Emily: Army Mail Order Bride

by Mercy Levy

  “Dining room is through that door,” Paul said and pointed to a white door. “My wife will make you dinner. I hope steak and potatoes are filling enough?”

  “Add a little bread, and we're in business,” Rhonda smiled warmly.

  “Please sign,” Paul told Rhonda and fetched her the key to room #7. “Freshly painted room. You'll like it.”

  Rhonda took the room key, grabbed her suitcase, and trudged up a wooden staircase to a room that, to her relief, was clean and had a soft bed. After dinner, she made a few notes in a personal notebook and fell asleep listening to powerful, icy, winds scream and howl outside of the window in her room.

  The following morning, she wandered downstairs into the dining room, ate a warm breakfast of eggs and hot pancakes along with coffee, and then found Paul putting wood into the fireplace sitting in the front lobby. “If I'm mistaken, I think I'm the only guest in your hotel.”

  Paul tossed a log onto the fire, brushed off his hands, and stood up. The fireplace was roaring and throwing out the sweet smell of pine into the air. “You're wanting me to take you over to Roger's place?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Rhonda said, appreciating that Paul understood how to cut to the chase. “I can pay you.”

  “Keep your money,” Paul replied in a kind voice. “Mrs. Smith and I are doing just fine.”

  “So you'll take me to the ranch?”

  “As a favor for a paying guest,” Paul agreed.

  “Thank you,” Rhonda smiled and hurried upstairs to grab her coat.

  An hour later, after Paul hitched a poor looking brown horse to a run-down buggy, Rhonda was on her way to Roger Steward's ranch. “A bit cold today,” Paul called over a strong wind as the horse pulled the buggy down the front street of town.

  Rhonda studied the small buildings. She saw the general store, a doctor's office, a feed and grain store, a dress store, a jail, and even an office housing an attorney, yet each building seemed deserted and lonesome, empty of life. “I can handle the cold,” Rhonda promised. Paul nodded his head and didn't say another word until he pulled the buggy up to a one bedroom shack. “This is it?” Rhonda asked.

  “Yep,” Paul said, glancing up at a large tree looming over the shack. The land surrounded the shack was rough but beautiful; Rhonda saw an open field to the east of the shack, a few large boulders spread out here and there, some rough brush, cold trees, and a worn-down horse corral that looked like it might fall over if a bird landed on it.

  “And somebody actually lives here?”

  “Yep,” Paul said again. “Sit tight.”

  Rhonda watched Paul climbed down from the buggy, stroll up to the shack, and knock on the front door. “Roger, it's Paul Smith. You home?”

  A minute later, the front door to the shack opened, and a handsome young man Rhonda's age appeared. “Paul?” he asked.

  Paul tossed a thumb at Rhonda. “Young lady sitting out there in the buggy wants to see you.”

  Roger moved his head past Paul and looked toward Rhonda. He saw a woman whose beauty was powerful enough to tame a stampede of angry bulls. His heart began racing. Surely the woman had to be the person he was sending letters to. “What is she doing here?” he asked Paul in a scared voice and quickly tucked in a gray shirt into a pair of brown work pants.

  “That's your business,” Paul answered and waved at Rhonda. “Young lady, you can come over.”

  Rhonda carefully climbed down from the buggy and walked up to the shack. With curious and watchful eyes, she examined Roger's face. “Roger Steward?” she asked.

  “Are you...Heather Morrow?” Roger asked Rhonda.

  “Are you a wealthy rancher?” Rhonda asked back and pointed her eyes at the shack. “Your letters indicated that you were a wealthy man.”

  Paul looked at Roger. Roger shoved his hands down into the front pockets of his pants as a gust of wind grabbed at his short black hair. “I...uh...there's coffee on the stove. How about a cup?”

  “I gotta be getting back to the hotel,” Paul told Roger and looked over his shoulder at Rhonda. “How long do you think you'll be?”

  “I'm sure Mr. Steward will be more than happy to ride me back into town. Isn't that right Mr. Steward?” Rhonda asked.

  “I...” Roger kicked at the ground. “Sure, I can take you back into town. I have a buggy.”

  “Terrific,” Rhonda beamed. Mr. Roger Steward was going to provide her with an excellent story that was surely going to make her small town back in Georgia drool for more.

  “Okay, then,” Paul said and walked away.

  “Uh...come inside, if you want,” Paul said in a low voice that was full of shame.

  Rhonda smiled and stepped into a dimly lit room being warmed by a small fireplace. The smell of a delicious stew cooking over the fire in a black cast iron pot filled the room. The room itself, Rhonda saw, was neat, clean, and well organized. On the north wall, she saw a stove, on the south wall, a bookshelf, on the west wall a bed, and on the east wall a sitting area. In the middle of the room stood a decent but humble kitchen table. “May I?” Rhonda asked and pointed at the kitchen table.

  “Oh, sure, yeah,” Roger said closing the front door. Nervous as a tick and ashamed that he had been caught in a lie, he wasn't sure what to do or say. Hoping to have built up his ranch before the woman he was writing in Georgia in arrived, Roger had hit some tough times.

  “Mr. Steward,” Rhonda said sitting down, “My name isn't Heather Morrow. My name is Rhonda Dandleton.”

  Roger stared at Rhonda. “Ma’am?”

  “I'm here on behalf of Heather Morrow's father who asked my brother and me to investigate you,” Rhonda explained. “Please, the coffee.”

  Roger bit down on his lower lip as his stomach tightened and hurried to make two cups of coffee. “Mam, I'm afraid I don’t understand?”

  Rhonda watched Roger nervously pour coffee into two small blue cups. “It's very simple,” Rhonda said accepting her cup of coffee from Roger. “You lied about being a wealthy rancher.”

  Roger sat his cup of coffee down onto the kitchen table. “I...” he tried to defend his lie, but knew he had been caught red-handed. “Yeah, I lied,” he sighed deeply. “Truth is, I was hoping to build up my ranch, but last winter really took its toll on me.”

  It was immediately clear to Rhonda that Roger Steward wasn't a bad man who intentionally lied. The truth, she saw, was that the man had hoped to become what he told Heather Morrow he was. Also, Rhonda noticed as she stared into Roger's worried face, the truth was that a lonely heart had dared to grasp at hope and had failed. “I'm here to take you to prison,” Rhonda told Roger in a nice voice. “Please, relax.”

  Roger looked down at Rhonda. The woman was beautiful, intelligent, and captivating. And what was he? A man who could barely keep his head above water. “I'm sure sorry I lied,” he told Rhonda. “I... well, I figured I could build up my ranch, that's all. It's kinda been tough since my brother died and all.”

  “Your brother died?” Rhonda asked and took a sip of coffee.

  Roger nodded his head. “Matthew and I worked the ranch together, but last spring he got threw from his horse and hit his head against a rock. I was writing Ms. Morrow by then.” Roger pulled out a chair and slowly sat down. “Honest ma’am, I would have never lied to that lady. Matthew and me, we were doing real good. It was Mathew's idea that I even start looking for a wife. He wanted to help me build up the ranch and get it ready for Ms. Morrow and then move up to the Oregon territory… Matthew didn't want to leave me alone.”

  “I see,” Rhonda said and put down her coffee. “By the time your brother died, Heather Morrow was under the impression you were wealthy.”

  Roger nodded his head. “That was Matthew's doing, too. He figured I could get a wife by lying about how much money I had. My brother, well, he meant well.”

  Rhonda looked deeply into Roger's eyes. “Your brother could read and write, but you can't, right?” she asked.

  Roger felt as if Rhonda had punched
him in the gut. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “The bookshelf over there isn't holding any books. Instead, it's holding bags of flour and sugar.”

  Roger tossed his eyes toward the bookshelf. “You're a very smart woman. I guess you're gonna tell Ms. Morrow the truth, huh? I mean, that's your job, right?”

  Rhonda looked down at her coffee and then back up at Roger. “That stew smells delicious. I've already eaten breakfast, but I’m hungry all over again. Perhaps we can talk over a bowl of stew apiece...if you have enough, of course.”

  “Oh, sure, I have enough. I always make plenty. Guess I can't get used to cooking just for myself. I'm kinda used to cooking for me and my brother.”

  Rhonda heard sadness in Roger's voice. “I'm sorry.”

  “Me, too,” Roger said and stood up. As he did, a powerful gust of wind struck the shack. “Storm is coming,” he said and shook his head. “I better get to the stew.”

  Chapter 2: Stormy Days

  Rhonda took a bite of stew full of potatoes, carrots, and fish. “Very good,” she said. “Is that fish I taste?”

  “Not much money for meat,” Roger admitted lifting a spoon full of stew to his mouth. “I'm all out of cattle right now, and Old Man Mintfield is refusing to sell to me. He wants my land...I guess he'll get in the end. Not much hope for nothing else.”

  Rhonda watched Roger eat. Something about the man touched her heart. Was it his honesty, his handsome face, or his poor heart? She wasn't certain. “Where would you go if you lost your ranch?” she asked.

  Roger shrugged his shoulders. “My folks are buried here,” he explained. “Matthew and I came here when I was ten years old when this town was nothing more than a few wagons gathered together. My Pa came out here looking for gold.”

  “Oh?” Rhonda asked and then quickly caught her voice. “I see.”

  Roger kinda smiled to himself. “What you mean is to say is that my Pa struck dirt instead of gold.”

  “Yes. I'm sorry,” Rhonda apologized.

  “Don't be,” Roger told Rhonda. “Matthew and me, we knew Pa was striking dirt long before Pa finally gave up.”

  “Your Pa never found any gold?” Rhonda asked in a sad voice.

  “Just a little,” Roger admitted. “He put his findings up for me and Matthew. That's how we had enough money to start this ranch. But, no, Pa never struck it rich. My mother, she was a faithful woman, though. She stood by my Pa until the Lord called her home.”

  “The Lord?” Rhonda asked.

  “Jesus,” Roger smiled. “I ain't sad that my folks are with Jesus. I miss them at times, and I miss my brother too, but I know they're all okay and waiting for me.”

  Rhonda stared at Roger. Even though her own parents had been Christians, she and her brother had drifted away from their faith years ago. Hearing the name of Jesus spoken tugged at her heart. “You're talking about Heaven, right?”

  “Sure,” Roger said and took another bite of stew. “I've come to realize that Jesus knows best for me. If I lose my ranch, then it's because I need to move on down the road somewhere. Jesus will make a way for me.”

  “Are you really sure of that?” Rhonda asked. “I'm sorry, Mr. Steward, but it seems to me that a person has to make his, or her, own path in life. Faith is...acceptable, but it mustn't dominate one’s ability to think for his, or her, self.”

  Roger put down his spoon. “Ms. Dandleton, Jesus is everything. He is the living Word of God. If its one thing I know, it's that life is sure short, but life with Jesus is forever.”

  “Because your folks told you that, right? You can't read, so you haven't read the Bible. Your opinions are based on what others have told you.”

  “Nope and no ma’am,” Roger objected. “My mother read the Bible to me faithfully every day, and so did my brother. Now, Matthew wasn't a great reader, and he sure messed up a word or two, but he was able to pick up where our mother left off.”

  Rhonda nibbled on a spoonful of stew as the winds outside grew fiercer. “I'm sorry,” she told Roger, “but I just believe that faith and personal living are two different paths that a person must walk.”

  “How can a person live without applying faith to their lives?” Roger asked confused, staring across the table into Rhonda's eyes. Past Rhonda's beauty, he saw a lonely woman—a very lonesome woman who was lost inside of her own heart. “I guess everybody rides a rough saddle sometimes.”

  “I just know what I want out of life, that's all.”

  “And what is that?” Roger asked.

  Rhonda began to say that all she wanted was love but stopped herself. Deep down, she knew real love began and ended with Jesus. Yet, because she had lost her mother to cancer, her need to seek the love of Jesus had been locked up inside of her heart. “I want what everyone wants...happiness,” she smiled weakly at Roger and quickly changed the subject. “So, I have the truth about you, and I know what kind of story I'll write when I return home.”

  Roger rubbed the back of his neck with a worried hand. “Ms. Morrow isn't going to marry me, is she?”

  “You're better off,” Rhonda promised Roger. “I doubt Heather Morrow has been being very honest herself. The truth us, Ms. Morrow is a sour weed that will never grow roses, Mr. Steward. If it wasn't for her father making a personal request, I wouldn't have traveled all the way to Nevada. But Mr. Morrow is a good and decent man.”

  “Maybe it's for the best,” Roger said and looked down at his stew. “Matthew was doing all the reading and writing for me. I just kinda went off what he was telling me. He made Ms. Morrow sound awful good, but I could tell he was stretching the truth a ways.”

  “I'm sure your brother meant well,” Rhonda assured Roger.

  Roger nodded his head. “I sure wish I knew how to read and write. Then I could have told the truth and sent honest letters.”

  “Why haven't you learned to read or write?” Rhonda asked curiously.

  Roger clasped his hands together and grew silent for a minute. “I was blind up until I was eight years old. And then one day, this preacher fella laid hands on me and...Well, my sight just suddenly came back to me. I remember the first thing I saw was my mother's face...she sure was crying up a storm, but her tears were happy.”

  Rhonda didn't know what to say. Was Roger giving her a tall tale or was the man speaking the truth. “A man laid hands on you and your sight was...restored?”

  “Yep,” Roger said in a simple voice. “Just like in the Bible when Jesus laid His Hands on folk and healed them.”

  “You're...stretching the truth. I'm sure there had to be a medical reason.”

  Roger shrugged his shoulders. “Don't see how.”

  “There must have been...I mean, sure, in the Bible we read about Jesus giving people their sight back, but...oh, never mind,” Rhonda said in an aggravated voice. “If you were eight when you regained your sight, why didn't you learn to read or write?”

  “Work,” Roger explained. “My Pa was busy working, and my mother was working her fingers to the bone. Only at night did she have the time to read to me before bed. You're not from this part of the country, ma’am. It takes a mighty heap of work to survive out here. A strong back is what a man needs, not a book.”

  “Your brother learned to read and write, though?”

  “Matthew was taught how to read and write by a Christian school teacher. But she didn't stick around long. Matthew was mighty smart, though, and took want he learned and kept throwing ropes at it until he had himself a book tied down to the ground.”

  Rhonda enjoyed Roger's way of explaining his answers. The man was decent and honest—yet, he was very lonesome, she saw. It wasn't fair that a man like Roger had to be lonesome. But what could she do? She had her story. All she had to do was return back to Georgia and write it, leaving Roger far behind in his little shack. But was that fair? Surely there was something she could do. And then an idea struck her mind. “Mr. Steward, would you permit me to teach you how to read and write?”

  R
oger stared at Rhonda in disbelief. “You want to teach me how to read and write?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Rhonda smiled. “There's really no rush for me to return back to Georgia. What will I do after I write my story, anyway? I'll just start pacing around my brother's office fussing about how drab our little town is.”

  “I...uh...well,” Roger said becoming very afraid of the idea that a beautiful woman like Rhonda wanted to teach him how to read and write, “I…got a good bit of work to do.”

  “Sure, you better get outside and start rounding up all your cattle,” Rhonda told Roger. “Or maybe you better start running a new fence line or rounding up strays or building a new barn or getting ready for the next cattle drive.”

  “How do you know--?”

  “My uncle is a rancher in Texas,” Rhonda explained. “I know a thing or two about ranching.”

  Roger bit down on his lower lip. “I guess I don't have as much to do as I claim then...”

  “Oh, you have a great deal of work to do, Mr. Steward. Learning to read and write takes more work than building two barns at once. I'm going to make sure your mind is so exhausted that you won't have the energy to even think about making any more excuses.”

  Roger stared into Rhonda's glowing eyes. The woman was serious. “Well,” he said, “if I can run down a cougar that's been after my cattle, I guess I can face a book.”

  “Wonderful,” Rhonda beamed. “We can start right this minute. There's no rush to get back into town. What will I do? Sit in my hotel room? We can start right now.”

  “Now?” Roger swallowed.

  “Now,” Rhonda smiled.

  “The only book I have is the Bible.”

  Rhonda drew in a deep breath. “Then the Bible it is.”

  <<<<<>>>>>

  Roger saw that the day was fading into night outside. Even worse, a light snow was beginning to fall. “I should really get you back into town,” he told Rhonda.

  Rhonda took a sip of hot coffee and agreed. “I didn't realize it was so late. You did very well, today, Mr. Steward.”

  Roger blushed and turned away from the window next to the front door. “I made a plum fool of myself trying to read all of those words.”