The Express Bride

by Kimberley Woodhouse

  “But I will be able to walk again?”

  “You should.” The doctor tilted his head. “It might need to be with a cane for a while, but you’re relatively young and healthy.” He grabbed his black bag and patted Elijah’s shoulder. “Let’s just take it one step at a time, shall we?”

  With a nod, he let his head fall back on the pillow. It was all a bit too exhausting. Had he really been asleep for more than a week? How was that possible?

  But even as zaps of pain made their way up to his brain, he found himself thankful for them. Thankful that he was alive, awake, and able to feel. It could have been so much worse. “Could I get something to drink?”

  “Of course.” Jackie brought a cup to him and lifted his head with her hand. It embarrassed him to need help taking a drink, but he was thankful for her assistance. The pain in his chest was intense, and he doubted he had the strength to take a drink himself.

  “I’ll come back in about a week.” The doctor walked out of the room.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Jackie smiled at the man.

  “We’ve been taking turns sitting with ya.” Timothy shoved his hands into his pockets. “We didn’t want ya to be alone.”

  “Thanks, Timothy.” Elijah lifted his hand to shake the young man’s, but it felt like an anvil weighed his arm down.

  “I’ll get things ready for the next Express, Jack.”

  “Thank you.” She sat down in the chair beside the bed and turned to look at him. “It’s my turn to sit with you for a while. Do you need anything?”

  “No. I can’t think of anything.” He looked over at Michael, “I’m sure this has been hard on all of you—having to rearrange your schedules.”

  “We’ve been glad to do it. Besides, I still need you to finish teaching me how to swim.” Michael’s lopsided smile radiated throughout the room.

  “A promise is a promise.” Elijah attempted a smile in return. “It just might take me awhile to get to it.”

  “That’s all right. It’s too cold now anyway.” Michael sent an odd look to Jackie. “Don’t you want to tell him?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Jackie’s expression was indecipherable. “Michael, I don’t think—”

  “You received some Express mail while you were sleeping. I thought it might be important, so I wanted you to know.”

  An Express for him … here? Oh, that’s right. He’d sent a letter to Mr. Vines. As much as he wanted to hear from his mentor and boss, the energy was draining out of him faster than a bucket riddled with bullet holes. “Thanks for letting me know, but don’t worry about it right now. I doubt I could even read it if I tried.” He turned his head to Jackie. “I think I need to sleep—as odd as that may sound since I’ve been asleep for so long. I just can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”

  In the back of his brain, niggling thoughts about important things that needed to be said or done pressed forward, but the fog pushed them back and he relaxed. Gazing at Jackie, he saw her face diminish as his eyelids weighed down. Everything went black again.

  Pacing in her bedroom, Jackie wrung her hands. She’d been praising God for hours that Elijah had woken up, but now she’d have to tell him what she did. And she’d have to ask him about the picture. What would he think of her? And what would that do to his fragile health?

  Dr. Thompson had said to make sure nothing brought the patientanxiety while he was healing. It would take time for the bones and muscles to knit themselves back together, and he didn’t want any undue stress to slow Elijah’s progress. Especially since he’d lost so much time already and was in a weakened condition.

  It didn’t matter what he thought. She had to be honest with him—when the time was right. They’d become friends, hadn’t they? Granted, they didn’t know each other very well, but she did feel she could trust him. He’d seemed to have respect for her as well.

  Oh Lord, what do I do? She crumpled to her knees at the edge of her bed and poured her heart out to the Lord. It was all so confusing.

  Before Dad died, things had always been so simple. Not anymore.

  The weight of all she had to do pressed on her. The responsibilities, the people she had to care for, the Express, the station, the questioning she was supposed to be doing for Mr. Crowell.

  If only she could simply go to sleep and wake up to find everything better, taken care of, and … simpler.

  Burying her face in the quilt, she knew that was unrealistic, but some days were just so overwhelming.

  Weariness flooded her limbs, but her mind spun with all the questions and what-ifs. Would she even be able to sleep tonight? Knowing she’d spent every night watching over Elijah, the doctor had ordered her to sleep in her own bed before she collapsed.

  “Get ready for bed, Jack. Get some sleep. You can deal with it all tomorrow.” Sometimes talking to herself was the only way she kept going. Pushing up from her kneeling position, she prayed for sleep, but when she got her feet beneath her, her right pinky toe stubbed something hard. Ow!

  When the shooting pain eased, she took a deep breath and realized it was the box from Dad. She hadn’t meant to neglect it, but she’d pushed it to the back of her mind every time she thought of it.

  No matter how tired she felt at the moment, it didn’t matter anymore. She needed something to get her mind off Elijah. So she pulled the box out from under the bed. Lifting the delicate brass latch, she opened the lid of the handmade gift from her dad.

  On top was a folded piece of paper with her name in large letters.

  Lifting the box from the floor, Jackie stood up, placed it on the bed and sat down. Staring at the letter, she took another deep breath. Excitement and grief swirled together. Was she ready to read the truth he’d kept hidden? It didn’t really matter—reading anything from Dad would be wonderful. She missed him so much.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and reached for the letter. Opening her eyes again, she unfolded the note:

  April 3, 1860

  Dear Jack,

  As your twenty-sixth birthday has come and gone, I’ve realized I have been putting off writing this letter for far too long.

  Your mother—God rest her soul—died when she was just twenty-six. She’s been gone twenty-three years, yet I can still hear her voice and her laughter. Some days it feels like just yesterday.

  I know that you noticed my reaction to your birthday this year when it hit me like a stab to the heart that you were now the age she was when she died. I couldn’t say anything at the time because it caused too much heartache, but I hope this will help to explain. At least a little bit.

  You look just like your mother. I know I haven’t told you that very much—but it’s true. She was small in stature and seemed frail—unlike you—but her spirit was stronger than anyone I’ve ever known—just like you.

  If you’re reading this, then I must have never gotten up the courage to tell you in person. Please humor me a bit longer and allow me to say again that I have loved you since the moment I first saw you. And I will always love you. It has been my greatest joy to be your dad.

  But this is also the source of great agony for me. You see, I’m not your real father.

  She sucked in a breath. She reread the words. No! It couldn’t be.

  Your mother came here with you as just a babe in 1834. She’d been traveling for months—running away actually—and needed a place that was remote where she could raise you. Why she chose our little wilderness out here is beyond me, but I’ve come to know that it was God-ordained. You’ll notice in the ledger that it simply says that H.M. and infant were in room 3. That was you, my little one. You and your mother. She asked me not to list her name after the first night she stayed, and over time the fear and haunted look left her eyes. When she finally told me the whole story, I wanted to protect the two of you at all costs because I had come to love you both. She became my best friend. And I became hers.

  Your mother and I loved each other very much, Jack. But as much as it pains me to say it,
we were never married. Before you think something awful, you need to understand that we never broke God’s commandments. It’s important that you know that. It would have been so easy to pretend she was someone else—like she had been doing for so long—to forget her former life and to start our own life together. But we couldn’t. Because she was still married to your father. Yes, I guess I should have told you that. Your real father is alive.

  When your mother came down with the fever in ‘37, my heart broke. She faced the end with such grace and humility. The circumstances caused me such anguish. Not only could I not marry the woman I loved, but all too soon she was gone. Before she died, she made me promise to take care of you as if you were my own. I gave my word because I already loved you as if you were my own flesh and blood. We signed documents, and I officially gave you my last name. I have tried my best to honor that promise and to raise you in a godly manner. I know I have failed you in so many ways by not telling you the truth, but I beg for your forgiveness. You willalways be my little girl … my daughter.

  In the case I have made for you are letters from your mother and a journal she kept for a little while. She wanted you to know the truth—probably much sooner than now—and she prayed for your father each and every day.

  There are also some treasury bonds that I purchased for you over the years. You come from great wealth, and while I couldn’t give you that while I was here, I wanted to leave you with something from me—something to help provide for you. Now that I’m dead, it’s up to you, Jack.

  Many of our memories are also in this wooden box. Yes, I’m a sentimental fool. Over the years if you need some encouragement, laughter, or simply to remember, they are here for you.

  As you know, the station is yours. Not that a young, vibrant woman would want to stay in the desert in the middle of nowhere, but in case you do, you can do with it as you please. I never did much to the place until your mother arrived. But then she fixed it up and it became our oasis. Feel free to stay, sell it and move elsewhere, or really just do whatever you wish. You don’t need my permission to go on with your life. That is my desire for you—live. Be happy.

  Above all else, remember that your Father in heaven loves you more than anyone on this earth ever will. He will never fail you like I have and as I’m sure others will in the future. Always be willing to forgive. Over and over again. Your mother taught me that. I want to pass it on to you.

  In God’s grace, He allowed me to raise you and love you like my own. It is the most precious gift I’ve ever received other than salvation. I hope you know that.

  Please forgive me.

  I love you, my darling daughter. My Jack. Please, don’t ever forget that.

  Dad

  Jackie put a hand to her mouth as the paper trembled in her other hand. Oh, how she missed him. She could hear his voice as she read the words. But Marshall Rivers wasn’t her father? The man who had raised her—the only parent she remembered—wasn’t her blood after all? It felt like someone had reached in, torn out her heart, and crushed it underfoot.

  She let the letter fall to the bed. Why hadn’t he told her? Was that why he never spoke much of her mother? But it had been clear how much he loved her—she had to admit that.

  Dad had never been false with her. She knew that he loved her dearly. He proved that each and every day. She couldn’t have asked for a better father. He was her real father no matter what the letter said.

  But then the words tumbled in around her. Had everything been false? Marshall Rivers wasn’t her father. He was never married to her mother. And her mother had run away from … what? Was her whole life a lie?

  His words washed over her: “Always be willing to forgive.”

  “Oh Dad. I miss you so much.” She choked on the words as she spoke to the ceiling. “And I forgive you. I do. I might have to work on it every day, but I choose to forgive you. You are my dad.”

  With a long sigh, she lay back on the bed for a moment and closed her eyes against the tears. In a matter of minutes, everything had changed. But had it really? She still loved her dad. He’d been wonderful. And from everything she knew, her mother had been a wonderful person too. So why did this new knowledge hurt so much? Why did it feel like the world had crashed and tilted on its side?

  Then it hit her: Dad had said that she looked just like her mother. The portrait she’d seen! Was that her mother?

  Her mind spinning and her heart racing, she sat back up and looked at the beautiful box. There were letters from her mother in there.

  Wiping tears from her cheeks she hadn’t realized she had shed, she leaned toward the open box. On top, tied with a pink ribbon, sat a few letters.

  The one on top had shaky handwriting.

  Jackie untied the ribbon and looked at the others. The handwriting onthem was elegant and graceful, but it appeared to be the same. She looked back to the one that had been placed on top and decided to read it first.

  Running her hand over the letters that spelled Jacqueline, she was overwhelmed by grief but also by joy that she finally had a connection to her mother. Why hadn’t Dad let her see these before now? How many times had she asked questions about her mother?

  It didn’t seem fair. Especially now that she was without them both.

  With a tear sliding down her cheek and a new sense of determination, she opened the note.

  July 2, 1837

  Dearest Jacqueline,

  My beautiful daughter. I’m leaving you my journal and a few letters I wrote you while you were a baby. I’d hoped to give you the letters on your sixteenth birthday, but it seems I won’t be here for that wonderful day. And that brings me great sadness.

  My time is short—I know that. But I wanted to leave you something in my own words. I’ve asked Marshall to give these to you when the time is right—when you are old enough to understand. There’s so much I wish I could explain to you, but you’ll have to read about the whole story of your father and me in my journal. I’m sorry that I will never be able to tell you in person, because words on paper just can’t convey the depth of everything we’ve been through. But it seems that God is calling me home.

  I’ve asked Marshall Rivers to raise you as his own. He has been like a father to you these past three years and dotes on you as if you were his own. He took us in—you and me—when, having learned the truth, he easily could have sent us back the way we came.

  He’s a good man. I’ve learned so much from him as we’ve studied the scriptures together. I pray that you will listen to his wisdom as he raises you.

  Oh my darling girl. My heart aches that I will not be thereto see you grow up, get married, have your own beautiful babies. I wish there was something I could do, but the fever has taken its toll. It has taken me several hours to simply write this letter.

  I’m going to ask you to please do me a favor. It may be difficult for you, but I pray it is not.

  I wrote your father back in St. Louis a letter and told him I forgive him. Which I do. It took a long time, but God worked in me mightily. I’m asking for you to do the same. I’ve prayed for him every day since I left, that God would work in his life as well. Because I know that God can do miraculous things.

  I want you to know that I loved him very much even though he did some awful deeds.

  I’m sorry that I took you from your inheritance, but you deserved a better life than the one we were living. Please forgive me.

  I know this will also be difficult for you to understand, but I loved Marshall too. He has been my dearest friend the past three years. In my heart, I longed to marry him—because he showed me each and every day that there were good, honorable, and trustworthy men in this world who love God. But I was legally bound to your father. It is terrible of me to admit my failings to you, my daughter, but I pray that as you get older, you will understand. And I want you to know the truth. All of it.

  I have grown weary even though there is much more I wish to say. I pray that Marshall can explain everything that I cannot.


  I know you probably will not remember me, my sweet girl, but know that your mother loved you very much. Always and forever …

  Your mother,

  Anna Marie Morrison Vines

  Jackie’s breath left in a great whoosh as she read and reread her mother’s name.

  The man she’d written to on behalf of Elijah—just today—was Charles Vines. Elijah was here looking for someone. Was it her? Was Charles Vines her … father?

  Another thought made her gasp for air. The picture she’d seen truly had to be her mother. All these years, she’d wondered exactly what her mother looked like. She’d wondered what she was like. Wondered what her handwriting looked like, what her voice sounded like, what it felt like to be hugged by her. And here, all this time, these letters had been sitting. Hidden.

  Anger welled up within her that Marshall Rivers had kept them from her. But then she crumpled with the weight. She’d loved her dad. More than anything. He’d begged for her forgiveness. And she had given it.

  A new wave of grief hit. Not just because she’d never had the chance to know her mother, but because she couldn’t talk to Dad—Marshall—about all of this now. He understood her like no one else. He’d been her best friend.

  Tears that she’d held at bay plunged down her cheeks. Great sobs racked her shoulders and body as she released her emotions. Who was she?

  Why, Lord? I don’t understand. I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore.

  Looking back to the letter, she couldn’t find why her mother had left her father, but he was still alive!

  The man who had raised her she’d loved so dearly. But he was dead.

  The loss of her mother—which she’d never truly understood as a child—hit her as if it had just happened.

  One by one, every emotion within her welled up and screamed for attention. It was too much.