by Mercy Levy
Rhonda grabbed Roger's shoulder. “Oh dear,” she said worriedly and then steadied herself. “No, my faith is in Jesus.”
Roger closed his eyes and prayed. “Dear Jesus, show your greatness and power,” he prayed. “Amen.”
Steve studied the small opening with vicious eyes. He didn't want to kill Roger. His intention of not harming a son belonging to the woman he once loved weighed heavy in his chest. “Boy, listen to me, I don't want to hurt you. Just come on out and go back to that shack of yours. I'll have one of my men bring you a fair price for your land and then you can go about your way. We can end this peacefully.”
“My Pa taught me to fight for what is mine, Mintfield,” Roger called out. “I guess you're going to have to bury me and Ms. Dandleton next to my folks.”
Steve bit down on his lower lip and then pushed any thoughts of mercy out of his mind. “Get his attentions, boys,” he yelled.
The men with Steve nodded their heads and began firing at the small opening. Roger grabbed Rhonda and pulled her down onto the cold dirt. When the bullets stopped, he leaned up and looked out. “I'm not wasting my bullets, Mintfield. You better start using that dynamite if you want to get me out of here.”
“I ain't got no blasted dynamite,” Steve growled under his breath. Thinking, he studied the small opening. How was he get going to get Roger out of the mine?
Roger examined the outside. As he did, a voice came spoke from within the darkness. Startled, he spun around. Rhonda grabbed his arm. “Who is there?” she asked in a scared voice.
“Leave now,” a voice filled with love and life spoke. “Leave now.” And then, the voice left. Rhonda felt the voice leave the mine as if a real person had been present.
“Last chance, boy!” Steve yelled. “I can go get dynamite.”
Roger drew in a deep breath and looked at Rhonda. “Okay?” he asked.
Rhonda nodded her head. “Okay,” she agreed.
“We're coming out Mintfield, hold your fire,” Roger called out.
Steve waved at his hired men. “Hold your fire,” he said and watched Steve help Rhonda crawl out of the small opening. “The mine is all yours,” he said in a loud voice.
Steve stood up from behind the boulder. Nodding his head, he walked into the clearing. “I'm glad you finally came to your senses, boy. Now get out of here. I'll keep my word and send you a fair price.”
“Keep your money,” Roger told Steve staring him straight in the eyes. “I have all the riches I need right here,” he said and took Rhonda's hand.
“I wouldn't go into that mine,” Rhonda warned Steve. “If you do, you'll die.”
“Get out of here,” Steve snapped at Rhonda and ordered his men into the clearing. “Alright boys, let's get in there and see what we can find.”
Roger backed Rhonda up to the boulder Steve had been hiding behind. Together they watched Steve crawl down into the mine and then watched his hired men follow, one by one, each carrying either a shovel, a lantern or some rope. “What do we do?” Rhonda asked Roger as the snow continued to fall and cover the land.
“Wait,” Roger replied and hugged Rhonda close to his body. “Jesus knows what He's doing.”
Rhonda grew silent and stared at the small opening. Warm in Roger's arms, she waited. An hour passed. And then, just when she thought she could stand the cold no longer, a horrible, loud, ground-shaking explosion occurred from within the mine. Dirt and dust exploded out of the small opening. Roger threw his left hand over Rhonda's face. “Cave in,” he yelled.
Rhonda closed her eyes and held them shut until the wind carried away all the dust and dirt in the air. “Are they...dead?”
Roger nodded his head. “I think so,” he said and walked Rhonda back toward his shack without saying another word.
<<<<<>>>>>
A middle-aged man wearing a fancy gray suit closed a black briefcase sitting on the kitchen table and stood up. “You have made a very wise decision,” he said.
Roger stood up. “I think so, Mr. Griffith.”
“Mr. Andrews and Mr. Callahan will be very pleased to hear the news,” Mr. Griffith said in a pleased voice. “And with the money, they have offered for your land, you should be able to relocate and begin a very nice life.”
Rhonda stood up from the kitchen table and smiled at Mr. Griffith. “My husband and I are relocating and will be very happy,” she assured him. “Please, won't you have one more cup of coffee before you leave?”
“Oh no, it's such a beautiful, warm, day outside,” Mr. Griffith said. “I think I will take a walk around the land before going back into town. Would that be okay?”
“It's your land,” Roger said in a voice that didn't appear sad. “You promised to leave the family graves be, though.”
“I assured you that your family grave site will be treated with respect and honor and that full acre have been optioned off to secure that no disturbance occurs,” Mr. Griffith promised Roger.
Roger nodded his head and shook Mr. Griffith's hand. “Give your wife our best.”
“And please, come and visit us in Sacramento,” Rhonda pleaded.
“I will,” Mr. Griffith smiled. “My wife would be very pleased to meet the both of you. Good day.”
Rhonda and Roger walked Mr. Griffith to the door of the shack and watched him leave. “Well,” Rhonda smiled, “You're a very rich man, Mr. Steward. Whatever will you do with a poor wife like myself?”
Roger put his arm around Rhonda and sweetly kissed her. “I'm not sure what I'm gonna do in Sacramento, but if that's where you want to start a family, I'll be there. And I guess there's a few dress shops there that might interest you while we wait for our first child to be born.”
“Perhaps,” Rhonda smiled and then spotted a horse buggy pulling up. She saw her brother sitting next to Paul Smith. “Now remember,” she told Roger, “my brother is going to fuss a little, but he's harmless.”
Roger watched Paul pull up to his shack. When he saw Andrew climb down from the buggy, he knew everything was going to be alright. He had a way about people. “Okay.”
Andrew walked up to the door of the shack and stopped. When he saw Rhonda step out wearing a lovely yellow dress and glowing more beautifully than he had ever seen in his life, he simply smiled. “I sent you out here for a story, not to find a husband.”
Rhonda took Roger's hand and pulled him outside into a day full of warm, fresh air and beautiful land. “Andrew, this is Roger Steward, my husband.”
Roger stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Andrew shook Roger's hand. “Yeah,” he said and grinned, “seems that you and I have a lot to talk about. But first, I'm starving. You guys got anything to eat?”
“Sure do,” Roger smiled and walked Andrew inside.
“Well,” Paul said walking up to Rhonda, “I never thought I'd see the day when Roger Steward would sit in my dining room having dinner with a beautiful woman and read a book.”
Rhonda beamed. “Well,” she told Paul, “Jesus has a way of things, doesn't He? Now, come inside and eat some stew. I also made some fresh pie.”
Paul looked down at his stomach. “I don't mind if I do,” he said and winked at Rhonda.
Rhonda smiled and watched Paul walk into the shack. Before going inside herself, she glanced up at clear blue sky holding a kind sun. “Jesus,” she said with love, “please know that my heart belongs to you first. My journey is just beginning, and I beg you to guide my heart and my way and let me be a good wife to my husband and a good mother to the child living inside of me right now. Please let me never forget that it was your voice in the darkness that spoke light into my heart. I love you. Amen.”
“Amen,” Roger whispered from behind Rhonda. Reaching out, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her.
Rhonda wrapped her arms around her husband and placed her head against his chest. Closing her eyes, she saw heard a loving voice speak through the darkness. She saw love and mercy showered down from Heaven and justice poured out o
n the guilty. And why? Because Jesus was love and was now allowing her to love and be loved herself. “Roger?”
“Yes?”
“Let's go eat some pie,” she smiled brightly. “This is the greatest story of my life.”
THE END
The Lawyer’s Mail Order Bride
Craig
Craig Ferguson cut an imposing figure as he trudged down the boardwalk past the barber shop and the dry goods store, kicking up dust from the dirty wooden planks with each step. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Eva Mayweather, the middle aged lady who ran the Abilene Hotel with her husband, Karl, which earned him a nod and a coquettish “Hello”. He shook his head and grinned at her flirtation. She was harmless, and loved her husband with the heat of a thousand suns. But she made them money from getting men to drink, and she was good at it.
She reminded him to come on by after he was done his rounds, and he happily agreed. The truth was, he needed to talk to Karl anyway. The occasional fights that usually occurred when the cattle drivers came through had become far too frequent, and with the railroad builders coming in droves, the violence was bound to start escalating. He looked up and down the main street of his domain. Abilene was a cow town, and the railroaders were threatening the cattle drivers’ way livelihood. The railroad brought in a lot of new money, but was burning bridges with the cattlemen all the way across the state.
He waved a wagon past before he stepped down to the dirt road and crossed the street to the jail. Thankfully, it was a quiet day. Inside, his jail cells were empty, but for a couple of regulars sleeping off their whiskey. He set his hat on his desk and slid his firearm into a drawer. Annie would be coming by soon with food for his “prisoners” and he wasn’t about to give one of those old drunken fools a go at his piece when he fed them.
Right on time, Annie and her granddaughter, Isobel, walked in with a tray of food.
“Afternoon Sheriff.” The grandmotherly woman greeted Craig. “I heard you got two digits in here today, is that right?” Craig laughed and gave her an “Ayuh” to the affirmative, and she set two metal plates loaded with thick bangers and mash on his otherwise tidy desk. She motioned to Isobel, who added a fourth, covered plate to the collection.
“That one is yours.” She ordered the sheriff. “Mind you eat it this time. Gran says you’re getting too thin.” Isobel glanced at her grandmother, who nodded her approval.
“The child’s right.” The older lady chided. “When you gonna get you a wife?” she demanded. “You’re not getting any younger, and even a law man needs a woman to tend to him.” Ferguson merely nodded. He was used to the tirade from the maternal owner of the café across the street. His only act of rebellion was to doggedly ignore the attempts she made at introducing him to women. She’d be pleased as punch when she finally found out he’d sent away to Boston area for a young woman he’d written to and found to his liking. The most recent letter lay unopened in his pocket, waiting for his overeager matchmaker to depart.
“Well, I thank you ladies kindly for feeding these fine guests of my establishment, though they don’t deserve cooking of this caliber.” Craig praised Annie and her young protégé, who beamed from the compliment.
“I helped grandma make the mashed potatoes!” Isobel announced, proudly drawing her eight-year-old frame to his fullest height.
“I’ll be sure to let you know how good they were after I eat them.” Craig replied with a smile. Annie patted her youngest granddaughter’s curly blonde head and winked at the sheriff. She ushered Isobel out the door to the jail, picking up a pile of used tin plates on their way out.
Craig smiled at their retreating backs. He picked up the food laden plates and walked back to the jail cells, where the Quincy twins sat in separate cells. Bud Quincy the older of the twins, whittled away at a piece of wood with his tiny pocket knife, while, Daniel (Junior to his friends), snored away on his cot.
“Wake up, Junior!” Craig called out to Daniel as he banged on the bars loudly. “Soup’s on. Don’t make me tell Annie you slept through her meatloaf pie!” He barked as the drunk jumped at the noise and nearly fell off the cot. He collected his plate and a mug and sat down on the floor of the cell to eat, muttering that the meal needed whiskey, not water, to wash it down.
Bud Quincy was already standing, waiting patiently for his meal. He gave Craig a big grin for waking up his younger brother that way, and sat silently to eat. Craig loped back to his wooden desk and uncovered his food. Next to the generous helpings of meat and potatoes was a second, smaller plate, almost completely covered by a huge slice of rhubarb pie. Craig called out to the men in his cells, boasting about the delicious pie, while he used his hat to waft the aroma toward them.
“You boys should keep your drunk fights out on your ranch.” He chided around a mouthful of warm pie. “Just think. If you two had kept the rest of us out of your pissing contest, you’d be sitting in Annie’s café eating this pie with fresh milk to wash it down, not sitting in there trying to turn water into whiskey!” He drawled. Bud chuckled in response, and Junior stopped his whining.
Craig looked at the time. He figured he’d keep them until night fell, then send them straight home, with no stop at the bar. The brothers were good men, but they liked nothing more than pulling out their fists over any topic imaginable. Last night, the fight had erupted over one too many shots of rot gut and a game of blackjack gone sour.
Still, it had been a blessing in disguise. The fight distracted the cattle men who were working up a sweat over some railroad surveyors who were passing through as they plotted the route the rail would take across Kansas. Abilene was going to be a major stop for the railroad, and the locals were divided in loyalty, between the business owners who supported the railroad, and the cattle drivers who despised the rail workers for taking away their livelihood.
Craig finished his meal and rinsed the dishes in the tub of wash water and started a new pile by the door for Annie or one of her many grandchildren to pick up later. He sat with his feet on the desk, stuck a toothpick in his teeth and finally pulled out the letter. He heard loud squeaking from the cots in the cells.
“Hey Boss,” Junior called out to him. “That another letter from your lady-friend?” he inquired. Craig snorted. The brothers had been in jail so much lately, they’d taken to asking about his correspondence with his pen pal, Miss. Candace Shepherd. They’d started writing weeks ago, and then the letters had stopped coming. Craig had been disappointed, then concerned, as the days rolled by, but this letter had some thickness to it, and he hoped that meant it was full of explanations. He sucked on his chewing stick and deftly sliced the envelope open. As the twins waited quietly for him to finish and relay the news, he began to read.
“My Dearest Mr. Ferguson,
I apologize most humbly for the time it has taken for me to return your last correspondence. I must admit that this has been a trying time, indeed, for my brothers and myself, as we have faced the loss of my employment at the factory and have had to move into the meanest of apartments that you could ever imagine. I can only hope that this missive finds you well, and that you haven’t forgotten me in my absence. I have been able to find temporary employ in a dress shop, and my brothers have taken on the work of men much older than they, unloading goods on the docks. They are so young I fear for their safety, but with Father gone, they have stepped up to fill his shoes admirably…”
Craig sat upright in his seat and read the entire letter twice. Candace repeatedly pled for his patience with her and assured him that despite their lack of means, they were all well and healthy. He scanned through the parts of the epistle that only concerned the two young brothers, Sill a 14-year-old, and Darren, who was 16. His concern grew when he reached the end of the letter and started paying closer attention again as she offered him a way out of the suggested arrangement of marriage.
“Please understand, I truly have the greatest respect and admiration for you, and long to be of assistance to you on your ranch. I had planned on the
three of us being a boon to you and making your life simpler with our arrival, instead of more difficult. However, it pains me to admit that we do not have the funds to travel or even to stay where we are, and will have to find an alternative that may take us beyond your desire to continue our acquaintance. If this is the case, please know that I understand and bear you no ill will.
Respectfully and Fondly Yours,
Miss Candace Shepherd, Boston Mass.”
Craig reread the letter again more carefully, looking for additional clues to the predicament Candace was in, or how she’d got there. Finding nothing and dissatisfied, he picked up his hat and headed over to the Abilene hotel to talk to Karl. He and Candace had been writing for a couple of months now. If she was in trouble, it was time to send for her and her brothers. Craig didn’t figure it would be too hard to care for the boys, they were almost grown themselves. But Candace was young, and as well-spoken and obviously hardworking as she was, it stuck in his craw a little that he was bringing a city-bred innocent out to the sometimes uncivilized west.
He stepped out of the jail to the fading light of dusk and immediately stiffened. The hairs on his neck stood at attention and his right hand slid toward his gun. He looked around him, and two men stepped out of the shadows of the nearby stable.
“Howdy, Sheriff.” A tall, thin man greeted him. Craig looked him over, from his boots, to the poncho he wore slung over his shoulder, freeing up his six-shooter. The thin man’s companion was his physical opposite, stumpy and thick. His shotgun was perched against his shoulder, and when he spit, tobacco juice clung to his stringy red beard.
The men were strangers to Craig, and from their clothes and demeanor, the sheriff guessed they were railroad men. Workers, not surveyors, the rail man had been stuck in Abilene for days without work, as they waited for instructions to proceed. Left with too much time on their hands, some of the men had gotten unruly, and the already angry cattle drivers had been more than happy to escalate the name calling to the throwing of punches.
