Chapter 4

4

Genevieve felt as if she were being followed.

As she stepped down from the stagecoach in Frisco, Colorado, she couldn't keep from glancing around at the dozen or so buildings that made up the town, expecting to find Bishop or some other man waiting for her, ready to grab her and haul her back home.

Not that she'd seen Bishop since the train depot in New York City a week ago. If he'd trailed her, she'd obviously kept one step ahead of him. She'd made the train switch in New Jersey and had foregone the shopping for necessities that she'd originally anticipated. In fact, she hadn't stopped at all until she'd reached Independence, Missouri, hoping to put as much distance as possible between herself and anyone searching for her.

Finally, in Independence, she'd taken a day to purchase everything she needed for the remainder of her trip, including a large valise of clothing and shoes and toiletries. Though the frontier town had been much smaller than New York City, the business district had been plentiful, filled with stores selling every kind of ware a person could want or need.

The ready-made skirts and bodices had been much simpler than anything she'd ever worn, but they'd been more comfortable than the tight, plum-colored gown she'd traveled in for several days. She'd also shed her corset in favor of the lightweight chemise she was currently wearing underneath her bodice.

Already she felt freer. Free from her stifling apparel. Free from hovering servants. And free from Lenora's control. The tight, heavy shackles had fallen away.

And she was proud of herself for outsmarting Lenora and making it all the way to Colorado by herself without any help. Perhaps she had more strength inside herself than she realized.

As she stepped away from the stagecoach onto the dirt road that ran the length of the town, she took in another deep breath of the fresh mountain air, just as she'd done at every stop. She couldn't get enough of the crisp, clean air, so different than the stale, humid air that permeated New York City in August.

She tipped up the brim of the straw hat she'd purchased in Independence and let the high-altitude sun bathe her face as she feasted upon the scenery—the rugged mountains rising all around.

At midafternoon, the town, with a mixture of log structures and weathered gray clapboard buildings, appeared sleepy. A tumbleweed blowing on the street was the only sign of life. A loose shutter on a nearby building creaked in the breeze and was the only sound. It was the smallest and most rugged town she'd visited yet.

The stagecoach driver, in the process of unstrapping her bag from among the luggage still on the top, paused and cocked his head toward the building across the street. "You want your bag delivered to the hotel?"

It was a simple two-story building with the words "Frisco Inn" painted on a board over the door.

"Actually," she said, tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear, "I need to hire a driver. Do you know where I could hire such a service?"

"Sure do," called an older fellow standing behind her in the open door of a barn with chipped and peeling paint visible in patches here and there.

Although she hadn't asked her question of the older fellow, she directed her attention his way. He stood below a sign reading "Livery." He was coatless and hatless, his trousers stained, and his once-white shirt a dirty shade of gray. He spat out a glob of tobacco, then wiped his sleeve across his beard and mouth, revealing blackened teeth. "I can get you any place you need to go. The name's Virgil."

The stagecoach driver hopped down with her valise.

"That all the luggage you got?" Virgil's wiry brows rose.

"Yes, it is." She took her valise from the driver, a coating of dust now covering the once-spotless floral print brocade. The bag was heavy with all she'd purchased, but she'd hefted it around for the past few days without the aid of a servant, and she was growing accustomed to the task.

"Then we'll go by horseback," Virgil declared in a decisive tone. "The roads around here ain't too wagon-friendly."

As a single woman without a chaperone, she was already at a disadvantage, drawing people who wanted to prey upon her. It had been especially true when she'd been wearing her fancy gown. Even attired in unpretentious garments, she probably still appeared na?ve and inexperienced.

But she'd traveled enough with her papa, both in the United States and Europe, to gain a sense about people, quickly assessing whom she could trust. Although Virgil was as weathered and worn as his livery barn, his expression contained a forthrightness that told her he was a decent man.

He spat again into the dirt. "You can ride, can't you?"

"Of course." Her papa had made sure she'd learned how to ride, and she'd always enjoyed going to their summer home on Cape Cod and riding the beautiful Arabians her father kept there.

"Where you headed?" Virgil started into the barn.

She headed toward the wide door. "I need to go to Ryder Oakley's homestead."

The fellow popped back out of the barn so quickly she almost tripped in her haste to stop. Both of his brows arched high. "You're Ryder's mail-order bride?"

"Mail order?"

"Constance Franklin? The woman he sent away for?"

Oh dear. She'd wrestled all week with how to handle the situation once she arrived—whether to explain her real identity or to take Constance's. A part of her had decided that honesty was the best option. She didn't want to deceive Ryder Oakley into thinking she was someone she was not.

On the other hand, she'd seen a newspaper two days ago that a gentleman had left on the seat in the train car. One of the front-page articles had been about her, the country's wealthiest heiress who was missing. She hadn't been able to read the entire article, but she'd skimmed far enough to see that it described her in detail and that there was a reward for information about her.

She'd made sure after that to tuck her dark hair out of sight and keep the brim of her hat low to hide her eyes. Even so, she would likely be easy to track to Independence, maybe even beyond.

Hopefully after Denver, no one would realize she'd ridden into the mountains. But if she continued to use her given name, then Bishop, or whoever else Lenora hired, would find her in no time. And she had no doubt Lenora would hire investigators to track her.

Virgil's brows were still arched high as he waited for her response to his question about being Constance Franklin.

"Mm-hmm," she managed. "That's me." Even as the words came out, she had to force herself not to cringe at the lie. But what else could she do at this point if she wanted to stay hidden? Perhaps she would tell Ryder Oakley the truth after she'd had some time to ascertain whether or not he was trustworthy enough to keep her secret. But for now, she wouldn't be hurting anyone to use Constance's name, would she?

"It's about time. Ryder's been waiting."

"So, he's still expecting someone—me?"

"Reckon so."

She hoped so.

"Course," Virgil continued, "Ryder don't come up here to Frisco as much as he goes to Breckenridge, since we don't get much mail here."

The thought had crossed her mind that perhaps Ryder had exchanged letters with more than one woman, the same way Constance had corresponded with more than one man. Genevieve had known there was the possibility that when she arrived at his homestead, he might have selected a different bride. But there was only one way to find out, and that was to go visit him.

Within minutes, she and Virgil were both mounted and her valise strapped behind her. As they started down Main Street, a few faces peeked out of the dusty windows, but otherwise, no one seemed to show much interest in a lone woman riding out to possibly become Ryder Oakley's new wife.

Virgil led the way south along a river that cut its way through the valley between two sets of enormous mountain ranges running from north to south. The ranges were equally majestic, with only a smattering of snow on the rocky peaks above the tree line—snow likely left from the previous winter.

They traveled for a couple of miles before Virgil veered to the west, following another river, this one smaller. The way grew rockier and steeper before it leveled off into a grassy pasture that was perfect for grazing cattle.

"That's it," Virgil called to her while nodding at something ahead.

She surveyed the area, spotting a herd of cattle in the distance. Beyond the cattle, she glimpsed the sloping shingled roof of a log barn.

They only had to travel a short distance more before the rest of the homestead took shape. A log home—much smaller than the barn—sat amidst the long grass against a picturesque backdrop of pine-covered mountain slopes. A curl of smoke wafted from a stone chimney, but otherwise the place looked as silent and deserted as the town.

A pile of wood was stacked against the cabin and an axe was lodged into a stump. An overgrown garden grew on the other side of the cabin, and a few chickens strutted in the grass and wildflowers that surrounded the buildings.

Only when they'd ridden past the cattle and were almost upon the barn did a man finally step out of the wide barn doorway. From what she could tell, he met the description in the advertisement: 6 feet 2 inches tall and 180 pounds. But he was decidedly more muscular than she'd anticipated—although, if he was wrangling cattle for a living, he'd have to be strong.

He wore a tan Stetson with a braid of horsehair. A black-and-gray flannel shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and his bulky biceps. He had a blanket-like covering across his front, but it did nothing to hide the breadth of his chest and the muscles there. His denim trousers highlighted long sturdy legs, and tall leather boots with spurs completed the ensemble.

Virgil called out, "Howdy. Got your bride."

Ryder dropped his hand from where it rested on the handle of a revolver holstered at his waist. Then he moved out from the lengthening shadows of the barn, tipped up the brim of his hat, and watched their approach with an intensity that Genevieve wasn't sure she liked.

As they finally reined in their horses, Genevieve couldn't stop herself from taking him in with as much scrutiny as he was her. Strands of brown hair curled up at his collar. His face was tan and covered in a layer of scruff and a short beard. He had a narrow nose, a strong, unsmiling mouth, and a fine forehead that was wreathed with wrinkles.

She tried to see past the scragginess, and imagined he would have a distinct jaw and chin and cheekbones once he was shaven. No doubt he would clean up well and look very fine. But at the moment, he had an air of ruggedness that left her no doubt he was a cowboy through and through.

At the wiggling of the blanket-like covering, his gaze dropped away from her to the bundle, and he patted it gently with large workworn hands.

Her attention shifted to the bundle now too. From the shape, she guessed the baby was strapped there to his chest to free up his hands for the many chores awaiting him every day. The hardness in his expression softened for a brief moment as he looked at his baby.

The one unguarded moment of gentleness was all she needed to reassure herself that Ryder was everything he'd claimed to be and that she didn't have to worry he'd misrepresented himself. It also helped that Virgil had spoken highly of Ryder and his whole family during the ride to the ranch. Although the wiry older man hadn't said much, it had been enough for her to conclude that the Oakley family was well-respected and well-liked.

When Virgil dismounted, she did too. After her feet landed on the ground, she waited for Ryder to say more—to introduce himself, to ask her something. But he was once again studying her, taking her in from her hat down to her skirt hem.

What did he think? Was he puzzling over who she was?

"Miss Franklin?" He finally lifted his gaze and met hers. The brown of his eyes was dark and rich and thick like a cup of hot chocolate. "I'm Ryder Oakley."

"I'm pleased to meet you."

Virgil spat a glob of tobacco, then cocked his head toward Genevieve. "Came on the stagecoach less than an hour ago."

Ryder was still scrutinizing her. Was he noticing discrepancies in her appearance already from what Constance had described in her letter?

At the nervous flutter in her stomach, she pressed her hand there.

He was watching her hand. "I was beginning to think you weren't interested. Or that maybe you didn't get my letter."

She tugged it out of her pocket. "I have it right here." The envelope was worn and creased now, but his handwriting was still visible.

His gaze flicked to it but then returned to her face.

She held her breath. Was he noticing that she had blue eyes instead of brown? Should she just admit she wasn't Constance after all? "Mr. Oakley—"

"You can call me Ryder."

"And you can call me Genevieve." The moment her real name slipped out, she cringed.

He studied her face more closely. "You don't go by Constance?"

Everything within her demanded that she tell him the truth. But after traveling all this way, she was weary and didn't want to chance that he might turn her away. At least, not at the moment. She didn't want to have to board another train or stagecoach. She didn't want to find a new place to go.

This ranch—she glanced around at the quiet fields that surrounded the barn and cabin—was secluded and far from anyone who would recognize her. She would easily be able to hide here.

She could feel both men now watching her and waiting for her answer. She curved her lips into a practiced smile. "I do prefer Genevieve."

They still didn't speak, clearly expecting additional enlightenment.

"It is my middle name and what my papa always called me." That was the truth, or at least a portion of it. Her papa had christened her Elizabeth after her mother, who had died during child birthing. But he'd never been able to make himself call her Elizabeth and had used her middle name, Genevieve, instead.

Finally, Ryder nodded. "Okay."

"Thank you." Maybe she'd been foolish to want to go by Genevieve. Maybe once people in the area learned of it, they'd make the connection to the missing heiress, Genevieve Hollis.

But at least she hadn't lied entirely about everything. And maybe using her given name would make her deception feel slightly less terrible.