by Megan Besing
A pang of loneliness and longing filled Mary’s chest, pushing out any happiness she felt at finally being off the train.
Mr. John returned to their little group and introduced the children—and then her—to his daughters. Maggie was a delight, obviously thrilled at her father’s return. Little Sadie simply stared into his face and touched his cheek then his nose.
The young woman sidled over to join them, and Mr. John turned to her. “This is Mrs. Jenkins, the pastor’s wife. They’ve been taking care of the girls.”
Not his fiancée.
Another man stood nearby, scanning the dismounting passengers but dismissing them quickly. He hurried over to Mr. John, and the two men had a quick interchange.
The man, obviously a cowboy, tipped his hat to Mrs. Jenkins and then to Mary. “The conductor says you know about my sister, Mrs. McGee?”
She swallowed. “I’m sorry. Mrs. McGee became ill on the train and passed away. We buried her in Flagstaff, Arizona Territory. The townspeople took up a collection and put a marker on her grave.” She wrapped an arm around the shoulders of her three charges. “These are her children.”
His smile fell away. “I’m sure sorry to hear that. I was hopin’ her life here would be happy. She’s had a hard time since her husband passed.” He cleared his throat and drew a deep breath then crouched down until he was at eye level with the children. “Let me see. You’re the tallest, so you’re Eli, right?”
The boy nodded, his eyes wide.
“I’m your uncle Marty.” He turned to the other two. “You must be Cassie and Trevor.”
Cassie rushed into his arms while Trevor held back and gripped Mary’s skirts. Mary pried his fingers free and inched him toward his uncle. “Say hello.”
The man held out a hand which the boy accepted. “Your momma says you’re all real smart.” He gathered the three close. “I’m sure goin’ to need your help.” Their uncle stood and faced Mr. John. “Looks like I’ll have my hands full.”
Mr. John clapped the man on the back. “We’ll do fine. Sorry about your sister but glad the children got here safe and sound, thanks to Miss Mary.”
Mary was confused. “You know each other?”
Mr. John nodded. “Sure. Martin is my foreman.”
Mary breathed a sigh of relief. God surely was in control. Knowing these children were going with their uncle, a man who obviously loved them, and with a man of such character as Mr. John, was more than she could have imagined possible.
She gathered her carpetbag into both hands. “I’ll leave you to getting home.”
Martin pulled a paper from his shirt pocket. “Before I forget, this came while you were gone.”
John took the sheet and read it then stood still as a statue. He turned to her, his face aglow as he held the paper toward her. “This changes everything.”
She took the telegram, afraid to read it.
Afraid not to.
It was her telegram, sent to Mr. John Stewart. Canceling their engagement.
Not only did Her John and Mr. Stewart share the same name, they were the same man.
And although it looked like she was taking a train ride to heartbreak, God had other plans.
A trickle of sweat dribbled down John’s back. The weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders. Now there was no reason he couldn’t tell Miss Mary exactly how he felt about her.
But how to speak his heart before she disappeared from his life forever?
Perhaps his actions could speak loud enough for her to hear.
He drew a deep breath and dropped to one knee in front of half the town. “Miss Mary, please say you’ll marry me.”
“On one condition.”
He looked up. He would fly to the moon and back if she asked. “Say the word.”
“You must promise me more than twelve years. When I marry, it will be for love and forever.”
Twelve years? What in tarnation was the woman talking about? Of course he meant for them to—
Mary. His Mary.
Feeling like ten kinds of a fool, he stood. “Do you mean—”
She nodded, a grin belying the unshed tears filling her eyes.
“How long have you known?”
“Since I saw my telegram.”
He grabbed her around the waist and whirled her in circles, much to the consternation of those passing by. Mary squealed and held her hat with one hand while the other gripped his neck.
When he was done, he set her down delicately. Had he overdone it? Perhaps she was so embarrassed she’d never say yes.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes.”
Pastor Jenkins slipped in between them and cleared his throat softly. “I think we’d best get to planning a wedding for tomorrow.”
Mrs. Jenkins stepped forward and took Mary by the hand. “You’ll stay with us tonight, of course. I can lend you my wedding dress, if that will suit you.”
Mary nodded. “I’d like that.”
John’s heart raced with anticipation as his friends led her away. He would see her again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after that. While they might live the rest of their lives in Heartbreak, and go through some bad times together—he wasn’t foolish enough to think they would be immune to the ebb and flow of life—one thing was certain: with their hearts united in God, and their lives united through marriage, there was much joy ahead for them.
Donna Schlachter lives in Colorado, where the Wild West still lives. She travels extensively for research, choosing her locations based on local stories told by local people. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and Sisters in Crime, and facilitates a local critique group. One of her favorite activities is planning her next road trip with hubby, Patrick, along as chauffeur and photographer. Donna has published twelve books under her own name and that of her alter ego, Leeann Betts, and she has ghostwritten five books. You can follow her at www.HiStoryThruTheAges.wordpress.com and on Facebook at www.fb.me/DonnaSchlachterAuthor or Twitter at www.Twitter.com/DonnaSchlachter.
Mail-Order Proxy
by Sherri Shackelford
Chapter 1
Tobacco Bend, Montana
1885
The groom was missing.
Delia Lawrence peered at the watch pinned to her bodice, noting that time had neither quickened nor slowed since she’d last checked. “I cannot think of anything worse than spending the rest of one’s life in such an isolated settlement,” she mused to the man sitting beside her. “I’d go mad living and dying in obscurity.”
Nearly the entire town of Tobacco Bend had converged in the makeshift courtroom. The saloon was narrow and long with a raised platform at the far end. The stage was framed by tattered red velvet curtains trimmed in ragged gold tassels. Keeping watch for the groom, she’d assumed her vigil on a bench set against the back wall.
The air was perfumed with hops, unwashed bodies, and stale cigar smoke. A lone cockroach scuttled along the baseboard.
Delia clutched her velvet reticule in her gloved hands and tucked her boots together. On the raised stage, the haggard justice of the peace sat behind a desk scattered with papers, a half-empty whiskey bottle at his elbow. A line of people seeking mediation for their legal disputes waited on the stairs and snaked a path through tables crowded with curious spectators.
“I loathe disorganization and ineptitude,” the soldier muttered tersely. “This whole event would be exceedingly more efficient if the justice of the peace was sober.”
“Indubitably,” Delia replied.
The man turned his gaze on her. Though sitting, he was clearly much taller. Her head barely reached his shoulder. He wore a smart military uniform in a crisp shade of blue, with shiny brass buttons and gold braiding. His gun belt was strapped securely around his lean waist. The red stripe on his trousers disappeared into glossy, black knee boots below his muscular thighs.
Delia caught herself doing something she rarely di
d. She stared at the man.
His features were harsh but not unpleasing. He had thick, dark eyebrows over chicory brown eyes and a square jaw softened by the barest hint of a dimple. His hawkish nose had healed crookedly from a past break, and she sensed his neatly trimmed mustache was an affectation to age his youthful visage.
His brow furrowed. “You don’t belong here, lady.”
“Neither do you.”
“Touché, miss.”
“I wasn’t attempting to spar with you, sir. Merely stating the obvious.” She pressed her starched handkerchief against her nose, inhaling the comforting scent of a lavender sachet. “You’re the only gentleman here who smells as though he’s bathed in the past month, and you aren’t scowling as though you’d relish a brawl.”
The man’s cheeks puffed with air then relaxed. “Not the most suitable topic of conversation among strangers, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“No. I don’t mind you saying.”
She’d never mastered the art of casual banter. Though her two younger sisters had no trouble understanding the subtle undertones of human conversation, Delia had always struggled. She took people at their word, and expected them to do the same.
The man held out his hand. “Colonel Sean Morgan. At your service, madam.”
She clasped his fingers. “Adelia Lawrence. Everyone calls me Delia.”
“Wait—”
“Are you—”
The two of them spoke in unison.
The colonel reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a slender photograph with rough edges. “This was the only photograph my brother had of his fiancée. Do you recognize this woman?”
Delia studied the familiar face.
All three sisters had originally posed, though Becky had clumsily torn herself from the group. Photographs were expensive, and Becky didn’t have the money for a solitary portrait. “She’s my sister, Becky.”
“That answers my first question.” The colonel scrubbed a hand down his face. “Where is she?”
Delia narrowed her gaze. “Then you’re related to my sister’s fiancé?”
“I’m Paul’s brother.”
Delia swiveled in her seat and her booted feet stuttered over the sticky, beer-soaked floor. “My sister sprained her ankle at the last train stop. She sent me ahead to serve as proxy, since the justice of the peace isn’t known for his reliability.”
She and the soldier flicked a glance in the general direction of the drunken man on the platform. According to Becky, her fiancé, Paul, couldn’t leave the ranch for long periods of time during calving season. The engaged couple was at the mercy of the inebriated justice of the peace. A man who kept a spotty schedule and only appeared in town once every three or four months, with little or no notice.
The colonel’s expression shifted. “When I didn’t see anyone who matched the photograph, I assumed your sister had changed her mind about the marriage.”
“You assumed wrong. Becky is quite determined.” Delia searched the noisy saloon once more. “Where is your brother? I presume the men of your family honor their word.”
Waiting on Becky had already pushed Delia behind schedule. A missing groom put a serious damper on her plans. Whatever happened, those two had to marry for the next step in her strategy to succeed.
“You needn’t doubt my brother’s word.” The colonel squared his shoulders. “Paul contracted the chicken pox and he’s still in quarantine. Since I had the illness as a child, I escaped the outbreak. He sent me ahead to marry his fiancée by proxy and escort her back to his ranch.”
Delia huffed. Events never seemed to progress in a straight line with Becky. “Well this is a conundrum.”
She pressed her lips together. Leave it to Becky to engage herself to a man who hadn’t developed immunity to the illness as a child.
Their father had only agreed to let her accompany Becky as far as Tobacco Bend. He had no clue as to the rest of her plans, and she was keeping it that way. An absent groom was an unnecessary complication.
“Now what?” The colonel lifted his hands heavenward. “I doubt the justice of the peace will perform a double proxy wedding.”
Delia mentally scrolled through the numerous possibilities, discarding several ideas as unfeasible or unnecessarily complicated, before settling on a solution. “Since both Paul and Becky are indisposed, it’s up to us to facilitate the marriage.”
“I don’t see how. All of this is highly irregular. I prefer we stick to the plan.”
“Then it’s time we make a new plan.”
Because Delia wasn’t adept at reading emotions on people’s faces, she’d become skilled at reading less tangible signs. When her mother was angry with her father, she inevitably served boiled red cabbage—a meal her father loathed. Her sister, Violet, took twice as long arranging her hair on the mornings when the groceries were delivered, and always managed to be decoratively ensconced in the kitchen when the handsome delivery boy knocked on the rear door.
“I preferred the old plan,” the colonel grumbled.
“My father gave me very strict instructions. He said to ensure that Becky was married quickly because God gave folks ten fingers in order to count to nine months.”
“They barely knew each other a week!” A flush spread up the colonel’s neck. “Is your sister expecting a child?
“Not yet. Apparently, Becky’s correspondence with your brother was rather descriptive.”
“I can venture a guess.”
“If you’re only guessing, I’d rather you didn’t articulate. I prefer to deal in facts.”
“Thank the stars for small favors,” he said.
“Personally, I don’t understand why anyone would travel all this way to marry a man they’ve only known briefly during a holiday, but then I’ve never understood all the fuss my sisters make about falling in love. Violet, my youngest sister, falls in love at least once a month. She’s currently infatuated with the grocer’s son.”
While watching her sisters tumble in and out of love, Delia had studied the benefits thoroughly, and women were far better off staying single. Once a woman married, her rights transferred to her husband. She’d yet to find a situation where the woman benefited in liberties and privileges in wedlock. Her own mother had given up a successful career as a nurse upon marrying her father. The idea of surrendering the chance to save lives in exchange for washing and pressing a man’s suits for the rest of one’s life was baffling.
Marriage, for a man, meant little difference in circumstances. Marriage, for women, meant dying in obscurity with nothing but a stack of neatly ironed trousers to show for one’s troubles. Delia shuddered. She craved something infinitely more substantial for her legacy.
The colonel absently rubbed the scar on the side of his nose. “Their marriage must be postponed. I’m due back to my unit immediately. I can’t sit around and wait for your sister to arrive.”
“You can’t blame Becky entirely. Don’t forget the quarantine.”
“Serves him right.” The colonel snorted. “Paul has always been far too impulsive. Your sister is fortunate the circumstances are unfeasible. Did he mention in his letters that he’s barely making a living on that failing cattle ranch?”
“Becky was extremely heartened when he purchased land.”
“He paid too much for a worthless bit of scrub. No one sells a thriving business. But would he listen? No. Then to send for a woman he’d met once. Ridiculous.” The colonel gazed at her, and his lip curled ever so slightly. “Is your sister anything like you?”
“Yes. Well, um, I suppose. We were all raised together.”
“Then she wouldn’t last the winter in Montana. Paul has his hands full already. Adding a woman to the mix is imprudent and foolish.”
A knot of anger formed in Delia’s stomach. “Are you saying women are foolish?”
“No. I’m saying men are foolish for letting themselves be distracted from their goals by a pretty face.”
“Then women
are merely a distraction?”
“Only if they’re allowed to be.”
“And you’d never let yourself be distracted by a woman, I presume?”
“You’re awfully eager to see your sister wed.” The colonel rested his elbow on his bent knee. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that your sister is attaching herself to a man she’s only met once? Briefly? By proxy? I’m a stranger to both of you.”
“Whether or not I care doesn’t matter.” Delia ignored the reoccurring twinge of guilt that had been plaguing her for the length of the journey. “Becky is quite headstrong. Father only agreed to the marriage because he finally decided that Becky might as well be her husband’s problem rather than his own. We wouldn’t be sitting in this filthy saloon if Becky was the sort of person who made sensible decisions.” And if the two brothers were anything alike, Becky was in for a rude awakening. “I hope your brother wasn’t expecting a biddable wife.”
“My brother deserves whatever he gets.” The colonel scoffed. “Much like your sister, he has an alarming tendency to leap before he looks.”
Delia had been accused of stubborn pride on more than one occasion. She preferred to think herself as determined. The colonel’s callous dismal of her sister firmed her resolve. Women were assets, not distractions.
“I keep my word.” Delia sat up straighter. “I promised my sister I’d see her married, and that’s what I intend to do. What about you, Colonel Morgan? You made a promise to your brother. Are you a man of your word?”
The saloon door banged open, and a robust woman appeared. She sported a rat’s nest of gray hair piled atop her head and a stained apron wrapped around her ample waist. She held a pot in one hand, and a wooden spoon in the other. “Ifin’ y’all want lunch, you’d best come now. I’m only serving until one o’clock.”
The elderly woman capped her declaration with a vigorous pounding on the back of the pot. Delia winced and rubbed her ear. Heads swiveled and there was an almost audible grinding of mental gears as the men pondered losing their place in line over missing out on lunch. Considering the size of the town, there weren’t many alternate choices for a hot meal. After a long pause, a stampede of boots filed out the door. The saloon soon emptied, leaving only a smattering of litigants behind.
