by Rachel Bird
At least there was now a bit of fresh air in the room. Dog tired, and feeling very sorry for herself, she fell into troubled slumber and dreamed the bad dream. This time Matthew and Mark appeared on the other raft, Naomi’s raft—the good raft. And when Pa went with his trunk down to his doom, Charity was stranded on the bad raft, which shattered and broke apart all around her, leaving her to the cold and rushing waters, entirely alone.
Chapter 15
Abigail Vanderhouten
Matchmaker Extraordinaire
Abigail stood on her toes, as if then she’d be able to see over the rolling steam coming off the great lumbering beast that took its time coming to a halt. The breaks squealed, the whistle screamed, and the whole world seemed to shout huzzah! and celebrate her success.
Finally, a neatly dressed, stout-looking woman stepped down from the train, and for a moment, Abigail’s heart was in her throat. It was the right person—as identification, she wore a white carnation pinned to her jacket—but then she knelt down to adjust her boot hooks and her bonnet tilted forward to obscure her face.
Please be of pleasant countenance…
Beauty wasn’t essential by any means. More often than people would believe, it was a hindrance. But a cheerful aspect always helped. On both sides.
“Miss Cruikshank?”
The woman looked up. “You must be Mrs. Vanderhouten.”
Life was wonderful! Everything was perfect!
This bride appeared exactly as represented.
Not young. In her late thirties (did Abigail look that old?). Healthy. Strong. And of a willing heart.
Not a woman of means. Her traveling outfit was neat, clean, and in good repair but neither new nor fashionable.
Not beautiful, but far from plain. Just as she should be. Jonathan would be pleased without being intimidated. As icing on the cake, her cheeks had a sweet blush, and the not-very-well-hidden twinkle in her eye bespoke an understanding nature and an appetite for fun. Sally and Demon—I mean Damon—will like that.
Abigail couldn’t be more delighted. In her expert opinion, Miss Lavinia Cruikshank and Mr. Jonathan Overstreet had every chance of happiness, if they would work for it.
“Come, my dear. We’ll get you settled at the hotel.”
“Hotel?” The prospective bride’s cheerfulness dimmed. “I can’t afford…” The look of calculating sums commenced behind Miss Cruikshank’s eyes. She was trying to work out a way.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s all part of the service.” Which Jonathan was delighted to pay very well for.
How wonderful when all unfolded with such felicity! When it was clear from the outset that each partner in the match was about to embark upon a better, happier life. Miss Cruikshank would soon discover she could afford quite a bit. Jonathan Overstreet was not a wealthy man, but he was a prudent man. He spent what he spent with care and saw wisdom in saving for rainy days, but he was no penny pincher. He’d confessed to Abigail that he hoped his new wife would know how to “pretty up” the place and he was ready to make the funds available to do the job right.
“You’ll meet Mr. Overstreet this evening. He’s arranged for supper in a private dining room at the hotel so you can get to know each other a little, and then Parson Hood will see you both at church tomorrow morning.”
“How thoughtful of him.”
“Wasn’t it though?”
No matter that the meal had been Abigail’s idea. Jonathan had agreed to it immediately.
At the moment, all Miss Cruikshank wanted to do was have a bath and sleep until suppertime, and so Abigail left her latest triumph in Charlotte’s capable hands.
“Mae’s in the café, no surprise,” Charlotte told her. “Today is flan day.”
Abigail paused, sorely tempted to join her neighbor. She did enjoy Carmelita’s flan. But she hadn’t the time. “I can’t stop today.”
There was much to do. Send word to Jonathan that Miss Cruikshank had arrived safe and sound, for one. She turned north on Main Street to go up to the livery, where the owner’s son provided an unadvertised messenger service for Break Heart’s business owners. She dashed off a quick note, which would be delivered to Jonathan within the hour.
Next, she’d stop by Tagget’s. She’d promised to let Charity Steele know the moment this match was sure to happen, and she had put it off to the very end. It wasn’t unheard of that at the last minute a bride didn’t arrive at her final destination.
This wasn’t merely a matter of keeping Naomi on the hook as Jonathan’s housekeeper. A man had every bit as much pride as a woman in these things, and just as Naomi wouldn’t want the town gossiping about her possible match with Mr. Morgan, Jonathan would be mortified if word got out that he’d been chosen from the bride book only to be rejected after the fact.
And that wouldn’t be good for Abigail’s business.
Regarding Jonathan, anyway, all those worries were now in the past. Actually, telling Charity was probably unnecessary. Jonathan would likely share the news of Miss Cruikshank’s arrival with Naomi himself.
Inwardly, Abigail shook her head in wonder. Naomi Steele must be the paragon of virtue everyone swore she was. If Abigail were about to marry a cattle baron, she wouldn’t waste another day of her life taking care of someone else’s uncontrollable offspring.
Mr. Morgan! Her spirits soared to think of it. She called every successful match a triumph, but this would be the triumph of triumphs.
Like a silly fool, she grinned at everybody she passed along the street. As she had promised, she still hadn’t spoken directly to Naomi about Mr. Morgan, but the matter must be well in hand. He’d written a second time, Abigail knew that much. The letter had arrived this morning.
She burned to know its contents, but it was against her principles to pry once a “courtship” was underway. And with Charity serving as go-between, she hadn’t even had the pleasure of seeing Naomi’s face when she accepted the letter into her hands.
No matter. She’d bask in their happiness at the wedding ceremony. Mae was right. Of course the groom would come to Break Heart. Abigail was just surprised Naomi had the beans to ask. She really was a dark horse!
Ah what a day! Everything was coming together nicely. Surely, any minute now, she’d be free to celebrate her finest hour. Vanderhouten Brides had found a wife for Mr. Preston Morgan of Morning Star Ranch!
Charity was there minding the shop for Mae, bent over the back counter, diligently focused on some task. Sunlight streamed in from a high window and set the curls piled on her head alight like a fiery red halo. Her face was always such a smorgasbord of changing opinions that Abigail often forgot how pretty she was. In repose, her features were really quite lovely.
It was a real shame she was committed to spinsterhood. A sweet girl, a hard worker, and not at all selfish, as Hannah described. She was always going on about what would make her sisters happy. If Charity Steele had a fault worth mentioning, it was that she was rather a busybody.
Abigail paused at the store’s threshold. An odd feeling came over her, one she tried to shush away.
But it wouldn’t go.
She stepped through the doorway, and though the bells rang out cheerfully, Charity didn’t notice, so absorbed was she in her task, writing what looked very much like a letter.
Only Charity Steele would have the audacity to ask Preston Morgan to come to Break Heart to be married. Abigail pushed the thought away, moving closer and closer, until she could see the very words the brazen Miss Steele was putting down—in handwriting that was a stomach-dropping match to that of her sister:
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—
No! No! No! Abigail grasped the letter lying on the counter beside the one Charity was writing. Her heart sank. It was from Mr. Morgan.
&nbs
p; “What on God’s green earth do you think you’re doing?”
* * *
“I can explain.” Charity’s stomach turned over. Caught! What a bag of nails.
“I’m sure you can,” Mrs. V said drily. Very drily.
Charity’s throat clenched. The only sound in the store was the matchmaker’s bootheel tap-tap-tapping against the wood floor—and the whoosh of Charity’s own blood rushing in her ears.
“Well, girl? I’m listening.”
“I-I want Naomi to marry Mr. Morgan as much as you do.” Could she explain? “She’s my sister.”
“That’s lovely, dear.” The heel tapping increased.
It didn’t feel so wonderful when Mrs. V called her dear.
“I… um… Oh, great thunder on the mountain, I might as well come clean. Naomi doesn’t know about Mr. Morgan’s letters.”
“But—”
“And now he wants to marry her.”
“I should hope so, with all this talk of wooing!” Mrs. V scanned Mr. Morgan’s letter. “You say she has no idea, but he certainly thinks she does.” One hand went to her throat, and she tossed the letter on top of the one Charity had been writing. “I’m ruined!”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It will look very bad when Mr. Morgan comes to collect his bride and there isn’t one!” Mrs. Vanderhouten’s lower lip trembled. “He was my prize catch. Finding Preston Morgan of Morning Star Ranch a wife was to be Vanderhouten Brides’s crowning achievement. Now I’ll be a laughingstock.”
Charity felt sick. Once again, despite all her good intentions, she’d made a very poor fist of things.
Mrs. Vanderhouten yanked a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “And Naomi would have been perfect for him.”
“She—”
“Yes, yes. I know.” Mrs. V waved the handkerchief. “I swore by Belle. But I was blinded by Belle’s outer beauty—and blind to Naomi’s maturity and qualities of character. And she’s very pretty too, when she isn’t frowning! Charlotte was right all along. Naomi is the one for Mr. Morgan.”
“And when Naomi has a chance to think on it, she’ll see that too.” Charity said. “There’s still time. She’ll want this match.”
“But why hasn’t she had a chance? You’ve had more than a week to tell her.”
“The right time never came up. She’s been a little… upset with me.”
“How shocking.” Abigail did not sound shocked. “You said yourself she’d turn him down as a matter of principle if she thought people had gossiped about this behind her back. You’ve run the entire scheme behind her back!”
“I know. I’m—”
“Well! I’m ruined then. Or will be, as soon as word gets out. And it will get out when he shows up in Break Heart expecting a bride who doesn’t exist!” She buried her face in her handkerchief and let the tears flow.
“You won’t be ruined.” This was terrible. Charity had to do something to calm Mrs. V down before she complained to Naomi—and then everything would be ruined. “If it comes to it, I’ll marry Mr. Morgan.”
“You!” Abigail peeked up from the lace-edged linen. “But you’ve said many times—emphatically, I might add—that you don’t wish to marry.”
“I really don’t.” Charity glanced around the store. “And I don’t wish to leave Mae. I love my life here in Break Heart, just the way it is.”
What was she doing? It was madness to wager her happiness on the hope Naomi would see the light. She should take it back. “Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“It could work.” Abigail raised a finger and continued thoughtfully. “After all, Mr. Morgan was willing to take one sister in Belle’s place. Would another be so different?”
Both knew she and Naomi were as different as night was to day.
And both ignored that point.
“I’m certain it won’t come to that.” Charity relented. “When Naomi reads Mr. Morgan’s letters, she’ll see how wonderful he is. I confess I thought of him only as a wealthy catch, someone who’d see to it she never has to worry or work so hard again. But Preston Morgan is more than a rich man. From just two letters, it’s clear he’s a good man. Kind and considerate and even funny.”
“And you really would marry him—if it came to that?”
“If it came to that.”
Why did the thought not terrify her? In a very small corner far, far in the back of Charity’s mind, the prospect of spending a lifetime with the man who wrote those letters didn’t seem… awful.
She shoved the traitorous thought away.
“But it won’t. I’ll tell Naomi about Mr. Morgan tonight.”
“And not a moment too soon. Mr. Morgan or no, her life is about to change. Miss Lavinia Cruikshank has arrived in Break Heart. That’s what I came to tell you.”
“Mr. Overstreet’s mail order bride?”
“Jonathan is to meet her for supper this evening at the Lilac, and they’re to be married tomorrow.”
“Great thunder.”
Suddenly everything was happening so fast. At least one good thing was assured, if nothing else: Naomi was now free to leave the job that made her miserable.
Charity moved Mr. Morgan’s letter to the side and pointed to the answer she’d written. “What do you think, Mrs. V? Do I put this in the mailbag or not?”
“Of course you must.” The matchmaker’s tears had dried completely, and to be honest, they seemed replaced by a glint of… triumph. “One way or another, Mr. Morgan is getting a wife.”
Chapter 16
Naomi came home late and went straight upstairs. As foretold, Mr. Overstreet’s secret plan for matrimonial bliss had been revealed when Mrs. V’s message arrived and he asked Naomi to stay with his children so that he could go to town to meet his new bride. She and Luke had eaten supper at the farm with Sally and Damon.
Charity brought a nice pot of chamomile tea and some cookies up to Naomi’s room, fully intent on confessing everything about Mr. Morgan.
“How lovely.” Naomi inhaled the tea’s aroma and smiled. “You really can be a dear sometimes. So thoughtful.” She drank half the cup and bit into one of the cookies and sighed.
“Is Mr. Overstreet happy with Miss Cruikshank?”
“You knew?” Naomi hadn’t named Mr. Overstreet’s bride.
Yes, but… “Abigail was at the store this afternoon, bragging about her latest triumph.”
“Ah. Of course.” Naomi finished the cookie and turned her back to Charity to help with her laces. “Yes, Jonathan is very pleased. The children, however, are trepidatious.”
She hung up her dress and neatly folded her underthings and tucked them away. Then she put on her nightgown and sat down to brush out her hair.
“Let me do that for you.” Charity took the brush.
How wonderful it must be to have such lovely dark locks. Naomi’s hair was thick and straight, the color of rich dark chocolate. Her eyes were as brown, and her normally peaches-and-cream skin was only slightly tanned. She was careful to wear her bonnet when she was out in the summer sun.
Her manner was different, and the change was reflected on her face. Her features were smoother.
“Am I correct that you’re relieved to be no longer working for Mr. Overstreet?”
“You are.” Naomi’s eyes met Charity’s in the dressing table mirror. “I don’t envy Miss Cruikshank, taking on those two. Any woman who takes on stepchildren is in for trouble.”
“Oh.” What a shocking revelation.
“No one can replace a sainted dead mother. She’s bound to meet with nothing but anger and resentment. Good luck to her, poor thing!”
This was… terrible!
Naomi was famous for being good with children. It would never have occurred to Charity in a million years that her sister would object to a husband on the basis of his already having them.
And Mr. Morgan’s girl and boy were the exact ages as Sally and Damon.
Naomi took the brush from Charity an
d returned it to its proper place on the dressing table. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”
“I…” She’d planned on Mr. Morgan’s children being an inducement to the match, not a detriment.
“If it’s Ma’s brooch, I’d rather not hear about it again—unless you find it.”
“All right.” Conveniently, that had been her plan about the brooch anyway. “Sweet dreams then.”
The next day when Abigail came in to get her mail, she grinned like the cat who ate the cream but said nothing about Mr. Morgan. Charity felt trapped by the promise she’d made, and Mrs. V’s knowing silence only made the binding tighter.
The heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread and something good in the oven greeted Charity and Hannah when they arrived home. All the windows were open, there were fresh-cut roses, irises, and delphiniums in every room, and the table was already set for supper.
“I’d almost forgotten what it was like having…” Charity let her sentence trail off, realizing what she’d been about to say as Naomi appeared, carrying a bowl of steaming potatoes on her way to the dining room.
Naomi helpfully completed the thought. “Having someone else do all the work that makes a house a home?”
She was beaming with happiness. The line that had formed between her eyebrows over the past several weeks had disappeared. She really must be pleased to have gotten away from Sally and Damon.
“What do you think of the new Mrs. Overstreet?” Charity asked during supper. Naomi and Luke had walked over to the church to watch the ceremony. “Will she be able to handle Sally and De-Damon?”
“She’ll do very well,” Naomi said. “There was a nice, large turnout from the town.”
“I expected as much.” Charity had stayed at Tagget’s so Mae could go, and Hannah had manned the front counter at the modiste for Abigail since Jane Stedman tended to scare off more clients than not.
“Polk made me stay at the office while he went,” Faith grumbled. “He wanted another chance to ingratiate himself with the voters.”
