by Kit Morgan
“I do not want to be here! I was forced into this!”
Both men stared at her, perplexed. “Whaddaya mean, forced?” Forrest asked. How does one force a woman to become a mail-order bride? Had she been threatened somehow? He took her by the upper arms. “Who?”
Now the tears came. “I … that is … my father …”
Rev. Bolen sighed. “Ah, another sad tale, no doubt. You’re not the first bride to have to marry under difficult circumstances.” He screwed up his face in thought. “Er … you aren’t with child, are you?”
“What?!” she screeched. “No!”
Both men sighed in relief, ignoring her venomous glare. “Let’s get on with it then, shall we?” Forrest asked.
“Certainly.” Rev. Bolen replied. “Wait in my office while I run next door and fetch my wife – she’ll be our witness.” He waved them into the office then went out the door and disappeared.
Forrest crossed to the other side of the room, Miss Stout’s hand still tight in his grip, though she kept trying to pull it loose. “Second thoughts?”
“You do not want to know my thoughts at the moment, Mr. Lang.”
Her sharp tone got his attention, and he turned to face her again. “If you got some, I suggest you get over ‘em right quick. I aim to get married today, and that’s that. ‘Sides, we need to be home before suppertime.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Gotta feed the stock, and make sure the coyotes don’t get any more of my chickens.”
She cringed. Maybe she didn’t like chickens. “Lovely.”
He was about to comment when Rev. Bolen returned, his wife right behind him. “All right, folks.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Let’s have ourselves a wedding!”
Chapter 2
Minutes later in the sanctuary, Effie tried not to roll her eyes. Did the man have to look and sound so happy? The preacher’s wife was just as joyful-looking – how revolting. Didn’t they know this meant the end of her life, that she’d be forever chained to this wretch who cared more about his precious chickens than his new bride? Who cares about chickens, for crying out loud?!
“Do you have the ring?” the preacher asked her groom.
“Right here.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a simple band. Gold? Definitely not – brass if she was lucky. She just hoped it wouldn’t turn her finger green or give her some sort of fever.
The minister began to speak, and the next thing she knew, Mr. Lang was repeating something after him. This wasn’t anything like the weddings she’d attended in New York, with the elaborate receptions and dinners afterward. It didn’t matter that she lacked a wedding dress – the tree of a man next to her reciting his vows was too concerned about his chickens to let her change into one anyway. There would be no reception, no honeymoon in Paris or Rome, no days spent opening gifts, writing notes of thanks on pretty cards, no parties, no …
“Miss Stout?”
“Wh-what?” she answered the minister with a start.
“Repeat after me,”
“Do I have to?” she said without thinking.
Mr. Lang frowned at her. “You’d do best to repeat what the man says and remember it.”
She pressed her lips together and frowned. “Fine.”
The minister and his wife exchanged a quick look before he said again, “Repeat after me.”
Effie did – every word that came out of his mouth. She had some others she’d have liked to say, but they weren’t pleasant. It was all she could do to keep from shouting her frustration to the world. But what good would it do?
Before she knew it, Rev. Bolen was uttering those fateful words: “I now pronounce you man and wife. Mr. Lang, you may kiss your bride.”
Kiss! Oh good grief! Effie looked a warning at her new husband. The last thing she wanted was to be kissed by this man. But she was his wife now – he could do what he wished. Her heart raced as her rage at her preposterous situation grew.
He bent to her, his face blank, gently brushed a kiss against her lips and straightened again.
She blinked at him a few times. She’d envisioned him pulling her against him and forcing his lips on hers, no matter if the minister was right there. But he hadn’t – in fact, he’d been almost gallant. Unconsciously she touched the tender skin at the corner of her mouth.
He stared down at her, his face still unreadable, then took her hand again, reached into his pocket and handed the minister a few coins. “Much obliged, Preacher Bolen. I’ll see you in a few months. You know how it is for me – I gotta stay on top of things.”
“M-months?!” Effie blurted.
They all ignored her. “Yes, we understand, Mr. Lang,” said Mrs. Bolen. “It’s our hope, however, that you won’t deprive us of your lovely wife or yourself too long.”
“No, course not. We’ll come back into town in July.”
“J-J-J-July?” Effie squeaked.
Mr. Lang … make that her husband, turned to her. “No need to come back to town ‘fore then.”
“You’ll be at the Fourth of July celebration, won’t you?” Rev. Bolen asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” her new husband said. He looked at Effie again and cocked his head. “They have a dance each year, too.”
She perked up. A dance? Maybe she wasn’t outside the bounds of civilization after all.
“But I don’t dance,” he quickly added. “We’ll prob’ly skip that part.”
Effie wanted to cry. That one small light in her future, and he’d just snuffed it out. From the sounds of it, she’d be stuck with this oaf for months at a time in the middle of nowhere, hardly venturing into town save for supplies. Could her life have turned any worse?
“You could learn,” the preacher’s wife scolded.
“Learn to dance – me?” He laughed. “Not a chance.”
Effie almost shook with anger and despair, but she’d used up all her tears. This was it. She’d die of loneliness surrounded by chickens. Marrying that dullard Walter Durridge now looked like becoming one of the crowned heads of Europe in comparison. How had it come to this?
Ignorant of her thoughts, Mr. Lang gently tugged at her arm, led her down the church aisle and out into the bright sunshine. “Well, Mrs. Lang,” he said with a smile. “Let’s you and I go home.”
“Home” consisted of a two-room cabin, a barn, a corral, the expected chicken coop, a couple of small outbuildings and a privy that looked ready to fall over any second. Hardly the stuff of opulent living. But to hear Forrest Lang talk, you’d think it was a Fifth Avenue mansion. He spoke proudly of it on the ride home, leading Effie to believe her horrid turn of fate wouldn’t be as bad as she’d thought.
She made a mental note to never get her hopes up again. Ever.
Mr. Lang – Forrest – jumped out of the wagon, came around to her side and held up his arms. “Time to set your feet on the ground, Missus.”
Effie swallowed hard as the chickens in the coop ran toward the wire separating them from their master, clucking and scratching at the ground as if happy to see him. Maybe they were. She looked at his large, callused hands and carefully stood.
“I know it’s a ways from town, but you’ll get used to it.”
“A ways” was an understatement. Her stage had arrived at ten in the morning, and they were married and headed out a little after eleven. It was now nearly five o’clock if her guess was right. “How often did you say you go to town?”
“Only when I gotta,” he said.
She nodded and, too tired to argue, let herself fall into his waiting hands. He swung her out of the wagon and gently set her on the ground. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He turned to the house. “We need to unload the supplies and get ‘em put away, but …”
“But what?”
He didn’t answer. He grabbed a small sack out of the back of the wagon, looked at her, then swept her into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she screeched.
“Oh,” she said flatly.
He carried her to the door, sack still in hand, bent his knees enough to reach the knob and opened it. “Welcome home, Mrs. Lang.”
She grimaced. “Just get it over with.”
He frowned. “Try not to sound too excited.”
She looked away. She supposed her quip was uncalled for, but he clearly had no idea …
He carried her inside and let her slide out of his arms to her feet. “Well, I hope it suits you. If not, then …” He shrugged.
She looked at him in a new light. Her earlier remark had obviously stung. “I’m sorry.”
He walked to a table and tossed the sack on it. “I admit, it ain’t much, but it’s mine. I built everything with my two hands and I’m mighty proud of that.”
Effie took a good look around. A stone fireplace stood in the middle of one wall, a worn sofa and a rocking chair in front of it. A cookstove, dry sink, hutch and dining table filled most of the left side of the room. On the right side sat a stuffed chair that matched the sofa and – much to her surprise – two tall shelves full of books that took up the entire wall.
“I like to read,” he said when he saw the shocked look on her face. “That surprise you?”
She swallowed hard, embarrassed. But, yes, she was surprised. “I … didn’t think you had time to read.”
“What else is there to do in the evening?” he said matter-of-factly and headed for the door. “C’mon. We need to unload.”
With a sigh she followed him outside. Truth be told, she didn’t want to help, as if doing so would solidify that she no longer had servants at her beck and call. Now she’d be the servant – his servant. Aside from plotting revenge on the unknown man responsible for her predicament, she’d also spent an unhealthy portion of her trip picturing herself chained to a hot cookstove, among other horrible domestic injustices heaped upon her by some miserable farmer or rancher.
She thought of the cookstove inside the house and cringed.
Her new husband was already taking things out of the wagon. He slung a sack of flour over one shoulder, a sack of who-knows-what over the other and headed back to the house. Maybe helping him unload wouldn’t be so bad. She was curious as to what sort of supplies he’d brought home. She studied several smaller sacks made of burlap, grabbed a few and followed.
“You’ll find some jars in the hutch for the salt, flour, sugar and coffee,” Forrest called. “I’ll store the rest after you fill them.”
Effie glanced at the various sacks he’d set on the table and did the same with hers. She pointed at the smaller ones. “What are in these?”
He smiled as he went to her and picked one up. “I bought you a few things. I guess you could call ‘em wedding presents.” He handed it to her.
She took it from him, opened it and was assailed with the sweet scent of peppermint candies. “Thank you.”
He looked at her and she expected him to smile, proud that he’d pleased her. But no, he just stared at her and said, “You’re welcome.” He then pointed at the other sacks. “I got you some spices for cooking, and there’s a can o’ cocoa in there somewhere. Stuff like that.”
She looked at him as her heart pounded in her chest. He made it sound like these were luxuries – and out here, maybe they were. “You got me cocoa?”
Now he did smile. “I didn’t mind the extra expense, seeing as it’s our wedding day.”
She swallowed hard. “Extra expense?”
“Best make it last. Remember, we prob’ly won’t be heading back to town ‘til ‘round the fourth of July. Let’s finish unloading.” He walked out.
Effie looked at the various sacks on the dining table and fought a shudder. It might be weeks before she saw another human being other than her husband, and he a stranger. How was she to endure it?
Outside, her husband had already stacked supplies near the rear of the wagon. “Take these inside and put ‘em on the table. Some can be stored in the hutch and cupboard. The rest I’ll put down in the root cellar.”
“Root cellar?”
He hefted a box of potatoes. “You know what a root cellar is, don’tcha?”
She swallowed hard. “I’m afraid not. What’s it for?”
He stared at her, blinked a few times and shook himself. “You mean to tell me you don’t know what a root cellar is?!”
The man was starting to get on her nerves. “Yes. I mean to tell you exactly that.”
“Where are you from again?”
“The Upper East Side of New York City.”
“No, no. I mean … never mind.” Shaking his head, he headed toward the house with the box.
She picked up a couple more bags and followed, wondering what sort of roots one kept in a root cellar? Tree roots? No, that made no sense … except maybe as firewood. But then, why would one keep food with the firewood?
Back inside he removed a few potatoes and set them in the dry sink. “You can cook these up for supper and use some for breakfast tomorrow.”
Effie’s eyes went wide. “Supper?” She practically choked on the word.
He looked at her like she was deranged. “Yeah - you know, cooking? You do cook, don’t you?”
Effie stood straight, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye, but her voice carried the tone of defeat. “No.”
Chapter 3
Forrest shut his eyes tight against her words. He’d made a terrible mistake. When he opened them, his new bride was trying to look defiant and not quite pulling it off. He sighed. Maybe she was thinking she’d made a terrible mistake too.
He’d grown up in a small town in Missouri near the Iowa border, and made his way out west as a cowpuncher. He didn’t know much about New York other than parts of the state were very much like Oregon. But his bride didn’t come from somewhere in the countryside – she came from New York City. The city, the biggest in the nation. And her not knowing what a root cellar was or how to cook told him she must’ve had servants. Wonderful. He certainly hoped she could learn.
Problem was, he didn’t have time to teach her. Which meant that she wouldn’t have time to learn – she’d just have to teach herself. In the meantime, he hoped he didn’t suffer too many bellyaches between now and when he could get to town and buy her one of those cookery books. At least she could read – that much he was sure of.
He wondered what else she couldn’t do. “You sew?”
“Embroider.”
He rubbed his chin with one hand. “Ever darn a man’s socks?”
“Absolutely not.” She said it as if it were a point in her favor.
“Made a pie?”
“Heavens, no.”
“Slopped hogs?”
She gasped. “Over my dead body!”
He put his hands on his hips and sighed in frustration. “Land sakes, woman, what can you do?”
“I … I … can play the piano,” she stammered.
“Don’t got a piano.”
“Well then, I can embroider.”
“You said that.”
Her eyes darted all over the cabin’s interior. She was clearly flustered. “I speak French.”
“I speak some Sioux, but that don’t mean we can speak to each other, now does it?”
She squared her shoulders again. “We’re speaking perfectly well at the moment.”
“True, but I ain’t hearing nothing good.”
She gasped in indignation. “I beg your pardon?”
He began holding up fingers. “You can’t cook. You can’t sew. You don’t know how to feed stock. I’m gonna jump to the end of the list and say you’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life, am I right?”
She looked him up and down, her mouth pressed into a firm line. “In New York I was a debutante. We had maids, both upstairs and downstairs. My sisters and I had a ladies’ maid. We had a cook, a butler and ….” She stomped her foot, her hand
s balled into fists. “Of course I didn’t work!”
He looked up at the ceiling. “Lord.” There was no response, so he sighed and looked at his new, incapable wife again. “Well, Miss Deb-U-Taunt, whatever that is, you’re gonna hafta work now. That is, if you plan on eating.” He went to the dry sink, pulled out the potatoes, went to the hutch and took out a bowl. He pulled out his pocket knife, unfolded it and tossed it on the table. “The first thing to do is peel these and cut ‘em up. I’ll teach you how to fry them when I get back.”
She watched him cross the room to the front door. “Where are you going?” she asked with a hint of panic.
“To feed the hogs.”
“You mean … pigs?” she said weakly.
“No, hogs. Why else would I ask you if you’d ever slopped hogs? Don’t you know the difference?”
She shook her head as her lower lip trembled. “I’m afraid not. They all taste the same to me.”
Forrest stared at her for a moment, incredulous, but couldn’t help smiling. Yeah, he supposed they did taste the same – and probably the only time she’d ever encountered one was in pieces on her plate. “The difference is, hogs are bigger,” he said more gently. “A lot bigger. Now I gotta go take care of ‘em – you take care of the ‘taters.” He went out, making sure to close the door behind him.
He sighed in frustration as he walked. What had he been thinking, sending away for this woman? He wondered if she was crying yet, thinking the same about him. He was as far from those fancy city dudes as one could get. He was a hog farmer, nothing more and nothing less, but he felt he had a lot to offer a woman. The right woman, that is. Unfortunately, he was pretty sure the one currently in his house wasn’t it. Where did that leave him?
He’d been right about his earlier assumption – she hadn’t just had servants, but an army of them. So he’d saddled himself with a spoiled rich girl that probably became a mail-order bride to escape having to marry someone she detested. At this point, she likely wished she’d gone through with it, whether she’d liked the man or not. At least then she wouldn’t be way out here, married to a man whom she was ill-suited.
