Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection

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

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Tuesday afternoon, May 15, 1866

  Every editor wanted the same thing: tragedy, triumph, bring our readers to tears. None could—or would—define what they were looking for beyond the usual we-know-it-when-we-see-it.

  With a growl of frustration, J.R. Lockhart tossed the letter from the editor of the Daily Alta California onto the basket of responses from the San Francisco Morning Call, San Francisco Chronicle, Sacramento Daily Union, and Marysville Daily Appeal. To name a few. To name the rejections that pained him the most. None of his accounts of soldier life during the war, abolitionist pamphlets, or exposés of post-war reconstruction, nor any of his ballads, essays, or short stories published in the last year at Godey’s Lady’s Book engaged the West Coast editors enough to prompt an offer of employment, or even a simple request he come to California for an interview.

  J.R. looked to the continental map tacked on the wall, over the spot where a portrait used to hang of George Washington crossing the Delaware. An inky line stretched from Philadelphia to Cleveland, Chicago, and Omaha. By the end of this year, the Pacific Railroad between Omaha and North Platte would be completed, putting the East Coast—putting him—one state closer to California.

  Twenty-eight hundred miles separated him from his future.

  A future as bleak as his gray suit.

  “I’m never going to leave,” he muttered.

  A soft rap-a-tap-tap-tap drew his attention to the opened door.

  J.R. stood and forced a smile. “Ma’am.”

  Sarah Josepha Hale, in her usual black gown that made her silver hair more striking, stood there bearing a mug and a luncheon plate. “Do you have time to talk?”

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment.

  Mrs. Hale stepped inside his office and, to his shock, closed the door. J.R. tensed. Not once in the eleven months he’d worked here had she closed the door, or asked him to when he’d visited her office. Why did she feel the need for privacy? She rested the plate with two buttered slices of bread and the mug of coffee in the center of his desk and then sat in a chair across from him as if she were an interviewee instead of the editress of the most popular publication in the country.

  “Your mother was a dear friend,” she began, “and one of the finest poets I have ever been blessed to work with.”

  J.R. settled back against his leather chair’s high back. Mrs. Hale had known him since his birth. In the twenty-seven years since, he’d learned never to interrupt her until she’d had her say, especially when she began a discussion with mention of a dear friend. The woman had more dear friends than anyone in all of creation.

  “The artistry of Ann Maria’s ballads—” Mrs. Hale rested her hands in her lap and sighed. “My dear boy, she is greatly missed. Your father, too. The college will never be the same without his leadership.”

  Based on the tears in her eyes, one would think his parents had passed away last week, not over two years ago. Then again, this was the same woman who mourned her husband’s death every day … for the past forty-four years! Now that was devotion.

  J.R. sipped his coffee as he waited for her to speak.

  She stared absently at his wall of books, a frown growing. “War is hell, as much to a man who fought it with a pen as the one who used a sword.” She looked back at him. “Those of my sex also know, for a young man, war is dangerous and exciting.”

  He tapped his fingers on the chair’s armrests. “I didn’t join the war because I thought it would be exciting. I went to tell of the horrors—”

  She held up a hand, and he fell silent.

  “A man’s nature is to attack something. To conquer. This is why we have war. It is why we have rifles, boxing, and even cricket. It is why my great-grandson last night felt compelled to thrash a tree in my yard with a stick.” Her troubled gaze flickered to the letters in the basket. “A man’s nature also calls him to adventure, not to sit behind a desk and write stories that appeal to women.” She looked at him. “I’ve written numerous letters of recommendation on your behalf, and you have yet to tell me what you are seeking in California.”

  “It’s more of what isn’t there.”

  She nodded for him to explain.

  “War. Half a million Philadelphians bear scars from it, and yet”—J.R. grabbed a copy of this month’s Lady’s Book atop the stack on his desk—“we print recipes, sentimental songs, household tips, and the latest fashion plates in hopes of keeping war from permeating our daily conversations.”

  “Do you want us to publish stories about the war?”

  Shaking his head, he laid the magazine on the other eleven containing his writings. “When I was fifteen, I started writing abolitionist pamphlets to end slavery. This morning I finished a three-page ballad about a butterfly. ‘She was happy and fair, graceful and gay, sporting the summer of bright youth away—’” J.R. groaned, unable to continue reciting the words he’d forced himself to pen. “I’m tired of writing about butterflies in hopes of temporarily distracting readers from the horrors none of us can forget.”

  “I see.” The longer Mrs. Hale studied him, the sadder she looked. “I have not reached the age of six-and-seventy years without learning that deep in a man’s heart are fundamental questions which cannot—simply cannot—be answered at a lady’s magazine. Who is J.R. Lockhart? A writer? A crusader? A Quaker who must have a good reason why he has yet to set foot inside a church since returning from war?”

  J.R. chose to presume her questions were rhetorical.

  Her gaze shifted to the neatly stacked piles of papers and magazines on his desk. “Or is he simply a tamed man content to be confined to a chair … in an office … with a lone window overlooking a busy street?”

  He took a gulp of coffee to ease his taut throat.

  “Life here bores you. Worse, it has turned you into a boring man. I miss the carefree, charming rapscallion that you were.” Mrs. Hale eased forward in the chair. “Do you think by moving to California you will find out what are you made of and what you are destined for?”

  He returned the mug to his desktop. “I need change, ma’am, not self-enlightenment.”

  “Then change is my gift to you.” Her lips tipped up at the corners. “Before you leave for the day, stop by the clerk’s office and pick up your final pay.”

  J.R. sat up straight. “You’re sacking me?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Why?”

  “You have no family in Philadelphia.”

  Her reasoning made no sense. “Thus I should lose my employment?”

  “You are independently wealthy, thus I can only conclude limited finances are not the cause for you becoming a stick-in-the-mud who gave up even the mildest flirtation. Gloom is not effective bait to hook a lady.” She gave him a don’t-argue-with-my-assessment-of-you smile, and then said, “Therefore, the only conclusion is … you won’t seek your change in California until you have nothing to cleave to here.”

  “You’re tossing me out of the boat and hoping I will swim.”

  “Or I am hoping you won’t drown.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  Her brows rose as if to say that’s your question to answer. She withdrew a folded slip of paper, tucked in the wristband of her sleeve. “A dear friend of mine in Memphis thought this might interest me.”

  J.R. leaned across his desk to take the narrow, rectangular slip of paper. He unfolded what clearly had been cut from a newspaper’s advertisement section.

  WANTED: MEN TO AUDITION AS HUSBANDS. TURTLE SPRINGS, KANSAS.

  AUDITIONS HELD MAY 25. ONLY GODLY, UPSTANDING MEN

  NEED APPLY. CHECK IN AT MAYOR’S OFFICE.

  He met her guileless gaze. “Godey’s Lady’s Book has never mentioned the war. Not even a vague reference. I suspect these desperate women are war widows. Any story about them cannot be written without mentioning why their husbands died.”

  “This story isn’t for me,” she said primly. “Since Godey’s ow
ns the copyright on the work you’ve written for us, I advise you to pen something new to sell to other editors. Something filled with pathos and joy.”

  “These women may not want their stories told.” Not that he expected the men would either. Sensationalism was not his cup of journalistic tea.

  She seemed to think on that for a moment. “If the ladies of Turtle Springs don’t want their names published, then turn their stories into fiction. And write it in installments. Since the serial success of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the best American writers first publish their work in serial form. I expect the best from you.” She stood.

  He stood, too.

  “Take care, J.R. I’ll send Norville Owens to help you pack your”—she glanced about the room and clearly realized his belongings were limited to—“books.”

  At the pitying sound of her tone, he could feel the muscles in his face tightening. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You need permission.”

  “To go to Kansas?”

  “To go west, young man. Manifest destiny and all.”

  He coughed a breath.

  She smiled, the expression on her face more patient than placating. “Young men need more than adventures. They need beauties to rescue. You may find what you are looking for in Turtle Springs.” She paused. “Find the man you once were, J.R. Find your heart.”

  As Mrs. Hale strolled out of his office, she left the door open. He could see into the sitting room where a handful of writers and businessmen sat while waiting for an audience with the formidable woman who had swayed, at the time, the most powerful man in the world into proclaiming Thanksgiving a national holiday. The same woman who took away J.R.’s job because she thought he needed permission to leave Philadelphia.

  He shook his head. He never needed permission. And yet—

  With each twist, with each turn, the iron snake consumes its prey. Land ho!

  He looked to the map, a smile growing, a poem forming. He could go west. Nothing held him back now. Thanks to Mrs. Hale. A mere twenty-eight hundred miles, and a short stop in Kansas, separated him and his future. A beauty to rescue?

  He was a writer, not a warrior.

  The only thing he needed to find in Turtle Springs was a story to hook an editor. He’d look for a dark-eyed beauty once he was settled in California.

  Chapter 2

  Unreasonable haste is the direct road to error.—Molière

  Turtle Springs, Kansas

  Six weeks earlier …

  Jane Ransome stepped out of the telegraph office and breathed in deep. Spring. Change was in the air. She looked across Main Street to the barbershop that rarely saw business anymore. An unfamiliar man stood outside. He ran a hand down one clean-shaven cheek and then the other before tucking his hat onto his head. His index finger swiped across the brim. Were his eyes blue? Possibly green. Maybe gray. They could even be brown. From where she stood, she couldn’t tell.

  The color of his eyes didn’t matter. All that did was—

  “He’s not married,” she whispered, knowing with all certainty she was right.

  “What was that you said, Jane Ransome?” Mrs. Olinger called from inside the telegraph office.

  Even though Jane had lived in Turtle Springs for three years, the older townsfolk still referred to her by her full name, a common practice when talking about (or to) any native—full blooded or mixed. Never Mr. or Miss So-and-So. Always the full name and sometimes with the preface that injun or that half-breed. If she said something about how belittling the practice was they’d feel shame and be apologetic. To be sure, she knew they never intended offense. No one in Turtle Springs was mean-spirited or a supremacist. For her to overlook the slight seemed the kindest response. Or so Papa said.

  Being a white man, how could he know for sure?

  Jane looked over her shoulder and smiled across the opened door’s threshold. “It was nothing, ma’am. I’ll see you Sunday.” She looked back across the street.

  The man headed west on the boardwalk. Toward the Tumble Inn? That seemed most logical.

  Jane quickly stuffed the receipt for the telegram she’d sent to her parents into her reticule that matched her blue-checkered silk day dress. She had a man to track, the most exciting thing she’d done since—

  She thought for a moment. Nothing. Not a thing came to mind.

  Unless she counted last month when she’d caught her neighbor’s children climbing onto the roof of their house to watch the full moon rise. Their mother, Jenny, had been more shocked at seeing Clyde, Nancy, and Opie up there than with seeing Jane sitting with them. It’d been cold. And the trio had looked like they could use pie and hot cocoa and an adult to keep them from jumping to the ground.

  That’s what her life had come to—supervising children on rooftops.

  With a resigned sigh, Jane headed west, paralleling the man’s pace, the modest crinoline under her skirt swishing against her legs as she hurried. How could he know about the husband interviews already? Last night at the church meeting, Abby insisted she’d place the advertisements this morning—the first Monday of the month. That gave potential husbands seven weeks to arrive in time for the husband interviews. Even if this man had been at the telegraph offices in Omaha, Dubuque, or Memphis when Abby’s telegrams to the newspapers arrived, he wouldn’t have had time to ride to Turtle Springs. That included time saved riding the train to Topeka.

  So why was he here already?

  Curiosity piqued, she kept walking.

  He stopped at the intersection where First Street crossed Main, the two major roads dividing the town into the shape of a plus sign. As he looked around, he didn’t appear bothered by the numerous boarded-up buildings and homes, nor the number of women teeming about with interest in the handsome stranger.

  She didn’t fault any of them for admiring him. Was that a dimple in his chin? Other than the seven Turtle Springs men who’d returned from the war, the town hadn’t seen the arrival of a stranger—male or female—in the year since Robert E. Lee surrendered the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House.

  Being handsome was icing on this stranger’s bachelorhood cake.

  Jane snorted under her breath. Not the best analogy but a fitting one. She reached the mayor’s office the same moment their new arrival did. They were near the same height. His brown hair with its golden streaks reminded her of the raccoon fur lining her winter cloak.

  Sunlight glinted off the gold star pinned to his shirt. Sheriff?

  He smiled at Jane, who smiled back. She started to introduce herself, but he opened the door to step inside.

  “Settled in?” came Abigail Melton’s matter-of-fact voice.

  “Yep,” he answered.

  The door closed, hindering Jane from hearing their conversation. Settled in? Abby had insisted upon hiring a sheriff before men began arriving for the interviews.

  Jane turned from the wooden door and looked to the other women peering her way. No telling how many ladies had decided—upon first sight—they wanted to marry the new sheriff. The hastiness of his appointment to sheriff seemed odd. Even though Abby had placed an advertisement for sheriff two weeks ago, and even though she’d stressed the necessity of hiring a sheriff before men began arriving for the interviews, this man had just arrived. And now wore the star. In Jane’s initial estimation, there hadn’t been enough time to determine if this man met all the requirements.

  Decisions of this import shouldn’t be made hastily.

  What was Abby Melton up to?

  Determined to find out, Jane entered the mayor’s office.

  “Riding out at sunset,” their new sheriff was saying. He looked angry and annoyed.

  Abby, sitting behind the mayor’s desk, looked ready to laugh. Her amused gaze shifted from the sheriff to Jane, and her smile fell. “Oh no, Jane. Don’t tell me Doc Carter refused to be our main speaker. If you couldn’t convince him, no one can.”

  Main speaker? What in the world was
Abby—Oh!

  Jane stepped to desk. “I promised he would agree, and he has.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  The sheriff’s gaze shifted back and forth between Jane and Abby.

  Jane turned her smile onto him. “This Sunday we’re having a One-Year Remembrance Service for those who fought in the war and for those who lost someone. The anniversary is actually Monday,” she clarified. “April 9th. It seemed more prudent to hold the service on a Sunday morning.”

  His brow furrowed. “Some things are worth forgetting, ma’am.”

  “As sheriff,” she said, “you will be expected to attend, regardless of your personal—”

  “Where are my manners?” Abby jumped to her feet. “Sheriff Ingram, this is Miss Jane Ransome. Jane, this is Josiah Ingram.”

  Jane shook his hand. Strange. She’d expected him to have a firmer grip. Was this limpness natural, or an intentional attempt to convey weakness? To un-impress her?

  He cleared his throat then grabbed his hat off Abby’s desk. “Ladies, it’s been a delight in speaking with you. I need to get going. I have, uhh, sheriff things to do.”

  Abby gave him an odd look. “Such as …?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck where his hair curled over the collar of his blue shirt. “Uhh … such as introduce myself around town and see if anyone needs sheriff things done.” And with that he all but dashed out of the building.

  Suspicion growing, Jane turned to Abby. “Where does he hail from? Did you ask if he was a secessionist bushwhacker?”

  “Mr. Ingram is from Little Rock, Arkansas, and fought for a man’s right to live as he pleased. His family never owned slaves.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I do.”

  “Does he have any experience being a lawman?”

  “He wears a six-shooter.”

  “What!” Jane stared at Abby. Another instant decision Abby made based off emotions instead of thinking through all the details first. Much like the advertisement for mail-order husbands. If Jane hadn’t been so desperate to find a husband of her own, she wouldn’t have helped finance the advertisement. “Abby, please tell me you did not hire him solely on the basis of a gun attached to his hip. Do you even know if he is skilled in shooting it?”