Annie: A Bride For The Farmhand - A Clean Historical Western Romance (Stewart House Brides Book 3)

by Charity Phillips

  "Do you know Mr. Bolton well?" I asked, hoping to glean some information from him that may prepare me more for meeting my future husband.

  Mr. Turner shook his head as he helped the carriage driver secure my trunk to the cargo shelf on the back of the carriage and tucked my bag inside where it would sit at my feet.

  "I'm afraid not, Miss. I am fairly new to these parts."

  "Then how did he ask you to meet me?" I asked, confused.

  "I'm the sheriff. Everybody knows where to find me. He sent one of his farmhands to the jailhouse to ask that I see you safely off of the train while I was on my rounds. He showed me your picture so that I would know how to recognize you."

  He gave me a soft smile and I felt a touch of heat burn across my cheeks as I glanced away, suddenly shy.

  "So you will not be riding with me?" I asked.

  "No. I have to complete my rounds. The driver has been given clear instructions to bring you right to Mr. Bolton's sister Eloise's house." Mr. Turner formed an expression on his face as if he had suddenly remembered something important and reached into his vest pocket. Withdrawing a folded piece of paper, he handed it to me, "The farmhand gave me this to pass along to you."

  He helped me into the carriage and stepped back, tipping his hat.

  "It was nice to meet you, Miss Adams. Welcome to Oregon."

  "Thank you," I said as the carriage lurched and we pulled away from the station.

  ****

  Dear Miss Adams,

  I am so sorry I was unable to meet you at the station today. There were a few things I needed to take care of before I could welcome you home. I am having the carriage driver bring you to my sister's house and I will meet you there later. We have much to discuss.

  Affectionately,

  Ezra Bolton

  I had read the note many times, my mind entertaining me with thoughts of finally meeting Mr. Bolton and hearing the question I knew was coming, when I heard the thunder of hooves pounding into the ground. The carriage jolted to a stop and the horses whinnied loudly. I grabbed onto the side of the carriage to hold myself in place, the letter falling from my hand onto the floor.

  "What's happening?" the man sitting on the seat across from me demanded.

  I pushed aside the curtain and looked out the window. A cold shock of fear stabbed through my heart as I saw four horses surrounding the carriage. The riders wore cloths over their faces, but even at a distance I could see fire in their eyes.

  "Driver, get down and get the passengers out of the carriage," one of the men shouted.

  The driver hesitated and I saw the glint of gun in the man's hand as he raised it to threaten the driver. I felt the carriage tremble and saw the driver jump down. He came around to the side of the carriage and pulled the door open.

  "Everyone out," he demanded in a shaky voice.

  I climbed out first, feeling the other three push past me as they scrambled to comply with the bandits who glared down at us. My stomach shook and I felt tears threatening my eyes.

  Two of the men climbed down off of their horses and started pulling luggage off of the carriage, allowing the trunks to break open so that they could rummage through what was inside. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they filled bags with items and then returned to their horses to tie the bags to the animals' necks.

  The man who had been yelling at the driver climbed slowly down from his horse and approached the carriage. I saw him reach for my trunk.

  "No!" I screamed before I could stop the word from falling from my lips.

  ****

  Dear Jane,

  I hope that this letter finds you well and happy with your gentleman. I am writing to you from my honeymoon. It has been such a whirlwind since I arrived. My dear Ezra and I married the evening we arrived in Oregon and I have been blissful since. I only pray that you have found even half as much happiness as I have.

  All my love,

  Rebecca

  I continued to fight the tears in my eyes as I finished the letter and handed it to the man in front of me. I thought of Father and the strength and courage he showed on the battlefield. He would not have cried as he faced down the enemy, so I would not cry as I faced down the villainous man who now smirked as he read the lines I had written. Only the shakiness of my handwriting would show my emotion.

  "Your words are just as sweet as your letters to me," Ezra taunted, "I feel less special."

  He gave a short, spiteful laugh and folded the letter, walking out of the tent where I sat. My mind was reeling. Everything had happened so quickly and I was still trying to process it. One moment I was standing beside the carriage, asking the men to let me go, explaining that I was on my way to get married. The next moment, one of the men had scooped me off of my feet and put me back in the carriage, joining me as another jumped onto the driver's seat and forced the horses forward.

  That had been three days before and I had still not spoken a word. I felt like he had stolen them all from me. This was Ezra, the man who I had opened up to and been so willing to give my heart. It had all been a lie, a creative ruse crafted by a vicious bandit set on using me so he could integrate himself into the wagon trains without detection. Posing as a happily married man would allow him to gain the trust of the others on the trains, putting him in the perfect position to rob them.

  It was painful staying there with him. Not physically painful, for he had done nothing to hurt my body, but my heart ached. I was mourning the loss of the man I thought I had found, of the future I thought I had in front of me, and the trust I thought I could give to him. I wanted to run, but I didn’t know where I was. I wanted to escape, but I didn't have anything to return to.

  ****

  "I will not marry you," I said through gritted teeth.

  They were the first words I had spoken to him and I vowed that they would be the last if that was what it came to. He reached for me and I stepped backwards, tensing as I avoided his hands. I knew I would not be able to fight him off. He was far larger and stronger than me, and if he was to get his hands on me, I would have no chance at protecting myself.

  My eyes flickered over his shoulder to the flap of the tent and I braced myself. Ezra stepped toward me again and I bent out of the way, dipping beneath his extended arm to run past him and out of the tent. I could hear him shouting to the other men, but I didn't stop. He had removed my shoes the first day after taking me from the carriage and the ground bit into my bare feet.

  Gathering my skirt in my hands, I pushed myself forward, not letting the fear building in my chest force me to look back to see if they were chasing me. Suddenly, I heard a shot cut through the air, shattering my concentration. I closed my eyes and waited for the impact, but what I felt was my body slam into something warm and hard.

  I stumbled back, still squeezing my eyes closed against the terror that might await me if I opened them, and felt strong hands wrap around my upper arms to stabilize me before I could fall. I screamed and lifted my hands to fight, but whoever held me stayed strong and continued to hold me in place until I calmed.

  "Miss Adams!"

  A vaguely familiar voice cut through the panic filling my mind. For a moment, I thought it was my father, his voice speaking to me through the unimaginable distance that separated us to give me strength and soothe me. I heard it again, however, and heard the difference. Where my father's voice had been rough and smoky, this voice was smooth and warm, flowing over me like water.

  I opened my eyes and saw James Turner staring back at me.

  "Mr. Turner," I said, and suddenly felt my knees buckle under me.

  The sheriff swept an arm under me to support me, drawing me close to him to keep me from falling again.

  "You're safe," he said to me, keeping his voice low and quiet as if forcing me to concentrate on the sound so that I would not be able to focus on my fear, or on the sounds of men's screams and whinnying horses behind me.

  ****

  August, 1866

  Dear Diar
y,

  I will never cease to wonder on how quickly life can change. It seems like only a moment and everything is different. What you thought would happen will never be, and what has happened can never be again.

  I am recognizing this now more than ever. It seems I was so excited to leave Boston and start anew in Oregon, that I did not give myself the time to truly see what was happening. I ignored everything that should have told me that Ezra Bolton was not who he presented himself to be. He did not want a happy, supportive partnership. He wanted a foil to grant him access to even more riches to plunder from people whose trust he stole.

  Even my resentment toward him, however, has not made me completely bitter. I have found that some men are exactly as they seem to be; gentle, caring, strong, and protective. Namely, James Turner.

  After he took me away from Mr. Bolton's camp, James, for that is what I call him now, told me that he had been suspicious of Mr. Bolton from the moment he saw the farmhand who came to request for the sheriff to meet me at the station. He strongly resembled the sketch of a man wanted in a nearby town for robbing carriages and wagon trains. He stayed close by while we loaded the carriage and then followed us, witnessing the entire robbery.

  He says that he did not intervene because he saw no one injured and wanted to wait until he could organize his men to take down the entire band at once. For five days, he followed us, watching them carefully to ensure that I was safe. He told me he promised me in his heart that if he feared for a moment of the men were mistreating me, he would have taken them all himself.

  Something has come over me, Diary, but I am afraid to put my voice to it. It has been more than a month since he rescued me from Bolton and the other men, and I have been living in the hotel, going through the money I brought with me while I try to decide what to do. Part of me thinks that I should go home, but a much stronger part says that something is keeping me right here.

  I hope that the right part wins out.

  --Rebecca

  I had just closed my diary when I heard a soft rapping at the door to my hotel room. It was too early in the evening for supper and I was expecting no visitors, so I was nervous as I approached the door.

  "Rebecca?"

  My heart soared as I heard James's voice coming through the door to me. I opened the door and smiled at him. He would not enter. It wouldn’t have been proper for him to come into my room unaccompanied. Instead, I followed him downstairs onto the large front porch of the hotel and sat beside him on a bench.

  Together we stared out at the dusty town. This was so far from what I had imagined Oregon would be like, and I found myself wondering if Jane was having the same experiences as me. I hadn't heard from her and I hoped that she was doing well wherever she had gone.

  "The weather will be getting cold soon," James said.

  I nodded. There was already a soft chill in the air at night and I knew that the days would soon grow shorter and darker.

  "It will."

  "I suppose you will want to be returning to Boston before too long. You can't stay in the hotel forever, and Oregon winters can be challenging."

  Tears stung in my eyes, but yet again, I fought them.

  "I don’t know if I that is what I want," I told him.

  "I know that you didn't get what you wanted when you came here."

  I felt my heart constrict.

  "I was silly and overzealous. I am glad I didn't marry Ezra Bolton."

  James handed me the newspaper he had been holding since he came to my door.

  "I thought you might like to see the paper," he said, "Just in case you would like to try again."

  "Oh, James, thank you," I started, ready to tell him that I didn't want to look at another advertisement, when one in particular caught my eye.

  I held the page slightly closer to make sure that I was reading it properly.

  Lonely Sheriff Seeks Wife. I rescued you once, now will you rescue me?

  I lifted my eyes from the paper and saw James smiling at me. My tears finally slipped free, but they were not of pain, sadness, or anger; these were tears of pure, unfettered joy.

  My hand touched James's cheek and he pressed a tender kiss to my palm.

  I had finally found my new beginning.

  THE END

  A Mail Order Bride For Jeremiah

  Story Description

  Sutter Creek, California - 1852

  Miner Jeremiah Smith is used to spending his days counting down the minutes until the work whistle blows—that’s his cue to head to the saloon with his brother Earl, or for them to head home for a hearty meal and a night of playing cards.

  But when Earl dies, he leaves a void in the spacious Main Street home, and Jeremiah is faced with a tough decision: either hold out hope that his growing mining town will eventually attract single women, or begin his search for a mail order bride.

  “Hiya, Jeremiah? Headed out?”

  Jeremiah paused just before pushing past the heavy wooden door that separated him from freedom, his calloused palm pressing hesitantly against the barrier. Fred Walters stood behind him, an unlit lamp in one of his meaty hands as he grinned at Jeremiah.

  “Yeah, Fred,” Jeremiah said cautiously. “Why? You need me to check on your boy again?”

  Fred dipped his head and harrumphed. “Sure would be kind of you. Just duck in is all; you know I worry, with his Mama gone, and his sister studying nursing. Ain’t got much time for anything else.”

  But I do? Jeremiah though as he nodded wearily—but he offered Fred a smile that he hoped was warmer than he felt. “I can duck my head in on them, Fred, no worries.”

  Fred sighed, and Jeremiah saw dread leave his body like air coming out of a balloon. “Thank you kindly, Jeremiah. You’re a great man!”

  But he was already pushing out of the little coat room and into the open air by the time Fred had uttered his last words. He took a deep breath, and then another, letting the day’s tension trickle out of his body with each exhale, and feeling more peaceful the further he got from the mine. Jeremiah felt guilty for being so brusque, but not guilty enough to turn around and apologize. He was going the man a favor, after all, and he wanted to leave it at that.

  It wasn’t that he disliked Fred—quite the opposite, in fact. The two used to play cards together at his house every weekend with three or four other men, all crowded around his little white table, joking and laughing until the sun began to peek out over the horizon to push the darkness away. He didn’t particularly dislike any of the men at the mine, but he also hadn’t seen any of them outside work or church in a year. He kept making excuses—repairs needed to be done to the house, an injury needed to be nursed until it got better, the kitchen needed a new coat of paint—but everyone knew the real reason the miner was no longer as social as he’d once been. As Jeremiah rounded a corner and entered the business section of Sutter Creek, his eyes fell on Mac’s Sunset Saloon, and he couldn’t avoid thinking about the reason any longer. He could see the bar from the wide window, and though his regular stool was occupied by some tipsy patron, the stool occupied by his brother stood empty. Jeremiah hurried past, casting his eyes downward—but his mind had already pictured Earl as he’d seen him so many times: laughing uproariously at something Mac said as he tried not to slosh his ale over the side of his mug, slapping his beefy thigh as the player piano struggled to be heard over his deafening guffaw. His heart twisted in his chest, but he pushed the pain away, focusing on winding through the thickening crowds as he made his way home after his long shift. I’m getting a lot better at that, he thought dryly. Guess time does heal some wounds after all.

  There was barely any light in the sky as Jeremiah finally reached his doorstep. He saw his neighbor twitch aside the curtain to peek at him, but the curtain was closed by the time he thought to wave. People were already getting used to him not saying hello; it bothered him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do something about it. How could he, when he was only just working on being civil with himself?
/>
  His boot fell on a crisp white envelope as he opened his door and crossed the threshold. Jeremiah bent over to pick it up, startled that it hadn’t been left in his mailbox—then he saw the words urgent stamped across its front, and his heart started to pound. He walked around his wide living room, lighting the gas lamps with his trembling hands as he fought to keep his train of thought from running wild. Was it from his relatives overseas, bringing him more bad news? Or even their old Marshall, dropping him a line after being run out of town. Then his blue eyes saw the return label—Miss Pollyanna Clark, New York, New York. His rushing thoughts all stopped in their tracks, and he gasped aloud in the empty room, his fingers even more shaky than before as he tore open the envelope.

  When he was finished reading, he slid onto his sofa, feeling curiously numb as Polly’s words sank into his brain. The letter had been sent three weeks before, but it might as well have been written now, for all the good it did him; it told him—quite apologetically—that she had mistakenly bought a ticket for a train that arrived November twelfth, not December twelfth. Saturday, November twelfth.

  The next day.

  Darn it.

  All at once, the anxiety Jeremiah had been holding at bay came rearing up to swallow him. He’d advertised for a mail order bride half-heartedly—and only because his fellow miners pressured him into it.

  “It’s time, Jeremiah,” Fred had told him after work one evening. “Earl would have wanted it. He didn’t want you to be a bachelor forever; you were meant to share that house until you found wives. Now you gotta find a wife to share that house with, before you drive yourself plumb crazy.”