Renegade Wife

chapter One


Bountiful, Texas

1878

Molly McGuire stood at the Bountiful train depot, her Irish ire no longer tempered by womanly grace, then paced the plank sidewalk, waiting. She’d endured the long arduous trip from St. Louis, riding in a crowded, dusty railcar, her hopes for the future mingling with a heavy dose of uncertainty.

She closed her eyes, briefly sending up a silent prayer that she wasn’t making a mistake in coming here. Yet, what other option had she? She’d pondered long enough trying to find a way west to keep the promise she’d made on Mama’s deathbed. Now, she was here, awaiting a man who hadn’t the decency to meet her properly or timely—a man who would claim her as his bride.

A bead of perspiration fell from Molly’s unruly auburn hair, the shade from under the depot roof doing little to stifle the sweltering Texas heat. Molly removed her gloves and her emerald-green traveling jacket, and reached up to lift the feathered plume hat from her head. She tossed them onto a nearby bench seat next to her valise and continued her pacing. Shielding her eyes from the bright sun, she squinted southward toward a town seemingly robust with people, who were milling about and conducting business, as well as exchanging pleasantries on the street. That and the heavy summer air were reminiscent of St. Louis yet that’s where the similarities seemed to end.

She’d gathered from her correspondence with one Kane Jackson, her betrothed, that Bountiful was a wealthy ranching town—a land rich with prime grazing land and thousands of Longhorn cattle, a special breed that Molly had read about in one of Charlie’s dime novels.

She smiled sadly, thinking about her brother and his escapades. Charlie had always been a dreamer, a boy inclined to put his head in the clouds, always thinking lofty thoughts. He’d run away from home to find grand adventure out West, to make his fortune to send back home, but this last escapade had nearly broken Mama’s heart.

Molly had come all this way, to marry, yes, but also to find her wayward brother. She’d promised Mama. And herself. No one had heard from Charlie in months. No telling what sort of trouble her sixteen-year-old brother might have found. Molly would do whatever it took to find Charlie. He was the only family Molly had left.

“Miss, would you like me to escort you to the boardinghouse?”

Molly whirled around. The depot operator smiled, an apologetic expression on his face. She glanced at a tarnished wall clock just above the depot’s front door. Heavens, she’d been waiting for more than two hours. “Oh, um, no, thank you.” It wouldn’t do to vent her anger at the friendly depot operator. Molly would save that for the man who’d left her stranded on the outskirts of town for most of the afternoon.

She grabbed her jacket and gloves, then plunked her hat atop her head. The feather swooped down to tickle her nose. With one swift move, she tugged the annoying feather aside, then lifted her valise and mustered as much dignity as one could in this situation. “Do you know where Mr. Kane Jackson lives?”

The depot operator blinked then scrubbed the back of his neck as if it pained him. “Mr. Kane Jackson, miss?”

“Yes, he was to meet me here.”

“Well, uh, he lives north of here. The Jackson spread is the biggest in these parts. About ten miles out, I’d say.”

Molly realized it was far too late in the afternoon to hire a driver and a buggy. She heaved a sigh and nodded, “Thank you.”

“Wait, uh, miss?”

She peered into the man’s light brown eyes. “Yes?”

“Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t show. If you don’t mind me saying, Kane Jackson ain’t exactly a friendly sort.”

Molly’s insides churned. Butterflies gripped tight and fluttered wildly. She didn’t know much about Kane Jackson, but he’d agreed to her terms and that’s all that had mattered. From her understanding there weren’t too many mail-order brides who could dictate any terms—usually the ladies were the ones making all the compromises. She’d found a man who would help her in her search for her brother. She’d gained passage West. Molly had considered herself fortunate in that regard. But she hadn’t gotten the impression from his letters that he wasn’t a decent, honorable man. In truth, she’d been looking forward to meeting him, hoping for a future with both a husband and brother by her side.

“I’m not here for friendship—” she said, glancing at the name badge pinned to his chest “—Mr. Whitley. I plan to marry him.”

The man’s face contorted and his eyebrows shot straight up.

Molly didn’t want to think about his reaction. She had a brother to find, with or without Kane Jackson’s assistance. And for the moment anyway, it appeared that she was on her own.

She turned toward town and began walking, the butterflies in her belly doing a lively Irish jig.

Kane Jackson reigned in his mare and glanced around the train depot. The place looked deserted, as if no business had been conducted today. If only that were true. But damn it, Kane knew without a doubt that the train had come in early this afternoon, most likely right on schedule. As he’d ridden off the ranch, he’d seen the Southern Pacific head north on its way toward Fort Worth, laying tracks past the Bar J, leaving behind a thick puff of steam.

As well as one young unmarried female.

His mail-order bride.

Kane swore up and down, just thinking about the trick his grandfather had just pulled. This morning, Bennett Jackson announced that Kane’s “bride” would be arriving in Bountiful. Without qualm or warning, the ailing man had just laid that bit of news on Kane as if he’d been speaking about the weather.

His grandfather had sent for a bride from the East without his knowledge. He’d penned a letter in Kane’s name and offered her marriage. His grandfather had probably been planning this since the moment Kane stepped foot back onto Jackson land, six months ago. It was clear now in the face of Bennett Jackson’s secret maneuver that Kane hadn’t yet earned his grandfather’s trust. The elder Jackson wanted to see him settled, married with a wagonload of children running about, before he died. “A woman will steady you,” he’d said. According to his grandfather this Molly McGuire would make a fine wife and provide an heir for the Bar J Ranch. Beyond just about anything else, Bennett Jackson wanted his legacy to live on.

Hell, Kane wanted a wife like he wanted a Texas-size hole in his boot. He’d had a wife once. And her death had cost him his soul, the ache of her loss gouging out his heart. He’d been left hollow inside, vowing never to marry again.

Nothing was going to change that.

But Bennett Jackson knew a thing or two about sugarcoated blackmail. And he also knew when to play his ace card, leaving Kane no choice but to come into town to retrieve his “betrothed.”

“Whitley,” Kane called out, peering inside the darkened depot office. He pounded on the glass window. “Whitley, you in there?”

Elmer Whitley appeared through the doorway, a startled expression on his face. “I was just closing up.” He stepped out and locked the depot door behind him. When he turned, Kane pushed the tintype of the mail-order bride under Whitley’s nose.

“Have you seen this woman?”

Whitley straightened abruptly, glanced at the image then frowned with disapproval at Kane. “Yes, I’ve seen her. Miss Molly McGuire was here all right. Came all the way from St. Louis. She waited the afternoon…for you. She wouldn’t accept a thing I offered, except a glass of water.”

“Damn it!”

“I know. She weren’t at all happy about being left here by herself, a pretty young woman like that.”

Kane scowled at Whitley. He was half hoping the woman had changed her mind. He was half hoping she hadn’t boarded the train in St. Louis in the first place. But she was here in Bountiful, at his grandfather’s bidding. If Bennett Jackson were in better health and not recovering from a bout of pneumonia, Kane would have had his grandfather welcome the young woman to town. He would have let his grandfather explain his deceit and put Miss Molly McGuire right back on that train. But the older man was in no shape to travel and Kane wouldn’t put another woman in jeopardy by leaving her stranded in an unfamiliar town. He’d done that once before and that woman, his wife, had met with an untimely death.

Kane had no choice but to find her.

“Did she say where she was going?”

Whitley shook his head. “Nope.”

“But she took off toward town, right?”

Whitley shrugged.

“Well, did she or didn’t she?”

Again, Whitley shrugged.

Kane took a step toward the man. He had a notion to grab Whitley by the scruff of his neck and shake the answers out of him. Six months ago, he would have done it with no regard or regret, but Kane saw the futility in that now. He knew he had a long road ahead of him, proving his worth to his grandfather.

But marrying Bennett Jackson’s handpicked bride wasn’t part of the plan. Kane wouldn’t submit to his blackmail. Hell, he even felt a bit sorry for Miss McGuire. No doubt his grandfather had painted a rosy picture of the man she was to marry. No doubt, his grandfather had lured her with vivid descriptions of lawn parties, church socials and a home that needed a woman’s touch.

No doubt, his grandfather had left out all of the unseemly details of Kane’s disreputable past. He was twenty-six years old and had lived more lifetimes than most men he knew.

He wondered what his mail-order bride would think about their wedding nuptials if she knew the absolute truth about him.

I’m a mail-order bride without benefit of a groom, Molly thought grimly, as she marched into town. She’d come all this way to forge a new life for herself. She’d come all this way to meet a decent man, to perhaps find comfort and companionship within his arms. She’d come all this way with the promise of finding her brother. Instead, all she’d found was disappointment.

But Molly had no choice but to continue on with her quest. She strode into the center of town, plaguing her memory for one hint, one clue as to where Charlie might have gone. Those doggone dime novels came to mind. He was forever reading them, curled tight into bed, with the lamplight burning low so that Mama wouldn’t catch on and holler for him to turn down the lamp and get to sleep. Those dime novels—outlaws, Indians, saloons and women.

Molly stopped abruptly and peered at the White Horn Saloon. Tinted windows displayed the finest liquor and pictures of bawdy half-dressed women. Oh, heavens.

Charlie would love this place.

Molly mustered her courage and stepped inside.

Her lungs filled instantly, the gasp coming rather unexpectedly as she glanced around. She’d never been so bold as to enter a saloon. The whole place stirred with commotion, a noisy boisterous room filled with smoke and laughter and music. Bright golden-flocked wallpaper decorated the walls along with signs depicting the different beverages served and a moose’s head appeared to be coming straight out of the wall. Tiered chandeliers draped from the ceiling. She could only imagine how those dozens of candles illuminated the saloon at night.

No one seemed to notice Molly. Relieved, she approached the bar, hoping the barkeep would recognize Charlie. She set her valise down and dug into her reticule, coming up with a picture of her brother taken when he was twelve. It was the most recent image she had of him. She showed him the picture, explaining a bit about her search.

“No, sorry, miss. I haven’t seen him,” the barkeep offered, shaking his head.

Molly cast him a polite smile. It was too much to hope yet she’d had to try. “Thank you.” She swept her gaze around the room. There must be fifty people crowded within these walls. Surely, someone here might have seen Charlie at one time. “Would you mind terribly if I asked some of your patrons?”

The barkeep pursed his lips and studied Molly. He leaned heavily on the mahogany bar top until his face came within inches from hers. “Wouldn’t be wise, miss. Why don’t you give over the picture and I’ll see what I can do. You can wait outside.”

“Oh, um.” Molly glanced at Charlie’s likeness. To leave the sole picture she had of her brother in the big beefy outstretched hand of the bartender prickled her skin. Why, one spill of whiskey could destroy the image permanently. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll just wait by the door and ask as your guests are ready to leave.”

The bartender shrugged. “Suit yourself, but you’ll have to pay for any damages.”

Molly blinked back her surprise. “Damages?”

But the barkeep had already turned his back and moved down to the far side of the bar to serve a handful of cowboys.

Befuddled by the barkeep’s comment, Molly lifted her belongings and headed for the saloon door. She hadn’t taken but three steps before she felt herself being twirled around. She stared into the chest of a lean, lanky cowboy. His hand, clamped firmly around her waist, tugged her closer. “Howdy, miss.”

A smirk emerged through the man’s whiskers as he flashed a set of small uneven teeth. Stale whiskey breath rushed out. “I’d be proud to buy you a drink.”

Molly swatted at his hand and pulled back until she was free of his grasp. “No, thank you. I’m only here to look for—”

“Looking for a man, are ya? Well, ain’t gonna find a better one than’s right here in front of ya. How about that drink now?”

“I don’t drink.” Molly shuddered and turned to leave, heeding the barkeep’s words. Perhaps this hadn’t been one of her better ideas. But she found herself being drawn back with a sharp tug on her skirt.

“C’mon now, miss.”

The persistent man’s audacity enraged Molly. She swung around abruptly and cringed when she heard a definite rip in her skirt. She felt the tear go clear down her backside, more than she’d ever exposed to any man in her life. Molly gasped, crying out, “Look what you did!”

The cowboy chuckled. “Sorry.” There was no true apology in his words. And now, Molly had caught the attention of many in the saloon. She felt their eyes upon her, heard their lurid whispers.

Her simmering anger boiled over. Molly had had one trying day, this being the last and final straw. She lifted her valise and landed a blow to the cowboy’s midsection. Surprise registered on the man’s scruffy face. Molly figured she’d stunned, more than hurt him.

“Hey!”

“Stay away from me.” She grabbed her valise to her chest and bounded with full force out the saloon doors, ignoring the laughter that followed. Fury mingled with mortification as she forged ahead, right smack into the chest of yet another cowboy. He grabbed her shoulders. Molly shoved at him with all her might, unwilling to have a repeat of the saloon debacle. Were all the men in this town prone to manhandle women? She struggled fiercely. “Let me go,” she said, just before she lost her balance as they cascaded down the steps. Both went tumbling to roll ungraciously into the dirt, the valise flying up and over her head.

The cowboy braced her fall and took the brunt of the impact on his back, while cushioning her in his arms. She lied atop him, the strength of his broad body protecting her from injury. For the briefest of moments, Molly relished the feel of him, holding her firm, but oh, so tenderly. She stared into his deep silver-gray eyes, noting the slight hint of concern. His hat had flown off in the fall, revealing raven-black hair, too long and unruly to be considered civilized. Within the seconds that ticked by, Molly took in his high cheekbones, sun-bronzed skin and strong powerful jaw. A tingle of awareness, one completely female in nature, coursed through her veins. Molly’s heart flipped over itself.

“Miss McGuire?”

Molly blinked at the deep resonating sound of the man’s voice, and certain familiar words in the letter she’d kept close at hand fluttered into her mind. Tall, not too unsightly, with gray eyes and dark hair. I hope you find my appearance adequate.

Molly swallowed hard, realizing the description more than fit. She quickly hoisted herself off of him. She brushed at her skirt, too humiliated to even think about the gaping hole in her backside at the moment. She glared down at him as he lifted up on his elbows.

His dark gaze raked her over, one sweep like a lightning flash, assessing her unabashedly. Warmth spread throughout her body from that one quick look. She didn’t know if she’d measured up or not, his expression giving nothing away. She stared back, out of curiosity now, gaining a full-length view from his position on the ground. He wore buckskin, pants tight enough for Molly to note his muscular legs and a shirt stretched across his chest pulled together by crisscrossing string. But it was the colorful beads circling his neck that told Molly there was something different about Kane Jackson, something that set him apart from other men. It had only taken one look for Molly to recognize that her betrothed wasn’t like most men. Yet, Molly couldn’t figure the why of it. She only knew it for fact. And to think, she’d been atop him in the middle of the street for all of Bountiful to see. Atop him and enjoying the comfort of his arms.

Molly admonished herself for such a notion, yet she couldn’t deny that Kane Jackson was a fine-looking man. Long in body, but broad where a man should be broad. It didn’t appear that Mr. Jackson had on ounce of softness anywhere.

She watched as he bounded up with the ease of a graceful animal and she immediately recognized that it was her own clumsiness, as well her state of agitation, that caused the fall moments ago. This was a man who held his ground.

He made his approach, towering over her by at least five inches and as he glimpsed her derriere, his lips twitched.

Molly’s fury, the anger she’d saved for this one man, rushed back with full force. She wouldn’t be standing on the street, with a torn skirt exposing her derriere, her belongings scattered about and her dignity in question if he’d been on time to greet her.

“Mr. Jackson,” she said none too gently. “You’re late.”