The Trail Master's Bride by Maddie Taylor Page A

stood at her back. Reverend Jamison, who was one of the women’s husbands, stood apart from the group looking decidedly uncomfortable. Ben Jacobs was standing nearby, his arms crossed, a frown on his face, clearly not liking what was going on.
    “You can all go back to your wagons because you’re wasting your breath. I’m not putting a single woman who has done nothing wrong off this train. Where is your Christian charity that you so often espouse?” His eyes shot to the reverend. “This is your flock, Jamison, tend to them.”
    The older man cleared his throat, eyeing the irate women. He took a step closer. “Might I have a word in private, Mr. Carr?”
    “No, there’s no time if we’re to make it through the pass by nightfall.”
    The reverend’s eyes shot to his red-faced wife. Weston didn’t miss the nod of encouragement that followed.
    “Fine. I’ll do some flock tending as you asked, and say my piece here and now. You’ve ruined Mrs. Hobart’s good name with your, uh, carrying on. It is unseemly for you to be kissing her and spank—” The good reverend all but choked on the word, before trying again. “For you to be disciplining her as you have is highly improper. You need to do your gentlemanly duty and do right by her.”
    “Over a spanking? Given over her drawers and petticoats?”
    “And kissing on the mouth,” one of the women said in a whisper, her face flushing a fiery red.
    He shook his head in wonder, thinking these puritan-like pioneers must never see action underneath their wagons to be so skittish about talking about a few swats and a peck on the lips. It amazed him that they’d managed to be fruitful and multiply.
    “Nonsense,” he barked. “She had as much clothing between her skin and my hand as if I’d touched her waist to lift her up to the wagon. I don’t see you carrying on when I do that.”
    “It was her posterior you were touching, Mr. Carr,” Mrs. Gillespie protested in outrage. “And you were… spanking her. A husbandly right at best, sir.”
    “And there was kissing on the mouth,” the same red-faced woman restated.
    “You’re all overreacting. Let’s move out.”
    “I’ll do right by her.”
    As a group, a silent one for once, the women turned to Ben Jacobs. He ignored them, his eyes locked intently on Weston.
    “That is a most honorable offer, Mr. Jacobs,” the good reverend replied, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. “I think it’s best if we take care of it as soon as possible. I’ll get my bible from the wagon.”
    “Excuse me,” Weston growled. “Don’t you think the widow Hobart needs to have a say before you start the vows?”
    “I’ll talk to her now.” Jacobs said this, though he didn’t move to do so, still watching him as if waiting for something.
    None of this sat right with him and he felt anger flare up in his gut. It wasn’t the only emotion churning there, either. Jacobs was fifty-four, over three decades her senior, old enough to be her father, her grandfather at that. A young woman like Mina Hobart didn’t deserve to be married off to an old man—although Jacobs seemed healthy enough. How many good years did he have left? She needed a young man, someone strong who could curb her impulsive ways and settle her down a bit. She needed babies, a home, and a good life with someone she could grow old with.
    The idea of her making those babies with a man thirty-four years her senior made his stomach turn a bit. Those notions were quickly overtaken by images of Mina in the throes of passion, with someone who could stir her body, her womanly, curvaceous body. As he had so often since they’d met, he imagined her stripped bare beneath him as he kissed every naked inch of her, the fullness of her mouth, her silken skin, the round breasts that he knew instinctively would be tipped with berry pink nipples to match her tempting lips. He pictured himself teaching her the ways of a man’s touch as he kissed and licked his way down her