Unclaimed Bride. Lauri Robinson

panic clutching her insides. Now was not the time to give in to regret or alarm. She’d chosen Wyoming.

      Over jail.

      It had sounded better.

      Then.

      Not one of the men stepped forward, identifying himself as her husband-to-be. Ashton Kramer’s letter hadn’t held a picture, but had said not to worry, she’d know him straight off.

      The weight that fell on her shoulder had her jumping in her boots. The hold increased and a huff sounded as Reverend Stillman took a final step off the springy stage. “Excuse me, Miss Jennings,” he offered, leaning a bit harder. “These old bones of mine just can’t take a ride like they used to.”

      Out of habit, and thankful for something to do, Constance wrapped an arm around the man’s stooping shoulders while he settled the bottom of his hooked cane on the well-worn dirt beneath their feet.

      The reverend gave her a warm smile of thanks before lifting his chin to scan the town. As if that was the signal they’d waited for, the men rushed forward, pushing at each other, vying for the same spot of earth.

      Shouts of, “That’s her!” “He called her Miss Jennings!” And “Move out of the way!” caught and sifted in the wind.

      Constance cowered, wishing she could make herself as small as Sweetie, or better yet, sprout wings.

      “Angel!”

      The shout rumbled above the rest, and sent Constance’s peaked nerve endings shuddering from head to toe. The reverend’s bellow could have shaken the sun out of the clouds, but that, too, wasn’t to be. The sky remained as thick and gray as her insides.

      “Sorry, Miss Jennings,” he offered, patting her hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

      A strained grin was the best she could offer. Startled was putting it lightly. Shocked, stunned, close to hysterical, not to mention freezing, were just a few ways to describe why she shook uncontrollably.

      To her dismay and relief, the shout had slowed the men. They now shuffled amongst each other, almost as if waiting for a leader. Ashton, perhaps?

      Their gazes had shifted, too, then went up the road. Constance couldn’t stop hers from following. A tall man standing beside a wagon made something inside her sputter with hope that she’d found her intended. But only for a moment. The steely glare of his eyes not only said he wasn’t Ashton, but that he wasn’t impressed with the commotion taking place.

      It wasn’t as if she was, either.

      Constance, glad the stone-faced man wasn’t Ashton, turned as a young girl wearing a heavy-looking coat arrived at the reverend’s side. “Hello, Reverend Stillman.” The girl kissed the old man’s cheek and wrapped her mitten-covered hands around his other arm. “We didn’t expect you this late in the year. It’s gettin’ colder and colder.”

      “I know, child,” the reverend agreed. “But I promised one last sermon before the weather makes it impossible.”

      Constance curled her fingers into her palms and struggled to pull her eyes off the girl’s thick mittens. They were bright red and looked as thick and warm as fresh-sheared wool.

      As if she were a queen and expected her orders followed, the girl gestured toward the men. “Get his bag and help Reverend Stilllman over to Mrs. Wagner’s.”

      The men didn’t question the request, matter of fact, two literally sprang forward. “Ma’am,” the first one said, landing next to Constance.

      “It’s miss,” the second one said, elbowing the first before tipping his hat.

      Renewed shivers assaulted her. Constance stumbled backward, giving the men clear access to the reverend as she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

      Moments later, Reverend Stillman was escorted down the road. He waved, but the whistling of the cold, blustery wind swallowed up his departing words. A thick gush of sadness tightened Constance’s chest, as if she watched her last known friend disappear. Not that he’d been a longtime friend, but he’d become a short-term one she’d greatly appreciated. His companionship had made the rocky, cold ride more endurable.

      “Are you her?”

      Constance, releasing the air from her lungs, turned to the girl.

      Seriousness covered the young rosy-cheeked face. “Are you Ashton Kramer’s mail-order bride?”

      Constance’s heart jolted. Hearing someone call her Ashton’s bride made it too real.

      The way the girl surveyed the remaining men for an extended length of time had the hair on the back of Constance’s neck standing on end. Under her scrutiny, the men shuffled, as if unsure if they should move forward. The girl shook her head sadly. “They’re here for you.”

      Constance’s blood turned cold—in that foreboding kind of way. “Excuse me?”

      “They’re here for you,” the girl repeated.

      The men whispered amongst themselves, and some nodded her way. Constance gulped as her heart made its way into her throat. “Why?”

      “I’m Angel Clayton.” The girl slipped an arm under Constance’s, hooking their elbows. “Someone should have been here to meet you.” Abruptly, she spun about.

      Constance had no choice but to twirl with the girl and then be led to the back of the stage.

      “Buster, just put her things on the boardwalk.”

      “Will do, Angel,” the stage driver said, hoisting himself onto the roof of the stagecoach.

      Angel walked away from the stage, tugging Constance along as the men rushed forward, vying to catch the trunks being lowered from the top of the faded red vehicle. Another chill crept over Constance. It wasn’t that she’d formed a kinship with the paint-chipped, leather-cracked, rocking box on wheels, but the thought of being separated from the stage gripped her heart.

      All too soon her trunks were carried to the wooden sidewalk in front of buildings built of boards as gray as the sky. Everything looked dull, almost lifeless. Other than the men, the settlement could have been a ghost town withering and dying beneath the dreary winter clouds. This isn’t what she’d imagined. Then again, she hadn’t contemplated what to expect. She’d spent most of the trip convincing herself she could marry a stranger. Marriage hadn’t been a goal of hers, yet Ashton Kramer’s letter….

      “What do you mean,” she asked, “someone should have met me? Where’s Mr. Kramer?”

      The girl let out a long, heavy sigh. Tiny lines of compassion puckered the bit of forehead that stuck out below her red knitted hat. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, ma’am, but Ashton’s dead.”

      Constance’s knees buckled. Only the girl’s tight hold kept her upright. “Don’t faint here,” Angel whispered. “They’ll settle on you like a flock of crows.”

      Constance forced her leg muscles to work, while a lump of dread as weighty as her trunks swelled inside her stomach. “Dead?”

      “Just keep walking, ma’am,” Angel coaxed. “We’ll sit down over in front of Link’s.” She waved a mitten-covered hand. “That’s the general store. See he has two chairs set outside the front door. You can make it, can’t you?”

      Her feet grew heavier by the step, but Constance nodded, having barely heard the girl’s words with all the buzzing in her head. How could Ashton Kramer possibly be dead? His letter had said he was a young man, and healthy. Even she wasn’t so desperate she’d travel across the country to wed a dying man.

      That little voice in the back of her head—the one she’d grown to loathe over the past months—disagreed. She most certainly was. Matter of fact, she’d been so desperate she’d traveled across the ocean after a dead man. A chair magically appeared beneath her and