Libbie: Bride of Arizona (American Mail-Order Bride 48) by Linda Carroll-Bradd Page A

several men gathered near the crates. Some snickered and pointed, other just gawked. The arrival of foreigners—both fowl and human—was something different and novel. She resigned herself that they’d be the object of interest for several weeks until the townspeople got used to them.
    “Well, would you look at them?”
    William’s admiring tone cut through her worry, and she turned a smile his way. “Wonderful, aren’t they? Maybe not everyone can see their beauty, but I think they’re special.” She hurried forward, almost tripping on her dress hem. “Jomo?”
    The bird handler stepped from the shade of the biggest crate and lifted a hand. “Here, miss.”
    Within a few minutes, the arrangements were made, rental fees paid, and William headed back to the livery to harness the teams.
    Weariness tugged at her limbs, and she relinquished the idea of a grand first impression. She clomped up the steps to the platform and went inside the depot to plunk herself onto a bench. Nothing about this day was working out like she’d thought. Her dress boots pinched her toes, her corset stabbed her ribs, and she was hungry. This morning, she and Jomo had split the last loaf of hard bread and eaten a slice of cheese. Seeing she was alone in the waiting room, she stretched her legs atop the wooden seat and rested her arm along the top of the bench. Dell must be on his way. Surely, he wouldn’t leave her…
    From far away came the rhythm of footsteps, hollow and echoey like strikes on a balafon . Then they stopped. To be followed by the scratchy rattle of a shekere . Instruments from home.
    “Excuse me, miss.”
    Libbie moaned. Blessed sleep held her in its grip, and she flapped a hand like waving away a pesky fly.
    “Miss!”
    Something nudged her shoulder, shifting her position, and her head knocked against the hard wood. “Oww.” She sat upright and shoved damp hair from her forehead. Squinting in the bright light, she looked at who had disturbed her and spotted a shiny silver belt buckle etched with a rearing horse. She angled back her head so her gaze could track a chambray shirt under a light caramel long coat up to a faded cherry-red bandanna hanging under a strong, stubbled chin. A few inches higher, she saw a strong nose and a pair of cinnamon-brown eyes. Maybe she was hungrier than she thought.
    The stare the very tall man gave her was direct, alert, and assessing. Her pulse raced at being the focus of this handsome man. Suddenly self-conscious, she ran a hand over her hair, feeling for any spots that poked out.
    “Are you Libbie Van Eycken?”
    Right now, being seated was not to her advantage. She was used to being the shortest one in her family, but this man was even taller than her brothers. “I am.” She swung her boots off the bench and shot to a stand. Prickles ran up and down her legs, and she cried out then swayed.
    Strong arms surrounded her, broad hands bracing her shoulders and the middle of her back—the stranger’s hold kept her upright.
    “Everything okay, folks?”
    “Just fine, Simon. Go back to your own your business.”
    The man’s rich baritone held confidence. For just a moment, she allowed his grasp, glad to have another to lean on. The shirt she’d grabbed was warm with the man’s heat and held the scent of dust and active male. She wrinkled her nose and inched backward, stamping her feet to bring back the circulation. In her heart, she knew this man was Dell, because who else would know her name? But something was very wrong with his appearance. Was this how a caring man arrived for his wedding? She shoved at his chest and moved back from his embrace. “If you’re Dell Stirling, you’re late.”
    “I’m Dell, and I’m here now.”
    Waiting for the rest of his explanation, she gave surreptitious pinches and tugs to her dress to straighten the bodice, smooth the waistline, and perk up the lace edgings. At the same time, she inspected his scuffed boots and the dirt that layered the