The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride Romanced by the Ranch

by Iris Kelly

  The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride

  ROMANCED BY THE RANCH

  Iris Kelly

  THE CHEYENNE MAIL ORDER BRIDE ROMANCED BY THE RANCH

  Copyright © 2015 by Iris Kelly

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Rebecca Frank

  Editing by Valorie Clifton

  CHAPTER ONE

  Boston, Massachusetts, 1870

  Lydia Maxwell’s husband had but one dying thought—to cut her out of his will. He was furious that she’d hurried a doctor to his side when he angrily clamored for his lawyer. By the time his attorney, a Mr. Simmons, could be located, it was too late.

  “Mrs. Maxwell, do you have any idea why Mr. Maxwell required my presence at this time?”

  “No,” had been Lydia’s numb reply. What an odd time for her husband to worry about business.

  “He and I have spent the last several weeks tallying his assets and planning a redistribution of his estate. He meant to completely revise his will, Mrs. Maxwell. I have only just finished drawing up the final arrangements. But . . . he had not yet signed them.”

  Through the fog of her shock, Lydia was finally able to understand that her husband meant to disinherit her almost entirely. There was no need for the lawyer to explain why. Lydia had failed to produce any children in the Maxwells’ four years of marriage. No heir for her husband’s estate and fortune.

  For the first hopeful year of their marriage, Mr. Maxwell had been warm and attentive. Lydia had been, after all, the future mother of his children. But after eighteen months, it was clear that children were never going to arrive. Mr. Maxwell was not only disappointed; he had the bitterness of a man who had been tricked into buying a bad horse. He would regularly fume about annulments and divorce. He would spend long evenings away from home and dare Lydia to demand an explanation. And he never made any attempt to disguise his contempt for a woman who failed the barest, but most essential requirement of womanhood—his useless, barren wife.

  “Did he mean to make any provision for me at all?” Lydia wondered.

  “He assumed that you would live with your sister and that you would be well taken care of in the Bellamy household. Accordingly, he arranged for a small stipend to cover incidentals.”

  Small, indeed. Five hundred dollars per year, which would suffice for clothing allotment and a little traveling money. Nothing to provide any real independence.

  But Gerald Maxwell’s plan had been foiled by his swift illness and untimely death. He left his defective wife a sizeable fortune.

  “Do you intend to honor his wishes?” Mr. Simmons inquired.

  “Honor?” What a peculiar notion in the present circumstances. “I hope I may rely upon your honor, Mr. Simmons, to help me understand these papers and the extent of my husband’s holdings. And together, I’m sure we can both help my husband to honor his marriage pledge to me.”

  The extent of her late husband’s cruelty went a long way toward helping to alleviate any potential bouts of grief. In truth, very few tears were shed. Lydia couldn’t deny that the prospect of leaving her marital home behind and going to stay with her sister’s family was an enormous relief. There were no happy memories in the estate she had shared with Gerald. In fact, she was more than willing to sign over the ownership of it and the living attached to it to her brother-in-law. The Maxwells could have their family home; she never wanted to set foot in it again. Sharing a roof with Eunice, her favorite sister and Virginia, her favorite niece, would more than compensate. She would gladly settle for the bulk of Gerald’s cash assets.

  *****

  1883

  Life in the Bellamy household had been comforting, but it was a haven that wasn’t meant to last. Eunice had died after Lydia was there for six years, and six years later, her niece, Virginia, had left for Wyoming Territory to become a mail order bride. Against all odds, she was an extremely happy bride.

  But the end result was that Lydia was living in a house where she had almost no blood connection, with her former brother-in-law, Oscar Bellamy, his temperamental second wife, Florence, and their two-year-old child, Walter. Eunice’s youngest daughter, Anne, was still in the house, although she was invariably destined for imminent marriage.

  Lydia had initially thought that she herself might remarry. Indeed, she was surprised that her family didn’t urge her to do so. But they were well aware of her incapacity to have children. All of Boston was aware, or at least everyone in their social sphere, so despite her wealth—despite the general desirability experienced by the average moneyed widow—Lydia’s reputation as an unfit wife preceded her wherever she went. There were no suitors and no proposals.

  Lydia was forced to acknowledge that her worthlessness was not the unique opinion of an unkind and negligent husband, but was a widely held consensus. And though she had once been married, her life resembled nothing so much as that of a spinster aunt.

  Each day was so disturbingly like the day that preceded it. But today would be a notable exception. Lydia hurried to their plush Beacon Hill home from the long walk she took every afternoon to escape the house, for she wanted time to prepare for a long-awaited evening. There was to be an opera performance of international acclaim at the Symphony Hall, and the family’s tickets had been obtained months in advance.

  “Beatrice,” she called as she entered the house and bounded up the marble staircase. Perhaps she was in Lydia’s room, laying out her evening clothes. Beatrice was not the most conscientious of maids—far from it—but Lydia had watched her grow up from infancy, as Beatrice’s late mother had been the Bellamys’ head housekeeper for many years. In truth, she was the only remaining adult in the household whose company Lydia enjoyed.

  Beatrice was indeed in Lydia’s room and looking rather glum. How unexpected. Beatrice had actually been rather excited for her; Lydia’s evenings out were a rare thing.

  “I said I would look after the child, Mrs. Maxwell. And I would. I’d be glad to. It’s not fair to you.” Beatrice blurted out.

  “What are you talking about, Beatrice? What has happened?”

  *****

  “It was wrong of Nanny not to let us know how sick she was. Who knows what she might have already exposed little Walter to,” Florence Bellamy fussed.

  “We must quickly find someone to look after him while we’re at the concert,” Lydia said.

  “We can’t leave him with anyone. You know he can’t bear strangers. He’ll cry his eyes out. No, Lydia, dear, I’m afraid we’ll need you to look after him tonight.”

  “What? Not tonight. You know I can’t miss the concert!”

  “I know this must be rather disappointing,” Oscar Belay interjected, “but we have come to rely on you. Besides Nanny and ourselves, there is no one who can soothe him more.”

  “Beatrice. She said that she’d be happy to look after him.”

  “That girl is not fit to be left with the poodle, much less our sweet Walter,” Florence said.

  “Is Anne still going?” Lydia asked. “As I recall, she had little enthusiasm for the evening. Surely she wouldn’t mind looking after Walter.”

  “There are people she must meet tonight. She is a Bellamy and her presence would be missed,” Oscar said.

  “And you mustn’t make such a fuss, my dear, Florence said. “We were happy to have you here. More than happy. But it must be a mutually beneficial arrangement. We must all do our part, yes?”

  Lydia was silenced.

  “Good.
You know how fond he is of you.”

  Lydia struggled for control of her voice. And her words.

  “I’ll go see to his dinner.”

  “Make sure he is occupied and doesn’t see us leave. We wouldn’t want him to suffer. And Nanny won’t be well by tomorrow, so you’ll have to get him to breakfast.” Florence said.

  Lydia dazedly went through the motions of the evening. Walter was fed and entertained, changed into dry clothes, and tucked into bed by nine o’clock. Lydia sat in the adjacent nursery, close enough to hear any sounds of a fretful sleep. Normally she didn’t mind spending time with her little nephew. She would even enjoy it, despite knowing that one day, under Florence’s influence, he would look down on her.

  But tonight she was finally forced to face her status in the house. She was being used as a servant. How had this come about? She was no indigent charity case, dependent on the benevolent will of relatives. Her husband’s estate had left her a wealthy woman. Wealthy, but not free. A lady could not live by herself or go out to an evening concert unaccompanied. Oh, how she had dreamed of that concert—like a child dreams of Christmas morning. It was to be the highlight of an entire year, and then it just vanished in an instant.

  Why had they done it? Why couldn’t they have chosen Anne, who was bored by opera, or Beatrice, who had volunteered? The answer was clear. Lydia was childless, barren, unwanted, and of no real importance to society. She had been a widow for twelve years now. She could only look forward to the passing of the years, the never-ending sameness of life, and the coming of old age. That is what Oscar and Florence must see when they look at her—not a member of the family, but a lifetime burden. And perhaps they were right.

  To shake these dark thoughts, she went to retrieve her favorite reading distraction, The Matrimonial News. It was a mail order bride catalogue, featuring the ads of Western men seeking Eastern brides. Lydia kept the magazine well hidden in her room, for if anyone found it, they would assume that she had some pathetic hope of finding a husband in this manner. And she certainly did not entertain such fantasies.

  There wasn’t a single ad that didn’t underscore the gentleman’s desire to have children, but like a child reading fairy tales, she was transported by these hopeful, unfinished tales of love. Love that was available to other women. Desirable, fertile women. Her own niece, Virginia, had found a husband in Cheyenne through an advertisement in this very paper, a thought that always flooded her with a vicarious contentment.

  Tonight, the eligible grooms came from every corner of the continent. Miners in California and Nevada. Doctors in Oregon and Montana. Farmers in Kansas and Iowa. Ranchers in Texas and . . . and Cheyenne! It was a city name that was guaranteed to draw Lydia’s attention.

  I’m a widower, a cattle rancher, age 52, strong and healthy, with eight children grown, and no desire for more. I simply want an intelligent, affectionate companion who will take an interest in my business affairs and who can enjoy an evening of conversation and reading. I have a piano in my home, if that’s of interest to you, and I do enjoy hearing it played. If this offer appeals, I’d be mighty happy to make your acquaintance. Giles Cooper

  Lydia sat frozen in stunned silence. And then the laughter came. So loud, it might have woken up the child in the next room. A man who didn’t want children! But every woman would want children and would certainly have them. There were precious few women who could satisfy these requirements, and she was one of them! Down to the piano! What a marvelous coincidence that she could play so well and that he looked forward to enjoying her talents. And a Western cattle ranch. There was nothing more Western than a cattle ranch! Cowboys, cattle drives, campfires, brandings, chuck wagons and an endless sky full of stars stretched over a never-ending prairie range.

  Like so many other Easterners, Lydia had been fascinated for many years by tales coming out of the West. The wildness. The danger. The freedom. The beauty. The thrill of a life that was, in actuality, more foreign than any European city could possibly be. She had stolen away to one of those Wild West shows (dragging Beatrice along; the family would never have approved.) The roping, trick riding, and rugged cowboys! Would Mr. Cooper look anything like those powerful young men? True, he was fifty-two. But an active life probably kept him in a state of remarkable fitness. What a contrast to the doughy, narrow-chested businessmen of Boston.

  And he wanted an affectionate woman. Which could only mean that he was an affectionate man. How many years had she longed to be the object of such affection?

  And if all that wasn’t wonderful enough, she would be living in the same city as her beloved niece, Virginia, who was expecting her first child. It was almost too good to be true. To be near the only extended family that she longed to see and to rid herself of the in-law family that she’d had her fill of!

  What was she waiting for? She wanted her letter to be the first received by Mr. Giles Cooper. Just in case there were any other barren, piano-proficient women out there, intent on stealing the man who was clearly meant for her.

  She quickly penned her response:

  Mr. Cooper,

  I am greatly intrigued by your offer and situation. I am a 40-year-old widow. My four-year marriage resulted in no children and I have no reason to believe that there will be any forthcoming. I have a great fascination with the West, and Cheyenne is of particular interest to me, since I have a grown niece living there. I have an amateur’s knowledge of ranching (that was a bit of an exaggeration, but Lydia had every intention of becoming well-informed) and I am eager to learn all the particulars of this business. I am quite an accomplished piano player and enjoy providing entertainment for others. And I do look forward to making your acquaintance, Mr. Cooper.

  All the best,

  Lydia Maxwell

  She could say nothing, of course, of how his promise of affection had enticed her. Hopefully, he was discerning enough to feel the absent words. Oh, Mr. Cooper; what a prize had fallen into her lap. Her unworthy lap. But, miracle of miracles, here was a man who seemed not only capable, but predisposed to find her of value.

  There wasn’t the remotest possibility of getting any sleep that night. In the morning, she would head for the post office, and then to the news stand to buy up all the Western papers, and then to the library. She might only have a short time to turn herself into the perfect rancher’s wife.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, 1883

  Giles Cooper gestured for the elderly Widow Ainsley to have a seat. He glanced around at the widow’s home. It was a fine ranch house - perhaps not fastidiously tidy, but Mrs. Ainsley’s housekeeping skills had been slowed down by her arthritis.

  “You ought to keep on top of those ranch hands of yours. Your wood pile was almost empty,” he said.

  “Oh, I know they’ll get around to it when they can,” Mrs. Ainsley said. “Winter’s their only little bit of free time before it’ll be time to round up the herd, soon enough. And the branding. And the fencing. I don’t want to be too unreasonable.”

  Darn fools ought to be a bit more thoughtful when their employer was a seventy-eight-year-old woman who was having difficulties. But Giles was more than happy to stop in every week to see what kind of help she needed.

  “You’ve been the best possible neighbor I could ever have hoped for, Mr. Cooper. I wanted you to have the first opportunity: I plan on selling my ranch this spring. Oh, it’s time. Henry and I never planned on holding onto this place longer than ten years, old as we were.

  But the price of beef was so high, that he thought we could put a lot of money away and then sell it for some real security in our old age. As you know, I lost him three years ago, and I’m ready to get a quiet, simple place in town, walkin’ distance to everything I need. What do you say, Mr. Cooper? Of course, I’d give you a good price.”

  It was an extremely tempting offer. The Ainsleys had lucked out on some prime land soon after the railroad had reached Cheyenne. It was right on the edge of town, with the stream run
ning right through it, a perfect situation for the cattle. Giles’s own land was fortunate to share a stretch of that same stream, but a lot of ranches in the Territory weren’t so lucky and needed to invest in a number of wells and windmills to keep their cattle watered. There would be a mad rush of offers as soon as word got out that Mrs. Ainsley was selling.

  As her friend and neighbor, Giles would do his best to make sure that she got a fair deal. Because, tempting as it was, he was going to have to turn down the offer. Ten years ago, he would have jumped at the chance, but that was when Emily had still been alive and half of his children were still in the house. He still had hopes back then that one of the boys would want to take over the ranch. But they had dreams that took them far away from ranch life. What sense did it make now to try and expand his holdings as his family scattered to the winds? Where ten people had resided, now there only two. But that was the way of life. He’d had thirty wonderful years of being a family man, and no one could ask for better.

  Now there was nothing to do but adjust to the new quietness of life, take care of Fanny, the one remaining daughter in his home, and to continue to build the financial worth of the ranch. It would be a security for his grandchildren, even if they decided to sell after he was gone.

  “I couldn’t be more grateful that you gave me the first pick. But my family’s grown, and I’ll be scalin’ back myself soon enough. I’d like to help you, though. You come to me before you accept an offer. I want to make sure you get what you’re due.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper. That’s a great comfort. It will be so nice to be closer to some of my church friends, the Baileys, the Wilsons and the Carlyles, and to walk to the mercantile. I’m really looking forward to it. Oh, do you mind giving me a hand with the tea?”

  There they sat, widow and widower. And though Giles was the younger by more than twenty-five years and in full health, he did not have half of Mrs. Ainsley’s enthusiasm for the future. After all, it could only be a pale and unsatisfying sequel to his last thirty years, and he wasn’t foolish enough not to realize that the best of life had already gone by.