by Jo Noelle
The minutes passed while new passengers reloaded. Cargo boxes and animals were pushed into boxcars, and still Vivian stood beside the station gate on the boardwalk. Who am I even looking for? She didn't have a description. Surely he would be looking for her. She worried what might happen if he couldn't read, either, and didn't know what she looked like. Would the telegram have even told him that? Vivian pulled her blanket tightly around her shoulders. People eyed her, but no one approached.
A half hour passed, or a little more, and the last call for train passengers was sounded. Fear pressed against her. She debated whether or not she should get on. Suppose it was the next stop and not this one. Suppose. Suppose. Vivian glanced around. She sniffed back tears threatening to fall. This town will do. She thought back to the man who had told her to be patient and wait. That calmed her all over again. She’d wait.
Vivian stood on the boardwalk, the smoke and soot blowing past her from the engine lurching forward. Finally, she swiped her hand across her eyes and approached the station door as the train departed. How would she find—was it Len? Leo? They were in such a rush to leave New York, she hadn’t paid attention as she should have, and now a little over a week later, all the details were foggy. The Bride Train manager had mentioned that her groom was a cattle rancher. She remembered that much.
She was alone. Not a soul walked to or from the station. With the quilt around her shoulders, she sat on the bench outside the station door. Before another minute had lapsed, a woman with gray hair exited the station and crossed over to where Vivian sat, stopping in front of her.
“Excuse me.” The woman gave her a warm smile. When Vivian hesitated, the woman sounded genuinely concerned. “May I help you?”
Vivian stood. “I’m waiting for…someone.” Her voice sounded like a question. She peered through the glass window but couldn’t see more than a few inches into the dark. “Is there anyone else inside?” She couldn’t keep the worry from her voice.
“Only the depot agent,” she answered.
Vivian knew the older woman noticed her red eyes.
“Are you all right?” The woman asked.
Wherever the older woman had intended to go, it must not have been urgent because she sat down with Vivian on the bench.
She had no idea what to do. She became more and more uncomfortable as the many train passengers disappeared from the station. If he never comes, where will I stay? She had a little money but was without friends or family in the town where she had no contacts and no way to support herself.
“You look like you might need some help. Tell me what happened.”
“Oh, well, I’m fine. I mean, I will be.” The woman tipped her head, encouraging Vivian to continue. Her anxiety hitched. Tears betrayed the courage she was trying to hold onto. “No, not really.” A sob gasped out, and she took several deep breaths. “You see, I was supposed to meet my husband here. Now, I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re married?” The woman’s kind smile widened.
“No, but I expect to be soon. I was sent here by the Bride’s Train Matrimonial Service.” Vivian felt her fortitude waning, her voice barely whisper. “I’ve never met my intended, but he’s a cattle rancher, and he contacted them for a bride to come to Colorado. I think his name is Lorne?” Maybe. “Or Leon?”
The older woman’s eyes sparkled at the news, and she leaned closer. Vivian’s voice wavered as she continued. “Perhaps he didn’t get a message about my arrival, or he’s had some trouble that’s delaying him.” Or I’m in the wrong place, she added silently.
“He’s a cattle rancher? Might his name be Lon?” the woman asked, but before Vivian could answer, the woman caught her hands and pulled her to a stand. Then she wrapped Vivian in a fierce hug. “That’s my son Lon Morgan, but everyone calls him Waylon now. Lon was my endearment for the feisty towheaded boy growing up.” The woman lifted Vivian’s hands out to the side. “He said he posted a position for a wife. I had my doubts, but here you are. Welcome.”
“Is he here too?” Vivian asked, leaning to look behind the woman.
“No. He’s taking care of some business out at the ranch. We’re having a party tonight, and won’t he be surprised to see you there!” The woman hugged her again. “We have so much to do. We’d best get on home now.” The woman hauled her up. “I’m Mrs. Morgan, but you’ll call me Seffi. What’s your name, dear?”
Was this what it was like to have a mother? She hadn’t often been hugged, but she found she liked it—needed it. “Vivian Leete.” Her mood suddenly seemed buoyant, and relief filled her.
“Soon you’ll be Vivian Morgan.” There was nearly a giggle in the woman’s words, and it relieved Vivian to know that her arrival was welcome. Seffi gave just a little tug, and the women walked arm in arm toward the livery.
Chapter 2
Waylon Morgan
Topaz, Colorado, 1891
Waylon Morgan didn’t know if he could do it. He sat on a makeshift bench at the town dance in the barn behind his house. This was the ten-year celebration of the founding of Topaz, Colorado where his family were prominent residents. He was surprised that his mother wasn’t back from town yet. He’d sent a rider out to make sure there wasn’t trouble. He wished he could have gone and avoided these festivities, but at least someone should represent the family throwing the party.
People from everywhere between Creede to the west and South Fork to the east had traveled for what might be the last fair-weather outing of the year before the winter snows kept them all closer to home. He knew he was expected to dance with every woman, but so far he hadn’t talked himself into it.
It had been years, more years than he cared to count, that he’d separated himself from any idea of matrimony though his mother reminded him of his duty to have a family. They had the conversation so frequently—just two days ago in fact—that he had it memorized.
“This is a family ranch, and it needs a family.” His mother always started with a sensible reason.
“It has one, Ma. You and me and my two brothers.”
“No, it has one person who’s had her family and a few other lazy or foolish ones who are supposed to—but haven’t—and one who’s dragging his boots. You’re of age. You should set the example for your brothers.”
“You know what it takes to run a ranch this size. I’m busy. I’ll take care of that when the right woman comes along.” Waylon felt as if he’d just lied to his mama. Deep within him, he knew he’d never marry. His heart had broken once when his father died, then completely shattered due to a grievous, unpardonable sin. No, he’d never ask a woman to tie herself to a man like him.
“Will you deny me grandchildren?” That’s usually where the argument ended, but this last time, she’d tried a little more guilt. “Will you let me die without looking into their sweet, innocent faces? Deny me the chance to tell them the story of my life from my own lips? I want them to know me, too. That takes years of growing up before they’ll understand.”
Waylon stood, facing her. A confession had pressed behind his teeth. He should have told her. It would hurt her less to know now that there would be no wife and no children for him. It was kinder than torturing her by letting her believe that someday he would marry.
His mother’s voice softened. “You’ll forget your own pain by sharing your life with a partner who cares for you and supports you. That kind of love will heal your heart. She’ll lay her soft cheek against yours, and you’ll likely forget all your troubles and even your own name.” Her hand had pressed against Waylon’s arm. He’d noticed how thin the skin was. She was getting older. “Please. Can you open your heart to think it might happen for you?” she had pleaded.
Waylon’s chest burned, knowing that his choice during that cattle drive three years ago had changed him. Before that, he’d always believed that he would marry and raise his children right on this ranch.
“Don’t worry yet, Ma. I might marry before too long, or maybe one of my brothers will. They�
�re both of age.”
“You aren’t going to point me toward them—I’m dealing with you right now. You’re the oldest and should set the example. I’ll talk to them later. Now, about your wife.” Ma had folded her arms and stared him down.
“I’ve been thinking about ordering up a bride—maybe a widow who needs a new start.” Her eyes looked toward him with such hope that he had quickly added, “I’ve only been thinking about it.”
His mother had kissed his cheek. Before she left, she said, “You’ve got a big heart, Lon. Somewhere in there is a little corner where you’ll find pure love for a wife.”
“I’ll think on it, Ma. I will, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.” He had finished the conversation without committing to marriage and without crushing her hopes.
Waylon’s mind wasn’t completely separated from the conversation he’d just relived. How does someone forget destroying another life? How does someone forget he’d been a fool?
The fiddlers scratched back and forth on the strings, drawing Waylon’s attention from his memories. They were tuning up to start, and the man who would call the square dances came to his feet. Waylon’s gut twisted—anxious about the prospect. Just get up, he told himself. Get up and get your first partner. It'll all be over soon. You’re not getting married—it’s just a dance.
With his hands on his knees, he pushed himself up to stand. He gazed around the barn, wondering who might be the easiest for starting off. His eyes landed on the wife of the preacher in South Fork, a kind woman in her mid-forties, who lived in a two-room cabin with a loft packed full of children. They’d always been good friends. He'd start there.
“Mrs. Hensley, may I have the first dance?”
“Of course you may. I was just sitting here, tapping my toe, waiting for an invitation.”
Waylon extended his arm. She latched on and nearly dragged him to the dance floor as squares were forming. She pulled him into the position of head couple, their backs to the musicians. A regular tune proceeded, and more couples formed squares. Spectators clapped their hands as the caller sang out the steps.
By the time the first dance had ended, he was glad he’d come. He looked off to the side of the barn. Waylon was filled with relief to see his mother standing along the side of the dance floor and then was taken out for the next dance. He continued to find partners for the secession of dances. When he returned the various women to their places, he chose another.
Waylon felt a little guilty only dancing with the married women, realizing that at some point he would have to offer dances to the unmarried ladies, but he’d be darned if he wanted to. Dancing led to expectations. Expectations led to misery since marriage wasn’t an option.
From the dance floor, his eyes cut to a woman just arriving. With dark hair and a shy smile, she was gorgeous. He was sure he’d never met her before. Her eyes met his, and she grinned, practically twinkling with happiness. His partner nudged him, and he realized that he was late to step into a grand right-and-left. As he moved around the circle, he had to crane his neck every which way to see the new gal.
His heart thumped against his ribs. It wasn't exertion from the dance. He found the new woman very appealing, her dark hair in contrast with the yellow dress she wore. He was sure she wasn’t from around here. He would have remembered that face. Since he’d danced through most of the married ladies, he decided to dance with the new miss next. He was just being neighborly, so she would feel welcome—polite—that’s all.
At the end of that song, he hustled his partner to the edge of the group nearest the new lady, then high tailed it over, barely beating several of the young men.
He bowed in front of her. “Welcome to the Morgan Ranch, miss. I’m Waylon Morgan.”
“Vivian Leete,” she replied and bobbed a curtsey as her cheeks pinked.
Waylon’s pulse quickened at the sight. He extended his arm and found he was hopeful that she’d accept it—accept him. “Would you care to dance?”
The woman’s eyes brightened above her full smile as she nodded. If he’d thought her beautiful before, he’d been mistaken. It was like comparing starlight to the sun. Her smile made the noise of the barn disappear and every other soul there fade to nothing. She placed her hand on his arm, and he led her to the dance floor.
The fiddler played music softly as couples walked forward. Waylon’s anticipation grew. The music signaled the next song would be a polka. That required him to hold her very closely as they skipped and twirled as one. The couples moved outward to form a large ring.
“I don’t think I know this dance,” she said, looking up to him. Her eyes were the color of her hair, dark and alluring.
“Just hang on. There’s nothing to it, but we’ll move fast.” Waylon pulled her tightly against him. It’s as if his heart stretched out to reach for the woman’s. It took his breath away at how right his world seemed with her tucked up next to him. He looked into her upturned face and felt overwhelming joy as the first notes sounded—two galloping steps to the side and a hopping turn sent them into a whirl with the crowd.
Above the music and the other dancers, Waylon often heard the tinkling sound of the woman’s laughter. He found it hard to concentrate on the motion of the dance, but he forced himself to. As fast as everyone moved, a misstep or trip ended in a pileup of disaster.
At the ending notes of the song, he told himself that it was just the polka that made him feel dizzy, but he felt reluctant to release Miss Vivian Leete. He liked her name in his mind. Who was she? Where was she from? He wanted to take the rest of the evening to find out all about her. The moment stretched before either of them released their dance position. His attention was drawn just over her shoulder to where his mother stood, beaming with happiness.
He’d made a grievous error. His arms dropped away from around Miss Leete. “Thank you for the dance, miss.” He mechanically walked her to the edge opposite where his mother stood. “Enjoy your evening.” He saw confusion in her eyes, but he turned away just the same.
He glanced around and saw Mrs. Crowther, whose husband owned the dry good store. He wasn’t sure he wanted a dance with her, either. She had designs on him too—for her daughter. Mrs. Crowther and his mother were always trying to throw their children together, and Benita liked the idea.
“Mrs. Crowther, would you give me the pleasure?” Waylon asked.
She looked around—probably for Benita.
Waylon’s mother had moved to where he stood with Mrs. Crowther. The women exchanged greetings. Then Mrs. Morgan took Waylon by the arm. “Do you mind if I talk to my boy for a moment?” she asked Mrs. Crowther. “I’m feeling a little parched. Will you escort me to the refreshments, Lon?” she asked.
Waylon handed his mother a cookie and snatched a few for himself.
“She’ll make a fine wife, Lon.”
He couldn’t think of two times in the last ten years his mother had called him Lon. Now, two times in so many minutes, she had. He didn’t want to hear again about how Benita would be good choice for a wife. He needed to stop this here and now.
“Stop right there. I’ve been corresponding with a mail order bride company, and there is a woman I’m considering for the position of wife.” Like a schoolboy, he’d hoped that his fib would go unnoticed, but it hadn’t. His mom, it seemed, hadn’t lost that know-all-see-all quality of motherhood. His blood felt a little cold.
“The position?” His mother laughed at that.
The lies were getting deeper. He figured he could come clean later. Much later. After his two younger brothers were married and supplying her with grandchildren.
She stared into his eyes and concentrated on not blinking. Finally, she nodded her head, slowly. “That’s all you’re going to say about that?” she asked. She seemed to be waiting for him to say more—a lot more. “Fine. Well, I have a little surprise for you myself.”
He hurried back to Mrs. Crowther to claim the dance he’d promised her. Instead, Benita had joined her mother and s
tepped forward to accept his arm. She was the one person he didn't want to dance with—ever. But if dancing with Benita kept him away from his mother’s matchmaking, he’d do it.
Benita stood there in a frilly pink dress her father had probably ordered from France. She had already told half the town that she would “soon be engaged to Waylon Morgan.” He didn't know where she got that idea. He'd never gone calling, and as far as he was concerned, he never would. Still, the rumors persisted, and his mother was hopeful.
He had a ranch to run. He didn't have time for courting. And truth be told, even if he ever decided to get married, which he wouldn’t, he’d not take her to wife. Miss Leete, the mystery woman, however…
He shook his head. “Miss Crowther, may I have this dance?”
She grabbed his arm, then said, “Yes.”
Before he could walk Benita fully to the center of the dance floor, a cowboy burst through the barn door. He was dressed for dancing in fine clothing but looked around the room, his gaze not stopping on any of the women. His clothes were reminiscent of a Mexican vaquero—a long red scarf was tied around and around the top of his pants. He wore a black vest over a white shirt. How would a cowpuncher keep a shirt that white?
The man approached Waylon and pulled the sombrero from his head. “You need to come quick.” Waylon recognized him as the new hire who’d been left to look after the ranch during the party. It was more than a little strange that this wrangler seemed to know him personally. He didn’t say, “Mr. Morgan” but “Waylon.”
Waylon looked the man in the eye. There was something there, something familiar but otherworldly as well. His face wasn’t weathered like so many men who’d lived in the saddle. The gray around his temples lent an air of wisdom to the man, but his spry step and voice belied that he could be over thirty. The man’s full black mustache and clean-shaven face—again unusual for someone who worked on a ranch. His chaps were black and showed some wear—the man spent long hours on a horse. Waylon would be surprised if there weren’t a few knives hidden in there as well.
