by Rachel Bird
“I disabused him of the notion,” Lily Rose said. “Told him Delilah had already arranged with Sheriff Fontana to have Faith collect money because she likes seeing a female wearing a badge.”
It was good of Lily Rose to say so, but Faith doubted Delilah Montgomery had done any such thing.
“Well, he won’t get anywhere with Tagget’s, and I doubt Abigail will take to his mischief,” Charity said. “I have an idea. Leave it to me.”
Faith’s heart swelled with gratitude at her sister’s righteous anger. She never could abide an injustice.
“Charity?” Red John approached them gingerly, leading Argentino. Jessop and Cole were some distance away, talking with Parson Hood. “If I may say so, you’re looking mighty fine today. But then you always do.”
“Where is Big Mama?” Charity ignored the compliment. “I should think she’d want to come along and show off her new buggy. But then, maybe that was all talk. Maybe you never met the man from Morning Star Ranch after all.”
“It didn’t work out.” Red John’s face fell. “Morgan didn’t have the right stock. Big Mama has her heart set on a matched pair.”
It sounded like an excuse to Faith. She gave Argentino a once-over. Red John took better care of his horse than the other Deckoms did theirs, but from what Mrs. Vanderhouten said, standards at the Morning Star were the highest. She wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Morgan had refused to sell after one good look at Red John’s horse.
“I think it best you go.” Parson Hood’s raised voice carried from far end of the churchyard. “Now.” He sounded nervous but stood his ground against Jessop’s cold glare.
Against her will, Faith was again impressed by the preacher’s fortitude.
“You need some help there, Parson?” Polk called out half-heartedly. He again puffed up his chest, but otherwise he didn’t move a muscle.
Jessop tilted his head and grinned, spreading his hands in mock surrender. He moseyed off in the direction of his horse, while Cole caught Faith’s eye and grinned.
The man was far too full of himself.
“Red John, let’s get along.” Cole winked at Faith, never taking his eyes off her. “Time to vamoose.”
Chapter 13
Morning Star Ranch
It was a fine day, and the windows were open to let in the fresh morning air. Lissy and Ug were playing outside—somewhere near, by the sound of it. Rafe ran his hand through his hair yet again and stared at the letter from Vanderhouten Brides—written not by Mrs. Belle LeClair but her sister. Mrs. LeClair had already been claimed.
Yesterday, he’d gone to Rosamund to help with work on the new church, and out of habit he stopped to pick up the ranch’s mail before heading back. He hadn’t expected an answer to Pres’s letter so soon.
Why had he written to the matchmaker? In the heat of the moment, it had seemed a clever plan.
After Penelope’s death, he’d seen Morning Star Ranch with new eyes. It was like a world unto itself with a wounded king. Like the fables of old, unless the king could be healed, the land would die. Pres’s wound was a broken heart. Only love could cure it.
It seemed a good plan at the time.
But that time had passed, and now Rafe realized what a darn fool plan it was.
Playing with fire.
But there was no putting it off. He’d read Naomi Steele’s letter more than a few times over. At the desk in his bedroom, he took out paper and pen, laying her answer beside the blank sheet to use as a guide for Pres’s response.
His stomach twisted. This was no theoretical “mail order bride.” She was a living, breathing woman. A human being with hopes and dreams and… and it was plain on the page she had her pride.
He smiled inwardly. Also a clever mind that noticed he’d used the word indeed twice. He’d thought about it at the time but decided it would be worse to scratch one out than to let it go as it was.
He checked the ink in the pen. This was madness. Surely he’d already broken all manner of US postal regulations. Not to mention, forgery was a crime.
But that was nothing. Pres was going to kill him before any inspector general from the post office came calling.
“Murderation, Ug. You go on now!”
What the dickens? Rafe went to the window. Lissy was yelling at Ug from the cherry tree in the yard.
“You’re too little to climb trees. Pa’ll kill me if you fall and break your neck.”
“I won’t fall!”
“Yes you will!”
“No I won’t!”
“Yes. You will!”
Oh brother. Those kids needed a mother to civilize them as much as Pres needed a wife to love him.
“Lissy-girl!” Rafe leaned out the window. “Why don’t you get down from there and take your brother to see how Hades is doing?”
At the mention of Penelope’s colt, Lissy leaped to the ground from not quite the lowest branch and the two kids shot off for the barn. Rafe sat down and filled his pen.
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…
Rafe’s heart started pounding like the dickens. He was no storyteller. The scene he described was authentic. It came from a memory of his own first cattle drive, but he shaped it to sound like it came from Pres’s pen. Every sentiment on the page was true, but it felt like every word was a bald-faced lie. He didn’t like it.
But this was for Pres, and he took a deep breath and pushed on.
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.
He refused to tell her the color of Pres’s hair. Having defended his own red thatch all his life, Rafe wasn’t about to brag on Pres’s dark mane. It shouldn’t matter to a woman what color a man’s hair was!
He finished the letter feeling slightly queasy. There was nothing iffy about the words he’d written. The woman on the receiving end would be expecting a husband soon. Talk about being out on a very long, very weak limb!
He slipped the envelope into his vest’s inside pocket and went down to the kitchen to ask Consuela if she wanted anything from town.
“The kids are out at the foaling pen with Hades,” he told her. “I’ll be back in time for supper.”
In Rosamund, after dropping off the letter at the post, Rafe headed over to the church again to lend his muscle to the cause, not to mention the need to work off some worry by pounding nails for an hour.
It will be fine, he told himself. Pres will thank me when all is said and done. Or murder me.
If it was to be murder, how much time did Rafe have left to live?
Allowing for the usual vagaries of the trail, the drive would likely reach Cheyenne tomorrow or Thursday. The crew would stay in town for another day or two, spend half their pay on whiskey and women, and try to see the elephant. But Rafe expected Pres would head back to the Morning Star as soon as he’d transacted the ranch’s business. He could be home as soon as Friday, early next week at the latest.
By then, Rafe hoped to have figured out just how he was going to explain to his brother why he should jump at the chance to marry Miss Naomi Steele.
He’d like nothing more than to see Pres happy after so many years of loneliness and sorrow. And truth be told, Nao
mi seemed wonderful. If her letter was any guide, she was kind and clever and had a feisty streak. Sometimes a man had to take a leap of faith and trust in the good Lord’s intentions.
And then, as Admiral Farragut would say, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.
Chapter 14
Break Heart
Charity passed Luke the mashed potatoes after he asked a second time. All through supper it had been difficult to pay attention.
It was Wednesday. Too soon to expect an answer from Mr. Morgan. He probably had a million cattle baron things to do, whatever they may be. Charity could hardly expect him to drop every responsibility merely to respond to a letter as quickly as humanly possible.
But wouldn’t he, if marriage were still his goal?
There wasn’t one atom of romantic sentiment in her body. And yet, in a tiny corner of her heart, she wanted to believe that Mr. Morgan of Morning Star Ranch was the kind of man to move heaven and earth to see his future bride, once he’d found her.
And so he must have decided against her!
He’d read “Naomi’s” letter and recoiled at her being such an upstart. Charity never should have poked fun at him for using a word twice—what kind of foolish rudeness was that anyway? Or taunted him over losing Belle due to his slowness to act.
Mr. Morgan probably considered himself well rid of an ill-mannered, willful bag of nails.
Poor Naomi! If she had to have such an interfering sister, couldn’t it be one who interfered successfully? Who didn’t bungle everything? She deserved so much better.
“I feel so relieved, now that I’ve decided,” Naomi was saying. She’d been telling everyone of her resolve to stay with Mr. Overstreet until Belle and Brady needed her, then to go live with them at Nighthawk. “It’s good to have a plan.”
Hannah and Luke, who’d always seen her as more mother than sister, treated Naomi’s announcement as if she’d just reported that it was raining outside or told them what was for dessert.
No. With far less interest than what might be for dessert.
Faith, however, shot Charity a despairing glance. They were both still young enough to remember believing the whole world lay ahead, a path of limitless choices, but they were also old enough to have confronted the shocking discovery of how few choices a female truly had in this life.
“What if someone chooses Mr. Overstreet from the bride book before you’re ready?” Charity could get Naomi used to the idea without breaking her promise to Mrs. V—a promise she never should have made in the first place.
“Then I’ll earn my place here at Calico Manor until Belle and Brady are ready for me. If Belle really means to play Lady Bountiful and pay our rent, we won’t need my income. And goodness knows we could use a real housekeeper.”
“I miss Daisy,” Hannah said out of the blue. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a cow here? And chickens. And a garden and—”
“And, and, and!” Naomi smiled wearily. “I say I might stay home, and you’ve already got me doing the work of three people.”
“I could take care of a cow,” Hannah said. “I could milk her in the mornings before I go to Mrs. V’s and at night when I come home. And I could help Charity plant a garden.”
“We all do have our talents,” Faith said. “Luke could help with the garden too. And there’s a stall and corral out back. Stock was kept here once. It would save on livery fees if we kept Dodger and Belle’s pair here. I can take care of the horses.”
“And I can take care of chickens,” Luke said eagerly.
“You’re very good with the Overstreets’ chickens,” Naomi said. “All of this sounds wonderful, and it’s easier to see it happening if there could be someone at home all day. But this isn’t our property, and Mae might not approve of our keeping animals.”
“She might,” Charity said. She’d never asked Mae about what she meant to do with the house in the long term. “I’ll talk to her.”
“And you and I won’t be here forever, Luke. When I go to Nighthawk, you’ll come with me.”
“I could go anyway.” Luke had formed a bond with Brady Fontana that pleased all his sisters. It was good for a boy to have a man like that to look up to. “We were all invited.”
Naomi looked at Hannah, then hesitated.
“How are your projects coming along?” Charity jumped in to head off a discussion about whether Hannah, too, would be going to Nighthawk—a discussion bound to lead to a disagreement. Nighthawk’s distance from town was nothing, however, compared to that of Morning Star Ranch. “Is Lady Liberty’s costume ready?”
Independence Day was only five days away, and from what Mae had told her, Break Heart celebrated in a big way. Families and ranch hands came into town from all around, with a parade in the morning, then picnicking, patriotic speechifying, games, and dancing all day long.
“Marella loves her Lady Liberty costume, but her mother thinks it’s too risqué.” Hannah brightened. “Mrs. Grayson likes the ballgown Jane created for her daughter’s birthday party though.”
Marella Grayson’s ballgown was the order Hannah had been staying late at work to complete. The Lady Liberty costume, which belonged to the town along with several others for the parade, had only needed mending and tailoring to Marella’s form. “The trim and the bustle came out perfectly. Jane Stedman said if I lived in Paris, I could apprentice at the House of Worth.”
Charity had finally figured out that the House of Worth wasn’t a house at all but the business name of a dressmaker in France. “You talk about that designer as if he were the king of the world.”
“He’s the king of designers! He makes clothes for all the royalty of Europe and the most fashionable ladies of New York too. We copied one of his designs from a magazine for Marella’s gown. It’s heavenly!”
“That’s all very well,” Naomi told Hannah. “But when the new schoolteacher comes, you will be spending less time working for Mrs. Vanderhouten.”
“School!” Hannah’s nostrils flared. “Why do I need to learn history and geography? When I grow up, I’m going to be a modiste and make beautiful clothes.”
“I believe you,” Naomi said. “But if you are an uneducated nincompoop, what kind of clients do you think you’ll attract? From what you say of this Worth House, it might be to your advantage to learn French, don’t you think?”
Hannah blinked, and Charity was sure it was the first time the practical use of an education had ever occurred to her little sister.
Charity would have loved a more thorough education. From the moment she learned how, she’d been an avid reader. She was secretly jealous of her cousin Connie, enrolled in normal school to become a teacher.
The most attractive thing about Mr. Morgan, in Charity’s opinion, was his fabled library.
Could that be part of what made Naomi so unhappy? She’d once commented that she lacked the education to provide even rudimentary instruction for Hannah and Luke. Did she feel so limited because she’d gone to school for only a few years? Charity had always assumed Naomi wished to leave school when she did—but maybe she’d felt compelled to in order to help Ma at home.
She’d given up on herself, Charity decided. She didn’t want to be a nursery maid to her future nieces and nephews, but she thought that was all she was good for.
Mr. Morgan had to answer the letter, and that’s all there was to it!
And with a day certain when he’d come for the wedding.
And Naomi would see the sense in it and accept his proposal.
And everybody would be happy.
If he sent a refusal, Charity would write him again and confess that she was the one who had written the first time. She’d implore him to give Naomi a real chance. And why wouldn’t he? He’d already decided he wanted a wife, and any man who could get Naomi to marry him would be lucky indeed.
It would work. All would be well.
After she and Faith cleaned up the kitchen, Charity hung up her apron and started upstairs, tired but more hopeful than she
’d felt in days. Tonight she was going to write about the murdering preacher in her journal, then turn in.
She had just put her hand on her doorknob when Naomi’s door swung open.
“Just the person I wanted.” Her older sister stared at her with a half-pained, half-accusing expression. “Did you take Ma’s brooch?”
“Oh.” Charity pressed against her bodice. She’d forgotten she’d borrowed the mourning brooch again. “I’m sorry.”
But the comforting familiar lump wasn’t there. Oh no. She felt for it and felt again, then blasted through the buttons down the front of her dress and plunged her hands into her corset. Oh no. Nothing. Oh no, oh no, oh no…
“I’m—”
“Please, just don’t take my things anymore.” Naomi leaned against her doorframe. That was the worst of it. She was sad, but she wasn’t angry, and Charity had never felt so rotten.
She nodded her agreement, mortified. There was nothing she could say. Naomi’s door closed softly, and Charity retreated into her own room. She changed into her nightclothes and sat down at her dressing table to brush out her hair, blinking back her tears, in no mood to write an adventure story about a sinful preacher.
Couldn’t she do anything right? Naomi will never forgive me. The brooch could be anywhere. She must have absently checked on it a dozen times today at work, but she honestly couldn’t remember where she was the last time she did.
But it was no use sinking into self-pity. She’d find the brooch tomorrow. It must be somewhere in the store. It must be!
As she hung her wrapper in the wardrobe, she looked at the window warily. It was so hot and stuffy tonight, and only a few days until July. How would she stand it when the real heat of summer arrived? She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and unlatched the window.
The stars twinkled in the clear night sky. A breeze wafted into the room, cooling her skin, easing her worries and her guilt, a little. She lay down and closed her eyes—but it was no good.
Fear washed over her and stole her breath away. She leaped out of bed. Some unknown terror, something she couldn’t control, might be out there, just beyond the window. She couldn’t bear it. Her heart racing, she slammed the window shut and hooked the latch.
