Page 8 of The Rancher's Wedding

Estelle was not a dog and she didn’t like being treated like one. If anything, she was more like a cat. And she currently felt like an indoor kitten, looking out the window and seeking freedom. She was willing to do anything to get it.

And that was where Megan’s plan came in.

Solo travel for women had gained a reputation for being unsafe over the previous several decades. Indeed, it seemed as though everywhere Estelle looked, there were stories about what men would do to unaccompanied women on trains as well as admonitions against women giving in to “nomadic flirtations.” It seemed that women who stayed in the town where they had grown up behaved more properly than the nomads who traveled around and didn’t have a reputation to uphold—or, at least, that was what the gentlemen believed. A woman on the road was almost certainly a coquette just waiting for a man to make advances upon her.

The solution, of course, was to travel with a male companion, particularly one who could pass as her husband. Megan, from years of acting training, had developed some skill with stage make-up and could add a moustache and costume herself to pass for an older gentleman. Estelle was impressed. By deepening her voice some, Megan managed to be quite convincing.

They’d pick up the money sent to Estelle via Western Union, get on the train, and the next thing they knew, they’d be on their way to Holden Ranch.

But step one was escaping the house. With the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, there wasn’t much light to go on. Estelle had packed a bag of personal belongings—mainly clothes, including her mother’s old wedding dress, which was nearly a perfect fit on her—and she made her way out of her bedroom. Tiptoeing down the stairs, Estelle was careful to avoid the creaky steps that she had learned from childhood.

She left a note on the front table and placed a jar on top of it to keep from blowing away.

Dearest Father,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. I have left and run off. Please do not come looking for me.

I have my own life and my own wants and desires, and I refuse to give in to some business arrangement I had no part of just because it’s convenient for you and your wealth.

I do not care for Ethan and do not wish to wed him under any circumstances or for any reason.

I hope that you will understand, though I fear you may not.

— Estelle

This wasn’t how it needed to go. Again and again, Estelle had tried to reason with her father and explain to him that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with Ethan. He frightened her. His gaze sent shivers down her spine and, even after several months of sitting with the idea of marrying him, it hadn’t gotten any easier.

She opened the front door and, with a hint of sadness, whispered, “Goodbye, Father,” not sure if she’d ever be able to see him again or if he’d ever forgive her.

***

“You’re quite a handsome man, you know,” Estelle said to Megan.

“In that case, maybe you don’t need to go all the way to Utah,” Megan teased in her deep masculine voice, dressed in her suit, hat, and false moustache. “You and I could get married right here.”

Estelle laughed. “If you were truly a man, Megan, I’d marry you in an instant.”

They walked to the city center, where they could take a wagon to the train.

“What did you end up telling your mother?” Estelle asked.

“I told her I was taking a trip to visit my cousin.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes,” Megan said. “She lives out in Kentucky and she’s my father’s niece, so my mother won’t be checking in on me.”

Estelle was barely listening. She was too nervous. In all her life, she’d never done anything like this.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Megan asked.

“No, but I certainly know that I don’t want to stay and be married to Ethan.” Even the name tasted bad in her mouth, as if she had just eaten something bitter that refused to go away.

They took a wagon to the train station, which was located right next to a Western Union office, as the telegraph line followed the tracks.

Estelle walked inside. She had never had a telegraphic transfer before and wasn’t quite sure how it worked. The operator sat behind the front desk, smoking on a cigar. He tapped the ash out and put it aside once he saw her.

“Can I help you?” he asked, a hint of aggression in his voice, angry at the young woman who had disrupted his early morning smoke.

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