Hush Little Wylder

By Marilyn Barr

Picture-perfect Abigail Wylder rushes home to save her family’s reputation, but no one knows her behavior while in England is another scandal she must conceal. Will her secret embarrass her family more than her sister’s new mystical in-laws or her father’s deteriorating mind? Unwed and four months pregnant, it won’t be long before her dresses can no longer hide her shame.

Boone Silvers has carried a torch for Abigail Wylder since he was a teenager. When he discovers her baby’s British father has rejected her, he offers to step into the role. He believes he is the luckiest barber in Wyoming with a second chance to have a family after what happened to his first wife.

Secrets swirl around the couple until a tragedy shines a light on all their faults. Will Abigail choose happiness with Boone or do the unthinkable just to save face?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Mar 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781509247837

Marilyn Barr

Biography Marilyn Barr currently resides in the wilds of Kentucky with her husband, son, and rescue cats. When engaging with the real world, she is collecting characters, empty coffee cups, and witchy things. She would love to hear from readers via her website https://www.marilynbarr.com/ where you can get a free book from her! http://www.marilynbarr.com

Book preview

I look like someone dragged me through a field behind a plow, and I’m alone with a man on my mother’s grave. This tidbit of gossip would nourish the mouths of Wylder for months. The worst part is the man in question is the center of the town’s rumor mill.

Since Finn assigned overseeing Pa to me, I’ve learned the rough and tumble men of Wylder are a bunch of clucking hens. Not only do they talk about anyone and everyone, but also, they will gossip about someone in the same room. The offended person will chuckle along and perhaps embellish the story further. By the time Boone finishes telling our story, it will be capital indecent.

Or will it?

I peek through my fingers as his laughter is carried away on the breeze. The corners of his mouth drop in shame. If we were children, the tumble would be funny. I guess our tussle is still funny to him. I lost my ability to laugh at myself after the scrutiny of the last six years. Between my country accent and ignorance of royal titles, the other women saw me as an easy target of ridicule in England.

I’m sorry, I whisper.

Please don’t apologize to me, he says, lifting my fingers away. I can’t imagine you ever making a mistake, let alone causing such a ruckus I would require an apology.

His kind words steal the air from my lungs. Will he feel the same way when he discovers I made the ultimate mistake?

Praise for Marilyn Barr

Marilyn Barr’s gift of transporting readers into historical America convinces them that they belong there. No wonder Dance to a Wylder Beat has won the Crowned Heart Award, the Imadjinn Award, and Second Place in the 2022 National Excellence in Story Telling. Her Wylder books have also been awarded Finalist for the 2022 RONE award by InD’Tale magazine, and Still Moments magazine’s best historical/western romance of 2021.

Hush Little Wylder

by

Marilyn Barr

Wylder West Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Hush Little Wylder

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Patricia AS Reuther

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2023

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4784-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4783-7

Wylder West Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To all Moms: Birth Moms, Adopted Moms, Stepmoms, Single Moms, Chosen Moms, Pet Moms, About-to-be Moms, Moms with strained relationships, Longing-To-Be Moms, and Grieving Moms

Chapter 1

Abigail

Slow down, girl, Pa scolds me in the rented buggy. Our aged horse struggles with foot placement among the ruts and stones, instead of grass, on the trail. Chester hasn’t pulled a wagon in over a year, and he isn’t as spritely as he used to be. If he goes lame on the way out, we will be stuck at Ava’s.

Chester isn’t the only one to have deteriorated in the six years since I left for England—which is why I had to rush home to Wylder—just as my life across the pond was finally coming together. My older brother, Finn’s letters, were frantic pleas for help with our father. We are in danger of losing our stellar reputation because Pa’s mind is starting to go, but his mouth is fully functioning. Finn’s letters also warned me of the increase of ruffians moving into town, the regional quarrels over the Native Americans being moved onto reservations, and the longer-than-usual snow season last winter. You would have thought the world was ending with his rants.

I’m just excited to see my little sister after so many years, I say brightly. I add a sweet smile for emphasis, but Pa’s frown tells me he’s not buying my act. Ava and I fought like Kilkenny cats growing up and some things never change. After finding out from Chet the livery owner she stole my horse, most of Wylder heard me cursing her. I stomped home wearing a scowl scarier than any outlaw. No one approached me as I passed the Five Star Saloon, despite my expensive European fashion.

No fibs, Abby, he says with a smile. Pa is always the peacemaker and tries to convince us to bend like willow trees instead of the rigid prickles of cactus. I like to think I embraced his teachings. Growing up in Wylder, Wyoming Territory, I’ve always been known as the sweet sister. My grades were the best in the town’s schoolhouse, and I’ve never been in trouble with Sheriff Hansen.

I do want to see her. She canceled Lady’s boarding at the livery without asking. At least she left our bedroom furniture in the house! For no other reason, I want the explanations she owes me, like— I pause to pull my lace collar over my nose and mouth. What is that putrid scent?

Your sister married a leather tanner, Pa says between snickers at my peril. What you smell are the urine tanning vats. Ava moved out here when she saw I’m still able to take care of myself. I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve got many more years left in me, just like Chester. Right, Chester?

The horse brays in response to his name, but I’m not convinced. Chester struggles over the gentle hills, even though there is a worn dirt path to the Sagebrush homestead. After an hour’s drive turned into two, a tiny cabin comes into view, and our horse snorts in relief. No relief for our noses.

Unfortunately, as we near the homestead, the stench intensifies. Tiny cubes, which I assume are the tanning vats Pa spoke of, dot the area between the cabin and a large teepee next to a barn. Hides are stretched across frames with their innards hanging off them in a grotesque display. My worst nightmare sits before my eyes. What has my sister done with her life?

Our mother was an untamed woman, like Ava, but she had the sense to give her daughters a fine start in life. Before she died, she secured my place with Cousin Eloise in London to come out on the British social circuit. Ava, who always loved books more than people, went to a beautiful finishing school in New York where she would hopefully meet a suitor who could tolerate her wild ways. Mother was wise to take two different approaches with her two radically different daughters so we could achieve the same goal—the opposite of what sits before my eyes.

Pa! Abby! Ava stands from where she was kneeling before a cowhide and runs to our buggy. I drop my collar and sit straighter. Pa waves and smiles brightly, but I can barely focus on maneuvering the buggy up the drive. My sister, who can’t handle running the counter at our mercantile in town, is scraping the guts from a stretched hide?

She wears a buckskin tunic and leggings slightly darker than the braids thumping against her shoulders as she runs. I pat my pinned, bronze curls in sympathy for her unkempt locks. Pa jumps down and takes Chester’s reins before embracing Ava. Do her flushed cheeks have freckles from working in the sun? How ghastly! The tunic moves as she lowers her arms to reveal a tan line too. She’s no more than a common farm wife after all our mother did to raise us properly.

Where are your gloves and your skirts? Your decorum? I pepper her with questions while she hugs me with too thin arms. Over her shoulder, two large Arapaho men lift a dripping skin from a vat on large poles. The horrible smell intensifies when it splashes into the next vat.

Those silly things would get ruined out here. Come to think of it, you may want to remove your white gloves, sister dear. The fumes coming off the vats will tan them.

Remove my gloves in mixed company? I would never. I pull my handkerchief from my sleeve to cover my nose. The fabric muffles my voice and will probably be tanned as well. We came to retrieve Lady and will be on our way.

Fiddle faddle, Ava says with a wave of her hand. Lady can’t go anywhere in her condition. She’s taken a shine to Fools-Gold and is determined to foal his young—

You are breeding my horse without my permission! My cheeks flame with ire. I will not depend on Chester or my own swollen feet to get around. I can’t be seen traipsing about Wylder when my condition shows. It is on the tip of my tongue to tell Ava why I must have Lady when Pa steps between us.

Now girls, he says in his quiet voice. Lady was a gift to both of you from your uncle when you were children. There must be something we can do.

There is, thunders an Arapaho man from two feet above me. Cold black eyes glare down his proud nose at me. His strength is emphasized by the bulging biceps crossed his chest. As my gaze travels back up the miles of muscle to his expression, it changes. He sees too much.

Far be it from us to stand in the way of a determined…mother-to-be— his rumbling voice and omniscient eyes raise the hairs on the back of my neck—So might I suggest Miss Wylder take Strawberry back to town for the time being. The mare never got on with my wife, who is about a week from giving birth herself. It seems the season for motherhood is upon us or there is something in the water.

I can attest the water is fine, Ava whispers, placing her hand over her flat belly.

Our marriage is young, my heart, says the second Arapaho man in a quiet voice. The Creator will grace us with a baby when we are deemed ready. He loops his arm around Ava’s shoulders and kisses her temple.

He must be Ikshu, her new husband. Thank goodness. He seems much gentler than the tall one who still scowls at me like a judge, jury, and executioner stuffed into one muscular person

I’ll tell Ava, Pa, and all of Wylder about my condition when Pierpont arrives. We will announce our wedding as if we had a long, formal engagement in England. I have until after the wedding, but before my belly shows to get Pa’s affairs in order.

Pierpont and I will return to England as man and wife. We will have our baby in a respectable fashion. As long as no one calculates the timeline too accurately, there won’t be a scandal…and I won’t let a giant, urine-soaked man ruin my plans!

Nartan Sagebrush, this is my sister, Miss Abigail Wylder. It is very kind of you to lend her Strawberry instead of separating our lovebirds. I believe you may be a romantic at heart, she says with a mischievous grin, at which the man deepens his scowl. Abby, this is my husband, Ikshu Sagebrush, and his older brother, Nartan. Don’t mind Nartan’s sourpuss. His face always looks that way.

Please to make your acquaintance, I say quickly to save my sister from herself. I would love to take you up on your generous offer, Mr. Sagebrush.

It would please me to take the temptation to ride from my dear wife, Olive. She doesn’t realize how fragile a woman with child can be, he rumbles with a tilt of his chin. I wish he would quit looking at me as if he can smell my pregnancy amongst the tanning fumes. Pa mentioned Nartan was a medicine man, but it must be my imagination. If he sees the baby within me, will he have the manners to keep my secret to himself?

Fragile? I’m as fragile as the ground you stand on Nartan Sagebrush—fragile, my bloomin’ butt! The feminine roar turns our heads to the porch steps of the cabin. Down waddles a heavily pregnant woman with wild curly hair bouncing on her shoulders. Her bare feet slap against the wooden planks as she joins us. She wears a leather tunic shorter than Ava’s scandalous length and little else.

Olive, meet my sister Abigail Wylder, Ava says with a mouth full of giggles. She takes my hand and drags me to the bottom of the