To Catch a Bride

by Gina Welborn

  David closed his eyes to try and contain his tears. A hand on his shoulder broke his tenuous control; he wept with pure joy. They had decided to honor Gunder’s family since he was the last son in his family line. To be blessed with a wife, twin boys, and now to have his name be a part of theirs was an unlooked-for blessing.

  The God of miracles had granted him the deepest desire of his heart, and David would never cease singing His praise.

  “Marilyn is fine.” Ellen’s voice held a note of questioning in it, as though she wasn’t sure why David was crying. “She’d like to see you now.”

  He nodded and breathed in and out several times to regain a measure of composure. When he was ready, he opened his eyes, took Isaak in his arms again, and then collected Jakob before following Ellen back into the bedroom.

  Doc Tolbert was still at the end of the bed. “. . . not wise to have a husband in here when—” His words died when David stepped into the room.

  “Why ever not?” Marilyn looked a little pale and sweat clung to her skin, but otherwise she looked fine. “You’re a man, and you didn’t run screaming from the room.” She looked at David. “You aren’t going to faint on me, are you?”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”

  “Good, because we need to get that marriage license signed.”

  David leaned down and rested the babies in her arms. “I don’t think Jonas is up for coming in here, though, so give me a moment.” He put his finger under her chin to lift her face. “I believe, however, I am supposed to kiss my bride first.”

  It was a chaste kiss, not at all satisfying, but he didn’t want to hurt her or the babies.

  “How very disappointing,” she whispered so only he could hear. “I’ll expect better from you later, husband.”

  David chuckled. Some might think she was too honest and forthright with her opinions, but he loved her for them. “I shall endeavor to fulfill your expectations, wife.”

  The Kitchen Marriage

  Book 2 in the Montana Brides Series

  In a booming frontier town, a heavenly match may be in store for mail-order brides seeking a fresh start . . . women of strength and spirit who embrace the challenges of life and love in the wild Montana Territory.

  Coming Soon

  Enjoy the following excerpt from The Kitchen Marriage. . . .

  Chapter 1

  Manhattan Island, New York

  Wednesday, March 1, 1888, 11:23 a.m.

  Zoe de Fleur trailed her gloved fingers along the marble wall surrounding the Crane House. She strolled with no need to hurry. In three days, she had to leave the only home she had known since immigrating with Papa to America. But she was also free of the incessant competition between Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane and her sister, the Mrs. Marsden (designation hers), to prove which one of them hosted the best dinner parties. Why did it matter?

  A party should never be a means to affirm status in society or lead siblings into a verbal battle.

  A party should be about spending time with loved ones.

  Into Zoe’s mind popped the memory of Papa sitting at a table with her and enjoying the tea and pastries she had prepared. Vision blurring, she stopped. Tears slid down her cheeks. She sniffed and wiped them away in time to see a rock skipped across the sidewalk. It landed exactly where her next step should be. She looked up.

  Ahead on the corner was Nico, waving and grinning broadly.

  Zoe trudged forward.

  He had not been on the corner when she left the mansion to walk to Central Park. He seemed more interested in her than in waving papers at the carriages, hackneys, or wagons moving as slowly down the street as she was.

  “How was the dinner party?” he called out.

  As she neared Nico, she eyed the space between him and the marble wall. She could easily slide past him and turn down the alley, but before she reached the servants’ entrance, he would have caught up to her. Such actions of hers would only incite his curiosity. As much as she wished to avoid him—avoid everyone—the wisest thing would be to behave as usual.

  Which was why she stopped at the corner and said, “Ze dinner was a success.”

  “I knew it would be.” He tipped his cap up and frowned. “You don’t look well. I’ve never seen your face so blotchy. You sick?”

  “Ze night was long, and my sleep fitful.” Of the five hours she laid in bed, she may have slept an hour. She glanced inside his cart. Four papers comprised what was left of his stack.

  “You want a paper?” he asked.

  Zoe hesitated. If she had a newspaper, she could ask Mrs. Horton to help her find a boarding house or an apartment in the classifieds.

  She nodded. “Wait here. I will go find a nickel.”

  He gave her a sheepish look. “Uh, you wouldn’t have any leftover dinner, would you?”

  “Zere is some.” She tried to smile, but her heart ached too much to put on a mask of false cheer. “Why do you ask?”

  “How about a trade?” He looked hopeful. “A paper for lunch.”

  On the tip of her tongue was When did you eat last? She suspected his last meal had been the one she served him yesterday.

  Instead she said, “Come with me.”

  She turned down the alley. Once they reached the basement stairs, Nico stored his cart beside the Crane House’s servants’ entrance. He grabbed a paper, then opened the door. She led him down the hallway to the kitchen. After their coats and hats were hung on the wall pegs, she pulled on her apron and wrapped the kerchief around her head. Mrs. Horton, whom she expected to see in the kitchen when she returned from her walk, was nowhere to be seen. The dear woman must be managing the housecleaning . . . or meeting with Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane. A new household cook would need to be hired. If Mrs. Horton failed to find one, then she would be responsible for the cooking until one was employed.

  Which did not have to be. Zoe could stay and cook.

  Tears blurred her vision.

  Blinking them away, Zoe pointed to the table in the far corner of the kitchen. “Sit.”

  Once Nico obeyed, she focused on work. She warmed the oven, collected a pot of stew from the icebox to feed her fellow servants, set it on the cookstove for it to reheat, grabbed a dinner plate, and then descended to the cellar to study the contents. Last night’s banquet remains would be enough for Nico. She filled his plate with salted petit fours and a few dry and glazed ones, leaving what was on the platter for the rest of the staff to enjoy with their stew.

  She eyed the shelves. The cellar needed restocking after last night’s dinner. She should go after her meeting at the bank and—

  Her chest tightened, pulse raced, heart pounded, and she suddenly felt moisture on her forehead. The ceiling had no leak. Could it be. . . ? She touched her face. Why was she perspiring? She shivered. The cellar was nippy, even more so in the winter. It was so cold down here that fine hairs on her arm verily stood tall. Verily? A panicked bubble of laughter slipped across her lips. Why did she laugh? She had nothing to laugh about. And yet another panicked bubble of laughter slipped out.

  Unsure of what was happening to her, she grabbed a half-filled bottle of milk, pulled the string to turn off the light, and then hurried up the steps to the kitchen. She closed the cellar door. Leaning against it, she drew in a deep, calming breath. The strange panic that had washed over her began to lift.

  “You all right?” Nico asked.

  Zoe nodded. She walked to the table. “Please say grace,” she said, setting the heaping plate of food and the milk bottle in front of him. She waited until he bowed his head before she closed her eyes.

  “Come, Lord Jesus, be our Guest, and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.”

  “Amen,” she echoed. Leaving him to eat, she stepped to the worktable in the center of the kitchen. She lifted the fine cloth covering the rolls that she’d prepared before leaving for her walk. Perfect. She slid them into the oven to bake.

  After making herself a cup of café au lait, she sat acr
oss from Nico.

  He frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  She shook her head. Truth was, she had no appetite.

  Where was Mrs. Horton?

  Zoe glanced at the kitchen door, then at the watch pinned to her apron bodice. The time for the housekeeper to prepare Mr. Gilfoyle’s breakfast tray had passed. Zoe had little time to spare to wait around to help her. In an hour and four minutes, she must leave for the bank. She must change clothes. She must—

  Her lungs tightened, restricting air, and her heart pounded like horses racing down a track. What was this happening to her again? It must be from her worry. If Mr. Soutter changed his mind about the loan, where would that leave her? With not enough money to open a restaurant.

  Hearing a noise from the hallway, Zoe glanced again to the kitchen door. She waited.

  It stayed closed.

  “You worried about someone finding me here?” Nico asked.

  “No. Everyone knows I feed you from time to time.”

  “Then why do you keep looking at the door?”

  “Mrs. Horton should be arriving soon with Mr. Gilfoyle’s meal request.”

  “Ah, the Nephew.” Nico returned his attention to his food. “I’ve seen him come and go with that odd dog of his.”

  Zoe lifted the teacup to her lips. As she sipped the warm café au lait, the kitchen door was flung open.

  “Miss Difflers, I—”

  She froze.

  Manchester Gilfoyle IV, in a three-piece gray suit, stepped into her kitchen, clenching his black derby in one hand and the leash of his three-legged dog in the other… and looking decidedly annoyed. The door closed. His dog lay down and released a low-pitched “awrrr-oomph.”

  Mr. Gilfoyle’s mouth pressed together in an angry line. “You have a guest,” he said, glaring at Zoe.

  “Nico sells papers on ze corner. Your aunt encourages her staff to show kindness to all.” She looked from Mr. Gilfoyle to Nico, then back to him. According to the staff, Mr. Gilfoyle called all servants you there. He had called her Miss Difflers this time. Better than when he called her Miss de Flowers. She set her teacup on its saucer. “Is zere something you need?”

  He quirked a brow. “My aunt told me what transpired. I’ve heard the servants laud your kindness, so I am surprised you would attempt to sabotage such a great chef.”

  The sabotaging had been Chef Henri’s. She would never!

  Mr. Gilfoyle tapped his derby against his thigh. “Before you leave my aunt’s employment on Saturday, you will prepare me a five-course meal which will include poulet à la crème and mille-feuille.”

  “Why?” Nico put in. “She doesn’t work for you.”

  Mr. Gilfoyle’s blue-eyed gaze narrowed upon Nico, and Zoe had the distinct impression he was weighing and measuring the boy and his impertinent comment.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Nico’s chin lifted. “I’m Miss de Fleur’s friend. Close friend. Almost a brother.”

  His answer was enough—or possibly more—than Mr. Gilfoyle sincerely wished to know, because Mr. Gilfoyle turned his annoyed attention to Zoe. “Inform Mrs. Wharton to deliver the food at two-fifteen Saturday afternoon. Not a minute later.”

  “You mean Mrs. Hor—”

  “Shh.” Zoe hushed Nico before he impolitely corrected his—their—superior. She considered Mr. Gilfoyle but then paused, taking time to choose her words. “It has been an honor to cook for you.”

  He stared at her blankly before blinking and saying, “Of course.” After a miniscule tug on the leash, his dog rolled onto its feet. The pair left the kitchen.

  “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Nico said. “The man is a bad egg.”

  Zoe ignored the insult.

  Nico gulped the last of the milk. He set the bottle on the table. “I take it Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane sacked you because of Chef On-Ree?”

  Zoe nodded then pulled the newspaper in front of her.

  “I don’t mean no offense,” Nico said in a most caring tone, “but can you read any of that?”

  “New York Times. March 1, 1888.” She pointed at a paragraph. “Zis, no.”

  “You speak pretty decent.”

  “I understand English when I hear it, most of ze time, but words written—” She shrugged. “English has too many conundrums, too many exceptions, too many inconsistencies with pronunciations. Why is trough pronounced troff, rough pronounced ruff, bough pronounced bow to rhyme with cow, and through pronounced throo? All too confusing.”

  “Like reading Shakespeare.”

  “I have never read his work,” Zoe admitted. “Before leaving France for America, Papa took me to a performance of Romeo and Juliet. Adulation for the play confounds me. It was a pleasant story with an expected ending.”

  Nico’s eyes widened. “You expected that ending?”

  She nodded. “A romance always ends with a happily-ever-after.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re strange.” Nico grabbed the paper. “So what are you looking for?”

  “I need work and zen a place to live.”

  His brow furrowed as he studied her. “Why stay in the city? If I were you, I would start over somewhere new where people appreciated my cooking. I’d also want to cook for someone who doesn’t believe the worst of me when he hears criticism like the Nephew did.”

  Zoe opened her mouth, but the back of her throat tightened and closed, hindering her from speaking. Leave the city? Start over somewhere new?

  At that thought, the tightness in her throat abated.

  If she found employment in a private residence as a household cook, she would oversee the kitchen her way. She could make a home there. Perhaps she would marry the butler or gardener. They could live in a little cottage beside the grand house and start a family. Everything could be perfect again.

  If she started over somewhere new.

  If.

  When.

  Needing a moment to ponder this new possibility, she sipped her lukewarm café au lait. She liked to try new things. She liked to experience new things. She had loved the anticipation she felt each time she and Papa moved from one castle in France to another. When Papa suggested they move to America, she happily agreed to another exciting adventure . . . because they were together. She now had no one to journey to the unknown with. No one.

  Could she do this on her own?

  If Papa were here, he would say she should never leave the future to chance, and instead do all she could do today to make her future better. That was how he had lived.

  “Carpe diem,” she whispered.

  “Here’s something!” Nico slapped the folded newspaper on the table, then turned it to face her. He pointed at an eight-line advertisement. “‘Finest kitchen west of the Mississippi seeks trained chef. Only women need apply.’”

  Zoe studied the words. The only word she recognized was kitchen. The Mississippi river, she thought, divided the country in half, but she was unsure. That it was not next to New York she knew with confidence.

  She looked at Nico. “Where is zis kitchen located?”

  “Denver, Colorado.”

  “Colorado is in the middle of the United States, yes?” Not too far to travel.

  He nodded. “Barely over the Mississippi. I heard Denver is called the New York of the West. It’s an exciting town, Miss de Fleur. Here in New York, you are one of dozens of French chefs. Denver—well, I doubt they have more than one. If that. Move there and you will reach stardom.”

  “Stardom?”

  “You’d be a celebrity.”

  “Ah.” Zoe licked her bottom lip as she considered being a cook in Denver. “Is zis kitchen in a hotel?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “I have never worked in a restaurant, but I know they are loud and busy.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I fear I will abhor it.”

  Nico turned the paper and read the advertisement. His brow furrowed. “I’m pretty sure this is a private residence. It also says chefs
will be required to demonstrate their skills. That shouldn’t be a problem. You’re the best chef in all of New York.” His lips parted, and he hesitated a moment before saying, “I could go with you, if you’d like. Help read things.”

  Having him along would be convenient.

  Zoe beheld the spacious kitchen and sighed. This was no longer her home. If she left now for Denver, Colorado, she could miss the meeting at the bank. She would spare herself the uncomfortableness of explaining to Mr. Soutter why she did not wish to take out a loan. If she left now, she could avoid Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane and her vocal disappointment that Zoe had refused a loan. If she left now, she would not have to cook a meal for a man who was too full of himself to learn another person’s name.

  She wanted to create delicious food for people who appreciated her skills.

  And she could.

  In Denver.

  She smiled at Nico. “We shall go west.”

  * * *

  Capitol Hill—Denver, Colorado

  Tuesday, March 6

  Zoe rested her gloved hands atop the blue-beaded reticule in the lap of her blue-striped dress as she waited for Mrs. Archer to return to the parlor. The woman’s two-story, wood-framed home paled in size to the Crane House, but the ornate carved mantel and the wall paneling looked to be made of mahogany, Zoe’s favorite wood. Sunshine streamed through the windows framed with yellow silk curtains. The room smelled of roses. Likely from the four arrangements about the room.

  She breathed deep.

  Her future home would have fresh flowers. Brought home by her husband.

  She loved the house’s doll-house-style architecture. She loved the porch that wrapped around the front and side. She loved that the house had been painted the same shade of yellow as the parlor curtains, while the spindles and fish-scale shingles under the eaves were a vivid peacock blue. Most of all, she loved how the parquet de Versailles in the hallway flowed beautifully into the parlor. Were she to ever have a home, she would choose warm wooden floors over cold marble flooring like in the Crane House, which was exquisite to look at yet required constant washings.