Their Brazen Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 8)

“It’s nice she speaks so readily with you. She’s quite shy,” Laurel added. “Sent to Butte and returns after two years. People have moved on with their lives, gotten married, and had a child, like I did while she’s been in school. It must be hard to return and be on the fringes of conversation.” She shrugged, picked up a leftover green bean from a serving bowl, and nibbled on it. “It’s obvious she’s bothered by her appearance. It makes her not only shy, but wary. What if she was made fun of at school? You’ve heard the talk about her, how men aren’t interested in her because of her scar.”

We all jumped when a glass shattered against the wall. Tucker stood there, hands on hips, face red, breathing hard. “I’m sick and tired of hearing about the damn scar. From the townspeople, from you. Even from Abigail herself. She is more than a fucking scar.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck to try and calm down.

I wanted to throw my own glass at how frustrating it was to know a stupid scar defined Abigail, not only to the people around her, but to herself. She’d even turned her face to hide it when we spoke after the wedding. It was a subtle gesture, but obvious.

Tucker felt for her more deeply. He liked to defend those who were weak, who were defenseless against bullies. His anger was deeply rooted, his younger sister having been the brunt of such cruelty. She’d been born special, with wide-set eyes and a gentle nature. While her body grew older, her mind had remained of a four-year-old. Tucker, being five years older, had watched out for her. But he couldn’t protect her all the time, especially from his own parents. When his mother died, his father had put her in an institution, where she’d died only months later.

Only a year later, Tucker’s father had married my mother. Tucker’s father had been an asshole, so it had been easy to hate him, even at the young age of eleven. Why my mother married him, I never could understand, but I’d gained a brother from it. He might be legally my stepbrother, but it was only a word.

Tucker had never forgiven his father for what he’d done and while I’d never met his sister, Clara, I wholeheartedly agreed with him. Because of his history, the cruelty in his own family, he wouldn’t let anyone bother Abigail if he had his way. Not even one bad word. Neither would I, but Tucker was… broken a little over it.

“Oh, Tucker. The scar doesn't define her,” Laurel said, unaffected by his outburst. She went over to him and patted his arm. We all knew about what happened to his sister and why he was quick to temper. When it came to something like Abigail’s scar, for something so minor with a woman we loved, we knew he’d acted so impulsively because he was too kind. He offered Laurel a smile and then went to get the broom.

The other men came storming into the room to see what the noise was, if anyone was hurt.

“Abigail Carr seems to be under Tucker’s protection,” Andrew told the others.

“And mine,” I added, crossing my arms over my chest.

Andrew began to laugh then slapped me on the shoulder, grinning. “They are claiming her. Looks like we’re soon to have a new bride here at Bridgewater.”

Damn straight. Now we just had to go and get her.

***

Tucker

Once Gabe and I were in agreement about Abigail, that she would finally be ours, I became impatient. I itched to feel how soft her hair was, to run my knuckles over her silky skin, to taste her lips, to hear her gasp when I began to unbutton her blouse, to see her face when I made her come. I needed her to be mine, to be ours.

While she might have an admirer, he did not have her heart. Therefore, we had no concerns about stealing her away. If she’d been engaged, if we’d seen light and love in her eyes when we’d spoken with her at the picnic, then we would have bowed out. But that was not the case.

But, as Laurel had said, Abigail was shy. Skittish even. While two sheltered years in school had kept the other men—almost all of them—away from her, it had not given her an innate confidence. Because of this, we had to tread carefully until we changed that. She would never feel excluded or alone at Bridgewater. She would have two men who made her the center of their world and a group of women who would be immediate friends.

If she listened to worthless people telling her she was deformed because of her scar instead of her men telling her how beautiful and wanted she was, then she’d go over my knee. She’d learn through a good spanking she would not belittle herself ever again.

Clara had never been able to understand people were being mean to her, poking fun at her expense. My younger sister’s mind had never grown past one of a small child. I’d watched out for her—anyone bothering her got a punch in the nose or worse. But I hadn’t deflected all the taunts, all the teasing. I’d fought enough by the time I was ten and most people left Clara alone. She hadn’t known those people were just mean, petty fuckers.

Unlike Clara, Abigail knew, and yet she let those assholes make her doubt herself. Again and again, until she was afraid to look me straight on, wanting to hide the shame of her scar. They made her feel less than beautiful, less than perfect. It would be up to me and Gabe to change this. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it would happen, as soon as she was ours.

Because of this, the next day, we hitched our horses to the rail in front of the Carr ranch house and knocked on the front door, which stood wide open.

Coughing and hacking preceded James as he feebly made his way to the door, looking like he’d been dragged behind a horse.

“If I didn’t feel like hell, I’d be glad to see you,” he said, stepping back and letting us enter. His hair was tousled, his clothes wrinkled, and his skin had the flushed, sweaty sheen of someone with a fever. While I didn’t look too closely, I was pretty sure the buttons on his shirt were done up wrong.

“We’re here to see Abigail, actually.”

We removed our hats as we passed through the doorway. We’d been in his house before, several times, in fact, but never when Abigail was home. It was a large place, plenty of room for a family if James decided to settle down. It had yet to occur, so it seemed he was in no rush. The windows were all open, and I could look down the central hallway and see the back door open to the fresh air as well.

“Like I said, if I didn’t feel like hell, I’d probably care about the reason for your visit with Abigail. Don’t worry, it’s just a summer cold. Nothing more.”

He led us into the parlor, flopped down on the couch, and sighed, lifting his arm to cover his eyes.

I glanced at Gabe, who shrugged. We hadn’t seen James sick like this before. Not much laid the man low.

“Abigail, she is upstairs, unpacking her bags,” he said.