A Mail-Order Bride Was Returned At The Depot, Until A Cowboy Picked Up Her Trunk And Called Her Wife

Chapter 3

The wagon rolled to a stop in front of the house, and as Lucas set the brake, a wiry man emerged from the barn. He was perhaps fifty, with graying hair and dark, intelligent eyes that assessed Willa with undisguised curiosity.

“Pedro,” Lucas called, “come meet Miss Dawson. She’ll be staying with us.”

Pedro approached, wiping his hands on a rag, and when Willa extended her hand in greeting, he looked momentarily surprised before accepting the handshake with a small smile.

“Welcome to the Double R, Señorita.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mendoza.”

“Just Pedro, por favor.” His eyes crinkled with warmth. “And if the boss here gives you trouble, you tell me. I keep him honest.”

“Pedro’s been with the ranch since before I bought it,” Lucas explained as he retrieved Willa’s trunk. “Knows more about cattle than any man I’ve met.”

“The boss exaggerates.” Pedro’s modest shrug didn’t quite hide his pleasure at the compliment. “I will finish with the new calf, then bring water for the Señorita’s room.”

As Pedro returned to the barn, Lucas carried Willa’s trunk up to the house’s covered porch. He paused at the door, and for the first time, something like uncertainty crossed his features.

“It’s not what you might be used to,” he warned.

Willa straightened her shoulders, drawing on reserves of dignity she hadn’t known she possessed. “Mr. Reed, I grew up in a three-room apartment with six family members. I’m quite accustomed to making do with what’s available.”

He studied her for a moment, then nodded and pushed open the door.

The interior defied her worst expectations. The main room served dual purposes—parlor and dining area—with a stone fireplace at one end, a solid table with chairs at the other, and serviceable furniture between. The floors were unvarnished wooden planks, swept clean, and a braided rug provided modest comfort. It was spartan but not squalid, functional rather than welcoming.

“Kitchen’s through there.” Lucas gestured to a doorway. “Two bedrooms down that hall—mine’s at the end. Other one’s been storage, but it has a bed. You can have that room.”

Willa moved further into the space, cataloging details: antlers mounted above the fireplace, a bookshelf with perhaps two dozen volumes, a clock ticking steadily on the mantle. This was a bachelor’s domain, organized for efficiency rather than comfort.

“It’s more than adequate,” she said honestly. “Though I confess curiosity about why you’ve decided to take in a stranger when you’ve clearly managed on your own all this time.”

Lucas set her trunk down and ran a hand through his unruly copper hair—a gesture that suggested discomfort with personal questions. “Been meaning to hire household help. Ranch is growing again, which means more work all around.” He paused. “And I suppose I didn’t like the idea of Walton treating a woman like damaged goods to be returned.”

Warmth bloomed unexpectedly in Willa’s chest. “That’s very chivalrous of you, Mr. Reed. But I don’t require rescue—only opportunity.”

His mouth quirked upward. “Fair enough. And it’s Lucas, if you don’t mind. ‘Mr. Reed’ makes me feel like I’m in trouble with the schoolmarm.”

That drew a genuine smile from Willa. “Very well, Lucas. And you may call me Willa.”

An awkward silence settled between them, broken when Lucas cleared his throat. “I’ll show you to your room, then let you get settled. Supper’s usually at six. Nothing fancy.”

He led her down a short hallway to a door on the left. The bedroom beyond was small but had a window overlooking distant mountains. A narrow bed with a plain quilt stood against one wall, a chest of drawers against another. The rest of the space was indeed cluttered with storage—a trunk, some crates, a saddle needing repair.

“I’ll clear this out tomorrow,” Lucas promised, setting her trunk at the bed’s foot.

“It’s fine.” Willa meant it. After the day she’d endured, any private space felt like luxury. “I can manage the rest myself.”

Lucas lingered in the doorway, seeming uncertain. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Water pump’s out back if you want to freshen up. Outhouse is about fifty yards behind the house. I’ve got work to finish before sundown.”

After he’d gone, Willa sat on the bed’s edge, the events of the day crashing over her in waves. This morning, she’d been a mail-order bride full of nervous anticipation. Now she was—what? A housekeeper? A pretend wife? A woman adrift in territory where she knew no one and nothing?

She opened her trunk and began unpacking with methodical care: three dresses besides the one she wore, undergarments, a nightgown, a shawl, sturdy boots. And her treasures—a small collection of books, her mother’s silver hairbrush, and a daguerreotype of her family taken five years earlier, when they’d still had reason to smile.

By the time she’d finished arranging these few possessions and washed her face and hands at the outdoor pump, the sun was lowering toward the western mountains. The ranch looked different in the golden light—less stark, more welcoming. She could hear Lucas and Pedro talking by the corral, their voices carrying in the clear air.

Willa made her way to the kitchen, determined to earn her keep from the start.