by Kit Morgan
Sure enough … “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mayor Hardt! Your letters were very inspiring and I’m not a bit disappointed. I knew you were my intended the moment I saw you – you look exactly the way you described.”
Charlie’s face twisted up in confusion. “What letters?” He looked at Chase for rescue, but Chase was busy coughing into his hand and trying to look innocent. He turned back to the woman. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, ma’am. I’m not who you think I am. You’re meant for another man.”
“You are Mayor Hardt, aren’t you?”
Chase could feel his ears go pink. Here it comes …
“Yes, but …” Charlie, looking more confused than ever, stared at her, at Chase, at her. Then his jaw locked, and his eyes – those eyes that could stop a man dead in his tracks – went cold as a mountain stream. “I wrote letters?”
Felicity huffed. “Good heavens, what’s wrong with you? You wrote me a letter and described yourself, and I must say you were very accurate. You weren’t so accurate about the town, but I’ll forgive that because you are the mayor and it’s your duty to paint the town in the best possible light …”
As she talked, Charlie kept his eyes on her, but walked toward Chase with the measured steps of a gunfighter about to face an opponent. Only when he was within a foot of his friend did his gaze shift. “You didn’t.”
Chase looked up from his fingernails. “What?”
“Tell me she’s wrong or she’s crazy,” Charlie snarled.
“Um … well …”
“Because I know I didn’t write any letters. Which means that somebody else … did.” Charlie’s hand grasped Chase’s shoulder hard enough to pulverize bones. “You wouldn’t do that. Not you, not a preacher. You wouldn’t do something so low-down and rotten as to write a letter and deceive a woman into thinking she’s getting married to a man who has no intention of EVER MARRYING AGAIN!”
A gasp sounded behind Charlie – not Felicity, but another woman. In the midst of the confrontation, the other brides had crowded around to hear – and maybe witness a killing.
Well, there was no help for it at this point. Chase looked down, his shoulders slumping, like the proverbial lamb being led to slaughter. “I did, Charlie. I did it for your own gooaggggh!”
To everyone’s horror, Charlie wrapped his hands around Chase’s neck and began to strangle him. Chase was vaguely aware of the stunned look on Felicity Partridge’s face as she gasped and quickly glanced around, as if expecting someone to jump in and separate them. No one did – the women were too stunned, and the men knew better than to get into the middle of this particular argument.
“You conniving, backstabbing skunk!” Charlie screamed at him. “I oughta kill you!”
Chase reached up and scrabbled at Charlie’s wrists. “You don’t understand,” he attempted to say. “I was trying to help …” He glanced at Miss Partridge, who looked ready to faint.
“But I’ll do you one better,” Charlie spat as he finally let go. “You wrote her the letters. YOU marry her!”
Silas Powell, perched on a nearby barstool, took a sip of his drink. “But Mayor Hardt, ya wrote that first letter to my bride Penny for me …”
Charlie spun on poor Silas, his face crimson except for a white scar. “That’s different!”
Silas stood up, drink in hand. “No, it ain’t.”
Chase, somewhat recovered, tried to put himself between them. Charlie was mad as a rattler and liable to lay poor Silas out, or worse. “Now, gentlemen, calm down …”
Charlie shoved Chase out of the way and into the gaggle of brides. One of them bumped into Silas, spilling his whiskey. “What the Sam Hill? Watch what yer doing, woman!” He put a hand to his mouth. Apparently he hit the glass hit a tooth and broke it. The woman cringed.
“Penny!” Mrs. Walters cried as she rushed to the girl’s aid.
Penny? Chase thought. “Er … Silas? That is your bride-to-be, Miss Penelope Jackson.”
Penny Jackson went pink, then red as she glanced at the door, looking ready to flee. The other women looked horrified, and Chase worried that disaster was brewing. Then he noticed a tiny, pale woman with dark hair wearing a tailored coat. Her expression seemed almost amused. Maybe there was hope?
Then he put two and two together and his horror redoubled. That wasn’t Jack Peregrine’s bride, was it? Her profile said she was an expert seamstress, so judging from her coat it had to be her. But she was so small! Jack had stressed he needed a strong, mature woman who wouldn’t crack under a heavy workload. Had he paired Jack with a woman the size and strength of a chickadee?
His eyes quickly roamed over the brides, wondering how many others he’d mismatched. And Silas had just yelled at his. Never mind disaster brewing – it was done and ready to pour!
Charlie took out his handkerchief and handed it to Penelope Jackson. “Ma’am, allow me – I’m very sorry.” He turned to Silas. “Behave like a gentleman, why don’t you, and see to your betrothed!” He spun on Chase and poked him in the chest. “And you … you made this mess. You clean it up!” He stormed out of the saloon without a second look, right past the quivering Miss Partridge.
Chase swallowed hard, sighed and collected himself. “Okay, show’s over folks. Let’s …”
“Rev. Hammond!” Mrs. Walters roared.
Chase’s shoulders slumped. No, the show wasn’t over. “Yes, Mrs. Walters?”
“I wonder if I might have a word with you? In private?”
He stood straight and forced a smile. “Of course.” His mind was still clouded from Charlie’s attack, but he knew he couldn’t argue with Mrs. Walters, whose face was ashen. He followed her to the nearest corner and braced for the verbal storm.
“There appear to be a number of … shall we say, discrepancies with regard to your correspondence. Frankly, sir, I am beginning to have grave misgivings as to the well-being and safety of my ladies.”
“Mrs. Walters, I can explain …”
She was not to be deterred. “It appears not even your mayor is aware of what is going on. You assured me, Rev. Hammond, that my ladies would be well taken care of.” She glanced at their surroundings. “And yet here we are in the middle of a saloon!”
Chase nodded. “That we are. It’s also the town church, I’ll have you know.”
“The church?!” She glanced around a second time. “I don’t know what kind of women you think I brought all the way from Denver, sir. But look at them – weary from their long journey, not to mention that nightmarish ride through the snow, on roads that defy the very notion of human travel. And where are the cozy quarters you promised where we could freshen up? The idyllic setting? The WILLING husbands?” By now her voice was a shriek. “Is THIS the best Noelle has to offer, sir?” Mrs. Walters turned away and began to pace, hand to her brow, mumbling to herself. Egad, was she praying?
Chase swallowed hard, trying to think. “Quarters” was the only word to stand out from the rest. He expected the women to be getting married within the hour, in fact he was counting on it, but that notion was now looking remote. Worse, amidst all the hullabaloo of getting ready for the brides arrival, (not to mention his dilemma with Charlie) he’d forgot all about procuring said quarters, should they be needed.
Chase gulped. Out of all the accommodations Noelle had to offer, there was only one nice enough for a passel of brides to be. They couldn’t be expected to sleep on the rickety cots Seamus furnished the rooms over the saloon with. He himself had the only decent room and bed in the building.
She turned and pinned him with a stern look, breaking him out of his thoughts when she pointed a threatening finger at his nose. “YOU had better make this right, Pastor. I want my ladies placed in the type of housing you wrote to me about.” She plunged a hand into her bag and pulled out a small stack of paper. “And I have every letter right here, in case you’ve forgotten what type that is.” She lifted her chin and waited for a response.
Chase looked at the letters and felt hi
mself go pale. What to do?
“I have a reputation – no, a responsibility to these women as a good Christian woman myself, first and foremost,” she continued. “I hate to think what my superiors would say were they to know what is going on here. I am not swayed by your charm – it is by your actions that you will redeem yourself.” She thumbed through the stack and pulled one out. “This one! You describe the ‘pristine buildings, homey atmosphere and well-appointed rooms’ where we would be able to rest before the weddings!”
Seamus, quiet all this time, cocked his head. “But Reverend, you know as well as I there’s only one place in town like …”
Chase felt his stomach turn to ice. “Seamus …”
“Really – only one?” Mrs. Walters spat.
“Aye, and that’d be …”
“Seamus!” Chase yelled as he turned to the barkeep. “Let me handle this.”
Seamus held up his hands. “Go right ahead, Reverend.”
Chase turned back to Mrs. Walters. “Yes, we have accommodations. But, um … we’ll have to make sure they’re … ready.” His eyes darted around the room. What men were there looked at him as if he was about to hang. Heck, they hadn’t even been introduced to their brides yet. He took a deep breath. “I’ll just send someone to check, shall I?”
Mrs. Walters’ glare narrowed. “See that you do.”
Chase smiled again as his eyes fixed on Sheriff Draven, who’d obviously come to watch the show. He’d noticed him at the bar earlier along with Storm Thornton. The traitors. Still, it was in his and everyone else’s best interest to give this job to someone well-armed. He crooked a finger at the sheriff.
Draven approached with a wry smile. “Yes, Reverend?”
Chase let go a weary sigh. “Sheriff, I have a job for you, and it isn’t going to be pleasant.”
Sheriff Draven shook his head. “I kinda figured.”
Chase patted him on the shoulder. “Good man, and may God be with you.”
Sheriff Draven didn’t move.
“Uh, could you take care of that now, please?”
The Sheriff stood as immobile as ever and gave him a hard look.
Chase fought the urge to roll his eyes. Not the smartest thing to do considering who he was dealing with. He’d have to fall back on something else. “Naturally you’re aware that Mayor Hardt told me to go ahead and order these brides in order to save the town?”
Sheriff Draven didn’t bat an eye.
“And that he pays your salary?”
The Sheriff’s eyes – make that eye – flashed.
“And owns the lease on La Maison des Chats? That being said, why don’t you go get his permission to have the girls moved? See what he thinks? I’m sure he’ll agree with me.”
The sheriff’s face twitched once, twice, before he said, “Fine, I’ll do that.”
Chase cast a quick glance at Mrs. Walters. Her back was to him as she spoke with the women. Just as well she missed this little exchange. “Good, then you’d best speak with Charlie right away.”
Sheriff Draven gave him a slow nod, his jaw tight, turned to leave and stopped.
Chase cringed. “Now what?”
“For your own reference, Reverend,” the sheriff drawled over one shoulder. “God can’t be with me when I do this. For one, He don’t go into La Maison des Chats.” Draven spun on his boot heel and left before the good reverend could reply.
Chase sighed again and watched him go. He didn’t envy what the man had to do. Telling the whores living in the finest building in town they’d have to leave the premises wasn’t going to be pretty. Telling them it was so Mrs. Walters and her brides could have decent (he rolled his eyes at the word) warm beds to sleep in made it worse.
“Well, Rev. Hammond?” Mrs. Walters snapped as she turned to him.
His smile was weak, but there. “All is in hand, dear lady. Rest assured that within the hour, your ladies will be tucked into the finest accommodations Noelle has to offer.” He turned away, eyes wide, and mumbled. “I hope.”
Chapter Five
Felicity Partridge stood huddled with the other women, watching Mrs. Walters go head-to-head with Rev. Hammond. Mrs. Walters was a force to be reckoned with, and Felicity was glad she and the other brides had her on their side. Still, this mix-up with the mayor (if it indeed was a mix-up) needed to be dealt with and fast.
She wanted to be married. Now.
But for whatever reason, her betrothed was resorting to a lot of theatrics to make her believe he had nothing to do with ordering a mail-order bride. Was the man daft? Had he lost his senses just before her arrival? Or (choke) had he taken one look at her and decided he didn’t like what he saw? Maybe that prompted his elaborate display of disdain at the thought of matrimony. Then to shove the blame onto the poor reverend …
Speaking of which, did she just hear him right? Were accommodations forthcoming?
“The nerve of that man!” Mrs. Walters huffed as she returned to the women. “He ought to be horse-whipped! I’m so sorry, ladies. But don’t worry, I’ll have this whole mess sorted out in no time.”
“Mrs. Walters?” Felicity asked.
“What is it, Miss Partridge?”
“About my groom. He …”
“Don’t worry about that now. Frankly, I can only handle so much at one time.”
“I understand that, but –”
“Miss Partridge, you are not my only concern. Whatever that farce was earlier, we’ll try to make sense of it later.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Felicity sighed. There was no use arguing with Mrs. Walters – once she made her mind up, she brooked no argument. She’d been that way the entire journey and though the journey was short, she’d regaled them enough with the reverend’s letters to make them sigh in contentment at the mere name of Noelle.
Now this travesty of errors … needless to say, Mrs. Walters wasn’t the type to tolerate the reverend making her out a liar. He’d be lucky if she didn’t have him hung, drawn and quartered after all was said and done. And good riddance too – a man of God, telling outrageous tales like some back-alley confidence man!
But it didn’t solve Felicity’s problem. She hated dealing with anything unresolved, such as her involvement with the Suffragettes in Denver. If she hadn’t been arrested, she wouldn’t be in this mess. But doggone it, when she started something, she finished it! And finishing her rally and making sure her voice was heard – not to mention those of the six other women with her that day – was what she would do, no matter what!
Unfortunately, “no matter what” had landed her in jail for disturbing the peace.
Again.
Which, unfortunately, her father thought very unfit for a lady of gentle birth. But gently bred or not, didn’t he care that she and her sex were tired of being overlooked, underappreciated and forced into underachievement? Had he no conscience? Had he no sense of justice or fair play?!
Apparently not, or he wouldn’t have carted her off to the Benevolent Society for Lost Lambs and forcibly handed her over to Mrs. Walters. It was either become a mail-order bride or go to jail. Given a choice, Felicity would have taken jail, but her father wouldn’t have it. He was a prime example of why she needed to further the cause of women everywhere! And she … was stuck out here in the back of the beyond.
Fortunately, becoming a mayor’s wife sounded like a pretty good way to move her goals forward. When Mrs. Walters told her she’d been matched with such a man, her thoughts of handcuffing herself to the front doors of Denver’s 4th precinct police station dissipated into images of bigger and better rallies. To convince such a man to aspire to his greatest potential, then help him achieve such a feat … that was what she was made for! Then he in turn would help her achieve hers. It would indeed be a match made in heaven. Pure bliss …
“Felicity! Did you hear what I said?”
Felicity jumped and turned to Josefina Morales de Zapatero, one of her fellow brides-to-be. “What?”
“We are leaving.
”
Felicity’s blue eyes brightened. “Leaving?!”
Josefina, an olive skinned beauty with thick dark hair Felicity envied, pulled her braid over her shoulder and looked disgusted. “What have you been doing, gathering the wool again?”
Felicity pursed her lips together and sighed. “Yes, more or less.” She thought a moment. “Make that more. Don’t tell me our rooms are ready.”
“Yes! And here you are, dreaming day.” English was not Josefina’s first language, but she could make herself understood.
“I was not daydreaming, I was … strategizing.”
“Strategizing? The thing you need to be strategizing is how to take care of your new husband once you get him.”
Felicity was annoyed. Josefina was the same age as she, but for whatever reason tended to mother some of the brides. So did Agatha, but Agatha was seventy-five and mothered everyone, even Mrs. Walters. Felicity didn’t always like Josefina’s protectiveness, even though the things she warned about or urged were always in their best interests. It only bothered Felicity because it reminded her of her father. Of course, given the choice, she preferred Josefina’s ways over her father’s!
“Well?” Josefina prompted as the other brides began to file out the saloon doors. “Vamanos!”
“Fine, fine,” Felicity said. “I’m going. But … where are we going? I don’t remember Mrs. Walters telling us about a hotel in town.”
“Sabe,” Josephina said with a shrug. “I only care it will be warm and have space. I am tired of being cramped together on the train, then stuffed into wagons.”
“I’m sure we all are.” They stepped out into the cold, and the icy wind pulled at their skirts and cloaks. A few of the women left Denver with nothing more than a flimsy shawl to protect them from the elements. They were better equipped now, thanks to one of the brides, Birdie, a Frenchwoman and a master seamstress. Felicity was glad Birdie had used her talents to whip together decent coverings for those lacking them – and from a bag full of leftover cloth and various bolts of fabric. What a talent.
