by Kelly, Carla
“Not at all.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “I’m only saying that meeting a woman for the first time at a train station, hopping in a line to marry her, and then heading off home, all in a single afternoon, is different from how this is done in most places.”
Quinn had lived in Wyoming from the time he was ten years old. He didn’t really know anything different. “I don’t imagine we do many things here the way they’re done anywhere else.”
Her eyes wandered back to the street. That put an end to conversation between them for the next quarter of an hour. Quinn stood with his hands in his coat pockets, unable to think of anything to say to the woman he was about to marry. He knew little enough about her. She seemed perfectly content to watch the comings and goings out in the street and the couples in line in front of them. She only occasionally looked up at him. And she most definitely had to look up.
I didn’t even know adults came that size. Can the woman reach anything? I’ll constantly need to fetch things off shelves for her.
“How tall you are, Miss Smith?” The question jumped right out of his mouth.
“You can call me Mirabelle,” she answered quick as anything. “And I’m four feet and eleven inches.”
Not even five feet tall? No wonder he felt like he’d ordered a horse and received a pony instead. He stood six feet three inches with his boots off. They had to be the most mismatched pair in all of Wyoming.
Two couples had left the parsonage by that time, and only two more waited ahead of Quinn and Mirabelle. Still, they’d likely be waiting another half hour for their turn.
“Would you like to sit, Miss—Mirabelle?” he asked. “The trunk’s probably not the most comfortable seat, but it’d be better than being on your feet another thirty minutes.”
“Thank you, but no.” The smile hadn’t left her face. Quinn didn’t know what to make of a person who smiled all the time. “I’ve spent a great deal of time sitting on a train. My feet could use the reminder of what they’re there for.”
Sensible. “Are you hungry or thirsty?” The mercantile was not far off. He could go get her something if she needed it.
But she shook her head. “Thank you, though.”
She wasn’t uncomfortable, hungry, or thirsty. Her light jacket and sensible footwear were a good match for the mild weather, so she likely wasn’t cold. Quinn couldn’t think of anything else she might need just then. He took the seat she didn’t want and waited.
In another few minutes, he’d be a married man. He’d planned for it all summer, yet the idea still knotted up a bit inside him. He watched Mirabelle as he sat there. She certainly wasn’t a bundle of nerves or a wilting flower or any of the other ways he’d heard soon-to-be brides described. She stood up straight, if not tall. She didn’t fidget or pace or wring her hands. Her expression was light and almost eager as she looked out over the small town.
And she’s so tiny. The wind often blew fiercely in Wyoming. One good gust was likely to blow her clear across the state.
And more worrisome still, she had Da to deal with. Quinn’s father was a difficult man, with the very obstinacy for which the Irish were famous. Someone as small and fragile as she didn’t stand much of a chance if Da took a disliking to her.
The last couple in line ahead of them came out of the preacher’s home, having completed their business there.
“Our turn.” Quinn offered the words as a final warning. He’d let her beg off if she wanted.
She nodded and stepped inside. Quinn brought her traveling trunk inside and set it just on the other side of the door. Reverend Howell met them at the door to the parlor.
“Quinn,” he greeted. “And this must be—” His eyes pulled wide, darting from Mirabelle back to Quinn. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Quinn, there are laws about age in a marriage, you know. You—”
“I am twenty-one,” Mirabelle jumped in, “not twelve. So, you can go right on ahead without worrying about laws or any such thing.”
Reverend Howell sputtered a moment but found his voice. “I hope I didn’t offend you, miss,” he said with all sincerity. “Upon closer look, I can see you’re not so young as you at first seemed.”
Mirabelle waved off the apology. “A woman as short as I am is quite used to being mistaken for a child.”
She stepped into the parlor, leaving Quinn and the preacher in surprised silence. Reverend Howell shot Quinn a questioning look. All he could do was shrug. He himself didn’t know quite what to make of Mirabelle Smith. For such a small thing, she had gumption and plenty of it. And for a woman about to be married to a perfect stranger, she didn’t seem to have any obvious misgivings.
Mrs. Howell wore an expression of barely withheld surprise when Quinn and her husband came inside.
In a whisper of concern, she said to Quinn, “She’s so tiny.”
“That she is.” What else could he say?
“And you’re so . . . not tiny.”
“That I am.” He eyed his miniature bride-to-be. “Still, she didn’t run off in terror. I think we’ll do just fine.”
“Mail-order marriages are always something of a risk,” Mrs. Howell said with a nod.
Every sort of marriage was “something of a risk.” His da had married for love, and he’d suffered greatly for it these past years.
The register was signed and the ceremony completed in a matter of a few minutes. Mirabelle Smith became Mirabelle Quinn, and Quinn the bachelor became Quinn the married man. He had a wife—a tiny, seemingly unflappable wife—and he’d managed the thing without any of the complications a man usually encountered.
That was easier than I expected.
An omen of a simple and uncomplicated life to come. He hoped.
I am married to a giant. A sure-enough giant.
Mirabelle was quite accustomed to people seeming large, but Quinn took the cake. The information she’d received from the William’s Matrimonial Bureau in Topeka had painted a picture of a decent sort of man with land and the ability to see she didn’t go cold or hungry. The bureau insisted their clients provide references. Mr. Patrick Quinn was described as hardworking, dependable, respectful of his neighbors and associates. The bureau had said nothing about him being enormous.
What if the man had a terrible, raging temper? He could flatten her with the smallest swat of his hand. She was like a mouse dropped into a lion’s cage.
She’d do well to find out what she could about her new surroundings and her new husband. Though her history wasn’t one to inspire bouts of optimism, she’d long ago decided that rosy was her preferred hue for viewing of the world. Something better was always just around the corner, she was certain of that.
“How far from town do you live, Quinn?”
“A half hour when driving at a sight-seeing pace.”
“Like we are now?”
He gave a quick nod. Was he driving slow for her benefit, so she could see the area? She didn’t expect him to act like he was courting her—her grasp of the situation was far too firm for such fanciful thinking—but she liked that he was being considerate. That was a promising beginning.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“Since I was a lad of ten,” he said. “My parents homesteaded the land.”
She’d noticed from the first words he spoke to her that he had a hint of an accent. She couldn’t place it though. He sounded almost as if he’d once lived somewhere else—Scotland or Ireland, perhaps—but had been away for decades and decades, enough to erase all but a hint of that far away place. The surname Quinn made her think Ireland, but she couldn’t be certain.
Rather pathetic, Mirabelle. You are married to a man and you don’t have any idea where he was born or grew up.
“Do you farm or ranch?” she asked.
“Ranch.”
“Do you drive your cattle all the way to Kansas?” She knew there were several depots in Kansas of significance to the cattlemen.
“Cheyenne.” He guided the
horses off the road onto a narrower path.
She searched her mind for something he couldn’t answer in a single word or gesture. “What would you like to have for dinner tonight?”
So help me, if he answers ‘food’ and nothing else . . .
“There’s beef in the root cellar,” he said. “And vegetables. We’ve flour, most baking things.”
So was he not particular about his meals or did he simply not want to be bothered with the menus? A wife needed to know these things when she was married to a man as enormous as Quinn.
“I think I’ll make a beef roast. And, if you have cornmeal, some johnny cakes to go with it.”
“That’ll do,” he said.
“And your father? Will he approve of stew and johnny cakes?” The bureau had mentioned Quinn’s father lived with him. Most new brides would probably have objected to the arrangement. Mirabelle, who had never known her father, was excited. She had no family. This new life she’d embarked on came with one already assembled.
“Da’ll not object to the meal.” Quinn was not a man of many words.
They drove around a bend in the path and past a small cluster of trees, behind which sat a meadow. In the midst of the meadow was the loveliest and quaintest cottage-like house. Mirabelle fell instantly and irrevocably in love with the place.
“Is this your home, Quinn?”
“It is.”
Her gaze took in every inch of the home, from its deep-green shutters and trim to the diamond-paned windows along the front to the tall rock chimney reaching toward the sky. There was space under the windows that would be perfect for planting flowers when the spring came.
This is to be my new home. She’d hoped for something pleasant and had been handed something perfect. For one who’d only ever lived in orphanages and boarding houses, the realization was breathtaking.
“It is a lovely house.”
“It keeps the rain out. And it’s warm in the winter.” He shrugged the smallest bit and guided the team down the path toward the barn, just coming in to view. He pulled the team to a stop. “I’ll bring your trunk after I unhitch the team.”
She managed the climb down with a bit of ingenuity and blatant disregard for grace and dignity. When a person is hardly taller than a wagon wheel, climbing down one is a bit of a challenge. Still, her feet reached the ground without incident.
She set herself on a direct path for the house, walking quickly around toward the front when she didn’t find a door facing the barn.
“It really is lovely,” she said to herself, eyeing the place once more. She pulled off her glove and ran her fingers along the horizontal wood planks that made up the front facade. She paused long enough to trace a diamond-shaped pane in the front window. The house wasn’t large, by any means, but it was sweet and quietly elegant. And it was hers to call home.
She turned the knob and opened the front door, half expecting to find a fairy-tale cottage inside. What she saw very nearly matched her expectations. The door opened directly onto a parlor of sorts, with lovely furniture—two chairs near the fireplace, two end tables, a rocking chair in one corner—small trinkets and keepsakes throughout the room. It was clean, which was a pleasant surprise. New curtains at the windows, a little rearranging, a good polish of the end tables and the room would be simply lovely.
“With any luck, my giant of a husband will be generous with the household budget,” she said.
“He’s no closefisted miser, if that’s what’s gotten into your head.”
Mirabelle nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected and unfamiliar voice, with its gruff tone and heavily Irish inflection. She’d had no idea anyone was in the room. She spotted the speaker in the next moment.
He sat in a chair by the low-burning fire, watching her with a look of complete distrust. His eyes were narrowed and his shoulders a little hunched. His unkempt hair was heavily silvered, his face lined by passing years.
“Hello.” Her greeting sounded more like a question.
“You’re the woman Quinn ordered?” the man asked.
The woman Quinn ordered? That was a fine how do you do. “I’m Mirabelle, and this is my new home. I assume you’re Quinn’s father.”
“That I am.” His gaze narrowed on her. “You don’t have the look of Ireland about you. Where’re your people from?”
A truthful answer seemed best. “I don’t rightly know. I grew up in an orphanage with no knowledge of my parents.”
“Life’s difficult for everyone,” Mr. Quinn said.
It wasn’t exactly an empathetic response, but neither was it pitying. She appreciated that. Pity, she found, quickly grew tiresome.
Mr. Quinn turned his attention fully to the embers in the fireplace. No hint of a smile touched his face. He sat bent over, his lips turned down, his eyes heavy. Perhaps he was crippled or in pain, though she could see no obvious injuries or disfigurements. Whatever his affliction, he was clearly unhappy.
Hmm.
Her eyes settled on the two doors and a hallway along the back wall. Through one of the doorframes, she spotted a dining room—something she hadn’t expected out in the uncivilized West. She’d heard the houses were too simple for such things, that the dining table was generally set up right in the parlor, along with the stove and everything else. Sometimes, she’d been told, the house was nothing but one large room, with sleeping areas divided off by a hanging blanket, if that.
When a woman married a man strictly as a matter of mutual convenience—and theirs, it was fully understood, was little more than a business arrangement—and the man’s father lived with him, that woman very much needed a space of her own. Mirabelle couldn’t imagine living tossed together in the same room with both men every minute of their lives.
This arrangement gets better and better. For the first time in her life, Mirabelle could imagine a future that didn’t involve a constant struggle to stay cheerful and optimistic.
She crossed closer to the dining room and peeked inside. The table was a fine piece of furniture. The chairs pulled around it appeared to be part of a matched set. It seemed well cared for, needing only a good polish and perhaps a vase of flowers set in the middle for some color.
Through another open doorway sat the kitchen. Knowing she’d likely spend most of her days in that room, Mirabelle took extra time perusing it. The stove appeared new. The cupboards were not bare. Better and better.
She heard the door open and heavy footfalls draw closer. A man as large as her husband likely made a great deal of noise wherever he went.
“I’m in the kitchen,” she called out.
He joined her there in the next moment, holding her trunk. It wasn’t light by anyone’s estimation, yet he carried it as easily as he might an autumn leaf. He showed no signs of strain or struggle. Giants, it seemed, were not only large but strong.
“I haven’t yet discovered the whereabouts of my bedroom,” Mirabelle said. “If you could just point me in the right direction.” She was excited to settle in, to make her space her own.
“It’s just off the parlor, like the other rooms.” He twitched his chin in that direction.
Mirabelle stepped around him and back through the doorway. She heard Quinn’s footsteps as he came up behind her. She glanced back at him and couldn’t help but be amazed all over again at how tall he was. And broad. And generally enormous. Mirabelle had only ever known life from the opposite perspective.
“This is the empty room.” He pointed at the last door on the far side of the room. “It hasn’t any linens in it, but there are some in the tallboy in the kitchen.”
She stepped inside the bedroom. “The view through the window is lovely.”
“I suppose.” Quinn offered nothing more than that. He set her trunk down.
She watched him leave, unsure yet what to make of the grumpy giant she’d married or his equally grumpy father. “Grumpy” didn’t at all fit in the vision she’d had for her new home and family.
But she had never b
een one to give up easily. She didn’t mean to start now.
Quinn pulled a pair of wire snips from a nail on the wall of his barn and handed them to Sam Carpenter. They were neighbors and regularly lent each other tools or helped make repairs to each other’s houses, barns, or fences.
“Did your woman arrive yesterday?” Sam asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
Sam nodded. “Must not have given you over for someone else. Otherwise you’d be mad as a nest of hornets.”
“She didn’t.”
Sam chewed on a bit of straw. He leaned against a post, the hand holding the wire cutters hanging at his side.
“How is she working out?” Sam asked.
There was no good answer for that question. Mirabelle wasn’t at all what he’d expected. It was more than the initial shock of her size. She had dictated the course of nearly everything since arriving. The dinner hour was moved, as was the furniture in the parlor. She’d declared her intention to hang new curtains and replace the tablecloth. She’d turned their lives topsy-turvy with an unwavering smile on her face. He’d never met a more cheerful despot in all his life.
His silence must have said something. Sam gave him a commiserating look. “She's platter-faced or something?”
Quinn shook his head. Mirabelle was a fine-looking woman, more so than he’d expected, in fact.
“A nag, then?” Sam tried again.
Quinn suspected she might be, but he didn’t mean to say as much to someone who hadn’t yet met her. He hardly knew her himself, but he’d vowed just the day before to care for her. Insulting her in front of the neighbors felt like breaking that promise.
“How is Tiernan taking to her?” Sam asked.
Da hadn’t said a word. He’d come to the table the night before, ate his meal in silence, then left without a word to his new daughter-in-law. When she’d set to moving things about in the parlor, Da had held firm in his chair, glaring at her as if challenging the newcomer to move his chair from its spot.
“We’re adjusting,” Quinn said.
Sam worked his jaw so the sprig of straw in his teeth fluttered in the air. “That, my friend, is why you ain’t gonna see a woman at my house. Too much fuss and folderol.”
