“Then why …”
“Because I’m a hundred percent certain that I can’t live my life without you.” He rubbed his thumb against hers. “I just wanted you to know what you were getting into.”
Chardy couldn’t contain her smile any longer. “I know exactly what I’m getting. A good, decent man who I’ll be proud to spend the rest of my life with.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Chardy, I just …”
A bell tinkled behind them. “All right, gentlemen. It’s time to move on to the next lady.”
“The mayor might not like it, but I’m not going anywhere.” Luke squeezed Chardy’s hand. “It took me long enough to get here as it was.”
“Does that mean you intend to court me?” Her insides shook as she waited for his answer.
Instead, he stood, moved the chair until it was next to hers then retook his seat. Before she knew what he intended, Luke cupped her cheek in his hand and tilted her face up to his. “I love you, Chardy.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But I don’t want to court you.”
“You don’t?” She breathed out the question.
“No, I want to marry you.” He brushed his lips against hers. “Do you accept my hand?”
Chardy wound her arm around his neck and pulled him close so that only he could hear her answer. “With all of my heart.”
Patty Smith Hall is an award-winning, multi-published author with Love Inspired Historical and Heartsong/Harlequin. She currently serves as president of the ACFW-Atlanta chapter and is active on Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. She calls North Georgia her home which she shares with her husband of over thirty years, Danny; two gorgeous daughters; a wonderful son-in-law; and a new grandson who has his grandma’s heart. Visit her website at www.pattysmithhall.com.
Dime Novel Suitor
By Carrie Fancett Pagels
Dedication
To Joan Carol Belsky Pagels and Donald R. Pagels.
Thanks for supporting your daughter-in-law’s writing!
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Cynthia Hickey for thinking of me for this collection! Cheryl Baranski blessed me by brainstorming this project with me early on. Also, thank you to Kathleen L. Maher, my critique partner, who is such a blessing. Grateful for Regina Fujitani, my professional beta reader for this project, and kudos to Gina Welborn for her helpful suggestions. Vicki McCollum’s edits are much appreciated. Thank you, Joyce Hart, my agent, and Becky Germany, our editor and publisher. A group hug to the Pagels’ Pals and to my fellow Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands authors!
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
JEREMIAH 29:11 NIV
Chapter 1
Turtle Springs, Kansas
April 1866
Pa had some kind of nerve, up and dying like that—just when I’d gotten used to Frank being gone. Adjusting her somber bonnet, Caroline Kane exited what was now her inn, onto the boardwalk and then stepped down to the hard-packed dirt street. She needed to visit her parents’ graves before the busy day began. With a breath of frustration, she waited for the dairy wagon to pass. Young Jake Miller waved as he drove by. Would his widowed mother find a husband in the upcoming auditions? What a hare-brained notion. Mrs. Miller sure could use extra help, though, that a husband would provide. As for Caroline, she was fine. Perfectly fine.
“We’ll manage just fine,” she mumbled to herself.
“Caroline!”
Caroline pivoted to spy Mrs. Reed emerging from the alley alongside the Tumble Inn. The older woman shuffled toward her, bent forward as usual, rubbing her gnarled hands.
“What are you doing up so early, Mrs. Reed?”
“I wish you’d just call me Mae, child.” She lifted her chin, and her pale-blue eyes glimmered.
“Doesn’t seem natural, ma’am, but I’ll try.” She smiled at the widow, who’d only recently joined the inn’s staff. “So you’re an early bird today, too?”
The worry over all the incoming men to the inn had Caroline tossing and turning. Not only would she have to put the men up but they’d have to be fed, and somehow she’d have to keep her two younger sisters from being accosted by any of them.
Mae cringed. “I couldn’t sleep. My rheumatism tells me a storm is coming.” The silver-haired widow flexed her right hand and grasped her left one, massaging her swollen knuckles. “But I wanted to ask if you think we’ve got enough biscuits put aside for this morning?”
“I think Deanna did the count last night before she went to sleep.” Caroline sighed. “I hate to serve cold biscuits, but with Pa gone, I’m still trying to figure out how to make everything work.”
“We’ll get help. The Lord never fails us.” Mae turned to go back to the inn.
Caroline crossed the street, a wind gust ruffling her skirts, and headed south, past the town green, toward the field behind the church. A rosy glow hovered over the far tree line, the sun determined to rise, despite all that had happened. Life would go on, regardless. She swiped at her wet face and continued on to the cemetery, her laced boots chafing her heels.
He’s not there. Caroline slowed her pace. Pa was in heaven now, albeit all too soon, like Frank. “Every day is a precious gift,” Pa had often said. With her mother deceased now, these past five years, and Frank gone too, Caroline was truly alone.
Alone?
Caroline drew a breath of fresh morning air, full of the promise of rain. With five younger siblings, an interfering older sister, and an inn filled with Turtle Springs castoffs as workers, she was hardly alone. But with her feelings cracked open like eggs ready to be scrambled, she’d never felt lonelier.
Kansas City, Kansas
How ironic that Barden Granville’s first foray into the world of cowboys was in an establishment called The Empire, with its overdone velvet and damask upholstery, and wallpaper a laughable imitation of the grand salons of Europe. His older brother, who would inherit the title and Cheatham estate, would have referred to the decor as Agony in Red, with all the vermillion in the room. Blue smoke hung overhead like a dark cloud in the crowded tavern. Barden coughed as yet another of the cowboys at his card table lit up a cigar.
Chairs scraped the filthy wooden floor, competing with the noise of the serving girls’ laughter. Some of the scantily clad young women were no older than his youngest sister. The clergyman within him yearned to take the girls aside and ask if they knew what a slippery slope they were on.
The pock-marked youth adjacent to him threw down a coin. “Who’ll match me?”
Barden examined his cards as the other men either folded or plucked a coin from pockets grimed with road dirt. He placed his wager, a niggling of guilt convicting him that this wasn’t a good idea.
When the cards were all spread atop the table, the stunning realization hit him. “Criminy, I won!”
The largest of the men, with silver edging his temples, pushed his pile of silver coins toward Barden. The others glanced at the older man before slowly sliding their money across the table.
The man with the filthy red bandana around his thick neck squinted at Barden. “We’ll see who wins next time.”
None of them had shared their names. Maybe cowboys didn’t do that.
A waitress passed, and one of the men flung out an arm and tugged her closer. “Stop that!” She slapped at his hand.
Barden pushed his chair back. “I say, unhand her.”
“Or you’ll do what?”
He was an excellent pugilist, although his father would have chucked Barden from the house had he known he’d taken up bare-knuckle fighting while at Oxford. “I fear I’d have to teach you a lesson.”
Laughter erupted. The men mocked his words, repeating them with an exaggerated British accent, making him sound like a fop. His opponents could confirm he was no such thing, had they been present. Which they were not.
The silver-haired man shoved the table ov
er. Barden’s fists took on a life of their own as shouts and screams ensued.
Then Barden descended into darkness.
Head pounding in agony, Barden lay against dank earth that seeped moisture through his clothing. He blinked up at a pale blue sky tinged with golden light. Sunrise. Where am I, exactly? Brick walls flanked him left and right. A brass band playing American tunes seemed to occupy his brain. He pressed his eyes closed, which seemed to quiet the noise in his head.
A door slammed shut nearby. Barden flinched.
Quick footsteps neared. “Lawd, have mercy. You all right?” Compassion tinged her words, making him all the more sorry for his plight.
A groan was all he could manage.
“Oh my.” She gasped. “I be right back.”
The woman hurried off. Barden tried to move, but every body part screamed in agony. Slowly, he flexed his feet. Those cowboys had stolen his new boots. He never should have sat down with them at the card table.
If this was his dream come true then what would a nightmare be like? Oh, Lord, sovereign God, why me? Why now? I’ve waited all my life for this. Am I being punished? Was it for being an ungrateful third son who would never inherit?
Barden bent his knees. His legs still worked—there was something to be grateful for. At least they could bend. He tried to raise his head, but everything seemed to spin. When he lowered his head back onto the dirt, the stench of alley odors suddenly predominated. He’d been tossed in a back alley like refuse.
The door slammed again and quick, heavy footsteps thudded toward him. “He gonna need a doctor, Uziah.”
“I’ll go get him.” The man’s deep voice rumbled from his chest.
“First help me get him inside.”
“But where we gonna put him, Mary?” The affection in his voice suggested this woman was special to him. His wife?
“That little alcove in the kitchen.” Mary pressed a hand to Barden’s head. “Go and put that pallet down on the floor, Uziah, and come back out and help me.”
Soon, Barden found himself laid out on a thin mattress, covered with a threadbare blanket. And before he could say, “Thank you,” he was fast asleep again.
Turtle Springs, Kansas
Looking up from her dishwashing, Caroline dried her hands on her apron and glared at her older sister. “You forgot to tell me what?”
Lorraine batted her pale blond eyelashes. “I contributed to the mail-order husband ad.”
“Are you crazy? You’re already married.”
“For you, you ninny! Now that you seem to realize Frank is gone.” Lorraine’s words slapped her.
Caroline could only stare, gape-mouthed. Truly, only since Pa’s death had she even accepted that she was indeed a widow.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”
“No!”
Alvin looked up from where he sat by the door, peeling potatoes. Their seventeen-year-old brother smirked. “How’s it feel having other people making decisions for you?”
“Just hush, Al!” Caroline glared at him. Would he still be alive had their father allowed him to go fight?
Picking up a torn dishtowel, Lorraine tut-tutted. “Ma would never have let the inn get so run down like Pa did.” Or like Caroline was her inference.
“You don’t even live here, and Pa left the inn to me, so you’ve no need to bother yourself with such details.” Caroline yanked the stained cloth from her sister. “What are you doing by going behind my back and putting my name in on that husband-auditioning thing?”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Then I’ll pick someone for you.” Lorraine’s smirk promised she would. “Trust me, Caroline, you’ll be happy once the inn starts making money from new customers in town for the auditions.” She averted her gaze and picked at her lace cuffs. “On that note, I should mention I volunteered for the auditions to be held here, in the dining hall.”
“What!” Both Caroline and Alvin shouted at the same time.
When her younger brother jumped up from his chair, Caroline held out a staying hand. “Lorraine, you had no right!”
“They’ll pay well for the privilege of using the restaurant from four to six that afternoon.”
“And will expect food, no doubt.”
Twin circles of red appeared on her sister’s fair cheeks. “Yes, but something simple.”
“Well I’m not going to be participating, and I’ll not even be here …” Not now that she realized her interfering sister had gone in on the ad in Caroline’s name. “So you better figure out a way to serve them.”
Lorraine merely shrugged.
If Caroline were ten years younger, she’d be rolling around on the floor with Lorraine like they used to do when her older sister would try to hide her Jane Austen novels. “Did it not occur to you that we’ll have to serve an evening meal to our guests, too?”
“Pooh! Most of the men will be staying here, and if they are full up on sandwiches, cookies, punch, and coffee, you can give them stew and biscuits for dinner.”
She would have argued, but that rationale actually made sense. “I don’t want Deanna or Virginia involved in this either. I don’t need any of those men thinking they’re looking for husbands.”
“I’m much happier married, and I know you would be, too, if only you’d open yourself up again to the possibility.”
“Wonderful! Then you and Joel can take Henry and Leonard in at your ranch and share your happiness with them—like you first promised Pa.” Then reneged on the promise as he drew closer to death.
Eyes widening, Lorraine opened her pale blue silk reticule. “That reminds me! I just got a letter from Grandmother.”
“Grandmother Tyler?” Pa’s people had died in South Carolina, years earlier. Ma’s folks in Virginia were too prideful to associate with them.
“Yes. Grandmother Tyler.”
“What did she say?”
“Read it.” Lorraine shoved the cream-colored missive at Caroline. “I have to run. Need to see the milliner about my new hat.”
Caroline didn’t even bother to wave good-bye as her sister fled with her usual rapidity. Lorraine was good at running away from conflict. That was how she’d become Mrs. Martinchek.
“What are you gonna do?” Alvin set another peeled potato into the crockery bowl. “We could use the extra money, and I’m willing to help. Henry and Leonard can help, too.”
Caroline pulled a stool out from beneath the work counter and sat down. “She just makes me so angry. She has no right to interfere.”
“Kinda hurt us boys’ feelings when she wouldn’t let us come out to the ranch.”
“Yes, well …” She didn’t need sensitive Alvin dwelling on these thoughts. “She’s newly married.”
Mrs. Reed entered from the dining room, waving an empty breadbasket. “Our guests are awfully hungry this morning.”
What would they do when the men arrived for the auditions? Surely many would cram into every available space at the inn. They’d be working around the clock. Caroline needed help … and fast.
Chapter 2
Telegrams to Father’s British rancher friends in the surrounding area went unanswered. Time came for Barden to move on.
Mary Freeman had told Barden, “Our friend, Mr. Tumbleston, send word to us this past winter that they needed help at his inn. He’s passed on, Lord rest his soul, but I reckon his daughter, Mrs. Kane, would take you on—like she did with us when we first came to Kansas.”
Uziah had given Barden a true compliment: “I reckon you competent to give her some relief, now you learned the ropes.”
Competent wasn’t a word he’d often heard ascribed to himself, other than at seminary. At the estate, he’d always been the ignored third brother. But his valet recognized Barden’s proficiency in reading and had supplied boxes of American dime novels. Through that paperback tutelage, Barden realized he’d been born on the wrong continent. Before he settled down into his ministr
y in pastoral northern England, he’d live the cowboy life. Although how he’d do that at an inn, he didn’t know.
Now, traveling across Kansas, his back ached worse than any hunt he’d been on, riding and jumping over hill and dale in chase of an elusive fox. And his stop at the Martinchek’s ranch failed to procure Barden a spot as a hand. The rest of the drive into Turtle Springs was a blur of green as he silently vented at God for His failure to help him in his quest to enjoy cowboy life, even if for only a few months.
The drayman pulled to the side of the street, by a painfully plain building, much like one back home in England—a large ordinary in Leeds. The Tumble Inn, a whitewashed wooden structure, stood three stories high, as did few others in this small borough. No shutters, no protective portico, nothing decorative on the front. The windows bore evidence of street grime, failing to reflect back the sun’s impressive glare. Still, he wasn’t here to pass judgment.
Barden grabbed his bag and hopped down. Although he had few coins to spare, he pulled one from his pocket and offered it.
The driver shook his head. “No, sir, Uziah pay me good to get you here.”
“Well then …” Barden tucked the coin back in his vest pocket. “Thank you.”
“I can’t be lingerin’. God go with you.” The man’s soulful eyes were gentle, unlike Barden’s father’s accusatory ones.
If Father knew he was here … This wasn’t how Barden had planned to spend his American holiday. He was supposed to be on a ranch, enjoying a bit of cowboy life before settling into the remote northern village that was to be his home and into a stone-walled vicarage that could have fit into this inn several times over.
Couples emerged from the inn, chatting, followed by some solitary men and women. A middle-aged woman attired in a sapphire-blue damask dress held fast to the arm of a red-haired man whose smile could not have been any broader.
Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection Page 39
