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

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