by Stacy Henrie
“Marilyn. Marilyn!” he said. “Can you hear me?” But Thomas’s voice seemed far away as if he were yelling from the other end of a long tunnel. “Please, no. Stay with me. Please.” She felt him patting her cheek, but when she couldn’t wake up at that, he cradled her head between his hands and laid it on his lap. “Father?”
Another voice spoke— the priest? If only she could open her eyes to see.
“I believe she’s had a fainting spell,” the other man said.
A moment later, a damp cloth pressed against her forehead, cool against her hot skin.
Finally, Marilyn had the wherewithal to make her eyes flutter open. Thomas gazed down at her, his brow furrowed deeply with concern. She managed a smile, and he sighed with relief, smiling back— a sight she would never tire of.
Perhaps I will be happy, she thought, married to the man I love, even if he doesn’t love me back.
Thomas helped her into a sitting position and then propped her against the side of the couch. “You scared me something terrible,” he murmured.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know if it was you or… or someone else.”
“Victor?” he asked.
She nodded, ordering her fear to stand aside for the moment. Thomas doesn’t need to see me quivering like a kitten.
“He won’t be bothering you ever again,” Thomas said. “I promise you that.”
“I hope so.” She wished his promise could be true.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” Thomas said. “I didn’t expect to be so long at the telegraph office.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. This time she looked at the priest for help.
“Father O’Malley’s my name. Your fiancé did something remarkable tonight,” the priest said, kneeling beside her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Got the telegraph operator to open up after closing time, and he sent some urgent messages. Turns out that the police in New York stay up even later than Thomas does.”
Marilyn’s tired mind still seemed filled with cobwebs. She looked at Thomas, who slipped a supportive arm around her shoulder. She sighed into his form but asked, “What does he mean?”
“He means that I exchanged several messages with the police. About twenty minutes ago, we got word that Victor Hallows was arrested for Mr. Fletcher’s murder.” Thomas lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I told them about his threats to you and asked them to look for a tin of arsenic in his living quarters,” he explained. “They found one.”
One hand flew to her mouth. “He’s in jail?” she said. “He’s really in jail?”
Thomas laughed with happiness. “He is, and I’m quite sure he’ll be there long after a trial.”
Renewed energy coursed through Marilyn’s veins. She had to move, had to stand up. Thomas and Father O’Malley helped her to her feet. Once upright, she found herself still needing to lean on Thomas to stay on her feet, but she didn’t mind being steadied by the embrace of his strong arms one bit. In fact, for the first time in her memory, she felt perfectly safe.
“This young man just had to clear things up for you back east before tying the knot,” Father O’Malley said.
Marilyn had to lean her head back quite a ways to see Thomas’s face. “Why?” she asked. “Why did you do all of this— and tonight?”
“Because you deserve to have a choice,” he said. He reached up and brushed her hair from her forehead. She closed her eyes and drank in the fluttery sensation. “Marilyn, if you’d rather leave town, find work and a home elsewhere, you’re free to now. You don’t need to marry me to escape Victor.”
“Oh,” she said. That was kind of him, definitely. But, did this mean that he wanted to be rid of her?
“Or,” he went on, pulling her a bit closer, “you can choose to stay here and make a life with me.” He glanced at the bedroom door. “And with Harry, of course, but I’m hoping that I hold the greater appeal.” He chuckled then reached for her hand and held it, stroking her palm with his thumb. The feeling was so heavenly that she could have fainted straight away again.
When he spoke next, Thomas looked right into her eyes. “I’d really like you to stay,” he whispered, making it feel as if they were alone. “I— I’ve come to care for you, Marilyn Davis. If one day is enough to feel more than general affection, I might say that I’m starting to feel something much, much more than that. But if you don’t feel the same way…”
“Oh, but I do,” Marilyn said, laughing through sudden tears. “I definitely do. I was afraid that you didn’t, and I was loath to entirely muss up your lives or stay on as nothing more than a caretaker for Harry.”
Thomas released her hand and gently wiped her tears from one cheek and then the other. “I can assure you,” he said, “that you’ll be far more than Harry’s caretaker. I truly hope you’ll be my wife— and not in name only.”
To her left, Marilyn heard Father O’Malley give a contented sigh, reminding her that they were not, in fact, alone. She and Thomas separated slightly, both clearing their throats.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Father O’Malley said, grinning. “I’ll be ready whenever you are. Take your time.”
Thomas looked at Marilyn and lifted one eyebrow as if in question. She knew what he meant without words and stood on tiptoe to reach him as he placed a gentle kiss on her lips. It lasted only a second or two, but that was enough to cause a flurry in her middle. She wanted to be able to kiss him for longer and any time she wanted to— to be able to be held by him throughout her life. But they couldn’t do either under Father O’Malley’s amused, watchful eye.
Marilyn turned to him and said eagerly, “We’re ready.”
“We’ll need a witness, won’t we?” Thomas asked. After the priest’s nod, Thomas took a step away, still holding Marilyn’s hand, and knocked on Harry’s bedroom door.
“Won’t he be terribly upset?” Marilyn asked, remembering the caution from earlier that day.
“Not for this, he won’t,” Thomas said. “He’ll be happier than a weasel in a henhouse.” Sure enough, Harry cheered when he heard the reason for Father O’Malley’s visit. He performed his job as witness solemnly, standing there in his long nightshirt and bare feet.
The ceremony was a bit unorthodox— Marilyn didn’t know a soul who’d had a wedding that resembled this one in any way— but it was perfect for her and Thomas. When Father O’Malley pronounced them husband and wife, Thomas kissed her again, this time so thoroughly that she wondered if her feet would ever touch the ground again.
Harry went back to bed, and Father O’Malley said good night before mounting his horse and trotting off. In the distance, Marilyn heard howling. “What’s that?” she asked Thomas.
“Just coyotes,” Thomas said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and holding her securely. He kissed her cheek and murmured, “They’re far away. No need to worry.”
“Oh, I’m not worried.” Marilyn turned in his arms until she faced him, wrapping her arms about his neck. “I just wanted to know because that’s the sound of home.”
Click on the covers to visit Annette’s Amazon author page:
Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, a three-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, and a four-time publication award winner from the League of Utah Writers, including the Silver Quill Award in 2013 for Paige. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, almost as many novellas, several nonfiction books, and over one hundred twenty magazine articles. Annette is a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English. When she’s not writing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor.
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Chapter One
Greenborough, Colorado, 1879
Following his brother out West had been Gerald Smith’s first mistake. Staying had been the second.
“We’ll have an adventure,” his brother had said.
“We’ll be pioneers,” his brother had said.
“I didn’t find near enough gold in Colorado; I’m going to Dakota Territory,” his brother had eventually said, leaving Gerald to pay off all the debts they’d accrued over the previous two years while they’d been busy not finding gold.
Prospecting was no more certain than gambling. Gerald had given it up the moment his brother’s no-good, traitorous rump disappeared over the horizon. He’d spent the two years since digging himself out of the hole, both figuratively and literally. He had enough of a crop to eat year-round, a good milk cow, two fine horses, a roof that only leaked in one particular spot, and a growing herd he hoped to one day turn into a growing profit.
He wasn’t necessarily comfortable, but he wasn’t starving. Still, a man could only eat eggs and biscuits so many days in a row without feeling a touch deprived. He hadn’t the time for making anything else.
His nearest neighbors regularly took pity on him, inviting him over for supper and sending him home with extra. Bob Attley and his mother were more than generous. Their attentions leaned heavily toward smothering.
“Thank you kindly for the meal, Mrs. Attley.” Gerald grabbed his hat off the rack by the door. “I always look forward to your cooking.”
“What you need isn't my cooking. You need someone to cook for you.” Mrs. Attley said that often.
As always, Bob shot Gerald an apologetic look. Gerald had long since learned to ignore the heavy hints Bob’s mother tossed at him at the end of every meal they took together. He simply plopped his hat on his head and pulled open the door. This time, however, Bob followed him out.
“I ain’t meaning to pry,” the man said, “but why is it you never found someone to cook and clean for you?”
“What woman’s gonna want to come work for a surly man like me?”
Bob shook his head. “I hadn't meant hiring someone on. I was talking about finding yourself a wife.”
“So was I.”
Gerald knew perfectly well the life he had to offer any woman. Long days. A lot of work. No luxuries, sometimes not even all the necessities. Still he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have someone nearby, other than the Attleys.
He thought on that as he made his way home. He would like someone to talk to, someone to share the load. His brother didn’t seem likely to return, so he had resigned himself to doing the work alone. He was tired and, though he didn’t like to admit it, more than a little lonely. Living as he did, so far from civilization, there was little hope for relieving the long, quiet hours in any way other than finding himself a wife.
Though he’d dismissed the possibility any number of times, that night he lay awake, wondering what it would be like to have someone else in the house. If he were to send for a wife, would that make things better? Would she talk his ear off? Or be more inclined to listen as he spoke his thoughts? He would come home from the fields to a warm meal, instead of needing to make himself another pan full of fried eggs. That’d be a fine thing.
Who was to say they wouldn’t at least get along, perhaps even learn to love each other? He wasn’t, after all, such a gruff, unlikeable fellow that no woman could ever grow fond of him.
And he wouldn’t be so lonesome.
That, alone, made the prospect very, very tempting.
“It seems to me that this Mr. Smith you’ve agreed to marry is not at all the sort you ought to marry.”
Mary Hill had listened to the same argument again and again from her landlady in the three days since she had accepted a much needed, though secondhand, offer of marriage. A man who would send for a stranger to marry likely had something so wrong with him that no one he knew would agree to be his wife, her landlady had argued. He would likely mistreat her, had been the further argument. It was a good one, truth be told.
But Mary had no family, no home, no secure job. The world was a difficult place for a woman in her situation. Accepting a mail order marriage was far from ideal, but, then again, so was starvation.
“This may not be the romantic love of a lifetime most girls dream of,” she said, “but that does not necessarily mean it will be miserable. I have no doubt Mr. Smith has chosen a mail order bride for the same reason most Western men do: there are no other options. That area of the country is not exactly overrun with women, you know.”
Her heart dropped at the less than enthusiastic argument. Even she couldn’t make the prospect sound entirely hopeful.
“I have heard disheartening things about these Western men,” her landlady said. “Very rough around the edges. No tender feelings or sensibilities whatsoever. The wives they order aren’t worth much more to them than their cattle, sometimes even less. I can’t imagine that’s what you want.”
What I want and what is possible are no longer the same thing.
She reminded herself of that as she packed her meager belongings. She was not a pessimist, but she had learned to take a logical view of the world. She was tired of moving from house to house, tired of never being qualified for a decent job, tired of being alone.
This was her only option. The only one.
The realization didn’t prevent her from hesitating when the time came to board her train. It didn’t stop her from chewing her fingernails during the entirety of that day’s ride westward. It certainly didn’t stop her heart from dropping clear to her boots at the sight of a tender, loving young couple across the aisle in the passenger car.
Her decision made sense. In fact, she firmly believed it had been the right one. That didn’t stop her from worrying.
She closed her eyes as the miles flew by, resting her head against the back of her seat. What if her landlady had been right after all? This man she was marrying might very well be an absolute terror. There’d be no escaping, no changing her mind, and she likely wouldn’t know the truth of his character until after they were married.
Mary didn’t know what awaited her in Greenborough, Colorado. But she could make the best of whatever it was. She would be the hardest working, most determined optimist Mr. Smith had ever met in his entire life. And she would hope— desperately hope— it was enough.
Chapter Two
“You’d best throw in another bag of flour,” Gerald said. His woman’d be doing a spell more cooking than he did. He’d stopped by the mercantile to purchase supplies. What else would a woman need? “A bar of that lavender soap, as well.”
Mrs. Barnett, who, along with her husband, ran the mercantile near the train depot, watched him with wide eyes. “Lavender soap? I’ve never known a bachelor to ask for lavender soap.”
He picked up a small jar of dried herbs. “Might send some to m’aunt. It’ll be her birthday soon.” Lies seemed a safer course of action than the truth. If he let spill he’d sent for a woman, every female within miles’d be knocking down his door wanting to socialize with the new arrival. He’d really rather spend their earliest days together getting to know one another rather than hosting the entire valley.
Mrs. Barnett placed the paper-wrapped soap on the counter beside the tin snips he was purchasing. “Anything else?”
It’d be a bit late by the time he and Miss Hill— Mrs. Smith she’d be by then— reached home. He ought not expect her to make dinner. “Have you any of your meat pies?”
“I do, indeed.” Mrs. Barnett smiled proudly. She was quite famous in these parts for her meat pies. “One? Perhaps two, if you’re particularly hungry.”
“Three.”
Mrs. Barnett’s surprise only slowed her down for the briefest of moments. “Three? You must be quite hungry today.”
“I am.” Actually, he hadn’t had much of an appetite all day. Few things made him nervous, but this day’s business did.
He
paid for his purchases and tucked his newly acquired items under his arm. He dipped his head in Mrs. Barnett’s direction before moving to the door.
He knew nothing of his coming bride other than her name, that she was coming from Nebraska, and that she was a woman. While he wanted to insist he wasn’t bothered by all the empty spaces in his mental picture, it did weigh on him more than a bit.
So long as this Miss Hill was an improvement over the Miss Hill he’d known in Ohio in the years before he and his brother had left for the West, he would be satisfied. She had been only a year or two younger than Gerald and had fancied herself the third member of their little band, despite both Gerald and Tommy telling her otherwise any number of times. She’d been a pebble in his shoe for two years. A wife ought not to be a pest.
He tossed his smaller items into a basket tied to the bed of the wagon, then checked to make certain the Barnetts had loaded the correct amount of flour, sugar, and lard. Satisfied that all was well, he hopped up and onto the front bench. He set the horses in motion and tooled his way down the street to the depot.
This one wasn’t a busy stop on the rail line. Very few people ever came to Greenborough. Gerald preferred it that way. He knew he shouldn’t’ve followed Tommy, but if he was to make his home here, he’d prefer it be a peaceful one.
He found a shaded spot not far from the depot and tied his horses up there. The sun was nearly at the midway point in the sky. Miss Hill’s train was due a little before noon. Soon, then. Gerald leaned against the side of the wagon and waited.
Though he knew it was pointless, he spent some time wondering about his coming bride. Was she short or tall? Pretty or plain? Soft-spoken or outspoken? He’d told the matchmaking company that he needed a woman who could cook and work hard. Other than that, he hadn’t the slightest idea what to expect.
