Unclaimed Bride. Lauri Robinson

should be in any minute.”

      She finished the job, replaced the ash brush to its holder and then stood. “I thought that was just because you were gone yesterday. He comes in even when you’re home?”

      “Yes. That’s his job.” He gestured toward the front door. “A ranch this size requires a lot of wood. It takes one person dedicated to it.”

      Wiping her hands on the flour sack, she said, “I do apologize. I’ll remember that in the future.”

      He nodded, but a feeling as if he’d just chastised her for no reason settled in his chest. Shrugging against the sensation, he went to the door and stepped out into what might prove to be one of the biggest blizzards of all time.

       Chapter Three

      The wood man, Thomas Ketchum, turned out to be a bulk of a man with a cheerful disposition. Upon his arrival, he’d not only cleaned out and set fires in the fireplaces but had refilled all of the wood boxes—which totaled over a dozen—shortly after Ellis had left the house. During the morning hours, Constance had explored the home thoroughly, making notes of things that needed immediate attention, such as cobwebs in hidden corners a child or man wouldn’t notice. She’d noted other things that could use slight adjustments in the future—rugs showing wear and curtains that had become sun-faded—but overall the home was in excellent condition and was well run.

      During that quiet, early morning time, the expanse and elegance surrounding her had childhood memories dancing in her head like a figurine on a music box. Matter of fact, part of her had wanted to skip along the halls and slide down the wide banister. The house, the surroundings, produced a contentment she’d never found in England, one she already cherished.

      Curiosity had led her to ask Angel why the home was so large, for just her and her father. “Pa said he promised my mother the exact home she’d left behind in the Carolinas—only bigger,” Angel had said.

      Now, several hours later, Constance listened with one ear as Angel explained the upcoming holiday party. The other ear was tuned into the doors of the ranch house, both the front and back. Ellis had yet to return. Noon would soon be upon them, the roast a ranch hand had delivered to the back door which she’d seasoned and set to bake was nearly done. She’d gone to the door several times, wondering if she heard something, but the blizzard created a whiteout that made seeing the edge of the front porch impossible.

      She and Angel were settled in the large yet cozy front parlor, where the fire roared with warmth and the wide windows, despite the blizzard, filled the room with light.

      “Last year, I made divinity. I found the recipe in a cookbook, but it didn’t turn out very well.” The girl scrunched up her face. “Not even the animals would eat it.”

      Constance focused her waning attention on Angel and smiled. “We’ll make it again. It’ll help with two people. Whipping the egg whites becomes tiring for one.”

      “It certainly did,” Angel admitted. “And turned out as hard as rocks. Good thing Pa didn’t break a tooth. He was the only one brave enough to try it.”

      “That sounds like something my father would have done,” Constance admitted.

      “Oh? Where does he live?”

      “He used to live in Virginia, but he passed away many—” A thud outside the front door had Constance jumping to her feet. Regardless of Angel’s earlier assurance that Ellis was fine, was used to working in such extreme conditions, Constance couldn’t help but fret for his well-being.

      The noise came again, and Angel ran from the parlor, pulling the front door open as Constance turned the corner.

      The bitterly cold wind swirled into the house, stinging Constance’s face and eyes, but it was her heart that froze. The blizzard had made her compliant. Let her believe travel would be hampered. The man lying on the front porch wasn’t Ellis. It was a complete stranger. Could he be the authorities? All the way from New York? Who else would travel through a blizzard? Though fretful, concern for his lifeless state flared inside her. “Help me get him inside.”

      Between the two of them, Angel tugging and Constance pushing, they managed to roll the man over the threshold. His face was beet-red and ice hung on his eyelashes.

      “Mr. Homer?” Angel patted the man’s ruddy cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

      The man groaned, and Constance sighed with relief he was indeed alive. “Mr. Homer?” she asked, brushing aside the snow covering his clothing.

      “One of the men from town. He works at the bank,” Angel explained as she pushed the door shut.

      Constance now recognized the man as the one she’d compared to a rain barrel yesterday. “What’s he doing out here?”

      Angel, with her long blond curls bouncing about, shook her head ruefully. “My guess would be to claim you.”

      Constance pressed a hand to the alarm thudding in her chest, recalling the men outside the stage. “In a storm like this? He must be crazy.”

      The man groaned again.

      For a few hours the reason for her being at the Clayton home had escaped her. The panic in her chest turned into annoyance. It was a dismal situation she found herself in, but in all circumstances there was a solution, and she’d find one now, too. As soon as she saw to the tasks at hand. Constance huffed out a puff of frustrated air. “Help me drag him into the parlor so he can thaw out. The poor man’s lucky he didn’t freeze to death.”

      Along with much tugging and pulling, she and Angel managed to get Mr. Homer in front of the fireplace in the parlor. Pressing her hands against her muscle-strained thighs, Constance took a moment to catch her breath from the laborious job before she began removing the man’s coat by rolling him from side to side while Angel went upstairs for a blanket.

      After a few minutes, the man regained consciousness. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” he mumbled several times as he flopped closer to the fireplace. “Heat. Heat.”

      “Not too close, Mr. Homer,” Constance warned, glad the grate kept the man from climbing into the flames.

      A rap sounded on the front door. She and Angel stared at one another for a brief moment before they rose and went to the door again. This time the man was upright on the porch, but he leaned heavily on the door frame, shaking and shivering from head to toe. “G-g-g-goo-d-d-d d-d-d-ay.”

      Constance ran a hand over her aching forehead. This was too absurd to be happening. Surely these men didn’t believe she was so destitute she’d—A lump formed in her throat. She was destitute. Lord knew where she’d be right now if not for Angel and Ellis.

      Angel grabbed the man’s arm. “Good day to you, too, Mr. Aimes. Get in here before you freeze to death.”

      Constance took his other arm as the man stumbled in, mumbling and leaving a trail of snow on the rug.

      After that, there was barely time to get one man settled when another would be knocking, or in some cases, falling against the door. The final count was five. Mr. Homer, Mr. Aimes, Mr. McDonaldson, Mr. Westmaster and Jeb. Angel said she didn’t know Jeb’s last name, and the way his teeth chattered, Constance couldn’t understand what he’d said.

      Constance had just removed Jeb’s frozen coat when the front door slammed shut. “Oh, no, not another one,” she groaned, much louder than intended, but she was quite exasperated. Was every man in the Wyoming Territory without a lick of sense?

      “Not another whaaat the hell?” Ellis stared into the front parlor from the doorway, his gaze making a full circle of the room.

      Constance held her breath. It was quite a scene. Men wrapped in blankets, some holding hot water bottles on their frozen heads, others soaking their feet in tubs of warm water. Some had water dripping from the ice chunks still clinging to their hair, and most were groaning with shivers or their teeth were chattering loud and uncontrollably.