Mail Order Bride: Summer (Bride For All Seasons 2)

Camellia, not only heartsick but sick to her soul, had spent a restless night shifting from position to position in the big double bed beside Ben. Even as he had given her so much comfort by his very presence, by his cuddling, by his listening, she had taken more comfort in the fact that he, too, was deeply affected from the weekend’s traumatic occurrences, and sleep had come to him, as to her, neither easily nor sweetly.

She was exhausted.

It seemed that, since the day she had first stepped down from her wagon train onto Turnabout’s dusty boardwalk (and promptly collapsed), nearly two months ago, a whirlwind of events had swept her up to keep her feeling in a permanent state of siege. She might as well be living inside the eye of a tornado, or at the top of a roller coaster about to plunge down.

Insides knotted up like an embroidery skein, dull pounding in the back of her head, cold clammy hands beset by an occasional tremble—that was becoming her normal physical condition. Each morning found her tense with anticipation, just trying to get through one catastrophe while waiting for the next to barrel in like a tidal wave.

Along with worry and anxiety came blame.

The fault for Molly’s whole disastrous mail order marriage could be laid directly at her door. If only she had stood stronger against the girl’s entreaties, if only she had not surrendered to the demand

s of her spoiled little sister, if only she had worked to delay the nuptials for another few weeks...or a few months...or a few years...

No matter how much her intractable spouse insisted no fault could be laid to her actions, no matter how often he tried to “Oh, pshaw” her occasional moments of self-recrimination, Camellia was miserable with guilt.

It was a heavy burden those slender shoulders were carrying. The wonder of it was that she hadn’t cracked under the strain.

True to her calling, yesterday Camellia had set to work providing aid and succor for the little wounded bird, with its broken wings, hiding in the bedroom upstairs. Several tedious trips lugging pails of hot water to the second floor had filled the small hip bath, into which a generous hand had tipped the contents of Gabriel’s entire bottle of arnica. After that, Molly had needed no persuasion to cast aside her ruined garments and sink full into the healing waters.

She had revealed only a few more details of her grueling night at the Rutledge shack, details which she knew her sister, married and experienced, would understand. Finally, after soaking away the worst of the visible filth, she was wrapped carefully into a fresh nightdress, given a good dose of laudanum, and put back to bed.

Leaving Camellia to agonize even more about the outcome of this rash venture.

Surely the girl could not return to such an abusive husband. But what were her alternatives? The idea of separation was only remotely possible, since Quinn would, doubtless, not allow it. Divorce was simply out of the question. Divorced, even for the most logical of reasons, Molly would be seen as a pariah, shunned by everyone around; she would not be allowed to rejoin society anywhere, and no decent woman would even speak to her.

Barbaric, and cruel, and unfair, especially given that her husband was the root cause of all these troubles. But there it was. A woman who married was little better than chattel. Higher on the scale than a ranch dog but probably lower on the scale than a good milk cow. So she’d better hope that the man she chose as spouse would be kind to her, and true, and caring.

As Ben was.

Not for the first time did Camellia give thanks to all the stars above that Benjamin Forrester, with whatever his minor faults, had proven to be exactly the mate she wanted—and needed—in life. How fortunate she was! It would behoove her to remember that, during their infrequent heated occasions when opinions differed and two strong personalities clashed.

The appearance of both Ben and Paul at her front door, several hours later on that worrisome Sunday evening, did little to inspire reassurance concerning Molly’s uncertain future.

“Yes, I let him go,” the sheriff repeated for the third time, in response to Camellia’s apprehensive question. “Had to, for the moment. Man, this is good coffee, Miz Forrester; thank you.

The stuff my deputies throw together at the jail tastes a lot like sheep dip.”

“But why?” Camellia, having set the granite ware pot down in the middle of the table with a thunk, was all but wringing her hands. “Why couldn’t you put him behind bars, as you promised?”

“Excuse me, darlin’, I don’t recall Paul promisin’. I do recall me wishin’.” Her husband did his best to set the record straight.

“Well, that isn’t good enough. I’m surprised he isn’t here right now, pounding to be let in so he can drag Molly away!”

The sheriff’s grave dark eyes shifted from one to the other. “And he has every right to do just that, ma’am. Molly is his wife. As Hennessey reminded me a while ago, he owns her.”

“Owns!” Camellia spat out. “Owns! As if she’s a pet. One tied up and helpless, and poorly treated, and starved of all human decency.”

“Afraid so.” Discerning brown fingers wrapped around his cup, Paul leaned forward as if to emphasis a point.

“You can’t possibly believe—”

“What happened out in that cabin, however terrible it was for your sister, ain’t considered illegal. It ain’t a crime, d’ you understand? I can’t arrest him for it.” A shadow of deep distaste passed over his face. “Yes, ma’am, I know the whole system is skewed against women. Ain’t nothin’ I can do about that, neither. Howsomever, I let the man go deliberately. Wanna see what happens.”

By this time Camellia’s legs would no longer support her. She sank onto a chair and, wanting to weep, leaned one elbow on the table. “What does that mean?”

Paul’s quiet smile, this a mere movement of muscles in the rugged face, did not bode well for the vile man at large in their quiet town. “I warned him to stay away from this house, and from all you Burton ladies. Told him he’s got no call even to think about resumin’—uh—well...his marital relations—till Miz Hennessey is completely back to health. Meanwhile, I’ll be watchin’ him.”

“He guessed that Molly is here, Cam,” Ben volunteered. “We just need to make sure she stays safe until we find a way outa this mess.”