Margaret Brownley, Robin Lee Hatcher, Mary Connealy, Debra Clopton

by A Bride for All Seasons

  She should never have stepped on all those cracks or thrown away her father’s lucky playing cards. Or chased the cat or . . .

  Let’s see you make something good out of this, God!

  Wiping tears away with a gloved hand, she rushed toward the ticket booth. A large crowd stood waving good-bye as the train pulled out of the station and she elbowed her way through. “Excuse me, excuse me . . .”

  Was that her sewing machine in the distance? On the platform? Heart pounding, she bobbed up and down trying to see over the mass of hat-covered heads.

  The crowd finally thinned and she worked herself free. In an instant she forgot about luck, good or bad. She forgot about everything but the two people standing on either side of her Singer.

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” Her temper flared. “I told you not to come!”

  Tom’s gaze pierced the distance between them. His arm was still in a sling, but he looked no less strong and vibrant. “I know what you said.” His eyes darkened with emotion. “But I suddenly realized I couldn’t let you go without a fight.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “You said it yourself—I’m a warrior.”

  Her heart had been broken many times, but this was the first time she felt it melt. No one had ever cared enough to fight for her, and she didn’t know what to say.

  Tom continued, “Actually, you can blame Eddie. He said you wouldn’t get on the train without your sewing machine.”

  “Oh, did he now?”

  Eddie stepped forward, an eager look on his face. “I have a gift for you.”

  “A gift?”

  He nodded and placed a rabbit’s foot in her palm. “It’s supposed to bring good luck. Uncle Tom said it would make you feel better and maybe even convince you to stay.”

  Fighting back tears, she gazed at the lump of fur in her hand. Making such a concession couldn’t have come easy.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She was touched, but more than that, she saw the rabbit foot for what it was—a sham. She now realized how foolish it was to put one’s trust in something as random as luck. She’d done everything possible that morning to tempt fate, but nothing awful had happened.

  Tom said God could take something bad and turn it into something good, and she wanted to believe it was true. Gazing into his loving eyes, she did believe it. She believed it with all her heart. For once in her life her anxiety about the future was gone, melted away like a winter thaw followed by the warmth and promise of spring.

  “I don’t think I’ll be needing this rabbit’s foot.” She pressed the furry paw into Eddie’s palm. “I’d rather put my trust in God.”

  Tom’s eyes softened with gentle understanding. “Does that mean I can resume a proper courtship?”

  She smiled. Not only was he the most handsome man she ever set eyes on, but he wore his new family status so well. “Not too proper, I hope.”

  With a happy whoop, Tom wrapped his one good arm around her waist and pulled her so close their hearts beat as one. He then gave her one very improper kiss.

  “Does that mean you’re going to be Uncle Tom’s cantaloupe bride?” Eddie asked.

  Mary-Jo laughed and ruffled Eddie’s hair. “Only if you let me be your cantaloupe ma.”

  Eddie flung his arms around her waist.

  Blinking back tears of joy, she was just about to say that she was the luckiest girl alive, but stopped herself just in time. This wasn’t luck; this was a blessing from God and for that she gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

  As if to read her mind, Tom lifted his gaze to heaven as if he too said a silent prayer. He then smiled at his new family. “Come on, you two. All this talk about cantaloupes is making me hungry.”

  Glossary of Mail-Order Bride Advertising Terms

  (And What They Really Mean)

  Eager to learn—can’t cook; can’t sew; can’t clean

  Accomplished—can ride, shoot, and spit like a man

  Modest dowry—poor as a church mouse

  Independent means—mean face and mean disposition

  Loving nature—keep her away from the ranch hands

  Traditionally built—you may wish to reinforce the floors

  Matrimonially inclined—working on husband number three

  Maternal—has six children and one on the way

  Possesses natural beauty—don’t let the false hair, cosmetic paints, or bolstered bosom scare you

  Industrious—give her a dollar and she’ll figure out how to spend ten

  Young looking—doesn’t look a day over sixty

  And they lived happily ever after—AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

  An Ever After Summer

  Debra Clopton

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares

  the Lord. “Plans to prosper you and not to harm

  you, plans to give you a hope and a future.”

  JEREMIAH 29:11 NIV

  Widowed rancher looking for practical woman to keep house and be a mother to his two-year-old baby girl. Bible believers need not apply. Mathew McConnell, Honey Springs, Texas.

  SITTING AT HIS DESK IN THE OFFICE OF THE HITCHING Post Mail-Order Bride Catalogue, Melvin Hitchcock scowled at the letter.

  “The man is wasting his time. And his money,” Melvin grumbled, shaking his head. The ad had been in the catalogue for weeks with no response—other than a few letters from candidates of ill repute whom Melvin quickly disqualified, after all, there was a child’s welfare at stake!

  Melvin knew something had to be done or the widower would lose patience and blame the lack of response on the catalogue.

  It was time for action.

  Melvin picked up his pen. Tapping it on his chin, he thoughtfully studied the letter . . . a widower. Mathew McConnell was obviously still grieving the loss of his wife these two years and not in his right mind. Why else would he forgo the qualification that any loving father would want for his children? No, this lonely, grieving widower needed love as much as his baby needed it . . . and from a woman with God on her side if she was to be of any help at all.

  Intent on his task, Melvin tweaked a sentence, removed a few words—only a slight change but enough. Pushing his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose, he read the new ad. “Yes, yes, this will do nicely.” It had a certain ring to it. A certain romance that would speak softly to a woman of a tender heart and a godly belief . . .

  There would be responses now. And Melvin trusted that the good Lord would show him exactly the right young woman whose letter he should forward on to Mathew McConnell—that baby needed a mother. She’d already been waiting far, far too long.

  Anticipation filled Melvin, helping lonely couples was a calling. He had a way with words, and an inexplicable ability to read a letter and know what someone really needed.

  Oh yes, he did indeed. It was a God-given ability, and Melvin Hitchcock had no qualms admitting as much or plans to let such a gift go to waste . . .

  “Bible believers need not apply”—ha! Indeed they should and they would or his name wasn’t Melvin Hitchcock of the very well-received Hitching Post Mail-Order Bride Catalogue!

  Honey Springs, Texas

  SUMMER 1870

  A BORN KILLER. MELVINA ELDORA SMITH KILLED THREE people before the age of one—her mother at birth, her father of a broken heart, and her poor, poor uncle Mutt outside a bar with a runaway buggy . . .

  Ellie Smith fought off the chanting taunts of her past. Taunts that had followed her from “the ill-fated day of her birth”—as Aunt Millicent was fond of saying.

  Three deaths before the age of one!

  Aunt Millicent had assured Ellie and everyone else she came in contact with for the last nineteen years that all three deaths were most unquestionably Ellie’s doing.

  Oh, how Ellie wished she’d known them all. The loss of her mother and father especially left a gnawing hole in her heart. But according to Aunt Millicent it was nothing compared to the one in her heart, especially with th
e hardship of raising Ellie dropped straightaway into her lap. Over and over Ellie had heard this from as far back as she could remember.

  The taunts of children on the playground and the whispers of adults carried the same message. “Murderin’ Melvina.” The hurtful nickname had clung to her all these nineteen years. Her penance for crimes committed . . .

  But not any longer.

  Today she’d left Murderin’ Melvina behind, shortened Eldora to Ellie. Her new beginning as Ellie Smith was under way. Today her very own fairy tale began . . . She still could not believe it was possible.

  Her chest felt like it would surely burst with anticipation as she stood on the weathered plank sidewalk beside the stagecoach she’d just ridden three hundred rough, dusty miles into Honey Springs. Even the oppressive summer heat couldn’t stifle her exhilaration as she surveyed the bustling little Texas town that was now her home. She loved the assortment of clapboard buildings, some made of logs and some of bricks that were a backdrop for the busy people moving in all directions. The mercantile was across the street and the hotel was too. The livery sat at the end of the street. She took the rest in, but instead of focusing on the buildings, she studied the people. Fingers of excitement curled inside of her, tickling her so that she thought she might laugh with the thrill of it all.

  Where is he?

  At nineteen, Ellie was leaving her regrettable past—and Aunt Millicent—behind, daring to forge a new life. From the moment she’d stepped onto that stage she’d been in control of her destiny—well, she and God, but surely He had orchestrated this opportunity and was in on the plan.

  Yes, God was finally smiling on Ellie. Good things were about to happe—

  “Look out below!”

  The shout from above had Ellie looking up just in time to see her heavy valise sail from atop the stage straight at her! Ellie jumped out of the way, barely in the nick of time, and the valise whizzed past her and thudded to the boardwalk in a plume of dust. Ellie’s hat slid forward and she righted it with one hand as she clutched her Bible to her racing heart.

  “Oops, sorry ’bout that, little lady,” the grizzled driver shouted.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Muldoon,” Ellie assured him. He and his shotgun had gotten her through some rough country without mishap and for that she was thankful. Sneezing when a loose feather from her hat tickled her nose, she swiped it out of the way and continued to scan the men milling about.

  Where was he?

  Two months ago Ellie had only dreamed of a different life. One with a husband and children to call her own—her unattainable happily-ever-after. But dreams were all she’d had. No man in Fort Worth with half a mind wanted to be stuck with a wife known as Murderin’ Melvina. Then Aunt Millicent had slapped a copy of the Hitching Post Mail-Order Bride Catalogue in front of her and given Ellie an hour to pick a husband or she would pick one for her.

  Looking down in shock at that catalogue, Ellie had no idea that the book would change her life. Hesitantly, she’d opened it to a random page and, as if beckoning her gaze to fall upon it, there was Mathew McConnell’s ad. The short, sweet words spoke to her heart.

  Lonely, widowed rancher looking for love and a godly mother for his sweet, two-year-old baby girl who needs gentle arms to hold her.

  Ellie had connected instantly—not even knowing what Mathew McConnell looked like. She’d looked her future in the face and decided right then and there to change the course of her life.

  The very daring of the idea had energized her like nothing else ever had, like being freed from shackles!

  And the most ironic thing of all: it had been Aunt Millicent’s desire to be rid of her that had turned Ellie’s life in this exciting new direction.

  It just went to show a person that God, in His timing, could take a bad situation and turn it for good . . . just as the Good Book promised.

  Mathew McConnell was the hope of her life.

  The answer to her prayers. Her very own knight in shining armor.

  Mathew offered her a way out of the life she’d been doomed to live and for that she would forever be grateful.

  And baby Sophie . . . oh, the sweet angel, just like Ellie, had lost her mother at birth. Ellie had so much love just bursting to be showered on Sophie. The sweet, innocent child would never, ever carry the burden of her mother’s death as Ellie had for her own.

  Searching the passing people, Ellie’s eyes jerked to a halt as they latched onto the dark, penetrating eyes of a tall, lean cowboy with a very unbecoming scowl on his ruggedly handsome face. “Goodness,” she gasped, her fingers tightening on her Bible.

  Dressed in dark britches, a gray, long-sleeved shirt tucked in at his narrow hips, a holster hung low on his right thigh. His thumb was looped beneath the leather belt just in front of the pearl handle of the holstered gun. Tall, lean, and dangerous.

  And he was watching her.

  Ellie wondered if he knew that he looked like he’d just eaten a very sour pickle. And how sad because it didn’t become him in the least.

  And why, she wanted to know, was he looking at her with that pickle-faced expression?

  Hiking her chin, Ellie met the cowboy’s insolent stare. How dare he! Of all the rude—He took a step in her direction! Ellie gasped and despite the road separating them, she took a step back on the platform. When he stomped from the plank sidewalk and strode toward her across that rutted road, Ellie’s heart dropped straight to her toes. What was he doing?

  Sidestepping horses and buggies, he crossed the busy street, taking purposeful strides toward her. Tightening her grip on the Bible she clutched to her chest, she denied the dreaded thought sliding over her—surely to goodness this man was not Mathew McConnell!

  Why else would a perfect stranger be approaching me?

  Her head was full of imaginations of the way she believed her betrothed would look. And while, at the moment, she couldn’t disregard this man’s dark good looks, the scowl that hadn’t left his expression left much, much to be desired. Ellie was looking for a lonely widower looking for love . . . He should be looking happily at her.

  This rugged cowboy looked like he was aching for a fight, or at the least had a belly full of green plums. Ellie glanced about her, maybe her eyes were deceived and his gaze was locked onto someone standing behind her.

  “Miss Smith?”

  Ellie’s stomach curdled, her palms grew damp. “Yes.” Dear Lord, please don’t let this be so.

  “Miss Melvina Eldora Smith?”

  The name alone caused Ellie to cringe. Aunt Millicent always said a formal letter required a formal name, and Ellie had written the letter to the Hitching Post in the most formal way, wanting to make the best impression of her life—and with her aunt looking over her shoulder! Clearly a misconception on her part, since this dour, pickled-faced man obviously had no interest in making any kind of good impression on the likes of her.

  Pulling her shoulders back, Ellie pushed her alarmed reaction down. “Mr. McConnell?” Please, oh please let it not be so . . . The quick nod of his dark head shot any glimmer of hope straight onto the dusty boards upon which she stood. Surely there was something amiss here. Some terrible, dreadful mistake.

  The dread that had been coiling in the pit of Mathew McConnell’s gut from the moment the wide-eyed beauty stepped from the stagecoach tightened as she slowly nodded her feather-topped head.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” he nearly growled, eyeing the Bible in her hands before looking straight at her.

  Eyes that were mingled shades of light and dark blues, like the colors of the bluebonnets that grew all over Texas, met his, just as a perfectly sculpted eyebrow snapped up. “Excuse me?” she said, none too happily.

  Mathew should have tipped his hat to the lady, even if he was too angry to think of the manners his mother—may she rest in peace—had taught him. This was not the Melvina Eldora he’d pictured arriving to marry him—the woman who’d come to be a mother to Sophie.

  �
��I specifically requested a practical woman.” Snatching his Stetson from his head, he slapped it against his thigh. What kind of mail-order bride catalogue was this Hitching Post anyway? There could have been no mistaking his ad: Widowed rancher looking for practical woman to keep house and be a mother to his baby girl. Bible believers need not apply. And yet, here stood this, this woman . . . decked out in her feathers, ruffles, and lace from the top of her head to the tips of her dainty boots.

  “Practical,” she ground out. Her pert nose twitched just the slightest and her bluebonnet eyes flared with indignation. “You’re saying I’m not practical?” Her voice rose on the last word as she glared at him and batted a feather out of her face.

  “That’s right.” He’d started this so he might as well finish it. “And I specifically said Bible thumpers need not apply.” His eyes fell to the Bible gripped in her white-knuckled hands.

  “Bible thumber—I mean thumper?” Her eyes narrowed. “How dare you?”

  “Well, don’t get all riled up,” he drawled. “You are holding that Bible like it’s your last best friend in all the world.”

  Her mouth formed a perfect pink O and a tiny gasp escaped. “Yes. Well,” she stammered. “Mister McConnell, I’m not certain what’s going on here, but you are not the only one who’s disturbed at the moment. You might be angry that a so-called Bible thumper has gotten off that stage. However, I can assure you that the sour face greeting me after my long and arduous stagecoach ride is quite a disappointment to me. A very large disappointment indeed.” She huffed, pulled her shoulders back, and stood rigidly in place, staring up at him with the gumption of twenty frontier women.