“Golly, Blake, you’re so strong!” Belle gushed from her spot near the store’s back entrance.
Blake clenched his teeth and reminded himself not to react. He’d been the object of Belle’s admiration since they were children. She’d chased him around the schoolyard, promising that one day she’d be his wife. Granddad always said it was the curse of red-headed men that some women found them irresistible. Of course, he’d always chuckled when he said it, much to Blake’s chagrin.
Blake had hoped that as his hair darkened over the years Belle would find a new object of affection. He’d even wished that his brother Harris would catch her eye. All the Bradfield boys had red hair. Only Blake’s hair was curly, though it had finally settled to a dark rust color. Troy and Harris had stick-straight hair. Troy’s was a nice auburn while Harris’ remained bright red.
But, no. Belle was fixed on Blake.
“Would you like to come inside for some cider after you finish? I could put some on the stove. It’s so cold out today, I bet you’d like to warm up before you head home,” Belle pressed, eyelashes fluttering.
“No thank you, Miss Nelson,” Blake said through gritted teeth.
Belle merely giggled and continued standing around uselessly. She wasn’t unattractive, Blake noted for the hundredth time. In fact, some fellows would probably find her real pretty with all that dark hair and big eyes and generous curves. It was just that she chased after him so hard and fast that Blake couldn’t help but run away. Besides, he couldn’t picture Belle being too happy with a husband who went off adventuring for months at a time. No, sirree. She’d have him on a tight leash where she could parade him about.
Besides, Belle was one of those girls who thought that being pretty was her contribution to the world. She rarely lifted a finger to do anything and never bothered to open a book. Her entire life was wrapped up in what she wore and how she fixed her hair. What would a fellow find to talk about with her? Blake couldn’t begin to imagine.
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got to stop in to see Iver Kennedy.” Blake was suddenly very grateful for the excuse. He’d been a bit irritated when the local lawyer had asked him to come by his office. Now, it felt like a gift from the Almighty.
Belle pouted.
“Well, I’ll go square up with your pa,” Blake said and hurried into the mercantile, giving the girl a wide berth.
With relief, Blake snapped the reins and clucked to the horses not ten minutes later. It wasn’t far to the lawyer’s office, but he didn’t want a reason to have to return to the general store and Belle’s clutches. Blake expertly guided the horses up to the hitching post outside the lawyer’s office’s small facade and set the brake before jumping down.
The office was cheerfully lit with a pair of hurricane lamps. A small fire crackled in the pot-bellied stove, giving the long, narrow room plenty of warmth.
Iver Kennedy looked up from the papers he was studying and nodded his greeting at Blake. The lawyer was tall, thin, and balding. He was never without his pocket watch chain neatly crossing his vest. Ever since he was a little boy, Blake had associated gold pocket watch chains with lawyers, thanks to Mr. Kennedy.
“Come in, come in,” the older man urged, one hand beckoning Blake towards the chair opposite his polished wooden desk. As the young rancher took his seat, Iver said, “I was glad to run into you earlier. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you in regards to your grandfather’s will.”
Blake’s eyebrows lifted. He hadn’t been aware Granddad had a will. But, of course he had. Granddad had been a practical sort of man in his earlier years. It was only later in his life that he began to eschew the traditional life.
“I assumed the ranch would be left to my father,” Blake said as he settled back into his wooden chair. “I’m surprised I was named at all.”
Iver shrugged and wiggled his head back and forth a little, “He amended his will a few years back and, I’ll be frank with you, his most recent addendum is rather odd. But, it was one of his final wishes, and so I’m making you aware of it.”
Curiosity bloomed quickly in Blake’s mind. What could his grandfather have done? A sad smile quirked Blake’s mouth. It was just like Granddad to leave a final behest for his most loyal of grandsons.
“There’s a letter for you to read,” Iver explained. The tall man pushed to his feet and went to one of his wooden filing cabinets. An efficient search resulted in his hasty return to the desk, an envelope in his hand.
Blake took the proffered note. Eagerly, he slit open the envelope with his thumb and pulled out the letter from inside. His grandfather’s familiar handwriting gave him a moment’s pause. Was this the last communication he was ever to receive from Granddad? Blake swallowed the lump in his throat and read.
My dear grandson,
Please forgive an old man this last whim. I realize that it will come as quite a mystery to you, but I give you my word that I have only your best interests at heart. You see, my dear boy, I’ve put together one last treasure hunt for you. The prize is one that I cherished above all else during my life and the thing I most want to give to you.
Iver Kennedy has the first clue, which he will give to you when you have completed the first step. You see, you can only begin the hunt when you have taken a wife. Once your marriage has taken place, Iver will give you my next letter and you can begin the search.
Choose wisely, Blake! Proverbs 18:22 says it best, “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing…”
Love, your Granddad
Blake looked up from the letter, stunned. The thrill of nostalgic delight he’d felt when he read that there was one final treasure hunt had been snuffed out immediately after he’d read the line about taking a wife. It was ridiculous! There was no possible way that Granddad could truly mean for Blake to marry just like that!
“Yes, it is unusual,” Iver said slowly, correctly interpreting the younger man’s shock.
“This can’t possibly be legal,” Blake spluttered. “There’s no way that I can be forced into a marriage! This is the nineteenth century, after all, not the Middle Ages.”
Iver looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Your grandfather was completely within his rights to put a stipulation into his will. He explained to me that there is no hurry. Should you not find an eligible bride for several years to come, I will keep his letter safe and secure.”
Suddenly, thoughts of Belle Nelson flooded Blake’s mind and he frowned. Surely Granddad hadn’t meant for him to marry Belle Nelson? Yet, she was the only girl around who would be of a mind to marry Blake.
He quickly dismissed the idea of courting one of the other local girls just so that he could get his hands on the treasure map. It would be too unkind and, though he itched to start this last adventure from his grandfather, Blake had no intention of using some poor girl in that way.
“I can’t think of any girl who I’d want to marry,” he confessed dully, hope draining away.
The lawyer stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There is another possibility for finding a bride,” he said slowly.
Blake looked up skeptically. He wasn’t so sure.
“You could take on a mail-order bride,” Iver suggested.
“A mail-order bride? Like, from a catalog? I didn’t know such things existed,” Blake snorted dismissively.
Iver put out a hand and earnestly insisted, “I assure you, it is a legitimate way to find a wife. There are women back east who, for a variety of reasons, would be willing to marry a stranger in exchange for a train ticket west.”
“What sort of woman would do that?” Blake’s lip curled. Images of desperate, deformed hags flashed before his eyes. Would he marry someone like that just to get his grandfather’s map?
“I can’t vouch for all of the potential brides, but many are ordinary women who have fallen on hard times. Some are widowed young, some are servants who want a different life, and some are orphaned. Whatever the reason, these girls feel that a marriage to a man in the east is not feasible or
desirable. I imagine some would simply like the adventure of traveling somewhere new,” Iver shrugged.
A woman who wanted an adventure? Blake hadn’t ever conceived that such a thing might be possible. Might he find a bride who enjoyed adventuring as he did? It seemed too good to hope for.
“What if she comes out here and the marriage doesn’t suit us?” Blake asked cautiously.
“There is a stipulation in Texas law which states that a marriage can be annulled if it if the annulment takes place within 72 hours of the license being taken out. So, if you and said bride take out a marriage license and marry within three days, the marriage could later be annulled. This would legally terminate the marriage and erase it, essentially saying it never took place, which would allow the woman to move on as though she’d never been married to you.” Iver’s long fingers steepled and he sat back, relishing this explanation of the law.
Blake scratched at his forehead. An annulment? That sounded an awful lot like cheating the laws of marriage.
“Would a woman really be willing to come all the way out here and marry a man who might have the marriage nullified?” Blake mused. “I can’t picture it.”
The lawyer lifted his eyebrows speculatively. “Stranger things have happened. It’s hard to predict what a woman might be willing to do. If you decide to try to find a wife this way, I can help you write an advertisement and have it placed in the right magazines and newspapers back east. It’s not particularly costly, though I should warn you that you’ll be expected to purchase a train ticket for a woman who agrees to come and marry you. Be sure you’re prepared for that.”
It was all too much for Blake to figure out. He threw up his hands and challenged, “And how do I choose a woman to marry that I’ve never met? How would I know she’d be willing to agree to my terms?”
“You take the time to exchange letters,” Iver explained all too matter-of-factly for Blake’s taste. “You write to each other and explain the situation. She might have a few terms of her own.”
Head muddled, Blake finally got to his feet, said good-bye, and only remembered to thank Iver at the last minute before stumbling out into the cold, gray Texas weather.
“Oh, Granddad, what have you gotten me into?” Blake muttered grimly as he swung up into the wagon.
No woman in her right mind was going to come to Elmswood, Texas, just to marry Blake Bradfield so that he could get his grandfather’s treasure map. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?
Chapter 3
Hartford, Connecticut - January 1885
Macie Sheldon fluttered her fan near her chin, hoping to keep her scars hidden. Mr. Brooks seemed quite keen on convincing her to dance and Macie didn’t want to scare him away. Her hair was fixed in an elegant chignon, complete with silk flowers artfully tucked in and around her elaborate curls.
She’d been squeezed into her corset so tightly that she could hardly take a deep breath. However, her ivory gown fit beautifully and she tried to convince herself it was worth the discomfort. Her stockings, gloves, and slippers were all perfectly coordinated. And Aunt Jane had lent Macie a lovely gold and emerald necklace with matching earbobs. In short, Macie couldn’t have looked better.
But none of that seemed to matter for long when eligible young men caught a glimpse of the smallpox scars which pitted her chin on the left side. Ruefully, Macie had to admit to herself that her complete and total lack of a dowry didn’t help the situation much either.
She tried to force her attention back onto Mr. Brooks’s soliloquy about his vast wealth and practically-royal bloodline. But, it was no use. He was dull as a sack of rocks.
Macie brought her fan up once again, this time to conceal her giggles at the memory of that phrase. “Dull as a sack of rocks” had been one of those things her younger brother, Teddy, would say. As they always did, thoughts of Teddy made Macie’s heart squeeze painfully. How she missed him!
“Would you care to dance, Miss Sheldon?” Mr. Brooks finally thought to ask.
Normally compliant, Macie found that she didn’t want to dance. Rather than keep her face tilted to the right as she did almost without thinking now, she closed the fan and looked the young man straight in the eyes. It was obvious the moment he noticed the pitting that spread over her lower jaw. His eyes grew wide and his smile turned wooden.
“Forgive me, but I believe I hear my mother calling.” Mr. Brooks scuttled away.
Hiding her small, relieved smile, Macie’s eyes scanned the room. When they locked with Aunt Jane’s, all thoughts of smiling evaporated. Macie sighed. Why did all middle-aged women feel that it was their sacred duty to marry off any single maiden in their acquaintance? Ever since Aunt Jane had taken in Macie five years ago, she’d been grooming the girl to catch the most eligible man she could manage. And for five years, Macie had done her best to make her aunt happy. Recently, though, something inside the young woman had begun to rebel.
“Miss Sheldon, there you are.”
Macie turned to find Miss Dorothea Coulter approaching. She smiled a friendly greeting. Miss Coulter was the sort of young lady who was pretty and wealthy and came from the right sort of family. Her entire future was destined to be bright and hopeful.
However, trailing behind her as always was Miss Phoebe Vine. Miss Vine was not quite pretty and seemed to make up for this lack by being unkind. Her claws were only retracted when it came to Miss Coulter, Macie found.
“Miss Coulter, Miss Vine, you both look lovely,” Macie said genuinely.
Miss Vine’s father was extremely wealthy and her mother made sure every penny possible was spent trying to improve their daughter’s chances at matrimony.
“I was just telling Phoebe how pretty her dress is,” said Miss Coulter.
“It’s very pretty,” echoed Macie.
Miss Vine preened. “Papa bought it for me when he was last in Paris.” She paused and examined Macie’s gown. “You wore that dress to the Christmas ball, didn’t you, Miss Sheldon?”
“And to the Harvest Ball,” Macie responded glibly.
Miss Coulter’s tinkling laugh broke the tension. “Oh, Miss Sheldon, I always enjoy your refreshing wit. There are too many stuffy people at these things.”
She gave Macie a cheerful wink and glided off into the crowd. Miss Vine’s mouth puckered sourly in an imitation of a farewell before trailing after her only friend.
Macie edged her way to a footman who was dipping punch into crystal cups. She smiled her thanks at him and then went in search of a handy bit of empty wall where she could sip her punch and not be bothered.
Once in place, she slipped a foot from her dainty dancing shoe and rubbed it against her other calf. She sighed as she watched the now-familiar pageantry whirling around her. Macie wondered if she was cut out for life among Hartford’s elite.
After all, five years of intense training couldn’t erase eighteen years of rough Texas life. These elegant balls still felt unnaturally stiff to her. And despite her intimate knowledge of exactly how to leave a calling card to send just the right message, Macie had no love of careful, stilted calls paid on dull society women who had nothing to do but gossip.
Her gloved hand reached up and touched the unfamiliar necklace around her neck. The gown Aunt Jane had chosen for her niece was fashionably low-cut, revealing a small expanse of bosom. This meant that Macie wasn’t allowed to wear the locket she was rarely without. Now that it was missing, Macie felt its absence keenly. She realized that she must touch it dozens of times in a day without ever noticing.
The locket was an oval made out of silver. It was etched on the outside with delicate roses. Inside, were three locks of hair. These locks were so important to Macie that she hadn’t opened her locket since the sad day she put them there. Just knowing the mementos of her lost family were inside was enough. She would never risk losing them.
The Scars of a Pure Heart Page 2
