Bride By Arrangement. Karen Kirst

his hold, he pointed to the cabin. “You should wait inside while I get ready for our departure.”

      “Mr. Burgess, please... Won’t you give us a chance?”

      The entreaty in her expression was at odds with her dignified stance. Noah averted his face. Regret and frustration pulsed through him. “You don’t want to build a life with the likes of me. Trust me on this.”

      Signaling for Wolf to follow, he fetched Samson and headed for the barn situated directly across from the cabin, a wide expanse of land between them. He didn’t look to see whether or not she’d heeded his command.

      * * *

      What was she supposed to do now?

      Grace remained where she stood as the sheriff and his pet disappeared into the mammoth barn. Her corset dug into her ribs. The numerous layers of undergarments and skirts were heavier and more cumbersome here on the plains. Was it because, amidst the city’s brick and stone buildings, her view limited to whatever street she happened to be traveling down, she didn’t have the crazy urge to throw out her arms and twirl in a circle and race through fields of tall grasses and wildflowers?

      Cupping her hand over her eyes, she surveyed the endless prairie. The air here was fresh and earthy. After the hustle and bustle of the city, the quiet was somewhat unnerving. Her ears were accustomed to the clack of horses’ hooves on cobbled streets, the shouts of vendors hawking their wares, the cadence of a dozen conversations. They weren’t accustomed to nature’s music...the breeze rustling through the grass stalks, birds’ cheerful twittering, cattle calling to each other, insects buzzing.

      Noah Burgess had carved out a mighty nice life for himself.

      His rustic cabin, while not comparable to the Longstreet mansion, had its own charms. The barn and outbuildings appeared well constructed. In fact, the entire homestead looked as if it had been planned in a thoughtful, orderly manner.

      Her daughters would flourish here. Grow strong beneath the Kansas sun. Learn to appreciate people based on their character, not their social standing or worldly possessions. Most important, they’d be out of her brother-in-law’s reach. A sick feeling stole over Grace as Frank Longstreet’s coldly handsome features swam in her memory. Frank coveted what had belonged to his brother, and now that Ambrose was gone, there was nothing standing in his way. He was determined to step into her late husband’s shoes. Her feelings didn’t matter. She and the girls were like some sort of trophy to him.

      A large grasshopper landed on her outer skirt. Having only seen one on the pages of a book, she studied its fat green body for long minutes before urging it to land elsewhere. Scooping up the bulk of the stiff fabric with both hands, she pivoted and went inside, the opening not nearly wide enough for her dress. If she did succeed in becoming this homesteader’s wife, she’d need a more practical wardrobe.

      Why did her cousin’s intended groom have to be the most stubborn man this side of the Mississippi River? Why couldn’t she have been met by a man eager to end his solitude? If Frank ever managed to discover her whereabouts, a husband would help put an end to his relentless pursuit.

      Mr. Burgess’s refusal to even consider marriage complicated things.

      Jane sat playing with her doll at the only table in the room. Like the chairs and kitchen furniture, it was constructed of rough timber. Had he crafted everything himself? The cabin walls were made of shaved logs, the spaces between filled with a mixture of clay and other materials. A loft area ran along the right side. She couldn’t see what was up there because of the half wall running its length. The ceiling rafters soared high above her head, giving the living space an airy feeling. Or perhaps that was due to the limited amount of furnishings. There were only four chairs in the home, each seated around the table. The windows on either side of the massive stone fireplace didn’t have curtains. Neither did the one in the kitchen.

      This home—brown, boring and bare—was in desperate need of sprucing up. Grace moved to the mantel and ran a finger along the top edge. Dust coated the surface. She examined more closely a carved wooden replica of a plantation-style house. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Painted white with black shutters flanking the windows, there were four miniature columns along the veranda and chimneys flanking the roofline.

      The sheriff had spoken with a slow drawl. Perhaps this was a memento to remind him of his family’s home.

      Picking up the tintype she’d seen earlier, she studied the sheriff’s younger image. How handsome he’d looked in his uniform. Or was it his carefree expression that made him seem so different? There was a zest for life and adventure in his countenance that the real flesh-and-blood man lacked. The man she’d met carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

      What had he meant by what he’d said? Was he truly so traumatized by his changed appearance that he didn’t feel worthy of marriage? The thought saddened her.

      “Momma?”

      Replacing the frame with care, she looked up and frowned. Abigail was reclining on the sheriff’s bed again. Sweeping past Jane, she entered the bedroom and sat on the mattress edge, crinoline and skirts billowing about her.

      “What’s wrong, honey?”

      “I don’t feel well.”

      Grace tested the warmth of her forehead and cheek. Her skin was hot and flushed. Concern swept through her system. Her quieter daughter wasn’t one to complain.

      She smoothed her dark curls. “Does your head hurt? Or your tummy?”

      “My head.” Her deep brown eyes bore witness to her misery.

      Grace smoothed the alarm from her face to avoid upsetting Abigail. “I’ll get you a drink of water and a cold compress for your head. Perhaps Mr. Burgess has some tea on hand.”

      She called for Jane.

      The chair scraped across the floorboards. Stopping at the foot of the bed, she clutched her porcelain doll to her chest. “Yes, ma’am?”

      “Sit with your sister while I go and locate the well.”

      Leaving them in the spacious, utilitarian bedroom, she searched the kitchen for a water pail, discovering a dented tin one on a lower shelf of the long counter opposite the stove.

      New worries brewed like a summer squall. Illness, especially in children, could turn deadly in a matter of hours. Did Cowboy Creek even have a qualified doctor? Residing on her mother-in-law’s estate, they’d had access to the finest medical care in Chicago. Here, she was among strangers. She didn’t know Noah Burgess well enough to guess whether he’d have compassion for a sick child or whether he’d force them to remove to the hotel as he’d stated, no matter the circumstances.

      Father God, I know You’re probably angry with me. Deception is not something You take lightly. I understand that. But I beg of You, please don’t let this sickness be serious. Please let Noah be sympathetic.

      She went outside again, and the heat struck her with more force this time. The air had gone still. She explored the yard and discovered the well behind the house, halfway between it and the stream. The procession of towering cottonwoods and the generous swath of shade they cast called to her, a sheltering oasis on the vast prairie. The entire time she was at the well, she expected to encounter the sheriff. But he was nowhere to be seen.

      It wasn’t until she was back inside, arranging a damp cloth on Abigail’s forehead, that he finally showed.

      His impatient stride carried him through the cabin. He hovered in the bedroom entrance, gloved hands braced on either side. “I’ve got the wagon out front. Do you have a preference for how the trunks are stowed?”

      Straightening, Grace smoothed her hands down the front of her bodice, which seemed to have grown tighter with his arrival. He’d washed the grit from his face, and his hair was damp, rendering it a deeper hue, like pan-heated syrup.

      “No preference.”

      Nodding, his light blue gaze touched on