Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set

by Jillian Hart

  “It’s too cold inside, too,” the sergeant said, deciding to ignore the unfounded accusation. He’d never deliberately hurt an animal in his life. He’d worked with enough raw recruits, though, to recognize the expression on the woman’s face. She wasn’t going to take orders from him even though she knew she would be court-martialed if she refused. Well, he supposed, no one really court-martialed wives who didn’t obey, but it was the same philosophy. In battle, men all needed to obey one commander or everyone died. He figured it wasn’t that much different in civilian life.

  He felt a headache coming on. Maybe the woman didn’t realize all that was happening. “My mother’s outside. And my daughter. Is there dry wood for a fire?”

  He’d learned to keep things simple for the new recruits.

  The woman’s face lit up. “Hannah is here?”

  He nodded, and the tension in his head receded. This woman, Eleanor, might be slow in some respects, but pure love shone out of her eyes when she asked about his daughter. His little girl needed that kind of softness almost as much as she required someone to guide her into womanhood.

  Before he could say more, Eleanor ran out the door toward the wagon he’d parked outside. The two horses stood patiently in the snow. He had hoped to introduce his mother more carefully to his bride. Even though his mother had been the one to choose from the several letters he’d received in response to his advertisement, she was seldom satisfied with anything. So he figured he better get out there and do what he could to protect his bride-to-be.

  “Whatever happened to you?”

  The sergeant could hear his mother’s booming voice from the doorway. It started with dismay and was moving into disbelief by the time he got to the wagon. His mother was eyeing Eleanor with horror.

  The gray clouds had parted and the sun was shining through but neither woman seemed to notice that the day had warmed. One of the horses lifted its head as the sergeant grew near.

  “You can’t be Eleanor.” His mother ended her pronouncement and turned her glare in his direction. “Look at her hair. No lady would ever go about with her hair loose like that. She’s an impostor. Don’t let her near Hannah.”

  At the mention of her name, his daughter shuddered and seemed to shrink deeper into the buffalo robe he’d brought to keep them warm on the ride home from Miles City. His mother had that effect upon children, which was the main reason he was anxious to have his daughter with him. She might be scarred from the fire, but it pained him more to see her becoming so timid.

  “How could Eleanor be an impostor?” The sergeant tried to keep his voice mild as he turned back to the women. He hadn’t taken in the sight of her hair until now and the vision of it caught him unprepared. It was magnificent, shining like pure copper in the sunlight. He felt his lips warm into a smile. Green eyes and ample hips completed the picture.

  Then he suddenly realized she must be freezing. The gray flannel dress she wore couldn’t be warm enough, especially without a cloak. The ladies he knew complained of a slight breeze. But this woman didn’t seem aware of the temperature.

  “I don’t know how she did it,” his mother declared, pointing at Eleanor before turning to him. “Maybe she changed places with someone on the train. I’ve heard of that. People get to talking and telling each other their life stories and one of them sees a chance to improve their lot by doing away with the other. Things happen on trains.”

  Eleanor gasped at that.

  “Are you accusing me of murder?” she demanded, taking a step closer to the wagon. “I met a very nice young woman on the train, Felicity Sawyer. And I can guarantee she is still very much alive in Angel Falls, Montana. I’m expecting a letter from her any day.”

  “Now, Mother,” the sergeant added as he tore his gaze away from the woman. “You were the one who corresponded with Mrs. Stout and found out about Eleanor. She’s who she’s always been.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s supposed to be a Hamilton,” his mother practically wailed. “Mrs. Stout said she was the granddaughter of the real Hamiltons. The ones in Boston. The ones who matter.”

  The sergeant could see Eleanor grow pale before his eyes. With her mass of red hair, her translucent skin was really quite distracting. He thought it was the cold that had made her blanch until he saw the twitch in her jaw.

  When she spoke her voice came out deep and indignant. “My mother was the one who mattered. Those Hamiltons, her parents, had nothing to do with her after she married my father. They didn’t want an Irish gardener in their family no matter how learned he was. He was good enough to tend their roses, but not to court their daughter. He was a brilliant man and my mother’s parents were nothing but pompous, idiotic fools. Not that they’d have asked my opinion on it—or anything else in this world.”

  His mother just sat there in the wagon, her deep gray cloak wrapped close around her neck and her mouth hanging open in protest. At first, he thought the shock she seemed to be feeling was because she wasn’t used to anyone talking back to her and he could see Eleanor wasn’t retreating an inch. He found that admirable in a recruit, even if it was a little dangerous when they did so before assessing the battlefield.

  His mother finally closed her mouth, only to open it again a moment later. “You mean the Hamiltons don’t talk to you at all? Ever?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Not one word since I was born. I do hear they talk about me, though. No one would hire my father or me because of it on the mainland. Mrs. Stout was the only one brave enough to risk their scorn. Out on Nantucket Island, the Hamilton family didn’t matter so much as it did in Boston.”

  His mother pressed her lips together in a tight line.

  “I’m not concerned about the Hamiltons,” the sergeant said, feeling he needed to step in before his mother dismissed the woman over something that was not important. Even his late wife wouldn’t be particular about society gossip concerning something that happened so long ago. “After all, I’m assuming you were born after they split from her family and your parents were rightfully married.”

  The woman turned her affronted gaze upon him. “I assure you that I have papers in my valise to prove both their wedding and my birth date. They are respectable. My father was an honorable man. I’ll not have anyone say otherwise.”

  He put up his hand in surrender. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d even asked, except for the fact that an irregular birth might make it difficult for the woman to chaperone Hannah at the kind of balls and parties she’d need to attend when she was grown. All of which were years away.

  His mother seemed to recover a little. “Well, I suppose we need to make the best of things now that you’re here. And you do have your time with Mrs. Stout. She never said what your position was. I suppose it was as a governess, though. Or maybe a companion.”

  Eleanor shook her head and lifted her chin higher. “I assisted my father with tending the sheep after my mother died. I was younger than Hannah there when I first went to the fields.” She nodded toward his daughter and then defiantly turned back to his mother. “My father and I were perfectly happy for all those years until he got a fever and died. Mrs. Stout kept me on while I tried to find something else, but her husband’s nephew is taking over the estate soon, and he won’t stand for a female shepherd so she thought I might like the West. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, though. Quite the opposite. I can shear a wild ram all by myself if need be. I can cord the wool. Dye it. Then weave it into some of the softest flannel you’ll ever see.”

  There was absolute silence after the woman finished her speech. The sergeant feared his mother’s face looked a little purple, but it was hard to tell because the feathers on her hat kept bobbing in front of her. He had to admit, though, that he was having his own doubts about how suitable Eleanor was going to be.

  Finally, a little voice spoke up from the middle of the buffalo robe. “Did you have a lamb?”

  Hannah never talked to strangers, and the sergeant was glad to see Eleanor didn’t rush over
and frighten his daughter. Instead, she smiled very nicely and nodded. “Yes, I had a beautiful black lamb and some white lambs, too. I miss them.”

  Hannah sighed and ducked back inside the robe.

  The sergeant felt like sighing, too. For the first time since he’d collected his mother and daughter from the train station, he had hope that Hannah would learn to live again. If she could talk to a stranger, she could get better. Maybe the woman could help, after all.

  “Surely you can’t expect to marry my son,” his mother said, turning again to glare at Eleanor. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Hannah in the care of someone who worked with—with animals. I mean if you were riding horses in the park—that would be one thing. But sheep? Goodness. You won’t be able to teach her anything. No needlepoint. No music. No manners.”

  The sergeant suddenly realized how offensive his mother sounded. The woman might not be what he’d expected, but he didn’t want her to leave. He’d caught the wistful look in Hannah’s eyes before she buried her face in the robe.

  “Speaking of manners,” he said stiffly as he turned toward Eleanor. “I’d like you to meet my mother, Mrs. Abigail Martin. She’ll be returning to her home in Ohio a week or two after Christmas.”

  Then he turned to the woman who’d given him birth. “Mother, I’d like you to meet my future wife, Eleanor Hamilton.”

  “McBride,” the woman spoke up, looking none too happy with him.

  He’d forgotten how prickly women could be. So he added, “I should say that I hope she’ll be my wife.”

  Then he turned the smile on her that he’d given women back in his courting days. It had been a long time since he’d tried to be gallant, but back then they’d said his smile melted hearts up and down the county. He’d never had reason to doubt it until now.

  His future wife glared at him. “I don’t know how to knit much, either.”

  And, with that, she turned and stomped back to the cabin, her dress swaying enough to make him grin. She had some fire to her, this woman who’d said she’d marry him.

  His mother grunted in disgust when she saw his face. He didn’t pay her any mind, though. He was focused on Eleanor. He was hoping she wouldn’t, but she did slam the door after she marched inside. He didn’t relish going back up there and knocking, but he had little choice.

  So he put his hat back on his head. A good soldier always did his duty whether he wanted to or not. He started walking toward the door. She’d probably latched it again, too. He wondered if she’d open it any quicker if he called her sweetheart when he knocked. He grinned, just thinking about it. A good military man always had a strategy or two up his sleeve.

  Chapter Two

  Eleanor wasn’t responsible for the bare shelves in what served as a cupboard and she hoped that man realized it. There was no flour, sugar, coffee, tea or anything else a lady like his mother would consider worthy of eating. Some dried herbs were still packed away in Eleanor’s valise and she had found some potatoes and carrots in the shelter behind the house. They were withered, but edible if a person wasn’t too fussy.

  A few days ago, after she’d brushed aside some snow down by the creek, she had found wild onions. She’d even caught a few trout when she first arrived. Of course, the weather had grown colder and she hadn’t tried to fish since then. She’d had to break ice on the creek this morning just to get water.

  “There’s still some of the bacon your neighbors brought over to me,” Eleanor said, knowing she should try to be more agreeable. She’d been teased often enough in her life; she shouldn’t have let that “sweetheart” of his bring a blush to her cheeks. She looked up at him and added. “Sir.”

  He seemed startled by that. “You can call me Adam.”

  She nodded, satisfied that she could unsettle him, too.

  “I have beans simmering on the stove.” His mother and daughter were in the back room and she wanted to let him know what she had. She kept her voice quiet, in case he didn’t want them to know how scarce their food was. “I’ll add a bit of the bacon for tonight.”

  “Beans?” he frowned and lowered his voice, too. “I sent an order for supplies to the mercantile before I left on patrol.”

  “Nothing has come while I’ve been here.” The knowledge that he had given more than a passing thought to her arrival softened her mind toward him somewhat, though. “Maybe it’s still coming.”

  “I doubt it. They could have hauled the supplies out here on foot in the amount of time they’ve had. The message must not have gotten to them. The old man who sold me this place said he’d leave some cans of peaches when it came time for him to head out.”

  “He did that.” Eleanor had found the bag of pinto beans, too, in the shelter behind the cabin. She’d thought they had been overlooked by whoever had lived here before, but now she realized they’d been left as a kindness, as well.

  The sergeant opened the firebox of the old stove and put a handful of twigs inside before shutting it again.

  “And you need more wood, too. Didn’t the Hargroves stop by and see how you were doing?”

  Eleanor nodded. “A couple of times.”

  “Well, knowing them, they must have asked if you had everything you needed.”

  “They did. I told them I was fine. The bacon was a present, they said. That’s why I accepted it.”

  He grunted at that, but didn’t say any more.

  She was glad to see his gaze had returned to the nearly empty wood box. She’d only used a small fire when cooking because she feared running out of fuel to burn. There was a grove of trees down in the gully to the left of them by the creek, but she hadn’t been strong enough to pull any of the fallen trees back to the cabin. The sergeant could use the wagon and horses to do that. She wanted to see how the stove took to a full fire before she tried to bake anything like biscuits in it. The furniture and other things in the cabin had all been used to the point of breaking so she didn’t have much confidence in the stove, especially since it seemed to heat unevenly.

  “Well, it’s beans for supper, then, I guess,” he said softly as he finally looked up at her.

  She was silent for a moment. His face was tense and she didn’t know why. Maybe he was embarrassed to have nothing else to serve his mother. She bristled with the thought that he would blame her for that until she remembered how prickly her father had been when he’d made a mistake. He’d be the same way if his supplies hadn’t come through.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Christmas won’t be here for two more days.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I should have taken the message to the mercantile myself. I’ll make a trip to Miles City tomorrow to buy what we need.”

  Eleanor nodded. She felt better getting to know his ways. “I gave some of the peaches to the Hargroves when they brought me the bacon. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m glad you did,” he said, some of the tension leaving him, as well.

  “They’re good neighbors,” he added and smiled at her as if she was somehow responsible for that.

  Eleanor stopped in mid-fret. She might trust him a little more since he had some of the same failings as her father, but she didn’t want him to feel as if he had to pretend they were a normal engaged couple. She was going to be mothering his daughter; she expected to love Hannah. But she hadn’t decided how she would feel about him yet. It was easiest to see him as her new employer. Either way, he didn’t need to smile so much and she ought to tell him that.

  “I can make a peach cobbler,” she heard herself say instead, and then, lest he read too much into that, she added, “We need something special for Christmas. Or, if you’d rather, I could make a plum pudding if you get the ingredients.”

  Because of her father’s Irish pride, English puddings had been strictly forbidden when she prepared meals in the sheepherder’s wagon. On the holiday, she’d serve up a nice spiced beef brisket roasted over the fire and they’d talk of the Christmas cake he remembered from his childhood. But t
he cook in the Stout kitchen had said she’d known plenty of Irish who enjoyed an English pudding and she’d shown Eleanor how to make one when the staff had found out she was going West. She’d also shown her how to roast a Christmas goose and make a hard sugar candy. Not that Eleanor was likely to find a goose wandering around this country, but when she got some sugar she might attempt the candy. Mrs. Stout had given her a small bottle of peppermint oil to use in it if she got the chance.

  Just then Adam’s mother swept aside the curtain that separated the main part of the house from the back room that held the bed. “I’ve always thought a Christmas called for meringue.”

  “We don’t have any eggs, Mother,” Adam said.

  “Well, surely for Christmas—” She turned and looked at Eleanor. Some of the purple had gone out of the woman’s face and she looked genuinely concerned. “Hannah expects a proper Christmas dinner. I always make a sour cream raisin pie with meringue. It’s her favorite.”

  “She’ll find a new favorite,” Adam said in a tight voice. “This is the West. Things are different.”

  “Not so different that you can ignore a little girl’s Christmas,” his mother said as she turned around. “I just hope Hannah is sleeping and doesn’t hear any of this.”

  Having made her disapproval clear, his mother marched into the back room.

  There was a moment of silence after that.

  “I’m sorry, I—” Adam ran his fingers through his hair as he kept looking at the curtain. “My mother will be out here again once she’s made sure Hannah is down for her nap.” He looked at Eleanor. “I’m afraid she’ll be here through Christmas, but we’ll be fine. Get a good night’s sleep and—” he stopped and paused a moment and looked around “—I’m sorry. I guess I need more beds. I had planned to fetch Hannah myself, but my mother decided to bring her here so she could—ah—meet you.”

  Eleanor lifted her chin. This all was hardly her fault. “Even with just Hannah here, we would need more beds. You have only the one stool, too.”