A Mail-Order Bride Arrives to Find Her Groom Dead, Until a Half-Apache Rancher Offers Protection

Chapter 3

“The woman Thomas Wheeler sent for.” Mrs. Red Feather’s voice was rough velvet. “You’re late.”

“By three days.” The words caught in Abigail’s throat.

Something softened in the older woman’s face. “Come. You’ll want food and rest. Tomorrow will be difficult.”

The interior was a revelation—books lining the walls, furniture that spoke of craftsmanship, a stone fireplace with a mantle carved in intricate patterns. This wasn’t the home of a man existing on the margins. This was the home of someone who’d built a life despite the margins trying to crush him.

“Your mother’s books?” Abigail asked, running her fingers along the spines.

Blackwood glanced at her, surprised. “How did you know?”

“You said she was a teacher from Philadelphia. Women like that don’t go West without their books.”

“She died when I was seventeen. The books stayed.” He moved to the fire, stirring the embers. “My father was killed the same night.”

Abigail went still. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” But his back was rigid. “The authorities called it an Indian raid. My mother’s own people, supposedly. They were very thorough in their investigation—took almost three hours before ruling it an accident of frontier life.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“My mother’s people would have taken me with them. Raised me as one of theirs. They wouldn’t have left a seventeen-year-old boy alive to identify them.” He turned, and in the firelight his face was all angles and shadows. “Someone wanted that land. They took it, and they made sure everyone believed the right story.”

“Did you ever find out who?”

“I have suspicions.”

“Calvin Burke,” Abigail said quietly.

Blackwood’s expression was answer enough.

Mrs. Red Feather appeared with bowls of stew, thick bread, and coffee strong enough to strip paint. They ate in silence—not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken things. Abigail’s mind churned with questions she didn’t know how to ask.

Finally, she said, “You mentioned Thomas wrote to you before he died.”

Blackwood nodded. “Three days before. The letter reached me the morning after they buried him.”

“What did it say?”

He rose, walked to a desk in the corner, and returned with a folded paper. Abigail read:

Ethan—If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Burke’s made his move, or Jenkins has, or maybe they’ve finally decided to work together. Either way, I’m out of time.

Abigail Montgomery arrives on the 15th. She’s a Boston schoolteacher, educated, brave as hell to come out here sight unseen. Protect her. I’ve made arrangements, but she’ll need someone who can’t be bought or frightened off. You’re the only man in this territory I trust.

There’s a box in your barn—I left it there last week. Give it to Abigail when she arrives. She’ll know what to do.

If Burke or Jenkins try to take my land, fight them. Not for me. I’ll be past caring. But for what’s under the east pasture. You know what I mean.

—T.W.

Abigail read it twice. “What’s under the east pasture?”

“I don’t know. Wheeler never told me.” Blackwood took the letter back. “But it’s why he was killed. I’m certain of it.”

“And the box?”

“In your room. I put it there before we ate.”

Abigail stood abruptly. “I need to see it.”

Mrs. Red Feather led her upstairs to a small, clean room with a window overlooking dark hills. On the desk sat a walnut box, polished and locked.

“I’ll leave you,” the older woman said. “If you need anything, I’m across the hall.”

Alone, Abigail approached the box like it might explode. Her hands shook as she tried the latch—it opened smoothly. No lock after all.

Inside, nested in velvet: a folded document, a small leather pouch, and a letter in Thomas’s handwriting.

She opened the document first.

DEED OF TRANSFER

Know all men by these presents that I, Thomas Jonathan Wheeler, being of sound mind, do hereby transfer full ownership of the property known as the Wheeler Ranch, comprising 640 acres in Arizona Territory, to Miss Abigail Grace Montgomery of Boston, Massachusetts, intended wife, in consideration of her journey and commitment to our future together.

Signed this 8th day of March, 1883.

The signature was witnessed. Notarized. Legal.

Abigail sank onto the bed, the paper trembling in her hands. She owned Thomas’s ranch. The land men had killed for. The property Jenkins and Burke were fighting over.

She was holding the reason she’d die if she wasn’t careful.

The leather pouch contained a ring—simple gold, worn smooth. Thomas’s mother’s, probably. And beneath it, the letter:

Dearest Abigail—

If you’re reading this, then I’ve run out of time and luck. I’m sorrier than I can say. You deserved the life I promised you: a home, children, a future built on something solid. Instead, I’m leaving you danger and a choice.

The deed in this box makes you owner of my ranch. It’s legal and binding—I made sure of that. But with it comes a target on your back. Calvin Burke wants this land for reasons that go beyond cattle and water. There’s something underneath it, something valuable enough to kill for. I never told you because I hoped I could resolve it before you arrived.

I was wrong.

Ethan Blackwood is a hard man, but he’s honorable to his core. Trust him. He knows this territory and the people who want you dead. If you choose to fight for this land, he’ll help you. If you choose to leave, he’ll get you out safely.

The ring was my mother’s. I’d hoped to place it on your finger myself. Keep it or sell it—either way, know that in my heart, you were already my wife.

Forgive me for bringing you into this. And if you can’t forgive me, at least survive me.

All my love,
Thomas

Abigail read it three times, tears blurring the words. Then she slipped the ring onto her finger—too large, but solid—and folded the letter carefully back into the box.

Downstairs, she found Blackwood and Mrs. Red Feather waiting.

“I own Thomas’s ranch,” she said without preamble.

Neither of them looked surprised.

“Jenkins and Burke know this, don’t they?” she continued. “That’s why they’re moving so fast.”

“Burke might suspect,” Blackwood said. “But he can’t know for certain unless he’s seen the deed. Thomas was careful.”

“Not careful enough.” Abigail’s voice was bitter. “He’s dead.”

“Yes.” Blackwood met her eyes steadily. “And if you claim that land publicly, you will be too. Unless we’re very smart and very fast.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The federal marshal I sent for—Wallace—is a good man. He’ll investigate Wheeler’s death properly. But he can’t protect you from an accident or a bullet in the dark. For that, you need to disappear.”

“Disappear where?”

“To Wheeler’s ranch.” Blackwood leaned forward. “No one expects you to go there. They think you’re here, under my protection. If we move you tonight, quietly, you’ll have time to search the property. Find out what’s underneath the east pasture. Once we know what Burke wants, we’ll know how to fight him.”

Mrs. Red Feather shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. She doesn’t know the land, doesn’t know how to defend herself—”

“I’ll teach her,” Blackwood interrupted. “And I’ll stay close. But she’s right—we can’t just hide and hope Wallace solves this. We need leverage.”

Abigail thought of Boston, of the school where she’d taught children their letters, of the safe, small life she’d left behind. Then she thought of Thomas, promising her a future and dying for it.

“When do we leave?” she asked.

Blackwood smiled—the first real smile she’d seen from him. “Now.”