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Chapter One
Catherine
The proposition of being married to a stranger held mystery and allure the entire stagecoach ride—three days of rattling and rolling across the open prairie—just until the driver called the horses to a halt in front of the general store in Liberty, Montana. This was the end of the line, where my future husband would be waiting for me. My heart thumped so hard I couldn't imagine it not being noticeable to all, either by beating its way out of my chest or by the sound of its frantic beats. My palms dampened my white gloves and breathing was even more difficult within the confines of my tight corset. My future was beyond the wooden door of the stage. Once I stepped out, my life, I knew, would alter dramatically.
Herbert Beecham had wanted me as his wife, at least until he found me unbuttoning the very top of my blouse beneath my neck one day outside of church. It had been stifling and I was overcome from the heat and thick humidity. The ruffled edge of the high collar was claustrophobic and hot and tickled my chin. With that sole button undone, no one would notice a change, nor would any skin show. It only relieved the constriction about my neck so I didn't overheat and swoon at his feet. Instead of being concerned for my welfare, he'd labeled me a harlot in front of the remainder of the congregation mingling on the city sidewalk.
Did I have such low moral values that I wanted to expose my neck to strange men milling around? Was it my hope to lure these same men into my woman's trap as I had him? Mr. Beecham wouldn't be pulled from his soapbox once he began ranting about my wantonness, but he'd retracted his offer of marriage then and there. I'd been mortified, shamed and publicly humiliated. Even now, weeks later and hundreds of miles away, I was haunted by his words and wore my most severe, and modest, of dress.
Left without other prospects—no one would marry me after that public tirade—I had to consider farther afield, having become somewhat desperate. Work for a woman was unattainable without skills like sewing or teaching and without such, there would not be enough money to pay off my father's debt and survive. Thus, my presence in Montana, far from St. Louis, as a mail order bride. It was either the poorhouse or marrying a complete stranger in a strange land.
What did my husband look like? Was he appealing to the eye? Would he be pleasant or cruel? Would he consider me amoral and a slattern like Mr. Beecham had? When I'd accepted Mr. Jake Bridger's marriage by proxy, I'd envisioned a dime novel cowboy, all virile male and bulging muscle. He'd be able to rope a steer, ride a horse and pleasure a woman with mastery and skill. This last was a phrase I'd learned from such a novel and had no real idea what it meant, although it was a dream that kept me company on the long, arduous trek from St. Louis. Perhaps I was amoral and wanton as I'd been viciously painted.
The driver helped me down from the coach as I shielded my eyes from the bright sun. The air was warm, yet refreshing after the confines of my uncomfortable seat. There had been no reprieve since breakfast. Summers in Montana seemed palatable and pleasant, an appealing change to the sweltering streets of a big city.
“Miss Langton?” a deep voice called out.
I looked up, but couldn't see the man with the voice, as the sun was directly behind him. Stepping closer, he broke free of the glare and stood before me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. Oh lord, he was a big man!
As he pulled his hat off, I was able to see he had piercing dark eyes, and equally dark hair that was long at the nape and slightly curled. It was thick and wayward, making my fingers itch to feel how soft it was and to tame it. His jaw was square with dark whiskers, in need of a shave. His lips were full and one corner quirked up in a smile.
This was my husband? He was all the book described and even more. My eyes traveled from his face and over his body. Broad shoulders were covered in a blue cotton shirt, soft from wear and the sun, the sleeves rolled up to expose formidable forearms, all sinewy muscle and tanned skin. His hands were large, and I contemplated what they would feel like against my flesh. I swallowed deeply.
Sweat dotted my brow and I had no doubt the sun wasn't the only culprit. My interest in this man was piqued in a way no other man had done before and he'd only said my name.
“I assume the way you're looking me over that you are indeed Miss Langton,” he prompted, amusement lacing his words.
Oh! I'd been ogling him as if a prized bull. Mortified, I felt my cheeks heat.
“Yes. I'm...so sorry. You must be Mr. Bridger.”
He nodded. “Ma'am. Jake Bridger. I trust that your journey was not too arduous?”
I could only shake my head as the knowledge that I was bound to this man, this man, until death parted us.
“I'm relieved to hear that.” He leaned in close, his eyes darted from mine, to my lips, then back. “You are lovelier than I could have imagined,” he whispered.
My cheeks flamed even hotter, but a thrill ran through me at his pleased words.
“Are you hungry?”
My stomach was filled with butterflies; I couldn't eat a thing. Just the sight of the man made me tongue-tied and flustered. He was my husband! He was so appealing to the eye that it was almost unbelievable. I'd never seen a man quite so handsome before. They grew them well in Montana - a different breed of man entirely.
Mr. Beecham was overweight and balding, with a double chin and pasty complexion. Perhaps my low moral standards had me fortuitously averting a fate that would have been quite unappealing and depressingly lifelong.
“No, thank you,” I murmured.
“If it's all right with you, I'd like to stop at the church to make our marriage even more official,” he said, proffering his arm.
I took it absently. We were legally married, the ceremony taking place in a sterile office in St. Louis, the mail order bride company's clerk acting as Jake Bridger's proxy. It was a typical scenario, wedding in this fashion prior to cross-country travel. It kept both bride and groom from changing their minds at moments just like this one. Why would I back out? The man was utterly appealing to every one of my feminine senses. I was thrilled to be m
arried to him. The very idea he wanted to consecrate the union in a church only endeared me to him all the more.
“We have a ride ahead of us back to the ranch and we won't be returning to town this week, thus the desire for immediacy,” he added as we walked. “You'll be in my bed tonight and I thought you might value the minister's blessing.”
I gulped at the very idea of sharing a bed with this man. The notion was not at all unpleasant. Nonetheless, I was nervous and apprehensive at the daunting, and unfamiliar activity. Would he find me lacking as Mr. Beecham had? And with him, I'd been fully clothed. “Do you think...do you think we can hold off on, um, marital relations until we know each other a little better?"
