Their Wayward Bride

  Their Wayward Bride

  By Vanessa Vale

  © 2015 Vanessa Vale

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

  and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover Design: RomCon - www.romcon.com

  Cover Photo: Period Images

  When Laurel Sinclair's uncaring father seeks to pawn her off in marriage as part of a business deal, she seeks to avoid her fate by fleeing. But running away in a Montana blizzard proves to be a terrible mistake.

  When handsome ranchers Mason and Brody find the stranded redhead next to her injured horse, they take her in and immediately decide to make her theirs, convinced they can convert the beautiful stranger to an unusual arrangement of marrying them both.

  The Bridgewater way of one woman marrying two husbands is foreign to Laurel, but she soon grows to love the two protective men who awaken her to a world of carnal pleasures she never knew existed. She grows to love them for their guidance and protection.

  But will her happiness be threatened by the secret she harbors? Will Mason and Brody still love her if they discover who she is? And what will happen when her scheming father and the cruel man he wanted her to marry finally track her down?

  THEIR WAYWARD BRIDE

  A Bridgewater Ménage

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAUREL

  I'd never been so cold in my life. My fingers had gone from cold to painful and now they were numb. My legs were warmer where they squeezed the horse's sides. I'd thrown my scarf over my head and tied it beneath my chin an hour ago, but it offered no real protection from the snow. It had only been light flurries when I left the stable, but now the flakes were thick and came down so heavily I could see nothing in front of me. The wind had picked up and it blew the snow sideways, the chill biting into my very marrow.

  I was lost. Completely and absolutely lost, which meant I was going to die. Virginia City had been my destination when I'd set off, the town only two hours on horseback from home, but I'd been out for so much longer, and the town was nowhere in sight. Of course, nothing was in sight. My eyelashes were coated with snow and it was getting harder and harder to remain awake. Falling asleep would be bliss, especially with warm, thick blankets, a roaring fire and hot tea. Dreaming as I was did nothing to change my predicament. I was going to die. Foolishly.

  But what had I been expected to do? Stay at the house and let Father barter me off as part of a business transaction? Mr. Palmer had dangled the sale of his land, along with several thousand head of cattle, for me. Yes, I was the price. Perhaps not all of it, but the man had made the financial amount reasonable enough for Father to be hooked like a fish with a nice fat worm. Then, once he had my father eager, he'd given him the true price. His daughter. I'd lived at a school in Denver since I was seven, shipped away and forgotten for fourteen years. Then, two months ago, a letter requested my return. I'd thought, after all that time, my father had wanted me and I'd foolishly grasped onto that hope. My illusions were shattered yesterday when Mr. Palmer had arrived to meet me and the men had told me their plan.

  It was then I realized my true value for Father. I wasn't his daughter, but a prized mare he'd sold to the highest bidder. He'd sent for me only to marry me off to Mr. Palmer and finalize his deal. I was to be traded for a swath of land, cattle and water rights. I'd been nothing to him all along, for I was the one who'd killed his wife. She'd died birthing me so it had been my fault.

  Marriages of convenience happened all the time in the Montana Territory. A woman couldn't survive on her own without a man; that was a given. But I hadn't even been in Simms, let alone Montana Territory. I'd been a ward of the school in Colorado. Regardless, my life was not my own; I would not be a pawn in Father's land negotiations. Especially not when the price, for me at least, was so high.

  My prospective groom was at least fifty. He had three grown children, two who were married and lived in Simms, the third in Seattle. It might have been tolerable to be the man's wife while being younger than his children, but the man was shorter than I, had a belly that reminded me of a whiskey cask and had more hair on the back of his hands than on his head. Worst of all, he was missing teeth, and the ones that remained were yellow from chewing tobacco. And he smelled. The man was repulsive. If he’d been tall and handsome and virile, making my heart race and my cheeks flush in his presence, that would have been something else altogether. Father had said the deal was done, the contracts signed. The only legal work left was acquiring a marriage license—and with tomorrow being Sunday, would be resolved at the morning church service.

  So instead of marrying Mr. Palmer, I was going to die. I, Laurel Turner, chose to freeze to death over marrying an unattractive, unappealing, overweight geriatric. My anger toward the man, and my father’s lack of consideration for what I wanted, had me spurring the horse harder.. Perhaps I could see a light, a house, a building, anything in this frozen squall where I could seek shelter. Numbly, I wiped my hand over my eyes in disbelief. Was that a light? A yellow glow, muted and soft, appeared briefly through the snow, and then disappeared.

  Hope shot through me and I turned the horse in that direction.

  MASON

  "I'll get more wood for morning," I told Brody, who was working at his desk. We were in the parlor, the fire in the hearth heating the room and the house beyond against the bitter cold night. Wind and snow rattled the windows. I went to one and pulled back the thick curtain. All I could see was my own reflection and snow blowing sideways. "I imagine the wood pile will be buried by then."

  Brody looked up from some papers he'd been studying. "Is the box in the kitchen full?"

  "I'll check and stoke the stove before bed."

  My friend just nodded and returned to his work. There wasn't much ranching to be done in the dead of winter beyond making sure the cows didn't drop dead out in weather such as this, and tending to the horses. The days were short, the nights long. Only the heartiest of men survived in the Montana Territory, but for me, for Brody and the rest of the men from our regiment who built the Bridgewater Ranch, it was home.

  For Kane and Ian, they had their wife, Emma, to help them pass the time, and with the noticeable way her belly was growing, they'd been quite busy. Andrew and Robert had Ann and their infant son, Andrew, Jr. to keep them quite occupied. It was the bachelors of Bridgewater who endured the long winter nights, alone. I sighed, wondering if Brody and I would ever find the woman for us. It wasn't an easy task, finding a woman who would marry two men, for that was what we'd have—a wife for both of us. That was our way, the way of the men of Bridgewater—find a woman, make her ours, cherish, protect and possess her for the rest of our lives.

  I sighed to myself as I shrugged into my shearling coat, flipped up the collar and slipped on leather gloves. A woman wouldn't be appearing tonight, no matter how much I wished for it. As I opened the back door, a blast of frigid air struck me full force, swirling snow into the kitchen. I stepped outside quickly, shutting the door behind me, keeping the warm air inside. On more clement weather, I could see the lights of the other houses off in the distance. Tonight, however, there was nothing but black and white. Stacked beneath the eaves of the house was a pile of wood big enough to sustain us for the winter. Grabbing a few logs, I piled them in my arms, went inside, carried them into the parlor and piled them on the hearth.

  "Need help?" Brody asked, still at work.

  I shook my head. "Another load here and one in the kitchen. I'm going up to bed when I’m done."

  "'Night," Brody replied absently, focuse
d on his work.

  Once again in the bitter outdoors, I piled more wood on my forearm. It was as I picked up the last log that I heard a horse whinnying. I paused. All the horses were in the stable for the duration of the storm. They wouldn't survive outdoors on a night like this. No doubt we'd have a cow or two dead by morning. The wind kicked up as snow slid down my neck. Lifting my shoulders, I winced at the coldness against my skin. I was hearing things.

  There.

  I heard it again. It was a horse. This time the whinny sounded more like a scream. I'd heard it before, a horse in pain. Injured. I looked out into the darkness, but could see nothing. No animal, nothing was in sight, just snow. It was up to my ankles; no doubt the accumulation would build overnight. By morning, the drifts would be waist high if the wind sustained. Had one of the other men missed a horse? Was it wandering out in this weather?

  I put the pile of wood back, opened the door and yelled for Brody. He came quickly.

  "I heard a horse. I'm going to go look for it."

  Brody was surprised. "That's odd. Could be the wind."

  "Could be," I agreed. "I have to check. I don't want to lose an animal to this."

  He held up a hand. "You'll need a lantern, and take the rifle." He went to the gun rack where six rifles were vertically aligned on the wall, ready for any kind of emergency. On Bridgewater, there was always a chance for danger. Brody picked one and checked the barrel before handing it to me. He picked up another for himself.

  "Give me five minutes, then fire a shot," I told him, ensuring I knew which direction to turn to return. "I won't go far."

  "Don't get lost because I don't want to go out in that bloody weather to find you." He grinned.

  I couldn't blame him. I didn't want to go out in this weather either. But I had heard a horse. I wouldn't be able to sleep if I didn't check.

  After slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I tucked my collar up around my neck again and forged a path out into the snow. After about ten steps, I paused, listening. Wind, nothing but wind. Wait. There. I turned toward the sound, walked in that direction. One minute, then two. Then another. It was slow going in the deep drifts, fighting the wind. I finally saw it. The animal was only about ten feet in front of me, lying on its side. Thankfully it had a dark coat, otherwise I might have missed it. I squatted down by the head, heard it breathing heavily, eyes wide and wild. Sweat coated the animal's fur, even in this weather, and the snow was beginning to cling to it, pile on top of him. The sound that escaped the animal was of pain, almost a tortured scream. It had a bridle, the reins beginning to be covered with snow. A saddle. Which meant there was a rider. Somewhere.

  I stood and ran in a quick circle around the animal and found a dark mass in the snow. A man. Was he dead? It would not be a surprise, either from the elements or being tossed from the horse's back. Thankfully, the snow was fairly deep and cushioned the fall. While the horse made agonizing sounds, I put my hands on the dark coat of the silent rider. It was not a broad man's physique I felt, but a narrow waist, flared hips. A woman! Holy hell. A woman was out in weather such as this.

  I rolled her onto her back and her full breasts were beneath my gloved palms. I could tell they were full, lush mounds even through the layers of clothes. Her head had been protected by a tightly wrapped scarf, but she'd been laying there long enough for an inch of snow to cover her. I didn't even know if she was alive or dead. I wouldn't waste time finding out now. She had to be out of the elements and quickly.

  The horse, however, was another matter. Leaving the woman, I went back to the horse, looked down at his front legs. There, as I'd suspected, was a nasty break, the bone sticking through the flesh in a white jagged edge. He must have stepped in a prairie dog hole. It was not uncommon and unfortunately, deadly. Cocking the rifle, I went back to the horse's head, stroked its sleek coat, and aimed.

  The shot rang out in the night, but was muffled by the snow and blown away with the wind. I doubted any other men besides Brody would hear the shot. If they had, they'd wait for two more, three in a row being our signal for an emergency. No one would venture out in this weather otherwise. It was clearly deadly.

  I couldn't take another moment over the horse; the woman was now my concern. Lifting her easily, I turned and followed my tracks back to the door. It would only be a matter of time before they disappeared. The wind wasn't as strong returning.

  "So...cold," she murmured.

  She was alive!

  "I've got you," I replied. "In just a minute you're going to be nice and warm again. Just stay awake for me, sweetheart."

  "You...you smell good," she slurred.

  I couldn't help but chuckle at her words. Clearly she was out of her mind, for what woman would admit that while in such a predicament?

  She wasn't a slight woman. I could feel her curves beneath my arms. It was her stillness that had me hastening my steps. Finally! The warm glow of the kitchen lantern came into view.

  "Almost there, sweetheart."

  I kicked the door with my foot. Once, twice.

  Brody opened it right away. "Holy bloody hell," he muttered, stepping back to let me enter.

  "Here. Take her."

  I handed her off to a surprised Brody, his eyes widening when I'd said the word her and even further when he, too, felt her woman's shape.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BRODY

  I stood in the kitchen, holding a woman. Stunned. Mason had gone back outside because he thought he heard a horse—I figured it had been the deceiving sound of the wind—and came back with a woman. Yes, she most surely was a woman. The size of her, the feel of her soft curves, even through her coat, provided no doubts. She was covered head to toe—boots, long dress, wool coat, a scarf that came down low over her face. I could see nothing of her skin, only feel her femininity. Her attire was no match for the fierce weather. What was she doing out in this storm? Why was she here, on Bridgewater? Where had she come from?

  "Is she dead?" I asked Mason, who stripped off his gloves and coat. She was freezing cold and the snow that covered her began to dampen my shirt.

  "No," he replied, breathing hard.

  This spurred me into action. Spinning around, I gently placed her on the large kitchen table and started to rid her of her layers of clothes.

  I worked the scarf from her head, unwinding it and dropping the damp item to the floor and she moaned. It made me pause. "I just want to sleep," she mumbled.

  Her face was pale, so pale, and her were lips leeched of all color. If she slept now, she might die. We had to warm her up and keep her awake. "Oh, no. No sleeping," I said.

  Her hair was a fiery red, a bun at the nape of her neck with wild tendrils falling over her face, the tips of some coated in snow and ice. I touched her cheek. It was icy cold.

  "Mmm," she said and tilted her head into my fingers.

  I looked up at Mason, who'd come to stand across from me, the woman between us on the table. "Get a quilt from the other room. Sit it on top of the stove to warm. It's not hot enough now to burn."

  Her life was in our hands. I went down to her feet to take off her boots, but ice encrusted the laces. I grabbed a large kitchen knife and cut through them. I tossed the knife onto the stove with a clatter, tugging one boot off, then the other.

  "Wait," she called out, shifting on the table. "What are you doing?" Her eyes opened and she looked at me, confused and lost. Her eyes were so green, so clear.

  "You're cold and wet, and some of you clothes are covered in ice. We need to get you warm."

  I didn't wait and discuss this further; it was a matter of life and death. Next came her heavy stockings, tied with a ribbon just above her knees.

  Mason returned with two quilts, one he laid on the stove, the other on the chair beside him. He nimbly worked the other stocking free, as I undid the buttons of her coat.

  "Who are you?" she asked, starting to shiver. That was a good sign.

  "I'm Brody and you are on our land. Mason found you."

/>   "Thank you," she said. "I thought I would die out there."

  "No dying on us, sweetheart," Mason told her. "But we're going to have to take your clothes off."

  She looked between us as she shook her head. "No, I'll do it myself." Her fingers worked at the buttons on her coat. "I...I can't feel my fingers. They're numb."

  "Let us help." I gently nudged her hands away and finished her task for her.

  "Jesus, you're beautiful," Mason murmured, helping me to prop her up and slip the coat from her arms.

  "I don't think I've ever seen hair that color before," I responded.

  "It's red," she grumbled.

  She spoke the words as if the color was terrible. It was like fire, with burnished gold and bronze mixed in. The places that were damp were darker, yet it was clear it was quite curly, even with the length of it tucked up into a bun.

  Mason held her upper body as I struggled with the buttons down the front of her dress.

  "You shouldn't be—"

  "What's your name?" Mason asked.

  "Laurel."

  "Laurel, your clothes are wet and you must get warm. Aren't you cold?"

  She nodded and another shiver wracked her.

  "Then let us take care of you," I soothed. "You're safe with us."

  I began once again, but was quickly frustrated it took so long, so I yanked at the material and the buttons went skittering across the room. Underneath, she wore a corset and I worked the stays free.

  "This isn't appropriate. I've never...I'm cold." She was confused and tired and clearly affected by the cold. Her modesty was a sign that she was thinking somewhat clearly, but her need for warmth overrode her anxiety.