Maggie smiled at her putting a husband and boys, aged five and seven, in a pigeon hole marked, ‘her men.’ “That’s right, they do. I suppose you’re here to tell me all about the Ladies’ Aid meeting I missed.”
“Oh, Maggie, you won’t believe it.” Isabella had started to shake out a linen pillowcase, but she stopped and stared at her friend in dismay. “I may have done the most foolish thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Maggie paused with a clothes peg in midair. “What on earth did you do?”
Isabella gulped. “Becky Patterson read a letter asking for women to go to Wyoming for brides, and I—I told her I was interested.”
“What?” Maggie stared at her. “Brides? For men?”
“Of course for men. They have a mining town, it seems, where there aren’t many decent women. But there are some decent men, and they want wives.”
“Where did you say this is?”
“Wyoming.”
For a long moment, silence hung between them as the two young women gazed at each other over the clothesline.
At last, Maggie said, “I’m not even sure where that is.”
Isabella started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Gales of mirth exploded from her throat. She doubled over, pressing her hands against her waist.
Maggie ducked under the line and came to her side. She put her arms around Isabella. “Here, now. Calm down. This is a pile of nonsense.”
“No,” Isabella gasped, straightening. “It’s true. Becky had the letter, and they’ve got a whole group of men who are willing to pay for the women’s train tickets. They’re offering holy matrimony.”
“But, dear Isabella, you—you’ve only just lost your Henry. Surely you don’t want to marry again so soon. And to a complete stranger!”
“I haven’t said for sure I’d go.” Isabella squared her shoulders. “They’ll write to us, so we can know more about them first.”
“But—”
“I need to get away from here,” Isabella blurted, and her friend stared at her. “Away from the sea. I can’t look at it every day, knowing it took Henry away from me. And Pa too. Every night, I lie awake, and I hear it, Maggie. The waves breaking on the rocks. And I dream about the boat going down, and them trying to get to shore and—and drowning. It’s awful. When I wake, I lie there shaking, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe if I go away from the ocean …”
Maggie took her arm and turned her toward the house, abandoning the clothes basket. “Let’s go in and have that tea.”
###
Dear Mrs. Johnston,
My name is Edwin Gray. I work on a ranch called the Bar L. The L stands for Leman, our boss’s name.
Edwin stopped writing and scratched his head. In doing so, he flung drops of ink from the pen’s metal tip onto his shirt cuff and the tabletop. He yanked off his neckerchief and quickly wiped the drop on the table, but it only smeared across the surface. With a sigh, he rose and went to the water bucket near the bunkhouse’s stove, where he dipped the corner of the bandana into the water.
When he got back, Hab Shriver was leaning over the table.
“Get away from that,” Edwin growled.
“Mrs. Johnston, hey?” Hab grinned at him. “Who’s Mrs. Johnston?”
“None of your business.”
“I bet she’s one of those angel brides,” Bronc Adams said laconically. He was playing poker on his bunk with two of the other men, and he never looked up from his cards.
“You gettin’ married?” Hab’s wide eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“Go away,” Edwin said. How could he ever write a letter with this lot hanging over his shoulder?
“Where will you put ’er?” Hab persisted.
“She can’t sleep here in the bunkhouse, that’s for certain sure,” Bronc said.
“No siree,” said Roddy Hayes, one of the poker players.
“Don’t be stupid,” Edwin said. “Of course she wouldn’t live here.”
“Well then, where?” Hab asked.
Edwin sighed and shook his head. No way on this earth would he tell the fellows he had hope of getting the foreman’s job and cabin by the end of the year.
“He’d have to get him a house,” Bronc said slowly, as though he were instructing a child.
Hab was silent for a while. “Houses cost money,” he said at last.
Edwin shoved the bench back and picked up his paper, the pen, and the bottle of ink and strode out the door. There must be someplace quiet on this ranch where he could write the letter. He wandered into the shadowy barn and on into the harness room. He sat down on a keg of horseshoes and used a crate for a desk. The tiny window high on the wall gave him barely enough light to see his work.
“I’m kind of wishin’ I’d signed up for one of them brides.”
Edwin spun around as the voice began, knocking over the ink bottle. He grabbed at it. Most of the ink spilled on the dusty floorboards, but a teaspoon or so discolored his hand and his shirtsleeve. Edwin let out a big sigh.
“Bronc, look what you did.”
The cowpoke walked over and squinted down at the mess. “I didn’t do that. Appears to me, you did it.”
Edwin stared forlornly at the start of his letter. At least a quarter of the words were obliterated by spilled ink. He would have to get a new sheet of paper and start over. After he washed up. And after he cleaned up this mess.
“Is it too late?” Bronc asked.
“For what?”
“To get an angel bride.”
“I dunno. Ask Jake Underwood. Maybe they’ll have a spare.”
“You really mean to do it, don’t you?”
Edwin raised his gaze to meet Bronc’s. “Yeah, I do.”
Bronc nodded slowly. “Guess that means you’ve got your eye on Tom’s job. He’s dropped hints he’s moving on after fall roundup.”
Edwin didn’t know what to say. Mr. Leman had spoken to him in confidence, and it wasn’t definite yet. Not at all. Keep up the good work and maybe you’ll wind up in the foreman’s cabin, the rancher had said. Maybe. It wasn’t a promise.
“I don’t know his plans for sure,” Edwin said, “but I figure it’s time. For me to get married, I mean.”
“Would you quit the ranch?”
“If I had to. But …”
“Yeah, I thought so.” Bronc grimaced. “George was hoping he’d get the job.”
“Don’t you say anything to George. I don’t know for sure what will happen, and it could be George will get it. Or that Tom will decide to stay on.”
Bronc shook his head. “You wouldn’t go and order a wife if you weren’t pretty sure.”
Edwin’s mouth went dry. Was he making a colossal mistake? Maybe he should tell Isabella Johnston not to come, or to correspond with someone else. But he’d set his heart on marrying her after looking at her first letter. How would he feel if she came and married another man in Angel Vale? No, he’d staked his claim. Isabella would be his wife, one way or another. If that meant quitting the Bar L and finding another job, he would do it.
“Bronc, nothing’s settled,” he said. “Don’t stir up trouble. I’m writing to a lady, that’s all.”
The cowboy frowned. “Good thing this is the barn. You’ll never get that ink off the floor.”
###
September, 1877
Isabella stared out the train window at the rolling prairie. They had chugged through cities and small towns and farmlands, onto the plains. First they had passed vast fields of wheat, and now waving prairie grasses. The constant wind rippled and tossed them, like the ocean waves.
Three months had passed since she had attended the Ladies’ Aid meeting in Merville and agreed to write to one of the men in Wyoming with the possibility of finding a husband. Things had moved so quickly, it seemed like a dream. She turned away and sent up a silent prayer. Lord, show me I haven’t made a huge mistake.
Outside her window, the vast stands of prairie grass waved and rippled, never cha
nging, and yet never the same. She’d wanted to leave the sea behind her, but here she found unceasing reminders of the cruel water that claimed her joy and changed her life forever.
Tears filled her eyes, and she pulled a muslin handkerchief from her sleeve and blotted them. She didn’t want the other women fussing over her and offering sympathy. She was heading into a new life, and she would keep her sorrows deep inside. The man who awaited her at Angel Vale, Wyoming would not see tears.
The engineer halted the smoky, noisy train at a small depot on the plains of Nebraska. They were allowed thirty minutes while the trainmen took on water and coal. Isabella followed the other women out onto the platform, glad to have solid earth under her feet again.
“Are you traveling with that group of brides?” An older woman asked.
Isabella turned to her, feeling a flush mount to her cheeks. “Yes. To Wyoming.”
The woman shook her head in wonder. “Brave girls, all of you.”
“I don’t feel very brave,” Isabella admitted.
“Where are you from?” The small woman wore a respectable hat and a black dress of sturdy cloth. Isabella supposed it was all right to converse with her. She had never traveled much, and she had heard dire warnings from the ladies back in Merville—Keep your purse close, and above all, don’t talk to strangers. But this woman was no bigger than Granny Hinckley, and she seemed well intentioned.
“We’re all from Maine. A little town called Merville, on the coast.”
“And going west for husbands? That’s what one of the others told me.”
“Yes. One of the men had a connection in our village, and he and some friends asked for brides to come out.”
“But you don’t know—” The woman broke off. “Of course, you’ve thought this through.”
“I have,” Isabella said with a smile she hoped looked confident. “And we did correspond.” She didn’t mention that her correspondence with ranch hand Edwin Gray consisted of exactly three letters each way.
“I suppose it will be fine,” the woman said doubtfully. “Are you going to buy sandwiches? The vendor is over there.” She pointed along the platform to where a young man tended his cart near the depot’s ticket window.
Isabella hesitated. The conductor had told them that sandwiches, apples, and sweets would be sold at the depot, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the money. She had very little in her purse, and she might need it later.
The older woman’s face softened. “Come, I’ve a hankering for a roast beef sandwich. Do you suppose he has some?”
“I don’t know. I suppose we are in beef country.”
“Likely he’s only got egg and cheese. Oh, well, come along. If I don’t eat anything for luncheon, my husband will scold me when he collects me in Scottsbluff.”
“Is that far?” The woman began to walk toward the cart, so Isabella fell into step with her.
“Not too far. We’ll be there before sundown.” The woman smiled at her. “My name is Elizabeth Hunt.”
“Isabella Johnston.”
###
The train trip only seemed interminable. When Mrs. Hunt left at Scottsbluff, Isabella missed her new friend. Not only had the older woman bought her a sandwich and a flagon of lemonade, she had entertained Isabella with encouraging tales of life in the West. Her own husband was a successful banker in Scottsbluff, and Mrs. Hunt enjoyed her life there.
“Good luck, my dear,” she said before leaving the train. “I’m sure you and your cowboy will have a lovely life together.”
Isabella hoped it was true. She prayed that it was true. The closer she got to Angel Vale, the more desperate her prayers became. At last she set her jaw and squared her shoulders. She had made this decision, and now she would live with it. Edwin was literate. His letters proved that. After the first, stilted letter, he had seemed to relax. His description of the waterfall near the town of Angel Vale was almost poetic. In his last letter, he had described in some detail the ranchmen’s preparation for their fall roundup. The way he worded his comments about the other people on the ranch gave her hope that he would be patient and not unkind.
Please, God, let me be a good wife to this man. And let him live up to his letters!
They were five days into their journey when they rumbled up a spur line from Cheyenne to the hills of northeastern Wyoming. Men with three wagons met them at the station. Isabella sat on one of the wool blankets they provided in the back of a buckboard. If the railroad’s seats had grown uncomfortable, this was immeasurably worse. Her back screamed with pain every time the wagon jolted into a rut.
Nelle Pugh sat next to her. Isabella had made her acquaintance through the church in Maine and furthered their friendship during the trip. Nelle, petite and pretty in an understated way, was ten years older than Isabella. They had much in common, as Nelle’s father had been a ship’s captain. Both understood the agony of waiting for a man to return from the sea. But Nelle had lived a life of far more privilege and comfort than the meager existence Isabella had as the daughter and later the wife of a fisherman.
She leaned closer to Nelle as a town came into view far ahead in a fold of the hills. “Your Mr. Thornton and my Mr. Gray are both ranchers,” she said, and Nelle nodded. “I hope we’re neighbors.”
Nelle reached for her hand and squeezed it. “So do I. He has three children. I confess, I’m a bit nervous about that.”
“Edwin is single. And he doesn’t own the ranch. He only works for someone else.”
Nelle eyed her closely. “You’re worried about something.”
Isabella managed a smile. “Only meeting the man I’m to spend the rest of my life with. He was vague about housing.”
“Oh, dear. I’d invite you to stay with us, but I daren’t until I know Mr. Thornton’s mind.”
“Of course,” Isabella said. “And they’ve said there will be a place for us to stay. It’s just … I hope he’s got things arranged now. Their roundup should be done.”
“Yes. I’ll pray for you.”
“And I for you.”
They reached Angel Vale to find scores of men thronging the street. While several of them sprang forward to unload the eleven brides’ baggage from the last wagon, the man who had met them at the depot wrapped his reins around the lead wagon’s brake handle and stood. He held up his arms, and the crowd of chattering, whistling men quieted.
One of the older women, Sophia Webster, introduced each woman as she climbed down to earth. The men who had sent for them came forward to meet their brides. Her heart pounding, Isabella watched as one by one, the others were claimed. The extra men watched avidly and applauded and cheered as each prospective groom met his lady.
“Edwin Gray,” said a man in dusty work clothes as he stepped forward, limping as he approached the wagon. Isabella sucked in a breath. He wasn’t too bad. Taller than her Henry had been, and she couldn’t really tell much about his hair, since he wore a wide-brimmed hat that covered most of it. But his brown eyes looked kindly, and when Mr. Underwood read her name and she stood, he gave her a smile that would rival a lighthouse beacon.
He limped over to the tailgate of the wagon and held up a hand to her. “Help you down, Mrs. Johnston?”
“Thank you.” Isabella put her hand in his large, tanned one. As he helped her down into the street, she tried to fit his open features and crooked smile with his friendly but somewhat formal letters.
“Did you have a good trip?” he asked.
Isabella hesitated. How did one answer that after nearly a week of discomfort, smoke, soot, chilly nights, and boredom?
“It was fine,” she said.
He sobered a little, as though he could guess some of the trials the women had endured to get to Angel Vale. “The fellows will truck your bags into the boarding place. It’s not a boardinghouse, exactly, just an old mill, but it’s where they made a spot for you ladies.”
Isabella nodded. This was part of the agreement she had signed. The women would have a place t
o stay for as long as they wished, until they were ready to marry or leave Angel Vale. On the way, a few had declared they wanted to marry first thing, but most seemed to favor a getting-acquainted period before they made things permanent.
“Thank you.” She gazed up into his eyes. “I … I think that’s best, don’t you? We can converse and … and …”
“Sure, Mrs. Johnston. Whatever you say.”
She cleared her throat. “I … please, will you call me Isabella?”
“All right. I’m Edwin. Guess you know that.” He smiled again, and she realized he was nervous too. Probably wondering if she was disappointed in him, his appearance, his manners, his limp. What was he thinking now? Was she as pretty as he’d hoped? She wasn’t as talkative or as sunny-natured as some of the women, but she couldn’t help that. She hoped her faith, her willingness to work hard, and her loyalty once she had committed to a course would make up for her deficiencies.
“Might I walk you down there now?” Edwin asked. “You could freshen up and get settled. I’d like to take you to supper tonight, if that’s agreeable.”
“I’d like that, thank you.” She pulled her shawl close and took his arm, relieved that he had made a plan that would enable her both some time to adjust and a chance to talk things over with him away from the throng. Through the sleeve of his plaid cotton shirt, the warmth of his arm startled her. The afternoon sun was waning, and a cold breeze blew through the valley, promising a chilly evening. She hoped their lodgings had a stove.
“I’ll come back for you in a couple of hours.”
“That will be fine.” As she walked beside him, she sneaked a sideways glance. He was handsome, decidedly so. He smelled of the mountain wind, piney, with a hint of leather and horseflesh. Not fish. Not the salty air off the sea.
He smiled, and she realized she was staring and looked away, a flush warming her face.
“That’s your quarters,” he said, nodding to a large board building ahead.
“So handy,” Isabella murmured, and immediately felt it was a foolish remark. Edwin had said in one of his letters that the Bar L was three miles out of town, so the boardinghouse wasn’t handy for him. But she wouldn’t be here for long, she hoped.
Christmas Mail Order Angels: The complete 11 Volume Set Page 15
