Unclaimed Bride. Lauri Robinson

      “Hey, Pa. I’d like you to meet Constance Jennings,” the girl answered, standing up.

      Constance clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. The stiffness of the man’s features were as bitter as the frosty wind, and the scowl covering his face was even more fierce now than when he’d stood next to the wagon, glaring at the commotion.

      “Constance, this is my father, Ellis Clayton,” Angel continued.

      Tugging the collar of his sheepskin-lined coat up until it almost touched the wide brim of his hat, the man briefly nodded toward Constance—though his eyes never actually landed on her. “Time to go.”

      “Pa, Miss Jennings needs to come home with us,” Angel said as calmly as if she’d just said it was cloudy today.

      Constance flinched, and again when the frown on Ellis Clayton’s face grew as if a storm built inside him.

      “Angel.” The warning tone in his voice was colder than the bitter wind.

      “Pa.” Angel held her ground as firmly as someone twice her age. “Look at them.” She pointed toward the men who’d now gathered across the street from where Constance sat. “They’re circling in like a pack of wolves on a fresh kill.”

      Constance shuddered, and the groan thickening her throat could no longer be contained.

      Ellis Clayton glanced her way before he took his daughter’s arm. “Angel,” he said, his patience clearly spent. “She’s not one of the injured animals you’re always bringing home. You can’t save the world.”

      “Maybe not, but I can save her.”

      “Excuse me,” Constance started, ready to insist she didn’t need to be saved, but the man’s sideways glare made her lips clamp shut.

      “What if it was me, Pa?” Angel continued. “What if I was in a strange town without a familiar face in sight? Wouldn’t you hope some kind stranger would take me in?”

      Constance held her breath, both at the thought of such a young girl being on her own and at the bone-chilling wind gusts penetrating her layers of clothing.

      “That’s not likely to happen. You’re my daughter and—”

      “But what if? We don’t know what the future will bring. It could happen.” Beneath her heavy coat, the girl shrugged. “Somewhere, sometime, it could happen.”

      The man rubbed his forehead, then glanced at the group of men and stared for an extended length of time. Constance’s heart throbbed in her stomach. She should say something. Offer some type of solution, but try as she might, she didn’t have one. Angel was very close to the truth. Constance did need a kind stranger. Her final fifty cents had paid for last night’s meal.

      A shrill whistle split the air, followed by the crack of a whip. Groaning and creaking, the stage pulled away from the boardwalk. Moments later, dust swirled as the horses picked up speed. The animals appeared excited to leave the tiny town of Cottonwood, Wyoming Territory. For a moment, Constance pictured herself bundled beneath the buffalo robe on the bouncing stage seat. The vision faded along with the wagon, leaving her chest extremely heavy.

      “Widow Wagner only has one spare room, Pa, and Reverend Stillman just settled in it. He came to perform the ceremony.”

      Constance assumed the girl referenced the wedding between her and Ashton Kramer, which also explained how the reverend had known she was a mail-order bride even though she hadn’t provided the information when he’d climbed into the stage in Fort Laramie.

      Time ticked by as Ellis Clayton’s gaze went from the men to the house the reverend had entered, and then landed on her. Though she was frozen stiff from the wind, heat penetrated Constance’s cheeks.

      “You’re Ashton’s bride?” he finally asked.

      Biting her lip, Constance managed a nod.

      He didn’t respond, but Angel did. “She’ll need a decent coat, Pa. What she has on won’t get her halfway to the ranch.”

      Constance tugged the gray shawl that had once been Aunt Theresa’s tighter around her shoulders. Bits of snow clung to the knitted yarn. The wind had picked up. It now carried swirling and growing flakes through the air with a stinging force. Once again, the girl was right. Constance had on her warmest dress, a beige wool two-piece, but had been close to freezing during the last leg of her journey, even with the buffalo robe.

      Qualms piled inside her faster than she could comprehend. This had not been a good plan. Not only was she out of her element, her wardrobe was as out of place in Wyoming as the ocean would be. What she wouldn’t give for the red velvet cape lined with rabbit fur she’d left England with. She’d sold it, along with a few other of her more elegant pieces, hoping to find a way to financially support herself. The amount she’d gained had paid her room and board for the week, but hadn’t been enough to replace the overcoat, let alone anything else. That had contributed to her ultimate decision: become a mail-order bride.

      The way Ellis Clayton glared down his nose at her made Constance doubly wish she’d never seen Ashton’s first letter.

      Something she could only assume was disgust flickered in the man’s eyes as he scanned her shawl. When his gaze met hers, he asked, “Are you interested in coming home with Angel?”

      Constance forced herself to breathe. The men across the road still leered, but other than the wind, it was deathly quiet. About ten buildings, built along both sides of the street, made up the town. Paint was nonexistent on most of the weathered boards, and only the two-story home, separated from the other buildings by a small yard, held the image of curtains on the inside. Since that was where Reverend Stillman had been escorted to, she assumed it was Mrs. Wagner’s. Besides herself, Angel was the only trace of a female she’d seen.

      Knowing the man waited for an answer, Constance prayed the thickness in her throat would allow words to come out. “Perhaps, I …” Her mind couldn’t fathom a single suggestion. Fighting to hold an iota of dignity, she voiced her options, “I apologize, but at this moment, your generosity appears to be my only hope.”

      The man’s expression softened and the sight did something to Constance’s insides. She couldn’t figure out exactly what, but then again she’d been greatly out of sorts since stepping off the stage.

      His gaze went to his daughter, who smiled brightly. After shaking his head, he gestured to one of the men. “Put her stuff in my wagon, would you, Jeb?” When a young man moved toward her trunks, Ellis spun on one heel. “Come on, then.”

      Angel grabbed Constance’s hand, and tugged her in the man’s wake. “He’s not as grumpy as he makes out to be.”

      The girl’s assurance didn’t do much for the quaking in Constance’s limbs, nor the churning in her stomach. She willed her feet not to stumble as she matched Angel’s quick pace into the building. Shelves and tables held an array of goods and foodstuffs, making the tiny space cluttered and claustrophobic. Nonetheless, Constance sighed at the relief of being out of the wind.

      A large man, in height and breadth, emerged from behind a curtained doorway. “What you forget, Ellis?”

      “We need a coat, Link.” Ellis closed the door he’d held wide and moved toward the waist-high counter.

      The man, Link it appeared, wrinkled his wide forehead as he stared at Constance with an all-consuming look. “So you’re Ashton’s bride. Poor sap. He’s probably kicking like a mule trying to get out of the pearly gates. He’d sworn you’d be a looker. We buried him yesterday. Had to do it before the ground froze, you know.”

      Constance swallowed around the glob that had never left her throat, but now doubled in size.

      “Just get us a coat, Link,” Ellis demanded roughly.

      “You claiming her?” Link asked, lifting his spiky brows high on his glistening forehead.

      Even