Christmas Mail Order Angels: The complete 11 Volume Set

by Darlene Franklin

  5

  Two weeks of boredom had Phoebe idly sweeping the walk, not only in front of Mountain Gold, but also in front of the mercantile. If something didn’t happen soon, she’d sweep the entire main street.

  “Leave some dirt in Wyoming,” Leroy Johnson said with a wink. He pushed away from the wall of the mercantile. “If I’d have known the mail-order angels were going to look like you, I might have given a second thought to ordering one of my own.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. Today wasn’t the first day the man had shamelessly flirted with her. She straightened and faced him, eye-to-eye. “I’m a married woman, Mr. Johnson. You shouldn’t speak to me the way you do.”

  “Just having some fun.” He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m headed over to the saloon. It would be mighty nice if you’d join me for a drink.”

  She shuddered. “Not a chance.” She jerked the broom, covering his scuffed boots with the dirt of Angel Vale.

  “No need to be nasty.” He tipped his hat and sauntered toward the saloon.

  Phoebe sighed and leaned on the broom handle. The air carried a definite chill, signaling the approach of winter. What would she do with her time? She eyed the door to the mercantile. It might be time to purchase fabric so she could spend the long winter months making the upstairs room more inviting.

  She propped the broom against the inside wall of the shop and stepped into the mercantile. After her eyes adjusted from the bright light outside, she moved to the racks of fabric. What was Alex’s favorite color? He could use a new shirt. She fingered a rust-colored bolt that would go well with his complexion. Perhaps blue and white for curtains and a rug. Different scraps for a bright quilt.

  After weighing how upset Alex might be with her for spending funds without approval first, and deciding he probably wouldn’t say a word, she bought what she thought she would need to occupy her for a while. After all, he’d barely said two words in a row to her since their mining day. She needed something to relieve the boredom of lonely days.

  She had the clerk add the cost to Alex’s tally and carted her purchases home. Her husband barely lifted his head from his work when she passed by and climbed the stairs.

  Eyeing the mound after placing it on the bed, she wished she had enough to purchase a sewing machine. She squared her shoulders. She asked for work, she got it.

  “I have my mother’s sewing machine under the bed.”

  She gasped and whirled.

  “Sorry to startle you.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “I hope that it is all right.” She motioned toward the fabric.

  “Perfectly fine. The mercantile owner has had his eye on a particular ring. I’ll give it to him in trade. It will more than pay for the fabric. If there are other doo-dads you have your eye on, please, feel free to purchase them.” He gave her a dimpled smile, then headed back downstairs.

  She put a hand over her pounding heart. That was more words than he’d spoken in days. If all she had to do to attract his attention was spend money, she’d do it more often.

  A small wall clock chimed the noon hour. Phoebe rushed to the stove. Alex had most likely come upstairs hungry, not to see what she had purchased. What kind of a wife was she? Complaining of boredom when there was work to do.

  Thankfully, she’d spent money immediately after returning from the creek that day she’d almost drowned and purchased foodstuffs. Alex had constructed a small pantry of sorts with wooden crates.

  Phoebe could scramble some eggs and bacon for their lunch and put on beans for their supper. They ate almost the same thing everyday. She sorely needed to add variety to their meals, but cooking was not something she had done for Mrs. Rochester. At the ripe old age of twenty, Phoebe only knew how to cook a few dishes. But … she had seen a tattered cookbook at the mercantile. Perhaps she could learn.

  “Lunch,” she called down the stairs.

  “Be there in a minute,” Alex called back.

  And so was their life, skirting around each other when home and calling out to each other when Alex was working. She sighed and dished up their food.

  To his credit, Alex didn’t say anything derogatory about eating eggs again. He really was a long-suffering man.

  “Maybe I could help you design jewelry,” she suggested.

  He eyed the mound of fabric on the bed. “Won’t that keep you busy? I’ll set up the sewing machine for you tonight.”

  “I’m quite skilled with a needle. That won’t occupy me all winter.”

  He shrugged. “If it will make you happy, I have a pad of paper and a pencil downstairs.”

  He didn’t seem enthused, but she would take what she could get. Already ideas of delicate jewelry in tones of rose, green, and yellow were swirling through her mind. With the few household chores, the sewing, and jewelry design, she should be busy enough not to feel her loneliness.

  *

  Alex leaned back in his chair as Phoebe removed his plate. He bit his lip to keep from smiling. If she were putting in the time and effort to make the place more like a home, she must plan on staying a while.

  Ever since their day mining at the creek, he had done his best to give her space, while everything in him wanted to be by her side every minute of the day. Sleeping next to her at night, listening to the soft noises she made while she slept was almost torture. Still, he wanted her to miss him, to crave his company, to come seek him out. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.

  It warmed his heart to know she wanted to be involved in his craft. It had taken supreme willpower not to act like a giddy child when she’d mentioned designing jewelry. There was little he would enjoy more than working together molding the gold into things of beauty. Still, he kept his composure, thanked her for the meal of eggs, again, and headed back downstairs to work.

  A few minutes after turning the store sign to open, two elderly women in feathered hats strolled into the store. “I’m looking for a necklace for my daughter’s birthday,” the oldest one said. “It has to be nice. She lives back east now, but I’d like nothing more than to send her a gift made from our lovely Black Hills gold.”

  “I have just the thing.” He stepped behind the counter and pulled a delicate chain from behind the glass. Hanging on the end was a small nugget.

  “It’s simply beautiful,” she said, holding out her hand so he could drape the chain across it.

  “Didn’t you purchase one of them angel brides?” the other lady asked. “Why isn’t she waiting on customers? I prefer a woman’s touch.”

  He glanced overhead where he could hear the sound of Phoebe’s footsteps traipsing back and forth. It had never occurred to him to have her wait on customers. As fashionable and stately as his wife was, these two women might be right. “I will definitely take that into consideration.”

  “See that you do, young man.”

  The other lady held the necklace out to him. “I’ll take this. My daughter will be delighted.”

  No more delighted than Alex. The necklace sale would support him and Phoebe through the rest of the year, if she didn’t go on more spending sprees. He eyed the gold he was working on. But, if she did, he had enough to fund her.

  As if his thoughts had called her, Phoebe tromped down the stairs with a basket of laundry. “Is there anything else you need me to do while I’m out?”

  He shook his head, averting his gaze. She looked utterly fetching in her blue calico.

  “Did you have a customer?”

  “Sold a necklace.” He slipped his magnifying glasses over his eyes. “Be careful.” He opened his mouth to mention the idea of her working in the store, then closed it. He didn’t want her to feel obligated. She seemed a woman who knew her own mind. If she wanted to work the counter, she would let him know.

  She stood silently in front of the counter, before turning to leave.

  He raised his gaze and watched her move down the sidewalk until she was out of sight. He palmed his forehead. He rea
lly was a fool. Instead of ducking his head, dismissing her, he should have engaged her in conversation. He needed to find someone to talk to about the proper way of courting a woman a man was already married to.

  The need for a church and full time pastor had never seemed as great as it did at that moment. A man of the church would know the answers to the questions Alex sought. He withdrew the pad of paper he’d mentioned to Phoebe from under the counter.

  He’d write a letter to the pastor back home in Massachusetts.

  6

  Phoebe closed the blue and white checked curtains she’d sewn and hung over the window, shutting out the lazy snowflakes drifting to the ground. There’d be no more mining, no slow strolls up and down Angel Vale’s one street, no … anything. She sighed and plopped on the edge of the bed. A long winter stretched in front of her.

  She stared at the unvarnished wooden floor as if she could see through it and down to where Alex worked. While they had settled into a comfortable routine together over the last six weeks, something was drastically missing.

  Grabbing the rolled quilt from the center of the bed, she tossed it to the floor. Every day, Phoebe took great pains with her appearance, making sure her hair was styled and her clothes clean and unstained, just as she had with her former employer. To no avail. She fell backward. Alex barely looked at her. How was she going to make him fall in love with her by Christmas? Thanksgiving loomed on the horizon like a thundercloud.

  She kicked off the bed and moved to the table. She pulled the pad of paper close and started to design a piece of jewelry. She entwined strands of rose, green, and yellow into one delicate necklace. When she finished, she glanced at the clock, surprised and pleased that an hour had passed and it was time to call Alex to lunch.

  Since purchasing the cookbook from the mercantile, the variety of meals she prepared had increased. That day, she had prepared a simple shepherd’s pie with leftover pieces of ham and mashed potatoes. “Lunch!”

  There had to be a better way of calling her husband to mealtime other than yelling like a common fishwife. Perhaps a bell? Her mother would have a conniption fit if she heard Phoebe screech that way. She might be the only child of a poor Kansas farmer, but she’d been raised better.

  “Smells good.” Alex moved to the washstand and scrubbed his hands in the bowl sitting there.

  “I made enough for our noon meal and dinner.” She dished up a plateful and set it at Alex’s seat.

  “What’s this?” He sat and studied her drawing.

  “Just something I’m experimenting with.” She held her breath, hoping he would like it.

  “It’s nice.” He set it aside and dug into his food.

  Nice? Her hopes fell. “You don’t like it?”

  He glanced up, a questioning look in his eyes. “Of course. I said it was nice.”

  She plopped her plate on the table. “Is it possible to speak to me in more than short sentences? I’d like to know more about you.”

  “Are you not happy?” He set down his spoon. “I’m a man of few words, but if you need more conversation, I’ll try.”

  She groaned inwardly, wanting him to speak to her because he wanted it, not because she asked. “May I help you in the store?”

  “You don’t have enough to do?” He glanced around the room. “Sewing finished?”

  “I can’t sew all day, Alex.” She stabbed her spoon forcefully into her pie.

  He made a noncommittal noise in his throat. “You can wait on customers, I suppose, but we’ll be fairly slow until closer to Christmas.” He picked up his utensil again and took a bite of his meal. “Very good.”

  “Thank you. I would love to help downstairs.”

  “Wonderful.” He flashed a grin and continued eating.

  That conversation took all of three minutes. The rest of the time was spent with no other sound than the clink of eating utensils against their plates and the clunk of a glass being set down on the table. Phoebe blinked back tears stinging her eyes. What in the world could she talk about to prolong the time with Alex?

  “Tell me about your childhood,” she blurted out.

  “All right.” He frowned. “I’m the youngest of five boys. I grew up in Boston. My father is a doctor. I’m the only one of his sons that didn’t enter a field he approved of. I’m a sad disappointment. I came here to mine for gold. Found some, and opened my shop. That’s about it.”

  Gracious. Getting him to talk was like keeping a fox out of a henhouse with a broken gate.

  “What about you?” He crossed his arms, his gaze settling on her face and giving her a sudden case of nerves. “Why did you answer the angel advertisement?”

  “I had nowhere else to go.” She squared her shoulders. “When my employer died, her son wanted to marry me. I couldn’t abide the man. So, I saw the notice in the paper, applied, and packed up my few things, including the one thing Mrs. Rochester bequeathed to me … the wedding gown.”

  “You couldn’t go home?”

  “I had no desire to be a farmer like my parents. I hope that doesn’t sound ungrateful, but I saw a bit of a better life. I couldn’t go back.”

  “Have you found that better life?” His eyes darkened.

  How should she answer? While she had a warm, although small, home to live in, a man who supported her, she was lonely and bored. Mrs. Rochester had been involved in charities and church events which required Phoebe to escort her.

  “Your hesitation leads me to believe something is lacking.” Sadness clouded Alex’s face.

  “It’s only that …” She took a deep breath. “I’m lonely, Alex. Being up here, alone, makes for very long days.”

  He smiled. “That is solved now. You’ll be working downstairs with me.” He stood. “Come down when you are ready.”

  She nodded and watched as he left the room. He really did try to make her happy, the poor thing. But, short of outright telling him how she felt, how could she get him to seek out her company?

  *

  They were finally getting somewhere. That had to be the longest conversation they’d ever had. With six weeks to go before Christmas, he felt better about her wanting to stay. And, he had the perfect gift for Phoebe. He had committed every detail of her exquisite drawing to memory.

  He sat back at his work bench, feeling bad about her boredom. But, without a church in town, there wasn’t a lot for a woman of refinement to do. Not without children to chase after.

  His face heated. Perhaps, someday, he’d hear the pitter-patter of little feet.

  There would actually be two gifts for Phoebe under the Christmas tree. If she decided to stay. He pulled a tablet from under the bench and worked some more on the house plans he was drawing. He hadn’t always wanted to be a jeweler. There was a time when sketching buildings had taken up the majority of his time. His mother had said that if you gave Alex paper and a pencil, he could design anything.

  The bell over the door jingled. Alex slid the tablet under the bench and pasted on a smile as Homer stepped inside and stomped the snow from his boots . “It’s quite the surprise to see anyone out on a day like today.”

  “It’s the only time I can get away from my wife.” He shook his head. “She’s like a leech, I tell you. I’d like to have you make something special for her for Christmas. I figured if I got my order in early enough, you’d have time.”

  “Would you like to look at what I already have?” Alex stood.

  “No, sir. I want to make up something of my own.” He tapped his head. “I’ve got plenty of ideas.”

  “We’d love to help you.” Phoebe breezed down the stairs, paper and pencil in hand and, taking Homer by the arm, sat him at a small table in the corner of the shop. “Now, what did you have in mind?”

  Alex crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, anxious to see how his wife pleased someone as cantankerous as Homer. He hoped she wouldn’t show the man the necklace she drew.

  “My wife likes daisies,” Homer said. “Write that down.”
He tapped the paper. “She’s a stout woman, so doesn’t need anything real fragile. It’ll get lost in the folds of her neck.”

  Alex sputtered and turned away. It might be better if he occupied himself with work rather than listen to Homer describe what his wife was like. To Phoebe’s credit, she kept her head down and kept taking notes.

  “Maybe make something with several strands and a bouquet hanging off the end of it,” Homer said.

  “How about this?” Phoebe turned the pad around. “It’s only a rough sketch, but—”

  “It’s perfect. I’ll pick it up the Monday before Christmas.” He stood and was gone before Alex could make his way around the counter.

  “May I see?” he asked.

  Phoebe handed him the drawing. Rather than three separate strands as in the drawing she had shown him upstairs, she had chosen to braid the chains with a simple daisy dangling from the center. Simple, but pretty. His wife was a talented woman.

  “This is very nice.”

  She tilted her head. “Is nice your favorite word?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind.” She grabbed the mop and sopped up the melted snow.

  “I really would like to understand.”

  She turned and glared. “Are all men this difficult to communicate with, or did I just get lucky?” She shoved the mop into the corner. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that I need something to do. I shouldn’t have to tell you that I’m bored and lonely. Some things you should be able to see for yourself.”

  “But, I can’t.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps all men are as dense as I am. Can’t you tell me what you desire?”

  She sighed, blinking rapidly. “No. It’s far too embarrassing.” With her skirt hitched to the top of her boots, she thundered up the stairs.

  Women really were strange creatures. While he didn’t expect a letter to have arrived in response to the one he had written his old pastor, he slapped a hat on his head. Maybe a trip to the mercantile to check for mail would clear his head.

  “I’m stepping out,” he called up the stairs. “Please watch the store.”