by Kit Morgan
“Howdy, Miss Honoria.” Wilfred Dunnigan smiled and winked. “He sure did. Including a letter from your Uncle Duncan.”
“Uncle Duncan! How wonderful! That will make the family happy.”
“Makes me happy,” he said. “Been a while since he’s written.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I hope I’ll get to visit him soon.”
“You mean, go to England?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, Mr. Dunnigan. I am old enough to travel.”
“Not by yourself, young lady. Your pa’d bust a gut before he let you travel alone and you know it. I can hear him groaning now.”
Honoria placed the satchel on the counter. “I can dream, can’t I?”
“No law against dreaming. You gotta list for me?”
She pulled the list out of her skirt pocket and placed it on top of the satchel. “Mother just needs a few things.”
Wilfred nodded, pulled some mail from the stack at the end of the counter, handed it to her and picked up the list. “I’ll take care of this right away. Irene made some lemonade, on account it’s so warm today. Why don’t you go upstairs and say hello?”
Honoria smiled. “You read my mind. I could use a glass.”
“Should be getting cooler soon. Them trees are losing more leaves every day.” He looked at her list. “Pretty soon they’ll all come down, then next thing you know it’ll be Thanksgiving.”
Honoria sighed. “And after that, another year gone.”
Wilfred looked up from the list. “You anxious to get it over with?”
“No, it’s just … I don’t know, Mr. Dunnigan. It’s been so quiet around here since Eli and Pleasant married.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “And I hope it stays that way. Last thing I want is another passel of outlaws coming through here stirring up trouble. That last batch did enough damage.”
“True enough. Speaking of which, have you seen any of the wounded?”
Wilfred chuckled. “If’n you’re referring to Mr. Comfort …” He paused and leaned to peer past her at the mercantile doors. “… why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“What?” Then she heard the bell above the door ring. She turned … and in walked the man himself! Her stomach did a flip.
Mr. Comfort stopped short when he saw her, his eyes locking on hers. “Miss Cooke.”
She stared back. His clothes were dirty with bits of sawdust, as if he’d been chopping wood or cutting down a tree. His jaw was covered with a couple days’ growth of whiskers, and her heart fluttered at the sight. He looked rugged and handsome – so much so that she had to look away.
She listened as the heels of his boots clomped across the wood floor to the counter and stopped next to her. “Is something wrong, Miss Cooke?”
Honoria looked up at the sound of his soothing voice, and met those wonderful piercing blue eyes. His hair was much longer than the last time she’d seen him – logical, as Clear Creek didn’t have a barbershop. Mr. Mulligan would give those residing at the men’s camp a snip gratis, as men in those circumstances needed to save money or spend it on food rather than haircuts and shaves. She had no objections – he looked divine.
“Do you see something you like, Miss Cooke?” he asked, startling her out of her observations.
She straightened. “N-nothing.”
He took a step toward her. “Are you sure?”
His questions took her by surprise. She fought the urge to gulp and instead gave him a bold stare. “Why? Should I be seeing something?” She made a show of examining him more closely. In truth, she was examining him more closely. “Have you something between your teeth, perhaps?”
He chuckled low in his throat. “I certainly hope not, as I’m talking to a lady of refinement.”
Drat. He would complement her. She straightened further. “Right, then. Carry on.”
She watched him fight a smile into a smirk. “Don’t mind if I do.” He stepped around her to the counter. “Mr. Dunnigan.”
“Mr. Comfort,” said Wilfred. “How are all them brothers of yours doing?”
“Working hard, but getting used to it.”
Honoria knew she shouldn’t, but she did. “Not used to hard work? Is that what being a plantation owner means, that you don’t get your hands dirty?”
Wilfred’s eyes darted between the two as if he expected a fight to break out. Honoria found hers flicking between Wilfred and Mr. Comfort. For Heaven’s sake, it was only a snide remark …
“If you must know, Miss Cooke, the running of a ranch and the running of a plantation are very different,” Mr. Comfort explained. “Your family raises cattle. We raised cotton, among other things.”
Naturally, Honoria couldn’t resist asking the inevitable. “Did you keep slaves?”
“Honoria Cooke!” Wilfred gasped behind the counter. “What kind of a question is that?!” He and his wife were from the South, but had certainly never owned slaves.
“I’m simply curious,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, why shouldn’t I ask? The war is over, and any slaves are long since freed. I just want to know.”
“Yes, we did,” Mr. Comfort said stiffly, and turned back to Wilfred. “I’ve been sent to pick up a few things for the camp. Here’s my list.” He handed a piece of paper to Wilfred.
“Did you … buy and sell them?” she asked, her voice softer.
“It was my father’s job to oversee them, Miss Cooke, not mine. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like Mr. Dunnigan to fill my list so I can leave. I’m due back at the camp soon.”
Honoria felt a tiny prick of shame. She really had wanted to know, but she realized she’d been rude to ask so blatantly – and in public at that. “I’m sorry … I’m sure you think I’m impertinent.”
“You are impertinent,” he said without looking at her. Wilfred cringed as he reached for a jar on a high shelf.
Honoria cringed with him. “My curiosity always did get the best of me, Mr. Comfort. I am sorry.”
“You’re forgiven, Miss Cook. Understand, you’ve lived a different life than my brothers and I, not to mention my sister. But our old way of life is gone and has been for some time. Thanks to this town, we’re learning how to leave it behind and live a new one.”
She smiled in relief – at his willingness to forgive, at his changing the subject, and at the truth of his statement. The people of Clear Creek were generous, always willing to help. “Have you found much work over the last few months?”
“Yes, here and there. We’ve even helped your father and uncle a few times.”
“You have?” she said innocently. Of course she knew that, but she’d never seen them at the ranch.
“Oh yes. Last month we helped with some of the branding.”
“What about now? Are you keeping busy?”
He shrugged. “Some of us. Darcy has made fast friends with the Brodys, and helps in the hotel when he can. Zachary and Michael helped Mr. Mulligan fix things in the saloon over the last couple of months, and plan to help him repaint the front before the weather turns. Matt and Benedict have been helping a farmer, a Mr. Brown, I believe, but they’re at loose ends now that the harvest is past. As am I, which is why I’m running errands. We’re thinking of setting up a little side business cutting and selling firewood once the cold sets in.”
She smiled nervously. “Thank you for all the information.”
He leaned against the counter and studied her a moment. “Well, you do seem the type that wants to know all the details.”
Wilfred snorted, caught himself, then got back to work.
Honoria blushed and bit her lower lip. She knew she was lucky Wilfred hadn’t dissolved into hysterics. “I admit the truth of that,” she finally said. “Though as I’ve already told you, my curiosity can get the better of me.”
“As it would seem,” he said.
“Well … I’m glad to hear that you’re getting on well.” She walked over to a table laden with ribbons, combs, brushes and other paraphernalia, picked u
p a green ribbon and pretended to examine it.
“That’s a good color for you,” he commented.
She glanced at him. “You think so?”
His mouth curved up to one side. She wasn’t sure if he was smiling, or smirking again. “I do.”
She hadn’t expected that. Heavens, was he flirting with her? Then again, hadn’t she been doing the same? She set the ribbon down and turned to face him. “But I have enough ribbons for now. I don’t need another.”
He gazed at her appraisingly. “A woman can never have too many ribbons, in my opinion.”
She wasn’t sure if she liked this or not. Part of her wanted it; part of her was frightened by it. “Oh, I’ve enough fripperies at home, thank you.”
He went to the display table, picked up the ribbon and rubbed it between his fingers. “Silky,” he said in a low voice. “Such a thing should adorn hair that feels the same.” He purposely gazed into her eyes.
Her face went crimson. How embarrassing! Even Mr. Dunnigan, that hopeless romantic, was staring, waiting for her to respond. But she was stunned into silence. Wishing a man you liked would pay attention to you was one thing – having him actually do it was another! And worse, she could see by his smirk that he knew the effect he was having on her. Drat the man!
“I take it that’s your horse outside?”
“What?” she said. Oh – he’d changed the subject again. Rather chivalrous of him, really – he knew he’d embarrassed her and was giving her an out. She took it. “There were several outside when I got here, Mr. Comfort. To which are you referring?” Her voice sounded too terse even to her.
“The one with the sidesaddle. I didn’t think anyone around here rode in such a fashion.”
“There are a lot of things about Clear Creek, Mr. Comfort, that might surprise you.” No, no – that came out all wrong!
But he only smiled again. “Of that, Miss Cooke, I have no doubt.”
She swallowed hard. He was still doing it, making her as wobbly as a newborn foal.
The bell above the door rang, drawing everyone’s attention. A woman entered, wearing a brown traveling suit with white velvet trim and a hat to match. Honoria’s mouth watered at the sight – she’d never owned anything so beautiful – and unconsciously fingered her simple blue calico. For a moment she considered ducking behind the curtain that led to the back to run upstairs and get some lemonade, but her curiosity held her fast.
As Honoria studied the newcomer, she almost winced. Besides being dressed in the latest fashion, the woman was pretty, with blonde hair and dark eyes fringed with long lashes. She sashayed to the counter, a parasol tucked under her arm and a pretty smile in place. “I beg your pardon,” she said in a Southern drawl, but one different from the Comforts or the Dunnigans, “perhaps you could help me? I’m new in town, and the person I was to meet hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Oh, ah … well,” Wilfred stammered as he gaped at her. “New in town, eh? Are you here visiting relations?”
The woman looked shyly at the floor. “No, I don’t know anyone here as yet.”
Honoria shook herself out of her envy. The least she could do was put her nosiness to good use and help the stranger. “Who was supposed to meet you?”
“A gentleman. You see …” She smiled at each of them. “… I’m a mail-order bride.”
“A mail-order bride!” Wilfred exclaimed excitedly and slapped the counter. “Great jumping horny toads! Did you hear that, Honoria? Just like all your British aunties!”
Honoria nodded at him, then turned back to the woman. “If you don’t mind my asking, who is your intended?”
The woman paused before speaking, looking at each of them in turn. “His name is … well, it’s rather odd, I suppose, but it’s Major Comfort.”
Chapter 2
Major froze. Had he heard the woman right? Judging from the stunned look on Wilfred’s face and the horrified one on Miss Cooke’s, he had. “And you are?”
“Oh,” she said with a silly giggle. “Forgive me for not introducing myself first. I’m Miss Lucretia Lynch. I’ve come to get married.”
Major slowly nodded. “You said that.”
The woman flicked a hand at him. “Oh, so I did. I must be tired from my journey. You don’t know where I might happen to find Mr. Comfort, would you?”
Miss Cooke had gathered her wits by now and took on a knowing look. What did she think of him now? Not that he’d cared what she thought of him before, mind, but the girl had a quick wit and who knew what was brewing on the tip of her tongue? He’d better jump in before it was too late …
Too late. “Oh, I’m sure he’s around,” Miss Cooke said, her eyes narrowing slightly at him. “In fact, there are quite a few Mr. Comforts in town. Are you sure you have the right one?”
“Of course I’m sure,” the woman said, seemingly offended. “A name like ‘Major Quincy Comfort’ is not one I’d soon forget. Besides, it’s on the marriage contract.”
Major grimaced and coughed. “Marriage … contract?”
Wilfred’s mouth fell open as his eyes popped and drifted in Major’s direction.
“Maybe he forgot he sent for one,” Miss Cooke suggested, folding her arms across her chest and smiling at him. He could tell she was enjoying this.
Clearly he needed to take control of the situation before who-knew-what happened. “I don’t think Mr. Comfort could forget something he knew nothing about,” he said sternly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Miss Lynch asked, glaring at him.
“Only that someone is either pulling a vicious joke, or …” He stopped short. Oh no, it couldn’t be …no, it most certainly could. “… or my father got some wild idea in his head. That would make some sense out of this.”
Miss Lynch looked ready to “lose her religion,” so to speak. “And you are?”
He drew in a deep breath. Nothing for it. “My name, ma’am, is Major Quincy Comfort.”
“Oh! Then you’re … you’re …”
“Not your intended, alas,” he stated. “I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake –”
“Mistake?” she yelped before he could finish, her voice jumping an octave. “Outrageous! How could there be a mistake? I have the contract in my trunk!”
He looked around, but she had nothing with her save her reticule. “Where are your belongings, Miss Lynch?”
“Outside with the stage and that witless driver. I told him to take my things to the hotel, but who knows if he’s got the brains to.”
She was agitated, and for good reason. He supposed if he was in her position, he’d be upset too. But there was still no need to insult poor Willie. “Well, let’s try and get this settled as quickly as possible.” A movement caught his eye – Miss Cooke’s shoulders slumping in relief. At least someone was able to relax.
“There is no mistake, Mr. Comfort,” Miss Lynch said haughtily. “I’m your mail-order bride and I intend to get married. I did not travel all this way to turn around and go back.”
More’s the pity, he thought – her attitude, whether normal or from exhaustion, was wearing on his nerves. “I’m sorry, Miss Lynch, but I was not informed of your coming – or that I was to be married at all.”
That caught her up short. “You … you weren’t?” she replied, a bit more softly.
“No, I wasn’t. The only person I can think of who would do such a thing is my father. He’s been acting somewhat … erratically of late, and has hinted often enough in his letters that I should be considering marriage. I am quite sorry you were brought unknowingly into his … scheme.”
Miss Lynch went rigid. “Well, I never!” she huffed.
Major was about to continue when someone came stomping down the stairs behind the curtained doorway. It must be Mrs. Dunnigan. Wonderful, he thought darkly.
Sure enough … “What’s going on down here, Wilfred?” Irene Dunnigan asked as she shoved through the curtains to the storefront. She took one look at the newcomer and nar
rowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
Miss Lynch gasped. “Is everyone in this town so ill-mannered?”
Irene’s eyes narrowed further.
“Now Irene, don’t cause yourself a mischief,” Wilfred consoled. “This here’s Mr. Comfort’s mail-order bride.”
“Mail-order bride?” Irene barked. She spun on Major. “You ordered a bride?” Before he could utter a word, her head snapped to Miss Cooke and back. “Whatever for?” Miss Cooke’s cheeks flamed brilliant red.
Major gritted his teeth and collected himself. “No, ma’am, I did no such thing.”
Mrs. Dunnigan scrunched up her face at him, and he fought the urge to lean back. He’d been in town long enough to know what that look meant. “Well then, what’s this woman doing standing right in front of you? If you didn’t send for her, who did?”
Major sighed heavily. “That’s something I’d very much like to find out.” He turned to Miss Lynch. “Could I see this contract, ma’am?”
The woman made a show of straightening her jacket bodice and shifting her parasol under her other arm. “This is most embarrassing I must say. If you’ll follow me to the hotel, I’m sure we can get this all straightened out. But know this, Mr. Comfort,” she said sternly, her eyes as narrowed as Irene’s. “I don’t like to be made a fool of!”
“Nor do I.” He motioned toward the door. “After you.”
The woman turned gracefully on her heel and marched to the mercantile doors with small, precise steps. When she reached them she stood, chin in the air, and waited. Major sighed again, went to the door, opened it and motioned for her to precede him.
She didn’t. “And here I thought gentlemen from the South were so much more civilized than this Western riffraff.”
“Who’re you calling riffraff?” Mrs. Dunnigan barked.
“Calm down, Mrs. Dunnigan, it’s all in hand,” Major assured. Begrudgingly he offered Miss Lynch his arm. “Shall we?”
