Younger & Wylder, page 16
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Other Wild Rose Press Titles by Shelley White
Younger & Wylder
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
A word from the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press
“Why’d you marry me then, if you didn’t want a wife?”
Race sighed. “I didn’t want to see you misused. You reminded me of my—” But she didn’t really remind him of Mary Catherine at all. Technically, he was old enough to have fathered her. His stomach turned, renewing the nausea he’d been battling all morning. “You remind me of my friend’s little sister. I didn’t like the look of Mr. Monroe. Not that you were given a choice, but it was him or me.”
She thought on this for a moment, then said, “I thank you, I s’pose, but I don’t know you either. If I’m not to act like your wife, what am I supposed to do?”
“Think of me as a wise older brother.”
“Wiser than who? You’d better not say me. You’re the one saddled with a wife you don’t want.”
She wasn’t wrong in her assessment. “How about just an older brother, then?”
She eyed him up and down. “So’s I can marry someone else someday when boys come a courtin’?”
Regret filled him. He’d trapped them both in his hasty rescue. “We’re still a few years off from worrying about that. We’ll ford that river when we get to it.”
Millie slumped in her seat. “I’m sorry for ruining yer life.”
“It was already ruined and, on its way, to getting worse. You most likely saved my life and gave me something to live for, the next few years. Maybe by the time you’re grown, I’ll have figured out what to do with the rest of it.”
Other Wild Rose Press Titles by Shelley White
Ginger Snapped
Penny Gothic: a romance of fictitious proportions
Square Penny: Romance and Mystery Afoot
Younger & Wylder
by
Shelley White
The Wylder West
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Younger & Wylder
COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Shelley E. White
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2022
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4154-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4155-2
The Wylder West
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To John, always.
Special thanks to Ally, Kim, & Nicole.
Prologue
Scotts Bluff, Nebraska Territory, 1848
Horace ‘Race’ Lowery leaned back in his chair, surveying the pile of coins in front of him. The deed to a mercantile in Santa Fe was the latest addition to his winnings courtesy of the player across the table. This game was the latest detour on his path to destruction. Lady Luck had fastened herself around his neck like an anchor and he’d become relatively wealthy for a man who didn’t care if he lived or died. Even somewhat intoxicated, he knew his luck would eventually run out, and he’d be able to get on with the business of being miserable.
Eventually came when Millie Spooner stepped into the room.
Otis had been crowing about his virgin daughter all night and hinting at the outdated notion of a bride price. Race got the impression the man was out to sell his daughter but only half-listened and missed the details. He wasn’t in the market for another wife. No one deserved to be subjected to his misery, let alone a woman. But Millie wasn’t a woman.
Race checked into his room at the Spooner Boarding House in Scotts Bluff, earlier in the afternoon. The owner, Otis, took one look at his gold pocket watch and invited him to play a couple hands at that evening’s parlor card game. After ensuring whiskey would be cheap and plentiful, he agreed to stop by.
He stowed his catalog case and saddle bags and refilled his flask from his personal bottle of high-end No. 9, just in case he couldn’t stomach Spooner’s swill. Before heading to the game, he unwrapped the double photo frame from the cloth that protected it. His vibrant Rosemary and fair Mary Catherine stared up him. Race thought life unfair when, at sixteen, he lost his mother in the 1832 cholera epidemic. He was reminded how cruel life could be when his wife and daughter succumbed to the same disease eight months ago. He was grateful to his employer and friend for allowing him to take over travel sales when he couldn’t bear his empty house anymore.
Race drew his thoughts back to the situation before him. Beneath hooded eyes, he took the measure of his fellow players. The railroad man that used to own the mercantile wore a look of confusion and disgust. The man next to Otis never took his eyes off his cards. The player to Race’s left leered at Otis’s daughter. He snaked his hand to his lap and rubbed at his groin.
Millie placed a steaming bowl in front of each man, moving in and out of each players’ personal space, somehow not brushing or bumping any of the men. The man next to Race shifted, causing his shoulder to graze her breast. She jumped back, then caught herself and mumbled, “S’cuse me.” Her eyes darted between each man, growing wider as she moved around the table. Her hand trembled as she set the last bowl in front of her father.
“Thank you, Millie darlin’. Those beans look right tasty. You go on to bed now.” Otis smacked his daughter on the bottom as she left the room. The door swung shut on her panicked backward glance. Otis turned back to the group at the table. “What did I tell ya? Pretty as a picture, isn’t she?”
The railroad man set his cards on the table. “How old is she, man? She’s not but a child.”
“Old enough to be wed and bed. She’s fourteen, but she’s a woman a’ficially. Are you ready to talk bride price?”
“I should say not. I don’t want any part of this.” He picked up the few coins remaining in front of him and dropped them in his pocket before stalking out the door.
“What about the rest of yous?”
Race sobered. Fourteen years old. His own daughter had been eight, and he wouldn’t have ever willingly parted with her, let alone use her as a commodity. What kind of man did that? He’d give anything—anything—to have his daughter back in his arms. He’d protect her with his life. Otis’s booze was midgrade, but at this point churned and threatened to resurface. He should leave, but he’d latched on to the idea of protecting the girl from her own father. He just didn’t know how yet. He looked around the table at the two men who stayed. One appeared ready to bolt. He eyed the pot with a longing that kept him glued to his seat.
The man seated beside Race claimed a pile nearly as big as his own. Otis called him Monroe, but it was unclear whether it was a first or last name. His accent placed him from the South, as did his shiny shoes and black brocade jacket, both out of place in this neck of the woods. He played well, reminding Race of professional gamblers in bigger cities. Millie’s appearance didn’t seem to disturb him. His earlier leer had been replaced with an innocent, besotted expression. One Race didn’t believe for a second.
“What kind of bride price are ya thinkin’ about?” Monroe pulled a tobacco twist out of his pocket and bit off the end. He used his tongue to lodge it between his jaw and cheek pouch.
Otis went behind the bar and came back with a charcoal stub and scrap of paper. He wrote down a figure and slid it across the table.
Monroe flipped it over and considered it while moving the tobacco to the other cheek with his tongue. “Hmm. Too rich for my blood, I think. Why don’t we play a few more rounds, see if I can’t improve my lot.”
Race met Otis’s hopeful stare but made no response. Otis sighed and dealt the next round.
As the night wore on, the whiskey flowed. Race pretended inattention and paced himself. He refilled often to give the appearance of overindulgence without ever taking more than a few sips out of each full glass. He had a bad feeling about how the night was proceeding. Otis matched the much larger Monroe drink for drink. Though Millie didn’t make another appearance, her image was burned on Race’s brain like a nightmare.
Millie looked nothing like Mary Catherine. His daughter had been angelic, blonde and frail with the prettiest blue eyes. She couldn’t stay in the sun but a minute or she’d turn red as a berry. Not only was Millie older, but also darker complected with curling brown hair and gray eyes. She was sturdier, too. Not quite plump, but
No, the comparison Race couldn’t shake was that of a girl wearing a dress sizes too big and playing with her mamma’s toilette. Mary Catherine invited him to tea once wearing one of Rosemary’s old dresses. She’d used Rosemary’s scented talc to powder her face. She smelled like roses and looked like a ghost, but he didn’t laugh at his little girl trying to look grown up.
Millie’s dress fit everywhere but the bust, which was lumpy and lopsided. Her curls, which had been secured with combs at some point earlier in the day, protested their confinement and had either escaped or gone frizzy. The face paint was the worst of it. Red covered her lips and circled her mouth obscenely. The rouge on her cheeks and eye powder brought to mind the war paint on a dead Indian Race saw in Illinois.
A look that had been sweet and endearing on Mary Catherine made Millie look like a cheap whore. Race wanted to vomit. None of this was his concern, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the table. So, he played and drank and watched his host get drunker and drunker.
Monroe appeared to plan his wins and losses as best he could in a game of chance. Every time Otis’s drink was empty, he refilled it, while never quite emptying his own. One of the lanterns went out, but no one bothered to relight it. The odor of Otis’s alcohol tainted sweat hung over the table like a cloud. Race wished he had a cigar to light to cut through it though it likely would have turned into a ball of fire from the alcohol fumes.
Monroe folded his hand and tossed his cards. “I just don’t know if tonight is my night, Otis. I would surely love to take your beautiful daughter home as my wife, but I didn’t bring quite enough money with me on this trip, and I seem to be doing a piss poor job of winning any tonight.”
Listing to the right, Otis puffed up his chest. “W-well, I stand firm on my, on my offer. She’s worth all that an’ more. She’s been keepin’ house here for near bout eight years.”
“Oh, I can tell she’s special. I’m half in love with her already. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. I think I’m gonna turn in. I sure wish there was another way.” Monroe pulled his hat off the back of his chair and placed it on his head. Then his eyes lit up. “Hey, here’s an idea. Maybe I could win her hand.”
“Win her hand?” Otis stared at him blankly.
Monroe acted as if he was warming up to this new idea. “Yes, yes. Like the knights of old that would compete for the hand of a fair maiden.”
“Millie?”
“Millie’s as fair a maiden as I’ve ever seen. How about I compete for her hand right here.”
“What?” Not clever to begin with, Otis proved even more malleable with drink.
Monroe removed his hat. “One more hand. For Millie. Let me earn her, Otis. Prove to you I’m a winner.”
“I’m out.” The gambler across the table scooped his meager winnings into his own hat and high-tailed it out the door.
Otis eyed Monroe’s modest pile. Race could almost see the alcohol-laced calculations trying to happen in Otis’s head. The man didn’t seem to understand that if Monroe won, Millie would be his free and clear. Race would not coach the man on how to sell his daughter.
Otis’s eyes flicked to Race and his bigger pile of coins. “What about you?”
Leave. Walk away.
He glanced at Monroe and choked back his gorge rising at the thought of the man putting his hands on the young girl. He’d run across men like Monroe in the past. No father worth his salt would let a man like that within ten feet of his child.
“I’m in.”
Chapter 1
Nebraska Territory, 1854
Millie glanced at her husband from behind her bonnet. Race’s tired eyes squinted at the horizon. Endless miles of prairie lay ahead but not as many as lay behind. A gentle breeze rippled through the new spring grasses, bringing relief from the midday sun. She loved this time of year. No matter the past, there was always a chance for a new beginning.
Race blinked, and Millie averted her gaze. He pulled the horses to a halt and turned to her.
“Are you sure you want to stop in Scotts Bluff? I’d hoped to avoid it. We need to split off this route soon if you want to skirt around it. We’ll need to ration our supplies a little tighter.” Race removed his hat and combed his hair back from his face. He pulled the hat back to secure it, but a few black locks escaped near his temple. Creases bracketed his brown eyes, a result of many days spent traveling. Millie’s youth and wide brim protected her from a similar fate but not from a freckled nose.
“You couldn’t have predicted Indian trouble along the direct route. We’re lucky we got word in enough time to avoid it. Besides, I want to see Bethesda. We weren’t in Iowa City long enough for her letters to catch up with me. I don’t want to risk the next leg without replenishing supplies. I’ll be fine.” She put a tentative hand on his knee. It fell away when he faced forward and flicked the reins.
“I know you’ll be fine. You’re strong. I don’t want you to have to see your father. I don’t want to see your father. I should have laid him out six years ago.” He scowled at the emptiness ahead of them.
She folded her hands in her lap to avoid further rejection. “He can’t hurt me anymore.” She changed the subject. “Do you think they have Indian trouble in Wylder?” She’d heard terrible stories, but never encountered any natives herself.
“I don’t know. They’ve got a bank, so they must have a big enough population to support it. Maybe they trade with the nearby tribes in a mutually beneficial arrangement. If you don’t treat ‘em fairly, it generally doesn’t go well for the white man; or the Indians in the end.”
The Millie traveling back to the place of her birth was no longer the naïve girl with firm ideas on how the adults in her life should behave. As an adult, she understood sometimes life gave you frustrations but not the skills to handle them. She glanced again at her husband, currently her chief frustration. She shifted in her seat and sighed, arching her aching back and jiggling her left foot which was going numb.
“I’m sorry we weren’t in Iowa City very long. I’ve got enough set back now, maybe we can buy a place in Wylder and settle for a while. I’ll do the clock installation the bank ordered and see if we like the town. Sound good?”
“Sure.” She met Race’s gaze. “Maybe it will be a good place to start a family.”
Soon they’d be starting over in a new town, a new territory, and she planned to start fulfilling her status in a new way. When they arrived in Wylder, she’d be sure to be introduced as Race’s wife for the first time. She wasn’t his sister, and it was time he realized that. How to make it happen had her stumped.
He winced. “I’ll look into retaining a lawyer who can help us with a quiet annulment. But you don’t need to go rushing out to find a beau. Let’s settle into town first, get to know people.”
Millie smirked. She wouldn’t let Race play dumb anymore when she made references to their future. He loved her, like kin, at least. She needed to figure out how to push him over that last step.
Her heart had been his before they’d even reached Santa Fe six years ago. He’d been so kind and respectful, like nothing she’d ever experienced. He never assumed she’d do all the cookin’ and washin’. He asked her opinion and explained his decisions. He’d treated her like his favorite sister. For the past. Six. Years.
She’d seen so much and grown so much since then—mountains bigger than she could’ve imagined, steam locomotives, people of all colors. In her birth territory alone there’d been tallgrass prairies as far as the eye can see and new baby orchards cropping up along their journey. Her new skills included running a mercantile. She could measure out everything from fabric to dry goods, and even turned a respectable hand to sewing new clothes for herself and Race.
She learned how to be a helpmate to Race in almost all ways. When he succumbed to bouts of melancholia, she knew when to leave him be and when to draw him out. He shared with her about his poor wife and daughter and how much he still missed them, and she told him what her mother had written in the letters Bethesda gave her.
Race learned about her too. With no one to rely on but each other, his brotherly concern helped ease her embarrassment over womanly issues that came up over the years. Race knew she understood why her mother left but wasn’t ready to forgive. And that Millie’s younger sister, Winnifred, lived with the mother Millie hadn’t seen since she was four.
