Bartered Bride Romance Collection by Cathy Marie Hake

the very day she was born. An exquisite assortment of buttons, all carefully corded on her string, lay nestled in her trunk. She’d earned buttons for spelling bees and gotten them as gifts. She’d traded with friends, too … all with the understanding that someday a very special man would follow the custom and give her the last button—the thousandth—then ask for her hand in marriage.
    “Son,” Mr. Cole said, “we’ve got plenty to do. You take Cricket and go off to Gracie Adams. Take the milk with you.”
    Charity turned her attention to the wagon. She knew Mr. Cole was a carpenter. He’d made his own wagon, and folks said it was the finest in the train. The tar seams promised it would be watertight. He patted the side and said, “I’m hoping to fasten one of your water barrels here and balance it with a flour barrel on the other side. We’ll try to work in a fair share of your goods. Let me lift you in so we can get to work.”
    Charity suspected he tried hard to be gentle. The breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his hands made it clear he was a powerful man. Brawn like his would mean protection—something she appreciated after the last few days of feeling terribly vulnerable and alone. The fact that he kept a sheathed jackknife on his belt instead of wearing a holstered pistol reinforced the fact that this man, though reputed to be a marksman, preferred preparation to violence. He followed her into the wagon and winced.
    “I didn’t pay much mind. I fear it’s a mess.”
    “We’ve both had more important things to tend.” Clothes cluttered the floor. A trunk and wooden crates lined the walls. Food storage looked haphazard, at best. A lumpy straw mattress rested atop a square of wood. When he shoved the ticking out of the way and flipped up a hinged lid, Charity’s nose twitched.
    “Cricket is too tiny to sleep outside. The kids sleep safely on this makeshift bed, and I built storage boxes below it. The other side has my tools. Over here, there’s a section for each kid.” Two sections each held a few things, but the third lay conspicuously empty. “That space was my nephew, Sam’s. My sister-in-law, Lydia, wanted to make a new life for her and little Sam, but she didn’t bargain on travel being so hard. They turned back with the Wilsons and Chroners when we reached Chimney Rock. Things fell apart when she left.”
    “I’m not managing any better on my own,” Charity confessed. “I’ve had to have men see to my oxen and do guard duty for me.”
    “We need each other, Miss Davis. I give you my word, I’ll provide as best I can and do all it takes to keep you and the kids safe. I know you must feel uneasy, but I’ll continue to observe the same proprieties I did when Lydia was with me.”
    At least he was sensitive to the more delicate aspects of combining their wagons. His words gave the reassurance she’d prayed for. Charity promised, “I’ll tend the children diligently and do my best for you. Would you mind if I worked in here a bit so I can determine what essentials to bring along and how to combine our food?”
    “Not at all.”
    Charity knelt and surveyed the contents of the children’s boxes. She rocked back on her heels and thought for a moment. She needed to say some things, but they weren’t easy subjects to bring up. The last thing she wanted to do was offend him.
    “I can see you’re struggling to be polite. We may as well speak plainly between ourselves, Miss Davis. Tiptoeing around is liable to cause us more problems than being outright.”
    “Your daughter is still young. She’s not gotten up enough at night.” She didn’t want to dwell on the problem and chagrin him, so she hastened to solve the difficulty. “We need to dispose of the mattress and bring one of mine over. The quilts are in need of attention as well. I have a length of waterproof gutta-percha we can put under her in the future.”
    He nodded curtly. “My sister-in-law took the length we