A Mail-Order Christmas Bride

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Now, I’m telling you straight. We could’ve sneaked off. That would’ve been the easy way. But I want to do this the right way. I’m asking you to let her go to get a fresh start…”

  “With you?”

  “With me. We love each other.”

  Wes spat on the ground. “Love each other. What have you been up to behind my back? Appears you’re suddenly not so concerned about doing the right thing.”

  “This is the right thing. You can give her a divorce—or not. Either way, she leaves with me.”

  Wesley’s face contorted with anger, going from red to purple. Caleb knew what was coming next. He reached behind him and put his hand on the handle of his gun. Wes bent over and swept everything off the top of his desk. His fist closed around a brass letter opener. Caleb tensed, ready to pull out the gun if he took one step toward him.

  Wes froze, looking past him now. A look of shock on his face. No, God, Ella, no. Not now, Caleb thought. He didn’t dare look away from Wes.

  “K-k-kill you! You bas-bastard!”

  Caleb spun around, hand on his gun. Virgil was standing in the door, Winchester leveled not at him, but at Wes.

  “Virgil, you don’t need to do that now. Give me the gun,” said Caleb in a soft voice, moving toward his younger brother.

  Before he could reach him, Virgil pulled the trigger. Caleb had just had time to knock the barrel of the rifle upward. There was a loud report. Plaster rained down on Wes from a hole blasted in the ceiling above him.

  Then, unexpectedly, Virgil started to snicker. He pointed at Wesley. The big man stood, a wet stain growing on his pants. Not blood. He had wet himself.

  “Caleb! Thank God, you’re safe! I heard the gunshot…”

  Ella stood behind Virgil now. She had her coat on and a carpetbag was next to her on the floor. When she moved toward him, Caleb waved her back.

  “Virgil, give me that gun,” he said.

  Virgil meekly handed over the rifle to Caleb.

  “I think we’re done here,” he said. When he saw Ella looking with concern at Virgil, he added, “We’re taking Virgil with us too. You want that, Virg?”

  Virgil bobbed his head up and down vigorously.

  “Ellie, will you go with Virgil and help him pack a few things? Meet me at the stable as soon as you can.”

  “You don’t get to take anything I bought for you!” Wesley shouted after her retreating figure.

  When Ella had led Virgil off, Caleb turned his attention back to his older brother and father. Pa was bobbing his head. Wes had sat back down again.

  “Well, little Caleb, you’re quite the man now.”

  “Yes, I’m not the little boy you can beat on anymore. I could kill you right now for the way you treated that woman. But I won’t. Men like you always get what they deserve in the end. I’m going to leave you my horse. I’m taking the sleigh, though.”

  “That sleigh is worth a lot of money.”

  “Funny, the worth of the sleigh is what’s on your mind. Don’t worry. I’m going to leave it at the train station. You can go pick it up after we’re gone. I’ll make sure the horses are stabled.”

  Caleb looked his brother in the eye. A spot under Wes’s eye was twitching.

  “I remember everything now. I could kill you just for that. What you did to me and Virgil. I remember. It wasn’t a mule kick to the head that made him the way he is. You tried to kill him—your own brother—because he was going to tell Ma what you made him do—what you made me do. You disgust me. You give that woman a divorce, or I’m going to make sure everyone in these parts knows the kind of man you are. Then, see how easy it is to get a ranch hand.”

  “I was only trying to teach you how to be a man.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  Still holding the rifle in his hands, Caleb crossed over to his father.

  He put his hand on the bony shoulder. “Pa, I have to leave. I don’t like leaving you like this, but I’ll write to Flora and tell her to come get you.”

  His father was trying to say something. He pushed a clawed hand in the direction of the rifle, a plea in his eyes.

  “You want the gun?”

  His father nodded.

  “You’re not going to do something foolish, are you?”

  His father shook his head no.

  “You’ll hold him here ’til we get a good head start.”

  His father nodded yes, his watery eyes on him.

  “I’m going to find one of the ranch hands and tell him to look in on you later. Don’t you do anything foolish,” Caleb said to his brother.

  He put the gun in his father’s hands and helped him level it at Wes, his good hand on the trigger.

  “Oh, come on now!” protested Wes, arms spread out.

  “Bye, Pa. I love you,” said Caleb, backing out of the room.

  ****

  Virgil already had the sleigh ready by the time Caleb got to the stable after leaving instructions with a ranch hand. Ella and Virgil were there waiting for him. Their faces glowed with excitement. When she saw him, Ella jumped down and ran to him, throwing her arms around him.

  He allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the feeling of her body in his arms. “We best be going. Virgil? You sure about this? Your piano…”

  “Ella s-s-says I c-c-an pl…pl…” He started, then waved it off in frustration, but with a big grin on his face.

  “I told him he could make a living playing piano in San Francisco. I believe he can.”

  “I believe you’re right. Let’s get to that train station. We have a lot of ground to cover together.”

  She pulled at his arm and looked him in the face. “Is he going to give me a divorce?”

  “That wasn’t exactly settled yet, but I’d wager you’ll get your divorce.”

  “And then—” she started breathlessly, all the hope in the world in her voice.

  Caleb bent to kiss her. “And then you’ll be mine, Ella, my love. We’ve got our entire lives ahead of us—starting here and now, with this Christmas.”

  About the Author—Patti Sherry-Crews

  Patti Sherry-Crews lives in Evanston, Illinois, with her two children and husband. She has a degree in anthropology/archaeology, a fifteen-year stint as a shop-owner, a fondness for the British Isles, the Old West, and performing food experiments in her kitchen.

  Her aim is to create compelling characters who are smart and have interesting stories to tell. Armchair travel included.

  When she’s not playing with cowboys and Indians, she writes contemporary fiction and hopes to try her hand at medieval romance in the near future. Under the name Cherie Grinnell, she has written a series of steamy romances set in Ireland and Wales.

  Her Holiday Husband

  Tanya Hanson

  Secrets and surprises are in store when families meddle with a beautiful single mother and an outlaw-turned-respectable...

  Chapter One

  “Margot, what have you done?”

  Phoebe Pierce crumpled the paper and aimed for the fireplace, but her hands shook so much she missed. Horror rippled through her. She sank onto the hard wooden settle and tried to catch her breath. No matter the goosefeather Christmas tree in the corner. Merriment was the last thing on her mind.

  Staring down at Phoebe like the angel of death, her sister tightened her lips. “You can burn the contract if you will, but he’s got the original.”

  “You forged my signature.” Phoebe’s teeth clenched over the words. A mail-order husband? Or rather, herself some fool rancher’s mail-order bride?

  Margot’s nose rose toward Aunt Augusta’s ceiling. “I simply gave you a nudge. Now, now.” She sat down and grabbed one of Phoebe’s long curls, coiled it around her finger. “You’ve said yourself no man will want you. At least nobody in our sphere. Not after Papa cast you out. Other than…”

  The sisters shivered at the same time. Other than toothless old Mr. Warburton who owned the largest bank in Douglas County.

  “Bu
t I… No, Margot.” Phoebe stomped her foot, and for a flash, recalled how Auntie had helped her hook the rug during her confinement. “You can’t order me a husband like—like goods from a catalogue! What were you thinking?”

  “Look at him again.” Margot waved a tintype of a most breathtaking man, and Phoebe’s heart tumbled harder than the first time she’d seen it. Tall and strong. Light-colored hair beneath a dark Stetson. “A rancher, Phoebe. A true man of the outdoors. Just the type for a debutante gone country.”

  “What do you mean? Aunt Augusta took me in. She happens to live on a farm!” Phoebe stood up to kick the crumpled ball of paper across the parlor. She’d had no place else to go…

  “Ah, I’ve seen you admire the bunnies in Auntie’s winter garden. Good heavens, you don’t even wear the fur muff I gave you.” Margot’s dark eyebrows arched into premature wrinkles. “And dare I remind you. A tainted debutante gone country.”

  Heat worse than the Pennsylvania fireplace roiled across Phoebe’s skin. Her knees gave out and she sat down again. Margot was probably right about the no man wanting her part but…“I will not agree to this scheme.”

  “I simply did something you don’t have the courage to do for yourself. It’s the perfect solution.” Margot, older by ten years, gathered Phoebe against her in a most motherly way. Considering she had no children of her own and they’d lost their own maternal parent long ago. “You’ll thank me when you get there.”

  “When I get there? Colorado?” Phoebe wailed, although it was but the next state over. “And someplace called East Slop? Why, it already reminds me of swine food.”

  “East Slope, dear.” Margot patted the top of Phoebe’s head this time. “Don’t forget the ‘E’. Your intended describes it as fine ranching country at the base of the Rockies. In the letter of August seventh. Here.” She handed Phoebe a bundle of envelopes bound with a blue ribbon. For a moment, Margot didn’t let go and Phoebe understood. They sat quite close to the fire.

  “You can learn more about him on the train. His letters are beautifully composed.” A dreamy gaze glazed her sister’s eyes, and for a flash, Phoebe felt some sympathy. Her brother-in-law was quite useless as a husband. Or as a human being, for that matter.

  Then, Phoebe tossed the letters to the floor. “I’m not going to learn any more about him. I’m not going on any train. I’m not marrying a complete stranger. You have lost your mind.”

  “This is your only chance.” With quiet deliberation, Margot loosened the drawstrings of Phoebe’s reticule and gently housed the letters inside. Then she glared straight on. “It’s time for you to take control. Aunt Augusta has housed you these years, but she’s ailing. It’s your turn to fend for yourself. And you certainly can’t go home. Not while Papa’s alive, anyway. And I doubt anybody’ll accept you even after he’s dead.”

  Phoebe’s heart panged again. She meant her father no harm, but to cast out one’s child in an hour of need…

  “And Lester. I’m sorry.” Margot’s arms fluttered. “But…”

  “No need.” Phoebe snorted. She had despised her uppity brother-in-law long before her downfall. “I’d not take charity from him if he were ordered by God himself.”

  Margot pinked. Hmmm. Maybe the childlessness was Margot’s own repulsion of her husband…

  “I know you’re grateful, Phoebe. Our dear auntie, giving you succor. But it was intended as a temporary arrangement.” Margot patted her own neck as if she had hard words ahead. “You need a husband, a home of your own. You’re young and quite a belle. It’s the natural progression of things. And your cowboy will be lucky to have you.”

  “He’s not my cowboy.”

  “He will be.” Margot’s satisfied smirk again. Phoebe’s fingers itched to scratch it off. Instead, she ran her fingers over a framed daguerreotype of Auntie’s late children. Diphtheria. Her pique softened a tad. Now, this was a lady with problems.

  Margot ruined the moment, turned the frame around. “Aunt Augusta has trained you well. After all our childhood servants, you learned quickly.” She nodded with approval at the tidy farmhouse parlor. Even still, the aroma of Phoebe’s cinnamon pastry lingered in the air. “Breakfast was perfection.” She lowered her lids. “And you’ve proven—we know—um, other womanly skills as well.”

  Her lips soured in a sad way Phoebe had seen many times. Despite her own “womanly skills”, Margot remained childless. Maybe it was something other than Lester.

  Phoebe shoved her sister away. “I have no skill. It was one night of fumbling. Not even a night. One single time. Before Henry went off to war. I might never see him again. I was weak.”

  “There was no war. He duped you.” Margot’s tongue clucked for its ten-thousandth time over the matter. Fingers flicked over her pink satin dressing gown. She’d trundled in with a massive Saratoga to visit Auntie for Christmas, but Phoebe understood now. Secret matchmaking had been the true reason.

  Phoebe’s knuckles tightened, her heart lurched. No one knew better than she Henry’s lies and deceit. “I believed him. He was a Naval officer on an honorable expedition to Egypt. To protect the American consulate. I believed him. I believed in love.” Shame flamed across her flesh once again. She’d fallen right into his arms, his soft words. Phoebe’s voice broke. “And neither you nor I can know exactly what happened after Egypt.”

  “We do know exactly. Franklin.” Margot’s voice warmed and warned both.

  “I meant Henry.”

  “He likely drowned.” Margot shrugged, but Phoebe had long suspected the same. “You’ll thank me when you get to East Slope. And your bridegroom takes you into his arms…”

  “A complete stranger? I think not.”

  Margot waved the tintype again. “Well, you know what he looks like. He’s a brilliant specimen. It was pure fate, me finding him. We already know one successful marriage brokered by Miss Mamie’s Hearts and Hands Club.”

  “Who?” Phoebe’s lids narrowed. Who else was in on this terrible scheme?

  “Elspeth Maroney.”

  Their former neighbor in Omaha. Phoebe’s lips twisted now, her own plight in flux. “Oh, yes. Didn’t she toss the mitten at that fine senator? Abandoning him at the altar, no less?”

  “Well, now, no judgment. She’ll be your neighbor in East Slope. Even her nasty mama has accepted the marriage and claims it’s a happy one.” She picked up Phoebe’s reticule and held it to her lips. Like a good-bye kiss. “And her sister, Judith, lives in East Slope, too. You won’t be alone.”

  “Alone? I’ll—I’ll have Frankie.” Panic gurgled in Phoebe’s gut. Franklin Pierce Pierce. So named because the midwife had foolishly heard the name as first and middle, like Mary Jane, and not first and last. Like George Washington. And written it in the birth registry that way. Adding the surname Pierce… “I will not leave my son behind.” She spurted up, ready to leave the room, but her knees turned to jam, and she sank down again.

  “Of course you will. You must.” Margot patted her head again like a dog, and Phoebe held off a right hook. “Franklin is coming home with me to Omaha. Be reasonable, dear. What bridegroom wants a youngster along on his honeymoon?” She smoothed her satin, watching intently as she did so. Then looked up. “Or, a ready-made family at all? You’ll get him to fall in love with you firmer than ever. And then convince him to be a father.”

  Phoebe gasped like laundry day, carrying basket after basket up the stairs. Then her breath stopped for a full half minute before she could reply. Margot of course, stood up again, tall and lifeless like a dressmaker’s mannequin.

  “Margot,” Phoebe said at last. “I’m not leaving my boy. If I go anywhere, he’s coming with me.”

  “It’ll likely be easier all around for…everyone.” Margot had the decency to blush. To turn her head toward a wall. “What I mean is. The best solution for any of this is…Lester and me adopting Franklin.”

  Shock rolled down Phoebe’s spine as thick and cold as the snow tumbling from the sky outside. If that was the tr
ue reason for this conspiracy…

  “I think I hate you, Margot. I’ll never give up my son. I’ll make a new start somewhere as a widow with a child. That’s respectable enough. I’m thinking…” Phoebe choked on a sob. “I’m thinking you best telegraph this—this cowboy in East Slope and tell him about your swindle. Tell him I am not coming. Tell him it was you that did the duping this time.”

  Margot swooped next to Phoebe with a tender embrace. “Oh, you’ll do this thing. Phoebe. I mean it all for the best. You don’t come into your trust from Mama for another five years, and Lester…he controls me to the nickel.” She swatted away Phoebe’s tears. “Oh, dear sister, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s all for the best. Same as when Aunt Augusta and I schemed to get you discreetly out of Omaha after…Henry. In truth, she and I have had this plan in the works for some time.”

  “What?” Her dear auntie, too? “How many months? Just how long have you two been up to this chicanery?”

  “Four months.”

  “Four months?” Phoebe’s shoulders slumped like she carried the weight of the world. She’d not suspected a thing. “But the letters? He’ll know, someday, the handwriting isn’t mine.”

  Satisfaction brightened Margot’s sallow face. “Dear, I thought of that. I convinced Mr. Hitchcock at the Omaha Evening World to let me use his typewriting machine.”

  What was happening? Phoebe gulped. Her throat ached. “What about the way I sign my name? That is forgery, pure and simple.”

  “Well, you have sent me many missives during your—sanctuary here with Auntie. I replicated your signature with carbon paper.”

  Phoebe might have gone livid if she had any emotion left. “But the postmark?”

  “I left missives at the Seward post office each time I visited you here. It’s next to the train station.” Margot’s face brightened. “All of this has been well-planned and most necessary, dear.”

  “Stop calling me dear.” Phoebe shoved her sister away. “I’m neither a forest animal nor your simpering child.” The treachery of those who’d cared for her, kept her secrets, kept her safe had her almost past caring. If Frankie weren’t fast asleep napping, she might just grab him and…