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    Crippled Mail Order Bride Meets Sheriff (Mail Order Bride): No Pretty Brides Wanted, #1
    Crippled Mail Order Bride Meets Sheriff (Mail Order Bride): No Pretty Brides Wanted, #1
    Crippled Mail Order Bride Meets Sheriff (Mail Order Bride): No Pretty Brides Wanted, #1
    Ebook72 pages1 hour

    Crippled Mail Order Bride Meets Sheriff (Mail Order Bride): No Pretty Brides Wanted, #1

    By Leah White

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    About this ebook

    Crippled Mail Order Bride Meets Sheriff: A Clean Western Historical Romance

    The year is 1868 and orphaned Angele decides to become a Mail Order Bride.

    Angele Sorrel was alone in Philadelphia. After writing to a man in Rock Creek Nebraska who was looking for a mail order bride, she set out from Philadelphia to find her new life. Along the way, her wagon train was attacked, and Angele’s hand was badly injured. The injury caused her fingers to curl and become useless. Because of this, she felt she could not go through with her marriage, feeling her husband to be would find her to be damaged and no longer good for him.

    However, before she could find somewhere to stay, or decide what to do, her life became entangled with bandits and more adventure she ever thought possible. Her life was changing quickly, and she would be the better for it. Will Angele find Love in the end?

    ***Leah White writes clean Historical Western Mail Order Bride Romance books***

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLeah White
    Release dateNov 30, 2016
    ISBN9781540140524
    Crippled Mail Order Bride Meets Sheriff (Mail Order Bride): No Pretty Brides Wanted, #1

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      Book preview

      Crippled Mail Order Bride Meets Sheriff (Mail Order Bride) - Leah White

      CHAPTER 1

      Nebraska, 1868

      It was about midday when Angele Sorrel, the bride to be, arrived in Rock Creek, Nebraska. The day was warm, but nothing like the hot metal tombs the train had been, and most certainly not like the blazing beast that were the carriage rides through Illinois and Iowa. Looking out the carriage window and towards her future, she was at least glad it was much greener than she was expecting. The train conductor, who seemed to like talking to the many women running out west to their husbands, had convinced her Out West was nothing but dry dirt and cacti. But Rock Creek was right by the Platte River; the river’s roar rose from a place hidden by thick woods. On the one hand, Rock Creek was shaping up to be an acceptable place to live for Angele. But on her other hand rested a fresh bandage, one that marked a blemish she could not forgive herself for having.

      Angele gained the first bandage during the last leg of the Iowa trip, three miles from the border into Nebraska. She had managed to barter a place for herself in a small wagon train with the little money she had left. She spent this time watching the landscape jump between dry plains and green pastures. Mrs. Smith, the wagon driver’s wife, said her brother would be willing to take her by carriage to Rock Creek from the first stop in Nebraska. She should have been thanking God for this, but she instead reached into her handbag for a more secular relic.

      Her mother’s pendant glistened in the afternoon sunlight, the emerald catching the world’s illumination into one drop. A silver ring formed around the verdant gem, and would have been held around the neck by a simple chain had it not been broken long ago. It was a final sign of love from her mother—and, in a way, her father. The pendant was her reminder the world could still be something worth living in. Even when the church sessions back in Philadelphia failed to improve her temperament, the pendant would. It was her hope.

      Angele was too lost in her trance to notice her wagon slowing down until it stopped completely. The other wagons had begun to form a circle, and her wagon was towards the front. She heard a loud staccato clicking, which she realized was Mr. Smith loading his Winchester. She also heard the thunder of hooves, growing ever louder until they were atop the camp. That was when the gunshots began to fire.

      Angele slammed her body to the floor, handbag and pendant covering her head. She tried to think of why this attack was happening. Was it Indians? Were there Indians in Iowa? Why didn’t anyone tell her this was a possibility? Her questions stopped when there was a sharp tug on her hand. She looked up and saw a man trying to rip her handbag from her. Her mother’s pendant dangled precariously from the corner of the bag’s opening, held in place by the bag’s clasp. She held onto the bag, desperate to hold onto her hope.

      Later, as the wagon drivers patched their wounds and stood guard over their sleeping passengers, Angele Sorrel would lie awake and try to figure out if the man had injured her on purpose. Beneath his crumpled Stetson and thick duster coat, she couldn’t see much of him, beyond the obvious fact that he wasn’t an Indian after all. She didn’t even see him pull out his knife. All she saw was him swipe his hand at her handbag’s handle; he cut her right hand instead, forcing the bag out of her hands. She saw the glint of her mother’s pendant one last time before the man turned the corner. The sound of the bandit troupe’s horses running away was a clock counting how many seconds until she never saw it again. She wouldn’t notice the pain in her hand, nor how well Mrs. Smith had bandaged the wound until the clock ran out of seconds to count.

      Her hand had not worked quite right since that day. Her thumb was the only finger that would still move, but the other four stayed in a relaxed curl. Aside from a cup, there was nothing she could hold in that hand.

      When the carriage driver handed Angele her luggage in Rock Creek, she instinctively tried to grab the luggage with her dominant hand, only to remember she couldn’t anymore. She reluctantly used her left hand to carry the case down Main Street. She was supposed to meet her future husband at the tanner’s workshop at the other end of

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