Their Bridgewater Brides Boxed Set: Books 8 - 10

Chapter 3

3

GABE

“She will be ours,” I said.

“Without question,” Tucker replied.

After the wedding reception, Tucker and I returned to Bridgewater. We worked for two days, riding the fence lines, fixing downed sections, herding stray cows, all the while stewing on the conversation with Abigail. Talked through every word she said, every tilt of her chin, the way she angled her head to hide her scar, the emotions I could see in her eyes.

“Who?” Andrew asked, carrying a stack of dirty plates in from the dining room.

He was one of many men who lived at Bridgewater and shared the communal dinner with everyone who wasn’t working. These days, a large group met for the meals so the chores for it were shared and rotated. Tucker and I were on dishwashing duty, and I had my hands in a sink full of hot water as I scrubbed a pot.

“Abigail Carr,” I replied. “We’re going to claim her.”

I pictured her in my mind. Petite—she only came up to my shoulder—with lots of dark-brown hair tucked back into a neat twist. It was hard to tell how long it was, but if I pulled the pins free, I imagined it fell all the way down her back. And I would do it, too. Soon, if Tucker and I had our way. She had equally dark eyes and a surprising spray of freckles across her pert nose. She was beautiful—she’d caught my eye the first time I saw her. It hadn’t been lust as it was now. No, she just… caught my heart.

She’d been just a girl when we met—a shy and tentative little sister of our friend James—and a young woman when she went away to school. But, after two years, she’d turned into a woman. We’d wanted her when she was seventeen, knew she’d be ours someday since she was much too young for us at the time, but now…now it was time to make Abigail Carr ours. We were done waiting.

“The woman with the scar on her face?” Andrew asked, placing the dirty dishes on the washboard beside me.

I gave him a hard stare. Tucker stopped scraping plates and turned a hard eye at Andrew.

“Yes, she has a scar, but she also has brown hair,” I clarified.

She did have a scar. A mottled, puckered area of flesh on her left cheek that appeared to be from a burn. It wasn’t even like a jagged slice indicating a cut. The damaged area was a mixture of her pale skin and pink scarring. It was an old wound, fully healed, yet her skin would never be blemish free. Whatever the cause of the wound, she would carry the mark as a badge of honor for surviving.

But the scar was small and inconsequential. Yes, it was noticeable. Yes, it looked bad because of the pain and discomfort it had caused. What scar didn’t? I had plenty on my body, but no one judged me for them or used one as a way to describe me.

Andrew’s eyes widened at my sharp tone, but he took my meaning readily enough. The scar shouldn’t be used to define her. It bothered me, but Tucker hated it. I was impressed he held his temper and hadn’t punched Andrew in the eye. I was protective of her, but Tucker…

“Yes, and pretty blue eyes, too,” Andrew added, redeeming himself.

“Who has pretty blue eyes besides me?” Andrew’s wife, Ann, came in from the dining room carrying a few glasses, an impish smile curling her lips. Christopher, their small son, ran in after her with a handful of napkins. Tucker squatted down and took them, flicking his nose. The boy grinned.

“Abigail Carr,” I repeated.

“Yes, she’s quite pretty. Shy,” Ann added. “I’m glad to hear she has a man.”

“She’ll have two soon, enough,” Tucker told her.

Ann placed the glasses on the table in the middle of the room and looked at Tucker. “Oh? Really?” She smiled broadly.

He went back to wiping scraps off the plates into a pail to be taken to the barn for the pigs. “The man is not her fiancé,” Tucker answered, adamant.

“You’re sure of this, how?” Andrew leaned against the counter, watching me scrub.

I handed him the clean pot and a dish towel. If he was going to talk, he could dry as he did so. I grabbed a dirty dish and dunked it in the hot water.

“She told us as much. You should have seen her face. I’ve never seen a less enthused woman when speaking of a beau,” Tucker continued.

“You still have stardust in your eyes when you mention me,” Andrew teased Ann.

I looked between the duo, envious of their obvious love. It was not a look Abigail possessed.

“Ann, what has she told you of him?” I asked, not ashamed of my curiosity.

She pursed her lips, thought for a moment. “I’ve only spoken with her a few times. Christopher rarely stands still at a picnic, and chasing after him often keeps me away from socializing.”

She smiled down at her son who gave her a wicked little grin.

“She spoke more to Laurel. Let me get her.” Walking to the doorway, she called to Laurel, who joined us in the kitchen. She stepped out of the way as Christopher dashed past. We could all hear him squeal with glee and shouting, “More, more,” and knew his other father, Robert, was tossing him up into the air, his newfound delight.

“They want to know about Abigail Carr’s beau.”

The dark-haired woman frowned, thinking. “His name’s Aaron, and he has fair hair and is a bookkeeper.”

I glanced at Tucker. “She did not tell us these facts. She actually diminished the man instead of speaking highly of him.”

He nodded once then continued his plate scraping.

“And so you want to claim her after seeing her just this past week?” Andrew asked.

“You forget, dear husband,” Ann said, walking up to Andrew and putting her hand on his chest. “You offered to marry me after knowing me for ten minutes.”

Andrew leaned down and kissed Ann then gave her a swat on the ass. I tried to hide my smile, but it was impossible. Their story included a transatlantic crossing, a miserable father, and a runaway. Fate had perhaps stepped in for them when Ann ducked into Robert’s cabin to hide. From what they’d said, they were married the very same day.

“We’ve wanted her for a long time. Years. But she was too young. It was good she went away to school, to do whatever it is young women do. Dances and whatnot. But since she’s back, unclaimed, she’s ours.”

“But she’s got Aaron,” Laurel countered.

“A beau doesn’t not mean she’s claimed. He had his chance but let her come home. We will not wait for another to put a ring on her finger.”

We were at the picnic when we first saw her after her return. Tucker caught a glimpse of her and grabbed my arm, angled my head in her direction, and just stared. She was with a small group of other women, chatting. We were too far away to overhear the topic, but the conversation was fairly animated. Laurel had been in the mix and tried to include Abigail, but it was obvious she was reticent to join in. She was pretty as a picture in a pale-blue dress that accented her lush curves. Curves I hadn’t remembered seeing before she left for school.

Even among the other ladies, she stood out. While the others were certainly attractive, Abigail had been the only one to catch our eyes once again, to stop us in our tracks—literally—and ruin us for any other woman, forever.

Mason, Laurel’s husband, had once said finding a bride was like being struck by lightning, but we’d never held much credence for the concept. We’d known, even when she was younger, Abigail would be ours, but it was nothing like our need for her now. She’d been just a girl. Now, she was a gorgeous woman. It was a perfectly sunny summer day when the lightning hit both Tucker and me after all the waiting. Abigail, with her shy ways and soft smiles, was the one for us. The only one.

But when we heard she had a man in Butte, a fiancé, we didn’t approach with more than casual conversation. We didn’t ask her brother for permission to court her or even offer to fetch her a drink at the reception. Nothing. If she was claimed by another, we wouldn’t interfere. But she’d refuted the story that had spread through the picnic. She might have a man, but they were not engaged to be married, and, by her bland response, she was not keen on him. It gave us a chance. There was no ring involved, so we’d pushed her, speaking of kissing her and what we would do if she were ours. She’d responded as we’d hoped. With eagerness, curiosity, and arousal.

“We wondered why you had no interest in any of the ladies in town. Now, we know,” Andrew commented.

Marriageable women were few and far between in the area. Tucker and I weren’t too concerned about this, for none of the women who were of an age to wed appealed to us. They were certainly nice and attractive enough, but none had turned our heads… or tossed a lightning bolt at us. Until Abigail. I turned around and leaned against the sink, grabbed the dishtowel from Andrew, and wiped my hands.

“It’s nice she speaks so readily with you. She’s quite shy,” Laurel added. “Sent to Butte and returns after two years. People have moved on with their lives, gotten married, and had a child, like I did while she’s been in school. It must be hard to return and be on the fringes of conversation.” She shrugged, picked up a leftover green bean from a serving bowl, and nibbled on it. “It’s obvious she’s bothered by her appearance. It makes her not only shy, but wary. What if she was made fun of at school? You’ve heard the talk about her, how men aren’t interested in her because of her scar.”

We all jumped when a glass shattered against the wall. Tucker stood there, hands on hips, face red, breathing hard. “I’m sick and tired of hearing about the damn scar. From the townspeople, from you. Even from Abigail herself. She is more than a f*****g scar.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck to try and calm down.

I wanted to throw my own glass at how frustrating it was to know a stupid scar defined Abigail, not only to the people around her, but to herself. She’d even turned her face to hide it when we spoke after the wedding. It was a subtle gesture, but obvious.

Tucker felt for her more deeply. He liked to defend those who were weak, who were defenseless against bullies. His anger was deeply rooted, his younger sister having been the brunt of such cruelty. She’d been born special, with wide-set eyes and a gentle nature. While her body grew older, her mind had remained of a four-year-old. Tucker, being five years older, had watched out for her. But he couldn’t protect her all the time, especially from his own parents. When his mother died, his father had put her in an institution, where she’d died only months later.

Only a year later, Tucker’s father had married my mother. Tucker’s father had been an asshole, so it had been easy to hate him, even at the young age of eleven. Why my mother married him, I never could understand, but I’d gained a brother from it. He might be legally my stepbrother, but it was only a word.

Tucker had never forgiven his father for what he’d done and while I’d never met his sister, Clara, I wholeheartedly agreed with him. Because of his history, the cruelty in his own family, he wouldn’t let anyone bother Abigail if he had his way. Not even one bad word. Neither would I, but Tucker was… broken a little over it.

“Oh, Tucker. The scar doesn't define her,” Laurel said, unaffected by his outburst. She went over to him and patted his arm. We all knew about what happened to his sister and why he was quick to temper. When it came to something like Abigail’s scar, for something so minor with a woman we loved, we knew he’d acted so impulsively because he was too kind. He offered Laurel a smile and then went to get the broom.

The other men came storming into the room to see what the noise was, if anyone was hurt.

“Abigail Carr seems to be under Tucker’s protection,” Andrew told the others.

“And mine,” I added, crossing my arms over my chest.

Andrew began to laugh then slapped me on the shoulder, grinning. “They are claiming her. Looks like we’re soon to have a new bride here at Bridgewater.”

Damn straight. Now we just had to go and get her.