A Bride in the Bargain (6 page)

Washington Territory

July 8, 1866

Joe took one last glance around the home he’d built for Lorraine. She’d argued strongly against their coming out west, but he’d felt sure it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for them, the likes of which they’d never see in Maine. As a compromise, he came over first to see if it was all he’d expected it to be. It was that and more.

So he’d sent for her, then worked hard to prepare a place, building what was still one of the finest houses in the Territory. He’d even planted a chestnut tree like the one in her parents’ yard in Maine. The only thing he hadn’t done was add the feminine particulars, like wallpaper, curtains, and such. He’d thought to save that for her.

But she’d delayed her arrival, making excuse after excuse for not joining him. And the longer she’d stayed away, the more betrayed he’d felt. And the more betrayed he’d felt, the more the land had seeped into his heart, his soul, until it had eventually replaced the spot that had once been hers.

It offered him company when he was lonely, solace when he was sad. It was steady, reliable, faithful, and beautiful. It became all he needed, all he ever wanted, to the point that even if Lorraine had actually arrived, she wouldn’t have been able to reclaim that part of him that had once been hers.

And neither would some ready-made bride he’d paid three hundred dollars for. He’d marry whomever Mercer brought him, but only to save his land. In exchange for that, he’d give her a roof over her head, food for her belly, and all the pretty dresses she wanted. But he wouldn’t trust her with his heart. That belonged to his land.

Still, he didn’t want her to feel unwelcome. So he’d scrubbed his bachelor quarters from top to bottom, repaired the shingles, fixed the drafts, and piped spring water into the milk room to act as a natural cooling system. The merchant’s wife at Fort Nisqually had ordered wallpaper, rugs, furniture, and even lace curtains for him.

He hadn’t adjusted very well to the resulting transformation. All the niceties made him feel big and clumsy. He liked it better when things were simple. But nothing would be simple after tomorrow.

His gaze moved to the cup of wild flowers on the table. He’d placed them all over the house. It was the only welcoming gesture he could think of. If the boys ever discovered he’d succumbed to such sentimentality, he’d never hear the end of it.

But he had to do something. His bride would most likely feel frightened and out of place. He’d been here for eleven years. He knew all the folks in town. He was accustomed to the rain. He was used to the quiet.

Not so her. The move out west would be difficult. So he’d fixed up the house and stuck a few wild flowers here and there. He was only doing what he’d do for anybody.

He couldn’t help but think it should have been Lorraine, though. If he had to have a bride, it could have at least been the one of his choosing.

Settling his hat on his head, he shook off the thought. They’d married only weeks after meeting, and he’d come to Seattle shortly after. He’d not really known her all that long, and because he’d felt so betrayed, he hadn’t spent a great deal of time mourning her death. No need to dredge it up now.

Turning, he let himself out and headed to the barn. If he was bringing a woman home, he’d need to hitch up the wagon.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Seattle, Washington Territory

July 9, 1866

Situated in a small clearing a quarter of a mile wide and a mile long, Seattle beckoned to Anna’s travel-weary soul. She, Mrs. Wrenne, and two other women from the
Continental
caught their first view of the quaint little hamlet from the side of a plunger, christened
Maria
.

Anna swallowed, anticipation and trepidation warring within her. The thick pine forests she’d dreamed of had been in evidence all along the banks of the Puget Sound and now sheltered the perimeter of her new home.

What she hadn’t expected, though, was to be able to see the Cascade Mountains far in the distance, accentuated by Mount Rainier reigning tall and proud to the south. She had read about the grand mountain in Mercer’s pamphlet, and briefly wondered if snow frosted its majestic peak all year round.

Glancing at the sun that warmed her back, she judged the time to be about five in the evening. Townsfolk began to emerge from clapboard buildings and cottage-style homes, making their way down the hill and toward the wharf.

Did they know Mr. Mercer had arrived in San Francisco with only three dollars in his pocket and no funds to pay for the women’s passages to Seattle?

Did they know a vast majority of women had defected in San Francisco, deciding to make California their place of residence?

Did they know that of all the women they started with, only twenty-five remained? And those had been split up and shipped north in lumber vessels, barks, and plungers?

She scanned the crowd at the dock. A great many men stood still and solemn, watching
Maria’s
approach. Some were as rough-looking as the Californians, some wore the costumes of lumberjacks, and yet others looked as dignified as those from home.

Which one was her employer? Anna removed a slip of paper from her pocket, opening it again to read the name Mr. Mercer had scrawled across it.

Mr. Joseph Denton
.

She lifted her gaze. On the dock, a woman with a child at her skirts smiled and waved. Would she become a friend? Anna waved back and received an enthusiastic response from the men as they whistled and shouted.

Mrs. Wrenne slid her hand into Anna’s. Anna glanced at her and then back at the cheering crowd. Was there really a farmer out there who’d asked Mr. Mercer to bring him a bride? And if there was, what would be his reaction to this sweet elderly woman the girls on the boat had dubbed “Toothless”?

And what would be the reaction of Anna’s employer when he was told he owed Mr. Mercer fifty dollars on her behalf? Because after spending the last seven months in the company of Asa Mercer, she feared he hadn’t consulted Mr. Denton about paying for her passage.

She gripped the railing, her legs suddenly weak.

I want to go back,
she thought. What had she been thinking to leave the only home she’d ever known?

But the
Maria
continued to chug forward, and all too quickly they arrived. The crew cast ropes to the men on the docks. A large, callused hand helped her from the boat, separating her from Mrs. Wrenne.

Trunks and valises were shouldered. Her own bag disappeared into the hands of a portly man walking away with a group of locals who escorted another shipmate, Miss Ida Barlow.

A man with a mouthful of rotted teeth took Anna’s elbow, guiding her along a road filled with packed dirt and sawdust. Men crowded around them, pushing them toward some unknown destination. At least she was going in the same direction as her bag.

“Howdy, miss,” the man escorting her said.

Stiffening, she missed a step.

He squeezed her elbow. “Easy there, darlin’,” he drawled. “You all ri-ight?”

A rebel. What was a rebel doing clear up here?

She gave a gentle tug, trying to pull away, but he held tight. He was dressed a bit more flamboyantly than the other men—a red shirt with a yellow scarf holding up his denim britches and an eye-popping purple jacket resting on his shoulders. A mixture of peacock and lumberjack.

She hadn’t realized southerners knew how to lumberjack. Her lips parted. What if Joseph Denton was from the South? What if the man she’d blindly agreed to work off her debt for was a rebel?

The blood from her head plunged to her feet. Not once in all this time had the thought occurred to her. The man at her side drawled on, completely unaware of her distress. She placed her free hand against her chest, her gaze darting from one man to the other.

“Here, Whiskey Jim, you’re scaring her to death,” said a clean-shaven man in a black suit. “Quit your blathering and give her a little room.”

“I ain’t frightenin’ her,” Whiskey Jim growled, pulling her closer to his side. “Am I, darlin’?”

She looked into his unkempt face, seeing only a rebel and not a man. “I . . . I . . .”

“For the love of Peter.” The gentleman who’d come to her rescue tried to shoo Whiskey Jim back, but he kept hold of her arm.

“Now lookee here!” the rebel shouted.

“Please,” she breathed. “I just need a moment.”

Whiskey Jim released her, and when he did, the entire entourage stopped, forming a circle around her. Staring—no, gawking.

But they backed up and gave her some room. Too much room. Like the sun encircled by all the stars and planets in the universe.

Where was Mrs. Wrenne, she wondered. And the rest of their party?

But she couldn’t see anything beyond the shoulders of all these men.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

Murmurs of agreement flitted throughout the group.

Removing a handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed her hairline and neck. Fifty pairs of eyes tracked every pat. She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve.

“Who’s yer man?” Whiskey Jim asked. Turning his chin to the side, he spit on the ground.

Frowning, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. “I’m sorry?”

“Yer man? Did Mercer give ya a feller’s name?”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Yes.” She pulled the piece of paper from her pocket and opened it. “A Mr. Denton. Mr. Joseph Denton.”

Groans of disappointment tumbled through the throng like falling dominoes.

“Joe?” someone shouted.

“Anybody seen Denton?”

“Here he is.”

“This one’s yourns, you lucky old tar.”

Men turned. Shoulders jostled. And like a ball shot from a cannon, a man was shoved from the pack and into the hub of the circle with her.

With his flannel shirt and denim trousers, there was no mistaking him for anything other than what he was. A lumberjack. A tall, hulking giant of a lumberjack.

Golden curls brushed his collar. A face colored by many hours in the sun possessed the requisite eyes, nose, and mouth—but there was nothing ordinary about them. Every feature had been put together by a master craftsman.

Thick blond eyebrows framed clear hazel eyes that changed from blue to green and back to blue as readily as the ocean. High, sculpted cheekbones peaked above smooth valleys and a mouth with deep smile lines on either side of it.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, drawing her attention to a neck as thick as a tree trunk.

Her heart constricted. He was beautiful. Even more beautiful than Hoke. The thought terrified her.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

His chin came up a fraction. “America.”

She wasn’t able to catch whether he had an accent or not. And his answer confused her. There was no America. Only the North, the South, and the West. And everybody in the West came from either the North or the South.

“He’s from Georgia,” someone to her right said, loosening the tongues of those surrounding them.

“No, he’s from Maine.”

“He’s from both.”

“Lived in the South as a kid, then moved north.”

The crowd was so dense and the men’s commentary so fast she hadn’t time to identify one speaker before the next one interrupted.

“His family’s still in Maine,” yet another person said.

“He’s got brothers, sisters. Supposedly even had a—”

Mr. Denton lifted his gaze from her face to a man just behind her shoulder, cutting him off midsentence with a single glare and dousing the plethora of information.

So long as he didn’t have rebel sympathies, they’d get along fine. But those formative years in Georgia were a concern. “I’m from the North, Mr. Denton. From Granby, Massachusetts.”

He offered no visible reaction. “And your name?”

“Miss Anna Ivey.”

He removed his hat and gave a formal bow. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Ivey.”

Joe thought she looked ready to jump out of her skin and, like any cornered animal, snarled at those who came too close. And no wonder, with everyone staring at her like she was a miracle straight from heaven instead of Massachusetts.

She’d certainly not wasted any time in clarifying her loyalties. Not all that surprising, though, for an orphan of the war.

“There’s a welcome reception at the Occidental Hotel, where you’ll be staying the night.” Joe extended his arm. “It’s just up the hill in the center of town.”

She nodded, settling her hand against his sleeve like the whisper of a falling leaf.

Thank the Good Lord she’d made it. He’d wired Mercer some money for his bride’s passage once he found out Asa didn’t have the means to get her here. But rumors had been rampant when Joe arrived in town yesterday.

From what he’d heard, Mercer was being held in San Francisco by a man who’d paid him eight thousand dollars to bring over wedding suits for the grooms-to-be.

Yet Mercer arrived without a single wedding suit. Nor did he have anywhere near the number of brides contracted for. Some newspapers reported Mercer was bringing seven hundred ladies. Others three hundred. But never had anyone expected only two dozen.

Thank you for letting me have one of them, Lord
.

He glanced surreptitiously at the girl beside him. She wasn’t short, but he still dwarfed her. Her large brown eyes took in the avenue they traversed—a maze of logs and drift from Yesler’s Mill.

Her excursion up the Sound had loosened her hair. The tendrils that escaped were not quite blond, but a very light brown.

He’d not been close enough to see much more than the top of her head until the boys had thrust him out in front of her. And it had taken every bit of control he had not to gape like the rest of them.

The woman had curves. Up top. Down below. And a tiny little waist in between. He’d prepared himself for the worst. Never did he imagine she’d be so comely.