Reluctant Montana Husband

  Reluctant Montana Husband

  Bear Grass Springs

  Book Sixteen

  Ramona Flightner

  Grizzly Damsel Publishing

  Copyright © 2022 by Ramona Flightner

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher, Ramona Flightner and Grizzly Damsel Publishing. Copyright protection extends to all excerpts and previews by this author included in this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author or publisher is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  Never Miss a Ramona Flightner Update!

  Also by Ramona Flightner

  About the Author

  To You,

  Dear Reader.

  Your endless passion and

  enthusiasm have fueled

  my imagination

  and fed my dreams.

  Thank you.

  Chapter 1

  Bear Grass Springs, September 1890

  Nathanial Ericson paced in the empty lawyer’s office, determined not to peek out the window for the tenth time. Was the train late? Had she decided not to come? He ran a hand through his blond hair, swearing silently that he’d messed up the styling job the barber had done this morning. He wanted to look his best on his wedding day.

  His wedding day.

  He knew his sister, Leena, would be upset with him for continuing on with what she considered a farce, but he was determined to marry. He’d never wanted to live alone for so many years, and, after watching Leena’s and Karl’s happiness, Nathanial had resolved he would find a wife.

  When his mother wrote that one of their distant neighbors was losing their farm and that they were desperate to emigrate, Nathanial had written back a harebrained plan to marry one of their daughters and to pay for her trip here, as long as she would be his wife.

  Now she was to arrive. Ingrid Larsen. A woman he couldn’t remember meeting, but whom he was about to tie himself to for the rest of his life. Panic skittered up and down his spine, and he battled the urge to bolt. He knew Ingrid and Leena had been distant friends at school, but Nathanial was nine years older than his sister, and he’d paid little attention to her friends, back when he had lived in Norway. Now he wished he had.

  In her letters, Ingrid had seemed interested, if reluctant, in marrying him. Montana was far from Norway and her family. He knew her family hoped to settle in Minnesota or Wisconsin, if possible, which was still far from Montana. However, he had the sense from what she wrote that Ingrid was resourceful and practical, two traits he admired. His mother had reassured him that Ingrid was a fine housekeeper and an excellent cook.

  After too many years of living as a bachelor, being grateful for the dinners his sister cooked for him, Nathanial was enthralled by the prospect of home-cooked meals waiting for him, after long days working at the sawmill he ran with his brother-in-law, Karl.

  When the door to the attorney’s office swung open, Nathanial spun to face the lawyer, Warren Clark and forced a welcoming smile, as he was about to meet his bride for the first time. He ignored Warren’s concerned stare, as the man was often reserved, and this was a serious matter.

  Widening his smile, Nathanial tried to beam at his bride in an attempt to make up for the lawyer’s less-than-effusive welcome. Nathanial tried to ignore the fact that, in less than an hour, they would wed before an even more reluctant preacher. “Miss Larsen,” he murmured to the woman, standing in Warren’s shadow.

  Frowning when she remained behind the lawyer, Nathanial took a step forward, paling when he saw her. This woman couldn’t be Miss Larsen. His mother had written him that Miss Larsen had blond hair paler than his, with sparkling blue eyes. This woman had black hair and eyes the color of aged whiskey. Eyes filled with fear and determination. Eyes that dared him to turn her away.

  “Who are you?” Nathanial asked her.

  “I’m the woman you’ll marry.”

  Beatrice Shaw stood as tall as her diminutive stature allowed, forcing herself to meet the irate gaze of the giant looming over her. He had to be well over six feet tall, with the blondest hair she’d ever seen and with eyes so blue they rivaled a sapphire she’d coveted once in a jeweler’s window. How was this the man she was to marry? “We will marry.”

  She winced as the words emerged more as a plea than as a fact.

  “You are not Ingrid.”

  Smiling at the subtle hint of a charming and distinct accent, she shrugged. “No, I’m Beatrice Shaw. Your … intended and I altered the plan.”

  When the other man, standing beside, her cleared his throat and made a note of disagreement, she glared at him to mind his own business. However, the man—who’d introduced himself as a friend of the groom and as a Mr. Clark—gripped her elbow and led her to a chair, waiting until she plopped into it.

  For some reason, Nathanial heeded him too, when Warren barked, “Sit.”

  Now she sat beside the irate Norwegian, rippling with anger and pent-up frustration, as the other man calmly prepared cups of coffee. “I know it’s a hot day for coffee, but I think we need to chat, before anything goes further.” Mr. Clark pinned her with a severe stare, his blue eyes daring her to speak, and she bit her tongue.

  After he set cups of coffee in front of them and refilled his own, he settled across from her and Nathanial, leaning back in his chair. “Now this is a conundrum. I never thought to have such entertainment on a quiet September day.”

  “Who are you to interfere?” Beatrice blurted out, flushing when the man—with an innate sense of authority—stared at her in abject curiosity. He wasn’t as tall as her husband-to-be, but he had broad shoulders, wavy brown hair, and an air of quiet competence and command. She instinctively knew he was an important figure in this town, and she shouldn’t cross him.

  “I would think that you have more appropriate questions,” he murmured. “However, you have the right to your curiosity. As do we.”

  She shivered at the warning in his tone.

  “I’m Warren Clark. The town’s lawyer.” He shook his head at her, as though cautioning her further. “I was trained in Philadelphia, so don’t try any tricks.”

  Biting her lip, Beatrice nodded. “I know this seems deceitful—”

  “Seems?” Nathanial hissed.

  She cleared her throat, as she glared at him for the interruption. “—but there was no other alternative.”

  Warren steepled his fingers, appearing intrigued and amused.

  She wasn’t fooled for a moment. Beatrice knew he would lash out at her without the least provocation, if given the chance. That was the way of men in this world.

  “Tell us about this lack of alternative.”

  Huffing out a breath of disgust, as she understood this was a command and not a polite inquiry, Beatrice took a slurp of coffee and rubbed at her belly. She was starving and hadn’t had much to eat for the past few days. “I met Mr. Ericson’s intended in New York City. She had no desire to continue her journey to Montana, so she decided I should travel in her stead. One mail-order-bride is as good as another.”

  Nathanial let out a huff of breath and rose, pacing behind her, so she had to turn in her chair to watch him. He ran a hand through his blond hair, and he tapped his other hand on his thigh in agitation. “What a ludicrous statement.” He shook his head. “You are not as good.”

  Jumping to her feet, she stood right in front of him, nearly bowled over by him when he spun to pace in the opposite direction and didn’t see her. She held her ground, as he sputtered at her for being in his way. “How do you know that?” She held her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  “You’re not from Norway. You won’t know anything.”

  Beatrice flinched, trying to ignore his hurtful words, even though he was correct. She knew nothing about what he hoped for in a wife. She knew nothing of his country’s customs.

  His gaze raked her up and down, and he sneered. “Leena, sweet heaven above, what will Leena say?”

  Tilting her head up, Beatrice glared at him, refusing to be baited by his hurtful words and his blatant disapproval of her. He didn’t know her. He had no right to judge her. “I’m a decent woman. I am honorable.” She added a scowl, her hands still propped on her hips. “And who is this Leena you are so worried about?” When he glowered at her, her cheeks reddened with her anger. “It’s not gentlemanly to be c
oncerned about another woman on your wedding day,” she taunted.

  “My sister,” he snapped, leaning forward to meet her barb.

  She let out a huff of surprise and rocked back on her heels at his pronouncement. Forcing bravado again, she looked over her shoulder and out the window and then shrugged. “Well, she’ll have no reason to complain. Not that you have any right to be choosy.” She waved a hand toward a window. “I don’t see a line of women eager to marry you.” Smirking at him, she added, “I saw no women, besides me, on that train.”

  Nathanial muttered a curse and turned away from her. “I won’t marry you. I refuse to marry you.”

  Reaching into her pocket, Beatrice extracted a letter and marched up to him, smacking it onto his chest. “Here. Read this.”

  He grunted, plucking the letter from her hand and moving to the corner of the room, toward Warren and away from her. Beatrice let out a shaky breath, watching him as she returned to her chair to sit and to wait. She had no idea what Ingrid had written, but Ingrid had assured Beatrice that it would convince Nathanial to marry her.

  Closing her eyes in despair, she wished she wasn’t so desperate that she had to marry him. For she knew, no matter what happened between them, she’d never forgive him for how ungracious he was being now.

  Nathanial opened the letter and scanned it, absently noting that the handwriting in the letter matched the writing from the few letters he had received from Ingrid. She wrote in Norwegian, and his jaw tensed at her hope that he’d find happiness with the woman she’d found to replace her.

  I know you have every right to your anger, but this was my desire, was my wish for Beatrice to travel instead of me. Do not begrudge me for desiring a little control over my own destiny, having chosen another man for me. I wish you every happiness, Nathaniel.

  Raising his head, he barked out a question in Norwegian. When the woman stared at him blankly, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Why?”

  “Nathanial,” Warren murmured in a quiet voice, filled with concern.

  “No, tell me why. Why the deception? If she didn’t mean to come, she could have sent a telegram, ja? I could have found my own bride.” He saw the woman flinch, correctly interpreting his criticism that he would have found an acceptable bride.

  Blowing out a long breath, he spun away and stared out Warren’s back door, propped open to filter in the fresh air. He closed his eyes and willed his rage and disappointment to calm. Why was he so irate? This woman could be as acceptable as Ingrid. He didn’t know any differently.

  Letting out another breath, he thought about the woman sitting behind him. She’d stood up to him, as bold and as forthright as the local reporter and just as feisty, which he admired—in a way. What scared him most was how her eyes had glowed a gorgeous shade of whiskey when she was angry, and all he’d wanted to do was yank her to him and kiss her until he didn’t know his name.

  He wasn’t supposed to act like this. He was a reasonable, rational man. He wanted a calm, biddable wife. This woman was the opposite of the woman his mother had assured him was traveling to him.

  “Can you cook?” He unfisted his hands and turned to watch her. When she flinched, he fought a groan. “Can you sew? Can you do anything a housewife does?”

  Staring at him with a defiant gaze, she nodded. “Yes, I can sew and clean. However, I’m not a very good cook.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I should be asking you that,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and looking him up and down. “You’re the one who’ll be old and decrepit before me.”

  Nathanial glared at her, ignoring Warren’s sputter of laughter, waiting for her reply.

  “I’m twenty-six. I have no family. I’m alone in this world.”

  Telling himself that that news would not soften his attitude toward her, he continued to glower at her. However, knowing she had no one who cared about her fate gave him pause. What would happen to her if he refused to marry her? “I’m thirty-seven. Not so old and decrepit yet.” He half smiled when she rolled her eyes and glanced at Warren.

  Taking his friend’s hint, Nathanial sat in the chair again, and Warren looked at both of them. “We have a short time before we are due at the church. What do you plan to do?”

  Nathanial tapped his fingers on the desk and sighed. “I want a contract written up.” He frowned. “I want it to say that, if something happened to me, my widow would get a small compensation—$500 dollars, ja?” He looked to Warren, as though confirming that was enough, but Warren was busy writing notes. “However, if I have a child, everything would be left to my child.”

  Eyeing the woman beside him, he saw her curl into herself, looking small and defenseless for the first time. He grimaced at the tears glistening in her eyes and at the hurt he saw in her expression.

  “You don’t trust me at all, do you?” she asked. Sniffling, she pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes and nose. “You have no reason to, I suppose.” Closing her eyes, she stilled. Then she opened her eyes and glared at Warren and firmed her shoulders. “One thousand dollars. I want some compensation if he’s so weak that he perishes before he’s a father.”

  Nathanial nodded, the only sound in the room that of Warren making scratching noises on the paper. “If I don’t have a child, and I die, the sawmill goes to Karl.”

  “Sawmill?” Beatrice whispered. “You own a sawmill?”

  “Ja,” Nathanial murmured, watching her in confusion. “Didn’t Ingrid tell you?”

  Beatrice shook her head and bit her lip. “I don’t know anything about helping you there.”

  “There’s no need,” he said in a terse voice. “Your work will be in the house and with our children, once we have them.” He paused when he saw a flash of panic in her gaze. “You do agree to have children with me?”

  Casting a terrified glance in Warren’s direction, Beatrice blurted out, “After three months. After three months, we can start trying.”

  “Months?” Nathanial snapped. “I’m to feed you and clothe you and parade you around town as my wife, and you’ll be little more than—”

  “Nathanial,” Warren hissed in a cautionary tone, his blue eyes flashing a warning.

  Nathanial groaned but bit back what more he would have said and jerked his head in agreement with what she’d requested. He’d give her three months. “If we’re nothing more than friends in three months, the marriage is null and void, and I owe her no money. Nothing.”

  Beatrice sat back, paling. “What?”

  “I want a wife,” he whispered, ignoring Warren’s presence. “I want children. I don’t want a maid.” He raised a hand, slowing reaching forward to brush his fingers over her cheek, pausing when he felt how silky smooth her skin was. He heard the catch in her breath and couldn’t determine why she was so nervous. “Miss Shaw?”

  “If, after three months, we are nothing more than … friends, you owe me nothing,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Fine. But I get to woo you the entire time.” He brightened. “And you can choose to change our relationship at any time.”

  Warren set down his pen and stared at both of them for a long moment. He cleared his throat and looked momentarily uncomfortable. He leaned forward and pinned Beatrice with an intense stare. “I must ask, Miss Shaw. You say you are alone in this world. That you have no family.” He waited until she gave a tiny nod of agreement. “However, is anyone in pursuit of you?”

  “Pursuit?” She cast a confused glance from Warren to Nathanial. “What do you mean?”

  “To put it bluntly, a spurned lover. A previous spouse …” Warren let his words fade away, as he continued to meet her shocked stare.

  “I’ve never been married. No one is coming after me.” She swallowed. “Like I said, no one cares what happens to me.”