The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1) Read online

  ***

  Isaac pushed through the front door and looked around, surprised to find the main room of the cabin empty.

  “Rebecca?” he called softly, not wanting to startle her.

  The door to the back room was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open slowly, his eyes widening at the sight of his wife’s back. She was fastening the top button of her dress, reaching behind her neck to do it up. The bedcovers were rumpled too, as if she’d recently gotten up from a nap. Maybe delicate, city-bred women needed more sleep than other folks? The thought of her tucked, warm and sleepy, in the bed sheets flashed in his mind. He shook off the image. She loved another man, he reminded himself. The thought stung his pride anew and sent the images of her soft womanly form curled up in bed scurrying from his mind.

  “Uh, are you all right?” he asked.

  She jumped like a child caught with a finger in the frosting.

  “Isaac!” She spun toward him, her eyes wide and startled, as if she hadn’t heard him come in. She still had that flushed-cheeked look of sleep, and there was another expression in her eyes he could only describe as panic.

  “I came to check—to see if you were faring all right.” The truth was he had several bad moments imagining her cornered by some wild beast. The thoughts had haunted his morning, making it impossible to focus on his work. He’d done his best though. After splitting a huge pile of logs and stacking them on the skid to bring back to the cabin, he’d finally given into his need to make sure she was safe.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” She still had a guilty look on her face and quickly turned to straighten up the bedclothes and fluff the pillows on their bed.

  Their bed? That was a laugh. He’d married into a life of celibacy it seemed. His days weren’t much different now, were they? Except now he had a dainty female to worry about. It wasn’t fair. Marriage was supposed to mean love and having a woman he could call his own, in every way. But Rebecca didn’t really belong to him, not when her heart belonged to another. A flicker of resentment sprung up in his heart, making him square his jaw and stiffen his shoulders.

  “Well, so long as you’re all right...” he trailed off and stepped back a couple of strides to a safe distance.

  “Oh, stay for lunch.” She whirled toward him again, pushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

  He couldn’t say no with her hopeful eyes trained on him like that. And he noticed how pretty she looked with her reddish-gold hair braided and pinned up. A few loose strands framed her cheeks and made her look wholly feminine. Dipping his head in a curt yes, he helped her stoke up the fire and hauled in a fresh bucket of water from the barrel outside.

  ***

  While Isaac finished some chores he said he needed to complete in the lean-to, Becky worked on lunch. She could still feel her heart thumping too fast in her chest as she cooked. If he’d come home any earlier, she would’ve been outside with Siren in the forest. Or he might’ve caught her with her gun in hand, guarding Siren from the bear. Explaining her absence from the cabin or her stance by the back door would have been interesting, to say the least.

  Should she tell him about the bear? Her shoulder muscles seized up into a knot just at the thought. How could she tell him anything? If she did, she’d also have to admit she’d ridden to the stream with Siren when she’d promised to stay near the house.

  He wouldn’t like that.

  He’d like it even less if he found out she’d seen a bear.

  Instead she hid a sigh of relief that he hadn’t caught her, making sure to check her skillet frequently and not get caught up in her thoughts. Encouraged from her success at breakfast, she was determined to serve Isaac a good, non-blackened meal.

  Isaac returned and sat at the table. Feeling inordinately pleased with her success at the stove, Becky placed a platter of evenly browned venison sausages and quick cornmeal rolls before him.

  “Thank you again for my horse.” She smiled at him. “She’s a real beauty.” Did he have any inkling how much his gift meant to her?

  “You have to have a horse up here,” he mumbled, as he munched on a roll.

  His expression of pleasure filled her with delight. He liked it. She opened up a can of pickled beets she’d found in the kitchen cabinet and scooped some onto his plate.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” He pulled out the chair beside him so she could sit. Before she could answer, he’d already tossed a roll and a couple of links of sausage onto her plate from the platter in the center of the small table.

  Becky perched on her chair and cut up her sausage and roll into neat little ladylike bites. Remembering Melody, Jack’s genteel Southern bride, Becky even sliced the pickled beets into perfect little wedges, speared them with her fork, and nibbled at them as delicately as she could. She’d had her fun this morning riding bareback on Siren—she’d even had a brief face-to-face encounter with danger to liven up the day—but now it was back to the business of being a wife, and that meant being a lady. Her efforts to appear the perfect lady didn’t stop her thoughts from wandering to her plans to hunt this afternoon. She’d made a mistake this morning forgetting her gun. That wouldn’t happen again.

  ***

  Isaac tucked into his meal with pleasure, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from drifting over to Rebecca now and then. She was sitting as pretty as you please, as if she were visiting the Queen of England for tea. A sinking feeling hit him. She belonged with a proper, citified gentleman, not with a rough logger out here in the wilds of the mountains.

  Was this Jack fellow of hers a tailor? Or a banker maybe? Probably some highly educated fellow with a decent home, complete with an indoor water pump. Maybe he even had one of those shiny white porcelain baths with the gold claw feet. Folks in fancy houses had things like that. Isaac swirled the cooled goat’s milk in his glass and chugged it down in a rush. He pushed away from the table, unhappy with the turn of his thoughts, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He stopped mid-swipe when he saw the startled expression on Becky’s face. She likely was used to a man with manners too.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  ***

  Ma’am? Becky jumped up, her heart sinking at Isaac’s stiff-sounding words. What had she done now?

  “Will you be late this evening?” she asked, confused.

  “I— Probably. Yes.” He backed toward the front door and yanked it open. “Stay near the cabin, Rebecca.”

  “Of course.” Becky watched him leave.

  She crossed the room and leaned her forehead against the door Isaac had just shut, half-wishing he’d stayed so they could go off hunting together as she’d done with Jack for so many years. In fact, she longed to have just a few short minutes where she could just be herself with her new husband, to not have to pretend to be something she wasn’t. She even half dreamed about him liking her the way she was. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  What a fruitless thought. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? No man wanted a hoyden for a bride. Jack had taught her that.

  After waiting to make sure Isaac was good and truly gone, Becky gathered up her rifle from under the bed and got to the business of hunting their evening meal.

  ***

  Well after dark that evening, Isaac dragged himself up the front steps of the cabin. His boots felt heavy. Even his hat felt heavy. His resentment had returned and festered all afternoon, until now he didn’t even want to see Rebecca again. He hadn’t signed up for a wife in the first place. What he wouldn’t give to offer Pop a piece of his mind. He’d been tempted to do just that earlier, but his conscience had made him hold his tongue. What use was it railing against Pop? Isaac was stuck with the problem of Rebecca. And that was exactly how he felt—stuck.

  As he poked his head through the door, he heard the sound of her humming loudly to herself. The tempting scent of roasted fowl made him dizzy with hunger. His stomach gave an answering growl.

  Straightening a bit at the welcome smell, Isaac entered and hung his hat on the peg near the door. He pus
hed out of his muddy boots too and set them against the wall underneath his hat. His coat he threw over the rocker next to the fire to dry off the chilly spring mist that had clung to him on his ride home.

  Home.

  The smell of a home-cooked meal certainly had a way of softening his attitude right fast.

  He looked into the kitchen area. Rebecca was bustling about in one of her ridiculously wide skirts. She bent and stretched in a graceful ladylike way, as she set plates on the table and arranged cups and forks just so. She may not have been frontier-sturdy, but he had to admit he liked the look of her standing there.

  “Evening.” Isaac cleared his throat, noticing how she jumped and spun toward him. At least she stopped humming that little tune she seemed to like so much, the one that reminded him of Jack.

  “Isaac.” She sounded nervous, and he noticed her twisting her hands together at her waist. “You must be hungry after working all day.” She smoothed her skirt and checked her hair, which was neatly plaited and rolled into a bun at the base of her neck.

  “Pop come by?” he asked, looking at the roasted feast.

  She just smiled at him, which he took to mean yes.

  “Must have been busy hunting this afternoon. I wondered where’d he gotten to.” He eyed the spread of food on the table, his mouth watering in anticipation. “We’re getting low on venison. I’ve been planning to go out hunting myself soon. Mighty nice of him to rustle up a bird for us, all trussed and ready to go.”

  ***

  At Isaac’s words, Becky let go the breath she was holding.

  “Mmm,” she mumbled noncommittally. Never mind the hours she’d spent flushing out that wild pheasant, then cleaning and cooking it. Isaac assumed his father had brought the game, which neatly solved her problem of having to explain where the meal had come from. She smiled vaguely and ducked her head so he couldn’t see the guilty blush that was warming her cheeks.

  Seeing her husband’s eager expression had made all the work worthwhile, but part of her wished to take the credit for her skill with a gun, in her ability to provide a hearty meal for the towering, hungry man at her side. Well, humility was a virtue, right along with patience, and Isaac would scarcely approve of her toting a gun and riding bareback through the forest.

  After they’d seated themselves at the table and Isaac had polished his plate—twice—Becky rushed to clean up, her eagerness to please spilling out in restless energy. She could do this. Her double life would simply have to remain a secret.

  After dinner they sat for a while. Isaac pored over his ledger, and Becky sewed an edge around the new cleaning cloths she was making from some scraps of fabric she’d brought in her trunk. She felt at peace sitting there with him. The silence in the air was a comfortable, companionable one, and even though she didn’t much like sewing, she found the task satisfying tonight. Relaxing.

  Isaac yawned and stood, tucking his notebook under his arm. “Goodnight.” He backed toward the potato-sack curtain. “Gotta get up early and milk the goat.”

  “Isaac,” Becky said, looking up at him uncertainly, “I know we got started on the wrong foot, but I want you to know I want to be a good wife for you.”

  He swallowed at that and pulled on his collar.

  “I— Thank you. Well, goodnight.” He gave her a brief solemn nod and ducked behind the curtain.

  Becky stared across the room, as if by looking she could bring him back out to talk to her. How could she ever become a wife in truth when he ran off every night? A married couple shared a bed. How long would Isaac choose to sleep alone? He hadn’t seemed to understand her little hint about being a good wife either. She couldn’t possibly ask him straight out if he ever intended to make theirs a real marriage. Could she? She shrugged. This was only the second night he’d slept out here, so perhaps she should simply wait and see. Surely he couldn’t hold Jack over her head forever? She walked slowly into the room at the back.

  Much later, after lying awake for over an hour, Becky couldn’t shake the feeling that her marriage was in trouble. Maybe she was being foolish. They barely knew each other, so maybe they just needed more time to get to know one another. But when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of running after an elusive dark-haired man—a man she desperately needed to catch, but who stayed out of reach.

  ***

  A little over a week later, Isaac headed out to the lean-to as he did every morning. As usual he pondered over his life in these early morning hours, when all was quiet and tinted with a muted blue. The mountains rose up all around him, and as he crossed the clearing, he felt like he was the only person in the world in that moment. Except he was all too aware that he wasn’t the only person in the world. Rebecca was always on his mind. What was he to do about her?

  Pop continued to stay with Brody. Except for dropping off the occasional bird he’d brought down, he kept to himself, perhaps hoping that in time everything would work itself out. Isaac suspected that was his father’s hope anyway. He wanted grandchildren, he’d said. Rebecca had said early on that she wanted children too. It seemed like he was the only one standing in the way of their plans.

  It wasn’t like he didn’t want children. He actually liked children—the few he’d been around—and had always thought he’d be a father someday. He might have pursued finding a wife earlier, but the business had consumed him. It took a lot to build something from the ground up, and he’d put his all into it.

  Perhaps it was pride standing in his way now, but the idea of taking Rebecca as a true wife while her heart still belonged to another... Well, it didn’t sit right. It didn’t sit right at all.

  The lean-to was chilly and not for the first time, Isaac considered boarding it up proper and calling it a barn. He sat on the stool and began milking the goat, all the while mentally preparing for the worship service they planned to go to later that morning. The scriptures he’d read first thing that morning were fresh in his mind, and his prayers kept returning to the problem of Rebecca. One inner voice urged him to send her back home, but another voice spoke of commitment. He’d said vows before God to love and keep her till death do them part. Those weren’t words he was willing to dismiss lightly.

  “What’s her name?” His wife’s voice was suddenly in his ear, quite close.

  Isaac jumped. The goat bleated at him.

  “Sorry, girl.” He patted her side and resumed milking her with slow, careful hands. He glanced over his shoulder toward the subject of his thoughts.

  Rebecca stood watching him, leaning over the rail and peering in at them with curious eyes. He was surprised to see her out this early. She usually left him to his morning chores, and most times he’d get back inside the cabin and find her preparing breakfast.

  “What’s her name?” she repeated.

  “Name? The goat?” He looked at the goat dumbly. It was a goat. He’d never gotten much further than that. She gave them a daily supply of milk, but other than that she was generally a nuisance. She liked to butt down the stall door. And whenever she got loose, she’d eat what few vegetables he was able to grow in the summer. She also liked to nip at his shirts and underthings when he hung them out on the line. If he was lucky. Most times she’d tug the whole line down and drag it through the mud.

  “Yes, the goat,” Rebecca said, a pleasant-sounding smile in her voice. “Don’t tell me she hasn’t got a name?”

  There was something nice about hearing a woman’s voice in the morning. It reminded him a little of when he was young, and his mother had chatted with him in soft tones while they ate breakfast. As if speaking too loud would jar them too quickly out of whatever dreams they’d had the night before.

  Rebecca’s soft voice put him much in mind of those times.

  “All right. I won’t.” Isaac focused on his milking.

  “She doesn’t have a name?” Rebecca pressed. “How can you have an animal that doesn’t have a name?”

  “Never gave it much thought. She’s good for milk, but other than that
she’s nothing but trouble, always munching on the laundry.”

  “Well, then I think your choice is clear. Either you call her Milky or you call her Trouble.” Her teasing tone brought a reluctant smile to his lips.

  “Well, then, if I have to choose, then I guess she’s Trouble.” The real Trouble was standing behind him, her elbow propped against the top of the rail, her chin cupped in one dainty hand.

  “Can you show me how to milk her?”

  He glanced back at her in surprise.

  “I can do it. I know I could.” She looked so earnest, like she really wanted to try.

  He scanned her doubtfully. He could see the outline of her skirt through the gaps in the stall door. That silly hooped skirt she was wearing would take up nearly a whole stall.

  “...and that way,” she continued, her tone half practical, half tempting, “I could milk the goat in the morning, and you wouldn’t have to get up so early. I could feed the chickens too.”

  Her offer brought to mind their conversation from about a week or so ago. He knew she was curious about their sleeping arrangements, but if he slept with her, his commitment to her would be doubly binding.

  It was too complicated. And it wasn’t something he felt comfortable talking about with a lady. And especially not with her. It just didn’t seem proper somehow, even if she was his wife.

  The truth was she was just his wife on paper.

  “Would you show me?” She was persistent—he’d give her that.

  He stood and swept an arm out toward the stool. “Be my guest.”

  She unlatched the stall door and swung around the edge, somehow pressing her wide skirt through the narrow opening. Lifting the hem slightly, she managed to seat herself on the low stool, her skirt making a wide circle around her like a fabric-covered birdcage of some sort. With a little laugh, she gazed up at him with expectant eyes. He gave her a nod, and she turned back to the goat purposefully. He was reminded of the women he’d seen once as a boy in a newspaper office, their fingers poised over their typewriters. Where had that been? San Francisco? It was so long ago, he couldn’t remember.