Adventure For A Bride (Montana Passion, Book 3)

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AMELIA ROSE

Adventure For A Bride

A Clean Mail Order Bride Romance

Montana Passion: Book Three

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Amelia Rose.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To YOU, The reader.

Thank you for your support.

Thank you for your emails.

Thank you for your reviews.

Thank you for reading and joining me on this road.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

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Chapter One

Papa? Mama home? the dark-haired little boy asked, his bright blue eyes looking questioningly at his father. Pryor MacAteer reached over and tousled his son’s curls, smiling through his worried expression. He felt weary to the bone from a long day’s work bringing in his wheat, and having Matthew by his side to look after had left him mentally tired as well.

No, son. She’s still sitting with Mrs. Flynn. She should be home before it’s your bedtime, though. Finish your porridge, and we’ll have another study at learning our letters before it’s time to do the evening milking. We want everything in place by the time your ma gets home.

The toddler smiled adoringly at his devoted father and dug into the porridge. It was the third time in as many days that he’d eaten the lumpy gruel for both his breakfast and his lunch. Pryor added a little salt, pork and some cooked carrots to it for dinner, but knew it was no meal fit for a growing boy. His wife, Moira, would never have served it to her boys as she called them, but she was otherwise occupied and Pryor still had a farm to run. It was hard enough bringing in the harvest without having an unattended little one underfoot, and Moira’s friend, Gretchen, had already sent word through someone passing the farm that she would fetch young Matthew tomorrow if Moira still wasn’t back home by nightfall.

After finishing the chores for the night and locking up the barn securely against anything that could smell the warm flesh within, Pryor hoisted his son onto his shoulders and carried him into the house, toting the pail of milk in the other hand. He set the milk to settle in a cupboard he’d built on the porch, then carried Matthew inside to ready him for bed.

He’d just placed his son in his own little bed and pulled the door nearly shut behind him when he heard someone fumbling with the latch. His wife, Moira, a bereft and tired air about her, stepped through and shut the door quietly behind her. She pointed to the spare room where Matthew slept, silently asking her husband if the boy was awake.

Go on in, Pryor said in a voice barely above a whisper. I’ve just put him to bed, he’s surely still awake. He pried her hands away from his waist where she held him. No, we’ll catch up in a bit. Right now, he’s pining for his ma. Go let him know you’re home and then we can talk by the fire.

Moira smiled gratefully, wondering for the hundredth time that week how she’d come to be so blessed in all things: in her marriage, her children, and after caring for Mrs. Flynn, her health.

By the time she’d tucked her son in the bed and nestled him down among the quilts with a kiss, Pryor had fixed Moira some tea in the kettle that hung from its iron hook over the fire. She let him lead her to her rocking chair and settled in, smoothing her bodice over the growing roundness of her second pregnancy.

Thank you, dearest, ‘tis exactly what I needed, she said with a sorrowful sigh, taking the cup and blowing on it for a moment before drinking.

Well? How’s Mrs. Flynn getting along? Pryor asked, as though he was talking about a new foal born in the barn. Moira looked away and held her delicate teacup in her lap.

We lost her early this evening, God rest her soul. I’ve been seeing to those motherless little ones. I wanted to fix up their supper before heading home. Moira stared at the fire without speaking for a moment, her mind with what was left of one of their neighbor families.

Pryor looked up in alarm. Oh, my wife! I’m so sorry, I had no idea she was so ill! And here I thought you were just running yourself ragged caring for her young’uns while your own son cried for his mother! He held out his hands to her and bid her come to him, which Moira accepted gratefully. The last three days had taken a toll on her strength and her spirit.

Oh, ‘tis not bad enough losing dear Anna Mae, I just can naw help but think of those three poor children, and the youngest one but a brand-new baby, Moira mourned as she settled in Pryor’s lap, leaning her head against his shoulder. His around went around her comfortingly. And poor Mr. Flynn, you’d have thought someone had pierced him through the heart when Katya went racing to fetch him from the barn. He wanted to ride for the doctor in Barrett, but there was no use. I’ve seen it before, this cancer, in members of my brother’s household. In Mrs. Flynn’s case, it came up fast and took her before she could suffer for too long.

Pryor shut his eyes against the sudden image of Wyatt Flynn standing over his dead wife’s bedside, looking down at her as his heart broke. He willed away the very thought that something similar could happen within his own family, in his house, and held Moira tighter. The first tears began to fall down her cheeks and a quiet sob shook her shoulders.

I can still see those poor wee ones’ faces, she said breathlessly. And them without a ma now. What’s to happen to those children?

They still have their father, Pryor reminded her, grasping for the right words to ease the sorrow.

Naw, he must work his farm. Micah and Luke are barely old enough to sit at table for mealtimes, and little Rose can naw even hold up her own head yet. How’s the man supposed to finish his chores with little ones running about, always needing to be fed and have their nappies changed? And needing to be loved more than anything?

We’ll help him, of course. He might not care to think of losing his children at a time like this, but we’ll offer to take Rose until she’s bigger, especially since we’re coming up on the time when you can’t be going too far out of doors either, not with winter coming. I’ll offer to share the harvest work, too. We’ll bring in his crop, then the rest of mine, and you can tend the children during the harvest. It won’t seem so much like charity then.

Moira nodded silently, knowing it was the only way. She didn’t relish the idea of suddenly having four children to look after—five, if her new baby came before planting season in the spring—but knew that she could only hope for such a thing herself if she had been the one to perish instead of Mrs. Flynn. She at least had Gretchen to care for her son like he was her own if something ever happened to her, God forbid.

Come, let’s get you to bed, Moira said, noticing for the first time the exhaustion on her husband’s face. I’m sorry I left you and Matthew alone to care for each other, and right here at the start of harvest time when there’s so much to be done.

Nonsense, it was the neighborly thing to do. I know it doesn’t help the hurting much right now, but you’ll see. You and Wyatt both will be glad that there was someone to care for Mrs. Flynn and look after the children these last few days. It’s just such a terrible, terrible thing.

He’ll be needing a grave dug in the morning, Moira managed in a strained whisper, her voice catching in her throat. A grave made it so permanent, but it had to be done.

Of course. I’ll head over there at first light. I’ll pick up Nathaniel on the way, we’ll take care of it. No man should ever have to… to put his own wife in the ground.

I’ll fetch Gretchen in the morning and have her look after Matthew so I can prepare Anna Mae for burial. I’ve just finished the sewing on a dress for after the baby comes, but I’d be honored to put her in it if you think ‘tis fitting to do so. Moira wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve, taking deep breaths to try to still her crying. Pryor nodded, then pulled Moira close and kissed the top of her head.

You’re a good woman, Moira, the best. I hope you know that. I want you to know that it doesn’t take a thing like this to make me realize it.

She smiled through her tears and kissed her husband on the lips, resting her hands against his chest for a moment before reaching for the lamp and heading to bed.

Chapter Two

Life has a cruel way of moving on. Wyatt Flynn buried his beloved wife, Anna Mae, the woman who’d left her home, her parents, all her family and her church, packing up her meager belongings to live in the wilds of Montana, surviving on wishes and what bounty God may choose to provide. She’d believed in Wyatt’s hope of owning land, a farm of his own, but more importantly, she’d believed in him. She always had.

Anna Mae first met Wyatt when he signed on to work as a day laborer, bringing in the harvest on one of the largest corn farms in Missouri. She and several other ladies in town were tasked with setting out a table of fine foods each afternoon at the midday meal—on days that her ma could spare her, that is. As the oldest of six children, Anna Mae had been at her mother’s elbow from the time she could pull herself up at the table, and cherished every moment she spent watching her mother tend her house and family.

The daughter of a sharecropper, Anna Mae was a common sight where the men were working as most often, she was sent to bring something for her father, and as often as not, he sent her on a more important errand at that arduous time. Wyatt had the opportunity to sneak glances in her direction, and once or twice—he couldn’t really be sure she’d even seen him, but he’d told himself it was true—he’d thought she’d returned his smile with a shy one of her own.

By the