Read the book: «Unclaimed Bride»
This Christmas, we’ve got some fabulous treats to give away! ENTER NOW for a chance to win £5000 by clicking the link below.
www.millsandboon.co.uk/ebookxmas
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. Ellis 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 a lady. If whoever did take her on didn’t do a bit of researching they might find themselves in a whole mess of trouble …
AUTHOR NOTE
I remember the morning I awoke with the beginning scene of UNCLAIMED BRIDE in my mind. It was just an image of a young woman stepping off a stage, cold and nervous, and I couldn’t wait to learn more. I created an outline, and over the following days filled in a few blanks, but it wasn’t until I sat down and started Chapter One that the characters fully planted themselves in my head. As they took over I couldn’t seem to type fast enough.
I have to admit when Ellis brought all those bananas home to Constance I chuckled aloud. I had to call my mother during the bread-making scene, since she still bakes bread regularly—from scratch, using a well-memorised recipe. I also asked for her ‘from memory’ pancakes, and would like to share that one with you. They are so light and fluffy you’ll never want to buy mix again.
Mom’s pancakes: Sift together ¾ cup flour, 1¾ teaspoons baking powder, ½ teaspoon salt and 1½ teaspoons sugar. Mix in ½ cup milk, 1 egg, 2 tablespoons melted butter and ½ teaspoon vanilla. Spoon onto a hot griddle and flip when the bubbles cover the top. This makes about 10 pancakes and can be doubled or tripled as needed.
I hope you enjoy getting to know Constance and Ellis, and if you find yourself wondering about Angel you can read her story in the Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! line—HER MIDNIGHT COWBOY.
With heartfelt blessings.
About the Author
LAURI ROBINSON’s chosen genre to write is Western historical. When asked why, she says, ‘Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.’
With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one she took the challenge, and has loved every minute of the journey.
Lauri lives in rural Minnesota, where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part-time, volunteers for several organisations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favourite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota, on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.
A previous title from Lauri Robinson:
HIS CHRISTMAS WISH
(part of All a Cowboy Wants for Christmas)
Also available in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:
WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER
HER MIDNIGHT COWBOY
NIGHTS WITH THE OUTLAW
DISOBEYING THE MARSHAL
TESTING THE LAWMAN’S HONOUR
THE SHERIFF’S LAST GAMBLE
Unclaimed Bride
Lauri Robinson
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
To my mother, Mary Jane Johnson.
It would be impossible for me to list all the things that made her so remarkable, or how deeply she is missed. While I was writing this book, she was still with us, and I consulted her more than once for a recipe. She ‘created’ many original dishes over the years, and tweaked others that will forever be passed along from generation to generation in our family. The day she passed away, and we were all gathered at her house, my four-year-old granddaughter said, ‘Jesus must be happy. He now gets Grandma Mary’s coleslaw.’
Love you, Mom.
Miss you.
Chapter One
Wyoming Territory November, 1877
The bitter wind that whipped the leather curtains covering the stage windows and snuck beneath the buffalo robe now piled on the hard seat could easily have stolen her breath away, but Constance Jennings’s first glimpse of her destination already had her lungs locked tight. Pinning her quivering bottom lip between her teeth, she glanced over her shoulder, half hoping the other passenger—an aging pastor who’d conversed pleasantly during the last leg of her journey—would indicate this wasn’t their stop after all.
No such luck. Reverend Stillman smiled kindly as he waved a hand for her to climb down the steps.
The trip had been long and cold, and days of sitting left her legs stiff and her knees popping. As her boots hit the dirt street, tremors seized her toes, and then traveled, snaking all the way up to her scalp until every hair follicle tingled.
Had she completely lost her senses back in New York?
A gust of unrelenting Wyoming wind caught on her headdress. The covering had once been stylish, but was now as tired and worn as the rest of the traveling suit. She grabbed the curled straw brim to keep the wind from stealing the hat, and gulped at the swelling in her throat.
Which one was he? Ashton Kramer—the man who’d ordered a bride.
The men standing along the dusty road were of various shapes and sizes. One so tall he could have flown a flag off his neck and another so squat and round he easily could have been mistaken for a rain barrel except for the black top hat sitting on his round head. The others were in between and every one of them looked as though they’d just been spit-shined. They were an odd assortment, to say the least, and the lump in Constance’s throat threatened to suffocate her.
A long-forgotten image of Aunt Theresa’s canary, Sweetie, sitting on its tiny swing with Aunt Julia’s big orange tomcat, Percival, staring at it through the spindly gold bars entered her mind. At this moment, Constance could fully relate to the bird.
Every slight movement—one of the men nodding or tipping their hat with a tense greeting—had 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 she fell onto it as her thoughts grew as uncontrollable as wild ivy, going in all directions yet tangling amongst itself until it went nowhere.
Since the moment she’d met Byron Carmichael her life had turned upside down, inside out and backward. And it hadn’t stopped with his death. It just kept getting worse and worse.
“What’s your name?”
The young girl knelt in front of her, looking up with big brown eyes. They were so clear and caring, Constance wondered if the girl was named Angel, or was an angel. She could certainly use one about now. “C-Constance Jennings,” she managed to eke out.
“Don’t worry,” Angel offered, sounding much older than she looked. “I won’t let any of them claim you. You’re safe with me.”
That would be her luck—getting a child angel instead of an adult one who could really help. Not wanting to hurt the girl’s feelings, Constance offered a tiny smile. “Thank you.” If only her mind would clear long enough for a concentrated thought to take hold, perhaps then she could fully comprehend what was happening.
“Angel!” The deep voice was followed by footsteps sounding off the boardwalk. “It’s time to head home.”
“Hey, Pa. I’d like you to meet Constance Jennings,” the girl answered, standing up.
Constance clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. The stiffness of the man’s features were as bitter as the frosty wind, and the scowl covering his face was even more fierce now than when he’d stood next to the wagon, glaring at the commotion.
“Constance, this is my father, Ellis Clayton,” Angel continued.
Tugging the collar of his sheepskin-lined coat up until it almost touched the wide brim of his hat, the man briefly nodded toward Constance—though his eyes never actually landed on her. “Time to go.”
“Pa, Miss Jennings needs to come home with us,” Angel said as calmly as if she’d just said it was cloudy today.
Constance flinched, and again when the frown on Ellis Clayton’s face grew as if a storm built inside him.
“Angel.” The warning tone in his voice was colder than the bitter wind.
“Pa.” Angel held her ground as firmly as someone twice her age. “Look at them.” She pointed toward the men who’d now gathered across the street from where Constance sat. “They’re circling in like a pack of wolves on a fresh kill.”
Constance shuddered, and the groan thickening her throat could no longer be contained.
Ellis Clayton glanced her way before he took his daughter’s arm. “Angel,” he said, his patience clearly spent. “She’s not one of the injured animals you’re always bringing home. You can’t save the world.”
“Maybe not, but I can save her.”
“Excuse me,” Constance started, ready to insist she didn’t need to be saved, but the man’s sideways glare made her lips clamp shut.
“What if it was me, Pa?” Angel continued. “What if I was in a strange town without a familiar face in sight? Wouldn’t you hope some kind stranger would take me in?”
Constance held her breath, both at the thought of such a young girl being on her own and at the bone-chilling wind gusts penetrating her layers of clothing.
“That’s not likely to happen. You’re my daughter and—”
“But what if? We don’t know what the future will bring. It could happen.” Beneath her heavy coat, the girl shrugged. “Somewhere, sometime, it could happen.”
The man rubbed his forehead, then glanced at the group of men and stared for an extended length of time. Constance’s heart throbbed in her stomach. She should say something. Offer some type of solution, but try as she might, she didn’t have one. Angel was very close to the truth. Constance did need a kind stranger. Her final fifty cents had paid for last night’s meal.
A shrill whistle split the air, followed by the crack of a whip. Groaning and creaking, the stage pulled away from the boardwalk. Moments later, dust swirled as the horses picked up speed. The animals appeared excited to leave the tiny town of Cottonwood, Wyoming Territory. For a moment, Constance pictured herself bundled beneath the buffalo robe on the bouncing stage seat. The vision faded along with the wagon, leaving her chest extremely heavy.
“Widow Wagner only has one spare room, Pa, and Reverend Stillman just settled in it. He came to perform the ceremony.”
Constance assumed the girl referenced the wedding between her and Ashton Kramer, which also explained how the reverend had known she was a mail-order bride even though she hadn’t provided the information when he’d climbed into the stage in Fort Laramie.
Time ticked by as Ellis Clayton’s gaze went from the men to the house the reverend had entered, and then landed on her. Though she was frozen stiff from the wind, heat penetrated Constance’s cheeks.
“You’re Ashton’s bride?” he finally asked.
Biting her lip, Constance managed a nod.
He didn’t respond, but Angel did. “She’ll need a decent coat, Pa. What she has on won’t get her halfway to the ranch.”
Constance tugged the gray shawl that had once been Aunt Theresa’s tighter around her shoulders. Bits of snow clung to the knitted yarn. The wind had picked up. It now carried swirling and growing flakes through the air with a stinging force. Once again, the girl was right. Constance had on her warmest dress, a beige wool two-piece, but had been close to freezing during the last leg of her journey, even with the buffalo robe.
Qualms piled inside her faster than she could comprehend. This had not been a good plan. Not only was she out of her element, her wardrobe was as out of place in Wyoming as the ocean would be. What she wouldn’t give for the red velvet cape lined with rabbit fur she’d left England with. She’d sold it, along with a few other of her more elegant pieces, hoping to find a way to financially support herself. The amount she’d gained had paid her room and board for the week, but hadn’t been enough to replace the overcoat, let alone anything else. That had contributed to her ultimate decision: become a mail-order bride.
The way Ellis Clayton glared down his nose at her made Constance doubly wish she’d never seen Ashton’s first letter.
Something she could only assume was disgust flickered in the man’s eyes as he scanned her shawl. When his gaze met hers, he asked, “Are you interested in coming home with Angel?”
Constance forced herself to breathe. The men across the road still leered, but other than the wind, it was deathly quiet. About ten buildings, built along both sides of the street, made up the town. Paint was nonexistent on most of the weathered boards, and only the two-story home, separated from the other buildings by a small yard, held the image of curtains on the inside. Since that was where Reverend Stillman had been escorted to, she assumed it was Mrs. Wagner’s. Besides herself, Angel was the only trace of a female she’d seen.
Knowing the man waited for an answer, Constance prayed the thickness in her throat would allow words to come out. “Perhaps, I …” Her mind couldn’t fathom a single suggestion. Fighting to hold an iota of dignity, she voiced her options, “I apologize, but at this moment, your generosity appears to be my only hope.”
The man’s expression softened and the sight did something to Constance’s insides. She couldn’t figure out exactly what, but then again she’d been greatly out of sorts since stepping off the stage.
His gaze went to his daughter, who smiled brightly. After shaking his head, he gestured to one of the men. “Put her stuff in my wagon, would you, Jeb?” When a young man moved toward her trunks, Ellis spun on one heel. “Come on, then.”
Angel grabbed Constance’s hand, and tugged her in the man’s wake. “He’s not as grumpy as he makes out to be.”
The girl’s assurance didn’t do much for the quaking in Constance’s limbs, nor the churning in her stomach. She willed her feet not to stumble as she matched Angel’s quick pace into the building. Shelves and tables held an array of goods and foodstuffs, making the tiny space cluttered and claustrophobic. Nonetheless, Constance sighed at the relief of being out of the wind.
A large man, in height and breadth, emerged from behind a curtained doorway. “What you forget, Ellis?”
“We need a coat, Link.” Ellis closed the door he’d held wide and moved toward the waist-high counter.
The man, Link it appeared, wrinkled his wide forehead as he stared at Constance with an all-consuming look. “So you’re Ashton’s bride. Poor sap. He’s probably kicking like a mule trying to get out of the pearly gates. He’d sworn you’d be a looker. We buried him yesterday. Had to do it before the ground froze, you know.”
Constance swallowed around the glob that had never left her throat, but now doubled in size.
“Just get us a coat, Link,” Ellis demanded roughly.
“You claiming her?” Link asked, lifting his spiky brows high on his glistening forehead.
Even covered with his thick coat, Constance noticed Ellis’s back stiffen, yet he didn’t answer. Probably because his daughter did. “I am,” Angel piped proudly.
Link 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.
The free excerpt has ended.
