Mail-Order Bride With Secret Fortune Arrives to Burnt Homestead—Rebuilds With One-Armed Blacksmith

Chapter 13

News of the engagement spread through Liberty Creek like wildfire. Reverend Thatcher confirmed Sullivan’s claim—they had indeed discussed wedding arrangements, though the conversation had been hypothetical until Sullivan made it reality. Martha Wilson began planning a reception. Widow Parker donated fabric for a dress.

And Victor Caldwell’s rage was barely concealed beneath his polished veneer.

“You’ve managed to entangle yourself quickly,” he observed when he cornered Abigail outside the general store three days later. “A one-armed blacksmith. Rather beneath your station, isn’t it?”

“Ezra Sullivan is worth ten of you,” Abigail replied coldly. “And I’d appreciate you leaving me alone, Mr. Caldwell. You have no claim on me or my property.”

“We’ll see what a judge says about that.” Caldwell’s smile was predatory. “I’ve sent for attorneys from Helena. They’ll arrive next week to begin formal proceedings challenging your father’s property transfer. By the time we’re finished, you’ll be begging to return to Philadelphia under my protection.”

“I’ll never be under your protection.”

“Then you’ll be penniless and homeless.” Caldwell leaned closer. “I always get what I want, Abigail. Always.”

He walked away, leaving Abigail trembling with anger and fear. This was far from over.

The wedding was scheduled for the following Sunday—quick by conventional standards, but appropriate given the circumstances. Abigail met with Josiah Hendricks to ensure all her legal documents were in order. Her father’s notarized property transfer. The bank drafts in her name. The documented chain of ownership for the textile business.

“It’s solid,” Hendricks assured her. “Jonathan Thornton did everything correctly. Caldwell’s partnership agreement gave him operational authority but explicitly excluded ownership rights. That’s clear in the language.”

“Will that be enough?”

“It should be. But Caldwell will argue undue influence—that Jonathan wasn’t of sound mind when he signed everything over.” Hendricks removed his spectacles, polishing them thoughtfully. “You’ll need witnesses who can testify to your father’s mental state in his final weeks.”

“Our family physician. My father’s attorney. His housekeeper.” Abigail ticked them off. “But getting them to Montana Territory to testify…”

“Depositions,” Hendricks said. “Written sworn testimony. I’ll draft the questions. You write to these people requesting their assistance. We’ll submit the depositions to Deputy Marshal Crawford.”

It was a plan, though hardly foolproof. Everything depended on people back east being willing to help, on Crawford being objective despite Caldwell’s money and influence.

The night before the wedding, Abigail sat on her cabin porch watching stars emerge. Tomorrow she would marry a man she’d known only a few months. She would tie her future to his, trusting that what they’d built together was strong enough to weather whatever storms approached.

“Having second thoughts?”

Sullivan’s voice came from the darkness. He’d arrived on foot, leaving his horse in the barn.

“No second thoughts.” Abigail gestured to the space beside her. “Just… contemplating how strange life is. Six months ago I was in Philadelphia, mourning my father and dreading Victor Caldwell’s proposals. Now I’m in Montana Territory, about to marry a blacksmith I met because I was fleeing a fictional rancher.”

“Life has a way of taking unexpected turns.” Sullivan settled beside her. “For what it’s worth, I never expected to marry again either.”

“Again?”

“I was engaged before the war. Sarah.” His voice went distant. “She wrote me after Gettysburg, when she learned about my arm. Said she couldn’t marry a cripple, that she deserved a whole man.”

“She was a fool.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she was honest about what she could handle.” Sullivan shrugged. “Either way, I stopped thinking about marriage. Focused on surviving, building my forge, making a life alone. Then you showed up, all Philadelphia stubbornness and determination, refusing to admit defeat.”

“Is that what attracted you? My stubbornness?”

“That and your complete refusal to treat me like I’m broken.” He turned to face her. “You’ve never looked at my missing arm like it’s a tragedy. You just accepted it as fact and moved on.”

“Because you’re not broken, Ezra. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

In the starlight, Sullivan’s expression softened. He raised his hand—his only hand—and gently touched Abigail’s face.

“I promise you this,” he said quietly. “I’ll stand beside you against Caldwell, Preston, and anyone else who tries to take what’s yours. I’ll help you build this ranch into something lasting. And I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“That’s all I need.” Abigail leaned into his touch. “That, and your trust.”

“You have both.”

They sat together in comfortable silence, two damaged souls who’d found unexpected healing in Montana’s vast landscape and each other’s company.

Tomorrow they would marry. Next week they would face Caldwell’s legal assault. But tonight, for this moment, everything was peace and possibility.