Stephen’s Bride

by Callie Hutton

  Calliope’s face crumbled and with the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes, she cried. After all she’d done, she certainly didn’t deserve his kindness.

  Stephen swung his legs over the side of the bed, then pulled her up. “Let’s go. No more tears. We’ll get this over with.”

  He smacked her lightly on her bare bottom. “Get dressed, Mrs. McCoy, your husband is taking you into town.” As she turned toward her wardrobe, he tugged her by the hand. “And where your best Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. And that funny little hat.”

  They dressed, in between kisses and touches, gave the house one more search to make sure the receipts weren’t there, then headed to Sterling National Bank. The noon time sun was high in the sky as they arrived at the bank. The town was busy as usual, women going from shop to shop, little children trailing behind them, or holding onto their skirts.

  There were three people in the bank, in line waiting to see the teller. A man with a wrinkled suit and stringy hair sat at a desk behind a railing. A plaque with “Mr. Traynor” sat on his desk. Stephen placed his hand on Calliope’s lower back and directed her toward the man’s desk.

  Traynor looked up, his eyes grew wide, and he shifted his glance from him to Calliope. “May I help you?” To Stephen’s way of thinking, he looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  Stephen nudged Calliope around the railing, pulled out a chair in front of the desk for her, then he sat in the one next to it. “I’m Stephen McCoy, Mr. Traynor and I believe you know Mrs. McCoy. I understand there is a mortgage due on my wife’s property?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Her father failed to make the last payment and according to the mortgage, if a payment is missed the entire amount becomes due.” His eyes failed to meet Stephen’s and he fiddled with the pen on his desk.

  Stephen leaned back and crossed one booted foot over his knee. “Is that right?”

  “I explained all of this to Mrs. McCoy two weeks ago. We wanted to speak to you, but you were not at home.”

  Stephen cupped his chin with his thumb and index finger as if in deep contemplation. “Yes, I see. She did mention something about that. And why would you need to explain it to me? Do you have reason to believe my wife has a problem with the English language?”

  Calliope tried to hide her giggle behind a cough.

  Traynor grew red in the face. “No. It’s just that a man should be taking care of business, not a woman. That’s probably why the last payment was missed.” He sniffed and raised his chin.

  Stephen stared at him until the man began to fidget in his chair.

  “Yet, Mrs. McCoy tells me you specifically mentioned the payment that had been missed was before Mr. Bender died.” He paused. “A man.”

  The banker waved his hand in dismissal. “No matter. The situation remains the same. Either Mrs. McCoy comes up with one hundred eighty-three dollars and eleven cents in the next few days or the title to the farm will revert to the bank.”

  Stephen leaned his forearms on the desk, causing Traynor to back up until he was plastered against his chair. “Then what happens?”

  “It becomes the bank’s property.”

  “I see. And you, or your staff, will tend to the farm? Milk the cow, feed the chickens, and so forth?”

  This time he was sure Calliope snorted.

  “No, of course not,” he snapped. “The farm will be sold. We—that is the bank—will keep the money.”

  “And if it sells for more than one hundred eighty-three dollars and eleven cents?”

  He was apparently flustering Traynor. The man fumbled with his pen, stretched his neck muscles, ran his finger along his collar. “There are fees and such that would eat up whatever is left.”

  “Fees. Yes of course.” Stephen paused for a moment. “And I assume you have a buyer?”

  The banker apparently had enough. He stood. “Mr. McCoy, there really is no need for this conversation. Unless your wife has the necessary money, I must ask you to leave the bank so I may continue with my work.”

  Stephen shrugged, then reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet and counted out one hundred eighty-three dollars and eleven cents in a neat pile in the middle of Traynor’s desk.

  The man stared at the money, his mouth agape.

  “Is there something wrong, Mr. Traynor?”

  ***

  A week after their trek into town, Stephen walked Topaz into the barn. He gave him a good brushing and a bag of oats. He took the steps two at a time to the house and sniffed appreciatively at the aroma coming from the kitchen. “Smells good.” He walked up behind Calliope and nuzzled her neck. “I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”

  “Not that I couldn’t cook, but I didn’t want to be thought of as only a cook.”

  “Oh, baby, I don’t think of you as only a cook. Believe me.” He leaned his head on her shoulder and looked into the pot. “What’s for supper?”

  “Chicken and dumplings.”

  “My favorite.”

  She turned with a dripping spoon in her hand and smirked. “Last night when I made beef stew you said that was your favorite.”

  His hands wrapped around her waist to slide down to her bottom that he pressed against him. “Actually, you’re my favorite. Suppose we skip supper.” His head descended and he took her mouth in a gentle, but insistent kiss.

  “I’m hungry.” She nibbled on his lip. “Don’t want to skip supper.”

  He ran his tongue over her lips. “Let’s eat fast.”

  The shared a searing kiss before Calliope pulled away. Stephen got out bowls and silverware and set the table. Calliope filled their plates and they both sat.

  Stephen held his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Oh, I have a bit of news for you.” He put the food in his mouth and swallowed. “I found out in town today why the bank and Melrose were so interested in buying your farm.”

  “Why?”

  “The railroad company is putting a line through Sterling and they want it to run right through your farm and put a fancy station here. If Melrose got a hold of it, he would have been paid ten times as much as its worth.”

  She laid her spoon down. “Really?”

  “That’s right. And Traynor was in on it with him. The bank would take the farm, Melrose would buy it for the price of the mortgage, and when he sold it to the railroad, they would split the money.”

  “Well I’ll be damned.”

  Stephen’s eyebrows rose. He’d never heard Calliope swear before. She shook her head and continued to eat. “I don’t want an old railroad going through my farm. They can just find somewhere else to build it.” She looked at him. “Right?”

  “Absolutely, honey. This is your farm.”

  They finished supper, quickly washed the dishes and retired to bed.

  In the weeks that followed, Stephen began to settle into farm life. He got a great deal of pleasure from watching the corn and wheat grow. Several barn animals had taken sick and he nursed them through the night. He put in long hours, but was never too tired to make love to his wife which he did on a regular basis.

  He felt comfortable in loving Calliope. She was not Jenny and would never betray him, and his heart was well protected. They lay in bed at night, talking about their future and how they could expand the farm. Maybe even, she said one night, think about adding a horse farm. That hope seemed out of reach, but he was happy and Calliope was happy. That meant more than any dream of his.

  Two months after their visit to the bank, Calliope took the wagon into town to buy what she called women’s things. He hoped she had a good time in town because she’d been a bit under the weather lately. Kind of jumpy and moody, also. Most likely she just needed some time away from the farm. She worked too hard, and he was going to insist before planting season next year that they hire more help. He didn’t want her working like a man. Of course, he couldn’t say it quite that way, though. She was still a bit sensitive on that part.

  He and John, and his son, David were getting ready to cut
the corn and wheat, which would take all of them, as well as a few hands from town, several days to complete. He hoped once it was all cut and sold he would be able to put a little bit away toward his horse farm. He often thought of his dream, but he was never sorry he’d given the money to Calliope.

  They’d come to an unspoken agreement. She made the major decisions that he deferred to, but he handled the everyday operations, including supervising, and hiring the farm hands. They talked over improvements and agreed on most things.

  She no longer referred to him as her employee, and all money from the farm went into a bank account with both their names on it. No pay envelope for him.

  Just about the time he was quitting for the day Calliope rode into the yard. Again he noted how pale and tired she looked. Her pallid skin emphasized the dark circles under her eyes. He strolled over to the wagon and lifted her off. “Did you have fun in town?”

  “I did.” She gave him her famous smirk and wrapped her arm around his waist as they walked to the house. “Oh, I have things in the wagon.” Before he could stop her, she hurried away and removed a basket, two bags and what looked like a thick envelope. Stephen joined her and took the things from her hand, but she held onto the envelope.

  The coolness of the house felt good after the heat of the end-of-summer day. “Do you want some tea, or lemonade?” Stephen checked the ice box and took out a pitcher of both.

  “Yes, a lemonade sounds wonderful.” She removed her bonnet and wiped her forehead with her hand.

  He looked at the envelope that lay in front of her on the table. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing. Well, actually it is something. Where’s my lemonade?”

  “Right here, darlin’.” He placed the glass in front of her and poured one for himself and sat across from her. “How was your trip into town?”

  “Wonderful.” She took a couple of gulps of her drink. “I, ah, took care of some business while I was in town.” She smiled and drank again.

  “You’re being very secretive today.” Then a frightening thought came to him—the dark circles, the tiredness, the pale skin. “You’re not sick or anything, are you?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m not sick.”

  He relaxed and gulped down half the glass of lemonade.

  Calliope sat up straight and picked up the envelope. “I have something in here for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.” She opened the envelope and pulled out a paper that she laid on the table in front of him.

  He picked it up. “What’s this?”

  “I sold the farm.”

  “You what!?” He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out like that, but he was shocked.

  “I sold the farm. To the railroad company.” Her eyes grew bright and she covered her mouth and giggled. “You’ll never guess how much they gave me.”

  “You sold your farm?” He stared at the paper, acknowledging that Mrs. Calliope McCoy sold Bender Farm to . . . “Why did you sell your farm? You love this place. You never wanted to leave it. Ever. You love it.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. “I love you more.”

  She withdrew a stack of bills from the envelope. “They paid me nine hundred dollars.”

  “Nine hundred dollars?”

  “Is that enough for your horse farm?”

  All the air left his lungs and he slumped in his chair. “You sold your farm so I could buy a horse farm?”

  Her eyes rimmed with tears as she nodded. “Yes.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and stood. Pulling her up, he wrapped her in his arms. “Are you sure this was the right thing to do?”

  “Yes. I’m very sure.” She leaned back. “You told me when you were with your brother there was land not far from him that you wanted. Hopefully it’s still available.”

  “Calliope, listen to me, honey. More than a horse farm, I want you to be happy.”

  She grinned. “Oh, I will be very happy. After all, it will be good for our baby to have cousins nearby.”

  His head jerked up. “Baby? Are you . . . did you . . . are we?

  “Yes, yes and yes.” She eyed him carefully. “Um, honey. I think you’d better sit down.”

  The End

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  Turn the page for an excerpt from Daniel’s Desire, the story of Stephen’s brother, by Callie Hutton.

  Bonus Excerpt

  Daniel’s Desire

  Chapter One

  March 1865

  Camp Morton, Indianapolis

  No sliver of moonlight, no campfires burning. Darkness covered Confederate soldier, Lieutenant Daniel McCoy, like a shroud. His heart pounded, blocking any sound to warn him of danger, of rapid footsteps in pursuit, or the click of metal before a bullet entered his body, a befitting end for a prison escapee. He stood like a statue to calm his racing heart and allow his eyes time to adjust. Not that it had been bright in the dingy hellhole he’d just left. The one where he’d spent the last month digging his way to freedom. A place where smallpox, cholera, and dysentery ran rampant, and men died screaming, or crying the name of a wife or sweetheart.

  Deep voices carried over the night air from where two guards met. One sentry struck a flint to light his cigar, revealing their dirty war-battled faces, as they spoke in low tones. As always, the twang of their accent grated on his nerves. He moved deeper into the shadows until the soldiers separated, each going a different direction.

  He took a deep breath, and eyed the stables.

  Too risky to steal a horse.

  After the enemies’ footsteps died away, Daniel’s long strides covered the open area to the safety of the trees. Lack of exercise over the past months had taken a toll on his body, and his lungs burned from the short sprint. He eased behind a large oak, watching, waiting for an alarm to sound.

  Silence.

  His index finger and thumb rubbed the cool metal of the heavy ring tucked in his pocket. He’d stolen it back from the drunken Union solider while he’d slept. Once again, the heirloom rested where it belonged. With him—a McCoy.

  Sweat beaded his forehead, and he took gulps of the damp night air before bending to empty his stomach of the last putrid meal they’d fed him. Truth be told, if it hadn’t been for the local residents of Indianapolis and their compassion toward the Confederate prisoners, providing the necessary food, clothing, and nursing to keep most of the prisoners alive, they’d probably all be dead.

  The sentries made another pass, and still no shouts came from within the prison walls. Despite the cold, Lieutenant McCoy wiped sweat from his forehead, then picked his way through the forest surrounding the Union camp. The sound of his panting echoed off the trees as he picked up the pace and stumbled over small roots and animal holes in the dark. He raced to the bank of the White River, waded into the mud and silt, and dove into the icy water. With strong strokes, he swam from the cursed prison.

  After nine long months in hell, he breathed free air.

  ***

  Johnson County, Indiana

  “Mama, can I get you some tea?”

  Rosemarie Wilson eased heavy eyelids open and attempted to smile with dry, cracked lips at her eight-year-old son, Chandler. The frown on his pale face tore at her heart.

  “No thank you. Just look after your sister and brother.” She shifted on the bed, struggling to relieve the throbbing pain in her leg. Black dots danced before her eyes at the movement, and her stiff fingers grabbed the worn patchwork quilt to control the dizziness and nausea. She raised her head from the pillow and moved the blanket from her leg. The smell from the festering cut on her right calf, where the axe had sliced, scared her. She’d cleaned it after the accident as best she could, but the jerky, uneven stitches she’d put in herself hadn’t helped the healing.

  At least the gash
wasn’t deep. If her leg had been only inches closer to the wood when the axe slipped, she might have cut herself right to the bone.

  Tears slid down her cheeks as life ebbed from her weary body. She’d used so much of her strength trying to keep the farm going after a band of Confederate soldiers had swooped down a few months ago and taken just about everything they’d owned. Shortly after, she’d laid her husband of nine years to rest in the little plot under the elm tree behind the house. Dead from a bullet wound after one of the soldiers had shot him.

  Damn this war, and everything it’s taken from my family!

  Another tear slipped from her eye and landed on the thin nightgown covering her shoulder. Chandler’s voice drifted in through the bedroom door, as he spoke to his younger brother and sister in the kitchen. Five-year-old Amelia balked at having leftover oatmeal for lunch. Several more tears joined the first one, and Rosemarie’s heart throbbed so hard it hurt. She closed her eyes against the pain and drifted into the welcoming oblivion of sleep.

  Rays from bright sunshine seeped below the wooden shutters on the window, bathing her face, forcing her to turn her head. Her body burned with heat.

  If I could just have a drink of water.

  She listened for a minute, terrified at the silence that greeted her. Where were her children? “Chandler?” Her voice rasped.

  No answer. She raised herself up on one elbow and called louder. Still no answer. Tears of pain and frustration gathered in her eyes.

  Dear God, please help me.

  Did God even listen to her anymore? She’d prayed all her life, always had faith. Even when her father sold her into marriage, she knelt and prayed for Hans to be a good man. Cold and stern, and not the man she would have chosen for herself, her husband had nevertheless provided well for her and their children. The three beautiful children the good Lord had blessed her with.

  Now the only parent they had left lay dying.

  ***

  Daniel spied the small farmhouse from half a mile away. The sun setting behind the clapboard structure bathed it in an ethereal glow. Three children sat on the front porch, huddled together in the cold. The biggest one rose and stared in his direction. Then the child hurried into the house, leaving the two smaller ones outside.