Page 4 of Mail-Order Viscountess

Every time he thought about James’s face—that earnest, we-know-what’s-best-for-you expression—the fury climbed higher in his throat.

A mail-order bride. As if he were some pathetic recluse too inept to find his own wife. As if he even wanted a wife.

The bartender slid a chipped mug across the scarred wood. The coffee inside looked thick enough to stand a spoon in and smelled like it had been sitting on the stove since yesterday. Perfect.

He wrapped his hands around the mug’s warmth and stared into the dark liquid. Somewhere a few miles from here, a woman traveled toward a future that didn’t exist. Some poor soul who’d believed the letters his brothers wrote—probably full of descriptions of the ranch, the mountains, the life she could have here.

All lies.

Well, not lies exactly. The ranch existed. The mountains were real enough.

But the husband? That was pure fiction.

He took a sip of the coffee. The brew tasted as bad as it looked—bitter and burnt—but at least it gave him something to do with his hands besides put them through a wall.

“Trouble with a woman?”

Thomas glanced sideways. The bartender had returned to his glass-wiping, though his attention remained fixed on Thomas with the knowing look of a man who’d seen every kind of misery parade through his establishment.

“Something like that.”

“Always is.” The man chuckled, a sound like gravel in a tin can. “They’re either the cause of your problems or the solution. Sometimes both.”

Thomas didn’t respond. The last thing he needed was philosophy from a saloon keeper.

What kind of woman agreed to marry a stranger sight unseen anyway? Someone desperate, probably. Or running from something.

That thought pricked his conscience. She came all this way, expecting...what? A home? Security? Love, even?

He shoved the thought aside. Not his problem. He hadn’t made her any promises.

He had his own plans.

California. Only a few more weeks before he’d have his supplies gathered and be ready to head out. Stake a claim on his own land. Start his own ranch.

His own future.

Not one mapped out by his brothers or dictated by family duty or trapped by some English title he’d never asked for.

A burst of laughter erupted from a corner table, harsh and mean-edged.

He glanced over. Four men sat hunched around a table in the corner, cards spread between them. The kind of men who looked like they’d been in Butte too long—faces hard with disappointment, clothes worn past decent.

One of them held a woman on his lap. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, dressed in a faded calico dress that had seen better days. Her eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal looking for escape, and her smile was fixed in place with the brittle quality of something about to shatter.

The man holding her had one meaty hand clamped around her wrist, his other arm wrapped tight across her waist. He said something Thomas couldn’t make out, and his companions roared with laughter.

The girl’s smile never wavered, but her fingers clutched the edge of the table until her knuckles went white.

He should look away. Not his business. Butte was full of hard men and women trying to survive however they could. He couldn’t solve everyone else’s problems when he couldn’t even settle his own.

The girl’s face had gone pale beneath the rouge on her cheeks.

Thomas set down his coffee mug.

“Those aren’t men you want to cross.” The bartender’s voice held an unmistakable warning.

“I’m just going to have a friendly word.” He was already moving away from the bar. The anger burning in his chest since James’s revelation found a new target, and he welcomed the shift.