Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection

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

  “Thanks, Ma.” Miss Melton led J.R. and Miss Ransome into the parlor. Blue calico curtains framed the corner windows. She pointed to the settee against a wall and then to the small table in the center of the room. “Please, sit wherever you would like.”

  Miss Ransome placed J.R.’s notebook and pencil on the table and then settled in a rocking chair near the unlit hearth. J.R. eyed the second rocker beside the hearth. Not the best for sitting and writing. Instead he sat at the table, in the lattice-back chair, enabling him an easy view of Miss Ransome. With each backward movement of her rocker, the floorboard underneath creaked. Squeak.

  Miss Melton moved the oil lamp from the table—squeak—to the desk under the window. Squeak. She sat at the table. “Jane, there’s an extra chair. You can join us.”

  Squeak.

  “Please”—Miss Ransome waved at nothing in particular—“don’t mind me.”

  Squeak.

  Miss Melton hesitated. Then she shifted in her chair to face J.R. Squeak. “Where would you like to begin?”

  Squeak.

  J.R. looked at Miss Ransome, contentedly rocking. Miss Melton didn’t seem to notice the annoying sound, or, if she did, she didn’t let on she was bothered by the—squeak. Both ladies were content. Content with the sound. Squeak. Content with the seating arrangement. Squeak. Content for Miss Ransome to be not quite included.

  Squeak.

  “This won’t do,” he muttered. Ignoring the women’s confused frowns, he lifted the table over the chairs then placed it in front of Miss Ransome’s rocker, hindering her ability to rock. He added two chairs, while Miss Melton moved hers. “There. Much better.” Smiling, he opened his notebook and looked at the mayor. “Why the advertisement?”

  Miss Melton glanced from him to Miss Ransome, thought for a moment, and then looked back to him, a furrow in her brow. “Of the eighty-three men of our town who went to war, seven returned, including Oliver Kassel. That left many widows struggling even more to provide for their families. The advertisement is an answer to a need, nothing more.”

  Made sense.

  J.R. added her words to his notes.

  “That’s not true,” Miss Melton mused, something causing her to rethink her statement. “Mr. Lockhart, the husband auditions are more than to answer a need. They are an opportunity to move forward. We need something to focus on besides our losses. We need a reason to believe tomorrow will be better than today.”

  J.R. stopped after writing reason to believe. Unlike Mrs. Hale, who refused to include any mention of the war in Godey’s, the ladies of Turtle Springs were not ignoring the scars of war, or pretending the war never happened, or content to numb their pain with poems about butterflies. Their dissatisfaction with their struggles was what pushed them to take such drastic risks to change their futures. They chose hope. They chose to keep living.

  He quickly jotted his thoughts before he lost them.

  “Well now, I hear you’re writing a story about our town,” Mrs. Melton said, walking into the parlor. She rested the tea tray on the table then sat at the fourth chair around the table.

  “Indeed, ma’am.” He laid his pencil inside his notebook. “During the war, I traveled with the Philadelphia Brigade, writing stories of the men who served. Afterward I took a position as a staff writer at Godey’s Lady’s Book—”

  “You write for Godey’s?” Before he could answer, Mrs. Melton glared at her daughter. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.” She then dashed from the room.

  Miss Melton looked heavenward and shook her head sadly as if to say, “You should have never mentioned Godey’s.”

  J.R. eyed Miss Ransome. She stared absently at the tea service. The desire to know what she was thinking gnawed at him. That she wasn’t massaging her bruised palm had to mean something. I’m sorry. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to apologize. But he did. He wanted to cheer her up, make her laugh, help her believe her tomorrows would be better than her todays. Why? His pulse quickened. Because he cared.

  He shouldn’t.

  Jane Ransome was the least needy woman he’d ever met. She could take down an attacker with her bare hands. Not to say she didn’t wear a weapon somewhere on her person. A knife strapped to her calf, most likely. Possibly a revolver. Even if she wasn’t a perfect shot, he was certain she knew how to load, shoot, and hit a target. He’d never held a gun in his life.

  A man could be a hero to any woman in this town. In this country, for that matter.

  How could any man be a hero to her?

  Jane Ransome, the beauty she was, didn’t need a rescuer. She certainly didn’t need a man whose personal belongings fit into two categories: luxurious clothes and books.

  Mrs. Melton returned carrying an armful of magazines J.R. recognized instantly. She pushed the tea service across the table; an inch more and it would have toppled into her daughter’s lap. “Theodore bought me a year’s subscription of Godey’s in ’33 as a wedding gift. These seven are the ones I received last year, in the months following his death. Spending three dollars on a subscription for this year seemed …” She blinked at the tears in her eyes. “Is your writing in any of these?”

  “Let me see.” J.R. shifted through the pile, pulling out the ones she’d asked for. He didn’t need to check the dates. He’d studied every page of every edition published since he began working for Mrs. Hale. He could describe the covers by memory.

  “Would you sign them?” she asked.

  He blinked. Sign his work? He looked at Miss Melton and was glad he hadn’t laughed. She was serious. “Of course,” he said with a smile.

  A good thirty minutes passed before he finished autographing the magazines and obliging her myriad questions. Misses Melton and Ransome had finished their tea, poured refills, and were discussing what days they’d each signed up to take meals to Reverend Smith.

  J.R. opened his notebook. He cleared his throat to draw their attention. “A town often has a handful of women who—” How to say this without offending them?

  “Who rule the roost?” Miss Melton supplied.

  He nodded. “Their willingness to share their stories will sway others into talking. Who do you recommend?”

  “Emma Peabody and Louisa Doolittle,” answered Mrs. Melton. She leaned close and patted his arm. “Be on your guard around those two. A handsome bachelor is a tempting prize that has destroyed more than one friendship. Trust me, I know.”

  “Ma!”

  “Abby, don’t be so shocked.” Mrs. Melton’s chin rose. “The moment I saw your father I knew I wanted him more than any other woman could possibly want him. Once I found my sister a husband of her own, she forgave me for being more alluring.”

  Miss Melton’s cheeks pinked, and yet she smiled. “I swear you say things solely for the sake of embarrassing me.”

  “Oh, I would never.” Mrs. Melton’s lips twitched. She sipped her tea. “Unfortunately for Mr. Lockhart, he is too young and adventurous for me to try to impress with my wit. You, on the other hand, need to stop waiting for Sheriff Ingram to come around to your way of thinking and consider how you can woo Mr. Lockhart.”

  “Ma,” groaned Miss Melton. She looked at J.R. “Please ignore her.”

  “Can’t.” He winked at Mrs. Melton. “Venus isn’t possible to ignore.”

  Miss Ransome, once again, stared absently at the tea tray. For a woman who had been so talkative during the walk here, she was strangely quiet.

  Mrs. Melton fluttered her lashes at J.R. “Call me Lucille.”

  “What on earth! Ma, stop flirting with Mr. Lockhart.” Miss Melton looked at J.R. “You should talk to Maggie Piner. She’s about ten years older than I am, has two boys, and lives a mile out of town. Her husband died the same day Pa and my brother Dan did. She’s the kindest lady you’ll ever meet.”

  Mrs. Melton nodded. “And pretty, too. Maggie’s not as gregarious as Emma or Louisa, but, J.R.,” she said, because clearly a mild flirtation put them on first-name basis, “I don’t know a s
oul who doesn’t admire how Maggie’s worked to keep her land. Frieda Lomax is another good one to interview. And Caroline Kane, but she is so busy with the inn and managing her siblings, she may not have time to tell you her story.”

  “Same with Chardy Stevens,” Miss Melton put in.

  J.R. added these names to his list. “Anyone else?”

  The Meltons sipped their tea. Exchanged glances with one another. Sighed.

  “Debbie Barker.”

  J.R. watched as both Meltons turned their heads to look at Miss Ransome.

  “Who?” Miss Melton asked, her confusion matching her mother’s.

  “Early twenties, deep blue eyes, strawberry blond.” When the Meltons shook their heads, Miss Ransome set her teacup and saucer onto the table. “Debbie and her parents live on a homestead a couple miles past the Radles, near Antelope Creek. The Terrys are their closet neighbor.”

  The Meltons continued to frown like they had no idea who she was talking about.

  Miss Ransome looked at J.R.—more precisely, at his notebook. “Debbie wasn’t happy about the move to Kansas. They don’t come into town too often, so she hasn’t made many friends. They were here for the Remembrance Service. When they make it to Sunday worship, I like to sit near them because all three of them have beautiful singing voices. Debbie says God has been softening her heart about life here, which is why she decided to participate in the husband auditions. Her talking to you won’t convince anyone else to agree to an interview, but I would want to read her story.”

  J.R. looked down at his notes. He hadn’t written a thing about the Barker family because he’d been so focused on listening to Miss Ransome talk. The woman was a walking city—perhaps even county—directory. Yet she’d never spoke of anyone as if the woman was an intimate friend. Did she have any? Or was she alone?

  Miss Melton turned to her mother.

  Mrs. Melton shook her head. Her eyes flickered to Miss Ransome and then to J.R., who then looked at Miss Melton, hoping for her to say something. She released a soft hmmph.

  “Uh huh.” From her mother.

  Another hmmph.

  J.R. tapped his notebook with his pencil. This was awkward. Some strange conversation was going on and he was certain it involved him. And not in a good way.

  “You sure?” Miss Melton finally said.

  Her mother exhaled. “Once you know what to look for, it’s obvious.”

  Miss Melton let out a little laugh. “No wonder Josiah runs from you.”

  Miss Ransome’s eyes widened. She looked back and forth between them. “No. Absolutely not. I have better things to do with my time.”

  “Of course you do.” Lucille Melton stood. She gathered the cups and saucers. “J.R., dear, you are welcome for tea anytime. You, too, Jane Ransome.” She strolled out of the parlor, leaving her daughter alone to glower at Miss Ransome.

  Miss Melton turned sharply to face her. “What are these better things you have to do?”

  After a few moments, Miss Ransome cleared her throat. “For starters, I have to settle upon my list of questions to ask during the husband interviews. Not any simple question will do. That’s, at minimum, two full days of work.” She rested against the back of her rocker. “I also have to plan and cook a meal for Reverend Smith. Another full day of work.”

  “Really?”

  “Real-ly.” Complete conviction laced both syllables. Miss Ransome smiled smugly. “On Tuesday my cousin Cyrus will arrive with the wagon of goods from my father. I have to inventory it, stock my pantry, and then see what Chardy wants to buy. I should take a meal to her, too.” She turned to J.R. “Chardy has a broken arm. Her brother’s fault.”

  J.R. started to say, “I know,” but he didn’t need to be King Belshazzar to see the handwriting on the wall warning him to stay silent.

  “Of course,” continued Miss Ransome, “I need to also see what assistance Miss Loretta needs with the Founders’ Day Celebration.” She cast an apologetic glance at J.R. “It’s the Saturday after the auditions. Ice cream will be served, but you aren’t obligated to attend.”

  He gave her a nod of understanding. This had to be the strangest conversation he’d ever been a part of. And one of the most enjoyable.

  Miss Melton rapped her fingers in a slow yet continual motion on the table. “I like you, Jane,” she said in a measured tone. “I do. Which is why I am appointing you as my special hostess to the press.”

  Miss Ransome’s eyes narrowed. “There is no such thing as a hostess to the press.”

  “There is now.” In an abrupt motion, Miss Abigail Melton swiveled in her chair. She gave J.R. a bright smile. “Jane will drive you out to the Barkers’ homestead tomorrow. And to the Piner Ranch at your convenience. Let her know who else you need to be introduced to, and she will arrange it under the authority of the office of the mayor.”

  Chapter 7

  The trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.—Molière

  Friday afternoon, May 25

  Yep, there she goes, she’s lookin’ again.”

  Jane turned away from the river of men in front of the Tumble Inn, shifting in her chair to face Mr. Quimby, who studied the checkerboard as if it were a work of art. “Tease all you wish. I am not embarrassed to be caught looking. Abby has the names of over a hundred men on the husband audition sign-up list.”

  “Over a hundred men!” Mr. Underwood jumped his black piece over two of Mr. Quimby’s. “King me again.”

  Mr. Quimby grumbled. But did as he was told.

  Mr. Underwood frowned. “Jane, that’s a lot of men for only eight fifteen-minute interview sessions. How’s this going to work anyway?”

  Jane glanced down the street to the inn. Her heartbeat increased, to her annoyance. Mr. Lockhart, now outside, shook hands with those in line. How little she’d accomplished during the last four days because of all the times he needed “hostess to the press” assistance.

  She spent an hour driving him in the buggy out to, and another hour back from, the Barker homestead. She took him to visit the Piner Ranch, only to discover no one was home. She helped him deliver Mrs. Kassel’s meal to Reverend Smith. She escorted him to the Lomax farm and, after Frieda’s girls told him about their stone cellar, endured his sudden insistence that she, along with Frieda’s girls, take him out to see it. She, not Millie, had to sit in a chair in the Kassels’ parlor and smile as he and Oliver adjusted the lens on the camera they’d dug out of the newspaper office that hadn’t seen the light of day since Oliver and Millie’s father marched off to war.

  Only—only—because she was a nice person had she agreed to dinner last night at the Kassels in order for Oliver and Mr. Lockhart to help her and Millie polish their interview questions, despite the fact no one asked for their bachelor opinions.

  She’d even tolerated Mr. Lockhart’s constant chattering as he aided her cousin Cyrus in unloading the wagon, and as Mr. Lockhart insisted upon helping her inventory the food, furs, cloth, and seed Papa had sent from his trading posts. And then Mr. Lockhart helped her sell what she didn’t need and what Chardy Stevens didn’t wish to buy to the men living in Tent City. Actually he did all the selling for her … at a greater profit, too! Mama would want to adopt him.

  Or insist Jane marry him.

  She laughed silently at the ridiculousness.

  Point was, her life had been much more peaceful before J.R. Lockhart arrived in town.

  He had, she must admit, willingly helped her choose items from her excess to add to the abundant food given to Reverend Smith, which he wanted distributed to those less fortunate. Food they were able to leave at Piner Ranch without Maggie knowing who brought it. Food they also left on the McGees’ porch before sunrise this morning.

  Mr. Lockhart found enjoyment in busyness and in sitting on the Kassels’ front porch watching the sunset, another thing he insisted he needed a hostess to the press for. Happy as a puppy he was. Which was no wonder it seemed everyone in town, even in Tent City, was on first-name basis
with him. How did he do that? How was it he made friends so easily while after three years, her closest confidants were two elderly men?

  With an irritated growl under her breath, she turned back to see Misters Quimby and Underwood smiling at her. “I do not care if you know I was thinking about Mr. Lockhart. Abby ordered me to help him arrange his interviews. What was the question?”

  “The interviews?” prodded Mr. Underwood. “Too many men, too little time.”

  A fitting analysis.

  Jane rested her hands atop the journal in the lap of her purple suit. As often as Abby had explained the order of events in last week’s meeting, the logistics of it never made complete sense. But Abby said to trust her, so Jane chose not to fret the details. “A good number of men,” she explained, “sent letters for us to read. If a lady favored a letter, the author is given an automatic interview time with her, regardless of where he is in the line. No man is required to speak to a lady if he doesn’t feel inclined.”

  “You mean iffen he doesn’t think she’s pretty enough?”

  Jane grimaced. “As cold-hearted as that is, Mr. Quimby, yes. This is why several of the ladies have engaged the interviewees prior to today, to weed out the riffraff. Every man who signed up for the interviews will be given a notecard. If a lady has written her name down on a man’s card, he earns an automatic session with her.”

  “And the tides turn,” muttered Mr. Underwood. “If I were a lady, I’d be clever and pick my eight interviewees ahead of time. This way I could talk to whoever I wanted.”

  Jane smiled and boasted, “Then we shall agree I’m clever.”

  Mr. Underwood applauded. “That’s our girl.”

  Mr. Quimby merely curled his upper lip. “Is Locky on yer card?”

  “Of course not. He’s leaving for Sacramento once his article is finished.”

  Both men stared at her as if she’d spoken another language. For her own personal amusement, she repeated the statement in French. And then in Shawnee.