Delia shook her head. “I can’t,” she muttered hoarsely. “My parents would never hear of it. I’ve made my own bed, they would say, and now I must spend the rest of my days in it.”
For a while, both women were silent. Mrs. Henley simply sat there and ran her fingers through Delia’s long golden hair, humming softly, and Delia let her. It wasn’t until they both heard the sound of the door opening that they paused.
Delia frowned. Mr. Henley had gone into town that day, and he wouldn’t be back for at least another hour or two. Delia had been lucky enough to get a day off from her would-be husband, and had chosen to indulge in it by staying home in the warmth and comfort of the Henleys’ home, though Mr. Henley had offered to take her to town with him.
Now, it seemed odd that he would be home so early. Delia’s heart dropped suddenly as an awful thought occurred to her: what if it was Peterson?
Before she could get herself all riled up, she saw a young man enter the house. As soon as Mrs. Henley spotted him, she smiled so wide that she looked like she might burst. “Oh, Baxter! You’re home!”
Delia allowed the woman to get up, quickly wiping at her still puffy face in the hopes of whisking away any remaining salt or sadness. As Mrs. Henley embraced the young man—Delia recognized the name as belonging to her eldest son—Delia got a good look at him.
And gasped.
It was him. He was a young man, tall with broad shoulders and evident muscles beneath his cotton shirt. He had dark, close-cropped hair that Delia was sure must be very thick. His eyes were a pale blue just like his mother’s, but shone with a happiness that was contagious.
Delia recognized him instantly as the man from the tiny picture she’d received in her letter.
She had been so shocked by his appearance and by the knowledge that it had been him in the picture all along, she said nothing and merely stared at him, he eyes wide. He caught her staring, looking past his mother as she embraced him and fussed over him.
Offering Delia a small, but adorably sweet smile, he tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Hello,” he said in a soft voice that was deep and soothing. His bright eyes took in her form and she suddenly realized that she must look a mess. Here she was crouched on the floor, her dress not one of her finer ones, merely plain white cotton with light embroidery along the hems, and her hair was a complete mess. She had allowed it to be down since only the women had been around that day, and she’d so enjoyed Mrs. Henley’s soothing fingers running through it.
Now she instantly regretted not taking more time to look presentable.
Before she could do anything—get up, apologize, introduce herself—Baxter had patted his mother affectionately on the shoulder, then passed her into the sitting room. With only a couple of quick strides, he stood before Delia, and then he knelt down.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, offering his hand to her. There was concern in both his tone and in his softly colored eyes.
“Oh, um, yes, of course,” Delia said quickly, feeling flustered all of a sudden. How embarrassing! “I’m so sorry, I—”
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Baxter said quickly.
She put her hand in his and allowed herself to be helped up to a standing position. She found that the heat from his hand was infectious, flooding her body immediately with a soft warmth that was all but making her glow. They were standing close together now that she had gotten up, and though it was perhaps inappropriate, she could not make herself move away. She was too lost in his wonderful eyes and too warm from his soft heat.
In the end, Mrs. Henley cleared her throat and offered them a late lunch. It was Baxter who stepped away first, offering her a sheepish smile and rosy cheeks.
Chapter 8
“I’ve been away towards Kansas,” Baxter admitted conversationally.
They had settled for some cheese and bread for their makeshift lunch and were sitting around the table, now talking over tea. Delia tried not to be as fascinated as she was with him, but could not help herself. She was transfixed.
“I’m trying to prospect for myself, but it’s been difficult,” he explained. “I have a friend, however, living in Kansas who said I should take a look.”
“I have a friend in Kansas,” Delia offered suddenly, remembering that Eleanor’s new husband was from there. “She hasn’t been there long, but she says it’s wonderful.”
Baxter’s full lips pulled into a smile that was as sweet as his voice. “Parts of it certainly are. Perhaps we might visit this friend of yours sometime. I could use a tour guide.”
Delia felt her cheeks blush; was he simply being politely interested?
Mrs. Henley said, “I don’t want you over there. Terrible storms, I hear. And besides, you belong closer to home. You can take the farm and there’s so much to be done with it.”
Baxter smiled at his mother affectionately, patting her wrinkled hand. “Mother, you and father have worked so hard for this place. I have no intention of taking it from you.”
She waved him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. We won’t be here forever and I want to see it go to someone who will appreciate it.”
“There’s always George,” he reminded her.
“George is looking to stay with the railways. He likes it.”
Baxter sighed, looking ready to counter with something else, but Delia found herself interrupting before she even considered it to be rude. “You don’t like it here?”
Glancing at her in surprise, he quickly shook his head. “On the contrary; there is little I love more than this place.”
“Then why are you so reluctant to stay?”
He hesitated a moment, something shining in his eyes, but she couldn’t say what it might be. “Perhaps, I was looking for something that I didn’t think I could find here.”
She didn’t get to ask him what that something might be, because Mr. Henley arrived just then and Baxter rose to meet him. They began to talk and the earlier thread of discussion was lost.
Chapter 9
Baxter stayed with them, his room down the hall. He inquired as to whether he might spend more time with her almost every day, but Delia reluctantly explained her situation to him. He had frowned deeply, and apologized for his forwardness.
“If you might need my services, Miss Delia, I encourage you to not hesitate,” he told her sincerely when she explained that she had a prior obligation to Mr. Peterson.
She didn’t tell him that she was miserable with the old gargoyle of a man or that she had been tricked into believing he was something other than what he was. Yet somehow, Baxter seemed to know.
When Mr. Henley brought her home every evening, Baxter was there to spend it with her. Sometimes he would tell her stories of places he had been; sometimes he would tell her stories of places he wanted to go. They would chat until the candles burned down and laugh as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Delia’s heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Eventually, Mr. Henley didn’t take her to Peterson’s at all. Baxter had volunteered his services and now insisted that he be the one to take Delia. She didn’t complain, nor did his parents. He even offered to chaperone her during her visits, but she was so mortified by her betrothed’s behavior that she couldn’t bear the thought of Baxter witnessing it, so he merely provided her a ride. A ride during which they talked and laughed; it was the part of her day she looked forward to the most.
A week after Baxter’s return and a week before Delia was meant to marry, the two of them made their way through the tall grass that made up the backyard of his parents’ little farm.
For a while, they said nothing, but their hands kept brushing one another’s as they walked, and their eyes would meet as they tried to surreptitiously steal a glance of the other.
Finally, Baxter spoke. “I am grateful to have met you, Delia,” he told her gently, quietly, almost as though fearing the words were not to be spoken aloud.
Blushing, Delia dipped her head, hiding her fac
e from him. “I am grateful, too,” she admitted. “You have made an unpleasant experience so much better.”
Baxter stopped suddenly, and Delia had to turn back to face him. He had a deep frown on his features.
“What is it?” she asked, wondering what she could have said to cause such an expression.
“Unpleasant experience?” he repeated.
Her breath caught in her throat; she shouldn’t have told him that. Trying to laugh it off, she said, “Oh, I just meant the traveling. It was such a long way and I’ve left some very dear people behind—”
But Baxter didn’t seem to believe her. He walked up to her again and dared to put his hands lightly on her shoulders. The touch was so gentle, though, that she didn’t resist him or pull back in the slightest.
“Are you not happy to be… to be married?”
She bit her lip. Did she want to be married? Very much so. Did she want to be married to Peterson? Not in the least. But it was her duty.
Shaking her head, she quietly murmured, “I’m afraid I have landed myself in a terrible spot and now I must follow through with my commitments. Oh, if only I had known who he truly was!”
But that was the part that made her want to pull her hair out: if she had never traveled to Wyoming in order to marry Peterson, she never would have been placed in the Henley house for safekeeping, and she never would have met her sweet, dear Baxter.
The boy she knew, in her heart, she was in love with.
Shaking his head, he looked deeply into her eyes and said, “There is still time to change your mind.”
Except there wasn’t. She had no more time and no more options.
Chapter 10
It was two days before the marriage was supposed to take place, but Delia wasn’t sure she could make herself go through with it. She had found herself deeply in love with Baxter now and she wasn’t sure she could be apart from him anymore. But she knew also that Mr. Peterson wouldn’t let her go without a fight. In his beady little eyes, she belonged to him. She felt obliged to follow through with her end of the bargain, but as she stood in the living room that day, staring at the pudgy man settled into the old worn chair, she realized that maybe there was a chance to get out of it.
After all, he had lied.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Mr. Peterson, I feel as though there is something I must talk to you about.”
Peterson looked up at her with those black little eyes, suspicion shining in there. “We’re not pushing back the wedding,” he told her flatly. They’d discussed it a time or two; he wouldn’t budge.
She shook her head. “It isn’t about that.”
“Then what?”
Taking a deep breath, she readied herself. “It’s about the photo.”
He froze. There was no denying the simple fact that he had lied in his letters. They had exchanged pictures and hers had been one hundred percent accurate; his had not. And it wasn’t just the picture, of course, but the promises of a mansion, a huge farm and spending the rest of his life making her happy. Not a single word of it had been true, but the picture was the most damning of evidence. There was no denying it.
When he said nothing, she pushed: “I’ve met Baxter Henley. He is a kind, darling man and you had no right to use his likeness to strengthen your own dastardly cause!”
He rose finally from his slumped position, standing to face her. Suddenly, he was menacing in a way he hadn’t been before. His upper lip pulled back in a snarl as he told her, “I’ll do as I please. You’re mine and you’ll do well to remember that! You are here now, agreed to marry, and I’ll not have you gallivanting around with some boy!”
Delia felt her heart pound in her chest; was he forbidding her from seeing Baxter? “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, yes, I can! You’re my wife and that gives me the authority!”
Balling her hands into fists at her side, she said in as firm a voice as she could muster, “I am not your wife and I shall never be your wife!”
As soon as the words left her mouth, he lunged at her. For such a short, fat little man, he moved more quickly than she ever could have imagined. Within moments, he was upon her and had her pinned the floor.
Suddenly, everything was quiet for a long, hollow moment.
Unable to bear the sight in front of her, Delia turned her head to the side and could now see the door. It was open and standing in its frame was Baxter. Within moments, he was inside the little house and his large, strong hands were gripped tightly around Peterson. He jerked the little man off of Delia, who was now sobbing, and went to her.
“Oh, my darling,” he cried, cradling her against his broad, strong chest. “My love, are you alright?”
Sniffling and fighting back her tears, Delia looked up at him and asked quietly, “Love? Baxter, you love me?”
Smiling at her widely, he shook his head a little. “Of course I do. I thought that was obvious. I’ve loved you from nearly the moment I met you. Oh, Delia! My sweet, sweet Delia.”
He held her tightly and she held him back, her heart finally feeling as though it had found its home.
Chapter 11
It wasn’t difficult to get away from Peterson in the end. Although he was an intimidating, revolting little man, he had no legal weight over Delia. Their agreement was hardly written in stone and there was no way to force her to marry him. Even if he tried to get her parents to push the issue, she was confident they wouldn’t. Although she knew they believed in following through with things, she knew that explaining the situation now would make them understand.
Peterson didn’t have a chance.
Which was why Delia found herself in a wedding only a few days after the incident in which she was attacked. Since she didn’t have the opportunity to find another chaperone on such short notice and it was so inappropriate to live under the same roof, they had decided to marry quickly. In the meantime, Baxter, ever the gentleman, had insisted on staying with his brother George in town.
The wedding was simple and beautiful, ending in vows of adoration and love from both of them.
Delia wrote all three of her dear friends all about it, regaling them with delightful tales of her adventures and how it had all worked out in the end.
A year later, just before their anniversary, Delia gave birth to a happy, healthy baby boy. He had her golden locks and his father’s beautiful eyes. He would grow up to be the best kind of man, Delia knew, because he would be just like his father.
THE END
Mail Order Bride Catherine
Brides Of New Haven
Charity Phillips
Mail Order Bride Catherine
New Haven, Connecticut – 1865
Two of Catherine Stuart’s three friends have already left New Haven to find love and adventure as mail order brides out West. Young Catherine has found love, too, and she is eager to travel to Nebraska to meet her betrothed. But have his letters truly prepared her for the man she has yet to meet?
Laura, the only friend of their quartet remaining in town suggests not, but Catherine is too excited to listen to reason. An exciting life is waiting for her, and she cannot be bothered to wait.
She finds that her friend had a woman’s intuition not to be ignored, but is it too late? If she walks away, will she ever find love again? Catherine doesn’t know for certain, but her heart craves something that only the west can give her–and she can no longer wait for it to find her.
Chapter 1
Catherine Stuart had her heart set on New York. When all the other women were looking at their ads in hope of finding adventure out West, Catherine was dreaming of sophisticated New York City, where ladies wore luxurious gowns and the latest fashions. She wanted to be like the elegant women her Aunt Marie always spoke of, and perhaps even get involved with something like acting. It was a bit scandalous, which was why she hadn’t expressed her interests too seriously. But it didn’t stop her from dreaming.
As she tore through the matrimonials, as they were call
ed, she slowly grew less and less hopeful. New York wasn’t out West, and as a result, no one was interested in finding a bride through something like an ad. There were so many pretty young women there; what did Catherine have to offer?
She realized that her options would be to accept a bachelor far from New Haven and far from her New York dreams.
It is just as well, she thought as she put the finishing touches on her letter to a gentleman homesteader in Nebraska who was near her age and seemed agreeable in his ad. New York is for serious people with serious lives, not little dolls like me.
Catherine was nearly twenty-two years old, but she could have passed for a girl as young as fifteen. Her hair was a wispy, mousy brown color that never seemed to grow past her shoulders and her wide eyes were a deep chocolate brown, making her look like a tiny, innocent little thing. Add the ribbons in her hair and her rosy cheeks and she was often mistaken for a schoolgirl rather than a working woman.
Well, not that she was a working woman any longer.
During the war, Catherine had worked with three of her closest friends at the New Haven Arms Company. Oh, they all had their own reasons for joining, but Catherine’s were a mixture of wistfulness and an urge to do something for the sake of her country. She wanted the adventure that came with having a job—one that was traditionally a man’s job at that—but she also felt a sense of pride knowing that her work assembling weapons for the Union Soldiers were helping men come home to their families.
“Not all of them,” Laura had told her once, her eyes dark despite being a cold blue that could be either pale or bright. Catherine had never asked about Laura’s lost love, though she was a dear friend, and out of respect, the women all wore black for a week after Laura received the letter.
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