She scratched at her head like suddenly a family of fleas had moved into her scalp. It was the eyes that were getting to her in person. His words were what got her across the country. The singing was going to get her in his bed. Damn, he is adorable.
“Honest, Pecola, if I don’t make love to you soon, I think I might just burst wide open right here on this floor,” he told her.
Damn you ugly women! This is what I get for not minding my own business. He took her by the hand and pulled her up from the couch and led her down the hall to the master bedroom. The farmhouse bed was waiting for them with the covers turned down.
This was all wrong.
This is not how the story was supposed to go.
And it definitely wasn’t the wedding night she had envisioned in her head. Hell, it wasn’t even night, but the middle of the afternoon. The whole thing happened so fast that she got caught up in the world of living out the stories which made her a New York Times Best Selling author. Under the pen name of Montana Hart, she was famous for writing about mail order brides. Now, all because of two ugly women, she was married to a man who was taking her to his bed to jostle the hell out of her. By the looks of the expression on his face, she was going to be ridden hard and put away wet. The nurturing eyes that had gotten her down the hall had turned wolfish. Scratch that. I am going to be rode wet and put away hard.
“Jesus build a fence,” she mumbled as the bedroom door closed behind them.
2. Lexicons and Legends...
May 2010, Havre, Montana
“I expect your papers on my desk no later than 5 pm on Monday. Classes end on Wednesday and I have to have grades posted by the following Tuesday. No lates, no excuses, no failures, understood?” Assistant Professor Johnson told his class. It was grammatically incorrect, but it didn’t matter; the message was sound.
Amidst a flurry of grumbles, he ended his last class at the Montana State University at Northern Campus at Havre on a positive note. Two weeks before, he had gotten the call from his father to come home to the ranch. The ranch was a place of many wonderful childhood memories and he often dreamt of returning there once he’d scored a book deal. In his long-term plan, he wanted to turn the ranch into an upscale writing retreat for authors from all around the world. The Rocking J Writer’s Ranch was doodled on many notes and an entire notebook that had been dedicated to the project. He’d even gone as far as having the engineering and architecture students to redesign the main house that sat on the family ranch.
The Rocking J was one of the first cattle ranches in the state of Montana. Years of Johnsons had ridden the land, grown crops, and raised children there. He planned to do the same, but in a different way. Herding livestock was no longer lucrative. It wasn’t good for a man’s health either. Based on the call he’d received two weeks ago, his father had been thrown from his horse that was spooked by a rattlesnake, and now he was laid up flat on his back.
Chadwick, his older brother, had come home from Afghanistan a much different man than the one who had gone over. Something was off about him. His focus was solely on money. He wanted the Rocking J as well, but only to dismantle it and sell it off in pieces to land developers and drilling companies. There was too much fracking going on as it was, and the people of Helena didn’t deserve that sort of life. The portion of the 75 acres that Chad wasn’t planning to sell to oilers, he was going to turn into some fancy resort.
“Chad, I think we have a similar idea; maybe we can come to terms with it,” Billy Joe told his brother.
“The only terms I am interested in are your unconditional surrender, college boy,” Chad spat at him.
“Daddy doesn’t want us fighting...” he tried to tell his brother.
“Fine. Give up your share of the ranch and that will end the fighting,” Chad pushed.
“I can’t do that. It’s as much my birthright as it is yours. To sell it off to the highest bidder almost seems blasphemous, especially considering everything our parents and grandparents went through to hold on to this place,” he tried to reason with his brother.
“Case in point. That is why we should sell it. I see no reason to waste my life sitting atop a horse, pushing along cattle that are too dumb to know they are food,” Chad boasted.
“We can turn the ranch into something else and evolve the dream, but keep it in the family,” Billy Joe tried again.
Chadwick walked up real close to him, breathing the sour stench of his breath into his face, “When that old man dies, so does this family, college boy, and I am selling my half. I can buy you out or you can share your half with riggers and Los Angeles types who want to get away from it all.”
The only thing Billy Joe wanted was to get away from Chad. The three-month sabbatical that he took from the University turned into a year. At the end of the year, he buried his father in the family cemetery next to his mother as the mourners passed by to shake his hand and offer condolences.
Chad hung around the ranch long enough for the family attorney to meet with them. To his surprise, Robert James Johnson did not leave the ranch to both of his sons; he only left it to one. Billy Joe was the sole heir to the family property that was heavily mortgaged and behind in taxes and that hadn’t turned a profit in years.
Billy Joe spent the next year trying to fix those issues. With the help of his cousin, Avery, he was able to set up an account for online sales and began to sell some of the items that were of no use. There were many items in the home that had no real value to him but to antique dealers, they were a treasure trove. In less than six months, the back taxes were paid off and everything was up to date. The miscalculation of the gravity of the situation came when he went to refinance the mortgage.
His parents had taken out a second and third mortgage to pay for his college education. I had no idea. This also explained the reason for the loss of ranch hands and the reduction in livestock as well as Chadwick’s resentment. All of the family’s resources were invested in him as if he were the last bastion of hope for the family to continue and thrive. There was far more truth to that than he realized.
One evening in the local bar, Billy Joe found, after liquoring up Ruddy, a family friend, that his brother Chadwick was unable to have children. Chad didn’t discuss whatever happened to him over there, but Ruddy, who was nobody’s buddy, had served with Chad and mentioned the injury.
“If it were me, I would have let them put me down. I can’t have a mangled piece of man meat to live with. Never being able to enjoy the pleasure of a woman again...would be too much for me,” Ruddy Kingman said.
“Let’s not speak of this again. Chad doesn’t need to know that I was made aware,” Billy Joe told him.
“You talk real fancy,” Ruddy told him as he mocked his use of language. “If you plan to get anything done around these parts, you might want to drop that college boy talk.”
The problem was Ruddy was right. Even when he dialed down the talk, it didn’t smarten up the people. Some of the women, beautiful and smart in their own ways, were not the caliber of woman he wanted at his side to build his vision of the writer’s retreat. Dating had become a burden to him.
He spent several months seeing a professor from Missoula, but the ranch was too remote for her without internet reception. A sweet contract with a cellular provider who placed a tower on the ranch did little to draw any women out to the remote location. It did, however, pay off the third mortgage. The women who wanted to be that far out he didn’t want to be locked up with while the ones he wanted to be locked up with didn’t want to live that far out, even with a cell tower.
Two years later, the loneliness of the ranch was starting to chip away at him until his ranch foreman Pap Madison pulled him to the side. “Boy, I tell you d’ truth, you ain’t gonna find the type of girl you want anywhere’s round here. You gonna have to go old school!”
“Old school, Pap?”
“Yessiree, Doodle! You gonna have to go mail order. Old Grouchy Palmer over at the Lazy S sent off for one an
d got hisself a looker from one of them Chezy-Slovakian countries,” he said as he slapped his knee.
An eyebrow arched in amusement, Billy Joe asked the foreman, “And you think that is what I need, Pap?”
“I garunbetcha it will work out perfectly. You will get one of them lonely heart types that like to sit by the fire, stare at the embers, and discuss who was prideful and who had prejudices,” Pap said with a bob of his head. His mouth was twisted to the side for added accentuation.
Billy Joe didn’t know what the head bob meant, but he had Pap to contact Grouchy, who in turn put him in contact with Ms. Coraline of New York City, who ran the matchmaking outfit. It was simple. He paid the fee of a few thousand dollars, there was a money back guarantee, and they would work for him for up to two years. The only thing he needed to do was write his ad and send a picture.
Easier said than done. For a man who spent much of his life in letters and books, he had no way of writing down what he really wanted. He tried twice allowing Pap to read both attempts.
“Naw, naw, naw. Get to the heart of the matter Sonny, you have to disembowelate what you want in a wife, and snag one when she ain’t a looking at whatcha left hand is writing and the right hand is fixin’. Let me show you,” Pap told him.
Billy Joe was frowning at him. “Pap, you do know that disembowelate is not a word?” It didn’t seem to matter any to the old man, who had a real talent for making up compound words. Some were too clever for his own good and others were too intentional to ignore while other word combinations were just plain ole funny.
Pap ignored the young man and set about his task. Stiff arthritic fingers massaged the gray beard, as cloudy eyes looked to heavens for the trickling down of words into his muddled brain. He licked the end of the pencil—God only knew why—stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, and commenced to writing.
Remote Montana rancher in search of a wife. Must be of childbearing age and ability. Willing to bear a child in the first 12 months of marriage. Must be well read in the classics as well as modern literary works. Cooking not necessary but helpful. Please send a letter of interest.
Billy Joe read the passage. It was good, but he had a question, “Why a child in the first year?”
“Commitment, Sonny! If she is carrying your babe, she is not gonna be that likely to want to run back to her old life. That child will be an heir to this land. No woman in her right mind is gonna run away from 75 acres,” Pap told him with the familiar punctuating head nod.
It worked like a charm. In less than a month he had more letters than he could sort out. Each evening, he donned his glasses and sat in front of the fire to read the love letters sent to him. A few had promise, but several took him back to his campus life of grading a freshman essay.
I have to be patient.
It took nearly 18 months, but one evening he received a letter in a pink envelope from one Pecola Peters of Brooklyn New York. The first line of the letter piqued his interest: “In your eyes, I see a longing...”
Her prose was clear, the lexicons were sound, and the references were of legend as she spoke of classical literature, wrote in humorous allusions, and tied it off with the perfect last line: “Come to my arms, my beamish boy, and chortle in this joy.”
By the last line of the letter, he wanted to marry her. His response letter back stated as much. He wooed her with his words. His vast knowledge of literature and her letters back to him over the six-month period often sent him to the library to research her anecdotes, quips, and passages. He felt alive. Moreover, he’d found his equal. At the twelve month mark, Pecola was on a plane, heading to Montana to be his wife.
Now that he had her here, what was he going to do to get her to stay?
2. Lattes and Linzers...
March 2014, Brooklyn, New York
Today was Tuesday. Tuesday was Pecola’s favorite day of the week. Mondays were too hectic and filled with miserable people who didn’t want to face the work week. By the time Tuesday morning rolled in, people were more pleasant and easier to deal with. In her writing world, Tuesday was a fun day. On her social media pages, she got to post teasers of her new books, share tidbits of info about the Old West, and get out of her apartment.
It wasn’t a bad apartment for New York. She lived in a rent controlled building that was managed by a nice man with bushy eyebrows, broken yellow teeth, and hair that seemed to be electrified. It stuck up in every direction like someone had either scared the shit out of him or he’d stuck his finger in a wall socket. Tuesday was also new novel release day and today her latest novel, The Bride of Buck Buchanan, was coming out today. This book was the second in her alphabet series of lonely ranchers who sent back east for a bride.
What Pecola loved more than anything about Tuesday was lattes and Linzer cookies. Kelly’s Koffee on the corner was her favorite place to go and kill a couple of hours. It was the perfect place to lose herself in characterization as she studied and listened to accents, eavesdropped on conversations, and picked up subtle tells in people’s body language. This Tuesday’s trip was going to change her life.
“I know she is writing this stuff based on what she thinks, but it is obvious most of her research is done online,” the one woman said.
The second woman, who had the largest breasts Pecola had ever seen on anything human, spoke up as well. “I downloaded my copy when it went on sale at midnight, and I can tell you, Montana Hart knows nothing about men,” she told her friend.
“Morning, Pecola,” Kelly called out from behind the counter. “Grab a seat, I will get started on your latte and I have fresh Linzers coming out the oven,” she told her.
“Thanks,” she said as she took her usual seat by the window. She opened her tablet as she began to listen to the women discuss her and her latest book.
The first one, Pecola learned after listening for her name, was Paige. Pecola liked her the least. Especially after her next snarky comment. “I got halfway through Chapter Three and requested a full refund. The reason the woman wanted to marry Buck didn’t make any sense,” she said flatly.
The busty one was Rosetta and she had a mouthful to say as well, “Don’t even get me started on him. His character was so flat. I dunno, maybe she has written too many of them and is burning out.”
“That book reads to me...” Rosetta laughed at her own play on words. “...Like somebody hasn’t had any in a while and doesn’t have a clue how to live with a man.”
That did it for her. She shouldn’t have been listening; they weren’t talking to her. I have to say something.
“You guys talking about the latest Montana Hart book?”
“Yeah, have you read it?”
“I just bought a copy today,” she lied. “I take it you guys don’t like it.”
They were both looking at her full on now and there was no doubting they were two of the most unattractive women she had ever seen in her life. Scratch that, those ladies were sticking the “y” up the butt crack of ugly. I bet they are single.
“Normally, I love her work, but this one is too formulaic. It’s like she cut and pasted from her other stories and just changed the main character’s name. I mean seriously, the farm house that Buck owns is described the same exact way the ranch house in Tuesday Morning in Boise,” Paige said, sticking out her thick, fat tongue.
“That sex scene is lame, even for a mail order bride western,” Rosetta chimed in. “I bet her sex life is dull as that scene!”
“If she has a sex life. The way she wrote this story and that last one, someone is dry docked in the shipyard if you ask me,” Rosetta chuckled.
No one asked you, you no-necked heifer. Pecola smiled. “Do you guys know Montana?”
“Naw, I have just bought every one of her books from the beginning. I feel like I know her,” Paige commented.
“Hell, as many of her books as I have bought, seems like she should at least show-up and buy a bitch a cup of this expensive ass coffee,” Rosetta cackled.
T
his is the part that got fuzzy for Pecola. She asked what the women thought the author should do. The conversation buzzed back and forth as she joined the ladies at the table. Both shared pictures of their families with decent looking husbands and moderately attractive children.
“It’s not as if there isn’t still a mail order bride service available. I mean you have online services where you do it yourself, but there are agencies that the men pay to find them a good woman,” Rosetta said.
“Really?”
“For real honey. The best in the business is Coraline Newair over at Perfect Match in Midtown. The men pay her, and she matches a lot of people up,” Paige added.
“Is that what you two did to get your husbands?” Pecola asked before she realized what she was saying.
Both women took offense. “I got my husband the old fashioned way, in church,” Paige boasted.
“I got mine the old fashioned way, as well. I stole him from my former best friend. I put some of this good-good on him and that joker followed me home ten years ago and never left,” Rosetta said with a cock of her head.
“Perfect Match, Coraline Newair,” she repeated as she jotted down the name.
Paige touched her hand, “I suggest that you send Montana Hart a note and tell her to check it out. It will change her life.”
Rosetta touched her other hand, “I am certain if she makes a move, she won’t regret it.” She then looked at Paige, “Girl, we have to get moving if we are going to make that matinee.”
They both gave Pecola a smile that big sisters would share with a little sister and gathered their belongings and left. Funny, as many times as she came into Kelly’s she had never seen them. When she thought back on it later, even after she made her way over to Perfect Match and the subsequent Tuesdays that followed, she never saw them again. It was by chance that they walked into the shop and by chance, it was on a Tuesday since this was the one day she actually wore real clothes and makeup. Other days she lounged about the house in sweats, fuzzy socks, and a teacup full of unshared dreams.
Montana (Modern Mail Order Bride Book 2) Page 2
