Mail Order Bride- Summer

by Sierra Rose

  Anger seemed to be simmering in him like some potent force, an anger that was as inexplicable as it was sudden, and she desperately longed for an older, wiser authority to give her advice. How did one defuse a potentially volatile situation?

  “Well.” Even as she attempted to scoot closer, to snuggle against his arm, Molly could feel him stiffen. “Things will work out, won’t they? I have faith that the two of us together can make quite a mark in life.”

  “Do you? I don’t. Especially without the sizable fortune I assumed you had to back us up.”

  “Quinn!” Staring at him in dismay, she couldn’t prevent the tears from welling up. “Is that the only r-r-reason you married me?”

  His gaze slid over her, from perky little straw hat topped by pink roses to embraceable curves covered in pink and white lawn to fresh white shoes. It was not the loving gaze of a newlywed husband; it was the calculating, insulting scrutiny of a harem master inspecting the wares of a new recruit, and under it Molly blushed.

  “Of course not. You’re a looker, for sure.” His free hand covered her knee in an intimate, cloying clasp that should have been enjoyable but felt, instead, somehow unclean. “I expect we’ll have us some high times, all right. But plenty of money in the bank would’ve given us a much better start to everything we want to do. It’s sure hard to get past the fact that I feel hoodwinked.”

  So. Because he hadn’t understood about her financial situation, prior to their wedding—even though she had tried, in her correspondence, to explain—he had decided to punish her now with questionable living arrangements, miles from her family.

  Quinn was taking in the surrounding scenery—much more wooded, on this road, secluded and solitary. Even the birdsong and the occasional rustle of branches sounded subdued.

  “From what I’ve heard around town, Forrester has got a pot of cash laid by,” Quinn said then, as if to himself. “I could probably hit him up for some kinda advance in any business venture I might wanna start. He couldn’t say no, with you married to me.”

  After a few moments to recover her dignity and her calm, Molly raised her chin to squarely meet that salacious gaze. “I don’t know you, Quinn. I don’t know what’s happened. This whole past week, you’ve been so kind and sweet to me. Why—why would you speak to me this way...now?”

  “Now? Because now you’re my wife. I can be who I am; I don’t have to put on an act any longer. And, let me tell you, it’s been a burden, having to wear this mask around you all the time. What did you tell me—not to worry, that we’ll work it out?”

  Heartsick, Molly felt as if she had aged ten years in just a few hours. “Well, to begin with, let’s talk, shall we? We have all the space in the world. I know nothing about your background. Or your family. Or your qualifications, your experience.”

  “Back to the employment problem again, eh? I’ll get work, Molly. I’ll support us. There’s always something around for an enterprising fellow like me. Hey, you miserable beast, kick up your heels and move along.” Annoyed, Quinn snapped his whip at their horse, who, startled, gave him a look of deep distrust and dislike before reluctantly obeying.

  Her first glimpse of the home that had been rented for her left Molly feeling even more shaken.

  What she could see of it through an overgrowth of trees and shrubbery, that is. A small one-story frame edifice, its white paint peeling down to bare wood, its gutterworks rusting, its brick chimney’s condition questionable. Only long tangled grass and dirt surrounded a porch tacked onto the front, with wildflowers blooming here and there and squirrels chattering from the overhanging trees.

  Molly couldn’t restrain a shiver, almost of foreboding.

  “It seems so—lonely...” she ventured.

  “Private,” Quinn corrected.

  Smiling, in what seemed a return of his pre-wedding mood, he suddenly clutched at her shoulders, holding her fast, and covered her mouth with his. It was a kiss almost hurtful in its passion, and Molly, unused to such treatment, finally broke free and pulled away with a little mewling cry.

  “We’ll be able to do whatever we want, here,” her husband, breathing hard, said significantly. “That’s what privacy is for. No interference from town folks.”

  Leaving the horse to browse at sweet fresh grass, even tastier than that by the side of the road, Quinn assisted his wife in climbing down to the ground. Hand in hand, she followed along, making her trepidatious way toward the set of three rickety steps.

  Off-putting as the outside might be, the inside was far worse, and Molly visibly quailed when Quinn pushed open the warped front door upon what must pass as a communal room, both parlor and kitchen.

  Two windows, draped with cobwebs instead of curtains, let in just a smidgen of green-tinted light. On display: a floor littered by scraps of paper, several empty liquor bottles, old rags, dry crumpled leaves from various trees from various seasons, a semi-plastered wall stained by leaks or some other ugly substance.

  The room directly behind, as Molly tiptoed toward it, was even worse. A bed frame, topped by a mattress that should only be touched with kerosene and a match, jostled for space with a huge nicked and scarred bureau, some sort of fireplace screen that held indescribable pieces of clothing, and junk and tattered rugs everywhere.

  Her face drained of blood, her insides twisting with the need to empty themselves out, she stumbled away to the fresh air of the porch, where she clung to one of the pillars for dear life.

  “No working kitchen?” she cried at her husband, who had thundered along behind her. “No indoor or—apparently—outdoor facilities? Quinn, this place is—it’s ghastly!”

  The blackness of his beard made his face appear as white as hers. Not with horror, however, but with temper. “I’m not exactly swimmin’ in legal tender here, Molly,” he snapped. “It just needs cleaning. Some elbow grease, some soap and suds, and it’ll be fine. Or is all that beneath you?”

  “Beneath me! Quinn, you must see we can’t live here! It’s barely habitable for—for animals! How can you expect me to—to clean, when I have nothing to clean with?”

  His nostrils were flaring. “Some partnership this is turning out to be! Not only penniless, but lazy to boot! All you’ve done so far is complain!”

  “Oh, please, please just listen to me, dear! No broom, no scrub brush, no pails—how, pray tell, am I to get this place livable?”

  Now a muscle was flickering ominously along the side of his jaw, and, from only a few feet away, his hands curled into fists. “That isn’t my job, Molly. It’s yours. That is the very least you can do—to fix the food and straighten up.”

  “I can, Quinn, and I will,” she babbled, feeling suddenly nervous. “But not without the barest minimum to scrape by! Why, we haven’t even any furniture here. How will we—”

  And it was at that moment that he struck.

  Chapter Seven

  “HE HIT ME UP FOR A couplea sawbucks,” commented Ben. The words were spoken without heat or rancor, as an observation only.

  “Yeah?” Sheriff Paul Winslow, relieved of official duties for the evening by Deputy Austin Blakely’s turn on duty, leaned back in his wicker chair on the Forresters’ front porch and cranked one ankle atop the other knee. “Not surprisin’. And that’s the last you’ll see of it, too.”

  “Figured.”

  Earlier, Ben, needing, he explained to his wife, to palaver a bit and get some advice, had stopped over at the jail to invite his friend back for supper. After a light meal put together by Camellia’s own hands, namely a pot of split pea soup, sliced hard-boiled eggs, and leftover wedding cake, the two men had retired outside to share a bottle of Ben’s prized bourbon and light up a couple of atrociously rank imported cigars.

  The smoke did at least deter a crew of suicidal mosquitoes, who, attracted by the scent of fresh red blood, were dive-bombing in clusters and in sequence. Other than the warning high-pitched whine of the nasty little critters as they came swooping in, and the bark of someone’s dog off in
the distance, the Saturday evening was thankfully quiet. By perspective, Paul might have been rocking back and forth on his own front porch, instead of this one, reading the latest newspaper and contemplating life in general.

  “You find anything out?” Ben wanted to know.

  The sheriff blew a perfect ring into the air. “’Fraid not.”

  His host watched in admiration. “Never could do that. You ever wanna give up your sheriffin’ job, you can always go on a sideshow circuit.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Another companionable silence. From inside came the muted clatter of dishes being washed and Camellia softly singing at her chores. Shadowed by semi-darkness, Ben smiled. She was a treasure, his wife. He’d had no idea, sending off that first notice to advertise for a mail order bride, just what chain of events he was setting in motion. And how richly rewarded he would be.

  Newly wed just more than a month, and now he couldn’t imagine his life without her in it. Arguing, stating her opinion in no uncertain terms, teasing, watching over and taking care of him, serving as helpmeet in every way. Especially when taken to that double bed upstairs.

  “Not sure that’s his right name, though,” Paul continued, after the pause.

  “Quinn Hennessey? How’dya figure?”

  “Well, I sent off a telegram to the sheriff of that little town in Kansas—Prairie Spring?—after you asked me to do some investigatin’. Verified that Hennessey had shown up a couple years before, was workin’ at the only hotel around. But no record of him anywhere prior to that time.”

  “Huh.” Ben chewed on that for a bit, in between draws from the stogie. No wonder the men had become good friends over the years; both were steady, responsible, and soft-spoken, and responded in similar fashion to various situations. “A rollin’ stone.”

  “Or somebody who changes who he is every time he picks up and moves to another place.”

  “Yeah, could be that, too.”

  Paul sent a speculative glance across through the twilight, lit only by the lamps from within and the glowing red embers of cigars. “You got any plans on what to do?”

  Shaking his head in resignation, Ben tapped his rolled-up bundle of fermented tobacco leaves (Camellia’s unflattering designation) into a small dish his wife had insisted he use. No point getting ashes all over her nice clean verandah floor.

  “Dunno. Cam tried to talk Molly outa the marriage, and Hannah had a few words with the girl. I even butted in where I shouldn’ta, and said my piece. Nothin’ worked. She had her mind made up as to what she wanted to do, and, by gum, she did it. Wasn’t listenin’ to anybody.”

  “Pulled the bit b’tween her teeth, all right,” was Paul’s glum conclusion.

  “Oh, you got that right. Ain’t no arguin’ with a Burton woman once she’s decided on somethin’.” Proving the truth of his statement, Ben deliberately lowered his voice to make that point.

  “Thanks for the warnin’. Might just as well post a No Trespassin’ sign on the property.”

  Exhaling cigar smoke, Ben took a hearty slug from his glass of bourbon. It went down smooth and mellow as sweet cream, and his taste buds savored every last drop of the stuff. He might pay the price for over-imbibing tomorrow, but he hadn’t suffered a hangover since—well, since his own wedding.

  That had been a day to celebrate.

  This, he felt sure, wasn’t.

  “Still, I can’t help bein’ worried about her.”

  Paul, who had placed his worn brown Stetson on the railing, ran his fingers through curly dark hair. “Want I should make a friendly little visit tomorrow?”

  “Naw. Molly took only a few things with her. They’re s’posed to be comin’ back to town so she can collect some more stuff. And he is s’posed to be lookin’ for work.”

  “On a Sunday?” The sheriff’s brows went up almost to his hairline in disbelief.

  “Yeah, that was my way of thinkin’, too. Howsoever, let’s wait and see what happens—maybe somethin’ good. I dunno, Paul.” Dissatisfaction colored Ben’s quiet tones. “There’s just something about that Hennessey fellah that grates on my nerves.”

  “Snake oil salesman,” was the sheriff’s opinion. “Kinda rubs you the wrong way, don’t he? Did he want more from you than the sawbucks?”

  “Not right away. But I figure that’s comin’. If you don’t even have a job to support two people, then wouldn’tcha have startin’ lookin’ as soon as you hit town? As far as I know, he hasn’t even been talkin’ to anybody about gettin’ employed. What does he think they’ll live on, anyway?”

  A slow swallow, and a sigh of repletion. “Fine whiskey, Benjamin, my friend. Fine whiskey. Well, I reckon all I can do right now is keep an eye on him, see what’s up. ’Fraid you mighta got yourself a bad apple off your family tree, though.”

  Ben snorted. “As for that, my family tree ain’t nothin’ to brag about. Speakin’ of bad apples, you ever find out any more about any Putnam relatives layin’ out in the weeds?”

  “Nary a word. No will made up, no information as to relatives, close or not. Didn’t seem to be nobody a’tall that’s hankerin’ to be a legatee of the brothers’ estate.”

  “Legatee? Estate? Y’ mean there was enough to leave some person plannin’ to make a claim?”

  The sheriff lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Seems so. The Prairie Lot, for one. I stop by over there, once in a while, just to see how things’re goin’. Ole Clunker is handlin’ the place just fine. No more head-crackin’ or gun-shootin’ than usual.”

  “Huh. Well, it’s only been a month since they met their maker and ended up six feet under. Maybe you’ll get some heir croppin’ up outa the woodwork onea these days.”

  “Have you boys settled all the world’s problems by now, so that a lone woman might join in your manly discussion?” Camellia’s rich voice, tinged by mirth, came to them from the doorway.

  Immediately both contributors to this manly discussion rose to their feet, in deference. Ben reached out a hand to guide his wife through the dusk. “Here, darlin’, you sit right b’side me, here in the swing. We’ll chase Paul away pretty soon, and then you and me can do some spoonin’.”

  “Well, I can see when I ain’t wanted.”

  As Paul’s fingers closed on his hat brim, Camellia, already seated, instantly demurred. “No, no, I’m not here to drive you away. And, as for Ben—” she gave her spouse an affectionate look, “you know what he’s like.”

  “Like a man who’s been a-thirst all his life, and suddenly finds himself an oasis?” guessed the sheriff, with a whimsical smile.

  Camellia was delighted. “Why, Paul, what a nice thing to say! Much more of that sweet talk, and I’ll be strolling off into the moonlight with you, instead of my stick-in-the-mud husband here.”

  “Huh. You don’t even need to think about that possibility,” her stick-in-the-mud husband flatly declared in a soft growl. “I happen to recall it’s my ring you’re wearin’ on your finger.”

  The bantering subsided with a few friendly grins and muffled chortles, leaving the men to return to their bout of serious drinking, and Camellia to sip at her more appropriate choice of lemonade in a cup. It seemed a peaceful night, full of harmony and content, except for the weight that lay heavily on everyone’s heart.

  “She’s comin’ back in tomorrow,” Ben, squeezing the hand that wore his ring, reminded Camellia gently. “You can see her then, find out how she’s doin’.”

  She managed a soft little flutter of laughter. “Is my mind so easy to read? How did you know I’m still fretting over my little sister?”

  “I ain’t no expert in the field, but I’m beginnin’ to find I can figure out what you’re thinkin’ in a number of ways. But your frettin’ don’t help either of you a bit, Cam.”

  “Oh, I know, I know. But I can’t help it. She had such a hard beginning...”

  He sat up a trifle straighter. “What d’ you mean?”

  “Surely I’ve told you how Molly c
ame to be with us. No? Truly? I’m sorry, dear, I’ve been terribly remiss. You should probably hear this, too, Paul, so you understand a little better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Their guest, already unbending his knees in a move to rise, reseated himself instead.

  Another sip of lemonade, tart-sweet and at room temperature, helped Camellia gather her thoughts to begin the story from some fifteen years ago.

  Jedediah Burton, younger sibling of Nathaniel, and as different from his brother as day from night, had chosen an entirely different path for his life’s work. Not the secular world, but the spiritual one, which had drawn him from boarding school to private school to seminary and the cloth.

  Along the way, he had married a rather plain but dedicated young lady named Temple, and within a short time they became the proud parents of a beautiful little black-haired baby possessed of the most amazing turquoise eyes.

  “Our cousin, Molly,” Camellia diverged to explain. As if there might be any disputing the fact.

  Against all threats and advice spouted forth by Nathaniel, against all pleas entered by Nathaniel’s wife, Sadie, Jedediah had unwisely taken his family and set off for the New Mexico Territory, in what would become the Arizona Territory within the next few years. There, he planned to minister to the populace of a small town beset both by skirmishes from Mexican raiders, from across the border, and by bands of roving Apache warriors, from throughout the area.

  “Huh,” muttered Paul, at this statement. “Must notta had much common sense, this missionary uncle of yours. He couldn’ta picked a much more dangerous place to be, near twenty years ago. Sorry, Camellia, didn’t mean to cast aspersions.”

  “Cast away. We felt the same way ourselves, according to my parents.”

  For four years, the couple had ministered to the community, contained in a town of adobe houses and the surrounding fifty miles or so.