Page 3 of Their Accidental Bride (Bridgewater Brides 5)

Soon, the train moved off and the passengers dispersed, leaving me alone on the platform. Coleton was nowhere to be seen. I tapped my foot impatiently. Had he forgotten I was coming? Surely not! The letter he had wired before I had left assured me he would be there. We were to stand before the preacher and be married before we journeyed to his ranch to begin our new life together. His words had been full of hope, excitement, and promise. It was inconceivable that he had forgotten me. No, he was just behind. He would be here soon, I reassured myself.

I tilted my head to the sun, shifting my bonnet back slightly so I could feel the gentle breeze on my face, and waited. And waited.

I looked around, surveying my surroundings. Although there were a lot of people and buildings and businesses, Butte was a smaller town than I expected. Much smaller than Philadelphia, anyway. Beyond the town was nothing but rugged wilderness, with mountains visible in the distance. Already I was homesick for the buildings and crowds of home.

As time wore on, my foot got tired of tapping, and I feared that he had, indeed, forgotten. Then, with a little gasp, my hand flew to my mouth. What if he had changed his mind? No! Perish the thought! Perhaps he did not wish for me to be his wife anymore? Perhaps he had somehow discovered my little deception? I had to find out.

But first, I would need to eat. I looked around. I had to go somewhere close for I could not carry my heavy suitcase far. The closest place I could see was a saloon. As I watched, a well-dressed lady went inside, on the arm of a gentleman. It must be a respectable enough establishment if women were among its patrons. It would have to do.

I entered, then ordered my meal and ate quickly, not wanting to waste any more of the day, then I approached the keeper of the saloon. Perhaps he could help me hire a buggy and point me in the direction of Coleton's ranch.

The piece of paper the name of his ranch was written on had gotten crumpled in my valise. I spread it out on the bar and smoothed it out as best I could, but it was still difficult to read. Luckily, he could read enough of it to know the ranch. And he knew Coleton.

I held my breath for a moment as a frown passed over the barkeep's face. He looked down at the paper, then at the ground, then at me. He cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry miss, but Coleton Mallone is dead."

My heart plummeted. I felt all the color drain from my face. I was alone in the Montana Terr

itory. A widow without ever having met my husband.

2

SHANE

* * *

“Will you look at that!"

I looked up at Roscoe's shout and followed where his finger was pointing. A runaway horse, with a buggy bouncing along behind, was streaking across the prairie. A woman, her fair hair flying out behind her, was struggling to control the runaway, standing precariously in the jolting contraption, tugging on the reins, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"With that racket, it's no wonder the horse bolted," I commented, but I didn't miss a beat as I kicked my mount into a gallop alongside Roscoe. No matter the reason for her predicament, the damsel needed to be rescued before she fell out and hurt herself.

Reckless! That’s what she was. Standing up in an out-of-control buggy like that, with no care for her safety at all. What did she think she was doing? She could die. As we pushed our horses to catch up with her, I knew I couldn’t watch another woman die.

Following Roscoe’s lead, I galloped up one side of the runaway horse while Roscoe came up the other. We both leaned far out of the saddle, reaching for the reins, gently easing the animal to a stop. It was then that I was able to get a proper look at the terrified driver. Even with tears streaming down her cheeks and her face contorted in a frightened scream, I could see she was young and very pretty. Far too young and pretty to be racing through the Montana Territory unchaperoned.

I slid down off my horse, leaving the reins dangling. My horse was well trained, he would not move. The lady was trying to be brave, but it was clear she was terrified. Her face was pale, she was shaking, and she was on the verge on hyperventilating. It looked like she’d had a shock. While Roscoe held the panting horse still, I reached for the lady, taking her hands to help her down. Her hands were small, smooth, the nails well kept. She wore no wedding ring. They weren’t the hands of a woman who was used to work. What was a lady who had been so gently reared, doing way out here, alone?

She stepped down and collapsed against me, her small body wracked with sobs. She was trying to speak, but she was crying so hard I couldn’t make any sense of what she was saying.

“Sssshhhh,” I whispered, rubbing her back, holding her close. Her ample breasts brushed against me and my cock hardened in my pants at the closeness of her soft body against mine. It had been a long time since I’d held a woman. Too long. Her feminine curves were perfect. She fitted against me so well. The top of her head didn’t quite reach my chin; the perfect height for me to bend my head to kiss. The top few buttons on her blouse had been torn off, likely in her battle with the runaway beast, and I looked down at her, my gaze resting directly on her heaving bosom. Definitely more than a handful.

My other hand slipped around her trim waist, pulling her in closer.

Her tears wet my shirt but still I held her close. She was awakening desires in me that I thought were long buried and forgotten. When Rose had died, I had vowed I would never want another woman again. And up until now, I hadn’t. But there was something about the woman in my arms. Her vulnerability and fear brought out my protective instincts and her body brought out stirrings of lust. I wanted her. My cock throbbed.

Finally she stopped sobbing and let go of me, reaching for her bag. She pulled out several papers and thrust them at me, still breathing heavily, still looking frightened. She looked ready to flee at any moment. I took the papers and quickly scanned the barely legible script.

“You’re a mail order bride?” Disappointment welled within me. She belonged to someone else.

“The name,” she gasped, still panting for breath. “Do you know him?”

I read the letter her prospective husband had written, outlining the qualities he was looking for in a wife. If the woman standing in front of me met those requirements, she would be a very good wife indeed. She was certainly very pleasant to look at, she had fitted perfectly against me. And if she was a capable cook and able to keep a clean house too, Roscoe and I would have no complaints.

Then I read the name. Coleton Mallone. He was dead and buried. A grisly accident had claimed his life just three days ago.

“Is it true? Is he dead?” she asked, her voice small, tinged with desperation.

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