Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection

by Davis, Susan Page; Dietze, Susanne; Franklin, Darlene

  “Yes,” Maggie said slowly, “I’m sure some of them hope to find a man who will help work their property.”

  “Oh I’m a hard worker,” Jug said.

  “What do you work hard at, Mr. Swan?”

  “I can throw a steer or drive a fence post with the best of ’em.”

  “I see. But I don’t have any cattle, or any fences that need mending.” She didn’t mention the fact that she hoped one day to replace the livestock she’d been forced to sell. “Are you a family man?” she asked.

  He sat back, frowning. “Well I h’ain’t got one, if that’s what you mean. Almost got married once, but she changed her mind.”

  “I have two boys,” Maggie said.

  “I see. Are they growed?”

  Somehow, Maggie managed to keep the conversation going for the remaining minutes. Why hadn’t Abby made the interviews ten minutes, instead of fifteen? She glanced about. Some of the women seemed quite contented with their conversation partners. Maybe she had simply drawn a poor specimen on the first session. She wondered what the schoolteacher would do if she wound up opposite Jug Swan.

  At last the bell rang, and Jug stood. “Nice meetin’ ya, Miss Piner.”

  “Mrs.”

  “Oh right. I’ll keep you in mind.”

  Don’t, she wanted to say, but she merely smiled and nodded before turning her attention to the next man, who took the seat opposite.

  “Good day,” he said, smiling. “Aren’t you a pretty sight?”

  Maggie’s hackles rose, but she only said, “Thank you, sir. I’m Mrs. Margaret Piner.”

  “Oh, widow lady?”

  “Yes, my husband was killed in the war.”

  He looked a little too polished to her, a little too elegant for Turtle Springs. Eyeing his tailored gray suit, bowler hat, and gold watch chain, she decided he wasn’t a cowboy or a laborer of any sort.

  “I’m Franklin Harper,” he said, extending a smooth, uncallused hand. “Do you live in town?”

  “A short distance out,” she said.

  “I see. I’m interested in starting a business here. Would that fit in with your plans, Mrs. Piner?”

  “It might. I suppose it would depend on what kind of business, and what you envision your wife’s role to be in it.”

  Mr. Harper smiled, and Maggie had to suppress a shudder. What was it about him that made her so uncomfortable?

  “I noticed as I rode through town on my arrival that there seems to be a gap in the businesses.”

  “Oh?” Maggie thought about the stores on Main Street. It was true they could use a little more competition where groceries and dry goods were concerned, but it wasn’t as if they couldn’t get their hands on what they needed.

  “My throat was dry and dusty after riding all the way out here,” he said. “But I found nary a place where a man could wet his whistle.”

  Maggie swallowed hard. “We used to have a saloon, before the war. The town’s a lot quieter now, and there’s not the demand for it there once was.”

  He cocked his head to one side and eyed her skeptically. “Don’t the cowboys from the ranches want to come in town on their day off and have a place to cut loose?”

  “I—I don’t know. The truth is, I’ve never thought about it. I was just glad we didn’t have all the ruckus and the shooting and having to step over drunks on the sidewalk.”

  “I’ve spoken to the mayor about my plans.” Harper turned his head and gazed across the room to where Abigail Melton was deep in conversation with another of the prospective husbands.

  Maggie stared at him. “And what did Miss Melton say?”

  “She hasn’t said one way or the other yet. She wanted to wait until after this event was over, but she did have me fill out a form and leave it with her.” He leaned over the table toward her. “So how did it happen that the saloon closed?”

  “Mike Hapsworth packed up and left town.” She brushed a hand through the air in dismissal. “He owned the saloon, but he’s long gone.”

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen the building. It wouldn’t take much to put it to rights and open for business.”

  “Well, just so you know …” Maggie squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “I would not be interested in working at a saloon, or in marrying a man who ran one.”

  “I see.” The bell rang, and he pushed back his chair. “Good evening, Mrs. Piner. I get the impression we wouldn’t suit in marriage, but it was a pleasure speaking to someone so intelligent and knowledgeable.”

  Maggie just nodded. She didn’t know about the intelligence—she felt pretty stupid right now—or the knowledge. All she’d done was direct him away from herself. Was it to go like this all afternoon?

  She pulled in a breath as the next man took his place in the chair across from her. He smiled tentatively, and she tried to smile back. He looked ten years younger than her. He might be a nice young man, but Maggie knew instantly he wasn’t for her. She sent up a quick prayer for strength and introduced herself.

  Sam was weary when he rode into the barnyard at the Pine Tree Ranch. The foreman here worked the men hard. He didn’t mind. Hard work was a good thing, and he was glad he’d found a paying job. He would sleep tonight, that was for sure, and a lot better in his bunk than he had on the ground while he’d camped on his search for employment.

  He and one of the other cowboys were assigned to taking care of the extra horses from the remuda, which meant they were to be checked over for foot problems and turned out to graze in the pasture. He saw to Rocker first and turned him out then joined Eph—short for Ephraim—at the holding corral, where the extra horses milled about, restless and hungry.

  They checked each horse quickly, lifting their feet and running a gentle hand along each leg.

  “Find anything?” Eph asked.

  “The gray has a shoe loose. It’s hanging on by a couple of nails.”

  “We’d better yank it,” Eph said. “The blacksmith can put a new shoe on tomorrow. Do you know where the tools are?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said.

  “Go get the pullers and a rasp. I’ll let the rest of these nags out.”

  Sam hurried into the barn, to the saddle room where they kept their gear, barrels of oats, medicines for the animals, and tools. When he got back to the corral, Eph was at the pasture gate. The limping gray was still in the pen, and a fine buggy was driving into the yard. He nodded at the driver.

  “Is Mr. McClure in?” the white-haired gentleman asked.

  “I believe he’s at the house, sir,” Sam said. “I saw him speak with the foreman a few minutes past, when we rode in from our work.”

  “May I hand off my horse and rig to you? I don’t expect to be long.”

  “Of course, sir.” Sam laid down the tools, stepped forward, and accepted the reins. “I’ll give him some water.”

  The gentleman climbed down. “Thank you. I only need to have Mr. McClure sign some papers. Unless he wishes to discuss something, I’ll be on my way back to town in a trice.”

  Sam nodded and led the horse over to a water trough in the yard, where horses could drink without being unhitched. Eph came from the pasture.

  “So, the lawyer’s here, huh?”

  “Is that who he is?” Sam asked. “He says he’s not stopping.”

  “Could be—or could be they’ll chew the fat for an hour. I’d best tend to the gray.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said.

  Eph picked up the shoe pullers and rasp and went into the holding pen. It took him only minutes to lever off the loose shoe and file the edges of the gray’s hoof smooth. When he turned the horse out with the others, Sam was still holding the lawyer’s horse.

  Eph waved. “See what I mean? Best tie him up and come in. We’ll be eating supper any minute.”

  Sam nodded. “Thanks.”

  The horse had finished drinking, so he led it in a wide circle to point the buggy back toward town. He was about to do what Eph had suggested and tie it to the h
itching rail when the door of the ranch house opened. Mr. McClure, who owned the Pine Tree ranch, and the lawyer emerged, still talking.

  “Thank you, but I’d best get back to town,” the lawyer said. “My wife invited dinner guests this evening, and she won’t like it if I don’t appear on schedule.”

  “All right then,” Mr. McClure said. “Thanks for coming out with those papers. I’ll see you in town next week.” He looked toward the buggy, his gaze landing on Sam, at the horse’s head. He nodded Sam’s way, shook the attorney’s hand, and went inside.

  The lawyer strode toward the buggy. “Thank you, young man.” He reached into his pocket and took out a coin.

  “No need for that, sir,” Sam said. “It was a pleasure. You have a fine horse here.”

  “Well thanks.” He climbed up to the seat and reached for the reins.

  “Sir, would it be amiss for me to ask you something?”

  The man eyed him curiously. “Well, I suppose that depends on the nature of your question. If it’s anything to do with Mr. McClure or this ranch—”

  “Oh, no sir,” Sam said quickly. “It’s just that I was told you’re a lawyer, and I know someone who has a bit of a dilemma.”

  “Ask away, then. I can’t guarantee I can help you.”

  “Of course. I wondered, just in general, sir, if a widow can be made to pay her husband’s debt to the bank. Seems like I had an aunt in that situation once, and they said she wasn’t liable once her husband died and was under the ground.”

  “That depends. If the debt was solely her husband’s, no.”

  “It’s a mortgage, sir.”

  “Well then, it still depends. If the widow signed for the mortgage with her husband, then she’s probably liable. If he alone incurred the debt, then she’s not.”

  Sam frowned, not sure he understood and wishing he knew what questions to ask.

  “It’s a lot more complicated than that,” the lawyer said, not unkindly. “It sounds to me as though the lady in question should get legal counsel. Does she live around here?”

  “Not real close, sir.”

  He nodded. “Tell her to seek out a lawyer. That’s the best way to be sure. And the laws vary from one place to another.”

  Sam let go of the reins at last. “Thank you. And, if you don’t mind my asking, is it expensive?”

  “What, hiring a lawyer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My fee is a dollar an hour.”

  Sam gulped. He was only getting a dollar a day.

  The lawyer smiled. “Didn’t mean to shock you. She might find the matter resolved in less than an hour. If she had to go to court, it might get expensive.”

  Sam nodded. “Sounds sensible, sir. Thanks again.”

  “No trouble, son. And good luck.”

  For some reason, Rutherford Grant had left Maggie alone for more than two weeks. She couldn’t fathom it, but she was thankful. She carefully avoided walking past the bank when she was in town. During that time, she had sewn two dresses and four shirts for people in town, and agreed to thoroughly clean the minister’s little house once a week for fifty cents each time. It wasn’t much, but she could do it easily in a couple of hours while the boys were at school.

  The cleaning and the sewing had kept food on the table since Sam left. Funny how she marked events now by when they happened in relation to Sam’s visit. Fred had started it, remarking on how he’d killed two squirrels the day after Sam left, but they’d all fallen into it. Fred and Benjy hadn’t seemed too disappointed the evening of the auditions, when she had told them she did not meet a prospective husband that day. She had thought it a little odd at the time, but they’d accepted the news quite cheerfully.

  A rancher had placed an order with her for two work shirts. She was about to enter the mercantile to buy the material for them, when the sheriff, who had been leaning against the wall, stepped forward and tipped his hat.

  “Mrs. Piner, I’m glad to see you. This will save me riding out to your place.”

  Maggie stopped in her tracks and stared at him. “Oh? What is it, Sheriff?” So far as she knew, he was still pursuing Abigail. He’d stuck around Turtle Springs, anyway, and she considered that a good thing.

  “Mr. Grant at the bank asked me to deliver this.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

  Maggie pulled in a deep breath and opened it. It was a formal, official-looking notice with the word eviction in large, fancy letters at the top. She felt as though she might collapse on the porch of the mercantile.

  “It says tomorrow,” she gasped.

  “I’m sorry,” Sheriff Ingram said. He sounded as though he meant it. “Mr. Rutherford said you promised him two weeks ago to make a payment within forty-eight hours, but you didn’t.”

  “I—I didn’t say that.”

  “Well …” The sheriff pushed his hat forward and scratched the back of his neck. “He mentioned a gentleman who was with you.”

  “Oh. Mr. Cayford.”

  “I thought maybe you’d met someone at the husband auditions. None of my business, but …” He eyed her expectantly.

  “Surely he wouldn’t have me arrested,” Maggie said, ignoring the reference to Sam.

  “Well, he could. He’ll probably just have you forcibly removed from the property. I’d hate to have to do that.”

  Maggie’s jaw dropped. “You? You’d physically push me and my boys out of our home?”

  He sighed. “If it’s legal, then I’m required to enforce the law.”

  “If it’s legal?” She looked at the paper again.

  “I don’t know your business, Mrs. Piner. Do you owe the bank the amount stated there?”

  Maggie frowned. “Rutherford Grant says I do, but I’ve paid him more than this since Rodney went away to war, and he kept saying it wasn’t enough—that we owed more than Rod told me.”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows drew together. He was certainly a handsome man, Maggie thought, and he seemed genuinely concerned about her plight.

  “Is there someone who could look into it for you? I’m not a lawyer, ma’am. But if you know someone who’s up on banking and such …”

  “No.” Maggie thought of Sam, but she doubted he knew anything but cattle.

  “This Mr. Cayford …” The sheriff’s frank gaze unnerved her. “I don’t recall his name on the list of aspiring husbands.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t meet him there. He—he stopped by our ranch on the way to someplace else. He had dinner with us, and we let him sleep in the barn with his horse. He happened to be there when Mr. Grant came by, and I was glad of it. But he’s not around here anymore.” She looked up at the sheriff quickly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Mr. Grant that.”

  Josiah held up one hand. “Not my nevermind, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe if you could make a small payment …”

  “I’ve been doing that as often as I can.” She huffed out a breath. “Sheriff, I earned two dollars last week. I spent nearly all of it on food for me and my boys. I just don’t know how I can scrape together a payment.” She had a dollar and fifteen cents left in coins from what she’d had on hand, and what was left from her pay for the jobs she’d done. That was all, until she got paid for making these shirts, and that would be a small profit. Very small.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “If Mr. Grant tells me to, I’ll have to come out to your place tomorrow. Is there someplace you can go?”

  She shook her head. “I know it’s not your doin’, Sheriff, but you’ll understand if I don’t thank you for this.” Fighting back tears, she stuffed the eviction notice into her handbag and trudged into the mercantile.

  Chapter 8

  Sam guided his horse in quick turns to head off yearlings trying to escape the bunch he and two other cowpunchers were guarding. They’d spent the last two days rounding up the boss’s cattle from the hills, and today was branding day. In the process of marking th
e new calves with the ranch’s brand, they would also cull out the steers to be sold for beef in the fall and any animals that had something wrong with them.

  “What about them two with the Double T brand?” he asked Buck when the bunch had settled down for a moment.

  “I reckon a couple of us will push ’em on over to Therron’s boundary when we’re done with the roundup.” Buck spit tobacco on the ground and adjusted his reins.

  Sam shifted in his saddle. He was riding one of the ranch’s string of cow ponies today. He rode Rocker every other day, but the hard work tired horses out quickly, so each man rotated his mounts. Tomorrow was his day off, and he wanted Rocker fresh when he set out in the morning.

  “You going into town tomorra?” Buck asked.

  “Thought I go visit some friends, over Turtle Springs’ way,” Sam said.

  “That’s a piece,” Buck said. He spit again. “They got no saloons there.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  In fact, Turtle Springs was just about the perfect little town, so far as Sam was concerned. It had everything the residents needed. And it had Maggie Piner.

  “Hey!” Buck spurred his horse off to chase a young steer making a break for open ground.

  Sam calmed his fidgety horse, watching the other cattle. “Don’t you think it,” he told one moody old cow. She was getting too old to breed, and they’d put her in with the culls in case the boss wanted to send her to the butcher.

  His thoughts drifted back to Maggie Piner. On payday at the end of May, he had been working on the ranch less than a week, but the boss paid him for the days he’d worked. Sam had held back a dollar for incidentals and put the rest in an envelope. He hadn’t had a chance to mail it yet, but he reckoned she could use it. He hoped she wouldn’t be offended.

  The foreman rode up just as Buck brought back the two escapees.

  “This bunch ready?”

  “Yep,” Sam said.

  “All right, Cayford, you push ’em to the fire, one at a time. The boys are ready.”

  “What about that old cow?” Buck called, and nodded toward the one in question. She had put her head down to graze, but she sent baleful looks their way.