Mail Order Bride- Summer

by Sierra Rose

  MAIL ORDER BRIDE

  SUMMER

  Sierra Rose

  Copyright © 2017 by Sierra Rose

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Molly Burton: Summer | Synopsis

  Journey to Turnabout | Book Two: Molly Burton / Summer | Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The End

  Book 3 is next!!!!!

  Molly Burton: Summer

  Synopsis

  THANKS TO A TRAUMATIC childhood, Molly Burton has been adopted into the home of her aunt and uncle, as sister to their own three daughters.

  As the youngest of the four, a black-haired azure-eyed beauty, she has also been tremendously spoiled.

  She is not happy with the girls’ necessary move from St. Louis to a small town in East Texas. She feels left out when her sisters seem to be making adjustments, settling in, and finding their way to contentment. She loses patience with the slow and boring pace of her life.

  On her own, ignoring experience or advice from those most able to give it had they been consulted, she engages in a correspondence with Quinn Hennessey, currently living in Kansas. Molly consents to marry him if he will move to Turnabout.

  Molly enjoys a full week of exciting, romantic courtship. Then, without a second thought, she pledges her vows to Quinn in a small intimate ceremony.

  Trouble is, every man is not what he seems. And every mail order bride does not end up with a happy marriage.

  Journey to Turnabout

  Book Two: Molly Burton / Summer

  Chapter One

  “BUT, MOLLY, WHY WOULD you—”

  “That makes no sense, Mol, it seems—”

  “I don’t understand your rationale in even considering such—”

  “Exactly my reason for not telling any of you until now.” Molly, serene against the buffeting wave of her sisters’ incredulous objections, continued sipping from the glass of lemonade as if nothing untoward had taken place.

  “But, dear,” said Camellia, the only one with any experience in the matter, and thus the one to whom the younger girls turned for advice, “being married—especially as a mail order bride—can be quite—difficult.”

  The three single Burtons had joined Camellia around her kitchen table for a lunch proudly cooked and presented by Camellia herself, on this hot and steamy mid-day in late June. While most of Turnabout’s main street, and, indeed, the Forrester home, as well, stood shaded by a multitude of gracious sycamores and oaks, the blazing rays of the sun cut straight through every separation of every healthy leaf to sear its heat into any available window. In between courses, guests and hostess alike had been wielding a painted fan with enthusiasm, to stir the air into some semblance of coolness.

  Camellia had been practicing her culinary skills on long-suffering husband, Ben, for just this moment. Menu ideas, unusual dishes, seasonings and flavorings not often tried: he served as willing volunteer for whatever she placed before him. Some of her specialties he defined as successful; others were not so much (although, with a weather eye to the future, he chowed down, regardless, and provided a very minor criticism only because she demanded it).

  Once she felt ready for the challenge, she had invited her sisters to noontime dinner.

  Creamed chicken, with mushrooms and parsley; a tart and cool beetroot salad; and Charlotte Russe, the dessert over which she had fussed and agonized all morning. Hannah’s brows had raised in surprise when they were ushered to the table, set with a lovely lace tablecloth, a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers from the back yard, and bone china dressed out in delicate blue and white.

  “Ah, I see you’ve unearthed some of the St. Louis things you packed away,” she observed.

  “Only for the moment. Once you girls are settled in somewhere more permanent, I’ve every intention of sharing. Sit down, and let’s catch up.”

  “This is how you’re spending your time, then—cooking and cleaning for a man?” Hannah’s voice had not lost its waspish tone.

  “When I’m not doing other things. Here, Hen, have more creamed chicken. Actually, I’m working.” Camellia was neither too mature nor too long married to prevent giving an excited little bounce on her chair.

  “Working, how? You mean managing a household isn’t work?”

  “Ben has realized how much it means to me, so I’m spending several afternoons a week at the store.”

  Several comments burst forth at once: “He’s allowing you to be there?” “Don’t you find it boring?” “You mean you’re a—a shop clerk?”

  Laughing, Camellia handed round the platter of beetroot salad. “I love it. And I love being there with him, to see what’s going on, to talk to customers. And I’ve already managed to effect one change in the store.”

  Their eldest sister had always been a responsible, take-charge sort of person. The wonder was that she had waited so long to make what she would consider an improvement.

  “The room where employees can go for their meals, or for a cup of tea, or just to sit for a few minutes—well, let me tell you, it was horrible!” Deliberately softening the confession, as if Ben might walk in at any minute and overhear, she let both expressive hands describe her reaction. “So, after chipping away for some time at Ben’s resistance to modifications of any kind, I managed to break him down.”

  “Did he realize what you were up to?” Hannah, chuckling, wanted to know.

  Camellia considered. “Well, Ben can be awfully obtuse when he wants to be. In this case, I think it just became easier for him to let me have my way. Besides, I reminded him that employees happy in their surroundings make better employees, all around.”

  With a reminiscent smile, she recalled their heated discussion on that topic. As usual, he had questioned her purported expertise—and practical experience—in the matter. To which she had responded that, while expertise—and experience—was all well and good, she had cut her teeth on popular publications and graduated to business manuals. And he was please to trust her acumen. She had presented logical point after logical point, until, finally, he had caved. Or compromised. Perhaps that was a more suitable, appreciative word.

  “Elvira—Miss Gotham—and I worked one full day, cleaning and clearing and making a comfortable place. Wait until you see it! Little does poor Ben know,” she added mischievously, “what else I have planned for that place.”

  Letitia grinn
ed. “You’re taking positive relish in this venture, aren’t you?”

  “I am. I must admit, I’m enjoying myself—just rolling up my sleeves and getting to work.”

  “So what’s next on your agenda?”

  “You probably heard that Ben bought another building in Manifest, to open a second emporium? He hopes to travel there soon, to start getting things set up. This time, I’m going with him.”

  Pouring more of the cool lemonade, with its bits of pulp and lots of sugar, into her glass, Hannah nodded. “I foresee lots of very—married—talks, and a possibly very bumpy road, ahead.”

  “It’s called a partnership, Hen. Once the Manifest store is up and rolling, I intend to refurbish the whole ladies’ department here. What do you think?”

  “Hear, hear!” “More hats and doodads!” “A nice line of women’s jewelry, please!” and “How about a prettier area, just to try things on? With a tall cheval mirror?”

  It wasn’t until the end of the meal, when they were dipping their spoons into the dessert and passing on compliments to the chef, that Molly dropped her bombshell.

  Shortly after the family had arrived in Turnabout, about six weeks ago, she had begun perusing the newspaper ads for men seeking wives. Restless gadfly Molly Burton would never be satisfied with the status quo, ever searching for something more elusive, more interesting, more unusual. And who could blame her, with the rough beginning to her life?

  So she had written to a likely candidate listed in the personal section, he had responded, she had responded again, and he was now on his way here.

  Her sisters / cousins had been consumed by astonishment. And automatic protests.

  “Well, you were a mail order bride, Cam,” Molly pointed out. “The situation seems to have worked out all right for you.”

  Flustered, Camellia concentrated on scraping her plate free of crumbs. “We started off with a rough patch,” she confided. “A very rough patch. I didn’t expect marriage to a stranger to be all tea and roses, of course, but I did expect more—well, understanding, I suppose, at the beginning. More—well, more ability to bend, and come to terms.”

  Only Hannah was privy to a bit of knowledge as to what had caused that lack of understanding. And she wasn’t talking.

  “But, luckily,” Camellia took a deep breath and went on, “both of us were able to see the error of our ways, we mended fences, and things are going well. For the present.”

  “Yes, I imagine that can change at the drop of a hat,” the youngest member of their group, frankly licking her fingers free of cream, conceded. “If one is in a bad mood, or the other is set on having their own way in an argument—that sort of thing.”

  “So you’ve already accepted this man’s offer of marriage?” Letitia demanded on a near-screech of disbelief, when she was able to get a word in edgewise. “Do you even know anything about him?”

  “Enough. He’s living in western Kansas, at present, and he’s working in a hotel. Since I utterly refused to take up residence so far away, he agreed to leave everything behind to travel here. And he describes himself as tall and well-favored, with eyes the color of Ireland’s green sod.” She broke off with a characteristic little giggle. “Doesn’t that sound romantic?”

  “Fine feathers do not a fine bird make,” grumbled Hannah. She fixed this fanciful girl with a stern eye, taking her in from top to bottom: the curly black hair tied back with a pink ribbon, the sparkling turquoise eyes and radiant pink cheeks, the shapely figure decked out in a white dress sprinkled all over with roses, just trim enough in front and just bustled enough in back. “Better you should have asked about his character.”

  “But why did you do it, Molly, dear?” Camellia was plainly concerned. “This is such a rash step to take, one for which I can hardly believe you considered the ramifications, when—”

  “Cam—this is going to sound ungrateful, when I don’t mean it to be. But I am so tired of being dependent on all of you!”

  “Dependent? Oh, you’re hardly that. It’s true that Ben and I have been helping out all three of you, financially, until you’re somewhat squared away. But you’ve been giving piano lessons, almost since the day we arrived, and being paid for each and every one. I thought—”

  Brushing aside the observation with one hand, Molly pushed her plate away

  and plopped both elbows on the table top. “What small amount I earn doesn’t pay for my room and board at Mrs. McKnight’s, Cam. You must realize how much everything costs; you had to deal with the expenses on your own long enough, back at home.”

  “Yes, I certainly did. But, still—”

  “And you’ve already given your word to this arrangement?” Hannah pursued, annoyed. “It’s too late to back out, even if none of us approves?”

  Molly shook her head, and the shining curls bounced. “Yes, and yes. And no approval is necessary. I am, if you recall, fully of age.”

  Her backbone stiffening against the girl’s uncharacteristically willful attitude, Camellia frowned. “That’s true, you are. Except that your parents, before they died, handed over custody of you to my parents. With them gone, I’m the one who’s been made responsible. I’m afraid that your destiny lies in my hands, Molly.”

  “Hmmmph.” She all but sneered a reply. “You’ve had it your own way ever since Uncle Nathaniel was killed, way back in December. You’ve dictated where we would go, and when we would leave. You even made us sell our jewelry!”

  Camellia, stricken, felt her heart twist just a little. “Honey, I’m sorry. You know we had no choice in so many of these issues. What would you have done—what could you possibly have done—to support yourself, if we hadn’t moved away? I didn’t realize that I had treated you in so cavalier a manner, or that you resented it so much.”

  “Oh, Cam, no, I’m the one who’s sorry!” Common sense and regret laced through the girl’s immediate demurral, and she leaned forward to clutch at Camellia’s right hand. “You’ve all taken such good care of me since I came here so many years ago. Uncle Nat and Aunt Sadie adopted me, to really make me a part of your own family. I am truly not just your cousin, but your sister. And here I am, complaining to the skies—I’ve become such an ungrateful excuse for a human being!”

  Camellia uttered the kind of automatic protest used to soothe a fractious child. “No, no, of course not.”

  “Yes, I’m nothing more than a whiny old shrew. Or maybe a spoiled little brat. I think I—well, I’m just feeling frustrated. My life is going nowhere! Here I am, stuck in this little town, with no exciting future ahead of me and only more piano lessons to look forward to!”

  Hannah’s slim manicured forefinger was pushing a fork around. “I think we all feel that way,” she said quietly. “You’re not alone in that, Molly.”

  Silence. Deep silence, other than a soft, slow drip of water in the sink, and someone’s dog barking in the distance, and the sudden brush of a breeze-lifted branch against the south window.

  “You all feel that way?” Camellia repeated in concern, her huge brilliant blue eyes shifting from one to the other. Faces so similar to her own, it was like looking in a mirror. All so grave, so serious, when this was supposed to be just a light-hearted, fun time of enjoying each other’s company.

  Slow nods met her questioning, bewildered gaze, all around.

  “We see you, nicely settled in,” said Hannah quietly, “with a comfortable house and a decent husband, and I—well, I know, for myself, I’m a trifle envious of what you have. Because I’d like to have it, too. Not a desirable trait, envy, as you may surmise.”

  “But, girls—” Camellia sought an explanation that would not only be logical, but acceptable to her three bright, quick younger sisters. She stared at the sticky remains of their meal, left on plates and saucers, with a feeling of having failed, somehow. “I don’t know what to say,” she finally confessed, in a low, defeated tone.

  “Oh, it isn’t your fault at all,” Letitia broke in. “Please don’t think we’re blamin
g you. I think all of us are at loose ends. It isn’t good, this lounging around without a purpose in life. We need to find something worthwhile to do, just as you have. That’s probably why Molly has gone to such desperate straits as—” she gave a delicate shudder, “—putting herself up as a mail order bride.”

  With an expression that meant she was trying to remove herself from the center of attention, Molly smoothed her lovely skirt with an offhand gesture and jumped on the comment. “His name is Quinn Hennessey.”

  “Oh.” The other three exchanged glances. “A nice—um—Irish fellow?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “And have you worked out where you’ll live? What you’ll live on?”

  “We’ll decide those details once he gets here,” said Molly airily. “We’ll have lots to discuss, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Camellia agreed dryly, with another glance at Hannah. “But you’ll talk things over with us, I hope, and with Ben, before you make any final decision?”

  Molly sighed. “If I must.”

  “Oh, please, Molly, spare us the wounded martyr act,” Hannah, drawn past patience, retorted. “If you think you’re old enough to be married, then you’ll need to grow up fast.”

  “And pooh to you, too,” the girl shot back with surprising impertinence. “You’re just jealous of me, because I went out and got something that I wanted. And you’re afraid you’ll be the only one left an old maid when Letty finds herself a man.”

  Hannah drew herself up to her full, straight-backed height. “Well, of all the ungrateful things—”

  “Girls,” Camellia, as peacemaker, interceded worriedly, “this shouldn’t be happening. If nothing else, the four of us are family, and we need to behave that way. Not like—like charwomen! Now, calm down. You’ve all brought up some issues worthy of discussion. Let’s see if we can put our heads together and make some plans for the future, shall we?”