A Sweet Mail-Order Bride for the Distant Rancher: A Western Historical Romance Book
Page 31
“Excuse me, sir,” Sarah said as she placed her bag down beside her.
The ticket agent, a wiry man with a black vest, spectacles, and a mustache, smiled pleasantly as he interlaced his fingers and looked up from his duties. “Yes, ma’am,” he said warmly, “how can I assist you today?”
“I’m from out of town, and I’m supposed to go to the Wells and Milford stagecoach station, but I’m afraid I don’t know where that is.”
“Of course,” the ticket taker said, pointing over his shoulder. “This is a small town, so it will be hard to miss. The Wells and Milford stagecoach station is a small office in the heart of town. If you walk past the station and go straight ahead, east, you’ll see a red and white sign designating the station in the middle of town, next to city hall.”
Sarah smiled politely. “Thank you, kindly,” she said as she picked up her bag. “I very much appreciate it.”
“Have a nice day, ma’am.”
Gathering her bags, Sarah began the journey toward the heart of town, taking deep breaths and feeling her anticipation rise as she struggled to focus her thoughts. Just relax, Sarah, she thought. Follow the deputy’s instructions. Go to the stagecoach station, give them your name, and the ticket will be waiting for you.
She walked slowly and timidly through the town, a quaint community with trees peppered throughout, dozens of brick buildings, and the resplendent hues of fall all around her. It was a stark contrast from the destruction and generally dire straits that Beaufort was when she left, so it was a welcome reprieve to take in the pristine sights of Batesville and the pleasant smiles of the townsfolk who greeted her as she began her trek through. She arrived at the stagecoach station ten minutes after she left the train station, placing her bag down as she lined up behind three people waiting for the ticket agent to begin letting people inside the one-story brownstone establishment with the red and white “Wells and Milford Stagecoach Company” sign adorning it on top. As Sarah waited patiently in line, she glanced around at the townsfolk moving to and fro through Batesville.
They seem so happy, so content. It is such a different feeling from that of Beaufort. Oh, I shall miss that town … but I can never, ever return.
Sarah checked the time by asking the gentleman in front of her, a man with a curled mustache and a top hat.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It is nearly noon.”
“Thank you,” she said as she stepped back and clutched her luggage, feeling an air of anticipation as she looked eagerly to the ticket counter for the agent to arrive.
Just breathe, Sarah.
Just. Breathe.
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