Second Chance Bride. Jane Perrine Myers

Matilda’s prayers were probably answered. God hadn’t bothered to grant any of Annie’s.

      As the afternoon wore on, the pitching and jolting of the coach changed to a rocking motion, and everyone slept. At a stop in Rotain, the leering man left. An hour after that, the disapproving woman got off with one more glare at Annie. Oh, how Annie wished people could see her for the person she was, not for the deeds she’d been forced to commit to survive.

      Well, that was the very reason she was on this coach. When she couldn’t stand her life for one more day, she’d pulled together every penny she’d saved. Most of it had gone to buy the ticket to Trail’s End, a town the ticket agent said no one ever visited. Once there, she’d get a new job, maybe cleaning houses or even working in a shop. She’d live an upright and respectable life and wouldn’t have to put up with slurs and lecherous glances.

      Matilda and Annie were alone on the last leg of the journey. They chatted for a while until the warmth of the coach caused Annie to fall asleep. She dozed until the lurching of the vehicle woke her with a start.

      The motion flung her against Matilda, then tossed them both against the door on the other side of the coach. Annie grabbed the leather curtain and held it tightly, but Matilda’s flailing hands couldn’t grasp anything to keep her from ricocheting around the interior. She was thrown hard against a window. Then she smashed into the door on the right side and it made a loud crack and opened wide. The young woman flew from the carriage, screaming in pain and terror.

      For a few seconds, Matilda’s screams continued.

      Then the cries stopped. Completely.

      The coach finally came down on the right side with a terrible crash. Annie’s ankles twisted beneath her, and her head hit the door frame.

      Dust billowed up and engulfed her. Tears ran down her face, mixing with Matilda’s blood, as well as her own, as it streamed from a cut on her head. Silence shrouded the coach until a man shouted from above her, “Are you all right in there?”

      “I’m—” Annie croaked. She swallowed and said in a shaking voice, “I’m alive but the other woman—” She sobbed, the words catching in her throat.

      The driver opened the door above her, reached down and pulled her up. The pain in her arm was sharp.

      Once she stood on the road, Annie looked at herself. She was covered in blood and grime, her pink dress smeared with splatters and splotches of red while blood stained her sleeve as it dripped from a gash on her arm.

      “What happened?” she asked.

      “Wheel came off. Spooked the horses,” the driver said. “I’m going to have to ride to town to get a new one.” He looked inside the coach again. “Where’s the other passenger?”

      “Back there,” Annie said, and pointed fifty yards behind. Fresh tears rolled down her dirty, scraped cheeks. “She fell out.”

      In spite of the pain, Annie ran toward Matilda, who lay absolutely still. “Matilda,” she whispered as she took one of her friend’s limp hands.

      “No use.” The driver shook his head. “She’s dead, ma’am. Looks like a broken neck.”

      Annie sobbed. Matilda had been nicer to Annie than anyone in years. She’d had a future. Someone would meet her in Trail’s End and help her get settled. Someone expected her. She’d been on the way to a place where she’d begin a new position, where she’d be respected and admired.

      How sad that a decent, upright woman with a future had died and left the woman who’d worked in a brothel behind. It should have been Annie. She had no future. No one would miss her. No one cared about her. No one even knew where she was.

      Annie should have been the one to die.

      “Do you know her name, ma’am?”

      As she stood there, Annie remembered the words of that haughty passenger, how people had called her terrible names for years, how men always tried to take advantage of her. Memories of all the slurs and beatings and sins that were her life assailed her. Annie would never be able to get away from that. Never. No matter what jobs she found or how far she traveled, people would always recognize Annie as the woman from the brothel, cheap and sinful and beneath them. Women would judge and men would leer.

      She didn’t want that following her for the rest of her life.

      She took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before she said, “Her name was Annie MacAllister.”

      Chapter One

      “I am Matilda Susan Cunningham.” Annie said clearly as she stood on the deserted street—the only street—of Trail’s End and considered her words. Matilda had spoken like a woman of education, exactly the way Annie wished she spoke. Oh, not that she hadn’t tried to improve her speech. She was a natural mimic. Her father used to say she put on airs. Then he’d hit her.

      “I am Matilda Susan Cunningham,” Annie repeated, enunciating clearly.

      The wind blew dust in Annie’s face, then swirled down the street and around the dry goods and grocer’s store on her left. Behind her was a rickety building, maybe a hotel. It looked as if the wind could knock it over.

      Across the street, the dust blew through the doors of a saloon flanked by a bank and a small building that looked like an office. The sheriff’s, perhaps. Further down the street huddled a few more little white buildings, all nearly hidden in the approaching dusk of early evening.

      At the end of town stood a church. At least she thought the small white building with a squat tower was a church, but it might be a school or a home.

      That was all.

      If she lived here long enough, she’d learn what all the buildings were, but now she wanted nothing more than to go wherever that unknown employer was supposed to take her. Every part of her body ached. The scrapes on her legs and the bump on her head throbbed while the wound on her arm continued to bleed.

      And she was afraid, deathly afraid. What would happen if no one came? If her masquerade were discovered? So many ifs and so few certainties.

      In her hand, Annie carried Matilda’s purse. Inside, she found two letters, a clean handkerchief, a comb, seven dollar bills, a few coins and some pennies. Including Matilda’s meager savings, Annie now had a total of ten dollars and eighty-six cents. How long would that last?

      The wind continued to blow down the rutted main street, pulling Annie’s hair from its tight bun. It swirled around the prim blue skirt she’d taken from Matilda’s satchel and tried to lift it above her now properly shod feet.

      Trail’s End really was the end of the trail.

      As she searched the street for signs of her employer, Annie thought about the accident. After the driver left for the new wheel, she’d checked on the injured guard who lay unconscious by the coach. Then she’d changed into Matilda’s clothing and picked up the woman’s new valise. When the men returned, they loaded Annie and the guard into a wagon.

      “What about…about Miss MacAllister?” Annie had asked.

      “We’ll come back and bury the woman out here. No room in the wagon,” said the driver.

      With that, the wagon took off. During the ride to town, the poor guard moaned with every bump in the rough road. Annie had tried to calm him, but her experience with men had been of an entirely different nature. She used to sing to her father before his drinking got bad, so she tried singing to the guard, softly, songs she had learned as a child from her beautiful but fragile mother. The guard quieted.

      After leaving the injured man at the doctor’s farm, the driver had brought Annie into town and abandoned her in the middle of the street. At her feet sat the small valise that contained everything Annie now owned. She’d stood clutching her purse and looking around for at least an hour, attempting to decide what to do.

      While she waited, the sun dropped