Robby Riverton Mail Order Bride

by Eli Easton

  It sounded like a horrible ordeal to Robby, delivering a baby on a wagon train. But he figured it would help nothing to say so.

  “And then, what I’ll do . . .” She looked delighted with herself. “I’ll say to Mr. Clovis Crabtree, I’ll say, ‘Why, sir, it’s a downright tragedy! A nice Christian lady on the wagon train died having this babe. And I couldn’t leave him to the wolves, now could I?’” Miss Fairchild batted her eyes innocently.

  It was bold, Robby had to give her that. “What about the baby’s father?”

  “What?”

  “The good Christian lady who had the babe on the wagon train. Wasn’t she traveling with her pious husband? Wouldn’t he want custody?”

  “Oh shush!” Miss Fairchild gave a dismissive wave. “I’ll just say he was eaten by a bear. Anyhow, no man wants to raise a baby alone.” She appeared to think better of it though, as she amended brightly, “I have it! I’ll say the daddy was struck dumb with grief and couldn’t bear to touch the child.” She raised her arm dramatically across her brow.

  Robby figured any man who didn’t suspect a tall tale when his young bride appeared with an infant was a fool indeed. But who was he to interfere? And anyway, there was every chance Miss Fairchild’s intended wasn’t particularly bright. After all, he lived in the New Mexico Territories. And what sort of man went in for a mail-order bride?

  “I even managed to slip my chaperone, Aunt Edna,” Miss Fairchild continued. “I told her the wagon train left in the afternoon and snuck out while she snored away in the hotel. That’s why no one on this earth will ever be the wiser!”

  “Do you plan to kill everyone on the wagon train, then?” Robby asked, just to be contrary.

  She gave him a dirty look. “Don’t be silly! The West is a big place. Chances of me and Mr. Crabtree ever running into any of the folks I meet on the trail is no bigger than a mite on a flea.”

  Miss Fairchild was likely correct. Though, by the line of worry on her brow, Robby had given her doubts. He could picture the well-mannered Miss Fairchild going around and slitting all their throats in their bedrolls just to make her “plan” even more clever. The thought amused him.

  “Who’s the real father?” he asked, before he could think better of it.

  Miss Fairchild got a sour expression. “A traveling salesman. He was selling Bibles. Can you believe it?”

  “Doesn’t surprise me a whit.”

  “Mamma and Poppa were out making calls and our maid, Drusilla, was sleeping away in the kitchen like most afternoons. When Joseph came knocking, he was so handsome, I let him in.”

  Miss Fairchild did seem to have a weakness for “handsome,” Robby decided. But then, so did he.

  “I know it was foolish, but he had such a silver tongue. The things he said to me!” She stared out the back dreamily.

  “I know just what you mean.”

  “And I did everything a sensible girl ought to to keep this from coming to pass,” she insisted hotly.

  “Oh? What did you do?”

  “Why, right after I dallied with that man, I ran up to my room and washed real good. And I commenced to jumping up and down for ages! It was a good hour at least. And then I went to bed, but I woke up twice in the night and fretted, so I got up and jumped around some more.”

  “I can’t say as I ever heard of jumping as a means of contraception.”

  “Contra-what?” She looked at him like he was teasing her. “No, silly, it’s for stopping babies.”

  “Ah.”

  “Guess this one was just determined to come.” She stroked her belly fondly, looking down at it with a smile.

  “Well, I wish you the best, m’lady. And if I can assist you in any way, consider me your cohort.”

  “My what?”

  “Your co-conspirator, companion in arms, your fellow seaman on the good ship Deceit.” Robby gave her a cheeky salute. “If you ever need an eyewitness account, that is to say. To my eyes you are as slender as a reed.”

  Miss Fairchild’s brown eyes grew sparkly. “Aw. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever offered to do for me! I admit, I was afraid coming on this trip all alone. But now that I’ve met you, Mr. Nick Smith, I know God’s looking out for me, despite the error of my ways.”

  “Indeed,” Robby said uneasily. The false name had been a necessary evil. He hoped the Bowery Boys would finally lose his trail.

  “Do you have a sweetheart, Mr. Smith?” Miss Fairchild lowered her eyelashes coyly.

  There was no mistaking her meaning. Robby forced a smile. “I’m afraid my heart is not my own.”

  Miss Fairchild’s disappointment was brief. “Oh well. Then we shall be the best of friends!”

  “Given our close quarters, I think you shall be my sister in the end,” Robby said. He hoped Miss Fairchild had some cards in one of those trunks or at least liked to read aloud. It was going to be a very long three months.

  As it turned out, all of Miss Fairchild’s machinations were for naught. She fell for Mr. Traymore, a bookish and sensitive young man a few wagons back. He was heading to Dodge City to start up a new bank. Smart girl, Miss Fairchild. When Stoltz’s wagon continued west, Rowena, her belly like a full moon, stood next to Traymore at the Dodge City stockyard, smiling and waving.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Smith,” she called out to Robby. “Good-bye!”

  She gave Robby her contract with the Crabtrees, along with a letter to deliver to her intended at the end of the trail. The letter was a poetic treatise on the undeniability of true love with fervent wishes for Mr. Clovis Crabtree’s own future happiness.

  Robby hoped the ranchers in Santa Fe weren’t inclined to shoot the messenger.

  Chapter Four

  July, 1860

  Monday

  Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory

  Trace hated going to Santa Fe. The two-hour ride south from Flat Bottom was pleasant in good weather, but that was rarer than a white buffalo’s moustache. Generally, it was too hot and, sometimes, too cold. The wind could be relentless. The scenery was dramatic in spots, but mostly same-ish. This year it was so dry, as the saying went, that the bushes followed the dogs around.

  If he had his druthers, Trace would be sitting right now on the porch of the sheriff’s office doing nothing. But Santa Fe was a hub of trading for the West, with goods coming in from the East via the Santa Fe Trail. So, everyone always wanted something from Santa Fe, something Pete didn’t carry at the mercantile—rock candy, a bit of Spanish lace, or a New York magazine. The men of Flat Bottom took turns going, and whoever went gathered lists from the others in town. Trace himself went once a month.

  Trace, however, didn’t go out of a neighborly obligation to shop. Nope. That was just an excuse. He went to slake his lust.

  One hardship to living in Flat Bottom was its lack of partners for his particular brand of pleasure. Trace had had the luck, through most of his life, of finding like-minded men who were up for a little mutual relief on the regular. Even in the army. But such was not the case in Flat Bottom. If there was another man who shared Trace’s proclivities, he was slunk too low to give any telltale signs. On the one hand, it was a good thing not to be tempted to indulge anywhere close to his family. On the other hand—literally—taking care of himself only worked for so long.

  He might have lost his ambition in the war, but it hadn’t done a thing to curb his damned libido. When the craving for push and shove, hard flesh on hard flesh, and that fiery feeling only a shared passion could ignite got to be too unbearable, Trace rode south.

  In Santa Fe there was a barber named Rafael who invited certain customers into a back room. He was big and surly, and they rarely exchanged more than a few words, but it was good enough for Trace. If there was a hollowed-out feeling afterward, he figured that was his lot. A man like him would never have the kind of cozy life most men took for granted, and he’d made his peace with that. Though he did long for the day when he could have sex without coming away stinking of shaving soap.


  Trace left his horse at the Santa Fe livery stables and started toward the barber shop. He was just crossing the dusty central plaza when a ruckus attracted his attention.

  Two men accosted a young lady in a green gown and red shawl in the middle of the street. The men wore black pants, black city boots, red shirts, suspenders, and tall stovepipe hats. Belts around their hips holstered guns and knives. Their clothes were like nothing in these parts. They looked like immigrants or like they were from out East, New York or Philadelphia or some such, and they looked like bad news. The lady was demanding, in a very cultured voice, that they unhand her. Trace scanned the street. There were a dozen men in view and none of them even looked toward the argument. A woman led a small boy by the hand, hurrying along the wooden sidewalk in the opposite direction.

  Trace might have ignored the argument too, except for three things. First, goddamn but it chafed his hide when men abused women. Second, there was something about the lady that drew his notice. She was a beauty but in an unconventional way. She was tall and thin with wide shoulders. Her face was striking, long and narrow with a square jawline that would cut glass. Her mouth was full, her nose long and straight, and her green eyes sparked with fire. Dark hair peeked out from under her bonnet. Her words were defiant, but Trace knew terror when he saw it.

  The third thing was, he heard her say, clear as day, “I told you, my fiancé lives in Flat Bottom, and he’ll be here shortly to escort me!”

  Well. Hell.

  Gritting his teeth, Trace approached the trio. His hand loitered gracefully near his gun. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

  The two men stared at him flatly. They did not let go of the lady.

  She, however, searched his face, her eyes pleading. “Sir, I beg your assistance. I was making my way to the fonda to seek a room. I just arrived from Missouri, and I need to send a message to my intended to come for me.”

  “You’ll get your room when you’re done answering our questions,” one of the men snapped. His accent was hard and flat—definitely an Easterner. It was an odd situation to run across in the middle of Santa Fe, but the wagon trail brought all sorts of garbage west.

  “But I have answered your questions. Repeatedly!” The lady’s eyes swam with tears.

  The manhandling of the woman ticked Trace off. But it was the way the two men dismissed him as irrelevant that really lit his fuse. He drew his gun and cocked it. This got their attention. The younger one looked slightly puzzled as to what his problem was. The older one stared, his eyes as cold as ice. He was a big man and he looked dangerously strong despite being soft around the middle. There was not a speck of conscience in those eyes. Trace really didn’t like him.

  Cold-Eyes shifted one hand.

  “Stop.” Trace leveled the gun at the man’s stomach. “You’ll be gut-shot ’fore you can draw.”

  His voice was calm, but it conveyed all the malice he felt. Cold-Eyes froze. The lady looked at Trace with wide, frightened eyes. She was wearing far too much makeup for a woman who spoke in such a genteel manner. But then, Trace wasn’t up on the latest fashions. Beneath all that rouge, her face was white with fear.

  “Now,” Trace said evenly. “Where did you say your intended was from, ma’am?”

  “F-flat Bottom. It’s supposed to be near here. Do you know it?” Her gloved hand fluttered near her high collar.

  “As a matter of fact, I happen to be the sheriff of Flat Bottom.”

  The two men exchanged a dark look.

  “I have a letter. And a legal contract,” the lady said firmly. “I showed it to these men, but they—”

  “Aw now, listen, Sheriff,” Cold-Eyes interrupted. “We’re looking for someone. We’re not going to hurt the lady, just talk. So, put that fooking gun away.” The man’s tone was cajoling now. As if they were all men of the world here.

  Trace considered it. He slipped his gun back in the holster, knowing he could have it out again in a second. From the way the men studied the action, they knew it too.

  Cold-Eyes signaled the other man with a single look. The other man was in his thirties with a fleshy face, stringy blond hair, and a blue feather in the band of his stovepipe hat. He pulled out a large piece of paper, unfolded it, and showed it to Trace. “We’re looking for this man. Name’s Robby Riverton, aka Nick Smith, but he could be called anything now. You seen him?”

  Trace glanced at the poster. It was a theatrical notice featuring an actor. His prissy, old-timey costume, and the pose with one foot up on a stool reminded Trace of a play he went to once in San Antonio. The actor was a young man with dark hair and green eyes outlined in black like a raccoon. He looked heavenward with the attitude of a martyred saint.

  He looked too soft to be anyone in these parts.

  “Did you check the saloon?” Trace asked with a dismissive shake of his head. “That’s the only place they have shows like this.”

  “He’s on the run,” Cold-Eyes said. “He’s not going to be putting himself on stage, is he?”

  Trace had no clue and didn’t care. “Can I see that letter you mentioned, ma’am?”

  “What business is it of yours?” Cold-Eyes asked.

  “Well,” Trace said with exaggerated slowness, “the way I see it, this lady is on her way to Flat Bottom, and I’m the sheriff of Flat Bottom, so she is my business.”

  “But we’re not in Flat Bottom,” Cold-Eyes argued.

  “It is an amazing coincidence,” Trace agreed.

  The lady tried to open her purse, glaring at the two men until they released her arm. She dug inside and presented Trace with an envelope. It contained a handwritten letter in exaggeratedly careful handwriting and a one-page legal document stating the terms of a pending contract of marriage between one Rowena Fairchild and—good God—Clovis Crabtree.

  “Aw hell,” Trace muttered.

  Pa had done lost his mind completely this time. He’d sent for a mail-order bride! Trace could hardly believe it. And look at her—fine silk dress, elegant bearing, high-class way of speaking, and natural beauty to boot. It was like ordering all the way to Washington D.C. for fancy china then putting it in the pig trough. Trace would lay money this gal would run screaming from Crabtree Ranch within a week.

  Trace wanted to spit onto the dusty street, but he refrained on Miss Fairchild’s account.

  “Do you know my fiancé?” Miss Rowena Fairchild asked sweetly.

  “Yeah,” Trace said grudgingly.

  “I thought someone would be waiting for me at the stockyard,” she said, clutching her shawl more tightly around herself. “But Mr. Stoltz said we made excellent time, so my intended probably didn’t expect me so soon. I’m sure once I send word—”

  “Pardon my fooking French, but we was talking,” snapped Cold-Eyes.

  Miss Fairchild clamped her mouth shut and looked heavenward as if entreating God for patience.

  “You sure you ain’t seen this man?” Blue-Feather demanded of Trace.

  “Never in my life,” Trace drawled.

  As he said it—never in my life—there was a funny tickle in his stomach as if that weren’t true. He glanced at the poster again, frowning. There was something about the actor’s face that rang a bell. Trace had seen his share of song and dance routines, from Texas to the Arizona Territories and all over the West. He didn’t deliberately seek them out, but he liked to drink in places that had that sort of entertainment. The music was nice.

  He was pert sure he’d never seen this actor before, though. Usually saloons had gals in fancy clothing. If shows had men who looked like this one instead of pretty girls, he’d have taken more of an interest.

  Cold-Eyes nodded at Blue-Feather and the poster was rolled up and put away.

  “Well, we’re looking for him. Came all the way west after him. And this lady here shared a wagon with Riverton all the way from Missouri.”

  “I told you, it wasn’t proper for us to fraternize. We barely spoke,” Miss Fairchild said prissily.

  “F
or three months? He had to say something about where he was going and—” The man shot a look at Trace. “—what he was running from. Where’d he get off?”

  “The only place he mentioned to me was San Francisco, but I have no idea how he intended to get there. He was in and out of the wagon all the while. I didn’t realize he’d left for good until yesterday, but if I must guess, I’d say he stayed on at Fort Union.”

  “We was at Fort Union. Riverton ain’t there!”

  “Well, then, I have no idea.” She turned to Trace. “Please. I’m just so awfully tired.”

  Trace got caught by those sleepy green eyes. They were the prettiest he’d ever seen—clear and intelligent, a soft shade that glowed like pond slime in the sun and deepened to moss where her lashes shaded the iris. Those lashes were thick and velvety, like the coat of a chestnut horse Trace once had. And right now, they were imploring him to take charge of the situation.

  He cleared his throat, feeling a little discombobulated.

  “What did he say about San Francisco?” Cold-Eyes demanded, grabbing Miss Fairchild’s arm hard to get her attention. “The words. Tell me the exact words.”

  “Ow! You’re hurting me!” Miss Fairchild cried.

  Trace’s patience evaporated in a flash of rage. He put a hand on his gun. “Let. Go.”

  With a glower, Cold-Eyes released her.

  Trace stepped forward and took Miss Fairchild’s elbow, getting between her and Cold-Eyes. “The lady’s answered your questions. If you’re lookin’ for someone, I suggest ya talk to the Santa Fe sheriff. The office is that way.” He jabbed his finger down the street.