by Gina Welborn
Nico bumped his arm against hers. “Why are you smiling?”
“Zis could be my new home.”
His mouth indented in one corner. “Could be.” He patted her arm. “Thanks for inviting me to come with you to Denver. This is a new opportunity for both of us.”
Zoe nodded, yet felt as if his words held an additional meaning. What could it be? He had offered to join her, had he not? Or had she done the inviting? She could not recall.
What mattered was that he had been gracious about leaving her in the ladies’ Pullman car while he happily traveled in third class. He even found them a lovely hotel next to the cable line. He had secured directions to Mrs. Archer’s home. Even though Zoe disliked his insistence at the depot and to every conductor on the journey that they were siblings, Nico had been a true friend.
“Ah, here we are,” Mrs. Archer said cheerfully, sailing into the room with a thick folder in hand, her lime-green taffeta skirt rustling. “I apologize for having you wait. You are the first prospect to arrive in person.” She sat in a chair opposite Zoe and Nico. “This isn’t how I usually do this. Everyone else has sent a letter, per the dictates of the advertisement . . . but since you are such a beautiful young woman, mannered and well spoken, I will adjust.” Her brown-eyed gaze lowered to the coffee table’s bare surface, her smile dying and brow furrowing. “Antonia didn’t bring refreshments?”
Zoe exchanged a glance with Nico.
He shrugged.
She looked at Mrs. Archer. “No one has seen to us.”
Mrs. Archer glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, farthest away from the crackling fire in the hearth. “She may have left already to visit Luanne, so I shan’t complain about her absentmindedness. In the last nine months, Luanne has taught my daughter more about behaving as a lady should than I have been able to accomplish in twenty-four years. Antonia even joined the Ladies’ Aid Society at church. I know she only did so because Luanne had. I choose to see this as Antonia finally moving past her grief over her father’s unexpected passing. He died eighteen months ago.”
Zoe smiled to be polite.
Mrs. Archer rested the file on her lap. “Mrs. Luanne Bennett is a few years older than Mr. Gunderson—”
Mr. Gunderson?
“—but their families are close,” Mrs. Archer said, and then took a breath. “Luanne highly endorsed him. If you wish to interview her, I know she will agree. She confirmed everything in his letters, as well as those letters from his three references—a judge, a reverend, and a prominent widow. My standard practice when an unfamiliar man secures my services is to seek out additional references. My clients, except Mr. Gunderson, live here in Denver.”
Clients? Had Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane been this detailed prior to hiring Papa? Zoe could not remember. Unsure if Mrs. Archer expected a response, Zoe continued to smile
And Mrs. Archer continued to talk. “I subject them to intense interviews to ensure their motivations are sincere. Jakob Gunderson is”—she paused and gazed heavenward for a long moment—“let’s say he is less affluent than my regular clients, not that he is poor by any stretch of the word. His family owns an exclusive resale shop in Helena and are working toward opening a second store, which Mr. Gunderson will manage. Of course, I don’t know why a man of his ilk isn’t already married.” She sighed.
Zoe took a breath, trying to make sense of the woman’s treatise on her client Mr. Jakob Gunderson. Could be he was the one who wished to hire a chef. “Madame, where is Helena?”
“In the Montana Territory,” Mrs. Archer answered.
Zoe looked to Nico.
“The state above Colorado is Wyoming,” he said with devastating calm, “and Montana Territory is far north of here. You don’t want to go.”
“I see.” Upon the first opportunity, Zoe was going to buy a map of America.
Mrs. Archer’s confused gaze shifted from Nico to Zoe. “My dear Miss de Fleur, Montana sounds farther away than it is. Helena is quite civilized. Over ten thousand people live there.” Mrs. Archer opened the file. “Let me find you Jakob Gunderson’s photograph. Once you see it and read his letters, you will understand my willingness to help him find a bride.”
“A bride?” Zoe interjected. “I wish to apply for ze chef’s position. Ze one posted in ze New York Times. Zat is you, yes?”
Mrs. Archer blinked a few times. Her gaze then shifted to Nico.
Zoe turned on the settee to face Nico, who sat there with a strange, smug grin. “Is zere something you failed to tell me?”
“I lied, Zo, about the newspaper ad. It wasn’t for a chef. It was for”—he shrugged—“a mail-order bride. Tell Mrs. Archer you aren’t interested and we can leave.”
Men ordered brides to be delivered by the mail? She had never heard of such a thing.
Zoe opened her reticule. She withdrew the folded advertisement she had clipped out of the newspaper, then offered it to Mrs. Archer. “Will you read zis to me?”
Mrs. Archer took it from her. “‘WANTED: Correspondence with a refined lady aged eighteen to twenty-three with a view to matrimony. The Montana Territory gentleman, aged twenty-two, conducts business in the city, enjoys an active routine, including the theater and fine dining, and faithful church attendance. Send inquiries and references to the Archer Matrimonial Co., Denver, Colorado.’”
Zoe looked at Mrs. Archer in confusion. “Zere is no ‘finest kitchen west of ze Mississippi?’”
She shook her head.
“No chef wanted?”
She shook her head again. “Miss de Fleur, I would be remiss not to ask if you can read English?”
Zoe opened her mouth to confess her limitation.
“I made it up,” Nico blurted out. “It was all I could think of to convince you to leave New York. Besides, you didn’t want to stay there and open a restaurant anyway.”
Zoe stared at him in horror. “I fail to understand why you would lie about such a zing.”
“I had to.” A shadow fell across his features, literally from a cloud, perhaps, blocking the sun, and yet he looked weary and repentant. “Grand Central Station refused to sell me a ticket. Said children had to travel with an adult. I was desperate, Zo. Life will be so much easier for me if you keep pretending to be my sister. Please, please believe me when I say I did this for your own good.”
“And yours,” Mrs. Archer murmured.
He raised his chin. “Zo, you said it yourself—carpe diem. You have to admit we’ve had fun. We’re a good team.”
Zoe moistened her bottom lip. What fun it had been, meeting Nico at Grand Central Station, and then starting west in hope of a grand future. It had been the first time she had felt eager expectation since Papa’s death.
Carpe diem.
She had seized the day and loved every minute of it.
Her sketchbook contained drawings of the ladies who had traveled all or part of the trip to Denver, of a ferry boat on the Mississippi, and of bison in Kansas. She had seen the most glorious sunsets and sunrises over the plains. The farther they traveled from New York, the greater space between towns and homes and any sign of civilization amid the rolling hills and expansive grasslands. And the Rocky Mountains—
Oh, to explore them as she and Papa had explored the Alps and Pyrenees and Vosges.
After all the serenity she had seen—felt while traveling west—she refused to return to New York. Maybe this was how God was answering her prayers. Ever since Papa died, she had been alone. Until this trip. It would be nice to have a family of her own where Nico could live as her brother.
She wanted a husband. And children. And a pet dog . . . and a bird that talked.
But to marry a man who ordered a bride like one ordered a dress from a catalogue? To marry a stranger?
She waited for her lungs to tighten, for her pulse to race, for the panic to strike her as it had at the Crane House when she thought of going to the bank to secure a loan.
She felt no panic. She felt—
Intrigued.
“I wish to see Mr. Gunderson’s photograph.”
Mrs. Archer placed the advertisement in the file, then withdrew a photograph. She gave it to Zoe, who immediately sighed with pleasure. With his light hair and strong jaw, Mr. Gunderson was a handsome man. Had he or his parents emigrated from Scandinavia?
“Zis man is impressive.”
“Indeed he is,” Mrs. Archer put in.
Nico bumped against her shoulder. “He doesn’t look that impressive to me.”
“His eyes are happy,” Zoe noted. Just like Papa’s had been.
Mrs. Archer smiled. “Interesting description, and fitting. Jakob Gunderson’s references all described him as a happy man. Would you like me to read his letters?”
Zoe hesitated, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. She was unable to correspond with him without dictating her letter to someone. “Is writing to him my only option?”
Nico stared gap-mouthed at her. “I can’t believe you’re considering this.”
Zoe ignored him.
Mrs. Archer did as well. “Written correspondence is usually the first stage in courtship. Seeing that you appear refined, intelligent, and have an interest in cooking, I believe we can move on to the second stage whereby the potential bride, this would be you, moves to the client’s hometown, where my client secures reputable boarding for sixty days, during which the two of you engage in a proper courtship. I would need to telegram Mr. Gunderson first to see if this change is acceptable to him.”
This seemed reasonable.
“What if your client is a bad egg?” Nico asked.
“That, young man, is a fair question.” Mrs. Archer looked at the grandfather clock, then at Zoe. “If at any time, the potential bride, whom I shall refer to as you, feels pressured or threatened or realizes my client has not been forthright, then you may return to Denver using the ticket I will give you. I will then help you secure reputable employment. However, do know I have several other clients, men of great means, with whom you would be suitable. One of whom speaks French.”
Nico pressed his lips into a peevish expression. “This all sounds fishy.”
Zoe nipped at her bottom lip. Maybe she should be more wary, like Nico.
Mrs. Archer laid Mr. Gunderson’s file on the coffee table between them. “I am an honest businesswoman. If necessary, I can supply references, including ones from the city marshal and the regional judge.”
“I’d like to read them,” Nico answered, “if we were taking your offer seriously. But we aren’t.” He stood. “Come on, Zo. I saw several chef openings in the newspaper.”
Zoe stayed seated.
“I’m serious.” Nico’s voice rose. “If you do this, I won’t help you! There’s no future for us in Montana.”
Zoe studied Mrs. Archer. Nothing about the older woman seemed dishonest. But then neither had Zoe suspected Nico had been anything but honest. He lied repeatedly and too easily. Although, she never would have left New York were it not for Nico. This was a new opportunity for both of them.
Jakob Gunderson might become a wonderful husband.
She should give him a chance. If his courtship failed, she could return to Denver. She had options. Best of all, this was her choice. Not Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s. Not Nico’s. Hers. To seize what she truly wanted—a husband, a home, a family for her to love, feed, and cherish.
She studied the photograph of Jakob Gunderson and his happy eyes. “Mrs. Archer, I would like zis man to court me.”
Meet the Authors
EA Creative Photography
GINA WELBORN worked in news radio until she fell in love with writing romance novels. She’s the author of ten inspirational romances, including the 2014 Selah finalist “Mercy Mild” in ECPA-bestselling Mistletoe Memories. She serves on the ACFW Foundation Board by helping raise funds for scholarships. Gina lives with her pastor husband, three of their five children, several rabbits and guinea pigs, and a dog that doesn’t realize rabbits and pigs are edible. Visit her online at GinaWelborn.com.
BECCA WHITHAM Author, paper crafter, and Army wife, Becca currently resides in Virginia with her husband of over thirty years and twelve-foot-long craft cabinet she thinks should count as a dependent. So far, neither the army nor the IRS are convinced. In between moves from one part of the country to the other, she writes stories combining faith and fiction that touch the heart. You can find her online at www.beccawhitham.com
