by Stacy Henrie
Some of the peace she’d felt last night, after praying, returned and stilled her restless fingers. Just hear him out, and move forward from there, she reminded herself. And, whatever happens, you’re not alone. That had been a recurring thought during the wee hours of the morning, when she’d awakened.
“May I have this seat?”
Clay’s voice washed over her like soothing rain, cleansing away her fears. She looked up, and her throat went dry at the sight of him in his Sunday suit. His handsome face and tall frame drew the attention of several other women in the restaurant.
Ignoring her rapid pulse, Georgie peered innocently up at him. “Clay? What are you doing here? I told you this morning I wished to meet Mr. Harris alone.”
He sat down, tension radiating from his stiff frame. “Georgie, there’s something I need to tell you.”
She feigned an impatient look. “Whatever it is, you’ll have to say it quickly, or Mr. Harris will take one look at you and me together and think I chose someone else.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say.” He glanced away, then back again, his expression tortured. “I’m Mr. Harris. Harris was my mother’s maiden name.”
He cleared his throat, drumming his fingers against the tablecloth, his eyes lowered. “I’ve been writing to you this whole time,” he continued. “A friend of mine rewrote my letters so you wouldn’t recognize my handwriting. You can’t know how sorry I am for deceiving you, Georgie. Truly, I am. And I’ll understand if—”
“Clay?” she interrupted.
“What?” he half growled as he lifted his gaze.
She smiled sincerely and leaned forward, placing her hand over his. “I know about your letters.”
His brow furrowed with apparent disbelief as he sat back. Then a frown pulled at his mouth. He curled his fingers tightly beneath hers, then relaxed them.
“Since when?” he asked.
“Since three days ago.” She blushed and dropped her chin, directing the rest of her words to the tablecloth. “Your friend came to tell you that he’d been called out of town and couldn’t rewrite the letters for you. But you were out, so he left his message with me.”
The answering silence made Georgie raise her head. She found Clay studying her. Her blush deepened beneath his careful scrutiny until a half smile brightened his face. The amused look and the way he intertwined his fingers with hers filled Georgie’s stomach with butterflies.
“Did you ask him about the letters?”
She exhaled a sigh. “Yes. And I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you. To be honest, I was hurt and angry at first. But then I started to wonder about your motives. I thought I’d play along until I learned what they were.”
Even if they weren’t what she wanted to hear, she would still listen. She’d decided as much last night. She and Clay were too good of friends to harbor contention or secrets between them any longer.
“Why did you do it, Clay?” She kept a level gaze, ready to read whatever emotions filled those blue eyes. “Especially when you didn’t seem at all interested in marriage? Or in my method for finding a husband?”
He rubbed his thumb over the back of her palm, causing a pleasant thrill to skip up her arm. “I did it,” he said as he bent toward her, “because I love you.”
The breath left her lungs in a soft whoosh. These were the words she’d dreamt of hearing him say to her for so long. The words that echoed those written in her heart.
“Really?” This moment felt almost too wonderful to be real.
He laughed lightly. “Yes, really.” His expression instantly sobered. “I know that I’ve hurt you in the past, Georgie, and I was a bullheaded fool for not realizing what’s been right in front of me all of these years. But, will you forgive me?”
She wanted so much to kiss him in reassurance but not here. Instead, she settled for squeezing his hand. “I already have.”
The evident relief and admiration on his face made her want to sing. “I had hoped for a less crowded spot to ask this,” he said, his eyes taking in the nearly full restaurant, “but it’ll have to suffice.”
He cupped her hand between both of his. “Georgeanna Fitzgerald, will you do me the honor of being my mail order bride, my wife, and the woman of my heart?”
Tears sprang into her eyes. “Yes, Clay. I will.”
“Then I say we skip lunch.” He grinned and stood. “Let’s go get the rest of your household, instead, so we can meet the preacher at the church.”
“I can’t think of a more splendid plan,” she announced as he pulled her to her feet.
He guided her out of the hotel, her hand securely tucked inside his. Georgie felt as if she were floating down the sidewalk as they headed for home.
“Was Mr. Strauss really the best of the bunch?” she teased. “Or, did you purposely pick the worst candidate so that you would come out the winner?”
Clay clapped a hand to his chest as if wounded. “I promised I would pick the best, Georgie, and I did.” Raising their joined hands, he kissed her knuckles, setting her heart pounding again. “Although, I did hope I would win out over the stoic Mr. Strauss.”
“Perhaps I ought to read the other replies, just in case.” She threw him a mischievous smile. “After all, we haven’t said our vows yet.”
Giving her a mock frown, he tugged her behind a giant flowering bush. “You may read the others,” he said, pulling her close, “as long as you promise not to change your mind about us.”
She looped her arms about his neck. “Never,” she promised. “I believe you and I were meant to be, Clayton Riley, even after all these years.”
His blue eyes softened. “On that, I couldn’t agree more.”
He bent toward her, his lips claiming hers. Georgie’s heart beat double time. She leaned into him, enjoying the firm press of his mouth and the solid warmth of his presence.
Like her mother, she too would be a mail order bride. After all, it had been her advertisement and Clay’s replies that had brought them together at last. And today, she would marry the man who she had loved for years and who, wonder of wonders, now loved her back.
Her last coherent thought as Clay deepened their kiss was that the long wait had truly been worth it.
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Stacy Henrie graduated from Brigham Young University with a degree in public relations. Not long after, she switched from writing press releases and newsletters to writing inspirational historical romances. Born and raised in the West, where she currently resides with her family, she loves the chance to live out history through her characters. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, road trips, interior decorating, chocolate, and most of all, laughing with her husband and kids. You can learn more about Stacy and her books by visiting her website.
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Chapter One
WANTED: Midwife Bride
Frontier town bachelor doctor, age 30, seeks experienced midwife for business partner and marriage. Must be pleasant, cooperative, companionable, and prepared for long hours. Midwifery training and experience more important than age. Prefer age 35 or younger, as children are desired.
Reply to Doc Joe, Evanston, Wyoming Territory.
Chapter Two
1888, New York City
Residence of Dr. Ernest Walter Thornton III
On the twenty-first of June, Naomi Thornton’s marriage ended softly, quietly, simply. Entirely opposite its highly celebrated beginning.
In fact, her husband of one year and eight months didn’t yet comprehend it was over.
They’d lasted a good while longer than most critics believed, for female physicians made horrible wives. Everyone said so.
Perhaps that’s why Ernest had taken up with a mistress.
She’d seen them together, sharing a quiet luncheon at a stylish café.
Thr
ough the stream of passersby, she’d witnessed Ernie’s kiss upon the woman’s temple, his touch at her waist. Evidently, the two were lovers and had been for quite some time.
High fashion masked the woman’s thickening waistline, but Naomi’s trained eye noted the pregnancy with clinical detachment. She’d wager her annual income the child, if male, would be named Ernest Walter Thornton the Fourth.
Agony over the demise of their marriage seemed a natural response, yet she could rouse nothing more than disappointment.
The grandfather clock chimed half-past seven. A key scratched into the lock at the front entrance. Ernest, an hour late for the supper Cook had prepared in honor of Naomi’s thirtieth birthday.
In the center of their brownstone’s entryway, she stood tall. He’d purchased the stylish brownstone with her inheritance. She held all the cards, therefore he wouldn’t stay another night.
The latch opened, and her husband’s vibrant conversation filtered in with warm summer air, the sounds of carriage wheels rolling past and horses’ hooves clattering.
Late evening sunlight flooded the entryway, gleaming on the polished hardwood floor. Two male silhouettes. Ernie’s companion spoke, revealing his identity before the door shut.
Dr. Isaac Krenn, lead physician at Fairchild Memorial. A narrow-minded fellow who believed medicine a man’s world.
Ernie removed his top hat and spun it playfully toward Charlesworth.
The butler caught the hat as if Ernie had handed it off with dignity. Charlesworth bowed, accepting walking sticks and Krenn’s hat. The butler retreated without so much as a nod of acknowledgment for Naomi.
When her husband left for good that night, his man, Charlesworth, would go too. She’d hire new house staff, loyal to her and none else.
“Isaac.” Ernie opened the door into the parlor. “I’ll pour you a drink.”
“Thank you, Ernest.” Dr. Krenn clapped Ernie on the back.
Despite Krenn’s unwelcome interruption, Naomi would address her husband the moment their hospital supervisor left. The best way to keep him from staying long would be to join them.
Krenn held Naomi’s gaze, conveying distaste. He didn’t like a female practitioner at his hospital. She didn’t like the idea of him dictating what went on at Fairchild Memorial.
In the morning, after she filed for a divorce, she’d engage an attorney to see what could be done about her grandfather’s hospital… and removing Krenn from the board of directors and the premises.
Ernest poured expensive single-malt scotch into two Bavarian crystal tumblers. He handed one to Krenn.
“Mrs. Thornton.” Dr. Krenn seldom referred to her by the hard-earned title, Doctor. “I’ve just come from a meeting of the board of trustees.”
Krenn never addressed her without purpose. “Oh?”
“The Board”— he slid a glance at Ernest— “delved into the unfortunate demise of Mayor Barnard Brown and reached the unanimous, professional conclusion that you, Mrs. Thornton, are to blame.”
Of all the ludicrous, ridiculous, falsified—
Defensive arguments rose to her tongue. “The chief surgeon said Brown died of natural causes.” I wasn’t in the vicinity.
Naomi ignored her husband, whose silence condemned him. The louse.
Hands clasped at her waist, she vowed she would not lose her composure. These two believed women unstable, emotional, and incapable of rational thought. She’d learned this too late… after Grandfather’s death and her marriage to Ernest.
Under no circumstance would she prove them right.
She’d respond with logic and reason. “I never met the mayor nor had occasion to be in the same room. My signature is not on his records. I ordered no treatments nor consulted with those who did.”
“Your silly arguments won’t sway a soul.” Krenn tossed back the remainder of his scotch. “The board’s decision is final.”
Anger fueled her racing pulse. She flicked a glance at Ernie and found him pouring another drink. The cad’s satisfied, smug expression told her all she needed to know.
Both men— the whole board, for that matter— knew she was innocent.
Cruel pleasure lit Krenn’s fleshy features. “The newspapers will run the story tomorrow. I cannot protect you.”
She wanted to shriek, rip his thinning hair from his scalp, rake her close-cut nails down his pockmarked cheeks. Instead, she took a pair of measured steps nearer her accuser. “I’ll fight this. I’ll contact my attorney.”
Ernest swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. “I’ve already engaged him, darling, to protect me from your scandal.”
The attorney had been Ernie’s, first. Once Grandfather’s estate had been settled, she’d had no lawyer of her own.
Surely that didn’t matter. Despite Krenn’s lies, truth would prevail.
“I’ll hire another attorney.”
Ernest raised his tumbler in mocking salute. “Who would take your case?”
Mayor Brown, adored by most, had left a widow and four small children who’d won public sympathy. Once the papers reached every influential New Yorker tomorrow morning, she’d be ostracized.
She’d never again work in the city, the state, perhaps all of New England.
“My attorney,” he intoned, every inch the Ernest Walter Thornton the Third she’d come to loathe, “has prepared divorce papers, my dear. I cannot have you… blemish my reputation.”
Divorce papers.
Exactly what she wanted, but not like this.
He would win. With an influential judge as an uncle and the Thornton money and name behind him, she hadn’t a snowflake’s chance in July. She hadn’t a hope of salvaging her reputation or the fortune she’d brought to their union.
Within weeks of their nuptials, he’d seen to it he had full control of the money. He’d presented his manipulative behavior as simply doing his husbandly duty— managing the finances so she wouldn’t have a worry.
The law gave men entirely too much power.
Ernie glared. “To murder the mayor, you must be insane. You should rot on Blackwell Island.”
First, blame— as if she were incompetent. Now accusations of murder?
Fear collapsed her airway. She’d read the horrors exposed last year by World reporter Nellie Bly. To enter Blackwell’s Madhouse meant torture, unsanitary conditions, privation of every sort. Whether forced into the inescapable asylum or incarcerated, pending a murder investigation and trial, her life was over.
With chilling dread, she knew he would incarcerate her if she didn’t disappear, now.
Could she slip out the door, melt into the crowd? She had several dollars in the purse at her belt— where was her reticule?
The man who’d vowed before God to cherish her looked her in the eye. “Goodbye, Naomi.”
Chapter Three
July 6, 1888
Evanston, Wyoming Territory
Thirteen days after her life in New York shattered, Naomi stepped off the train in Evanston. Two thousand miles from home.
She drew a deep breath, squeezed the handle of her secondhand valise, and held her hat in place as a brisk breeze threatened to tear it loose.
Miss Naomi Fairchild. She’d scrubbed Ernest Thornton’s name from her own and sworn never to use it again.
Most fitting to begin anew the week of Independence Day.
She scanned the clearing platform for any sign of Doc Joe, the man she would wed.
For two years, since the time she’d become enamored of Ernie and prepared to marry him, she’d read Doc Joe’s advertisement for a midwife mail order bride in Midwifery Circular. She’d occasionally paused to wonder what kind of man would specifically seek a midwife for his bride.
Today, she’d find out.
This marriage would be different, better. Theirs would remain a business partnership and marriage of convenience. He’d advertised for a midwife, and that’s exactly what he’d get.
She’d learned her lesson. Insisting upon a male pro
fession had cost her everything. Ernie had thrust her head into the gaping jaws of hell. She’d barely escaped with her life.
No one need know she was a fully credentialed physician. Especially not Joe.
She wanted this fresh start. And financial support. All of five dollars, twenty-three cents remained in the purse at her belt— all of it the excess funds Doc Joe had wired to generously cover travel expenses.
Without him, where would she go? Without him, she’d never have had money enough to escape the city. Without him, she’d have gone hungry or perhaps been detained by police.
She’d fled the brownstone with nothing. The little purse at her belt had contained coin enough a night or two in a low-rent boarding house, a little food, and the all-important telegram to respond to Doc Joe’s advertisement.
She’d dared spend precious coin on worn, out-of-date, working-class clothing only after Doc Joe had wired a generous sum for train fare and meals along the way. The clothing had been necessary. Wearing them, she looked nothing like herself, and had easily slipped from the city.
Folks saw what they expected to see.
She drew a deep breath, scanned the busy train platform, watched passengers claiming trunks and railroad employees offloading merchandise crates.
The station gradually cleared, and Naomi stood on the platform alone but for a few railroad men refilling water and coal.
Doc Joe hadn’t come for her.
For the first time in months, she smiled big and broad and with relief. He’d no doubt found himself unable to get away from a medical emergency and trusted she’d have her wits about her enough to find his place of business.
She rather liked the idea of getting a good look at the neighborhood, perhaps at him, before introducing herself.
Squaring her shoulders, she headed inside the station to ask where she might find the local doctor.
