Mistaken Bride. Renee Ryan

Swallowing back her nausea, she focused on the scenery passing by. The countryside was very green, the gently rolling hills much like the ones they’d left back in Ireland. The lingering sound and smell of the ocean was familiar, as well.

       A sense of homecoming filled her.

       She caught Nora’s eye.

       Her sister smiled. “I’ve directed the driver to stop at the Sheriff’s Office before we head to the house.”

       “I suppose it’s for the best.” She tried not to sigh again. She’d done quite enough of that for one day. “I assume you plan to publicly announce Grace is in our care?”

       “It’s the right thing to do, Bridget. She’s not ours.”

       “She feels like ours.”

       “Yes, she does.” Nora’s eyes filled with tears. She lowered her head and whispered, “Grá mo chroí.” Sweetheart in Gaelic.

       The baby’s little eyelids fluttered open and she yawned. Nora was already rummaging in her bag. A few seconds later and Grace suckled a bottle of milk in noisy contentment.

       Leaning her head against the cushions behind her, Nora breathed out deeply.

       “Tired?” Bridget asked.

       “A bit. But excited, too.” She straightened. “We should probably show the deed to the sheriff while we’re there. If nothing else, he’ll be able to direct us to the house.”

      Or take it away from them. “Oh, Nora. What if the deed isn’t legal?”

       The horrible scenario was possible. Laird O’Malley, a former suitor of their mother’s, had left for America years ago. He’d been heartbroken their mother hadn’t wanted to marry him, but not enough that he’d lost hope she would one day change her mind.

       He’d built her a house in Faith Glen and had put the deed of ownership in her name. The wording had made it possible for Colleen Murphy’s daughters to inherit the property.

       Or so they were all counting on.

       But what if they were wrong? What if the property wasn’t theirs for the taking? This entire trip to America had hinged on that promise.

       As though sensing where her mind had gone, Nora nudged Bridget’s foot with the toe of her boot. “You leave the worrying to me, Bridget Murphy. I had the document verified in Ireland. Everything will work out fine.”

       “Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”

       Nora patently ignored the question. “We’ll stop at the Sheriff’s Office, report Grace’s situation and then head to our new home.”

       Their new home. What a wonderful, exciting, terrifying prospect. But what if the deed wasn’t legal, or if the house had been torn down?

      Faith. All she needed was a little more faith.

       Stiffening her spine, Bridget turned her attention back to the passing scenery. The road ran parallel to a small, fast-moving river. If she closed her eyes she could envision walking the high banks, dipping her toes in the fresh, cool water. There was a man by her side. A tall man with dark hair and blue eyes the color of the midday sky. The haunted look was gone from his expression and…

       Bridget quickly snapped open her eyes. William Black was not the man of her dreams. He couldn’t be. There was no man in her dreams—not after what Daniel had done. And even if, sometime in the future, she let herself trust a man enough to consider love and marriage—well, surely Will wouldn’t be the man at her side. For all she knew he’d sorted out the situation with his missing bride and was at this very moment escorting the woman to his home in Boston.

       She paused midthought, realizing it would do her no good to dwell on a man she would never see again.

       Determined to put William Black out of her mind, her gaze landed on a sizable building, a mill of some sort. The large wheel churning in the river filled the moment with the happy, trickling sound of rushing water. The scent wafting in the air was nothing she’d ever smelled before, a heavy, almost sweet aroma.

       Delighted, Bridget leaned out the carriage window. A few moments later they crested a hill and a small village came into view. The large green-and-white wooden sign in the shape of a rectangle identified the town as Faith Glen.

       The main feature of the town was a tidy village square. A white clapboard church dominated all the other buildings. A general store sat on one side of the church and on the other was—Bridget squinted to read the sign hooked to the porch ceiling—Rose’s Boardinghouse.

       On the opposite side of the square was the Sheriff’s Office. The bars on the windows gave it away, as did the fact that the structure had been built out of stone. Not brick or wood like the other buildings in town, but solid stone.

       “We’re nearly there,” Bridget said.

       Nora pulled the bottle from Grace’s mouth and gently swung the child to her shoulder. When the carriage drew to a stop Bridget scrambled out of the carriage ahead of her sister.

       The driver, an older man with thinning hair and a thick, handlebar mustache, had already released the ropes securing their trunks and was fast at work unloading their belongings.

       Bridget rushed forward. “What are you doing? We haven’t reached our final destination yet.”

       “This is as far as I go, miss.” His gruff voice had a Scottish burr underneath the words. And a hint of meanness.

       “But Dr. Gallagher paid you to take us to our new home.”

       “He paid me enough to get you to the town,” he corrected. “Not a foot more.”

       That was a bold-faced lie. Bridget knew Flynn would never leave them stranded like this.

       “It’s all right, Bridget,” Nora said, exiting the carriage with sure steps. “We’ll ask the sheriff for assistance once our business is complete.”

       Bridget relented, a little, but only because the driver was already in his seat and spurring his horses forward.

       “Well, now.” A deep, masculine voice drifted over her. “What have we here?”

       Heart lodged in her throat, Bridget swung around to face a tall man with kind eyes. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, the man looked to be of Nordic descent. The tin star pinned to his chest told her she was staring at the sheriff of Faith Glen.

       He was very handsome, in a rugged, earthy sort of way, and Bridget immediately noticed how Nora stood frozen in place, eyes blinking rapidly as she stared at him.

       Bridget’s sentiments exactly. In the next few minutes they would either lose Grace or their new home, perhaps both, or—God willing—take the next step in claiming a new life for themselves in America.

       When Bridget and Nora continued staring at him, neither making a move to speak, the man smiled warmly. “I’m Cameron Long. The sheriff of Faith Glen.” His gaze lingered a moment longer on Nora than Bridget. “What brings you two lovely women to our fair town?”

       When Nora remained surprisingly silent under the sheriff’s scrutiny, Bridget stepped forward. “My name is Bridget Murphy and this is my sister Nora. We’ve just arrived from Ireland—”

       Grace let out an earsplitting wail. Bridget smiled. “And that healthy-lunged child is Grace. One of the reasons we’ve come here today.”

       He glanced briefly at the bundle in Nora’s arms, then proceeded to ignore Grace. “You’ve come to Faith Glen because of a baby?”

       “No.” Nora found her voice at last. “We came to you because of a baby.”

       His eyes widened ever-so-slightly. “Me?”

       “You are the sheriff of Faith Glen?” Nora looked pointedly at his badge. “Are you not?”