Unclaimed Bride. Lauri Robinson

guffawed. “You? You can’t claim a mail-order bride, Angel.”

      “I’m not claiming her as my bride. I’m claiming her as my friend.” Angel pointed over her shoulder with a thumb. “You can tell the passel of men out there that anyone who wants to claim Miss Jennings will have to come through me.”

      “Angel.” Ellis sounded extremely frustrated.

      Once again, the girl ignored her father. Not in a rude way, but with confidence she was right. “I’ll send word for you to post a sign when we’re ready to start interviews.”

      “Interviews?” Link’s frown was back.

      So was Constance’s.

      Angel folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, interviews. If anyone wants to court Miss Jennings, they’ll be interviewed first. By me.”

      “Link, get us a coat,” Ellis snapped and then turned to glare his daughter.

      Angel grinned.

      For the millionth time in the past months, Constance wished she’d never left England.

      As if he couldn’t remain angry at the girl, a tiny grin flashed on Ellis’s face. Constance’s insides fluttered again. This time the man’s face had been transformed into a remarkable image that sparked a memory in her troubled mind.

      Link shook his head, as if in disbelief, and then moved back to the curtain. “I’ll see what I got, but I doubt it’ll fit her. She’s not much bigger than Angel there.”

      As quick as he’d disappeared, Link reappeared. With a flip of his thick wrists, he shook the folds from a garment. The coat looked similar to the one Angel wore. Light brown twill with what appeared to be a buffalo-hide lining. Not fashionable by any sense, but, oh, did it look warm. Constance balled her fists, trying to hold in a new wave of shivers as her body begged to have the garment cloaking it.

      Ellis turned, looked at her expectantly. Her trembles increased, but she managed an agreeable nod. “It’ll do,” he said, taking the coat from Link and holding it up for Constance to slide her arms into the sleeves.

      The weight was great, but the warmth heavenly. Angel rolled up the cuffs, and Constance quickly hooked the leather and wood frogs down the front. She should thank both the girl and her father, but something inside Constance—not the irritating little voice, but her own common sense—said Ellis Clayton wouldn’t appreciate that right now.

      She held her silence even when he insisted Link retrieve a scarf and pair of mittens.

      “How much?” Ellis asked Link.

      The amount the store keeper said made Constance gasp. The glance Ellis shot her way had her lowering her eyes to the floor. It was almost as much money as Ashton Kramer had sent her, which had paid for the train from New York to Cheyenne, the stage ride to Cottonwood and all her meals along the way.

      “That seems kind of steep considering the coat doesn’t even fit her,” Ellis replied.

      The coat was several sizes too large, but Constance could deal with that. She’d dealt with a whole lot worse than ill-fitting clothes. Keeping her gaze off the men, she flipped the scarf over her straw hat and tied it beneath her chin before pulling on the thick, cozy mittens.

      “It’s called supply and demand, Ellis. You know that,” Link answered proudly.

      “Yeah, well, someday you’re going to demand yourself out of business. People are moving into the Territory every day. A new merchant, one not set on robbing his customers, will have you rethinking your prices.” Ellis counted out bills as he spoke.

      Link laughed, taking the money. “Yeah, well it ain’t gonna happen today, is it?”

      They left the small store then, but before Ellis pulled the door shut, after he’d held it open for Constance and Angel, Link shouted, “Be sure to send me word to post, Angel.”

      “I will!” Angel’s words were cut off by the solid thud of the door.

      The men now stood next to a long wagon parked beside the boardwalk. One man, the bean pole guy, asked, “You claiming her, Ellis?”

      “Get in,” Ellis directed Angel before he turned to the crowd. “You men better head home.” Pointing to the weather-filled sky, he added, “There’s a storm moving in.”

      Angel had climbed onto the seat of the wagon, and held a hand out, helping Constance up beside her. The back of the buckboard was loaded high, including her luggage. Ellis walked around the back, and Constance swiveled to stare straight ahead. When he planted himself beside Angel, the three of them were packed tighter than her trunks.

      “But what about the bride?” another man asked.

      “Don’t worry about her right now. Worry about your own hides.” Ellis threaded the reins between his gloved fingers and snapped the leather over the backs of the matching buckskins harnessed to the wagon.

      Constance grabbed the little fluted edge near her hip as the wagon jerked forward.

      Other questions filled the air from the men, some running beside the wagon as the horses picked up speed. Angel started to speak but Ellis insisted, “Be quiet, Angel.”

      The girl listened this time, but the smile she gave Constance said she wasn’t miffed. Actually, Angel seemed quite satisfied.

      Constance couldn’t return the grin. Though she was thankful to the girl and her father, the day had quickly escalated into a predicament that left her deeply indebted to the Claytons—with no imaginable way to repay them.

      Ellis flexed his chin. His jaw was set so tight, his teeth ached. Angel, at times the daughter every man could only hope to have, made him question her parentage today. Hauling home injured animals was one thing, but a woman—a mail-order bride, no less—was out of the ordinary even for her. He also had to agree with Link. Ashton Kramer was probably screaming from his grave. Constance Jennings was about the best-looking woman the Wyoming Territory had ever seen. The contrast between her coal-black hair and summer-sky-blue eyes could make a man stop dead in his tracks. He, himself, who’d never been overly affected by a woman’s looks, had been half afraid to take a second gander at her. She’d barely uttered a word, but her stance, and the way she walked, gave the impression she was no ordinary gal. Nope. Miss Constance Jennings had been born and bred as a lady. How she’d ended up Ashton Kramer’s mail-order bride should be investigated. Not by him—he wasn’t that curious. Yet, if whoever did take her on didn’t do a bit of researching they might find themselves in a whole mess of trouble.

      He’d always had a sixth sense about such things, and knew when to listen to his gut. Right now, the milk he’d had at breakfast was churning itself into butter. The only thing that had ever overridden his instincts was his daughter. And she knew it. The little scamp. Asking him how he’d feel if that had been her in a strange place, with nowhere to turn for help. That had hit home, so had her words about not knowing if it would ever happen. He’d known it for a long time, but today Angel once again proved she was much too smart for her thirteen-year-old hide.

      Angel was also more like her mother than she knew. She’d been too young when Christine had died to imitate her behaviors, but she’d inherited them just as she had her mother’s looks, and used them to rule him on a regular basis. Christine would have hauled the mail-order bride home, and she’d have made him buy her a coat before doing so. Which he’d gladly done. The tiny shawl Miss Jennings wore wouldn’t warm a flea.

      The snow now fell in huge flakes, the kind that would cover the brown ground within no time, and more than likely, stay until next spring. Ellis tugged his coat collar up to cover his ears and then reached down to pull out the woven blanket from beneath the wagon seat. He flicked it open with one hand, splaying the edges over his passengers’ knees. Miss Jennings caught the other end and quickly tucked it under her thigh after straightening it to cover them all evenly. He switched driving hands, and stuck his end of the blanket beneath his outer leg.

      While