The Wrong Bride_A Christmas Mail Order Bride Romance

by Natalie Dean

  “Oh, I could call it faith,” said the oldest one, who had introduced herself as Laura. She gave Greta a sidelong glance. “I would more likely call it faith in numbers. In Richmond, the dead outnumber the living. The men who are left are very old or very young, crippled in body or in soul. But in the west, the men are bursting with wealth and have no women to share it with. We have faith we can help them.”

  “Who is your betrothed?” asked the youngest one, Beatrice, a little more gently. “Did he strike it rich with a gold claim?”

  “No. He has a teaching position.”

  “Oh, my dear! Why ever did you give your consent? A young girl like you could make a fortune where you’re going!”

  Greta cast down her eyes and shook her head. “Look what you’ve done!” scolded Laura. “You have embarrassed her. You have made her blush. We aren’t really so terrible, honey. We used to harbor more honorable thoughts until all honor disappeared. We used to be fine ladies. You can’t even imagine and you shouldn’t. We need the devout to give proper guidance to the future. We need people like you.”

  “Oh!” said the woman whose age hovered somewhere in the middle range of thirty. “There is a sight worth viewing!” In the distance, a herd of buffalo were ambling toward a faint blue horizon that was just a little darker and more irregular in formation than the sky. It wasn’t an extremely large herd. They looked more like gigantic cattle scattered over the plains. It was a sight worth viewing, however, and Greta held her breath for a moment. She really was, she thought with a sudden thrill of excitement, going into the wild.

  Over the next couple of days, the irregular horizon deepened into a jagged mountain range. Greta’s eyes feasted on the bonanza of color, the dark blue and green streaks among ruddy cliffs, the height of the mountains growing taller and taller, until she realized with a shock, they were climbing them. They were going up and up over rocks and fiercely gouged ruts. They were entering tall trees and tangled brush. “Do you think,” whispered Beatrice, with just a note of fear, “we could be attacked by wild Indians?”

  Greta shook her head. “This route has been heavily guarded for a long time; even before the war. The Overland Trail Stagecoach is the safest way to travel.”

  “Until they finish building the railroad,” said the oldest woman. “I read it in the paper. There will be a railroad and we will no longer have to travel by coach.”

  “Well, the stagecoach is far more modern and comfortable than those ugly wagons some folk still insist on using,” said Hannah, the mid-thirties woman. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small mirror to powder her nose. “I believe the prairie sun has put quite a burn on my complexion.”

  That evening, their rest stop was a lodge built from solid logs. It had a fairly large living space decorated with a worn out, stuffed sofa, a hand-hewn rocker and a fireplace, a kitchen, a long dining table with benches instead of chairs, and two dormitories with bunks. One for the men, the other for the women. There was a barn for the horses, a shed for tools, but other than that, there were no other buildings in sight.

  The mattress Greta laid down on that night was filled with straw and made her skin itch. She scratched the tiny bumps that were a mixture of the straw’s irritation and insect bites. Tomorrow they would arrive in Boulder and she was a terrible sight. Unwashed, wearing the same clothing for days, her skin blotchy with all the pestilences nature had hurled at her. “Dear Lord,” she prayed inaudibly. “I know I shouldn’t ask for much, but do you think tomorrow I could get a bath?” She didn’t hear or expect an answer.

  Chapter 2

  Ask and you shall receive, although the truth is it was Hannah who asked boldly out loud, “How much would it cost us for washroom services?”

  As it turned out, bathing was available for a price, or if you didn’t mind the cold water, there was a creek nearby. Greta wavered between paying to have water drawn and heated for a warm bath or bracing herself for the icy cold creek. Her frugality won out. She scrubbed herself at the edge of the creek, gasping and tingling, while the other women paid for the luxury of the tub.

  Their individual toiletries interrupted Owen’s time schedule enough that he grumbled and hurried them a little, but it was all the casual manifestations of a man who liked to assert his authority. Every one of the four women, who had seen the worst of what mankind can do with one another, understood this and were equally nonchalant in their rebuttal.

  Despite the delay, they arrived in Boulder well within schedule. It looked makeshift to Greta, like the military camps that had been hastily built, using whatever materials were available. Many of the buildings were squat cabins, unadorned with anything except burlap curtains at the windows, and sometimes a crude sign to announce its type of employment. At one end of the town was the newly finished school and at the other, a collection of taverns and casinos.

  The stagecoach stopped in front of an official-looking building squatting between a hardware and a grocery store. A chalkboard was attached to one side of the door, recording the Overland schedule. The sign on the building stated, “Banking, Mail Delivery, Stagecoach Services”. Around six or seven men clustered together, waiting for their arrival. They had shaved once, several days ago, and now stubble was freely erupting from dust-coated faces. Their flannel work shirts were in no better condition. They held in their hands a placard stating, “We need wives.”

  “These are the miners?” asked Greta. “They look somewhat disreputable.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll clean up right nicely,” said the oldest woman. “Especially if they struck gold.”

  They giggled as they stepped out of the coach. The group of men whistled and called. Greta watched shyly as the three women boldly made their introductions and asked about the camp. She pressed against the familiar form of one of the horses and asked Owen hesitantly, “Is my fiancé among this lot?”

  “No mam,” he told her. “This lot is the fallen and the wayward you are beset to civilize. It appears Mr. Marston hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Is he late?”

  “Oh no. The stagecoach doesn’t always arrive on time. Usually, we’re a little late. The unpredictable happens. It gets stuck. It loses a wheel. It gets caught in a storm or a flash flood. We made very good time. Perhaps you bring a little lady luck.”

  “Luck never has anything to do with it, Mr. Owen.”

  “That as it may be, it was still a fortunate smile that fell upon me.”

  It was another twenty minutes before Joseph Marston arrived. In the meantime, the horses had been unharnessed and taken to the stables. The stagecoach had been unburdened, with her portmanteau and other pieces of yet unclaimed luggage laying on the ground. Greta knew it was him because Owen tugged on her arm and pointed him out.

  He wasn’t at all like she had pictured. He wasn’t tall and lanky. He was just over medium height with a medium build. He had straight brown hair that was kept fairly short, a closely shaven face and a wide mouth that fit tightly within a square jaw. He wore tweed slacks and a white shirt rolled at the sleeves, under a knitted vest. His most outstanding feature was his eyes. They were a dark, penetrating blue and flashed with their own fiery storm.

  “Miss Samuelson, meet Mr. Marston,” said Owen, sweeping his arm elegantly to and fro.

  “Miss Samuelson,” nodded Joseph, his voice reserved.

  “Mr. Marston,” acknowledged Greta. “Are your arrivals habitually late?”

  “You are very young,” he said, frowning. “I thought you would be a more mature age.”

  “I am twenty years old. That’s mature enough to be the age of consent. And I think you will find I am mature enough to make a great many decisions on my own.”

  “I wanted a woman experienced with the pitfalls of life and who has risen above them, not a complete innocent.”

  “The children of Kansas lost their innocence many years ago, Mr. Marston. All we have left is our innocent belief that we can make things better. It must be enough, Mr. Marston or a
ll will be lost.”

  “All is lost I’m afraid, if I am to depend on a mere snip of a girl. Never mind. You have a good writing hand. You can add and subtract, I assume. You have a pleasant face, which will make the children more willing to listen to instruction. You can be my assistant until we figure out what to do with you.”

  “What to do with me?” Greta struggled with her portmanteau, trying to lift it off the ground. His hand covered hers for a minute as he assisted her. She felt the heat pass through her and flushed, surprised at her instant reaction. If he had also noticed this crackling current, he ignored it, setting the heavy trunk up on his shoulders and fastening his eyes on the road ahead.

  “Yes, what to do with you,” he said firmly, settling her luggage into the back of a buggy and stepping up on the buckboard. He held out an arm to help her into her seat. “I could send you home.”

  “It would be in complete disgrace.”

  “Marrying you is completely out of the question, but there are some respectable younger men in the settlement. Perhaps an arrangement can yet be made.”

  “That is considerate of you, Mr. Marston, but I don’t believe it will be necessary for you to extend your matchmaking efforts. If you find my companionship displeasing, working as your assistant will be sufficient as long as you provide food and lodging for my services. Plus, five dollars a week for my own small vanities. I shall write to my brother Lester, who is further west, this week and notify him that I am still interested in working at the mission.”

  “I would not have you gallivanting into Indian country, Miss Samuelson.”

  “If I have heard correctly, you would not have me at all, Mr. Marston. I believe you have forfeited your right to instruct me.”

  He said nothing more as the buggy squeaked its way up the packed earth road. It was pulled by a horse that wasn’t much larger than a pony, with a tail that dropped almost to the ground, twitching, close-set ears and an untrained, disinterested gait that picked up as it got closer to home. Greta marveled at the difference in terrain. A disorderly tantrum in tumultuous hills and giant stones erupted in protest over the long, smooth valley far below. It felt shaggy. The pony’s mane and tail were shaggy. The sharp needled pine, capturing trails of blue-gray moss looked shaggy, especially when the moss whipped and shuddered in the wind. The sprouting clumps of grass, gobbling whatever soil had not been consumed by briars and shrubs, leaned shagging away from the mountain wall.

  The settlement was several miles outside the town. It was smaller, but just as bustling in its own way. The center of it was marked by an irregular assortment of tents squatting within the vicinity of the only permanent structures; a trading post, a tavern and a hotel that apparently housed primarily women. Joseph clicked his pony into a faster trot as they passed by the mining camp, and set his eyes straight ahead to a small scattering of houses and cultivated fields at the far edge of town.

  The pastoral setting was a contrast to the loud and disorganized cluster of houses and tents that scrambled around the hotels, dancehalls and taverns of Boulder. Set between the school and a church, it was one of several recently built and freshly painted houses that had set their standards in clean, straight boards and planks, cunningly framed windows and neatly crafted doors. It was the type of construction Greta understood; quality workmanship clothed within the reserved, straight lines of modesty.

  Slowly they were taming the land around them, smoothing the tumbling landscape into green fields and flowering gardens. Greta saw the vision and knew in her heart, she wanted to be a part of it. “Mr. Marston, I am quite obliged to you even if we don’t marry. My journey has just begun and already I have seen such wonders. I will always feel indebted to you even if we should go our separate ways.”

  “Miss Samuelson, your optimism is refreshing but it only reinforces my opinion that you are too young for the type of responsibilities you will be expected to face. I know that what you have seen you must believe is the most terrible that men can accomplish. War is terrible, but war is fought by men of strong convictions. It is fought by men who would not ordinarily steal at gunpoint, who would not ordinarily gamble their lives on a poker game.

  There is a more terrible type of man. There is the man who places no value on human life. There is the man who will leave behind the woman bearing his child, who will drink up his fortunes and allow his family to wallow in poverty. This is the type of man who roams in the wilds and preys on the unaware. This is the type of man who brings chaos to the mining camps and corrupts our settlements. Our fight isn’t for that man. It’s for the children who were abandoned. You can’t reach them by saying, ‘Yes, I know about war’. You must reach them by saying, ‘Yes, I know about hopelessness.’”

  “Thank you, Mr. Marston. I will keep that in mind.”

  She waited for him to help her down from the carriage. His hands circled around her waist easily and he actually lifted her instead of assisting her to climb down. Nor did he release his hands right away as her feet touched the ground. “You are a peculiar woman, Miss Samuelson.” His steely eyes bored into her a moment and his mouth twitched. “Bed down the horse for the night and I’ll put up the buggy. Mind you. Do not give him too much hay, or his stomach will bloat.”

  She took the animal by the bridle and started him toward the barn. “Ah. These ponies are little piggy’s, are they? Well, he will not eat himself sick by my hand.”

  She walked away, talking soothingly to the half-sized horse, petting its muzzle, feeling the softness of its mouth. He needed only a light touch for direction. She appreciated that. She removed the halter gently and rubbed him down with a cloth.

  She had just finished feeding and watering the horse when she felt, rather than heard, Joseph Marston come up beside her. “What’s his name?” she asked, giving her new friend a final pet.

  “Snake Bite. If you turn your back on him, he’ll bite you.” He caught her and pulled her away just as the horse started to do just that. He released her almost instantly, but once again she felt an intense heat in the brief moment that they touched that continued to burn for minutes after they pulled away. His turbulent eyes grew darker and more troubled.

  He stiffened his back and smoothed his vest around the waist. “I will show you the house now, Miss Samuelson,” he said, formally offering her his arm. “Fortunately, it has a spare room so you will be comfortably accommodated until such time as you choose what to do next with your life.”

  Joseph Marston’s home had taken advantage of all things of great practicality and inventiveness. Instead of an open well with a bucket to haul water, his well was closed, with a hand pump for drawing. The lamps were all holstered to the wall in polished copper brackets, providing ample light. The kitchen had a wood-burning stove with both an oven and three top burners. Mr. Marston may have a modest salary, but the efficiency in design and function of his home had been bought from the most advanced minds in manufacturing. Even the sofa was well-made and sturdy, with thick cotton stuffing inside the beautifully tanned and treated leather cushions that complimented graciously the highly polished furniture

  The staircase had been built by a craftsman. Using four-inch thick saplings for the handrails, they had been picked through carefully for consistency in shape, width, and color pattern. They had been sanded until the pattern produced was a crystal-clear blend of honey to chocolate tones, and was so smooth, you could not feel one bump under your fingertips. The staircase made a single spiral, tightening up the amount of space needed for ascent, yet adding a beautiful touch to the rustic living room.

  He showed her to her room first, in the loft at the top of the staircase. It was a very generous room as it occupied the whole floor. However, apart from a cot and a dresser, it was completely unfurnished. “I have extra bedding downstairs,” he apologized. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  Greta sat on the cot, appraising her situation. Joseph had brought in her trunk while he was putting away the cart, and it stood now in the center of the room, dem
anding an answer as to whether it should be unpacked or simply drawn upon from day to day. “I don’t know,” she said aloud, as though the trunk had actually spoken. “I may have been mistaken. I thought I was being called to marriage when quite possibly, I was only being called to duty.”

  She sighed and stood by the window. Her eyes soaked in the richness of the vegetation, the brilliance of the colorful mountains. The sun was setting and streaked across the sky with the most astonishing fanfare she had ever seen. It tinted the slowly turning vegetation to ruddy, early autumn colors. She had only been in the Rocky Mountains three days and already she was in love with them.

  She heard Joseph come up the steps but didn’t turn around. “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” he remarked, a little gruffly. “I brought you some blankets. I imagine you’re hungry. There are some dinner preparations on the table.”

  “Will you be joining me?” she asked, still staring outside.

  He hesitated as though he was going to say no, then answered, “I’ll take a light supper with you. I had already shared dinner with the school administrator and his wife before arriving to pick you up.”

  She turned around finally. “That is kindly of you. Perhaps then we could learn a little more about each other and you won’t be so quick to judge my character.”

  “Your character doesn’t come into question at all. But I am thirty-two years old. You are little more than a child. How virtuous would I be to take advantage of your circumstances? It was my own foolishness, I know. I neglected to ask your age. I was swept into the moment, but you have to understand, Miss Samuelson, I am not the man to steal the innocence of gentle creatures. I am not that man.”

  “Gracious, Mr. Marston, I should hope not.”

  Chapter 3

  After three days, and much deliberation, Greta sent off a letter to her brother in Oregon, telling him she was contemplating joining the mission. Joseph Marston had turned over the management of the house to her, and all other wifely duties except those that entailed intimacy, including demonstrations of affection. He wasn’t cold, just aloof, like an uncle or much older brother.