Their Accidental Bride (Bridgewater Brides) Read online

  Their Accidental Bride

  A Bridgewater Brides Novel

  Kelly Dawson

  Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Dawson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Cover design: Bridger Media

  Cover graphic: Period Images; DepositPhotos: MagMac83

  Welcome to Bridgewater, where one cowboy is never enough! Their Accidental Bride is published as part of the Bridgewater Brides World, which includes books by numerous authors inspired by Vanessa Vale’s USA Today bestselling series. This is a steamy standalone read. Enjoy!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Bridgewater Brides World

  Want to read more?

  About the Author

  Also by Kelly Dawson

  1

  ELISE

  * * *

  “You will marry him!” John, my brother, stabbed a finger in my general direction from where he sat behind the large, ornate desk that had once belonged to our father. One of the few pieces of furniture still left. John had sold nearly everything of value.

  I shook my head. “I will not! He’s mean and cruel.” I shuddered, thinking of Mr. Yates, the man John wished for me to marry. He frightened me, with his small, mean eyes, big booming voice, and the two pistols he wore under his coat. Once, I saw him slap a woman in the street, causing her to fall to her knees. No, Mr. Yates was not a man I wished to marry.

  I boldly met my brother’s gaze. “I do not love him.”

  “This isn’t about love, Elise.”

  “No.” I cut my brother off. “It’s about money. Everything’s about money, isn’t it?”

  John had whittled away the fortune our father had left for us, and Mr. Yates was wealthy. John had promised him my hand in marriage as payment for the substantial gambling debts he owed and Mr. Yates had accepted this arrangement, spreading the word all over Philadelphia that I was to be his wife. He was even planning an engagement party, predicted to be the biggest even of the year. Everyone who was anyone in Philadelphia society would be there. Except I couldn’t go through with it. The very thought of becoming Mrs. Yates made me feel sick. I did not want to spend the rest of my life living in terror.

  No doubt John also figured having a rich brother-in-law would guarantee him future funds, and he would be able to carry on living, and gambling, in the manner to which he had become accustomed. I had no such delusions. Mr. Yates was as selfish as he was cruel. Once he had me where he wanted me – under his thumb, living in fear for my life, entertaining his business cronies – John’s access to any potential funds would dry up. I had no doubt.

  “I will not marry him,” I said again, more forcefully this time.

  John slapped his palms against the desktop, the loud crack of his hands against the wood making me jump. His chair scraped backwards as he stood up and anger flashed across his face as he leaned forwards across the desk in a threatening manner. John was used to getting his own way. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Especially not by me. Fear welled up in my throat. John and I had never been close. He was much older than me and our mother had died in childbirth while having me. John blamed me for her death. I had never believed he hated me, but he had never been particularly kind. I was an annoyance to be tolerated, rather than a baby sister to love and care for.

  I swallowed back my fear and stood my ground. I wasn’t as afraid of my brother as I was of Mr. Yates. John might be desperate, but he was my brother! Surely he wouldn’t hurt me! At least he hadn’t done in the past, when our father had been alive. My heart pounded as John and I looked at each other, then he rounded the desk and stood in front of me, fury contorting his face into an ugly frown.

  “You will marry him!” His loud voice was laced with anger.

  “I will not!” I yelled bravely back.

  Now, as we stood toe to toe, staring at each other, I realized I was wrong. John cared not a whit about me; he only cared that I do as he bid. He raised his hand to strike me and I turned and fled.

  I could hear his footsteps pounding on the carpeted floor behind me as I ran from the room, but the accident John had been in last year was my saving grace – his limp slowed him down.

  “Come back here!” he yelled. “You cannot hide from me!”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I picked up my skirts and ran down the stairs, knowing John could not follow at this fast pace. He would have to hold the banister and pick his way carefully, otherwise he would fall.

  “You cannot run from your future!” my brother yelled from the landing as I flew into the kitchen and out the back door, onto the street.

  As I ran, my fingers instinctively felt for the coins I’d secreted, sewn into the lining of my skirt. Good. They were still there. The few gold eagles I’d saved from my brother’s gambling were my path to freedom.

  But where would I go? My family was well known in this part of Philadelphia thanks to our father’s business success, and my brother was feared, almost as much as Mr. Yates. John was used to getting what he wanted, and had used our father’s money to ensure he did. He had dangerous men at his beck and call, always ready to do his bidding. They weren’t aware that John’s funds had dried up and they would stop at nothing to carry out my brother’s orders. I didn’t know anybody who would hide me or protect me. Nobody would be willing to go against my powerful brother, and he was far more desperate to marry me off than I had realized.

  Not wanting to draw attention to myself by running down the street, I slowed to a walk.

  My only hope was in Mrs. Whittaker, who ran the mail-order bride business. I had often looked at her sign with curiosity when I was out shopping, but I had never been inside. There had never been a need; I had no shortage of suitors. Unfortunately John had chased all of them, except for Mr. Yates, off.

  There was an abundance of lonely men out West looking for a wife, and Mrs. Whittaker’s trade was brisk. In the last month, she had found husbands for three of my friends. Perhaps she would be able to help me, too. With a bit of luck, I could be on a train out of Philadelphia this afternoon.

  The front door of Mrs. Whittaker’s creaked as I opened it, and I winced at the sound. My arrival announced, Mrs. Whittaker came through another door from somewhere beyond and beckoned to me to follow her into a small parlour. She indicated a chair against the wall, inviting me to sit.

  As I sat, Mrs. Whittaker looked me up and down doubtfully. I couldn’t say I blamed her – she knew my family. I was sure she knew I was sorely lacking in everything required of a wife out on the Frontier. I was pretty. But a man out West probably needed more than just pretty.

 
“Can you cook?”

  My smile faltered. I could not cook. I had spent three years in Lady Margaret’s School for Girls, learning to host dinner parties and such things. I could smile and laugh graciously, dance, and manage household staff. I could do needlepoint. I was well versed in skills befitting a lady. Cooking was not among them.

  But I refused to let my hopes be dashed so soon and I nodded, avoiding Mrs. Whittaker’s knowing gaze.

  There was a long pause. She didn’t believe me. So I looked up at her. “Please, I’m desperate. I have to get away.” I didn’t want to beg, but anything was better than becoming Mrs. Roger Yates. “I have money. Not much, but some.” For reassurance, I silently traced the outline of the hard discs with my fingers. I would part with them all, if I had to. I would pay her whatever she asked, if only she would help me escape.

  Mrs. Whittaker did not smile. But she did nod and stand up. I couldn’t imagine I was the first woman to come to her desperate. She rifled through a table in the corner for a moment and came back, thrusting a tatty photograph at me. “Coleton Mallone,” she told me. “From the Montana Territory. He wants a wife who can cook for a team, keep house, and is pleasant to look at.”

  I watched her eyes scan down the piece of paper she was holding, perhaps a letter that accompanied the photograph. “He says he is kind, and will treat a wife well.”

  I ran my finger over the rough edge of the likeness and breathed a sigh of relief. The Montana Territory was far away. I would be safe there.

  In the small, grainy image, my soon-to-be husband wasn’t smiling. In fact, his unkempt eyebrows and carefully waxed mustache gave him a rather stern expression, but his eyes were kind. Just as he’d said in his letter. Momentarily, guilt washed over me. I was not what Mr. Mallone was looking for. But I swallowed, steeling myself. I could learn, and I would learn, to do everything Coleton required of me, if only he would provide me with a safe home. Although the likeness showed a stern man, he was handsome too, and butterflies danced inside me. His shoulders were broad and he looked strong – attributes I found very attractive. Lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes and mouth showed that he liked to laugh. My stomach flipped in excitement.

  “That settles it then.” Mrs .Whittaker stood up. “I will wire Mr. Mallone and tell him you’re coming. You go home and pack what you need. Just what you need, mind. Life is very different in the Montana Territory. You will have no need of a dozen different gowns. But you will need a workaday dress.”

  I felt my face pale as the older lady’s gaze scrutinized me.

  “There is a train in the morning,” she said. “Make sure you’re on it.”

  “In the morning?” I whispered, almost numb with fear. I couldn’t let John find me! Where could I hide? Where could I go until then? “I… I can’t…” my voice trailed off. “My brother… I can’t go home.” How would I wait until the morning?

  Mrs. Whittaker frowned, walked to the window, and peered out around the curtain. “Did anyone see you come here?” she asked me.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You can stay here,” Mrs. Whittaker told me. “But you must be careful. I don’t want trouble brought here.”

  Relief washed over me and I felt much of the tension leave my body. Mrs. Whittaker had obviously done this before. In her home I would be safe, as long as I could get my things without John seeing me. My fear and uncertainty must have been visible on my face because, again, Mrs. Whittaker took control.

  “Wait until that worthless brother of yours goes to the saloon this evening,” she suggested. “Pack your suitcase, put it out the back, and return here. I will have a boy collect it.”

  I must have looked doubtful, for she stepped closer to me, reached out and touched my hand. “Don’t worry,” she reassured me. “I have helped many women in your situation. They were all afraid too, and I got them out safely. By the time he realizes you are gone, you will be on the train headed west and into the arms of Mr. Mallone.”

  I swallowed. No doubt the security Mrs. Whittaker was offering me would not come cheap. But I would pay it willingly. “How much do I pay you?”

  Mrs. Whittaker shook her head. “Nothing. Mr. Mallone has already paid more than enough. He has sent money for a train ticket, too.” For the first time, Mrs. Whittaker smiled. “I hope you find happiness, Elise. I know life hasn’t been easy for you.”

  How did she know that? I opened my mouth to speak but Mrs. Whittaker shook her head, silencing me. “It’s my business to know,” she told me. “This is what I do. You will be fine.”

  I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and repeated Mrs. Whittaker’s words over and over in my head. I will be fine. I will be fine. Mentally, I listed the things I would need to take with me to my new life. There wasn’t much I wanted, it would all fit in one suitcase. I settled back in the chair in Mrs. Whittaker’s parlour to wait until it was time to go and pack my things and sadness welled up within me. Tomorrow morning I would be leaving behind the only place I had ever known and I wasn’t even able to say goodbye.

  * * *

  3 weeks later…

  * * *

  The whistle blew, startling me, and the train pulled into the station. Quickly, I tucked the likeness that I had been staring at back into my valise and stood. A few of us disembarked, and I looked around expectantly for Coleton, as the porter retrieved my suitcase. I couldn't see him. There were people everywhere; men, women and children filling the wooden boardwalks, horses and carriages riding down the wide, dusty street. But none looked anything like the stern but good-looking man burned into my memory.

  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.