His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  She pressed the flat of her palm against her belly and held it there. Thomas guessed a pregnant woman might like to do that, to feel the new life growing inside her. His eyes lingered at her waistline. Five months. Shouldn’t she be bigger? Without thinking, he blurted out his thoughts.

  “You look too thin. Is there something wrong with the baby?”

  “No,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

  “Are you sure? Have you seen a doctor?”

  She shook her head in silent reply.

  “Not at all?” he pressed. “Not even in the beginning?”

  “No.” She came closer to him, touched the back of his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with the baby. Nothing at all. I’m just small, that’s all. Some women don’t show until they go into labor.”

  He studied her guarded expression for a second, then nodded. He couldn’t help the niggling feeling that something was wrong. Maybe earlier Miss Jackson had tried to get rid of the baby. Maybe she had taken some potion and it had harmed the development of the child, stunting the growth in the womb.

  Miss Jackson. Thomas frowned. Strange, how it seemed to him as if that person, the person in the tintype photograph he had filed away, was someone else altogether, and not his wife, the woman who had asked him to call her Charlotte.

  Turning to the kitchen cupboard, Thomas took out a loaf of bread from a stone jar and a wedge of cheese from the milk safe. “If you keep the burlap cloth moist at all times, it will keep the milk and cheese fresh an extra day, even in the summer heat,” he told her, looking back over his shoulder.

  Charlotte remained on her feet, hugging her arms around her body.

  “Why don’t you put your coat on?” he asked.

  She rubbed her arms, shivering. “The wool fabric is itchy.”

  Thomas paused. He glanced back toward the bedroom. He’d intended to save his bridal gift for when he knew for certain she would stay with him, but it didn’t matter. Today was the proper day for giving marriage gifts.

  “Wait here,” he said, and strode off into the bedroom.

  He knelt by the linen chest at the foot of the bed, lifted the lid and searched inside. He pulled out the crocheted shawl and paused for a moment, smoothing his fingers over the soft texture of the fine wool. It was the only token of love he’d ever received, not counting the fact that he had been born. On the morning he’d said goodbye and walked out of the house that final time, his mother had hurried after him.

  “Take this,” she had whispered. “I made one for you too, like I did for your brothers. For your bride.” She’d cast a fearful glance back at the house, where her husband’s shadow fell across the window.

  “He doesn’t know I made it.” She’d drawn a breath, and Thomas had heard a sob in her voice. “I wish I could have been...stronger...that I could have defied him...but I couldn’t...not even for you.” She had looked up with a plea in her eyes. “You understand, don’t you?”

  Thomas had taken the shawl, slipped it into his bag. Not a saddlebag, for they wouldn’t even let him have a horse to see him on his way.

  His mother had clung to his arm. “Tell me you understand,” she’d begged. “Tell me you forgive me.”

  Thomas had looked down at her from his height. Small and dark, like everyone else in the family, she’d stared up at him with tear-bright eyes. He would never understand, and he didn’t have it in his heart to forgive his mother for not loving him. Perhaps the man he’d grown into might possess the strength to forgive, but the child he’d once been and whom he still carried inside him clung to the hurt.

  But he’d said it anyway, even though it was not true.

  One final act of love for the mother who had never loved him.

  “I forgive you,” he said, and asked God to absolve him for the lie.

  Kneeling by the linen chest, Thomas lifted the shawl to his face. In the first two years, the scent of the rose water his mother used had clung to the wool. Then he’d made the chest and the spicy scent of cedar wood had replaced the scent of roses.

  He pushed up to his feet and went back into the parlor. He shook out the shawl. It was patterned in earthy colors, rust and moss green and the rich red hues of maple leaves in the fall. He moved to stand behind Charlotte and spread the shawl over her shoulders. His arms circled her for a second before he pulled away.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “It’s a wedding gift for my bride. My mother made it.” As Thomas spoke the words, a tiny edge of the old pain chipped away. Perhaps one day forgiveness would come.

  “The custom is that I should give it to you in the morning after our wedding night, but I can see that you are cold, and our marriage isn’t a traditional one anyway.”

  Charlotte fingered the soft wool, not meeting his eyes. “It’s lovely,” she said. “And very warm.” She glanced up at him. “Thank you.”

  Thomas nodded. They needed to talk about it. Their wedding night. And all the nights that came after. But such a conversation might be easier for both of them if he waited until the darkness let them hide their thoughts from each other.

  * * *

  Charlotte clutched the shawl tighter around her. Night was falling, but she didn’t feel ready to meet the challenges the darkness might bring. The longer they remained in the parlor, talking, the longer she could postpone facing those challenges.

  “I believe I’m hungry after all,” she said, and recalled the task that had sent her out to the well earlier that evening. “I was going to make coffee.”

  She darted over to the kitchen counter, her bare feet soundless on the timber floor. The pail was full of water. An iron pot filled to the brim sat on the stovetop. Thomas came to stand beside her, nodded at the pot. “That’s water for washing. I didn’t light the fire yet. I stopped to sit on the porch steps for a moment.”

  “Let me do it.” She nudged him aside with her elbow.

  Obediently, he eased back, but instead of sitting down at the table, he settled a hip against the edge of the tabletop and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. Watching her. As if to inspect her household skills and pass judgment on them.

  Charlotte glanced down at the pile of firewood and pursed her lips. The front of the stove had three hatches, one big, two small. She bent down, opened the biggest hatch and threw a few bits of firewood inside.

  “That’s the oven,” Thomas said. “The wood goes into the smaller compartment on the left.”

  Charlotte swallowed hard, nodded, removed the bits of firewood and placed them in the smaller compartment on the left, just as he had told her. She could see a round pit in the metal bottom of the compartment and guessed that the firewood, as it burned, would collapse into the third compartment beneath. That must be where a low fire burned for baking and where the ashes gathered for removal.

  “How are you going to get the fire started?” Thomas asked.

  She looked at him over her shoulder. He pointed at the small pieces of bark gathered in a metal bucket beside the firewood. “Kindling.”

  Charlotte nodded, rebuilt her pile of firewood with kindling at the bottom and glanced once more over her shoulder, her eyebrows arched in question.

  “You need to stack the wood loosely, to allow air to circulate in between. Wood stacked in a tight pile won’t catch flame.”

  She nodded, did it all over again.

  Thomas pointed. “Matches are on the shelf.”

  Rising on her toes, Charlotte searched the shelf, found the small metal tin and clipped it open. Her eyes narrowed in victory. Something familiar. Papa had used matches to light his pipe, and she’d used them for candles. She snapped a match free from the row, looked around for a piece of sandpaper to strike it against but saw none.

  Any abrasive surface woul
d do. Her eyes darted from object to object, settled on a heavy cast iron frying pan sitting on the counter. Eager to demonstrate her competence, Charlotte shot one arm out and drew the match across the belly of the frying pan.

  “No,” Thomas shouted, but it was too late.

  The flame sparked, and blew up from the frying pan like a dragon’s breath. Charlotte screamed and jumped back. Strong arms closed around her, lifting her off her feet. Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, Thomas inspected her hands.

  “Did you burn your fingers? Show me! Show me!”

  Tears stung at the back of her eyes, but they were tears of misery and frustration and helplessness, not tears of pain. Charlotte clenched her hands into fists to keep away his probing fingers. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

  It took a moment before the intimacy of their position registered in her mind. She was dangling in the air, anchored against his chest. A thick forearm cut like a band of steel across her waist. Thomas was looking down over her shoulder, his head bent next to hers. She could feel the rough stubble on his jaw rubbing against her cheek.

  And yet, despite the hold that emphasized his superior strength, his touch was gentle. It was clear that he could subdue her without effort, but something in his manner told her he would never hurt a woman. She need not fear that he might take her by force. The realization eased her terror, but a new kind of tension crept in its place.

  Slowly, Thomas released her, settling her on her feet.

  “I never wash the frying pan,” he explained. “I just wipe it with a cloth, which leaves a layer of grease on the bottom. It keeps food from sticking to the metal.” He took another match from the tin, squatted in front of the stove, rearranged the wood, struck the match against his thumbnail and lit the fire. He spoke with his back to her, his eyes on the catching flames. “The coffee is on the shelf.”

  Her nerves jumped and thrummed. Coffee. Coffee. She’d seen it before. She found the round metal tin on the shelf, took it down and struggled with the lid. Her hands were shaking. The tin slipped from her fingers, fell to the floor with a clang, burst open and rolled along. Coffee granules scattered in a spray over the timber planks.

  With a squeal of horror, Charlotte rushed toward the counter for a cloth to contain the mess. Her elbow butted against the pail of water, dislodging the dipper hanging by its hooked end inside the pail. The dipper flung up in the air and sent a spray of droplets across the floor, where they landed over the spilled coffee granules.

  Aghast, Charlotte stared at the sticky mess by her feet. She froze. Thomas didn’t say anything. Would he be angry at the waste? Coffee was expensive and she understood he had very little money. Would he scold her, maybe even shout and yell at her?

  When the silence cut too deep into her frazzled nerves, she slowly turned around to look at him. Thomas had straightened on his feet. He was biting his lip. His whole body was quivering, and his face was red, as if he had been holding his breath.

  He was about to explode.

  Ready to meet the assault of his rage, Charlotte drew her shoulders into a hunch, like a turtle hiding in its shell. She’d never been hit in her life, had never tasted the sharp edge of violence before Cousin Gareth’s ugly groping.

  Startled, she watched, as Thomas bent over, slammed his hands against his knees and dissolved into laughter. Charlotte stared. Her shoulders fell from their protective hunch. Her spine straightened. Humor unfurled in her belly, light at first, like the soft tickle of a cat’s tail. Then it took hold, and she burst into an irrepressible fit of giggles.

  “People in New York sure have funny habits,” Thomas managed between bursts of mirth. “Here in the West, we make the coffee in a pot.” He reached to the counter, picked up a rag and handed it to her. “You clean. I make coffee.”

  * * *

  Thomas sat across the table from his bride. She had finally relaxed, even got some color in her cheeks. If anyone had told him he would find clumsiness and incompetence endearing qualities in a wife, he would have told them they had lost their mind.

  She had done her best to follow his instructions. And she possessed the ability to laugh at herself. Good humor and willingness to learn were more important qualities in a wife than expertise, Thomas decided.

  He cut another piece of cheese, another slice of bread and passed them onto her plate.

  “Eat a bit more,” he urged her. “It’s good for the baby.”

  “No.” She slid the plate over to him. “I’ve had enough.”

  They had eaten in silence, both discovering they were famished. Now Charlotte patted her belly and sighed with contentment. Thomas transferred the bread and cheese onto his own plate. He’d learned not to waste a morsel of food.

  “How did you end up here?” Charlotte asked. “It’s a long way from Michigan.”

  “How did you end up here?” he countered. “It’s a long way from New York City.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, like a shadow of painful memories. Thomas told himself it might have just been the lamplight. Tonight, he’d lit up two lamps instead of one. An extravagance, for certain, but he wanted to see her clearly.

  With his bride in mind, he’d bought lamp oil instead of kerosene—another additional expense, but he didn’t want her to suffer from the sting of smoke in her eyes.

  And now those eyes were laughing at him, dark and mischievous. “Are you telling me that you came here because some woman sent for you as a mail-order husband?”

  “No.” He took a sip of coffee and swallowed, using the time to select his words. “I wanted to come south, away from the harsh winters. There’s good farming around Phoenix, with irrigation systems. I spent a few months there to see how it’s done. Then gold was found up here. I joined the crowd of prospectors, hoping to strike it rich.”

  She frowned at him. “Gold Crossing is a mining town?”

  Thomas grinned. “Not much of a town, huh?”

  Her lips pursed into a circle of disapproval, perhaps even of disgust. “It’s the scruffiest, most miserable, run-down excuse for a town I’ve ever seen.”

  Thomas laughed. “I hope that kind of blunt talking means you’ll always be honest with me.”

  Charlotte didn’t reply. Again, he could see that flicker of worry in her eyes.

  She had secrets. The knowledge hardened inside Thomas. Of course she has secrets, he told himself. Without the offer of a marriage she would have been an unwed mother, an outcast in polite society, a sinner according to many folks.

  He leaned across the table to adjust the flame on the lamp. “People flooded to Gold Crossing after Art Langley found gold and recorded his claim. Eight years ago there were almost a thousand people there, living in a tent town that sprung up virtually overnight.”

  “A thousand people!”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He shifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “The seam of gold petered out quickly, and no one ever found another lode of quartz. By the time they’d finished the railroad spur to take out the ore, the mine had just about played out. People hadn’t even had enough time to build proper houses before they moved on to the next boomtown. Most were still living in tents. That’s why there aren’t streets full of abandoned buildings in Gold Crossing, like there’ll be in Jerome in a few years when the copper mine plays out.”

  “But you stayed on in the area?”

  Thomas nodded. “The man who owned this sheltered valley had planned to develop an orchard. He’d planted pomegranate trees. But the town died before the trees had matured to bear fruit. I was able to buy the place cheap.” He drank the last of the coffee in his mug. “I have ten cultivated acres. Four each of wheat and corn, and two of vegetables. The valley has about twenty fertile acres in all, but ten is the most I can irrigate in the summer on my own.”

  Her brows furrowed. “You irrigate the
fields?”

  “On hot days, I need to pump water from the lake. I have a hose and a sprinkler. I’ll show you tomorrow how it works.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll learn how it’s done, and I’ll help you.”

  Thomas nodded, to confirm that he was indeed counting on her help.

  He got to his feet. “Time for bed.”

  Charlotte rose. She hovered by the table, her nightgown reflecting the lamplight, her dark curls like a snare designed to trap a man’s heart. Her frightened eyes darted from him to the bedroom door and back again. If Thomas wasn’t mistaken, her long white nightgown was fluttering, not from the draft but from the way her slender body was trembling.

  “Go on now, Charlotte,” he said softly. “You have nothing to worry about. Here, take the light.” He slid one of the lamps across the tabletop toward her. When she picked it up, the glass dome rattled, an indication of how hard her hands were shaking.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” he reassured her again. “Get into bed. I’ll go and check on the animals, and then I’ll come back inside and join you.”

  He watched her spin around and dart into the bedroom, scurrying with hasty footsteps, like some tiny animal seeking a refuge. They’d have to talk about the physical side of their marriage, before she drove herself into a state of agitation.

  Chapter Five

  When Thomas returned inside, he slid the bolt on the front door and turned down the wick on the lamp he’d used to illuminate his way to the barn and back. For a moment he hesitated. Should he undress in the parlor? Would it offend Charlotte’s sensibilities if he removed his clothing in front of her?

  He could see a shaft of light shining from the bedroom door that stood ajar. She’d left a lamp on. Was it a sign that she was expecting him? His mouth tightened with uncertainty and nerves.

  Go on, he told himself. You’d best start as you mean to continue.

  He blew out the lamp he’d used outside and marched into the bedroom, letting his footsteps sound boldly on the floorboards. Charlotte lay curled up on her side on the far edge of the thick feather mattress, huddled beneath the covers, her back facing him. On the small bedside chest on the empty side of the bed, the lamp she had carried in from the parlor burned with a low flame.