To Catch a Bride

Book 0: Montana Brides Romance

by Gina Welborn, Becca Whitham

Genres: Historical Christian; Christian Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

A Montana Brides Inspirational Romance Across the vast Montana Territory, dreams have no limits . . . and prayers can be answered in the most unexpected ways. After the untimely death of her husband, Marilyn Svenson has one option to keep her isolated ranch in Montana Territory: Remarriage. Of the two men in the rough mining town of Helena who fit her criteria for a husband, the charming resale shop owner is her preferred choice. Logically, she proposes. David Pawlikowski came west to escape past heartbreak. Just when he thinks he’s content, Marilyn shakes up his bachelor life with her innovative spirit and unexpected marriage proposal. As much as David would like to say yes to the beautiful widow, he’s thinks Marilyn would be better off with the town’s dapper new lawyer. But when real danger closes in, only Marilyn can decide whom to keep close to her side forever.

Release date: June 26, 2018

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 105

Sample

Marilyn Svenson sat still, clutching her reticule and maintaining a placid expression despite the indignation growing inside. She had no wish to speak ill of the dead, but why had the late President Lincoln appointed Judge Williston over the newly created Montana Territory when the man clearly wished to be anywhere but here?

In a calm, measured tone, she said, “Your Honor, I own a copy of the Homestead Act of 1862, if you would like to verify the law.” Although it was back on her ranch and an hour’s drive each way to retrieve. “It clearly states that a widow can file for head-of-household status.”

“And I told you to remarry or go home.” The heavily bearded man repeated his earlier advice without giving her the courtesy of looking her in the eye. Judge Williston had latched onto the first option she’d presented when he asked why she needed an audience with him—that of remaining in Montana Territory and proving up her claim alone—as though it was her only option.

Outside of remarrying or going back to Minnesota, she had two other options: to purchase the homestead outright or to hire men tired of searching for gold to do the hard work required to prove up her claim. Her late husband, Gunder, had cultivated only two of the requisite five acres, and although she could harness the oxen well enough, breaking thick sod as well as digging out and hauling away large rocks on an additional three acres was beyond her physical strength.

She had plenty of gold stashed in cleverly disguised canning jars to pay for both land and labor, but she was vulnerable enough these days as a single woman in an area where males outnumbered females three hundred to one. Letting anyone know she had that much gold invited ruin.

Which was why she hadn’t mentioned it to Judge Williston. She didn’t know him or his reputation well enough to take such a risk. More to the point, it wasn’t the judge’s place to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. The law said a widow had a right to take over a claim. What she did with it after that was her business, not a complete stranger’s.

Marilyn opened her overstuffed reticule and retrieved her copy of the homestead claim Gunder had filed with Idaho territorial authorities two years ago. “Sir, all my records are in order.” She unfolded the documents and held them out toward Judge Williston. “As you can see, this is an addendum noting the change from Idaho to Montana territorial jurisdiction last year.”

The judge looked up, but his gaze focused on the papers in her hand. “Mrs. Svenson, all the record keeping and legal understanding of the Homestead Act will not help you chop wood, plow acreage, or complete any of the other chores God built a man to accomplish. If you insist on remaining in Montana, your only option is to remarry”—his gaze flicked to her green-checkered calico dress as though it proved she was past mourning—“at which time your claim will be transferred to your new husband. As I said, either remarry or go home.”

Marilyn breathed deep. She wasn’t about to justify herself, her clothing choices, or her behavior to him, but she’d specifically worn this dress because of the sheer fabric. Etiquette required mourning colors since Gunder had passed only two months ago, but with the temperature being what it was, black wool was too impractical. Besides, this was the first dress Gunder had bought her after their wedding six years ago. Regardless of the temperature—and despite how snug it was—wearing it honored him more than black, gray, or lavender could.

Facts which were irrelevant to the matter at hand.

If Judge Williston wanted her to go home, he should help her claim head-of-household status in order to sell the land before she returned to Minnesota, a fact so obvious she questioned the judge’s competence. Furthermore, returning home—and remarriage, for that matter—were options, not a forgone conclusion.

She folded the papers back into fourths and stuffed them into her reticule. “I have no intention of losing my homestead because I have not been granted head-of-household status. It is my right to claim that status. I insist you tell me how to accomplish the change.”

Judge Williston’s expression hardened. “I shall do no such thing, madam. I’ll not aid a woman on a fool’s errand any more than I would have a hand in her death. Both apply to this situation.”

Why did men always underestimate her intelligence and resolve? She knew full well that her best option was returning to Minnesota. In the two months since Gunder’s death, she’d considered every possible scenario, but she wasn’t going home without some compensation for all the hard work she and Gunder had put into their claim.

Marilyn stood. Out of courtesy, the judge should have arisen as well, but he didn’t because they both knew she was a good three inches taller than he. “If you will not help me, sir, then I shall find someone else who will.”

His laughter filled the room. “Good luck, madam, because I am the only person who can grant you head-of-household rights.”

She refused to believe that. If she chose to stay or sell, she’d figure out a way to get what she needed. “Good day, sir.”

Marilyn strolled out of the office, into the bright summer sun, and—

She stopped mid-stride. What looked like dozens of small blobs floated across her field of vision.

“You all right, Mrs. Svenson?”

Marilyn looked left. Young Simpson stepped away from the hitching post in front of the judge’s temporary office. “I don’t know. I see—” Before she could say spots, a wave of dizziness struck. Marilyn closed her eyes. Instantly she felt the lanky youth gripping her arm and waist.

“Please don’t faint,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can hold you up, and Judge Williston will never let me be a deputy if I let a woman fall.”

Marilyn breathed deep until the dizziness stopped and she could open her eyes without fear of spots clouding her vision. Young Simpson had grown a good three inches since she saw him last, but he was still six inches shorter than she and didn’t look like he’d weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“I walked outside too quickly,” she reasoned aloud, “and my eyes couldn’t adjust to the brightness.”

“I bet you’re getting a migraine. Ma has them often.” He released his hold on her, yet didn’t step back. “You need help walking to your wagon?”

“No, no, but thank you for the offer.” Marilyn walked toward her buckboard at a slow pace. She kept her chin down, fanned her face with her reticule, and used her straw hat’s wide brim to shield her eyes from the sun. Upon reaching the buckboard, she looked back at the judge’s office.

Young Simpson stood where she had left him. She waved to let him know she was fine. He waved back and headed inside the ramshackle building.

She climbed into the seat, jerked on her riding gloves, and took up the reins with her right hand. After releasing the brake with her left hand, she clicked her tongue at Archimedes, and they. . .