the woman with tangled hair as she pulled her brush through a mass of knots. It made ripping sounds as she yanked, and the woman grimaced. Both women were covered in dirt and sweat, the hems of their dresses caked with mud.

Where’s your stuff? Tabitha asked.

This is it, said Estelle.

The two women exchanged a glance.

Should’ve brought more, said Heidi. We could’ve used more. We’re running low.

On what? asked Estelle.

Everything.

Heidi turned and headed back into the wagon. The other wagons continued to roll past them. Estelle followed as Tabitha climbed in. Neither she nor Heidi wore a petticoat.

Heidi caught her looking and said, It’s too hot for propriety.

The air whipped Estelle’s long blond hair around her head. It was a cool day.

As if reading her mind, Heidi said, You ride long enough, it gets hot. She sat on the edge of the wagon, her legs dangling over the side. Another woman lay stretched out horizontally inside the wagon, her long body curled on its side, her face hidden. Heidi looked at her. That’s Cadence. She’s not feeling well. She paused and frowned. You’re not a healer, are you?

No.

Oh. She shrugged.

You ready? Henry shouted from up front. We want to stay together.

One second! Tabitha called and crawled back out of the wagon, running over to another that had just pulled in behind them. Five women who seemed to be bickering turned as Tabitha approached.

How many wagons are there? Estelle asked Heidi and began pulling at the collar of her dress. She was right; it was hot in here.

Thirty.

Tabitha’s head popped back into view. Henry’s getting riled, she said, delighted. Let’s see how long we can make him wait.

Heidi tsked. Stop teasing that man and get in here.

I want to walk.

You can walk later. I need you to cut my hair right now.

Tabitha’s eyes brightened. They were a bright blue, like the mountain water Estelle was used to seeing near her home. Cut it like mine? Tabitha asked, hopping in.

If you cut my hair like yours, I shall strike you down where you stand. Just cut the ends so that I may run this brush through. She pounded twice on the wagon’s floor, and the wagon pulled away with a jerk.

‘Bout time! Henry shouted.

Tabitha went to her bag and pulled out a pair of scissors just as they went over a bump in the road, if you could call it a road. It was unpaved, a solid path worn down only by those who had traversed it before them.

Heidi’s eyes widened. Careful. Do it fast, before we go over anything bigger than that last one.

Maybe we should wait for an even patch of road, Estelle said.

The women laughed. "This is even for the California Trail, said Heidi. Go on, cut it."

Tabitha held her breath and in three quick movements cut away six inches of chestnut hair and threw it out the back of the wagon.

Heidi reached up and touched her hair. I said trim the ends! she hollered.

I did.

You trimmed too much.

It looks much better, Estelle offered, still clutching her hand to her bag.

Does it? Heidi began brushing it out with fresh ferocity.

The woman who was sleeping, Cadence, rolled over and opened bloodshot eyes. Her face was hot and dripped with sweat. She blinked once, gurgled, and closed her eyes again.

Heidi held her breath. We need a doctor.

Tabitha set her mouth into a thin tight line. I already put out the word. If there’s a doctor or a midwife in line, they’ll come.

Heidi nodded and tried to change the subject to something more agreeable. Why are you heading West? she asked Estelle. A smile played on her lips. Going to the goldfields?

Estelle pressed her lips together, wondering how much to tell these women she had only just met. No. Badpeaks.

The women shrugged. Never heard of it, said Tabitha, stroking the sick woman’s hair. What’s there?

Estelle opened her mouth to say that the man she intended to marry was there but thought better of it. It seemed a little late to be having second thoughts, yet that hadn’t stopped them from coming. Wasn’t there some saying about a woman’s second marriage being twice as hard? Estelle shook the thought away.

Family? asked Tabitha.

No, said Estelle. No family. Just... Her voice trailed off. She looked out the back of the wagon, and the other two women let the subject drop.

A woman with a crop of red curls suddenly appeared in front of her, walking fast enough that she could have outpaced the wagon if she chose to.

I’m Velma Ivy, the woman said. She was in her mid-twenties with pale skin and clover-green eyes. She jumped into the back of the wagon without waiting for an invitation. I hear you’re riding with a sick woman.

Heidi, who’d been getting ready to club the woman over her head with her hairbrush, thinking her an intruder, relaxed and pointed toward Cadence. She’s been like that the last seventy miles or so.

Velma shot her a look. Seventy miles? And you didn’t think to get a doctor sooner?

I checked for a doctor, said Heidi defensively. There weren’t any till now.

I’m not a doctor. I’m a healer, said Velma.

When did you join the wagon train? asked Tabitha.

About twenty miles back.

Velma rolled Cadence over. Her eyes flashed wide but only briefly. Estelle noted they were dark, like her hair, though there was so much red in them it was nearly impossible to tell whether they were blue or brown.

The wagon jerked, and the back wheels went skidding to the left.

Tabitha pounded on the floor. Watch it, Henry!

Henry grunted something back, but it was impossible to make out.

She needs air, Velma said, turning to Estelle and the others. And rest.

That’s all she’s done is rest, said Heidi.

And she has all the air she could want, said Tabitha, pointing to the open back.

I mean real rest, Velma snapped as they went over another bump in the road. Estelle’s stomach lurched. We must stop for the next few nights and let her be. I have medicine I can give her, but it will do no good if she vomits it up.

Heidi laughed. Stop? We can’t stop. Not for that long at least.

Then your friend will die, Velma said matter-of-factly.

I’ll stop, said Estelle. I don’t mind.

Heidi looked at her. It’s not you I’m worried about. Have you any money?

Estelle flushed. A little.

Tabitha dug into her pocket. I have a quarter, she said, handing it over to Heidi. Plus, the two bits you owe me.

Heidi looked at Estelle again. Anything you might spare?

What’s it for? asked Estelle.

Henry.

A bribe? Estelle gasped.

How else are we to make him stop?

Velma reached into her pocket and produced four bits. It’s all I can spare.

Heidi thanked her and returned her gaze to Estelle. If you haven’t any— Heidi began, but Estelle waved her off and handed her two bits. She bit her bottom lip, then handed her two more. Heidi smiled and jumped off the back of the wagon. A minute later, the wagon pulled away from the others and rolled to a stop.

*   *   *

chapter 2

*   *   *

Utah Territory ,

1851

Barrett Graham leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He listened as Nash went on about the latest saloon to spring up in Badpeaks.

It’s not right, I tell you, said Nash. We have more saloons than churches now.

Barrett sighed. It’s not that unusual for a town like this.

Nash grunted. Just because it’s common doesn’t make it right.

Barrett looked over at his deputy. The sheriff’s station was small, and Nash’s desk was no more than three feet away from his own.

Nash had the type of body that other men had to work hard to get. Broad shoulders that led to large biceps and tight muscles of the sort women seemed to swoon over. His dark blond hair and cool blue eyes made him look a few years younger than he was. He could have passed for twenty or twenty-one if he’d wanted, but Barrett knew the man’s true age was closer to twenty-five.

He was a bit of a teetotaler and would probably have gone into preaching if he hadn’t become Barrett’s deputy. Barrett was glad he’d chosen the latter profession. The man made a fine deputy.

Let it go, Barrett said, rubbing his right shoulder. It hurt especially bad today. Barrett wondered, not for the first time, if it would have been better if he’d just lost the arm altogether.

You all right? Nash asked.

Barrett realized he was watching him. He quickly moved his hand to his temples and rubbed there instead. Fine. Headache.

Nash stared at him a moment longer then nodded and looked away. Barrett sometimes wondered if Nash knew more than he let on. If he did, he knew better than to say so.

The door to the station opened, and a gust of late spring wind blew in, followed by Chester Pierce. If Nash was a teetotaler, then Chester was a monk. He stood tall, though not quite so tall as Barrett did when he got himself straight, and he had a few extra years on him that Nash and Barrett were both missing.

His hair was a soft brown and gold that most women called pretty and his ears stuck out from his head. He was wide, but only when compared to very young men or women. He had muscles, but they weren’t developed as much as men like Barrett or Nash, who used them every day. The muscle Chester most often used was his hand, which he used to write out checks, as well as his brain, which he used to plan and build up his businesses. Neither of which was a bad thing so far as Barrett could tell.

Chester had made his fortune at around the same time Barrett had become a deputy. That was... fifteen years ago now. He’d been sheriff for seven. He was in his early thirties and planned on remaining the Sheriff of Badpeaks until either he could no longer do his job, or he died, whichever came first. Most of the time he hoped it would be the latter, especially on days like today.

He moved his hand from his temple to the seat of his chair, where he discreetly sat on it. He would not rub his shoulder in front of Chester Pierce, no matter how much it hurt. The man would zero in on the movement and demand answers to questions that were none of his business.

Do you know what’s going on out there? Chester barked at them. He had a loud voice, the kind that boomed when he talked. It reminded Barrett of the side of a mountain collapsing in on itself. That deafening roar seemed to last forever, even if it was no more than a few seconds.

Out where? Barrett asked, mostly just to toy with Chester. He was a good man, but he also had a real stick in him sometimes that got on Barrett’s nerves.

"Out there! Chester yelled, pointing toward the door. That new saloon is already seeing to it that the men in this town have more than their fair share of drink."

You mean there are drunks out there, Barrett said, not particularly caring. He could see Nash rising to the occasion though.

There were always drunks in Badpeaks, and Chester was always yelling about it. Barrett had more important things to deal with at the moment.

See this? Barrett asked, holding up a sheet of paper covered with words that were not words. EMRG. CX BC. RPRT FR. YL KLD. Emergency. Conditions bad. Report Fire. Young lady killed.

My telegraph machine, Chester said with a smile, forgetting everything else for the moment. His eyes glowed like a child eating his first piece of penny candy. It works!

Barrett smiled back at the man’s excitement. You’d have thought Chester invented the machine himself instead of simply supplying the money for it. No matter how much trouble Chester sometimes was, he always came through when the town needed him. The machine had just been installed a fortnight ago.

It works, Barrett told him. And we’re lucky to have it. There was a fire in Giant’s Point last night. His face turned grim.

Chester’s smile dropped away. Anyone hurt?

Barrett felt his brow tighten. A young lady. Killed.

Chester let out a sigh.

That’s the third one this month, Nash said. You think it’s the wind and the heat?

Barrett shrugged. Fires are common enough in summer, but this ain’t summer yet.

He picked up a piece of bark from the massive sugar pine out front that lay on his desk and began chewing on it. Chester made a face as he did so. Barrett knew perfectly well Chester thought his habit disgusting, but this was better than the tobacco Barrett used to smoke. When his lungs started fighting for air, he’d given up his only vice and started chewing sugar pine. It was a trick he’d picked up from Gawonii, one of the Washoes who came into town from time to time to trade.

Chester pressed his lips together, drew in a breath through his nostrils, which flared considerably, and said, Roscoe, Beck, Morgan, and my own nephew, Archie, are falling all over each other as they walk through the center of town.

Barrett touched his fingers together. Archie’s your kin and Morgan’s your head man at that fancy hotel of yours, so why don’t you handle them yourself? They’re more likely to listen to you than me.

Archie and Morgan I can handle just fine, but the others... Chester’s dark eyes seethed. Tight lines ran across his forehead, opening wider the angrier he got until it seemed the one in the middle might swallow his face.

Are they harassing anybody? asked Nash.

"They’re harassing everybody, Chester said. One of them nearly ran down poor Mrs. Hensley as she was making her way home from the general store."

She okay? Barrett asked, taking it a little more seriously now. Nash straightened as well, his hand tapping the butting of his gun. Mrs. Hensley was as old and sweet as they came. The entire town cared for the woman as if she were their own mother.

She’s fine, said Chester. I managed to pull her aside before Roscoe stomped right over her.

Barrett stood up, setting his sugar pine aside. His tall frame—several inches over six feet—cut an imposing figure. His dark hair and dark blue eyes gave him a slightly menacing look. Barrett was the type of man other men cowered away from in a dark alley. He didn’t need a gun to intimidate, though having one on the holster at his side certainly didn’t hurt. The overall effect was perfect for a lawman, though not particularly advantageous for a man interested in marriage. Women tended to shy away from him.

Want me to come? Nash asked Barrett.

No. If any more news on that fire comes in, I don’t want to miss it.

Nash nodded and shot a look at the telegraph machine. It was still new enough that he eyed it with suspicion. If Samuel Morse himself had come into their station and shown him how to work it, Nash still would’ve thought it an oddity. He was not a man who trusted change, though when pressed, he admitted the invention was a good one.

Barrett followed Chester to where he’d last seen Roscoe