Mail Order Bride: The Gunslinging Bride (#1, Western Reach Western Romance)

Chapter 01

1851,

Independence Rock, Unorganized Territory

Estelle Eaton trembled with anger. One bag! That's what they'd told her when she'd signed up for this. One bag, no more. There wasn't room for more. Yet the sight before her contradicted that in every way.

She had spent two anxious days and nights going through her things, deciding what to keep and what to give away. It had taken a shot of whiskey from her neighbor, Mrs. Tawney, to help her finish, and the results were mixed.

Her best dress was going. Her corset was staying. She had secretly harbored a resentment for corsets for years now, so losing one was more delight than agony. Her wedding ring? Definitely not going. She had thrown it in the trash along with her corset. Her father's picture? Going, as was his gun. Her sister's picture? She had thought it over for some time before finally ripping it in half and adding it to the rubbish heap. Her mother's picture followed shortly thereafter.

In the end, she had settled on one change of clothes, the boots she kept for winter, even though they were worn to the soles, her father's gun, and some dried beef she'd gotten from Mrs. Tawney, who'd begged her not to do this.

"It's not safe," Mrs. Tawney had warned her just last night. "Women die. Men die, too, but mostly it's the women and children."

"How do you know that?" Estelle asked.

Mrs. Tawney shrugged. "I just do. Men say we have a weak countenance. I say it's the men driving us there." She laughed to show she was joking. "It's probably the cold that kills us."

"It's spring."

"It won't stay spring."

"I'll reach California long before fall."

Mrs. Tawney had hugged her and told her not to let anyone near her things. "You can't trust people. Never forget that. Write to me as soon as you arrive. If I don't hear from you, I'll go looking."

Estelle grinned and assured her that she had but one bag, and in it were things no one besides her would find useful.

When the wagon train finally came into view, Estelle's anxiety returned. She counted ten wagons, and that was just what she could see. The day was bright, the sun had just come up overhead, and the train stretched far beyond the horizon. Thirty, fifty, perhaps even as many as a hundred wagons were rolling together along the California Trail, an endless procession of covered wagons so dirty she could not even tell what color the covers were. She thought they used to be white, but now they were varying shades of dust and dirt.

She held her breath and wished she had packed more. Her anger grew as the first wagon went past her, never slowing. The driver glanced her way, saw her one bag clutched in her hand, and continued on. The wagon was covered but the back was open to her, and inside, she saw at least seven people sitting with their heads in their hands, their eyes glazed over. The wagon was stuffed to the brim with bags.

The oxen and horses pulling the wagons looked tired. Dozens of people walked beside them, looking even more so. She did not understand why so many walked when the wagons might pull them. Perhaps there was not enough room for everyone after all. She bit her bottom lip and watched the scene as the wind began to pick up.

Three wagons rolled past her... five... ten. She began to wonder how she was ever to get onboard. No one had told her how to join, just that there was room enough for one. Most of these people were families traveling together. She would be riding with strangers.

One wagon with a particularly dusty cover pulled away from the others. The driver slowed its pace. A skinny young woman was walking beside the horses, stroking their rich brown muzzles, which were covered in dust like everything else. Her hair was cut unusually short, and Estelle wondered if some misfortune had befallen her. She could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old.