Emily: Army Mail Order Bride

by Mercy Levy

  Samantha considered the deal. “Three nights in this town,” I sighed miserably. Across the street, I heard a few glasses break, a table crash down to the floor, and then, a man went tumbling backward out of the saloon. He landed on the hard hot, street, shook his head, struggled to his feet, and staggered away. Laughter exploded from inside the saloon. I heard a man yell in a drunk voice; “Ain’t even noon yet and Ol’ Hank is swapping hits for drinks! You sure showed him, Nate!”

  This seemed to please the plump man. He pointed at the man staggering up the street. “Ol’ Hank will never learn.”

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” I told Samantha in a sick voice and walked away.

  “We’ll talk more in a bit,” Samantha told the plump man and hurried after me. “What’s wrong?” she asked me in a worried voice. “You’ve been mighty quiet, girl. You’re still not upset over that Sheriff, aren’t you?”

  I stopped walking and looked into Samantha’s eyes. “I…” I struggled to speak. I dropped my head. “I can’t sing in these towns anymore, Samantha. I’m sorry. I…can’t wear this badge anymore. Matthew was right.”

  “About what?”

  “His job was to sing to drunk men using his gun…I sing to drunk men using my voice…but this isn’t what God wants, Samantha…not anymore,” I tried to explain. I didn’t think Samantha would understand, but when she placed her hand on my shoulder and I looked up into her loving eyes, I knew she did.

  “Okay, girl,” Samantha smiled, “we’ll find a different way now. I’m not sure what our way will be, though. We’re low on money again and might be sleeping on hard ground in a few nights. But God will take care of us.”

  “I can’t sing to drunk men anymore,” I whispered and hugged Samantha. “I want…to be held and loved the way a woman should be held and loved. I want a home for us. I want to raise a family. I don’t care about those fancy cities anymore. I don’t care about being a famous singer. For the last two days, I’ve been feeling God speaking to my heart.”

  “What has God been telling you?”

  “Not in words…but more like…convictions,” I whispered. “I’ve been feeling very convicted to walk away from singing and find us a home. I know we’re poor, but—”

  “I know,” Samantha hugged me tight and then said: “Well, will you look over there!”

  I let go of Samantha and looked up the hot street. I spotted Matthew riding down the street on a beautiful brown horse. He was jerking his head from side to side, searching the street with desperate eyes. He was looking for me. My heart broke and then became very scared. Matthew was searching for me because he loved me. I didn’t know how I knew that truth…I just knew. When Matthew spotted me standing beside Samantha, wearing my pretty pink dress, he raced down the street, jumped off his horse, and ran over to me. “Hello,” I managed to speak.

  “What are you doing here?” Samantha asked Matthew in a stern tone even though her eyes were filled with happiness.

  “I put my badge away,” Matthew told me. He gently reached out and took my soft hands into his. “Beth…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” Matthew’s voice was shaky. “I’ve been doing a whole lot of praying…I guess I was wrong about God not believing in me because I know He does. I guess I was just angry at myself all this time.”

  “I understand,” I said fighting back tears. A hot wing began playing on my long hair. “What are you doing here?”

  “This,” Matthew said. He leaned forward and softly kissed me. “I can’t start living until I make you my wife,” he whispered. “My days of being a lawman are over. I want to move to Boston.”

  “Boston!” Samantha exclaimed. “Why? We’re broker than a worn-down field horse.”

  “I’m not broke,” Matthew smiled into my eyes. “My brother was a smart man. He invested into lots of stuff. When he died, his money went to my folks. When they died, the money went to me. I ain’t touched a penny of that money. But now I know,” Matthew lifted his right and caressed my face, “it’s time to make my brother proud.” Matthew looked at Samantha. “Ma’am, I’d be mighty happy if you would give me permission to marry Beth.”

  “Beth is a grown woman,” Samantha informed Matthew and then winked at him.

  “Will you be my wife?” Matthew asked me in a scared voice.

  I allowed tears to stream down my face. “Will you protect me in that fancy city?” I asked.

  “Always.”

  “Will you promise to hold me tight, the way a woman needs to be held tight?” I begged.

  “Always.”

  “Will you promise to kiss me softly,” I pleaded.

  Matthew leaned down and kissed me softly. “Always.”

  “Will you promise to love me forever?”

  “Always,” Matthew smiled.

  “Then I’ll be your wife,” I told Matthew and hugged him with all my heart. Matthew wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. As he did a new song began singing in my heart. Sure, the sun was hot, the street was dry and duty, and men were getting drunk over at the saloon, but I didn’t care. My days of singing in dry, little dusty towns were over.

  <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

  I took a bow before a large crowd of people sitting in fancy seats and wearing fancy suits and dresses. Matthew was sitting in the front row, dressed in a handsome blue suit, holding our son. Samantha was sitting next to him wearing a lovely green dress. Of course, she fussed right and left about having to wear the dress. The men and women sitting before me began to stand up one by one, clapping louder and louder. Some people even began throwing roses onto the stage I was standing on. I smiled and took a second bow, hoping I wouldn’t trip on the fancy yellow and pink dress I was wearing. I looked out into the crowd, into the smiling faces, and felt happiness overtake me. But as I stared out into the crowd, I was taken back to the small, dusty towns I had once sung in. I remembered the awful, drunk, faces and the smell of rotten whiskey. But then I spotted Matthew smiling at me. He stood up, holding out son in his arms, and nodded his head proudly.

  After the performance, Matthew walked me home with our son while Samantha, the little stinker, decided to stay at the theater house and talk to a man her own age who had taken a curious interest in her. “Lovely night,” Matthew said and pointed up at a beautiful sky filled with bright stars.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed holding my son tightly in my arms. “And now we’re walking home to our lovely home.” Matthew gently put his arm around me and pulled me close. He stopped me under a low hanging tree, smiled into my eyes, and kissed me. Yes, I thought, God always created new songs for tired hearts to sing.

  The End

  The Rancher’s Mail Order Bride

  Chapter 1: Print the West

  Rhonda Dandleton was bored. That was the problem. But what more could be expected from a beautiful woman trapped in a small town outside of Atlanta—a woman whose mind was constantly on the search for a story to fill the newspaper she and her brother ran. Unfortunately, there weren't many stories worth printing in the small town she lived in, a town whose soul core of entertainment was waiting to see what new merchandise Mr. Green was going to put up his store each week. Of course, there were the rumors of a War Between the States floating in the air, but the rumors were not favorable enough to toss a fishing line at—yet. “Oh, this town,” Rhonda said in a dreadful voice.

  Andrew Dandleton tossed a pair of reading glasses down onto a hot desk and looked up at his sister who was impatiently pacing around his sweaty office wearing her usual blond ponytail draped over her usual blue dress staring down at her usual brown boots. It was clear to him that his sister was bored and suffering from a tab bit of cabin fever. “It's a hot day,” he said wiping sweat from his brown hair. “Maybe you should go down to the swimming hole?”

  Rhonda glared at her brother with sharp eyes. “I'm talking about the heat,” she snapped. “Look at you, Andrew.” Andrew looked down at his white shirt and gray trousers. Rhonda rolled her eyes. “There yo
u sit, behind the same old desk Papa use to sit behind, running a paper that people use to wipe up horse poo with. And you're as content as a bug in a rug. Well, not me, mister. I need more.”

  Andrew grinned. “I didn't know our humble paper was worthy to wipe of horse poo, sister.”

  Rhonda stopped pacing and threw her small hands onto her hips. “Don't get smart with me, Andrew Dandleton,” she fussed. “Papa left this paper to the both of us.”

  “So he did,” Andrew smiled. “Speaking of paper, when are you going to allow me to print a wedding announcement? Folks around here are wondering when you are going to let William Miller call you his wife.”

  “William Miller is an idiot who can't even saddle a horse properly,” Rhonda told Andrew in a frustrated voice. “That man refuses to wear a gun and has the backbone of a two-year-old being chased by a turtle.”

  “William is a banker,” Andrew reminded Rhonda. “His hands are meant for counting money, which he and his family have a lot of. You'd be smart to play into that money. I know William isn't a man who understands hard work, and sure, he's a little spoiled, but his family is wealthy and a smart woman would take advantage of that.”

  “No thank you,” Rhonda said and wiped her forehead with her right hand. “Andrew, I believe that love can't be purchased. Love has to come from the heart. My husband is out there waiting for me, and someday we'll find each other. I just have to be patient, that's all.”

  “The hopeless horse running across an empty plain,” Andrew sighed, “searching for a silly dream. Sister, women marry for money in this part of the world. And Georgia is full of rich families to marry into you. You're a beautiful woman, but very foolish.”

  “Why? Because I believe in love?”

  “Because you're beautiful and unmarried,” Andrew said in a disappointed tone. “Listen,” he said leaning forward in a wooden chair that creaked loud enough to crack and eardrum, “since we're on the topic of love, I might have a story for you to chase after if you're interested.”

  “Oh?” Rhonda said and hurried over to Andrew's desk. “Toss the potato on my plate.”

  Andrew reached into the top right-hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a letter. “You know Heather Morrow, right?”

  Rhonda sat down on the edge of Andrew's desk and looked out of a dusty window at a back lot full of sagging, hot, trees. “Mr. Morrow owns the feed store, Andrew. Of course, I know the man's daughter. I sure wish I didn't. She's a rude, outspoken, little snot. Why do you ask?”

  Andrew tossed the letter in his hand down onto his desk. “Mr. Morrow came into my office yesterday and showed me a bunch of letters his daughter has been receiving from a man in Nevada. The man Heather has been writing is supposed to be this big-time rancher who is looking for a wife.”

  Rhonda raised her eyebrows. “Oh?” she asked intrigued. “What's the matter? Can't poor old dear Heather find a husband right here in town?”

  Andrew shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Anyway, Mr. Morrow asked me to investigate this rancher.”

  Rhonda's excitement drained from her heart. “Is that it?” she asked as if someone stole the last steak in town. “You want me to send a few telegrams to Nevada?”

  “I want you to go to Nevada,” Andrew corrected his sister. “Rhonda, women are heading west to marry complete strangers. This fella writing Heather could be anyone for all we know. Maybe the fella is a wealthy rancher, but why would wealthy rancher be searching for a bride all the way in Georgia? I want you to go find out who this fella is and get the truth. Once we have the truth, well then, we'll publish the truth and let this town know that we care about our citizens.”

  Rhonda rubbed her soft chin. “You know what,” she said in a curious voice, “you may be onto something. Sure, I'll travel to Nevada and conduct some investigating.”

  Andrew stared at Rhonda. “When you arrive, just pretend that you're Heather, okay? Don't let anyone know you're a reporter from Georgia. I'll have Mr. Morrow send a telegram to Nevada ahead of time announcing your arrival.”

  Rhonda stood up and walked to the dusty window. “Andrew, I'm going to need money for this trip and a few pretty dresses.”

  Andrew sighed. “I knew you were going to empty the bank of me. But don't worry, I've managed to save a few dollars over the years. I'll cover the expenses.”

  “Save a few dollars?” Rhonda asked. “Andrew, you're married to a very wealthy woman. You have more money than sense.”

  Andrew shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. “When it comes to marriage, money is common sense. Now, run on down the street to Mrs. Mulkey's Boarding House and start packing. I'll go buy your passage ticket, and later we can get the dresses you want and have dinner at the hotel with Susie.”

  Rhonda barely heard her brother. Her eyes were reaching for Nevada, for a new story, a new adventure, a new...life. “Sure,” she said in a low voice, “dinner with Susie.”

  Outside, the sun set high overhead, casting unbearable heat onto a small town filled with people who sometimes forgot that love mattered.

  <<<<<>>>>>

  “How drab,” Rhonda said in a disappointed tone as she stepped off a stagecoach onto a cold, dirt street lined with wooden buildings that were extremely run down and on the verge of decay. The only building that stood strong and attractive was a two-story hotel standing alone at the south end of town. “Is this Green Cliff?” she asked an old man who didn't seem very bothered by the icy winds screaming up and down the street.

  “Yep,” the old man answered Rhonda, reaching and up and taking a brown suitcase from a lean man who looked meaner than a rattlesnake. “Little towns like this are scattered all across the Nevada. Virginia City and Carson City are where most folks go to.”

  Rhonda bowed her head against a strong gust of wind. When the gust passed, she raised her exhausted eyes up and studied the old man. “Does the name Roger Steward mean anything to you? He's supposed to be a very wealthy rancher living in this area of the country?”

  The old man sat Rhonda's suitcase down at his feet, rubbed his chin, and then shook his head. “Little lady, a man named Mintfield runs this area.” Looking at Rhonda with curious eyes, the old man tossed a thumb toward the hotel. “Hotel is down the street. Is, uh, Mr. Mintfield going to meet you in town?”

  “I'm not looking for a Mr. Mintfield,” Rhonda told the old man in a firm voice, “I'm looking for Roger Steward,” she finished and picked up her suitcase. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  “Stay indoors, little lady,” the old man yelled after Rhonda. “Bad snow storm is on its way!”

  Rhonda heard the old man's warning but didn't reply to him. She walked to the hotel feeling the icy winds grabbing at the blue coat she was wearing. Cold, hungry, and a bit irritable and anxious for a soft bed and a hot meal, Rhonda climbed up a set of wooden stairs onto a veranda that seemed lonesome and forgotten. “And I thought my little town back in Georgia was drab,” Rhonda whispered and pushed her way through the front door of the hotel, walking into a warm lobby that was obviously decorated by a man and not a woman.

  “Help you?” a man asked Rhonda.

  Rhonda approached a wooden counter and sat down her suitcase. “I would like a room...oh, say, for seven days.”

  The man behind the counter was Mr. Paul Smith, a sixty-eight-year-old retired blacksmith who had bought the hotel from a gambler who had won the deed from the original owner in a poker game. Honest, kind and warm—yet a man of very few words—Mr. Smith smiled at Rhonda. “That'll be just fine,” he said.

  Rhonda quickly scanned Mr. Smith's thick gray hair sitting above a tough face that was no stranger to work and danger. It seemed funny to her that such a man was wearing a brown suit instead of dirty ranch clothes. “Do you know a man by the name of Roger Steward?”

  Paul slowly turned the guest registration book sitting on the front counter toward Rhonda. “What do you want with Roger?” he asked in a careful voice.

  “So you do know this man,” Rhond
a said ignoring Paul's question. Pulling off a pair of white gloves, she glanced around the front lobby. “Brown, brown, and brown. I assume you supervised the decorating committee?”

  Paul scratched the back of his neck. “I guess the place could use a woman's touch,” he admitted.

  “Yes, it could,” Rhonda agreed. “Perhaps before I leave, I could give this lobby a hint of style and taste,” she said. “Now, back to Roger Steward. Where might I find this man?”

  “Ma’am, Roger Steward is a decent sort of fella. It ain't none of my mind what you want with him, but please don't cause him trouble.”

  Rhonda focused her eyes on Paul's face. “I take it Roger Steward is not a wealthy rancher? From what I learned from the stagecoach driver, a Mr. Mintfield is the man with the money around here.”

  Paul didn't like Steve Mintfield's name mentioned in his hotel. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Rhonda. “Little lady, don't mention that name in my hotel.”

  “Oh?” Rhonda asked and held back from asking an obvious question. “I understand. Now, where may I find Roger Steward?”

  “His ranch is north of town. Just keep on the old gold trail, and it'll take you right past his ranch.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Rhonda told Paul. “All I want right now is a warm meal and a soft bed.”