Bride of the Frontier (The Prophecy of Sisters Book 3) Page 4

  Instead, I stare out at the horizon. It’s pretty outside. The sun is dipping low, an indication that dinner will probably be soon. The land around me looks much like Arizona except instead of cactus, I see pretty gold-tipped leaved trees with… red trunks.

  My brows furrow and I shake my head, trying to get my vision in check. Maybe it’s just a reflection from the setting sun, it must be. A throat clears behind me, so I feel obligated to turn around and look at the person standing there.

  It’s Martha. She gives me a grimace and shakes her head a couple of times. “Mr. James has demanded that I get some dresses from the shop. I’ll measure you and bring several. I assume you don’t have proper underwear either?”

  “If you’re asking if I have some weird long pant things and a corset, you’d be right on the money, honey.”

  Her brows rise and she shakes her head, mumbling something to herself that I can’t quite understand. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I decide that Martha is obviously not someone that I can joke with, at least not yet. I’ll wear her down eventually and make her laugh.

  “I’m pretty sure that I don’t have proper underwear, at least not what is considered proper here,” I say, amending my answer.

  She nods her head and starts to march toward me. I watch as she unrolls a piece of fabric and I smile at the sight. It’s an old-fashioned measuring tape for making clothes, my grandma had one. She always made us an Easter dress, every year, and I remember she would line all four of us up and measure us as if we were in an assembly line.

  “Martha?” I ask on a whisper.

  She’s wrapping the tape around my waist and takes a moment to pause, lifting her head to look up at me.

  “I’m really not in the United States anymore, am I? This isn’t some kind of joke or a dream, this is all real, isn’t it?”

  Martha nods her head once. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but this is real and this is no joke. You better pray, girl. Pray for your head, pray for your life, and pray that Mr. James continues to like you and thinks you’re a darlin’ girl. I would hate to see what would befall you if you attempted to harm him or this country.”

  Chapter Four

  BIRDIE

  I’m left alone as Martha disappears to gather me some appropriate clothes, including undergarments, because apparently a bra and panties aren’t proper.

  Since Martha was dressed in a full-length dress, including a corset, I have a feeling that’s what I’ll be wearing too, and my internal organs are already screaming in protest.

  There is something about the window, about the scenery in front of me. It doesn’t look real, none of it. It looks exactly like one of those backdrops that they used for old western movies, as if somehow everything in my view isn’t real. Kind of the way this whole thing feels right about now.

  I’m thankful for the reprieve from Martha, though some ice in my water would not be amiss at this point. Clearing my throat, I watch as something stirs in the distance. Not a backdrop then. Though, I don’t know how this is all so real.

  The spec in the distance grows larger and larger until I can finally make out what it is. It’s a man riding a horse. A man in full military regalia, the likes that I’ve never seen before. His uniform is all gray, with accents of deep blue. His horse is deep black and stands out starkly against the dark red dirt beneath him.

  He’s wearing a hat, much like I’ve seen in my history books. It has a wide full brim that no doubt shades him from the intense heat. I watch as he tips his head back and I gasp when he looks directly at me, as if he knew I was watching him.

  The man is tan, with a dark black beard and light-colored eyes. I can’t make out the exact color or shade, but they are definitely light as they look up at me. His lips slowly curve into a smile and I’m met with bright white teeth.

  My breath hitches before I take a step back, closing the curtain tightly. It’s hot anyway, too hot, and I’m not sure this place has any AC, I don’t even think it has a swamp cooler. It’s downright blistering in here.

  I’m half tempted to go outside to see if it’s maybe cooler out there, except I don’t want to run into that man. There’s something about him… I’m not quite sure what it is, I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t think I need to be alone with him—ever.

  Turning away from the window, I start to look around the room, which really means I start to snoop. I walk over to the six-drawer dresser that’s against the wall and next to the door. Reaching for the top drawer, I look around as if I’m about to get caught with my hand in the cookie drawer.

  Slowly, I open the drawer and dip my chin to look inside. There is a handheld silver mirror, a brush with a matching silver handle, and a gorgeous comb. Lifting the brush, I slide my fingers over the soft bristles and wonder who this brush belonged to.

  Pressing my lips together, I place the brush down and glance around the rest of the drawer. There is a small bottle with a pump attached, perfume. This is a woman’s personal space. Her scent lingers in the drawer.

  There is also what appears to be a small diary. I reach for it, then pull my hand back and hesitate to take it. I shouldn’t look, but my curiosity is strong—always has been. As if it’s not an invasion of privacy as long as I move quickly, I grab the leather-bound notebook, slam the drawer closed, and hurry over to the bed.

  Sinking down on the edge of the bed, I hold the notebook in my hand, but I don’t rip it open immediately. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I know it’s wrong, that it’s an invasion, but I also really want to know what’s inside of it.

  Pressing my lips together, I decide that I need to think about it first. I need to sit on it for a few hours. Reaching for the small drawer on the plain white painted nightstand, I gently tug it open and place the leather-bound book inside, closing it quickly before I snoop through that drawer as well.

  I’m almost relieved when Martha bustles through the door mere moments after I’ve closed the nightstand drawer. Her arms are full of fabric, yards and yards of fabric. Jumping up, I rush over to her and help unload her burden of material, laying it down on the bed.

  “This is crazy,” I murmur.

  “This is two dresses, two sets of undergarments, and two nightgowns,” she announces, then lifts her hand and she has a bag dangling from it. “Plus, a pair of boots.”

  Martha thrusts the bag against my chest, giving me no choice but to grasp it in my hands. Setting the bag down, I don’t bother opening it. Not that I have the opportunity, because Martha starts reaching for the hem of my shirt, tugging it up and over my head before I realize what’s happening.

  Lifting my hands, I cover my bra, but she’s too busy staring at it, her head tilted to the side. Slowly, she lifts her gaze to meet mine, her eyes wide. “What is it?” she demands on a hushed whisper.

  “It’s a bra,” I say.

  “How does it work, where are the stays?”

  I realize that this isn’t the look of a woman acting in a reenactment scene. There is nobody here and there is absolutely nothing but pure unfiltered wonderment in her eyes. I start to tremble, the realization hitting me again, except this time it slams into me a lot harder than it did earlier.

  This really isn’t some kind of joke. It’s not a hidden camera thing and my sisters aren’t here. This is real. I am in some freaky ass alternate dimension, I don’t know how else to explain it and then there’s the simple fact that this man mentioned that he thinks I could be a witch, something that they don’t particularly like around here.

  Martha and I stand and stare at one another for probably a bit longer than is considered appropriate. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I take a step forward, inhaling a deep breath.

  I need to look like the other women here, I need to do something to appear less witchlike and more human.

  I need to figure out what the fuck is actually happening here.

  I need to put all this hot as fuck fabric on and attempt not to lose my shit entirely.


  “Help me get into this getup,” I murmur.

  Martha jerks and she dips her chin as she reaches for the first garment. It takes so much longer than it should to undress and redress in the clothes that she bought. Once I’m completely sucked, tucked, and tied into the dress, I turn around to face her.

  “I have to admit, you’re pretty as a picture, Miss Birdie,” she murmurs.

  “What do I do with my hair?” I ask, lifting my hand to touch the top of my head.

  She lifts her hand and motions for me to turn around. Then a moment later, I feel something touch the backs of my legs through the fabric of my dress.

  “Sit,” she grunts.

  Sinking down, I sit in the chair that she must have brought over from the corner of the room, I can feel her fiddling with my hair, and I’m surprised that although her hands move swiftly, they are also gentle.

  It doesn’t take long for all of my hair to be swept off of my neck, and I feel its weight piled on top of my head. I feel her poke clips and pins into the mass of hair and then she clears her throat and tells me that she’s finished.

  “Is there a mirror? I’d love to see it.”

  She doesn’t move right away. My entire body stiffens as soon as I do feel her shift, and I hear her behind me in the drawer where I stole the leather-bound notebook. I have a moment of panic, wondering if maybe it’s her notebook, but she doesn’t mention anything about it being missing as she hands me the handheld mirror that I admired earlier.

  Holding the mirror up to my face, I am shocked at my reflection. I’m makeup-less and although I usually think that it makes me look pale, I’m far from that as the sun has still left its mark on my face and I’m pink.

  But my hair. It’s my hair that has me staring in awe. I don’t know how she did it, but Martha is a miracle worker. I look like I’ve just spent hours in a salon for a fancy updo that only took her a few minutes with a couple of pins and clips.

  “It’s gorgeous, thank you so much,” I admit, turning my head to look up at her.

  “If I could… I sew a bit, I was wondering if I could examine your undergarment?”

  I know she’s talking about my bra. She was mesmerized by it. Standing, I hold the mirror to my side and walk over to the bed. Reaching for my bra, I turn around and hold it out for her.

  “It doesn’t look like I’ll be needing it here, so yes, you can have it.” I try not to think about how it must stink, especially since I spent so long sweating my ass off in the hot desert sun.

  Martha grips it firmly and nods her head. “Thank you so much,” she murmurs. Then she pauses her examination and lifts her head. “Dinner will be in thirty minutes’ time. Down the stairs and to the left.”

  Without another word, I watch as she spins around and quickly leaves me alone in the bedroom again. Thirty minutes. I have thirty minutes until dinner. Instead of snooping some more, I decide to put the new dress, undergarments, and nightgowns away, wherever I can find some space.

  COLT

  General Logan Whitecotton appears right on time. Though, I should not be surprised as he’s much like me, never late. I hear his boots against the wooden floors as he walks through the front door, then heads toward my office.

  There is a knock on my door, though he doesn’t wait for me to invite him in. He doesn’t need to. I don’t even look up from my desk and the current correspondence from the Assembly. Another veiled threat about finding a wife and attempting to take my position away from me, something that they cannot do.

  “Whitecotton,” I grunt before I even look up.

  I hear his body flop into the chair and a groan from him, no doubt feeling relief to be sitting on the soft cushion instead of his steed’s saddle.

  “Who’s upstairs. Pretty raven-haired beauty that she is?” he asks.

  That is when I lift my head. My eyes widen before I narrow them at him. “She is none of your concern,” I bite out.

  Whitecotton’s lips curve up into a grin. “Oh, now I want to know more, James.”

  Pressing my lips together, I shake my head once. “Tell me your reason for scheduling this meeting, then we’ll talk about other things… maybe.”

  “No maybes.” He chuckles.

  I lean back in my chair, placing my arms on the leather rests at my side and I wait for him to tell me what exactly he’s doing here. I know that he has not appeared for no reason. Whitecotton is a comrade, but this is business, not a friendly visit to play poker.

  “There are murmurings,” he begins.

  Holding up my hand, I interrupt him. “Is this about the Assembly wanting me to find a wife? If so, you needn’t come all the way out here for that,” I grunt.

  Whitecotton shakes his head. “It isn’t. Though I find it comical that they’re trying to push that on you of all things. They should have really looked into you better.”

  I shrug a shoulder. I have a feeling they decided that since I am a widower that I would be more than willing to go down that road again. They would be incorrect. I’m not a lonely man in search of companionship. I can find physical pleasure anywhere I so choose, and I enjoy being alone. I don’t need a woman to complete me.

  Whitecotton shifts in his seat, looking nervous, then begins to speak again, explaining to me the real reason that he is here. His light eyes meet mine. He shows me the depth of his seriousness. This isn’t something as frivolous as marrying some woman and making babies. This is so much more.

  “There are murmurings of a revolt.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek in an effort not to roar with fury, at least not until I have the rest of the information. I’m seconds away from completely losing my composure though. Mere seconds.

  “Explain,” I demand through gritted teeth.

  He clears his throat, shifting in his seat again, a clear indication that I’m not going to like what he has to say next, considering he did this just a moment ago and I didn’t like what it was that he told me.

  “The opponents to your position have been gathering in secret. At first, I wrote the whispers off as nothing but a disgruntled group, which is bound to happen during any kind of change, but their numbers are growing, they are recruiting. They will be attacking soon.”

  There is something off about my old friend. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I decide to shake it off, seeing how he’s telling me something of great importance.

  Chapter Five

  COLT

  Attacking.

  The word rolls around in my head and I wonder exactly how that will happen. Will they come for me first or only after they’ve taken out the Assembly? Strategically, I know how I would run an operation like this, how I would implement treason. I have before and I’m sure there will be a time where I will need to do it again.

  This is not that time.

  They are not me.

  Whitecotton watches me, then reaches for the whiskey next to him and pours us both a glass. “I’ve sent the troops to gather and come out here,” he says before he hands me a glass of whiskey.

  “How many?”

  This is technically his job, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give him full rein. It once was my job and I’m not someone who easily gives up control and I don’t blindly follow anyone, even if I trust them implicitly.

  “I’m only amassing the special forces, one-hundred and twenty-five officers.”

  “Then?”

  He grins, walking back to his seat and sinking down, whiskey in hand. “Then, I wait for your direction on how you want to take this.”

  My own lips curve up into a grin. “As much as I can’t stand the Assembly, they need protection. It is part of my duty to do that for them. Send guards that way as soon as possible.”

  “And the rest?”

  Pressing my lips together, I clear my throat before I lift the glass to my mouth and suck down a hearty shot.

  “Get them ready and on call. They need to be completely prepared. Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, I don’t want
them to see the troops moving and get spooked or the citizens to worry, either.”

  Whitecotton clears his throat and drains his glass. I know what he’s going to say next and he doesn’t disappoint me at all. His lips curve up into a grin and he chuckles.

  “Spill your guts,” he grunts. “Who is she?”

  I think about telling him a lie. I could say a million different things, but this is Whitecotton and he won’t think me a liar or insane for telling him the truth as I know it. Instead of lying to him, I tell him everything as I know it.

  “So, she just appeared. In the middle of the desert in strange attire?” he asks.

  “She did,” I agree with a nod. “She also acts as though all of this is a joke, as if it is not real at all. I’m not sure if she’s trying to play me or if she indeed thinks that she has been somehow transported here.”

  Whitecotton is silent for a moment. He watches me, then his gaze flicks to his feet before it slowly shifts back up to meet mine. “She is not a witch?” he asks, his voice hushed.

  I shake my head once. “I questioned her. She said she was not, and I didn’t detect any deception in her gaze. Maybe you can get more from her? Perhaps I am just a bit too close?”

  His lips twitch. “Too close because she is beautiful?” he asks.

  I shrug a shoulder, though he has hit the nail on the head. I am too close because she is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen and I have never been attracted to another the way that I am her.

  “She is stunning. Though I’m not sure if she is or it’s a spell.”

  Whitecotton shakes his head once. “She is beautiful, James. Believe that. It’s no spell. I saw her just from a distance, through a window, and she was a vision. I imagine up close she is even more attractive.”

  “She is,” I agree.

  “If you’d like my opinion. I am more than willing to observe her.”