Mail-Order Haven
By Linda Carroll-Bradd
Book #5 of the Dorado, Texas series
This is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.
Published by Inked Figments
Cover artist: Tamra Westberry (writing as Tara West)
Edited by: Shenoa, Lustre Editing www.lustreediting.com
Manufactured in the United States
ISBN: 978-1-940546-23-0
First printing January 2018
This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.
Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.
Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at [email protected].
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter OnePage 1
Chapter TwoPage 19
Chapter ThreePage 38
Chapter FourPage 55
Chapter FivePage 70
Chapter SixPage 89
Chapter SevenPage 109
Chapter EightPage 126
Chapter NinePage 147
Chapter TenPage 161
EpiloguePage 194
December 1, 1877
Chapter One
Through the dim afternoon light, Fitzadam Saunders trotted Bridger toward his Star S Ranch on the central Texas prairie. Within his leather glove, he flexed his right hand, fighting the stiffness caused by pruning the bois d’arc hedges that served as fencing for part of his ranch’s perimeter. The presentation by Mr. Ellwood of Washburn and Moen Company at a recent cattle raisers’ association meeting came to mind. Fitz might look into the new twisted wire with barbs as a possible way to mark his ranch’s boundaries. The fact the living fence would no longer need annual pruning might balance out the expense.
Moving along the packed dirt road, he glanced toward the herd gathered in the nearest pasture. His cattle. A new cross-breed of shorthorn, Charolais, and Braford cattle that he hoped would make his name known in the burgeoning Texas cattle business and ensure the success of his ranch. The hardy animals had been bred to maintain their weight by the time they’d been driven from central Texas to the shipping yards in Kansas. Later in the week, he’d release his stud bull, Goliath, into the specially designed pen, and the fall breeding would be done.
A big group of the animals lay under the row of possumhaw holly trees, warming each other against the cold northern wind. Bright red berries covered the trees, adding a welcome bit of color to the drab day. The sight of the tall, broad barn and two-story ranch house lit a spark of pride in Fitz’s chest. Three years of hard work and determination were finally paying off. He rightly claimed the title of successful cattle rancher. What more could a man want?
As he approached the red-painted structure, Fitz saw one of the barn’s double doors swing wide. He held the reins tight on the pinto gelding until his cattle dog zipped inside. Scout proved himself a hard worker when needed, but the mixed breed took advantage of the warm barn whenever the air outside turned frigid.
“Spotted you comin’, boss. Getting nippy out there.” Ned Hutchins waited until the horse walked inside then pulled shut the doors. The lean man with gray threading through his brown hair had taken over as stable master and foreman in the late spring and proved his worth.
“To be expected in December, even in Texas.” Personally, Fitz looked forward to the cold weather. Being raised in the East had taught him a cozy fire and a good book created an ideal setting for waiting out a snowstorm. After a few strokes to the pinto’s neck, he threw his leg over the horse’s rump and dismounted, handing the reins to the stable master. “Bridger’s earned an extra handful or two of oats today.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Clicking sounds encouraged the horse forward, and Ned led Bridger toward the tack room in the barn’s rear corner.
Nickers from other horses acknowledged Bridger’s arrival.
Before heading across the yard to the house, Fitz glanced around for Scout. But the hound had already curled up in his favorite spot in a hay pile next to the first stall. “Looks like Scout’s cozying up to the stove and staying for a spell.”
Nodding, Ned waved a hand. “I’ll bring him inside at supper time. Oh, boss, you best enter by the front door.”
Housekeeper must be washing the floors. Fitz stepped outside, hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind, and rested both hands on his hips to squint at the leaden gray sky. A snowstorm might hit during the night. No worries on that account. His animals and employees all had solid roofs over their heads, and the cattle did just fine in the pasture. Satisfaction filled him as his long strides took him across the dirt yard.
Chickens fluttered their wings, hopping and squawking to get out of his way.
“Shoo, shoo.” A few waves of his arms sent them toward the coop. Silly things ought to get out of the cold. Approaching the ranch house, Fitz eyed an unfamiliar horse tied to the hitching rail and spotted the shape of a man sitting on the porch bench. Drawing closer, he noticed the flash of waning sunlight off a set of wire-rimmed glasses and recognized his father’s lawyer, Nigel Wolcott. Fitz tensed and bit back a curse. What message would be forthcoming from a man who traveled all the way from Newport, Rhode Island, to do Adam Saunders’ biding?
Fitz rested a boot on the lowest wooden step leading to the porch. The man before him couldn’t help the fact his employer, and Fitz’s father, was a demanding son of a gun who delighted in having everyone dance to his tune. “Nigel. Been waiting long?” Fitz did his best to keep his tone level. The forty-ish man was bundled up in a long, fleece-lined duster and wore a red knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. Atop his head sat a narrow-brimmed bowler hat that labeled him as an Easterner.
“An hour or so.” His back rested against the wall, and he held a leather satchel perched on his lap. Narrowing his gaze, he spoke through a pinched mouth. “Your housekeeper was adamant, I’ll have you know. I was not allowed to set a toe over the threshold without your permission. The woman simply would not listen to reason.”
Fitz bit back a chuckle and slapped the leather gloves against his denim-covered thigh. Although a recent hire, Missus Hutchins was protective and loyal. Good attributes in his estimation. He shrugged, climbed the four wooden steps, and walked to the door. “Might have let me know you were coming.”
“You know as well as I, your father requires these twice-yearly inspections to be a surprise.” Nigel stood and pressed a gloved hand to his lower back as he straightened. “I must do as he bids.”
Muscles tight, Fitz jerked open the door, waved a stiff hand, and waited for the lawyer to enter his house. Even from halfway across the country, his father still did what he could to demonstrate his ultimate control—all because Fitz refused to join the Saunders and Sons shipbuilding business. Let his three younger brothers fulfill the family obligation. That life wasn’t
what Fitz had chosen, and he’d be blasted if the old man could ever convince him otherwise. He hung his curved-brim hat on a set of elk antlers nailed to the wall, shrugged off his heavy jacket, and settled the coat collar over a lower hook.
The lawyer disposed of his coat, hat, and scarf in a similar fashion. Then, rubbing his hands together, he turned to survey the room. “You’ve added furniture since my last visit.”
Giving the room a quick glance, Fitz nodded. He didn’t see the need for a proper sitting room as he spent most of his evenings in his comfortable den. However, Missus Hutchins had coaxed him into looking into the offerings from Shipley’s Carpentry in town. After doing so, he’d found a divan and matching wing chairs to his liking. Fitz had to admit the house now possessed a finished look, even if he hadn’t yet bothered to search for a painting or two to add interest to the walls. “Let me speak with my housekeeper, and I’ll meet you in the den. I believe you remember the way.” He gestured toward the doorway on his left as he headed down the hallway to the back of the house, his boot heels clunking with a hollow sound on the bare wood floor.
“Very well, Fitzadam.”
The sound of his full name always made him stiffen in memory of how many times he’d heard it spoken in a rebuking tone. He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. As he approached the kitchen, Fitz sniffed at the rich aroma of cooking meat and again sent up thanks he’d hired on Ned and Edlyn several months back. The ranch’s previous cook, Ingrid, relocated to the outlying Altbusser ranch after gaining a beau at Dorado’s Fourth of July celebration. The Star S cowhands would quit if they had to survive for very long on the pitiful meals Fitz set on their table immediately after Ingrid’s marriage.
With a shake of his head, he turned the knob and entered the room that radiated with warmth and wonderful smells from the stove. Scents of savory meat and yeasty bread teased his nose. “Missus Hutchins, please set an extra plate for supper tonight. And make sure the green guest room is readied. Mister Wolcott will return to San Antonio tomorrow.”
“Oh, the gentleman is staying?” The plump, brown-haired woman turned from the stove but kept stirring a wooden spoon inside a pot. “I’m sorry, sir, but you left no instructions this morning about an expected visitor.” Her lips pressed into a tight line.
“No apology needed. He’s a surprise to me, as well.” He leaned a hand on the wooden bin table in the middle of the room. A sprinkling of white flour remained where she must have kneaded the bread he now smelled baking. “You weren’t working here at the time of his visit in the spring. In the future if he appears again, he’s to be allowed inside upon his arrival. For now, we’ll be conducting our business in the den.”
She glanced at the clock over the pantry door and furrowed her brows. “Supper is another thirty minutes yet. Shall I bring you coffee?”
“Appreciate that. Could you also let Ned know to put up Mister Wolcott’s horse for the night?” Fitz turned and walked along the hall to the den, suddenly aware of how the lawyer had probably been instructed to include notes about the house’s condition in the report he submitted to Adam Grant Saunders. He stomped his foot and heard a crunching sound. Looking down, he noticed his boots had left clumps of drying mud along the hallway. He stooped, gathered several into an open palm, and, upon entering the den, tossed them into the fireplace where a log glowed with a rosy hue. When he turned, he spotted Nigel perusing the titles of his fiction collection, although he secretly thought the man was probably just grateful for the heat from the fire after an hour spent in the wintery air.
Fitz moved to the oak desk where he spent many hours calculating future earnings and cattle breeding strategies. From a drawer, he pulled out the ranch’s red leather-bound ledger book and centered it on the desktop in front of the sturdy chair. “Here are the accounts, current through to the fifteenth of last month. Review them at your leisure, and then start in with whatever questions arise. Supper will be served in a half hour or so.”
“Thank you.” Nigel moved to the desk and sat in the upright chair with a forest green upholstered seat pad. He pulled a writing tablet from the inside of his satchel before opening the ledger book.
“Here’s the coffee, sir.” Missus Hutchins scurried inside the room, carrying a tray with mugs, a coffee pot, and a sugar bowl. She looked toward the desk and raised an eyebrow.
“Thank you.” Fitz took charge of the tray and set it on an open space near the desk corner. He poured full measures into two thick ceramic mugs and carried his to his favorite stuffed leather chair. On a nearby table sat James Fennimore Cooper’s novel, The Spy, which he had half-way finished. After settling into his chair, he rested the novel in his lap and was soon lost in the tale set during the American Revolution.
Sometime later, Nigel cleared his throat. “Fitzadam, I’ve completed my review.” He closed the ledger and set his tablet on the satchel.
“Excuse me.” Missus Hutchins knocked twice on the door jamb. “Gentlemen, the meal is ready and on the table.”
“We will follow you, Missus Hutchins.” After inserting a bookmark, Fitz set the novel on the side table and stood then gestured for Nigel to precede him. “We can discuss any questions for your report while we eat.” He walked to the dining room and sat in his usual chair. That the table displayed a bottle of wine selected from his small collection and a full cloth, instead of a single placemat, didn’t escape his notice. Both additions were evidence of civilized living he normally eschewed as unimportant for ranch life. Another “thank you” would be directed to his housekeeper.
Roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, cooked carrots, and fresh rolls—one of his favorite meals. After filling both glasses with red wine, he focused on enjoying the first few bites of food before he spoke. “Nigel, I’m sure you noticed the Star S has turned a profit for four successive quarters.”
“I did.” The man sliced off a cube of beef and held the upturned fork poised before his mouth. “As well as noticing an increase in the breeding program.”
Pride filled his chest at the mention. “This year, a dozen calves were born, and I’m experimenting with a second calving season for next fall.” He relished a long sip of wine. Rich notes of black cherry and cedar rolled inside his mouth before he swallowed. “Having eight cows calved means even more breeders will be put into the insemination program in a couple of years.” He focused a steady gaze on the man to his left. “Did questions arise in your review?”
“Only about the bank draft in October to a Hunter McClaren in the amount of five hundred dollars.”
“An investment in a herd of horses.”
Light eyebrows rose above the spectacles. “You’re raising horses now, as well as cattle?”
Fitz thought back to the urgent telegram from his cousin about money needed to buy some Indian ponies at a Montana Territory auction. Five years earlier, he and Hunter had migrated west and satisfied their boyhood fantasies of working as cowboys on the open ranges of Wyoming and Montana Territories. After two years, they went their separate ways when Fitz wanted to buy land and Hugh joined the Army. “Maybe I should have explained the money is a loan to a cousin.” Although since sending off the draft, he’d heard nothing from Hunter about an impending arrival.
Nigel shook his head then took a big swallow of wine. “Making loans to family members is bad business. Although, I acknowledge the outstanding debt has not hampered your bottom line.”
A truth he’d realized last month when he’d tallied the accounts, but hearing the words spoken aloud boosted his satisfaction. “So, your report to my father should be that I’ve met the mandated requirement for the ranch’s success.”
Nigel dabbed a napkin against his mouth then held up a hand. “Granted you’ve met that requirement. Raising healthy animals indicates a solid base, and the herd count continues to rise. A promise for a prosperous future—as long as the current conditions hold. But you must remember the other stipulation to be met before your trust fund is released into your control.” He r
eached into an inside jacket pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper and a sealed envelope. Then, he pushed both along the tablecloth.
“From my father, no doubt?” Irritation tightened his arm as he reached for the items and grabbed them. Fitz tore one end of the envelope and tipped out a single sheet of thick Vellum paper.
Fitzadam, Congratulations on the success of your ranching enterprise. I have to admit surprise over you pulling off this cowboy business. You are halfway to meeting the conditions to release your ten-thousand-dollar trust. I look forward to hearing of your nuptials which must be recorded prior to your upcoming thirtieth birthday. Your mother asks if we’ll be enjoying your company this holiday season. Send word with Nigel.
Adam Grant Saunders
Gritting his teeth, Fitz crumpled the sheet, fighting to control the frustration at the reminder of yet another stipulation tied to his birthday. Additional demands happened so many times during his life that he’d grown to dread the date as it approached. For years, he’d refused any type of celebration on the thirtieth of December. A crinkling of the crushed paper sounded, and he relaxed his grip.
But he couldn’t hold back the memories of those milestones. Can’t get a horse until age ten; can’t go hunting until age twelve; can’t study his choice of classes until age twenty-one. Required to work at the shipbuilding trade until age twenty-five. Nothing was ever bestowed because of Fitz’s own abilities or accomplishments. With a jerk, he shook his head and opened the newspaper as a distraction. The masthead banner read Bexar Bride News. “What’s in tarnation is this?”
Nigel waved a hand. “I picked up this circular upon my arrival in San Antonio, thinking to save you time in your selection of a bride. Included inside are ads placed by women who are actively looking for a husband.” He lifted his wine glass and then glanced over the rim, narrowing his gaze. “Unless you have your eye on a woman here in this remote location.”
Ha. If he’d wanted one, he could have chosen a wife by now. That aspect of his life had not yet been of importance. He’d been too busy fighting to turn a profit with the ranch. No time remained in his day to consider courting. Even with proof within his grasp—judging by the thickness of the newspaper—the appropriate woman shouldn’t be hard to find, he wasn’t interested in reading through pages and pages of ads. “Excuse me, Nigel. I must compose a letter and will retire to my den.” Without waiting for an answer, he stood, scooped up the newspaper, and strode across the room, already laying out his plan. At the door, he paused and turned. “So, what was Father’s plan if this quarter hadn’t shown a profit?”
Mail-Order Haven Page 1
