“Good afternoon,” a harsh, throaty voice greeted the room. The man it belonged to waltzed in, his eyes merrily dancing in the direction of Gemma’s parents.
Gemma dug her nails into her palms. The man who had just entered was even older than she had expected him to be, thick swaths of gray painting his hair. In addition, he was portly, shorter than even her, and possessed a giant smile full of crooked teeth.
Nausea rose in Gemma, so quick she feared she would vomit right then and there. She blinked fast, working to maintain her composure as Mr. Picoult shook her father’s hand and kissed her mother’s fingers. Too soon, he was in front of her.
“My future wife,” he purred. “So wonderful to meet you.”
Gemma stared back, frozen and unable to move. This was the man her parents expected her to marry? They had tossed some truly awful ones her way over the last several years, but William Picoult had them all beat. He had to be three times her age.
Gemma’s father cleared her throat, shaking her from her trance. Gingerly, she gave the man in front of her a curtsy. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Lifting her hand, he assaulted her knuckles with a slobbery kiss—an action that sent a shiver down her back. “The pleasure is mine.”
“Shall we make our way to the meal?” Gemma’s father asked, extending his arm toward the door.
“Oh, yes! Let’s,” William Picoult eagerly agreed.
Her parents went first, filing out the door. Gemma took one step, but a hand on her arm stopped her. Picoult’s beady eyes shimmered from the hollows of his face, full of greed. It was a look Gemma had seen from men before and the one she despised the most.
“I do look forward to becoming more acquainted,” he cooed.
Before Gemma could even think to respond, he lifted a finger and stroked the side of her cheek. “You are a delightful little specimen.”
Rage boiled in Gemma. “Sir, I must request you take care to not overstep your boundaries. As of today, we are not man and wife.”
Picoult chuckled. “You cannot blame me for getting one small taste of what will soon be mine.” His gaze dipped suggestively down Gemma’s neck, coming to rest on her chest. Her skin flared as if on fire.
“My parents are waiting,” she choked out, hurrying away from the grotesque man.
Fear like none she’d ever experienced suffocated Gemma as she walked down the hall. Though she still did not know how she would escape marriage to Picoult, she now felt, more than ever before, that a way must be found. And it would be—or she would die trying.
“I thought I would faint, Pen. Being near him was that awful.”
Penelope cooled herself with her new lace fan and frowned. “You are here now, though, so it could not have been so horrendous.”
Gemma sighed. It was as if her friend heard nothing she had just said. Turning in her seat, she glanced at the curtain closing off their private balcony. They had only a few precious moments of talk before Penelope’s aunt returned from visiting a friend in another balcony and cut short Gemma’s chance to vent.
“He is a husband, after all,” Penelope silkily continued, arching in her seat to gaze down at the opera goers assembling below them. Nearby, the orchestra tuned their instruments, filling the space with disjointed song.
“What do you mean by that?”
Penelope gave her a knowing look. “You cannot exactly afford to be picky at this point, Gemma.”
The words hurt more than a slap in the face. “You try marrying him!” she shrieked back.
The lady in the next balcony looked over in interest and Penelope’s nostrils flared. “Do keep your voice down,” Pen insisted. “I do not wish to involve all of New York in our business.”
Gemma ignored the reprimanding. “It’s well and good for you to act as if I should be grateful for this… this...”
“Opportunity?”
“No!”
Penelope cocked her head in a show of dramatic exhaustion. “Who else is pounding on your door these days?”
Gemma could not answer. The truth was no one. Perhaps she had been foolish. Several years ago, scores of young men were coming to call on her, each of them vying for her hand. None of them had been good enough, though. Or so she’d thought at the time.
Now, it was too late to get any of them back. Her tricks and games, as her parents called them, had earned her a reputation. Far too late, Gemma had discovered the importance of keeping her name clean.
“You could always be a mail-order bride.”
“What?”
Penelope laughed. “You could go out west and marry a cowboy. You would be fighting savages and skinning deer, just like in those dime westerns you are so obsessed with.”
Gemma worked to make better sense of what her friend had just said. “A… mail-order bride?”
Penelope looked at her like she was daft. “Yes. Haven’t you heard of them?”
“I have read about them,” Gemma slowly said.
“Our maid’s sister did it. She signed up with an agency and went out west. Can you imagine it! She went off and married a man she had never met before. They’d only exchanged a few letters.”
Gemma’s mind was spinning. “How did she connect with him?”
“Through an agency. There’s some sort of paper or something that prospective husbands and wives can put ads in.” Penelope playfully smiled. “It’s rather ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
The grin fell right off Pen’s face. “Why, of course it is. How can you say that?”
Gemma shrugged and looked dismally at the curtained stage. “My parents are forcing me to marry a man I’ve only met once. I can’t see how marrying a stranger can be that much worse. At least your maid’s sister gets to live out west.”
“Gemma,” Penelope seriously said, “The West is a wild place. Good Christians are scalped there all the time by savages.”
“Now, you sound like the one reading dime westerns.”
“I am being serious.”
“As am I.” Gemma stared the other girl straight in the eye. “Perhaps this is a sign, Pen. I have never felt right in New York. Think of it. I have not found a man to marry, my parents push me into everything I do...”
“And your solution is to marry a strange farmer?”
Gemma haughtily shrugged. “William Picoult is a stranger. As I said, at least going out west means having an adventure. Think of it: being away from the carts and people, close to the animals and the sunrises...”
Gemma could see it all clear as day. She’d never been farther than Boston, her whole life being one endless dream of escaping the oppression of the world around her. The parties. The teas. The etiquette classes and the deadly silent family meals. They were Gemma’s life and they were all so meaningless. The people around her wanted nothing more than to look good and accumulate more money. Her parents only wished her to play the part of the perfect daughter, not to be the person she had been born as.
“Why do you have that look on your face?” Penelope warily asked.
“I know what I am going to do.”
“Oh… oh, no, Gemma. You cannot be serious.”
Gathering her skirts, Gemma stood. “Where is this agency? Is it in New York?”
“Why, I think so, but… You can’t really be doing this.”
Gemma leaned over so her eyes caught Penelope’s. “What else have I to lose?”
Penelope’s pink lips fell open. “Everything! Your dignity, your comfort. You will die out there, Gemma.”
“No.” Gemma straightened up to her full height. “No, I won’t. I will persevere, like all the other women who have gone before me.”
Penelope threw her hands up in frustration, her delicate fan collapsing on her lap. “I knew it. This is about those dime westerns. You think you are going to go out west and live like some heroine from a novel.”
Gemma struggled to keep her tone even. She and Penelope had always had their differences, but they had been easily overlooked
. Now, amid the most disastrous event in Gemma’s life, her friend was not even trying to understand. “Those stories are based on real events.”
“This cannot be truly happening,” Penelope muttered, as if in a daze. “Stop one moment, Gemma, and think. I know William Picoult may not be the perfect husband, but he is of good repute. That is what matters.”
That is what matters.
The awful words danced through Gemma’s head. As she looked down at her longest friend, she saw for the first time what she’d been missing for years. Penelope was not only a part of the world Gemma hated, she was a lover of it as well. She embraced all Gemma despised, all that was convoluted and without substance. It was an awful realization, but it helped Gemma see her future path more clearly: she had to get out of New York and go west. If marrying a stranger was what it took, so be it. Even if the man she wed was as bad as William Picoult, at least Gemma would be in the place she had always been meant to be.
Snatching her purse from the bag, she looped its rope over her wrist.
“Where are you going?” Penelope indignantly questioned.
She was terrified and anxiety-ridden, but still, Gemma could not help but smile. “In the direction of my destiny.”
4
4. Mitchell
Chapter Four
Mitchell sucked on his teeth and gazed out at the vibrant sunrise, each swatch of orange somehow different than the last. Unfortunately, the beauty in front of him could do nothing to assuage his worries. It had been a full month since the three heads disappeared, and since then, two more cows had vanished. They weren’t at Waters’. They weren’t at Greene’s. And they weren’t up in the hills, munching on some sweet clover, as far as Mitchell’s men could tell.
They’d been stolen. That was the only answer. But by who?
Footsteps crunched the dry earth behind him. Mitch turned around to find Beau, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, striding up. “How you doin’, boss?”
Mitch shook his head, his throat too dry and tight for him to answer. He was glad his parents couldn’t see him now, standing by as the ranch they’d loved so much was plundered.
“You get any sleep at all?”
“No time for that.” Mitch rubbed the back of his aching neck as he walked down the East hill. He’d almost fallen asleep under one of the cottonwoods, but he’d jerked himself awake just in time, his eyes blinking fast and his fingers tightening around his shotgun.
Just like every night for the last four weeks, there had been no sign of the rustlers. They swooped in silent as ghosts, seemingly plucking up cattle and carrying them off into the air.
“I’m gon’ take patrol with Nat tonight,” Beau said. “And you can get some sleep.”
Mitchell nodded. There was no point in arguing. Beau had a knack for knowing just what was needed in any situation and Mitch was grateful for that.
As they came along the two short rows of cabins, a cheerful whoop exploded through the air. Out the door of the first cabin came McGuire, the hand who’d been at the ranch coming on four years.
“She’s coming!” he announced. “Lord Almighty, my girl is coming!” He tilted his head back and sent another jubilant crow toward Heaven.
“Hey, now.” Mitch stepped closer to McGuire, noticing for the first time the piece of paper in his hand. “What’s all this about?”
McGuire guiltily ducked his head, though he couldn’t fully kill his grin. A few other ranch hands had come from their cabins and were gathering with interest around McGuire.
“Mary Belle is on her way?” a half-dressed Nat asked as he pulled his suspenders up.
McGuire nodded. “She sure is.”
“That’s wonderful!” Nat clapped him on the shoulder.
“Who is Mary Belle?” Mitchell asked, his curiosity growing.
For the second time in the last minute, McGuire became suddenly sheepish. “Well, Mr. Reed, she’s, uh, she’s going to be my wife.”
“Your wife? McGuire, I didn’t know you were engaged.”
“I wasn’t so sure myself, but I just received this here letter from Virginia. My lady is on her way here right this very moment.” The man bounced from foot to foot, having trouble containing his excitement.
“McGuire ordered her,” Nat proudly announced. “She wrote him saying she was looking for a good Christian man to be her husband...”
“And that’s me!” McGuire finished.
A chuckle pushed its way out of Mitchell. Despite the somber month he’d just had, he couldn’t help but be happy for his employee.
McGuire’s eyes flicked over to Mitch’s. “I hope you don’t mind the timing, Mr. Reed, but I’ve been saving up for years for this. And I know I told you six months ago that I might be leaving you this year...”
“It’s fine, McGuire,” Mitchell smiled. “Go get your plot of land. Start your farm and be happy with your new wife.”
“I will!” He licked his lips and laughed joyously.
Mitchell could feel Beau looking at him and he was sure he knew what about. The ranch was short-staffed. Losing one hand would be a blow, but Mitch wasn’t about to keep someone else from finding happiness. He’d make due in McGuire’s absence any way he could. If need be, he’d pull longer hours until he found a replacement.
At least it’s one wage I won’t have to pay, he grimly thought to himself. He didn’t like looking at it that way, but the truth of the matter was that money was only getting tighter.
The rest of the ranch hands spilled from the cabins, clapping McGuire on the back and congratulating him on his engagement. Over their heads, McGuire caught Mitch’s eye once more. “You could order a bride, too, Mr. Reed. I got the newest paper from the agency out east in my cabin. They just sent it to me, but I don’t need it, of course.” He gleefully laughed.
Heat flooded Mitchell’s cheeks and he lowered his face to the ground, letting the wide brim of his hat cover his eyes. He’d been asked time and time again—by his hands and by people in town—when he was going to marry. He always dodged answering, figuring he’d get to settling down when the right opportunity presented itself.
Though Shallow Springs and its surrounding land was rich in beauty and resources, it lacked an adequate supply of unmarried women. The town was still young—only about twenty years old—and small. What few young ladies lived there, Mitch had already met. He supposed he could have picked one of them, courted her for a while, then made her his wife, but he’d waited too long, letting the years slip through his fingers.
At this point, there was only one unmarried gal between the ages of seventeen and forty left in the area, and it was a known fact that she had sworn herself off men for good.
And so, without meaning to, Mitchell had carved himself a place in the world as a bachelor. It would have made his mother’s heart ache to see him living all alone, only his housekeeper and his rowdy cowboys to surround him, but Mitch figured there just wasn’t much he could do about it.
But still… a bride ordered in the mail? A strange woman coming from Who-Knew-Where?
“I think I’ll stick to a life of bachelorhood,” Mitch drawled. “At least until the right girl comes around.”
“That could take forever out here,” someone—Mitch didn’t see who—commented.
He didn’t have to answer. The group was moving up the hill, headed for Clara’s coffee and ham, their boss forgotten.
Mitch stayed where he was, planted in the grass, listening to the birds’ morning songs around him. The door to the cabin McGuire shared with Stackhouse was open, its knob resting against the outer wall.
He couldn’t order a bride from back east. It was fine for McGuire, but for Mitch, that just didn’t make sense. A stranger in his home, helping Clara cook his meals, warming his bed…
But the idea of a catalog of women was interesting in and of itself. Mitch glanced back over his shoulder and found himself alone. Not giving himself time to second-guess, he darted into the cabin.
He found the
paper right away, its crisp edges crinkling in his hands as he lifted it from the small table in the center of the one-room. His gaze raked quickly over the ads, some with pictures and some without.
A twenty-year-old maiden seeks a husband to share her life with. I can cook, clean, and have experience washing clothes from my time in a wash house, one said.
Her Western Heart (Seeing Ranch series) (A Western Historical Romance Book) Page 3
