by Megan Besing
The sound of rending cloth filled her ears as the ground slammed toward her. She got her hands out in front of her just in time to prevent mashing her nose into the soil. The toes of Matron Dominus’s boots filled her vision.
Mary pushed herself to her feet, wincing at an ache in her lower back not there a moment before. Tears blurred her vision when she checked her dress—she had a three-inch rip just above the hem.
“Are you lollygagging about? Sunbathing? Do you think you’re on the Riviera?”
Despite her imposing height and girth, the matron’s voice—particularly when she was upset—resembled the irksome peacock Mary had once seen in the zoo in Philadelphia. Why God would create such a beautiful bird with such a nasty voice was beyond her.
But if what Matron said was true, He’d created Mary, too, only to have her burned by the flames that killed the rest of her family. Angry red scars ran from her forearms to halfway up her neck, and a collar of white tissue, the result of an inept doctor sewing her back together again, ringed her neck and inched toward her ears.
No, if God really loved her, He wouldn’t have allowed that to happen.
She raised her eyes to meet the matron’s. “Were you looking for me?”
“I was looking for the responsible child I thought you were.” The matron planted her fists into doughy hips. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“I’ve finished in the kitchen and was coming to find you. You said you needed me to go into town for supplies.”
“Perhaps I should send Tom.”
A smile tickled Mary’s lips. “If you send Tom, he shall spill your sugar, drop your eggs, and the butter will be melted before he gets back.”
The matron peered at her. “Get your shawl and meet me in the office. I have a list.”
Minutes later, Mary set off for town, Matron’s list and coins in her reticule and the warning to be back in time to prepare lunch for serving at noon ringing in her ears. She shrugged the kinks out of her neck. The sun told her it was already ten. A mile’s walk to and from town would take more than half an hour. Three stops on the list would take at least another half hour.
That should leave her enough time to stop at the library and check out a book or two. And maybe she could ask about possibilities for work at some of the shops. Two months wasn’t a long time.
She would plan. She would prepare.
She would not end up at the saloon.
Heartbreak, California
John Stewart stretched an arm across the pillow, reaching for Sophia. But the bed was cold. Empty.
His wife was gone.
Every morning for the past three months, he’d done the same thing, only to awaken to the heartrending realization anew that this was his life now.
In the room next door, one of his two young daughters stirred. With only a year separating them, he still couldn’t tell their cries apart. At six and eighteen months, they needed their mother.
The woman who dreamed of them long before they were born. Who prayed for them while she carried them inside her. Who rejoiced over them when they arrived.
And who begged God to spare her so she could see her girls grown to the point where they wouldn’t need her so much.
So why didn’t God listen? Why didn’t He understand that when John prayed, he wasn’t asking for himself?
John sat up and grabbed his faded dungarees from where he’d tossed them the previous evening. Or early this morning. Since Sophia’s passing, he’d learned an important lesson—the fewer hours he spent in bed, the fewer hours to toss and turn, angry at God, asking questions that wouldn’t be answered.
So he took to going to bed later and rising earlier. The girls demanded so much time and energy that those additional hours were critical.
John slipped on his boots, mud and manure caked around the heel. He sighed again.
Sophia wouldn’t have let him past the back door with boots like that.
She’d have house slippers ready. She’d have a meal on the table, the girls in clean clothes, coffee boiling on the stove, line-fresh sheets on their bed.
She made their house a home.
She made their home a sanctuary.
But no more.
He shrugged into his shirt, splashed water on his face from the bowl on the dresser, and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Stubble dotted his chin and cheeks, but shaving could wait another day. The girls wouldn’t notice, and he was fairly certain neither his horse nor his foreman would complain.
He pasted on a smile and exited the sleeping room, heading for the girls.
Another day to get through.
Somehow.
Mary clutched her market basket closer. She lingered inside the store, admiring the bolts of material, fingering the lace and ribbons. What beautiful gowns she could stitch from such quality fabrics. When she got her first pay packet, she’d buy a length of material and make herself a new dress. Nothing fancy. But no more hand-me-downs. Perhaps she’d splurge on pearl buttons instead of plain ones. She checked the price and sighed.
Probably not. Pearl cost three cents more.
The Winchester clock in the shop gonged the half hour, and Mary tugged her hat down in preparation for exiting the store. Already eleven. She would barely get back in time at this rate.
She switched her basket to the other arm and stepped into the sunshine, pausing to allow her eyes time to adjust. An elderly man sat on a bench outside the store, reading a newspaper.
A large block advertisement headed NOTICE caught her attention, and she permitted herself one more minute. She could walk faster and make up the time easily.
Wanted: young women for marriage. All expenses paid. Come to California for love and adventure. Reply below.
She stepped back. What a silly notion. Imagine traveling to California to marry a man she’d never met. Why, that was crazy. It was foolhardy. It was—
The answer to her dilemma.
She could at least inquire as to who these men were. Given her current situation—a scarred orphan with no prospects—she couldn’t be too choosy. And if she was lucky, perhaps love would come later.
At this point, she didn’t care. She memorized the address then headed back to the orphanage.
She would not end up in the saloon.
An hour later, John’s older daughter, Maggie, slurped milk from a tin cup, a dribble of white running down the side of her mouth. He added laundry to his mental to-do list. Sadie plunged her hands into her porridge then smeared it across her face, giggling. Maggie made faces at her sister, who burbled in delight.
“Maggie, eat your porridge.”
“Don’t like.”
“It’s good for you.” He swiped a hand through his hair, which needed cutting. Another thing for his list. “Eat.”
“Want Mommy.”
If asking for their mother would bring her back, he would join in his daughter’s lament and call Sophia back from wherever she was. Heaven, Sophia—and the pastor and most of the town—would say.
But John wasn’t so sure. Living here on earth with him and their daughters should have been heaven enough for her.
What more did she want?
And what did her leaving say about him? Their marriage? Their children?
Not enough. That’s what.
The sound of a wagon in the dusty yard drew his attention. Who would visit at this hour unless it was bad news?
He glanced at Maggie. “Watch your sister for a minute.”
Maggie’s face lit up. “I be Mommy.”
He left the kitchen and headed for the front door, a mighty slab of oak shipped from Missouri to keep his family safe.
But the door hadn’t done its job.
He stepped onto the front porch.
The pastor pulled his team to a halt, engaged the brake, and jumped down. “Good morning, John. Fine day the Lord has made.”
“Morning, Pastor. What brings you out here?”
Tim Jenkins, a few years older than John�
�s twenty-seven, helped his wife down before walking to the rear of the wagon and letting down the tailgate. “Got some fresh vegetables and fruit here. Well, not so fresh, perhaps. But Marcus at the general store had more than he could sell, so he gave it to me.”
John stood his ground at the top step. “Don’t need charity.”
“Not charity.” The pastor tipped a bushel basket of apples, onions, carrots, and cabbage forward to show him. “Hoping I could trade for some eggs?”
Sophia’s hens were the best layers in the county, maybe in the state. She swore it was because she sang to them every day. John wasn’t sure about that, particularly since he didn’t serenade the stupid creatures and yet they maintained their overproduction even now. “I think we could manage that.” He stepped back. “Forgive my rudeness, Mrs. Jenkins.” He tipped his head to the pastor’s wife. “Come in. We’re just finishing breakfast.”
The pastor’s wife scurried up the steps. “Don’t want to interrupt, but I’ve been longing to see your girls.” She pulled a candy stick from her purse. “Got a little something for them here, too. If you don’t mind?”
“And John, perhaps we could have a little chat out here while the wife sees to the girls?”
John sighed. He knew this wasn’t as simple as a food exchange. “Sure. Go on in, ma’am. They’re in the kitchen.”
He waited until the door closed then indicated the chairs set on the porch. Chairs he’d made for Sophia. He sat in her red chair, unwilling to allow anybody—even the pastor, who was a great friend to them during her sickness—to take her place.
The pastor set his basket near the door then sank into John’s blue chair. He pulled a sheet of paper from inside his jacket. “We’ve missed you in church.”
“Been busy.”
The pastor nodded. “ ’Spect so.”
“Probably won’t be back anytime soon.”
The pastor scooted his chair around to face him. “Sophia was a great believer in God and His redeeming love for us.”
“I ain’t Sophia.” As soon as the words left his mouth, John wished he could swallow them back. Saying it aloud made the truth too real. He dropped his gaze. “Sorry, Pastor.”
“I understand. You’re still hurting.”
John met the man’s eyes. “What do you understand? Your wife isn’t dead. You aren’t left alone to raise two young’uns. You don’t sleep in a cold, empty bed every night and wake up every morning living all over again the fact that she’s gone.”
The pastor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My first wife died three months after we married. We didn’t have children, but I do know about loss.”
John sat back, stunned at the man’s words. “Did you know God then?”
“Thought I did.”
“Thought you did? What kind of an answer is that?”
The pastor straightened. “I knew about Him. But I didn’t truly get to know Him until I went through that time.”
A wry chuckle escaped John’s lips. “So now you’re going to tell me I need to go through this pain so I can get closer to God?” He stood and paced the porch. “If that’s what God needs to make me love Him, I don’t want any part of Him.”
“That’s not how God works.” The pastor gestured to the empty chair. “Sit. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
John complied, his arms folded across his chest. “Don’t want to hear anything about my churchgoing. Or lack of.”
“Not why I’m here.” The pastor unfolded the sheet of paper. “I helped some men in town put an advertisement in an eastern newspaper.”
“For what?”
“For wives. And we had a good response. After the men made their choices, another letter came in. Sounds like you two would be a perfect match.”
John snorted. What kind of a woman answered a newspaper notice? “Why? Did she lose her husband? She have small children?”
“No. She lost her entire family.”
Chapter 2
Mary’s hands shook as she accepted the letter from the postmistress. Less than a month since she responded to the notice in the newspaper. She still owed Matron the penny for the postage, and the woman reminded her almost every day of her debt.
Along with mention of the “three wee ones” still waiting for a place. Her beady eyes bored into Mary’s soul as she spoke the words.
Well, with any luck, Mary would leave in another month. If this letter was what she hoped—when had she begun hoping again?—she could tell Matron today.
She settled onto the bench outside the post office and laid her market basket to one side. She checked the return address. Heartbreak, California.
What tragedy gave the town such a name? A failed mine, perhaps? Indian raid? She shivered. She’d heard about the dangers of the Wild West, read about it in novels from the town’s tiny library. Landslides. Snowstorms. Floods.
She slid a finger beneath the flap and opened the envelope. Perhaps the man she’d written to—the pastor—would say they didn’t need her. Didn’t want her. Already had all the women they needed.
She swallowed hard. Being rejected from afar, sight unseen, should be easier.
But it wasn’t.
She glanced up and down the street. While waiting for a reply from California, she’d checked the reputable businesses in town. None were hiring right now. Or rather, they weren’t hiring her. She either didn’t have enough experience—the mercantile—or they didn’t like the looks of her—the seamstress, who at least had the good grace to blush and apologize that her clientele were genteel women who might be offended by Mary’s scars.
She unfolded the single sheet of paper and checked the signature at the end of the brief note.
John Stewart.
Not the pastor, then.
Her heart pounded in her ears like a drum in the Fourth of July parade. Nothing fancy. Just the facts. A widower with two small children. Looking for a woman to raise his children until the oldest could run the home. Twelve years. Nothing more.
Nothing more.
Underlined three times.
And in case she didn’t understand, he went on to say theirs would be a contract marriage. Separate sleeping quarters. He would make no further demands on her.
No further demands?
Heat rushed up her neck and cheeks as understanding dawned on her.
Well, wasn’t this what she wanted? A way out of her current situation. No illusions about love. And in twelve years, she could walk away, free as a bird.
If that’s what he wanted, then that would suit her fine.
He concluded by saying he would wire her the train ticket to use at her leisure. Detailed instructions on finding Heartbreak. Send a telegram when she was on her way. Plan to marry the same day since they couldn’t stay in his home together unwed.
She folded the paper and tucked it into its envelope. Well, that was that.
She would reply today, telling him she accepted his proposal and would leave for California in a month’s time. That should please Matron.
Thirty days. The number of days before she started what now felt like a twelve-year sentence rather than a release date.
John dismounted at the train depot and untied his carpetbag from behind the saddle then handed the reins over to his foreman. “Thanks for riding in with me to take the horse back.”
Martin tipped his head. “No problem, Boss. Glad to help.”
“And don’t forget, the pastor’s wife will come by around ten to pick up the girls. Make sure Maggie takes her dolly, and Sadie likes that blue blanket.”
Martin patted his shirt pocket. “Got all the details here, Boss.”
John nodded. “Just talking to delay getting on the train.”
“Well, it won’t wait forever for you. Enjoy your visit with Sophia’s folks.”
John hefted his bag to his other hand and tossed his foreman a smile he didn’t feel. “And don’t forget—”
The train whistle drowned out the rest of his w
ords. Just as well. Not like he hadn’t told the man everything at least a dozen times in the past two weeks.
What was he thinking? Traveling to see Sophia’s parents seemed so important when he’d penned the letter to Miss Johannson. Now, he doubted his motives.
Was he trying to convince them? Or himself?
Mary stomped her foot, unable to stand Matron’s deep, heaving sighs one more minute. “Fine. I’ll leave tomorrow. You can tell the vicar the children may come here first thing.”
“But what of your arrangement, dear? Can you arrive in California so early?”
“Mr. Stewart said to come as soon as I could. His children need a mother. I will send a telegram from town tomorrow so he knows I am coming. The train ride will take three or four days at least.”
The children were sad Mary was leaving, but Tom was the most grieved. “Oh, Mary, what will happen to us? I can’t cook or clean. I’m no good in the house, and Matron will expect me to be you. Can’t you wait until I’m older?”
His pleading eyes almost changed her mind, but she stood firm. Even if she wanted to change her plans, she couldn’t.
Mr. John Stewart needed a mother for his children.
And Matron wanted her room.
“I’m sorry, Tom, but I must go. I must leave in two weeks, anyway. So it’s not much difference.”
The boy laid a hand on her arm. “I shall miss you.”
“And I you.”
“Will you write to me?”
“I shall be very busy. But I will try.”
Her halfhearted promise seemed to satisfy the boy, but Mary knew the truth of it. None of the boys and girls who left were ever heard from again. Once they stepped outside the gate, they seemed to simply fall off the face of the earth.
Would it be the same for her? Despite what she’d learned in school about the earth being round, maybe the scholars were wrong and Columbus was correct. Perhaps the world was flat, and if she traveled too far from Groverton, she’d step off the edge and disappear forever.
