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

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.