A Bargained-For Bride Read online

  Copyright © 2013

  A Bargained-For Bride by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  Published by Distractions Ink

  ©Copyright 2013 by M. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by © Marina Fadeeva/Dreamstime.com

  and © Lawrence Weslowski Jr/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design and Interior Graphics by Sandy Ann Allred/Timeless Allure

  First Printed Edition: August 2013

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,

  created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  A Bargained-For Bride: a novella/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  ISBN: 978-0-9889582-9-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013947993

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Jillian ,

  Ten years ago, something caught your eye at the county fair—

  just a simple book with horses on the cover.

  Ten years ago, someone caught my eye at the county fair—

  a kind young girl who touched my heart and lingered there forever.

  Happy Friendship 10th Anniversary to you and me!

  Chapter One

  Jilly smiled as Jack placed a small bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers in her hands as he kissed her cheek.

  “And don’t you look pretty today, Jilly Adams?” he flirted.

  “Why, thank you, Jack Taylor,” Jilly answered. She blushed cherry-red with delight. Jack Taylor was not only the most handsome young man in town but also by far the most charming. “You’re lookin’ very handsome yourself today,” she added. After all, a flattering compliment the likes Jack always offered must be reciprocated.

  Jack smiled, obviously pleased by Jilly’s favorable remark—and it was an honest observation. Jack Taylor was tall, with broad shoulders, splendidly blue eyes, thick black hair, and a smile that melted the knees of every girl in town—including Jilly’s. In truth, Jilly felt not only overjoyed but also very honored that Jack had fallen in love with her. After all, there were other young ladies in the small town of Mourning Dove that were pretty—young ladies prettier than Jilly. The Havasham sisters, for instance—the three daughters of Doctor and Mrs. Havasham—now they were beautiful! Mona, Dina, and Inola were all three raven-haired beauties with dark brown eyes and skin like flawless porcelain, and all three were of eligible age for courting and marriage. Yet the good-looking Jack Taylor had chosen to give his heart to Jilly Adams—so why shouldn’t she be proud?

  “Wanna join me for an amble?” Jack asked.

  “Of course,” Jilly answered, her smile broadening.

  “I thought we’d head down to the crick today,” he explained. “Ya know? Just dangle our feet in the water and cool off for a bit.”

  “How very refreshin’,” Jilly giggled as they began to walk toward the creek.

  “There might even be some tadpoles still lingerin’ in the standin’ water near the bank,” he added with a wink.

  “If we’re lucky,” Jilly said. “Summer is movin’ on far too quickly for my likin’. But tadpoles always mean there’s still some time left for enjoyin’ the sunshine and warm weather.”

  Jack winked at Jilly as he lowered his voice and said, “And I do plan to enjoy this warm weather with you, Jilly Adams…as thoroughly as I can.”

  Jilly shook her head, blushed, and giggled with delight. Jack was so wonderful! She couldn’t wait to get down to the creek and find a private spot so that Jack could steal a kiss from her. It was his way, what he always did when they were alone—stole several kisses from Jilly until her confidence grew enough so that he didn’t have to steal them anymore.

  Yet sometimes Jilly wondered if she really should spend so much time sparking with Jack. She knew that most girls in town had never been kissed at all—yet Jilly had become quite familiar with Jack’s kisses. But as the mere thought of Jack kissing her caused her heart to leap in her bosom, Jilly shrugged away her worries. And besides, even her own grandmother had been telling Jilly tales of the way she and Jilly’s grandfather used to spark when they first started courting. Thus, Jilly figured that if her Grandma Effie and Grandpa Doolin did a measure of sparking before they were married, then what was wrong with sparking a bit with Jack Taylor?

  “I love summer,” Jack remarked as they walked down the grassy hill of Mr. Ramsey’s west pasture. “I can’t hardly make myself look forward to harvesttime and then winter.”

  “Oh, but harvesttime isn’t so bad,” Jilly offered. “Everything is mellowed somehow. The sun shines rather orange instead of yellow, the crops come in, everyone starts burnin’ cedar and apple wood in their fireplaces.” Jilly smiled as a feeling of happiness in anticipation began to well up inside her. “Oh, I just love the scents in the evenin’ air in the autumn of the year.”

  But Jack laughed. “That’s because you ain’t the one who has to chop all the wood for the fireplaces or haul in all the corn and pumpkins, tomatoes, and such. All you have to do is sit there in your granny’s parlor and do nothin’.”

  “That is not true, Jack Taylor!” Jilly playfully scolded. “And you know it. Who do you think puts up all the jars of jams and jellies, stewed tomatoes, corn, and green beans? Not you men, that’s for sure.”

  Jack nodded as he laughed. “I’ll give you that,” he agreed. “And where you like the smell of the firewood, I like the smell in my mama’s kitchen when she’s preservin’.”

  “My, yes!” Jilly confirmed. She stopped walking a moment, closed her eyes, and said, “If I stand real still, I can almost see the blackberries simmerin’ on my grandma’s stove. I can almost hear that sound when she pours in the sugar and begins stirrin’ with her biggest and best wooden spoon. Oh, I can’t wait to smell the blackberries simmerin’ this year!”

  “Now, don’t be wishin’ my summer away, Silly Jilly,” Jack said, taking her hand. Jilly opened her eyes once more to see Jack smiling at her. “Now come on. We don’t have too much time before I gotta be home to milk the cows.”

  Jilly nodded with understanding, clinging to Jack’s hand as they hurried down the hill. She couldn’t help but think of the old nursery rhyme her mother had taught her as a child—the one about Jack and Jill going up a hill—only she was glad that she and Jack weren’t tumbling down toward the creek.

  As ever, a twinge of sadness and heartache pricked Jilly’s heart at the thought of her mother. She wondered—as she always did whenever she lingered in thinking of her mother and father—what her life would be like if her parents hadn’t been killed, if the bridge over the gorge hadn’t collapsed, sending their train plummeting more than a thousand feet into the Arkansas River below. She wondered if she would’ve been happier with her parents—even happier than she’d been being raised by her Grandma Effie and Grandpa Doolin. She wondered if she would’ve had siblings, a little brother or sister, or both.

  But as she always did when heartache and doubt began to seep into her thoughts, Jilly sighed, inhaled a deep breath, forced a smile to her pretty face, and returned to being conscious of the moment she was living in then—abandoning the wondering of how that moment might have been different had her parents no
t been killed when she was four years old.

  Jack’s whistle of astonishment drew Jilly from her deeper thoughts.

  “Look at that!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the creek. “It must be rainin’ pretty hard somewhere up in the mountains. I’ve never seen this crick so swollen.”

  Jilly nodded as a small wave of trepidation traveled through her at the sight of the unusually high quantity of water racing down the creek. “I guess we won’t be finding any tadpoles lingerin’ about,” she said, trying to ease her anxiety.

  The creek was far more full than Jilly had ever seen it before—at least three feet above the normal water line. She could see the soft green grass, usually just at the edge of the water, bent over and drowning two or three feet beneath the surface now. Jilly wasn’t sure why—though she suspected it had something to do with the train accident that had plunged her parents into the Arkansas River, killing them—but deep or fast-moving water entirely unsettled her.

  Yet as she began nervously fiddling with the brooch at the front of her shirtwaist collar, she felt Jack take her hand once more.

  He was smiling with understanding when she looked up to him. “Don’t worry, Jilly,” he encouraged. “We’ll stay clear of the water today, okay? We won’t even go near the pond.”

  “Okay,” Jilly sighed with relief.

  “In fact,” Jack mumbled, glancing around to ensure their privacy, “I think a little kissin’ might be just what ol’ Doc Havasham might recommend in a situation like this. Hmmm?”

  Jilly giggled with delight as Jack then led her to a more secluded part of the creek bank—a small grove of dogwood trees flourishing nearby.

  “Now,” he began, putting his hands at Jilly’s waist and pulling her close, “I’m pretty sure I can settle down your worryin’ a bit here.”

  Jilly bit her lip with pleased anticipation as she placed her hands on Jack’s broad shoulders. She did like when Jack kissed her. It always sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach and made her feel warm and secure.

  Winking at her and offering one last grin of encouragement, Jack’s head began to descend toward Jilly’s. She closed her eyes when he pressed his lips to hers, sighing when the now familiar fluttering sensation of delight began in her stomach. Jilly slipped her arms around Jack’s neck when he pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her again.

  “You’re the sweetest girl in Mourning Dove Creek, you know?” Jack mumbled as he paused in kissing Jilly a moment.

  Jilly smiled. “And you’re the handsomest man in Mourning Dove Creek, you know,” she flirted in return.

  Jack smiled. “I do know,” he said.

  Jilly giggled. Jack Taylor was so predictable—and a little conceited. He really did think he was the handsomest man in Mourning Dove—and he was, for the most part.

  Secretly, however, if Jilly ever allowed herself to be completely honest about it (which she tried to avoid), there was one other man in Mourning Dove who always crossed her mind when the subject of the handsomest man in town arose. Yet there was no lingering on thinking of that man—no sirree! Not for a moment! Not for any reason—ever. And so Jilly just kept telling Jack that he was the handsomest man in Mourning Dove Creek. Besides, it was almost true—being that the other man lived outside of town and not right in town the way Jack did.

  And so, as Jilly Adams stood in the lovely little grove of dogwoods, sparking with the second-most handsome man in Mourning Dove Creek, she felt very near completely content. The day was bright with warm sunshine, and the scent of wildflowers perfumed the air. In fact, as Jack unexpectedly tightened his embrace around her, she felt the bouquet of flowers she’d been holding in one fist at his back tumble from her hand. But she didn’t have much time to really consider that she’d dropped the flowers, for all at once, Jack’s kiss intensified with an unfamiliar force.

  All at once, the fluttering sensation in Jilly’s stomach gave way to something else—a moment of uncertainty—quickly followed, however, by a strong desire to allow Jack to kiss her with his lips parted the way he’d begun to.

  Had it not been for the sound of distant screaming, Jilly might have remained locked in Jack’s arms as his kisses grew moist and hot. But she found herself rather unexpectedly relieved when the screams and shouts for help drew closer, causing Jack to release her and both of them to look upstream from whence the sounds were coming.

  “Help! Help!” a woman was crying as she ran toward them. A man was close at her heels, also shouting for help.

  “What on earth?” Jack said as he and Jilly stepped from the grove of dogwoods.

  “That looks like Mrs. Lillingston,” Jilly said. An unhappy feeling of dread began to rise in Jilly’s bosom.

  “And Mr. Lillingston too,” Jack said.

  “Jack!” Mr. Lillingston shouted. “In the crick! He’s in the crick! Catch him!”

  “What?” Jack called.

  But Jilly understood at once! Racing to the swollen creek bank, Jilly looked to the water in time to see a small red wooden bucket being tossed on the surface of the racing creek. Normally the creek simply babbled along at a nice, slow pace. But the rain in the mountains had turned Mourning Dove Creek into a small and rather violent river. As swift creek waters tossed the little wooden bucket as it carried it away, somehow Jilly knew what would come next.

  “Georgie fell into the crick upstream!” Mr. Lillingston hollered. “We can’t catch up with him! Pull him out when he gets to you, Jack! You’ve got to pull him out!”

  Instantly, Jack was running, not upstream but downstream—and Jilly knew why. Mourning Dove Creek emptied into Mourning Dove Pond, and Mourning Dove Pond emptied into the Arkansas River by way of a series of waterfalls. If little Georgie Lillingston weren’t pulled out of the creek or pond before the waterfalls, he’d be lost over the falls to perish in the raging river below!

  It was then that Jilly looked to see the small dark head of a child bobbing up and down in the water as it raced toward her. Glancing around, she could see then that there was no way to get to the boy from where she stood. Too many rocks and bushes that were normally above the water line were now beneath it. Jack had run ahead to find a better venue into the creek.

  Mrs. Lillingston had already stumbled and fallen, and although she was once more on her feet and running, she was now far behind her husband. Furthermore, Georgie’s position in the creek was far ahead of Mr. Lillingston’s on the bank. There was no conceivable way the boy’s father would ever catch him.

  Without further thought, Jilly turned and began running downstream as fast as she could. She and Jack were Georgie’s only hope of rescue, and as she ran, she tried not to think of her parents—of their fatal plunge into the same river that the creek now swept little Georgie Lillingston toward.

  “Come on, Jack!” Jilly panted as she saw Jack quickly wade out into the creek. She gasped as she saw the force of the rushing water unbalance him, being that it was up to his chest. “Jack!” she called, frantic. But then she saw him reach up and take hold of a large tree limb that was hanging out over the creek. Holding onto the tree limb with one hand, Jack positioned himself as close to the center of the raging creek as he could without getting swept into the current.

  But still Jilly ran—for she knew that if Jack failed to latch onto Georgie, she would be the little boy’s last hope. And so she ran—ran as fast as she could—panting so hard her own breath sounded like the chugging of a steam engine crossing a bridge. For a moment, Jilly imagined she could hear the train racing along over the gorge bridge so many years before—thought she heard the screams of its passengers as the railway bridge began to crumble, sending them plummeting to their deaths in the river below.

  Yet still she ran—running for Georgie Lillingston’s life!

  Chapter Two

  As she ran—her lungs burning and her legs weakening—Jilly was conscious of how far upstream the Lillingston place was. No doubt Mr. and Mrs. Lillingston had been running the entire di
stance. It was already a miracle that their endurance had lasted this long.

  Reaching an area on the creek bank that looked like a viable place to wade in, Jilly stopped running and turned to see if the little Lillingston boy had reached Jack’s location yet.

  “He’s almost to you, Jack!” Mr. Lillingston shouted, collapsing to his knees for a moment. “Get him! Please get him, Jack!”

  Jilly startled with a sudden jolt of being surprised as a bay horse abruptly reined in beside her. She’d been so intent on watching the terrible situation with Georgie Lillingston unfold before her that she hadn’t heard the horse until it was right upon her.

  “You stay out of that water, girl!” the man on the horse growled at her. “It won’t do no good to have two children drownin’ today.”

  Jilly looked up into the frowning, brooding, angry expression of none other than Boone Ramsey—the farmer and cattle rancher who owned the property surrounding Mourning Dove Creek’s outlet and its pond.

  She had no time to respond to his rather high-handed demands, for Boone Ramsey turned his horse and rode hell-bent for the bridge that spanned the inlet where the creek emptied into the pond.

  Jilly glanced to where Jack stood, wading in the raging waters of the swollen creek. She watched the little red bucket still tossing on the water’s surface as it passed him.

  “What do I do?” she breathed to herself. Quickly she looked to the bridge—watched as Boone Ramsey’s horse trotted up onto it—watched as Boone Ramsey leapt from his saddle, over the side of the bridge, and into the pond water below.

  He bobbed to the surface and swam toward the place where the stream was pouring into the pond.

  “What do I do?” Jilly breathed again. She started toward the water, afraid Jack would miss catching Georgie.

  “Stay there!” Mr. Ramsey shouted from his place in the pond. She watched as he seemed to struggle in the water a moment before tossing one boot over his head onto the bank of the pond and then the other. “You stay right there!” he shouted again, pointing an index finger at Jilly.