Reluctant Brides Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  His father gave a knowing smile. Golden motes danced in his eyes. “Oh? According to bunkhouse gossip, you could tame and marry just about any pretty little filly for miles around. Is that the problem? Too many to choose from?”

  “No.” Brit nodded toward the wedding picture of his parents that graced the mantel over the huge stone fireplace. “I won’t marry until I find one like her.”

  Michael’s feet came down with a thump. “God willing, somewhere in this world there may be another lass as good and sweet as your mother. Don’t pay any attention to my wanting to hear the patter of little feet here in the ranch house. Never marry until you find the woman God intended you to have; then don’t let anything stop you.”

  “Just as you did.”

  “Yes.” Michael stood, crossed to Brit, and dropped a powerful hand to his shoulder. “If she is like Christine, she’s well worth waiting for.”

  They were the last words he ever spoke to his son. That afternoon his galloping horse stumbled and fell, crushing her rider. Michael never regained consciousness….

  Nez Percé whinnied.

  Brit reached up and stroked the buckskin’s black mane, feeling he had just returned from a long journey. Trained to never make decisions in a hurry, he had stuck it out in Texas for a year after his father died. Then Brit knew it was time to move on. Determined to make a fresh start wherever God led him, Brit sold out lock, stock, and barrel. He left most of his money in a trustworthy bank, reasoning it could be obtained when needed by means of a telegram. Scorning railroads, he saddled the sorrel he had withheld from the sale of his stock, mounted, and rode away. He didn’t look back. The ranch was no longer his. His parents’ wedding picture rested in the bottom of his saddlebags. God went before and beside him. Nothing else mattered.

  Curious about the reports of gold, copper, and silver strikes in Idaho, Brit decided to head north and west. The many faces of America captivated him, especially the towering mountains so unlike those in his home state. He missed the companionship of others, so he hired on now and then at ranches along the way. Yet none appealed to him enough to stay in one place a sufficient amount of time to make lasting friends or to satisfy the belief he would know where he belonged when he got there. And—God willing—find a wife.

  “What kind of girl would look at a ragamuffin like me?” he ruefully wondered when he reached Boise. To avoid trouble on the trail, he had deliberately made himself as nondescript-looking as possible. “Not that I want one who judges a man by his trail appearance. Or takes up with him for his money.” He grinned. No one seeing Briton Farley in his present state would dream he could buy a nice little chunk of Idaho!

  He ended up doing just that. After scouting much of the state, he fell in love with the panhandle area southeast of Coeur d’Alene. Forests abundant with game offered food and shelter. Brit stumbled across a down-on-his-luck, half-starved prospector who needed a place to winter. Grizzled and talkative, Charley January agreed to help Brit build a house in return for a grubstake come the next spring.

  “Mind if I put up a sign?” the whiskery fellow asked when they finished the snug log house. “I’ve prospected all over. Made and squandered enough gold an’ silver to have kept me ’til I died.” He scratched his head. “Don’t ’zackly know why, but I feel this may be my last chance to strike it rich.”

  Touched by the old man’s sincerity, Brit agreed. A few days later, a whimsical, tipsy-looking sign appeared in front of the cabin: LAST CHANCE. POPULATION 2. It was all Brit could do to keep from laughing and hurting his new companion’s feelings.

  When spring came, Charley January asked permission to prospect on Brit’s land before moving on. “If I find anythin’, you can give me what you think’s fair,” he said.

  “I’m going to run cattle and horses, Charley, but half of the profits from any ore you discover are yours,” Brit told him.

  “Ya-hoo!” January waved a rusty pick in the air. “Son, we’re gonna be rich.”

  To Brit’s amazement, the unlikely prophet’s prediction came true. After months of fruitless searching, Charley took shelter one night in a cave on Brit’s land. The next day he came tearing into the cabin. He had found silver.

  It was the beginning of change. The strike proved rich beyond belief. Tents followed by log cabins sprang up like mushrooms. When the miners saw there was no sign of the ore petering out, they brought their families to Last Chance.

  To Brit’s dismay, the growing town looked to him for leadership. He was elected president of the school board before Last Chance had either school or teacher. He was also appointed to track down a teacher, a doctor, and a minister. The closest church was Cataldo Mission—Idaho’s oldest building—near Kellogg. Built by Indians during the 1850s and 1860s, it was too far away for residents of Last Chance to attend.

  Men pitched in, and in short order built a log schoolhouse. The womenfolk prettied up the attached living quarters with cheerful curtains and mail-order rugs for the floor. “In case our teacher has a wife,” they said. Brit planned for a church to be constructed if they could find someone willing to do more than take one look at Last Chance and flee as if the devil were after him.

  After searching for more than a year, a teacher was found. Unaccustomed to miners and their ways, he left the following spring. Two more followed his example, and complaints poured in about the current teacher. Brit had also been unable to interest a doctor or a minister. He told Charley January in exasperation, “If I’d known I would become the town father, I’d never have let you prospect on my land.”

  “It ain’t so bad.” Charley hooked his thumbs beneath his bright red suspenders and smirked. “Fer the first time in my life, folks r’spect me. Besides, since this is our town, we kin keep a lid on things, leastwise inside the city limits. Like not lettin’ saloons get started.” He scowled. “O’ course, we ain’t got no say who does what out of town. That’s why we need a parson right bad.” His scowl deepened. “A new teacher, too. T’other day when I was passin’ the school, what did I see but that whey-faced feller chasin’ two boys around the building, coattails a-flyin’. The rest of the students were chasin’ after the teacher. He ain’t fit to teach, if you ask me.” Charley looked apologetic. “I know you did the best you could, but our younguns need dis-sip-line, an’ that poor excuse fer a man can’t handle it.”

  Brit sighed, feeling the weight of the world descend on his shoulders. Again. “I know. I thought maybe he’d be better than nothing, but I was wrong. I also kept hoping he might improve. Wrong on that count, too. I’ll send out some more notices and see if we can get a nibble. Practically anyone would be better than what we have now.” He grabbed a pencil and scrawled, WANTED. A minister. A doctor. A teacher. If you’re any of the above and looking for employment, contact Briton Farley, Last Chance, Idaho.

  What felt like an eternity passed before anyone contacted Brit regarding his advertisement in newspapers across the country. At last a lone letter came. The school board president peered at the return address: Marcus Macrae, Boston, Massachusetts.

  “Boston?” Brit snorted. A previous applicant from the East Coast was a misguided store clerk who wanted to come west and hunt buffalo and fight Nez Percé Indians in his spare time! The man was evidently so dumb he didn’t know the Nez Percé War had ended in 1877, after Chief Joseph led about eight hundred of his people in a desperate, one-thousand-mile trek toward Canada. Thinking they were safe, they stopped to rest just forty miles from the border and freedom. Chief Joseph’s words when he surrendered after a five-day battle became legend: “I will fight no more forever.”

  Brit hadn’t even bothered to answer that application.

  He started to toss the Boston letter aside, but curiosity about its writer won. He tore open the envelope. A picture of a smiling young man with a steady gaze fell out. Brit grunted. Marcus Macrae, whoever he was, didn’t look like a misguided soul. Or a store clerk bent on killing Indians and buffalo “in his spare time.” Brit withdrew the lette
r and began reading:

  Dear Mr. Farley,

  I wish to apply for the position of minister in your town. I believe God is calling me to Last Chance. I have studied medicine to some extent, so I can be of assistance if your town is still without a doctor.

  A list of qualifications and several references followed, then he added, “I will be available in April.”

  Nez Percé whinnied, bringing Brit out of his reverie. A chill in the air warned day was dying. He’d best do what he came up here to do and get back to Last Chance. Brit bowed his head. “Lord, this Marcus Macrae looks intelligent and sounds honest. He also appears too good to be true. Besides, what other choice do I have?”

  A hush fell over the forest—and the feeling Brit had learned to trust and follow all his years of seeking the Master’s will. He stood, gathered up the reins, and swung into the saddle.

  Tomorrow he would start a one-word message on its way to Boston: Hired.

  Chapter 5

  Every clackety-clack of railroad wheels between Massachusetts and Idaho added to Meredith Rose Macrae’s misery. Marcus’s growing pleasure about the new life on which they were embarking only deepened her depression. She hadn’t seen him so excited since he first felt called to the ministry. She stared out the window as the chugging engines pulled her away from everything familiar. To her distressed mind, the train became a monster bent on devouring the shining tracks over which it sped and making it impossible for her to return to her former life.

  “Not that I want to,” she whispered during a solitary moment when Marcus left to get her a drink of water. Rage sent blood coursing through her body. From the moment staid and proper Boston learned of the Macraes’ misfortune, society slammed its doors against them. Not only society. When Meredith Rose told Miss Grenadier she’d be able to finish out the term since she wasn’t getting married, the woman looked down her nose and said icily, “Impossible! We have replaced you and Mr. Calloway with more suitable instructors.”

  “How dare you class me with that charlatan?” Meredith Rose blazed.

  “I really don’t care to discuss it. Good day, Miss Macrae.” Miss Grenadier swept from the room, pulling her voluminous skirts around her as if afraid of contamination. Others did the same. Overnight, the formerly sought-after Macraes became outcasts. Only a few brave souls dared buck the tide of public opinion to come calling. Meredith Rose found it difficult to greet them cordially, and soon even their visits ceased.

  “Cheer up, old dear,” Marcus told her, with a pat on her shoulder. “No one in Last Chance will give a snap of their fingers for Herbert Calloway or Miss Grenadier and her School for Young Ladies.” His eyes twinkled. “We’ll follow Jesus’ advice to His disciples in Luke 9:5: ‘And whosoever will not receive you, when ye go out of that city, shake off the very dust from your feet for a testimony against them.’ ”

  The idea conjured up such a vivid picture in Meredith Rose’s mind that she burst into laughter. Yet as the end of life as the Macraes knew it drew to a close, there was neither time nor inclination for laughter. Even Marcus hadn’t realized how badly their finances had been damaged. Tight-lipped, he and Merry watched piece after piece of fine china and furniture be sold for what seemed a mere pittance and carted away. The dressmaker greedily allowed Meredith Rose to return her wedding gown since it had never been seen in public but at a greatly reduced price.

  The day of departure dawned showery and glum. The twins boarded their train. Neither looked back. Marcus took his sister’s gloved hand. “We still have each other,” he comforted. “And God.”

  Meredith Rose wordlessly squeezed his fingers. Yes, they did have each other. God? She shrugged her shoulders beneath the dark blue broadcloth traveling gown she’d chosen for her plunge into the unknown. Maybe someday she’d recognize the good Marcus said came from hard situations. Not now. Not when the mournful train whistle sounded like a voice crying a-way, a-way, as they began their exile.

  The trip west was filled with surprises. Rolling hills gave way to farmlands, then terrain so flat it seemed to go on forever. Weary of straining her eyes looking for something to break the monotony, Meredith Rose’s first glimpse of the foothills that led up to the majestic Rocky Mountains left her speechless. Interest stirred. Marcus had said Last Chance was in the mountains. Would they be like this?

  At last they reached Idaho, but the worst was yet to come. The decrepit excuse for a stagecoach that would carry them on the last lap of their journey little resembled any conveyance fit for human occupation. Meredith Rose felt like howling but gritted her teeth and climbed inside, nearly tripping over two large extended feet.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” The feet folded back like an accordion. “Ignatius Crane. At your service.”

  More like Ichabod Crane, Meredith Rose thought. She seated herself in the far corner of the stage opposite the tall, thin, middle-aged man whose graying hair and colorless eyes did nothing to enhance his horse-like face. She didn’t dare look at Marcus, who was muffling laughter with a loud cough.

  “Who you be?” their traveling companion asked.

  “Marcus Macrae. This is my sister.”

  “Oh. The new parson.” Ignatius’s down-turned mouth quirked up. “Good. I’m headed for Last Chance myself. This’ll give us time to get acquainted.” He turned to Meredith Rose. “What’s yore front handle?”

  She gave him a stare cold enough to freeze Niagara Falls. “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed. “Ain’t that just like an East’rn’r. Yore moniker, lady. Yore name.”

  “Miss Macrae.” She longed to add, “If it’s any business of ‘yores,’ ” but bit her tongue. Uncouth as he was, Ignatius Crane was the first person she and Marcus had met from Last Chance—perhaps one of Marcus’s parishioners. A prayer that he didn’t represent the general population of their new home winged upward.

  Ignatius doubled over in mirth out of all proportion to her reply. “I done heerd tell that folks from Baw-stun had fancy ways. Don’t you worry, little lady. I’ll see to it folks treat you right.” He tucked his chin into his high collar. “What Ignatius Crane says in Last Chance goes.” Pride oozed from him like pitch from a pine.

  “Are you one of the town fathers?” Marcus asked.

  Meredith Rose wanted to pinch him. The last thing she needed in the rocking, jolting coach was a monologue from the only other passenger aboard.

  The thin lips changed to a smirk. “You might say that. Me ’n’ Brit Farley just about run the town.” He stroked his jaw. “School board and all.”

  For the first time since she left Boston, Meredith Rose experienced a moment of pure enjoyment. If only Miss Grenadier could see Ichabod–Ignatius. She would shrink in horror from this caricature of a man announcing he was the member of a school board!

  The amusement didn’t last. Long before Last Chance “hove into sight,” as Ignatius inelegantly put it, Meredith Rose’s body ached from the jouncing of the stage. She leaned back and closed her eyes, aware of Crane’s carping voice going on and on. She did come to attention when Marcus asked, “Have you found a new teacher yet?”

  “Nary a one. Yore sister don’t happen to be one, does she?”

  “She—”

  A sharp elbow in her brother’s ribs cut off a confession that could do irreparable damage. Meredith Rose leaned forward, forced herself to don her most charming smile, and said, “Mr. Crane, since you are evidently such an important part of Last Chance, do you happen to know where my brother and I will be housed?”

  He parted his hair with a bony finger and beamed at her. “Folks take turns offering board and keep, but when I found out the parson was bringing a lady, I just up and says to Brit Farley that it weren’t fittin’.” He drew himself up pompously. “ ‘You can’t have a real Baw-stun lady shifted from pillar to post,’ sez I.”

  Marcus’s eyes brimmed with laughter. “What did Mr. Farley say?”

  “Brit? He done agreed with me. Seein’ as how we ain’t got no teacher right now, yo
u’ll stay in the rooms built onto the back of the schoolhouse.”

  Meredith Rose thought she had heard wrong. “You mean, live in a schoolhouse?”

  Ignatius blinked. “ ’Course. It’s right nice, ma’am. The womenfolk…” He rattled on, extolling the virtues of the schoolhouse living quarters. He ended with a triumphant, “If you decide to stay, and I shore hope you will—it ain’t every day Last Chance gets quality folks like you—we kin build you a cabin in no time once we get a teacher.”

  Meredith Rose weakly sank back against the seat, wondering, What next?

  The opening words of a favorite hymn came to mind. “My soul in sad exile was out on life’s sea…” She closed her eyes. The last time she’d heard the song was when a highly paid quartet sang it in the church she’d attended since childhood. Her heart had thrilled to the powerful words of the chorus:

  I’ve anchored my soul in the Haven of Rest,

  I’ll sail the wide seas no more;

  The tempest may sweep o’er the wild, stormy deep;

  In Jesus I’m safe evermore.

  Would there ever be a haven of rest for her again? A place free of tempests where she would feel safe? Certainly not in Last Chance, Idaho. A plan began to take root. She would survive this miserable situation, no matter what it took. Despite his zeal, Marcus would surely grow disheartened if the man opposite them typified those with whom he must work, and he would be willing to go elsewhere. Even now the unpleasant fellow was spouting what was obviously the gospel according to Ignatius Crane. Meredith Rose had never heard such sanctimonious drivel. Her lip curled. She’d met conceited men before, but this scarecrow clearly wanted to be king of the cornfield.

  She opened her eyes just enough to observe him through her lashes. Uneasiness filled her. Between his proclamations to Marcus on everything from the way a man should preach to thinly veiled contempt for Brit Farley, Ignatius was sending bold glances her way. The proprietary look in his face sickened her, and she drew her skirts as far away from him as possible.