Bride School: Molly (The Brides of Diamond Springs Ranch 3) Read online

  BOOK THREE: THE BRIDES

  OF DIAMOND SPRINGS RANCH

  By Bella Bowen

  AMAZON KDP EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Bella Bowen

  www.bellabowen.weebly.com

  Book Three: The Brides of Diamond Springs Ranch © 2014 B.Bowen

  All rights reserved

  Amazon KDP Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Eddis

  The gentle giant

  CHAPTER ONE

  North of Booneville, Mississippi, 1870

  It was near midnight when Molly headed off to bed. She’d done everything that could be done in a day and then some. Her pa had no choice but to let her sleep if he wanted to get any work out of her tomorrow. Otherwise he’d have given her chores that might be completed in the dark. She was sure of it.

  His chair had stopped rocking an hour past. Maybe he didn’t noticed how one of her legs seemed a bit heavier than the other. Molly waddled a bit, thanks to the sack of food stuffs she’d tied to her leg, under her skirt, so she stretched her back a little as she went. Hopefully, her pa would assume her strange walk was due to being tuckered out—that was, if he was seeing through those half-closed eyes.

  It was just pie in the sky, though. Of course he was watching. Of course he’d noticed. Question was, would he do anything about it?

  Her heart beat so hard in her breast as she climbed the stairs, she couldn’t tell if the quick-tempered man was walking up on her or not. Her hand shook when she reached for the knob. Still, he didn’t stop her.

  Molly pushed the door open, pleased it no longer squeaked. Just that afternoon, she’d put some lard on the hinges. She prayed that would be the last time she’d have to lie to her pa about what she was doing. But if he didn’t watch her so close all the time, she wouldn’t need to lie at all.

  If he didn’t watch me so close all the time, maybe I wouldn’t need to run.

  She was nearly twenty years old and still he didn’t trust her. But God willing, soon there wouldn’t be a daughter left for him to trust.

  She stepped inside her little room and froze. She held her breath. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Nothing waited, or so she hoped.

  She gave it another half a minute. Still nothing. Finally, she turned and closed the door. In spite of her cautiousness, she half expected one of her cousins to grab her then, so she stayed by the door. At least, if she screamed, close to the cracks, her pa might hear. Hopefully, he’d do something about it.

  “I know you’re in here,” she hissed. Then she waited again.

  Nothing.

  She could have danced a jig for all the relief she felt, knowing it was the last time she’d ever have to repeat the ritual. Never again would she have to wonder which side of a door posed more of a danger.

  Her excitement made the need for sleep unnecessary and it eased away the weariness. She crept quietly about, gathering what things she wanted to take. There wasn’t much. A little lace collar—she hoped to have a pretty blue dress to wear it with someday. A miniature painting of a grandmother she never knew, but her pa had told her the woman looked much like Molly’s mother, so she’d hidden it under a board in the floor. And a little porcelain doll’s arm she’d found long ago.

  When she’d been small and frightened, she’d held that little doll’s hand even though the rest of the body had never been attached. She’d imagined the pretty little face it might have had. Tiny red lips, soft curling hair. She was certain the fancy dress would have been pink when the toy was new.

  She kept the little arm for a remembrance because sometimes, when she wondered how she’d gotten along without falling into despair, she could look back on those days when she’d held that tiny little hand and pretended it was real. She’d fallen asleep hundreds of times holding tight to a doll no one else could see.

  Molly took her Sunday bloomers and tied a knot in the end of one leg, then tucked her treasures inside. In the other leg, she tucked the rolls she hadn’t eaten at supper and the rest of the food she’d horded: a large piece of dried beef she’d held back from the soup pot, and dried old carrots that would perk up fine with a little bit of creek water.

  When she was done, she tied the two legs together in a knot, then slung the seat of the bloomers around her neck. The bundles dangled in front of her like a couple of fat bosoms while she made her way out the window.

  The smell of urine caught her under the nose. One of her cousins was relieving himself out the back door. She could hear it splashing.

  She held as still as possible on the pent roof that covered the porch and waited for him to go away.

  A dry shingle snapped beneath her weight and the splashing stopped.

  Molly breathed slowly and listened. If the boy stepped out away from the house, he’d see her for sure, but she didn’t dare back away. One more creak and she’d be caught.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was a hell of a thing, to kill a creature you loved.

  Samuel Craighton pretended to be calm as he thumbed the cartridge into the chamber. The last thing he wanted to do was to let the poor horse sense his fear. It had enough of its own to deal with, along with the pain.

  He squatted next to the gentle beast’s neck and murmured one last bit of comfort. The wild eyes closed and Samuel wondered if the animal sensed how hard the task would be and thought to make it easy for him.

  He stood and gently locked the barrel of the Maynard carbine, then aimed. “Goodbye, ol’ boy.” The trigger seemed more resistant than usual, but he pulled off a shot before the noble horse opened its eyes again…

  And Mustard Seed was gone.

  A hell of a thing to name a horse anyhow.

  Back at the house, Rosie swept the days’ dirt from the porch. The woman ran his kitchen as his household with very little help from two young gals from town. The sun was going down and there she was, still working.

  “Saved you a piece of apple pie, Samuel.” She lifted the broom, poised to go fetch him whatever he asked for.

  “Thanks just the same,” he said and headed into the house. Still dripping from washing up, his hands made a trail across Rosie’s clean floor, but he figured she’d forgive him. She knew what he’d been up to. The whole ranch knew. No one had come running when they’d heard the shot. And the hole he’d planned to dig was already dug when he, Darby, and Cruikshank took the big horse out by the north gate to bury it.

  He didn’t want anyone using Mustard Seed to feed the dogs, so he’d told them all the meat might be tainted.
They buried the big horse deep, just in case.

  He hadn’t shed a tear until then.

  Damned horse anyway.

  But now he had something else to occupy his mind. Rosie would age before her time if he didn’t lighten her load a bit, and he knew just how to do it. In fact, he’d already started writing a letter to apply for one of those Diamond Springs Brides from the Wyoming Territory. All he had left to do was sign it and send it into the city, to some lawyer. Once he got word, he’d go fetch a well-trained woman back to Snow Creek and Rosie’d be able to relax a bit. With only half the work, neither woman would suffer.

  He’d just have to choose a woman who knew how to work. And for once in his life, he wasn’t going to bring back someone who needed fixing. Sounded like that Carnegie woman only offered up quality women with backbone and grit under their pretty packaging. And that was just what he needed. He was finished bringing home strays.

  And mangy horses with broken legs.

  Samuel tried not to think of people that way, but the truth was, everyone on his ranch had been discovered by the side of the road in one manner or another. Even Rosie had been an unusual find. He’d come back from Denver on the train, then gone to the livery stables to get his horse. She’d followed him, and finally approached him while he was saddling up.

  “Hey, mister. D’ya fancy a roll in the straw up yonder?” She pointed to the loft above their heads. “I just need the price of a train ticket…”

  Her wool dress was still fine enough, and clean enough, he thought he might have been the first man she’d approached. And her proposition lacked the savior faire of an experienced woman.

  “Can you cook?” he asked her.

  Her bottom lip quivered and in the next breath, she’d pulled her chin up off the ground. “Of course I can cook. And I can clean the brass off a spittoon if the price is right.”

  He’d laughed—since a spittoon was made of brass clear through. And by the end of the week, she was laughing too. Whatever woes she’d left behind, they never discussed. And wherever she’d planned to travel, she never went. Someone had taught the woman how to cook, but other than that, her life may as well have started when she stepped into the stable that day.

  And it was going to end far too soon if he didn’t get her some help.

  The two gals from town hadn’t been much use, but they were the best he’d been able to find. Rosie whipped them into acceptable shape, but there was still more work than hands to do it. And since the stubborn woman wouldn’t hear of having men folk working in her kitchen, taking a bride was the only remedy Samuel could think of.

  In fact, a perfectly sound woman would be a remedy for more than just Rosie. In spite of his young age of twenty-five, his ranch hands seemed like children, and he just couldn’t care for one more. He needed a helping hand with the ones he already had.

  Though the day had been tough and had ended even tougher, he managed to smile as he signed his name.

  Wouldn’t Rosie be surprised…

  CHAPTER TWO

  Molly’s ankles ached with the strain of holding still, but she would rather be in pain than ruin her one chance of escape. If she failed, if she were caught, she’d never have a second chance because she’d never be trusted on her own again, not even to sleep. Her pa would hobble her somehow, and if she were hobbled, she’d be an easier catch for her cousins, Stalton and Ridder.

  Although they were close to her own age, she couldn’t think of them as anything more than boys because of the way they teased each other. They’d arrived on her pa’s doorstep in last winter, and the man took ‘em in, not because they were kin, but because he could work ‘em with no pay. That made the boys as important as Molly was, and her pa wouldn’t listen to complaints from any of them. No one was going anywhere, so they might as well learn to get on.

  The old man watched her so closely, he had to know that the boys were always after her. The way they tried to corner her went far beyond teasing, but her pa never said a word. It was a sad day when she realized her pa thought the boys were harmless. But an even more frightening day was when Stalton and Ridder realized the same thing, and that her pa was never going to stop them.

  That was two days back. That’s when she decided she’d be a fool to stay. It had taken her two days to convince her pa that a family of skunks had been nosing around. And John Brumley feared nothing on this earth like he feared a skunk getting up the nose of one of his blood hounds.

  Now, the dogs were locked up in the big barn and traps had been set around the yard. She’d been careful to watch where those traps were hidden, so there was nothing to fear—except for a cousin up late to relieve himself.

  Molly counted to a hundred then back down to one. Nothing stirred beneath her. Nothing behind her. And there was no chance either of her cousins were patient enough to lay in wait that long. So she moved, finally. She sat on her bum and pulled one foot at a time out from under herself, then stretched out her legs. She waited a minute for them to get the blood back, and while she waited, something small and red caught her eye.

  Out by the chicken coop, a tiny red dot glowed in the dark. Then it dimmed and swung away.

  Inside her chest, a hammer came down on her heart. It was all over. She wouldn't be going anywhere. One of her cousins, or her pa, was smoking a cheroot and watching her. They'd been watching her the whole time.

  She was angry and embarrassed for not noticing sooner. But mostly, she was terrified of what her pa would do to her. Terrified of making a run for it. Terrified not to.

  Her legs had recovered. She could run. But if Pa couldn't catch up with her himself, he would set the dogs out after her and hunt her down. Could she reach the train before they did?

  That whistle always sounded so near she'd been sure she could find the railroad tracks before anyone knew she was gone. She figured a train would stop for her if she stood on the rails and waved them down. Or maybe she could do like that man in Ridder's story, the one who ran alongside a ladder and caught hold. But there would be no reaching the tracks if the dogs were loosed right on her heels.

  She decided the best thing to do would be to crawl back inside and insist she'd only been looking for a bit of cool air before bedding down. After all, she'd never moved to the edge.

  With heavy tears threatening, she rolled onto her knees and moved back toward the window.

  Whoever it was by the chicken coop cleared their throat. It hadn't sounded like pa at all. In fact, it hadn't sounded like one of her cousins either. She was fairly certain the sound had come from a woman.

  A woman, smoking!

  She turned back and watched the little red dot brighten again. A face glowed behind it, she was sure. But there were no details to be seen from that distance.

  But why would a woman be there in the middle of the night?

  Well, whoever she was, she'd seen Molly clearly enough. Lurking in the dark like some criminal, there was a chance she wouldn't raise an alarm if Molly jumped off the roof and went on her way.

  More determined than ever to get away, Molly scooted toward the edge again. No one cleared their throat. No one made a sound.

  What with the angle, her tight boots pinched her toes harder than usual, but she ignored them. Finally, she reached the edge and surveyed the yard below. The bushes where the raccoons always hid looked like a soft place to land, but she was no fool. Beneath the supple leaves lurked hard branches that might cut her up, and there was nothing easier for a dog to follow than a trail of blood. Besides, there was a trap set behind it.

  She needed to land flat to make certain she didn't twist her ankle and the best spot was to her right, so she sidestepped to it. She glanced up once more, toward the chicken coop. The red tip glowed, then flew away in a rainbow of sparks. Whoever was there, was finished waiting, she supposed. But they weren't going to get their hands on her.

  She pushed off, and in the shadows beneath her, something moved into her path. She recognized Ridder just before she landed on t
op of him. His outstretched arms tried to wrap around her, but let go when they hit the ground.

  “Ya got her!” Stalton whooped and hooted while he jumped around on the grass.

  Ridder gasped for air. The breath had been knocked out of him. He'd be helpless for a minute.

  Molly jumped to her feet almost grateful her cousin had softened her fall. Stalton ran at her, but she threw a fist toward his face. Her fingers crunched together and her shoulder jerked when they hit, but the brief pain was nothing compared to the wicked satisfaction of striking him with more muscle than she might have if he’d been standing still.

  With both boys on the ground, she headed for the side of the house, away from whoever it was coming in from the chicken yard.

  “Molly.” Her pa's voice, cold and calm, stopped her, but she fought the urge to look back at him. How long had he been standing under the roof? How long had he been laughing at her, knowing she was up there, fooling herself into believing she could get away. How delighted must have been, knowing he was going to crush her hopes, to teach her a lesson? No wonder they'd all been so patient.

  She was so furious the tears behind her eyes up and disappeared. She clenched her jaw tight and started walking. Heaven help the man if he tried to stop her.

  “Excuse me,” said a woman behind her. “Are you John Brumley? Molly's father?”

  Molly spun around, but kept backing toward her escape. She would have liked to see the woman's face, but she wasn't going to ignore the chance to get away while her pa was distracted.

  “Ridder, bring the lantern,” Pa growled. “Molly, don't you take another step.”

  But she did take another, and another. Still backing away, she found that same wicked satisfaction in each little stride.

  “Yes, Molly, please join us,” the woman said sweetly.