Bride of the Wolf. Susan Krinard

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      But she was still afraid. Afraid of the horses that seemed to be everywhere, snorting and stamping. Afraid of the riders who stared at her as if she were a rare and exotic beast in a cage—she, who was as plain as a sparrow.

      She straightened and lifted her chin. Let them stare. They would never see her nervousness. She had as much right to be here as anyone.

      Mrs. Jedediah McCarrick. Ellie Lyndon would cease to exist, along with her past. No more loneliness. No more taking any employment she could find, hoping that she might at last outrun the scandal. The end of wondering where her next meal would come from. Of fearing to get close to any man, lest he turn his back on her.

      Lest he be like Louis.

      She shook off the thought. Here she could be useful. Here she would never be tempted to return to what she had become.

      Here she could forget.

      A cowhand tipped his hat as he rode by. She nodded, unsmiling. A spotted hound wandered past the door, wagging its tail. She offered a pat. Dogs had always been kind to her. Forgiving.

      The sun sank a little lower, driving long shadows before it. She had sent a letter to Jedediah informing him of the anticipated date of her arrival, but the stagecoach had been late. Apparently he had decided not to wait in town all day.

      Lamps were lit inside the houses and public buildings, such as they were. The saloon door swung open, and a pair of inebriated men staggered out, singing off-key. Rachel hugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

      Everything had gone so well until now—at least compared to the rest of her life. She’d advertised in the Matrimonial News, only half daring to hope that some respectable man from a place far away from Sheffield, Ohio, might respond. I am a single woman, aged twenty-eight, dark haired and with brown eyes, five feet four inches tall and slender, seeking correspondence with an honorable man of some means. Hardworking, excellent housekeeper, experienced in teaching and good with children.

      Jedediah McCarrick had been the fourth to answer. His reply had been the best that could be hoped for: Dear Miss Lyndon, I am a gentleman of fifty-two years, height five feet ten inches. I own a ranch in Texas and am seeking a wife who will work hard to make Dog Creek a going concern.

      There was nothing the least romantic in it. Why should there be, when there had been nothing the least romantic in her advertisement? Indeed, he met her needs perfectly. He owned property, so she would never be without food or shelter; he would not be a doddering old man at fifty-two, and he wanted exactly what she could provide.

      And he had said nothing about wanting children of his own.

      The wind, so warm during the day, had grown cooler. So much hope rested on this meeting. Hope she had not dared allow herself for so long.

       “Fräulein?”

      The owner of the store, a small, wiry German with a sharp, friendly smile, bustled up beside her and introduced himself. “I could not help but notice that you are still waiting, Fräulein Lyndon,” he said with what appeared to be genuine concern. “Wouldn’t you like to come in? I have coffee, and it is much more comfortable inside.”

      Rachel summoned a smile, warmed by the offer in spite of her wariness. Perhaps people really were different here.

      “That is kind of you, Mr. Sonntag,” she said, “but I prefer to remain here.”

      Mr. Sonntag gave her a long, quizzical look. “You are a relative of Herr McCarrick’s, Fräulein?”

      Her throat tightened. “Yes. I am.”

      He waited for further revelations. When none were forthcoming, he nodded briskly and vanished into the store.

      So no one knew. Surely if anyone in Javelina had guessed her purpose in coming, the owner of one of the town’s few businesses would be aware of it.

      But she had not really deceived him; she would be Jed McCarrick’s relative in a matter of days, if not sooner.

      Mrs. Jedediah McCarrick.

      The thought kept her from panic as another hour passed, and then another. She grew colder. Something must have kept Mr. McCarrick. Perhaps his wagon had broken down or there had been some emergency at the ranch.

      The noise from the saloon increased. Rachel picked up her bag. Perhaps it would be best if she went inside rather than make a spectacle of herself, or become an object of derision. She turned to open the door.

      The rattle of wheels stopped her. A wagon—a buckboard, they called it—had drawn up in front of the store. The lean, dusty man on the bare plank seat touched the brim of his hat as he settled the horses.

      “You Miss Lyndon?” he asked.

      Relief nearly choked her reply. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”

      The man’s face clouded. “Well, ma’am, it’s like this. Jed ain’t coming.”

      She barely registered the words. “I beg your pardon?”

      There was no mistaking the man’s discomfort. He squirmed on the seat and cleared his throat.

      “Jed sent me,” he said, “to tell you that he’s changed his mind.” He felt inside his coat and produced a leather pouch. “Jed said to give you this, for fare back to Ohio and a little extra for your trouble.”

      Rachel had never swooned in her life, but the weakness in her legs was such that she feared she might not keep her feet. “There must be some mistake,” she whispered.

      “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The man held out the pouch. Rachel raised her hands as if she could ward off disaster before it could truly become real.

      Changed his mind. It was not possible.

      “I do not believe it,” she said, finding her courage again.

      The messenger let his hand fall. “I only know what he told me. If you’d only—”

      “I wish to be taken to Dog Creek.”

      “I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.”

      Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps she would only face further humiliation and the extinction of her last hopes. But she could not go running back to Ohio with her tail between her legs. Not without being absolutely certain.

      “If you will not take me,” she said, “I shall find another way.”

      The man’s expression of embarrassment underwent a rapid transformation. He scowled and pushed the pouch back under his coat.

      “You’re making a mistake, ma’am,” he said. With a curse and a flick of the reins, he sent his horses off at a fast clip. Rachel began to tremble. She had convinced the messenger of her sincerity, but the effort had taken its toll. She felt breathless and weak.

      But the decision had been made. She could not afford to return to Ohio now, even had she wished to. This had become a matter of survival.

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