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
