The Matchmaker of Fairfield: (Clean Historical Western Romance)

by Marie O'Keanan

  The Matchmaker of Fairfield

  By: Marie O’Keanan

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2016 by Claremont Publishing LLC

  Cover design by Claremont Publishing LLC

  Table of Content

  Table of Content

  Attention Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter Two - Ivy

  Chapter Three- Bridget

  Chapter Four- Ivy

  Chapter Five- Bridget

  Chapter Six- Ivy

  Chapter Seven- Bridget

  Chapter Eight - Ivy

  Epilogue

  Reader’s Perk

  About the Author

  About Claremont Publishing

  Attention Reader

  The book you’ve just opened is from Claremont. It will take you on a journey that holds a treasure at the end. So, pay attention to the details on this quest for romance and answer the question at the end of the tale for a special gift. It’s a gift that only Claremont readers may partake in.

  Chapter 1

  She didn’t know where she was.

  That was all that Bridget Riley knew as she dismounted the horse she had taken from the stables and grasped her satchel from its side bag. She stood on a small foothill as the faint light of dawn slowly illuminated the horizon.

  She was still in Washington territory. That much was certain. She was somewhere east of Seattle, she knew that as well. Not only was the sun beginning to rise just in front of her, but, she knew that if she had ridden west of Seattle, she would be soaked in the currents of the Pacific Ocean by now.

  Dropping the reins of her...borrowed companion…she moved to the edge of the small hill on which she stood and looked down into the valley.

  The dark outlines of small buildings lined a street down on the valley, further on, she could see several homes and, what looked like, some kind of factory.

  A town.

  A feeling of relief settled in her stomach as she turned back towards the horse she had ridden to the hill. Taking the animal by the reins, she led him to the westward path she had traveled on to arrive in this spot.

  With a pat and a whisper of thanks, she gave the horse a sharp slap to the backside which sent him galloping back down the path.

  Bridget hoped the animal would know enough to return to the barn she had taken him from. He had seemed an intelligent animal, he was certainly hard working. She was certain he would make his way back to his master

  She had not, truly meant to steal the animal. She had every intention of sending it back as she did. Aside from that, she would not have taken the horse if she had any other recourse.

  One month ago, Bridget could not have imagined standing here, on this hill, in a place where she had no relations, little money and little more than the clothes on her back. One month ago, she was more than excited to run away to Washington. But, then, one month ago, she believed she would be running into the arms of an intelligent, kind and helpful young husband.

  Unable to tolerate a life in Boston, living in her parent's small tenement, working ten hours a day at a mind-numbing factory and caring for her seven younger brothers and sisters after work, Bridget had always dreamed of moving out west.

  When she was younger and filled with romantic ideas and fantasies, she had pictured herself rushing off to San Francisco and becoming a female journalist or maybe even an author like Louisa May Alcott or Jane Austen.

  Ever since her father had taught her to read from his technical books, Bridget had been fascinated by the written word. When she discovered novels, her fascination grew ten fold. Many nights were spent sitting up beside a dim candle light in her windowsill, reading Little Women for the fifth time and refusing to put it down until her eyes forced her to go to bed.

  Bridget always believed that one day, she would be able to do exactly what her heroines had done. Write books and make money doing so. But, when she became older, she realized that traveling out west, alone as a young woman would be near impossible. Aside from that, her poor, immigrant parents had very little money. And none of it could be set aside for a train ticket out west. Especially when she had no friends or relations out west and no promise of a job.

  This did not deter Bridget from her goal. Very little did deter Bridget from a goal once she had settled on it. But, it did force her to find another way of achieving it.

  That was when she discovered brochures with advertisements from young men requesting to correspond with women ‘with an eye towards matrimony’. While Bridget had never been quite as taken with the idea of marriage as the girls around her were, she was not opposed to the idea either.

  And, when she began corresponding with a young man from Seattle, it seemed as though she had found a good match. After several promising letters, Bridget accepted his proposal of marriage and happily took his offered train ticket out west.

  It was only when she arrived at the station, that she realized how thoroughly she had been deceived. She was met in Seattle, not by the young, good looking man in the photograph she had been sent. But, by a man nearly fifty years old, with thin graying hair, several missing teeth and the smell of brandy on his breath.

  She learned quickly that, not only was her fiance disingenuous about his appearance, but he was deceptive about everything else as well. He was not well educated. In fact, he was entirely illiterate. He had hired a man in town to write his letters for him, he also paid that man to embellish the truth.

  Needless to say, she removed herself from the situation as quickly as she could. True, that had involved waiting for her fiance to pass out from drink, sneaking away and taking a horse from a nearby barn, but, at the moment, there were no other options.

  Now, she moved quickly down the small foothill towards the town below, praying, fervently that the small amount of money in her purse would be able to purchase food and water.

  She realized, of course, that she would also need a place to sleep for the night, but, at the moment, her stomach growled with hunger and her lips felt chapped from thirst. Her physical needs required more attention than future concerns.

  A small, hastily made wooden sign marked the town as Fairfield, Washington. She had seen similar signs before as she passed small, company and mining towns on the train west. Clearly this was one of those.

  After only a few moments walking in the rising light of the sun, Bridget realized that this was not, necessarily the case. Now that the town was set in a brighter light, she could see that the buildings were larger and much more numerous than she had expected.

  She had pictured a small, spread out, dirt filled place with one tavern, a saloon, a bank and perhaps a jail. Just a short ways into Fairfield, she had already seen one bank, several law offices and four or five clothing shops.

  These were in addition to the wooden buildings half finished and filled with tools. The entire town had the feeling of a place hastily built to facilitate rapid growth.

  As Bridget walked down the street, she could see several people making their way out of shops or into the town from homes in the distance. More than one shopkeeper glanced, curiously at her as she passed them but, luckily, they did not attempt to make conversation. Bridget was grateful for that. After her long night’s ride, she did not think she could bear to explain herself before acquiring a drink of water at t
he very least.

  As the sun found its way fully into the sky, Bridget passed one restaurant and one tavern, both of which were clearly open for breakfast. This was evidenced by the patrons sitting at tables in the window.

  However, these patrons were immaculately dressed. Ladies in high-collared dresses and hats. Men in smart, gray suits, wearing gold chains. Not only that but the buildings themselves were whitewashed with marble floors and decorated with Greco-roman columns.

  As she stood outside the restaurant, Bridget balanced when one of the female patrons caught her eye. The finely dressed lady very obviously looked Bridget’s simple, dust filled dress and took in her flyaway brown hair and dirt stained face with a disgusted shudder.

  Bridget stared back at her, refusing to move her gaze down as the lady had, no doubt, expected her to do. Instead, she met the fine woman’s fierce glare boldly until the patron finally looked away from Bridget and back to her companion.

  It was enough to make Bridget want to march into the restaurant and request a table if only to put the woman and all the others like her off balance. But, she knew that, in a fine establishment like that, she would be thrown out the moment she stepped foot inside. And, as her stomach continued to grumble, her hunger and thirst had to take priority over grand gestures.

  Though her feet ached and she felt as though she might faint from exhaustion, Bridget forced herself to continue walking. There had to be a tavern in town she could feel comfortable walking into.

  Finally, just before she reached the edge of the main street, she saw it.

  It was a small establishment, freestanding and clearly older than the other tavern and restaurant in town. This was evident by the roughly cut logs, cracked glass windows and stain filled door that made up the building.

  A small sign on the tavern’s front identified it as “The Old Bracken Tavern.”

  With another relieved swell in her chest, Bridget forced her feet to walk just a short ways more into the tavern.

  The tavern was much dimmer than she had expected. The grime on the windows saw to it that little light from the bright sun outside made its way through.

  There were no patrons in this tavern, finely dressed or otherwise. The place was silent and nearly deserted. Bridget would have thought the place closed if it were not for the small girl standing behind the bar.

  She was a small thing. Skinny and pale even in the bar’s dim light. She held a rag in her hand and was wiping the counter’s surface fiercely as though her life or livelihood depended on its cleanliness.

  Coming nearer and seeing the scratches and frayed ends of the bar’s wood, Bridget could not help but think that the girl was fighting a losing battle.

  Even as Bridget neared the bar, making no attempt to hide the sound of her footfalls, the young girl did not look up. Instead, she continued scrubbing as though she was not aware that anyone had entered.

  “Excuse me,” Bridget said attempting to catch the girl’s attention.

  With a gasp, the young woman looked up at Bridget wide-eyed. Like a rabbit in the woods who had spotted a predator.

  “Are you serving breakfast?” Bridget asked gently, attempting a small smile. The girl did not return the gesture but gave a nervous little nod of her head.

  “Ye-yes, ma’am,” she said. Her voice was small and shaky, it seemed to suit her waif-like demeanor. Bridget could not help but wonder what a girl like this was doing working as a barmaid. If she was so nervous at Bridget’s presence, Bridget could hardly imagine her tolerating the rowdy customers known to frequent taverns such as this.

  “You can sit at the bar if you like,” the girl said. “Or any of the tables.”

  “Thank you,” Bridget said smiling once more at the girl as she sat down on a bar stool. The young barmaid tried, shakily to return Bridget’s smile. Though the attempt looked positively painful and she gave it up quickly as she rushed to find a menu for Bridget.

  Bridget noticed a small shake in the girl’s hand as she handed her a piece of paper with the food specials written on it.

  “Can I get you anything to drink, ma’am?” The girl asked.

  “Just water, please,” Bridget said. She didn’t want to spend the little funds that she had all in one place, particularly when she knew that she would have to find accommodations tonight.

  With a small nod to Bridget, the girl rushed to a door that seemed to lead to the kitchen as well as a back room. As soon as the barmaid opened the door, Bridget heard the distinct sound of male voices issuing from the back, shouting angrily at each other.

  Bridget immediately felt an excitement brought on by what her mother called, her insatiable curiosity, take hold. She tried to crane her neck around the open door, hoping to catch a glimpse of these loud, angry men in the back.

  The door closed almost immediately behind the young barmaid, however. Bridget made several more attempts to see through a small window in the wooden door’s frame. But, the opening was too small to allow anything but a hint of light from the back window through. There was no chance of seeing into the back room. She could not pretend that this did not irk her.

  Bridget had always been more than a bit curious by nature. Her mother used to call her a born meddler. Though, Bridget took issue with that term. Meddlers were usually gossips. They wanted to know about other people simply so they could spread rumors about them, or else make themselves seem more important than they were.

  Bridget was interested in other people’s lives simply because she thought she could improve upon them. Even when she was little, she was always looking for ways to improve upon things. That was part of the reason she had detested her monotonous job in the factory back home in Boston.

  On the factory floor, Bridget would try to find ways to make her work and the work of the other girls faster and more efficient. Usually, these ideas ended in catastrophe, still, in Bridget’s mind, at least, that was no reason not to try them. But, the foreman always insisted that she stick to the prescribed methods.

  In this new land, with a new life…perhaps she could find a place where her efforts to improve things would be rewarded rather than condemned.

  A moment later, the young barmaid rushed forward with a glass of water in hand.

  “Do you know what you would like, miss?” The girl asked.

  “Just toast with jam, please,” Bridget answered, deciding on the least expensive item on the menu. Though the prices at this establishment were far from steep, Bridget could not help but remember the few bills in her satchel and how long they would have to last her.

  “Very well, miss,” the girl said, lowering her eyes and taking Bridget’s menu.

  Before the girl could leave again, Bridget decided that the best way to satisfy her curiosity about the men in the back was to ask.

  “There seems to be quite a scene playing out in the back room,” Bridget said with a smile to the girl. The girl looked up at Bridget, the blood draining from her face.

  “I I'm sorry, Ma’am,” the girl said hastily as though she had just made a deadly mistake. “I-I can ask them to take their discussion outside or-”

  “No, it’s not that,” Bridget said with a good-natured laugh, hoping it would calm the girl down. A bit of color thankfully returned to the barmaid’s face but, she did not laugh or smile along with Bridget.

  “I only wondered who the gentlemen were,” Bridget said.

  “That would be Asa Bracken, miss,” the girl said. “He’s the owner of this tavern. He’s meeting with Mr. Carson, a landlord in town.”

  “Apparently it’s not going very well,” Bridget said, trying to crane her head to see through the door’s window. She knew she would not be able to, all the same, she supposed it was simply instinct. “They sound none too pleased with each other.”

  The girl looked at Bridget, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “I’m not sure Mr. Bracken would appreciate me discussing his personal matters with customers, ma’am,” the barmaid said. “I’ll put you
r order into the cook. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  With another suspicious glance at Bridget, the girl disappeared once again behind the back door. Once again the sound of raised voices accompanied her. Bridget jumped as she heard what sounded distinctly like a fist being pounded on a wooden desk before the back door closed behind the serving girl.

  Bridget supposed this environment would make most people uncomfortable. Indeed, it might be part of the reason this particular tavern stood empty while all the other were full.

  Bridget, however, discovered that the mystery of the angry men behind the back door energized her as nothing else had done since she wandered into Fairfield. Clearly this place was even further from the sleepy, small western town she had first envisioned.

  When the barmaid returned with a plate of toast, jam, and a bill, her look of suspicion had not faded. The girl stared at Bridget as she set down the items in front of her.

  “If you need anything else, ma’am, my name is Ivy. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Though Ivy said this, she did not wait for Bridget to answer. Instead, she scuttled back to the place behind the bar where Bridget had first found her. Immediately, she began scrubbing again, as though hoping some difficult stain might be miraculously removed.

  Bridget watched her as she chewed thoughtfully at her toast. She knew what she wanted to ask, but, somehow, didn’t feel quite right about distracting Ivy from her work, no matter how fruitless it seemed.

  As she picked up another piece of toast and another, watching the plate in front of her slowly dwindle, Bridget realized she was running out of opportunities. So, with a swig of water for confidence, she called Ivy over.

  “Did you need anything else miss?” Ivy asked in her shaky, small voice.

  “Not really,” Bridget answered. “I-”

  She was suddenly cut off by the sound of a small, yapping bark coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  “What is that?” Bridget asked.