Beaten, Broken, Abandoned—Until A Cowboy Found The Mail-Order Bride

Chapter 8

The Frontier Hall was bright with lanterns when they arrived, light spilling out into the cold darkness, the sound of fiddle music dancing on the frozen air. The building itself was nothing fancy — a large wooden structure with a raised platform at one end for musicians and a pot-bellied stove at the other to fight back the cold. But tonight it had been transformed. Paper decorations hung from the rafters, red hearts cut from colored paper by the school children, and long tables lined the walls laden with food that the women had brought, each dish a small masterpiece of frontier cooking.

Inside, the room was packed with ranchers and townspeople, all dressed in their best, all determined to forget winter’s hardships for a few hours. The women gathered in clusters near the refreshment table, their voices rising and falling in waves of gossip and laughter. The men stood closer to the door, talking of cattle prices and spring planting, their hands wrapped around cups of punch that someone had spiked with whiskey when the church ladies were not looking.

When Caleb and Margot entered, the room did not fall completely silent, but there was a noticeable pause in the conversation. Eyes turned toward them — assessing, measuring, judging. Everyone knew about the hasty wedding. In a town this small, secrets were impossible to keep, and small communities thrived on speculation, on filling the gaps of unknown stories with imagination and assumption.

Was she pregnant? That was the most common theory, whispered behind hands and knowing looks. Was he desperate for any woman willing to take on a child not her own? Was she running from something, someone? What secrets was this elegant stranger hiding behind her refined manners and expensive dress?

But Caleb walked through the room with his hand firmly at Margot’s back — his touch possessive but not aggressive, protective without being defensive. He introduced her to neighbors with a quiet pride that surprised even him.

“This is my wife, Margot. She is from Denver originally. Came west looking for a different kind of life. We are very happy together.”

The lie came more easily each time he told it, and Margot found herself playing along with growing confidence. She smiled and nodded and made appropriate comments about the weather and the food and how welcoming everyone had been. Some of the women warmed to her, asking about her dress and where she had learned to sew so fine, and what she thought about various household matters that apparently divided the community into passionate camps.

Others remained cold, their smiles brittle, their eyes hard with jealousy or suspicion. These were the unmarried women and the young widows who had set their caps for Caleb Morrison, who had brought him pies and offered to help with Lily, only to be politely but firmly rebuffed. They looked at Margot and saw an interloper — a woman who had somehow claimed the prize they had been circling for two years.

The men were worse in their own way. Margot could feel their eyes on her as she moved through the room, assessing, measuring. Some were simply curious, never having seen anyone quite like her in Cheyenne before. Others were bolder, making comments that skirted the edge of propriety, earning warning glares from Caleb that they mostly ignored.

The most persistent was Sheriff James Harrington — a man in his early forties with sandy hair going gray at the temples and an easy smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He had been trying to court several of the local widows without success, his reputation as a hard drinker and harder fighter working against him. Now he turned his attention to Margot with the kind of confidence that came from wearing a badge and carrying a gun.

“Mrs. Morrison,” he said, appearing at her elbow just as Caleb was pulled into a conversation with another rancher about a dispute over water rights. “I was hoping you might honor me with a dance. Your husband will not mind, I am sure. It is tradition for the sheriff to dance with all the new ladies in town.”

Margot hesitated. She could feel Caleb’s eyes on her from across the room, and she knew with a certainty that went beyond reason that he was not comfortable with this. But to refuse would invite questions she could not afford to answer.

“Of course, Sheriff,” she said, and let him lead her onto the floor.

The dance was a waltz, and Harrington was a passable dancer, though his hand rested a beat too long on her waist and his breath carried the sour hint of whiskey. As they turned, he leaned in close.

“Tell me, Mrs. Morrison. Where in Denver are you from, exactly? I spent some time there myself. Fine city. Shameful of me to have forgotten I know it so well.”

Margot’s heart stumbled, but she kept her smile fixed. “I grew up on the outskirts. A quiet neighborhood. I am sure you would not have known it.”

“Mm.” Harrington’s eyes were sharp, watchful. “Funny thing. I’ve been asking around about you, the way a sheriff does. And no one in Denver seems to remember a Margot Morrison.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Of course, I suppose a woman could be forgiven for inventing a new past, given the right reason. A woman running from something, say. A woman fleeing a past she’d rather not be found.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath Margot’s feet. She forced herself to keep moving, to keep smiling, to keep breathing.

“I cannot imagine what you are implying, Sheriff.”

“Can’t you?” Harrington’s grip tightened fractionally. “Well, it doesn’t matter much to me, so long as your past doesn’t bring trouble to my town. That’s all I care about, Mrs. Morrison. Keeping Cheyenne safe.” He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes. “I’ll be watching. Just so you know.”

The music ended, and Margot made her way back to Caleb with a composure that cost her every ounce of her strength. She wanted to tell him about Harrington’s words, about the cold threat barely hidden beneath the genial face. But they were surrounded by people, and this was not the place.

She was still deciding what to do when the door of the Frontier Hall swung open, and a gust of frozen air swept through the room.

Three men stood silhouetted in the doorway. And in the lantern light, Margot recognized the scarred face of Garrett.