The Mail Order Bride of Break Heart Bend (Break Heart Brides Book 2)

by Rachel Bird

  The Mail Order Bride

  of

  Break Heart Bend

  BREAK HEART BRIDES BOOK TWO

  Rachel Bird

  BREAK HEART BRIDES

  Never A Lawman

  The Mail Order Bride of Break Heart Bend

  The Mail Order Bride of Break Heart Bend (Break Heart Brides Book 2)

  Published by Beastie Press

  Copyright 2019 Rachel Bird

  Cover design by eyemaidthis

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. With the exception of fair use excerpts for reviews and critical articles, no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  When Charity Steele sees how happy her sister Belle is with her new husband, she joins forces with the local matchmaker to find one for her sister Naomi, who hasn’t been happy since their family came to Colorado.

  Rafe Morgan has had it with his brother’s coldness. Ever since Pres’s wife died five years ago, he’s rejected all love and affection. Rafe figures a new bride will mend Pres’s broken heart—and he knows just where to get one.

  Naomi Steele and Preston Morgan are perfect for each other, and Abigail Vanderhouten finally has them corresponding through her mail order bride service. Love is in the air!

  There’s only one small problem.

  Naomi and Preston don’t know anything about it.

  Chapter 1

  Break Heart, Colorado

  The letter from Morning Star Ranch had been burning a hole in Charity Steele’s pocket since she plucked it from the unsorted portion of the mail when Mae went back to check on the coffee. For the second time this morning, her employer absently rearranged a display of ribbons beside the bolts of calico and linen fabric. Charity had swept and dusted and restocked the shelves. Tagget’s hadn’t had a customer in twenty minutes.

  “I heard the Lilac is having flan today,” Charity said. Mae loved sweets, and the custardy treat, introduced recently at the hotel café, was one of her favorites. It did the trick.

  “Ooh, goody!” Mae untied her apron and daintily smoothed back a fallen lock of her graying hair.

  Some might think the feminine gesture out of place in a middle-aged lady who habitually wore her dead husband’s shirts and trousers, cut down to size. Not Charity. She and her sisters had been the beneficiaries of Mae’s cast-off wardrobe, a collection of lovely, utterly feminine things the widow swore she’d never wear again.

  Take it all. You’d be doing me a favor, she’d said. The Steeles had lost their clothes—and more—last month when their rafts foundered on the rapids at Break Heart Bend. I’d be glad to have these things put to good use.

  Charity’s parents had died in that terrible ordeal, and Mae and the other good people of Break Heart, Colorado, had kindly taken her in, along with her sisters and little brother.

  It had been four weeks. Charity felt as though she’d lived here all her life.

  She glanced at the large round clock mounted near the register on the wall opposite the bolts of fabric. “Why don’t you go on up to the Lilac for a bite? I can watch the store.”

  “Dear girl.” Mae hung up her apron. “I believe I will.”

  The bells above the door chimed merrily. As soon as Mae was out of sight, Charity laid Mr. Morgan’s letter out on the counter, along with a blank sheet of paper and her fountain pen. She had half an hour—forty minutes at most—to get the answer written, sealed, and slipped unseen into the outgoing mailbag before Mae returned.

  She filled her pen and put the ink on her account. How satisfying it was to earn her own wages! Charity used copious amounts of ink, forever scribbling in her journal or writing to what family the Steeles had left in Minnesota. Each week the cost of items she acquired from Tagget’s were deducted from her pay packet. Paper and ink were always among her largest expenditures.

  It was wonderful, having the power to choose for herself. Not to have to ask could she please have more paper, ink, the latest style of pen? Perhaps a volume by Louisa May Alcott or Jules Verne. Not to have to justify why or how much.

  With trepidation she opened the letter, the second one the rancher had written, and her heart beat faster as she read each line penned in Mr. Preston Morgan’s strong, masculine hand.

  This was the moment of truth.

  There was no going back.

  It was exactly what she’d wanted.

  She was terrified.

  Dear Miss Steele,

  It was with much joy I received your letter. I am on the trail to Cheyenne, Wyoming, some few days into this spring’s cattle drive, but your letter was sent on from the ranch with the other mail for the crew. We call this the Morning Star’s very own Pony Express.

  The distance from my ranch to the railhead is not so far as most outfits face, just under fifty miles, but the days add up, depending on how many and how deep the rivers on the way, and I don’t like to push the herd. The more weight on the hoof at delivery, you see, the better price per head the cattle bring.

  I am writing late at night, under what seems a hundred million stars, with a lantern at my side and a lap desk braced against my knees. I may be the “big bug,” as the men call me, but I still take night hawk duty several times on every drive. I enjoy the peaceful quiet. Gazing upon the infinite night, a man can’t help but feel God looking down on us all. This scene always imparts an overwhelming feeling of comfort to my soul.

  Earlier a couple of coyotes were singing to each other, and just now an owl screeched overhead, but other than that, it’s been nothing but the silent song of the twinkling stars.

  I’m a prideful man and don’t easily set that aside, but I will for you, and gladly. To wit, for your scrutiny: I am thirty-five years old, but I assure you I am vigorous and in excellent health. I’m just over six feet tall.

  My dear Miss Steele ~ or may I call you Naomi? ~ if I were there with you, I would take your hands in mine, look you in the eye, and tell you how truly happy you’ve made me by accepting my proposal.

  Of course I will come to Break Heart to be married in your church there with all your family and friends in attendance. I owe you that much!

  I understand a lady likes to be wooed, and you surely deserve that. I promise to make up what you’ve lost in the way of a courtship by giving you a lifetime of loving care.

  Tomorrow the Morning Star’s “Pony Expres
s” will take our letters to post. I hope this one finds you well and in good health.

  I will write again as soon as I’ve returned from the drive to let you know when I can come to Break Heart. I look forward to the day we meet. Yours with much gratitude,

  Preston Morgan

  Charity blew out the breath she’d been holding. She should be relieved. This was exactly how it was supposed to work.

  The man wrote to Mrs. Abigail Vanderhouten, asking for a bride and giving the particulars as to why he was worth the trouble. If Mrs. V approved of what she learned about him from independent sources, he went into her bride book.

  The would-be bride browsed the catalog to find a gentleman who seemed pleasing, wrote to him through Abigail, told him about herself, and expressed her willingness to be bound to him by God until death parted them.

  The would-be husband wrote back with the funds to cover her travel expenses. When she arrived, they visited the preacher, and that was that. Somewhere in there, Abigail collected a fee from the gentleman.

  This negotiation had been a little different. The bride book wasn’t involved, and the maneuvering had taken more than one exchange of letters.

  And—one tiny hitch in the git-along—Naomi was unaware of the whole thing.

  Oddly, after years putting Mrs. Vanderhouten off, Morgan had written to her the same day he’d departed on his annual cattle drive. The forced delay had allowed for an extra round of letters, and Charity had taken the opportunity to ask him to come to Break Heart for the wedding.

  A bold request on her part, but she wanted to see for herself the man she’d secured to be her sister’s husband.

  Besides, as the venerable Mr. Darcy had so nonchalantly told Miss Elizabeth Bennet, What is fifty miles of good road? The Morning Star Ranch was fifty miles from Break Heart. If Mr. Morgan wasn’t up to Mr. Darcy’s standard, then he certainly wasn’t good enough for Naomi.

  Charity chuckled at the thought and spread her hand over the blank sheet, tested her pen, and began. She was long past thinking about penmanship. Imitating Naomi’s hand was second nature to her now.

  Dear Mr. Morgan,

  I hope this letter finds you (and your cattle ~ and your men!) well and successful in your endeavor and that you all return home safe.

  I very much appreciate your willingness to come to Break Heart and be married in the church here. My sister Faith says what our minister lacks in ecclesiastical scholarship he makes up for in enthusiasm. All my sisters and my brother Luke are eager to meet you.

  She hadn’t told Mr. Morgan that Luke would be part of the bargain. Hannah—maybe not. There could be a problem convincing the youngest Steele girl to leave her current situation. Naomi had been like a second mother to Hannah and Luke, and Charity couldn’t imagine she’d leave them behind, but there was no point in springing them on the man in letters.

  He’d meet them when he came. If he wouldn’t agree to taking a twelve-year-old boy as part of the package—and maybe a fourteen-year-old girl—he didn’t deserve Naomi on that score either.

  I must say I’m impressed by your vow to woo me after we are married. From the beginning, you set a high standard for yourself, sir.

  I look forward to hearing from you soon.

  I remain yours truly,

  Naomi—

  Wait. The hairs rose on the back of Charity’s neck and a feeling of being watched crept over her. The pen froze in her hand. Was that the echo of the bells jingling at the front door? She feared to look up. She’d been so engrossed in keeping true to Naomi’s voice, when her own would not quite be held at bay.

  A judgmental sigh emanated from a living, breathing being not a few feet away. Still, Charity couldn’t bring herself to raise her head.

  The sigh was joined by an impatient clearing of the throat, nudging at her from across the counter, then the tapping of a bootheel on the wooden floorboards. Charity forced herself to look up into the horrified face of Mrs. Abigail Vanderhouten.

  The matchmaker snatched up Mr. Morgan’s letter.

  “What on God’s green earth do you think you’re doing?”

  Chapter 2

  Nine days earlier

  The bells above Tagget’s front door jingled cheerfully, and a darkly handsome young man entered like a Cajun Father Christmas, a stuffed bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Gil’s here!” Charity called out to Mae, who was in the storeroom. She waved to the mail coach conductor and climbed down from the ladder where she’d been stocking shelves.

  “Bonjou, chèr.”

  Part of Break Heart’s charm was its infinite variety of people. Charity didn’t think a Cajun had ever been to Minnesota—at least to not the farm country where she’d lived all her life until last month, when her pa had announced to the family they were moving to Colorado to start a new life where there were no locusts.

  “Mae’s checking on the coffee,” she told Gil. “It should be ready, if you want a cup.”

  “Ah, sweet girl, if I only had the time.”

  With his father, Gil delivered mail on a demanding star route that kept their celerity wagon in perpetual motion six days a week. He was what Charity’s cousin Persie would call a dangerous fellow—too pretty for his own good or anybody else’s, and well aware of the fact. His broad grin and devil-may-care attitude were enough to unnerve any female, and his powerful good looks sealed the deal.

  Even more dangerous, he was nice as could be. And aside from a tendency to wink at any female, young, old, and in between, and call them chèr in a way that made their toes frizzle, he had impeccable manners.

  And still he was a bachelor. Testimony to the sad truth all those advertisements for mail order brides in the newspapers back home were on the level. There just plain weren’t enough marriageable women out West. If Gilbert Breaux couldn’t find a wife, what mortal man had any hope?

  But then, maybe Gil was like Charity—not an admirer of the institution. She couldn’t remember seeing his name in Abigail Vanderhouten’s book—a catalog of hopeful bridegrooms seeking life companions.

  “That was some shindig last Friday, no?” He set the mailbag on the counter and gave Mae a big smile as she emerged from the storeroom. “I’m still living on the memory of dancing with so many lovely ladies.”

  The mail coach came every day but Sunday, rain, snow, or shine, but this past Friday Tagget’s—the town’s general store which also served as the post office—had been closed for the wedding of Charity’s sister Belle to Brady Fontana, Break Heart’s sheriff. Gil had found Mae at the Lilac Hotel, where the reception was being held, and while Mae and Charity sorted and handed out the mail right there—since all the locals in town were in attendance—his pa had enjoyed a piece of cake while he’d taken precious time from his schedule to dance a few reels.

  “You were popular, all right—with the ladies.” Mae handed him the bag of outgoing mail. “Not so much with the menfolk.”

  “If a fella can’t stand a little competition, mon chèr, he doesn’t deserve to play the game.” He winked as if Mae were a girl of sixteen, and she giggled a little in spite of herself. “Did the happy couple get to their honeymoon?” he went on. “Who’s in charge while Sheriff Fontana is away? Not the lady deputy!”

  “No, no. Brady wouldn’t leave Faith alone,” Mae said. “Greeley’s sheriff sent someone to fill in while he’s gone.”

  “The fellow arrived yesterday,” Charity said. Last night at supper, her sister Faith—the lady deputy—hadn’t been at all enthusiastic about Sheriff Fontana’s temporary replacement.

  “I’m glad to hear it, ladies. Anyway, I’d best get.”

  With another tinkling of the bells, Gil was gone.

  “That young man is a whirlwind.” Mae chuckled and dumped the mailbag’s contents on the counter.

  Sorting the mail was Mae’s favorite chore at the general store, one that had the virtue of being easy on her back. Too many years of lifting and bending and stooping had taken their toll on the woman,
hard work Charity was happy to relieve her of.

  While Mae filled the pigeonholes behind the counter with letters and parcels addressed to the denizens of the town, Charity finished stocking the heavier and more unwieldy items on the shelves.

  She loved her life! She was happier than she’d ever been. Happier than she ought to be.

  It was only a month since Ma and Pa had died horribly at Break Heart Bend a treacherous turn in the river upstream from town, but she and her sisters had found employment and a large, comfortable house to live in at the end of town, up the lane from the Little Church of Break Heart Bend—rented to them by Mae.

  By rights, Charity should be in deep mourning, wear only black for a year, and never leave the house except to go to church.

  Instead, she had a proper job stocking shelves and waiting on customers at Tagget’s General Store on Main Street. She and her sisters had put away their mourning shockingly sooner than society would normally deem acceptable. Even Naomi, the oldest and most straitlaced, had agreed that it was a way of showing respect to Pa. He’d brought them to Colorado to start new lives, after all, and they’d best get on with it.

  What would have been considered a scandal back home had been accepted here in the West. Break Heart was a relatively new boomtown, still feeling its way and populated by an assortment of characters, some steady, some not so much, and none of them predictable. Most were of the judge-not-lest-ye-be-judged variety.

  Today Charity wore a calico dress in a pretty floral print, one that had once belonged to Mae, now tailored to fit by her sister Hannah, an excellent seamstress.

  Actually, this particular frock belonged to Naomi. This morning Charity didn’t have anything clean enough for work and she’d borrowed the dress since they were the exact same size.

  She just hoped to get through the day without disaster and return it to the closet before Naomi returned home from her job. No harm done and none the wiser. The last thing Charity wanted was to add to Naomi’s gloom. Her unhappiness was the one fly in the cream of Charity’s wonderful new life.

  Poor Naomi! The Steele sisters had all found work in Break Heart so they wouldn’t have to return to Minnesota, and they loved their jobs—all except Naomi. Every day, she grew quieter. Almost depressed.