by Kit Morgan
Perhaps if he’d lived in Sweetwater Springs or just outside of it, she might be happier, her being from a big city and all. The town had more amenities than Morgan’s Crossing, not to mention the train station and telegraph office. But the sort of lady Miss Barrett appeared to be, judging from her letters, would probably think Clear Creek was barely civilized. Morgan’s Crossing would seem downright barbaric.
If he decided to stay, he’d best find himself a wife of heartier stock. During his dinner with the Morgans, Michael had explained that the winters could be long, even longer than Clear Creek’s. The tiny cabin he now had he could live with, but someone the likes of Miss Barrett would demand more than that.
Anson folded his supply list, stuffed it into his shirt pocket and grabbed his hat. He went outside, took one of the horses from the corral and saddled him. It was time to go to town. He mounted his horse and sat in the saddle a few moments to survey the prairie around him along with his tiny cabin, barn and corral. This was a beautiful land, one still wild and teeming with adventure. And Anson liked it.
But if he stayed after he took care of the real reason he was there, would a mail-order bride see it the same way? Or would he have to make other plans?
Three
Anson reached Morgan’s Crossing more quickly than expected, and figured he’d have time for a meal at the boarding house.
The town was much smaller than Clear Creek, but was still home to a fine Queen Anne-style house (belonging to Mr. Morgan and his wife) and a few smaller but still nice dwellings. If Anson decided to stay in the area, he wanted to build something similar to the Morgans’ house for himself. He liked how nothing blocked their view, and the large expanse of yard on both sides.
Of course, where his little ranch was located, there would be no neighbors and thus nothing but view – especially when one considered that a quarter square of land was 160 acres. Even the Morgans had a couple of cabins just past one of their side yards; Anson had a barn and a paddock, the prairie and a few nice trees.
Anson stopped by one of the cabins as he came into town. He’d met its resident, a plump, white-haired woman named Mrs. Tisdale, the last time he was there, and her happy greeting had made him feel welcome.
This time, they just exchanged a few pleasantries, as she was busy with some project, before he went to the town’s general store. The brick building held mostly stuff for the local miners, most of whom worked for Mr. Morgan. He wasn’t sure what the ladies in town thought of the paltry stock of non-mining-related goods the store carried for them, but at least it had a few things.
Entering the store, he went to the counter and called out, “Mr. Jones?” For some reason he was tickled that he and the storekeeper shared a surname.
Ralph Jones came out of a back room. “Howdy … Mr. Jones. What can I do for ya?” It tickled Ralph too.
“I have a list,” Anson said and pulled it from his shirt pocket. “Would you mind filling it while I go pay a visit to the bathhouse?”
Ralph’s bushy brown mustache twitched as he took the list and scanned it. “Sure. Oh, and ya got a message here.”
“I do?”
Ralph went to the other end of the counter where a small pile of mail sat and snatched an envelope off the top. “El Davis dropped it off when he came to town yesterday. I told him I’d give it to ya the next time ya came in.”
“Much obliged,” Anson said and took it from him. It was probably a letter from his father or uncle. But no, it couldn’t be – the envelope had just his name on it. No address at all, not even the name of the town. “That’s odd.”
“Maybe it’s from someone in Sweetwater Springs. Ya got more horses comin’ in?”
“No, not yet. A lot depends on how sales go the next few months.” Not bothering to wait and read it in private, Anson tore the envelope open and … “Great Scott!”
Ralph’s eyes widened. “What?”
Anson slapped his forehead and pulled his hand down his face, but his shocked expression remained. “I have to go!”
“Go? Ya just got here.”
“I mean I … I have an emergency!”
Ralph’s face twisted up in confusion. “What kinda ‘mergency?”
“I … well, I sent for a mail-order bride a while back, and …”
Just then several women entered and went straight to where the fabric was hung. “You were saying?” Ralph urged. “What about your mail-order bride?”
“Mail-order bride?” one of the women said, turning to them with a smile. “Oh, how lovely!”
Anson shook his head in panic. “No, not exactly …”
“What do you mean?” another asked. The two began to approach.
Anson started to sweat. No matter how small the town, if there was one thing he’d learned over the years, it was that a woman about to be added to the ranks always caused a stir.
“Is your bride on her way?”
“What?” Anson said, his thoughts racing around in his head like a whirlwind.
“Your mail-order bride,” the first woman repeated. “If she’s here, we’d like to meet her.”
For the first time, Anson noticed her Southern accent. As thick as it was, he should have caught it the first time she spoke. Clearly he was rattled. “Uh, well …”
“Good grief, does that letter say she’s in Sweetwater Springs?” Ralph asked. He noticed Anson’s horrified expression, slapped the counter and laughed. “Now don’t that beat all! Ha! You didn’t know she was comin’, did ya?”
Anson swallowed hard. He was sinking deeper into the pit of raging gossip, and quicker than he could climb out. If he didn’t do it, though, he’d drown in a growing sea of whispers as it spread all over town. (Or worse, get caught in the riptide of his own tortured analogy.)
It didn’t matter that there were farms and ranches all over kingdom come between here and Sweetwater Springs – folks would eventually find out he had a bride. In fact, all they’d have to do was attend church in Sweetwater Springs and that would be it. Any chance of quietly sending his bride to Clear Creek to wait things out would be lost. And he needed to send her away, because if Mortimer Penworthy came sniffing around after the stolen money, he might figure out who Anson really was and high-tail it out of Montana altogether.
First things first. “Fill my list for me, will you? I need to get to Sweetwater Springs as soon as I can.”
“You mean the poor thing is stranded there?” the woman with the Southern accent asked. This was getting worse by the minute.
“I hear that thing happens all the time with mail-order brides,” said the other one. She was tall and thin with a long nose.
“I wouldn’t worry,” a third woman volunteered in an Italian accent. “She’s-a probably staying at Livingston’s. She’ll be fine there.”
Anson studied them closely – if Miss Barrett did stay, these three might well be her first friends in the territory. Otherwise, though, he just wanted to keep his mouth shut. At least he could keep from contributing to the impending disaster.
“Well if you’re going to meet your bride, don’t you think you should clean up a bit?” the Southerner asked. “She hasn’t seen you before, I take it?”
Anson shook his head.
“Well, my advice to you is to finish your business in town, then head to Sweetwater Springs first thing in the morning. No sense running out of here like a madman. Especially not looking like that – tsk, tsk, tsk …”
Anson tried to think. How could this have happened? What was Miss Barrett doing in Montana? He’d sent specific instructions on what to do – had she totally ignored them? Just what kind of a woman was he dealing with? Maybe his father was right and he was a fool for thinking he could pull this off. What if Penworthy never showed up?
Then you sell off the stock you brought, collect some stud fees to build Julius Caesar’s reputation and go home. The thought made him relax.
The pinched look on the thin woman’s face didn’t. She brushed a ginger-colored curl ou
t of her face and looked him up and down. “I hope you have some decent furniture in that place of yours. You bought the old cabin a couple of hours ride from here, didn’t you? Kind of small, isn’t it?”
“But with a wife, you’ll need more space,” the Southerner added. “Well, maybe she won’t mind it being a bit cozy. And a woman’s touch on the place will help. But what about when you have children?”
Anson couldn’t help himself. “Children?!” he yelped.
“Oh dear, I can see I’ve upset you,” the woman said. “Terribly sorry, but you do have to think about the future, you know.”
Ralph chuckled behind the counter and started to fill his order. Anson tried to glare at him, but he couldn’t – Ralph had his back to him. How was he going to get out of this?
But wait … weren’t their suppositions exactly what he wanted? To make it look like he was settling there? Maybe he should let these women spread his business all over town. If he let Miss Barrett stay, that would just tie him closer into the community. “No,” he finally said. “You’ve not upset me. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting my bride to get in this early. I’m simply not fully prepared yet.”
“You did have a miscommunication,” the Italian stated.
You have no idea, he thought. “Well, thank you, ladies for your kind attention to the matter. I’ll take your advice, Miss …”
“Garr,” the southerner said with a smile. “Mrs. Leviticus Garr. Welcome to Morgan’s Crossing, Mr. …”
“Anson Jones, at your service. No relation, by the way,” he added, nodding toward Ralph.
“Well, Mr. Jones, we can’t wait to meet your bride.”
He gave them his most charming smile. “And I’m sure she’ll want to meet you as well. But first, I need to go get her. Now if you ladies will excuse me, I’d best go pay a visit to the bathhouse – I can’t have her seeing me like this.” He ducked out of the store before anyone else could get a word in.
After a bath and a shave, Anson did feel better. Taking Mrs. Garr’s advice, he allowed himself time to think while he soaked. He’d have to add some things to his supply list, as he’d made it to stock up for one person, not two, and certainly not a husband and wife. He’d gather up his goods, get back to his ranch, make sure his steeds were well-provisioned for the time he’d be gone, then set out at first light.
But what was he going to do with Miss Barrett once he got there? Should he bring her home and discuss whether or not she should go to Clear Creek? Mmmm … that wouldn’t look good. He could go ahead and marry her, then send her off to Oregon … but that would make no sense to anyone in Morgan’s Crossing or Sweetwater Springs. If he wanted to keep up the appearance of settling there, he’d have to marry her and keep her around.
Then again, what if he did want to settle there? What if he discovered he not only liked living near Morgan’s Crossing, as he did so far, but loved it? And what of Miss Barrett? She was most recently from Denver, a good-sized city – small-town life might not be to her liking, let alone living semi-isolated on an entire quarter square. She deserved a say in this as well.
And above all else, there was the matter of Mortimer Penworthy. What was he going to do if the man actually showed up as he’d hoped? He’d have to keep an eye on him, track him to the shipping company’s stolen money, then … what, arrest him? He wasn’t technically the law, but he was still an agent of the Van Cleet Shipping Company, and that gave him certain powers.
He’d have to catch Penworthy with the money, capture him, then turn him over to the local sheriff. But the only sheriff around was in Sweetwater Springs – Morgan’s Crossing wasn’t big enough to rate one. Maybe he could get a few of the guards from the local mine to help when the time came …
“Oh dear,” he muttered to himself. Wasn’t that the other reason he’d wanted Miss Barrett to go to Oregon instead of Montana? Things could get dangerous if Penworthy arrived – and he certainly didn’t want his bride-to-be in the middle of it.
Anson took a deep breath, dunked his head under the water and came back up again. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” the Good Book said. In other words, don’t worry about things that hadn’t happened yet. He could concern himself with Penworthy when Penworthy showed up. He had a more pressing matter to contend with now – his mail-order bride.
He returned to the store, added a few things to his list that he thought Miss Barrett might need, then headed home. By the time he arrived it was near dusk. He fed the stock, then scanned the land around him. There were several nearby ranches, but he hadn’t met any of the owners yet, only heard about them from Mr. Morgan. And all of them were too far to walk to if his new bride wanted some company. They’d be alone for the most part, except for the occasional trip to town.
What would his new bride think about that? Well, he supposed he’d find out once he brought her home. Until then the best he could hope for was a good night’s rest.
* * *
Back in Sweetwater Springs …
Zadie set the book she’d been reading on the small table by the bed. The room was pleasant enough and the mattress soft – not bad, considering the stories she’d heard from her father about tiny backwoods towns. Sweetwater Springs certainly wasn’t Boston or Denver – no shopping for the latest fashions from Paris here, no fancy balls or parties. That life was long gone, and she’d have to get used to it.
Her father had lost his job because of failing health, spurred by her mother’s death. He died three years after her, too broken in spirit to go on. He’d never come right out and said it, always keeping his sadness hidden, but that was her first guess as to the cause. She’d begun to suspect there was more to it during his last days, but for the life of her couldn’t figure out what. Now that he was gone, she would never know.
After three days and no word from her betrothed, she might also never know if she was getting married.
She got off the bed and went to the window. Her room faced the street, and she liked to stand there and watch the townspeople go about their business. Other than that, she didn’t have much to do. She’d had tea with Mary Norton the last two days and joined the couple for supper once. They were a godsend right now, and Mrs. Norton kept assuring her that Mr. Jones would be here by tomorrow.
Zadie walked over to the door where she’d hung her wedding dress on a hook. She brushed it out with her hands and admired it a moment. She’d always envisioned herself getting married in a big church somewhere in Denver – not a huge fancy wedding, but a nice affair all the same. But like her old life, dreams of a church festooned with flowers and full of guests were gone. All she had left was the dress, with no one to admire it except herself, the Nortons … and someday, the groom.
She sighed and turned back to the bed. What would her life be like with this man? If he could choose to leave Oregon and come to Montana so quickly, would he do it again and head someplace else? Did something happen to his ranch in Oregon that forced him to leave? Or was it as the Nortons said – he was there to start a new ranch?
As with her father, she sensed something wasn’t right, and didn’t know what it might be. Unfortunately, she wasn’t going to find out until Mr. Jones showed up. Provided, of course, Mr. Jones did show up. If he didn’t, she was good and truly stuck. And alone.
Zadie went back to the bed, sat and picked up her book. All she could do in the meantime was wait to see what tomorrow would bring.
* * *
Anson made the two-day ride to Sweetwater Springs without incident. He’d ridden his gelding Hamlet, and wondered what Miss Jones would think of him. He was a fine horse, purchased from a Tennessee horse breeder while Anson was exploring the Southern states with a few of his cousins before returning to Clear Creek from Boston not a year ago. Hamlet had a smooth gait and was wonderfully sure-footed.
He’d hoped to obtain another mount like him, having just found out Hamlet and his relatives were now considered a new breed – a “Tennessee Walking Horse.” He thought any b
ride would be pleased with such an animal. If he got a colt or filly now, he’d have official papers for it, with its breed listed. Hamlet had no such certification, being born before the breed was officially declared, and of course no stud value.
But no matter. In Anson’s eyes the gelding was still quite valuable without either. He prayed the steed’s smooth ride would make up for not having purchased a wagon yet. He should check if one was for sale while he was in town – Miss Barrett would no doubt have trunks and bags and who knew what all with her, and he couldn’t just drag them all behind a horse.
He rode straight to the Livingston Hotel, dismounted and tethered Hamlet to a hitching post. Today he’d put on the best clothes he had with him – clean work clothes. He didn’t really have what one would consider a “Sunday suit,” or a need for one. Morgan’s Crossing didn’t even have a regular preacher, just a circuit-riding Episcopal priest named Father Frederick who passed through every so often. And Reverend Norton from Sweetwater Springs stopped by once in a while.
Still, he could always buy nicer clothes if he thought he needed them. Or perhaps if Miss Barrett thought he needed them – women could feel quite strongly about those things …
He went inside the hotel and approached the front desk. This place didn’t compare to the Van Cleet Hotel in Clear Creek, and he had a sudden wish to show the grand dame of his hometown to his mail-order bride. But who knew when, or if, that would ever happen?
“Good afternoon, can I help you?” a man asked from behind the counter.
“Yes,” Anson said. “I’m looking for Miss Barrett. She’s still here, isn’t she?” Good grief, what if she’d left?
“She is. What business have you with the young lady?” the man asked, eyeing Anson suspiciously.
Anson took a deep breath. “She’s my bride.”
