Christmas Mail Order Angels: The complete 11 Volume Set

by Darlene Franklin

  Of course, she’d been right. In her twenty-two years she couldn’t remember a single time she’d misinterpreted even one person’s expression. That day, she’d yearned to be wrong.

  The wagon jerked and strained as the big six-seater crossed a wooden bridge. The Morgan horses’ hooves thwacked like hammers on the wide span over the clear, rushing stream. One of the other ladies covered her ears with gloved hands.

  Jake Underwood, owner of Jake’s Mercantile in Angel Vale, and Matthew Thomas, the Marriage Broker, would meet them in Angel Vale.

  The driver turned from the driver’s seat to gaze back at the brides-to-be. The driver swayed in the seat with the jolting of the wagon and cupped his hands around his mouth to be heard over the wagon and team noise. “Angel Vale, next stop. Angel Vale, next stop. Five minutes to arrival.”

  Amanda’s fingers trembled as she replaced her soiled hanky inside her large tapestry hand bag. Her knuckles slid against the envelope. Best to refresh what the Wyoming groom wanted. She braced the letter against her knee.

  Widow Sophie Webster and Miss Becky Patterson

  Community Church, Merville, Maine

  I enclose the price for one bride’s train and wagon passage to Angel Vale, Wyoming. If more money is needed, please let me know. Matt Thomas, our Marriage Broker here in Angel Vale, tells me you want a description of the type of woman I need.

  This being my first purchase of this kind, I thought long and hard about the woman I want. So, here is the list:

  1. The lady must be a Christian.

  2. She should be between the ages of 20 and 30. Amanda touched the smeared ink on the thin parchment paper. Maybe he couldn’t decide how old he wanted his bride. How old was he?

  3. She must love children, as I have a motherless baby. The motherless baby spoke to her heart. When she’d first read the cowboy/miner’s requirements, she’d cried for the child.

  4. She should have a little money saved in the event we are not compatible and she wants to return to Merville, Maine.

  Amanda shook her head. No, if she left Angel Vale, she’d move back to Atlanta. She dabbed at an unruly tear. No, much as she’d loved Atlanta, she could never return to the South. The mere sound of a male voice with a southern accent sent chills spiraling her spine. She never wanted to hear a man speak with a southern drawl as long as she lived. One Beau Pettigrew was enough. As was one Uncle Stephan. No more slow-spoken twang for her. Did people speak with crisp, clipped accents in Wyoming as they had in Maine?

  5. I am partial to blondes who don’t carry too much weight. However, I will settle for a darker shade of hair if necessary, since I really need a wife.

  Amanda smoothed a hand over her blonde French Roll and then twirled a curl falling around the side of her face. She would at least please him with her looks. Before Beau humiliated her in front of the whole town, she’d been the belle of Merville. And as a youngster when she’d lived in Atlanta, Aunt Bessie Mae loved to scoff, with turned-up nose and disapproving tone, at how Amanda’s mother had been the belle of Atlanta. Amanda touched the gold locket dangling from her neck. Mother’s picture inside displayed a delicate-faced lady with Amanda’s golden hair and large eyes. The familiar clutch at her heart made her pinch her lips together. Would life have been different if Mother had lived? Amanda so knew how lonely a motherless child could be. She blinked and returned to her letter.

  6. She should be of independent nature, but not willful.

  Amanda harrumphed. Leave it to a man to want independence and meekness in the same woman. Where did she stand on that spectrum? She shrugged. Aunt Bessie Mae declared to anyone who would listen that Amanda was a hand full. Her aunt couldn’t wait to get rid of her and ship her from Atlanta to the rocky shores of Maine to Mother’s only surviving brother. Uncle Stephan never had a kind word to say, but he’d provided handsomely for her trip. He’d even let her keep the lovely wedding dress and veil he’d had sewn by the seamstress in their small fishing village. Uncle had so hoped for that wedding with Beau. Amanda tried to tidy her hair by tucking in other loose strands. She should have refused the dress. The elegant fabric spoke to her of pain and loss. But the soft satin fit so beautifully, and she would need something to get married in. She shivered and clasped the letter in her icy hands.

  7. She will need a vocation. Our cabin is not completed, so she will have to live in the lodging house until Christmas, when I foresee the cabin will be ready for her and the baby.

  This last requirement had decided her. She’d have November and most of December to decide if she wanted to accept the man’s proposal. If not, she’d give him the money Uncle Stephan insisted she take, which was more than enough to repay the man for the train and wagon fare. Money was not a problem. Nor was the vocation. She loved baking, and every town needed a baker. She would rise early as she had in Merville, bake the day’s goods, and keep the baby with her while she sold her delicacies in the village or to the gold miners. How much care could an infant take? And she had plenty of love to give.

  Yours sincerely, Frank Calloway

  Amanda refolded the letter.

  She so needed to refresh herself before she met the man. Surely she could have a bath at the lodging house. And a good shot of Bourbon whiskey would help. Of course she’d never tasted alcohol, but the drink always worked for Uncle Stephan.

  The horses puffed and blew. The wheels creaked slower. With a screech of brakes, a lurch, and a mist of steam rising from the horses, the wagon stopped.

  She drew her cloak close around her. She should be accustomed to being shipped to strangers like unwanted baggage.

  But this time was different. The Wyoming gold miner wanted her.

  She squared her shoulders, straightened her spine, and smoothed her well-tailored brown travelling dress. She would make the best of a really awkward situation. She stood, furled her blue velvet cape around her body and clasped the pearl neck button. She’d make a new start, a new life, in a new town where no one knew of her humiliation and pain.

  So here she was. Some man’s personal Christmas Angel. What kind of man was Frank Calloway?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Where was the wagonload of brides driving from the Cheyenne train station? Late!

  Frank Calloway lifted the collar of his sheep-skin jacket and gazed at the lowering clouds. Were they due for an unseasonable snowfall or just rain? Wind blew his dark hair into his eyes. Should have gotten a haircut, but with the mine panning richer and richer, hard to take the time away. Fortunately he’d staked his claim close to Angel Vale or he would have missed meeting the wagon full of brides.

  What would his bride think about the town? Sprung up overnight, thanks to the spill-over from the Black Hills Gold Rush. Probably the buildings and tents didn’t offer much to a woman. On the corner, the new restaurant, its sign, Angel Vale Eatery, blew in the wind. Benjamin, who paced the wooden boardwalk not far away, said his bride would work there. Frank hoped he didn’t look as nervous as Benjamin. Matthew Thomas’s newspaper office bumped into the eatery. Matthew expected a printing press along with a new bride. No wonder the man paced the wooden boardwalk with impatient steps.

  Frank turned and gazed up at Jake Underwood’s Mercantile. Looked sturdy and inviting with the general store’s central location on the boardwalk. Vaughn’s jewelry store, Mountain Gold, nestled beside the Mercantile. He’d stopped at the small shop and picked up a simple gold wedding band. He hadn’t far to go, because the lathe and plaster building that housed his sheriff’s office and a sturdy jail hunkered next to the jewelry shop. Enticing view for incarcerated thieves. A small law office abutted the other side of his jail. Then the busiest place in town squatted on the corner. The Golden Nugget Saloon, where he’d gone many times to visit the back room barber shop or to soak in a rare tub bath.

  Across the wide oxen path that passed for a street, the blacksmith’s hammer rang against his anvil. The blacksmith shop, complete with a corral and a stable, occupied most of the east side of the stre
et with the gold assay office next to the blacksmith, and then the old mill converted to the lodging house. Both sides of the street offered a wooden boardwalk. Further down the street the buildings petered out to shanties and tents built on various miners’ claims. He’d purchased his four adjoining claims closest to town. Nope, not much here to appeal to a woman.

  Frank gazed up the oxen path toward the east. Where was that wagon? Would the bride he’d brought be pleasant? He couldn’t abide an irksome woman. Beneath his coat, Frank’s badge, on the left side of his flannel shirt, hefted a substantial weight of responsibility. Just last month, good old Jake pinned that shiny silver badge to his shirt.

  He scrubbed the late afternoon bristles on his chilled face. Lately sheriff’s duty had grown into a burden. Especially now. He’d not even had to shine his badge before Nellie or Winnie or Isobel or some other girl he’d met while sowing his wild oats, left a baby on the door-step of his shanty and named him as the father. The Chinese laundryman dropping off his washed clothes saw the mysterious woman. She’d been dressed in a long black skirt and shirtwaist and wore a large black hat tied with a veil to cover her face.

  Chang Fu handed him the note she’d left.

  You are Frank, Jr.’s father. I can’t take care of him. He is six months old and weaned from the breast. I’m leaving you a bottle, some diapers, and some crawlers, sweaters, booties and blankets. He is your responsibility now.

  Chang Fu said the woman ran from Frank’s shanty and caught the stage to Cheyenne just before the vehicle left Angel Vale.

  So he’d offered Chang Fu half the gold he panned if the Chinaman would take charge of Baby Frank’s care. Turned out Chang Fu was the laziest Chinaman Frank ever met. But the small man with the long braided pig tail usually had Baby Frank fed and dressed in the evenings when Frank breezed into the shanty after work in the evenings. Still, the baby needed much more attention and love.

  Frank sighed at the memory. A day or two after he hired Chang Fu, he’d had to ride into the surrounding countryside and camp for several days on the trail of outlaws who’d held up the assay office at gun point. The whole time he’d been away, he’d feared Chang Fu would light out and leave Baby Frank alone.

  When he returned and found the baby wet and hungry with Chang Fu fast asleep in Frank’s cot, he’d had no choice. He’d hiked over to see Matt Thomas and jawed about the ad Matt placed in the newspaper. Frank knew the ad by heart.

  Get Your Personal Christmas Angel. Sign up with Matthew Thomas.

  Frank had discovered he preferred upholding the law to spending hours bent over ice cold water from the sluice, so he didn’t want to give up his Sheriff’s job to care for the baby. Plus he knew nothing about the care and feeding of a child. The little one needed a mother. So, like a fool, he’d signed up and written The Letter. Jake, as marriage broker, sent the letter off to some fishing village in Maine.

  His claim provided adequate gold, but he’d had to add money from his sheriff’s wages to give him sufficient funds to bring a bride west all the way from Merville, Maine.

  Would his Angel bride take to the baby?

  He jammed his Stetson further down on his head, paced the boardwalk in front of the mercantile that served as the stage and wagon depot and stuck his cold hands in his pocket. Another two months and he’d finish building the log cabin for his future wife on the town edge of his claim. He nodded to Riley, another soon-to-be-groom pacing the boardwalk.

  Alex stomped over to stand beside him. “You ready for a wife?”

  Frank nodded. “I got our cabin sides up about seven feet all the way around.”

  “I passed by your place this morning. Looks sizeable.”

  “I still have a long way to go, and I promised my mail-order bride a home by Christmas. I’ll work like the dickens, but I’ll get the job done.”

  “She’ll love that cabin.” Alex clomped away, distraction shading his face like a six-month beard.

  Frank shoved his hands deeper into his coat and strode down the boardwalk. Every man pacing the boardwalk looked jumpy as a long-tailed cat near a rocking chair.

  OK, so what if he didn’t like his new bride? He jammed his Stetson on tighter. Too bad. The baby needed a mother. He didn’t need a wife. Hadn’t even thought about getting hitched. Sounded too much like two mules dragging a heavy wagon over a high mountain. With his experience with women, would he be jumping from the frying pan into the fire? A woman could be a load of trouble. Once he saddled himself with her, as a new Christian trying to follow Christ, he’d be bound to this stranger for life. That thought had his knees knocking and his palms sweating. What if he wasn’t good husband material and made her life miserable?

  But the boy, though certainly not his son, had grabbed a big chunk of his heart. Frank, Jr. deserved better than being wet, smelly, and hungry most of the time. Frank jerked his Stetson off and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. As a new Christian, he didn’t know the ropes yet, and a wife might keep him out of trouble. He needed all the help he could get in that area. God had a big chore turning his life around.

  He tromped so hard the boards beneath his boots shook. When he’d ordered himself a Christian bride, why hadn’t he stipulated that she be pretty? He did like a pretty face. He stopped, swiped his Stetson off, and slapped his thigh with his hat. Why would a pretty girl need to be a mail-order bride? He’d have to take this one even if she were as prim as a preacher’s wife at a prayer meeting.

  He glanced at the sun dropping in the western sky. She should be here by now. His heart beat faster than when he’d faced a cavalry charge on foot. Despite the stiff wind, sweat slid between his shoulder blades. Jake and Matt promised an angel. Humph. She’d have to be a lot different from the women he knew.

  He didn’t have enough money to send her back if he didn’t want her. Why hadn’t he thought this through? What kind of woman traveled to marry a man she didn’t even know? She had to be ugly. And fat. Maine was full of men. Why hadn’t she married one of them? Why come all the way to this forsaken country to marry a man? He should have gone to Cheyenne and got himself a woman there. What a mad man to buy one unseen.

  He paced the wooden boards. The wrong woman could hinder whatever ministry the Lord gave him. He’d promised to serve God if the Lord saved his life after that rattlesnake bite.

  The circuit riding preacher who’d led him to a saving knowledge of Christ didn’t stay long enough to teach him much about the Christian life, but he’d admonished Frank to read the Bible. Start with the book of Mark in the New Testament. So he had.

  He gazed down the empty trail. He’d like a pretty girl like Rosemary, but she’d have to be bigger and stronger. He’d traded his 30-30 Winchester shotgun for a milk cow, and his new wife would have to milk Daisy. And she’d have to cook and garden and wash diapers. Chang Fu boiled huge pots of water and washed diapers, then hung them on a line stretched from the shanty to the creek. The sound of diapers forever flapping in the breeze sang a southern tune as he squatted next to the icy creek with his gold pan. Often he found himself humming My Old Kentucky Home. He sure missed Peach Tree Crossing. Now that place had some pretty southern belles.

  His new wife would have to strain the peas and carrots and meat for Baby Frank. Frank rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn’t remember when his muscles had been so rigid. His Christmas angel would have to cook the game he killed. Between panning gold, hunting outlaws, and building the cabin, he didn’t have the time.

  She’d have to be a veritable work horse.

  How did Matt and Jake persuade these brides to leave their homes and come to this frontier? Did any of those twelve women have any idea what lay ahead for them?

  He turned his back against the wind and gazed up the dirt road that wandered into empty countryside. Trees lined one side and rocky landscape the other. Behind him the ring of pickaxes on rock and the rush of water from the big creek played a muffled song. Only boots clumping on the wooden boardwalk broke the stillness. This was
man’s country. Would his bride take one gander and jump back into the wagon, his hard-earned money disappearing with her?

  Horses’ hooves rattled over the stone bridge.

  Dust rose on the horizon.

  The huge wagon lurched into view. The wooden boardwalk vibrated under many boots. His heart beat like the Morgan horses’ thundering hooves.

  No matter what the woman looked like, he had to marry her. He had no other choice.

  He was a lunatic.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Amanda stepped down from the wagon, legs shaking. Angel Vale, indeed. The place looked desolate. One wide dirt street cut through a few dilapidated buildings, tapered off into shanties and tents, and ended in the countryside without amounting to much. The faint clang of pick-axes sounded above the huff of the tired teams of horses. Not what she’d been led to expect. She drew in a deep breath. The scent of fresh, wild outdoors mixed with lesser odors swirled to her senses. But no fishy odor, no roar from the sea, and no tinkle of rigging. Thank you, Lord.

  A cold wind whipped her heavy cape. A thin layer of soot from coal-burning chimneys left a stench in the air. She huddled inside her wrap, shoving her arms together through the slits, her hand bag hanging heavy on one arm.

  Behind her, other girls descended from the wagon. Henrietta stood beside her.

  A large group of men stomped along the wooden sidewalk in boots with heels, many wearing Stetsons. Which one would stride over to meet her? She shivered.

  The short man whose ears stuck out from a balding head beneath a wide Stetson? Cold air blew down her neck and wrestled with her French Roll. Or the muscular man whose gait rolled from side to side because of his brawn? The older man whose white beard and mustache looked exactly like her mental picture of Santa Claus? Too many men crowded the boardwalk.