Mail-Order Brides of Oak Grove

by Lauri Robinson

  His thick black brows met as he frowned. “The Circle P? You looking for the Circle P Ranch? To cook for Rex?”

  “The Circle P Ranch? Rex?” A ranch had to be out in the country, a place she could mix up her tonic, and hide in case someone started looking for her, which was likely to happen. The conductor had kept a guarded eye on both her and Maggie. Thanks to Sheriff Freiday. Which was another reason she was so upset with Maggie. The way her sister kept feeding the other girls their tonic—in order to calm their nerves—could have easily have made the conductor wonder where it had come from and search her trunk. Thank goodness that hadn’t happened. At least not yet. It still could. “Yes. Yes, the Circle P Ranch. To cook for Rex. Is it far? Can you tell me how to get there?”

  “Steve Putnam left. I vill take you,” he said. “If you don’t like it, you come cook for me, ya?”

  Focused, she asked, “Right now? You will take me there right now?”

  “Ya. I get my wagon.”

  Mary wanted to jump for joy. She’d never been on a ranch, but surely it would provide a place for her to thicken and bottle the tonic and acquire a ride back to town in order to sell enough bottles to get her and Maggie on a train. An eastbound one. She’d already seen enough brown grass to last a lifetime. Although she hadn’t realized it before, there was a lot to be said about the tall green trees and lush rolling hills of Ohio.

  The huge man pulled a wagon up to the side of the lean-to in hardly no time and hoisted her trunk into the back of it with no effort whatsoever. Thankful for small miracles, she climbed onto the seat and quickly braided her long hair to keep the wind from blowing it across her face.

  As the wagon started rolling away from town, she learned the big man’s name was Brett Blackwell and that he was a blacksmith, as well as the feed store owner. The fact he’d moved to Kansas from northern Wisconsin explained his thick brogue, which grew increasingly easier to understand the more he talked. She let him ramble on as they traveled, focusing on her change of luck.

  She normally made friends easily—less the train ride where the other three “brides” had irritated her from the get go. They had irritated Maggie at first, too. The two of them had come up with their own names for the others. Miss Know-it-All Rebecca, Miss Quiet-and-Quaint Sadie and Miss Gullible Anna, who all had been over the moon at the idea of finding a husband. Foolish girls. Men only made life more difficult. They’d have to figure that out on their own. She and Maggie had, long ago. They hadn’t attempted to transfer Da’s permit to sell their tonic because they both knew the men on the Bridgeport town council would never approve it because she and Maggie were women and considered incapable of running a business. Men here wouldn’t be any different. It shouldn’t take Maggie long to realize that. After all, they were sisters. Maggie should remember that, too.

  As Mary’s wandering mind snagged something Brett said, she asked, “He what?”

  “Rex dang near cut off his other leg.”

  “His other leg?”

  “Lost the first one in the war, and buried an ax in the second one. That’s why he needs help.” A frown drew his thick brows together as he continued, “I thought Steve hired you to cook. No?”

  “Yes. Yes, he did,” she flat-out lied—again. “I was just confused there for a moment. Forgot about Rex.” She’d have to figure out the being-hired part once she got there.

  Brett’s frown didn’t ease, which sent a shudder up her spine. Reacting to that, she glanced behind them, seeing nothing of Oak Grove but small dots. “So how much farther is it to the ranch?”

  “A ways,” he answered.

  “Meaning half a mile or...” Once again glancing around at the barren land, she continued, “or a couple of miles?”

  “Five.”

  A lump formed in her throat. She and Maggie had never been a mile apart, let alone five. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea she could have come up with.

  Awhile later, she concluded it wasn’t. Not only had that been the longest, roughest five miles she’d ever ridden in a buckboard, she truly was hired as a cook. Well, she was cooking anyway. There hadn’t been any real hiring. Yet.

  Upon arrival at the Circle P Ranch, which included several obviously planted trees and a large house that was very nice, she’d encountered a man older than Da had been, and who clearly needed to be in bed, trying to mix up a batch of bread dough. Without ado, she’d ordered the man back to bed, taken off her jacket and rolled up her sleeves.

  The man, who turned out to be the Rex who had indeed injured his leg severely—the one that wasn’t a piece of wood from the knee down—said the men expected a hot meal and he couldn’t let them down. Her heart had gone out to Rex while anger built for his boss. A man named Steve Putnam who evidently expected people to work themselves into their graves. Literally. She’d give him a piece of her mind when she met him. For now, she’d cook a meal for the other men who were out rounding up the young ones. That was what Rex had said. Brett had explained Rex meant young calves. It turned out not only the grass was brown in this godforsaken place, the cows were, too.

  She’d told Brett the only cows she’d ever seen were black and white. He said those had to have been milk cows. The ones on the Circle P were beef cattle. Whatever that meant. If you asked her, a cow was a cow. You fed it, milked it, and when it was too old for that, you ate it.

  Once she got the dough mixed and set to rise, she filled a bucket with water and gave the kitchen a good scrub down. It needed it. Then, with Brett’s help and guidance from Rex, who shouted orders from the bedroom off the kitchen, she found everything she’d need to cook a meal for the six men expecting to be fed—plus Rex and Steve Putnam. And of course Brett whom she promised to feed if he’d stay and help her get things in order. He’d been so excited over that prospect, she’d feared he was going to hug her with those huge arms and had run to the other side of the table.

  Stew was what she made, using beef since there was no mutton, and a big pot of potatoes that she’d mash up before serving. Pouring the stew over the potatoes not only made the stew go further, it was how Da had liked it.

  Between helping her find things and placating Rex, Brett had carried in her bag and trunk and put them upstairs, in one of the bedrooms. The house had six, and after all the work she was doing, Steve Putnam better not refuse to allow her to use one. While showing her the outdoor ground cellar, Brett had pointed out a long and narrow building that the hired hands slept in—a bunkhouse, he’d called it. From the state of its porch, it needed scrubbing as badly as the kitchen had.

  Where all the dirt came from was beyond her. The ground was rock-hard, yet the crazy wind that hadn’t stopped blowing since she’d stepped off the train was full of dirt. Luckily she’d found a cloth to put over the bread dough while it was rising. She’d folded another cloth into a triangle to cover the top of her head and tied it beneath her hair at the nape of her neck since her braid had long ago separated. A scarf tied so was how Da had liked her to keep her hair contained. He’d never wanted her or Maggie to cut their hair, so they hadn’t, but he’d insisted they keep it contained while cooking, especially over an open fire. Said he didn’t want it or them catching fire.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked Brett when he started opening cupboard doors. The man’s size and rough voice no longer intimidated her.

  “Something for Rex. His leg hurts. Steve must have a bottle around here somevhere.”

  “Let me finish putting this bread in pans so it can rise one last time and I’ll get something for him,” she said.

  “Vhere is it? I’ll get it,” Brett replied.

  “No, I’ll get it,” she said firmly. “Go tell Rex I’ll be in with something that’s sure to make him feel better in a few minutes.”

  Chapter Three

  Steve had stopped at every farm and ranch between his place and Oak Gro
ve, and though his neighbors were willing to give him food out of their larders, not a one was willing to hire on as a cook for his men, or part with an employee to do so. He couldn’t blame them. This time of year was busy for everyone. He’d thanked them for their offers just the same and headed for home empty-handed.

  His mind kept going back to the woman at the train station, contemplating if he should have asked her if she wanted to earn a few dollars before heading west again. Yet, he knew that would have been a bad idea. A woman that pretty would cause a stir like no tomorrow at the ranch. Furthermore, any man who had a wife that fine would be searching her down when she didn’t arrive as scheduled, and that would leave him in the same predicament. Perhaps a worse one.

  He’d have to rustle something up for his men to eat on his own tonight, and lacking a better idea, would head to Dodge tomorrow. Or he could take Fred Matthews’ advice and send a telegram to the newspaper down there, place a want ad for a cook. Either way, it would be days or even weeks before he’d have the help he needed. He could cook enough to get by, but his men wouldn’t like what he made any more than they had Walter’s flapjacks this morning.

  The sun was dipping low in the sky by the time he arrived at the ranch, and the weight on his shoulders pressed a little harder as he wondered what he could muster up to feed the men who were washing up at the barrels beside the bunkhouse.

  As he climbed off his horse, he spun around to take another look. Why were they washing up at the barrels? “What’s happened?” he asked as Leroy grasped the reins out of his hands.

  “Always said you’re the best boss a man could hope for,” Leroy said while his long and gangly legs almost tripped over themselves in his rush to lead the horse to the barn.

  Confused, Steve stared at the rest of his men. The ones who weren’t splashing water on their faces were combing their hair back with their fingers or tucking in their shirts. Normally they didn’t even take the time to wipe their feet before stomping into the house to eat.

  “You outdid yourself, Boss, and we thank you,” Wyatt said, slapping the dust off his pant legs with both hands. “Thank you kindly.”

  “Outdid myself with what?”

  “That new cook you hired,” Henry said, using his hat to get the dust off his britches. “She sent us out here to clean up before we eat. But that’s all right. We don’t mind.”

  A shiver tickled Steve’s spine as he turned to gaze toward the house. “She? What new cook?”

  “The one you had Brett drive out,” Henry replied. “Can’t wait to taste those vittles. If they taste half as good as they smell, I’m gonna think I died and went to heaven.”

  Still confused, Steve asked, “Brett Blackwell?”

  “Yes, sir,” Leroy said, slapping him on the back as he walked past. “And here I was thinking we’d have to eat Walter’s salty flapjacks again for supper.”

  “They weren’t that bad,” Walter said while smoothing his mustache back in place after his hearty scrubbing.

  “Yes, they were,” several others answered in unison.

  Steve started for the house along with the rest of them, until Jess laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You might want to wash up, Boss,” Jess said. “Henry was the only one who made it inside the door. She snapped him with a towel and told him to go wash up before stepping foot in the kitchen again, and that went for the rest of us, too.”

  Steve had no idea who this woman was, but if she was half the size of the blacksmith, it was no wonder the boys had all washed up. However, it was his house and he didn’t take orders from anyone.

  His men, trying to get through the opening two at a time, dang near broke the door off its hinges. He followed them over the threshold once the ruckus settled down, and then wasn’t exactly sure what stopped him dead in his tracks. Her or the aromas.

  The house hadn’t smelled this good in so long—actually it had never smelled this good. Cinnamon. And apples. Baked apples. Apple pie maybe? He treated himself to a slice of pie every now and again while in town, but not often enough.

  She stood at the stove, with her back to him, and was nowhere near the size of Brett. She was about the size of the gal who’d fallen onto his lap back at the train station, the one he couldn’t get out of his mind.

  Tiny and slender, with one cloth tied around her waist and another over her hair, she spat, “For heaven’s sake, close the door before that wind covers everything with dirt.” And, “Hats are not to be worn at the table.”

  While hats hit the floor all around the table, Steve shut the door, hung his hat on a hook and then took a seat next to Brett. The blacksmith’s grin was bigger than his biceps. Steve was about to turn around, to get a good look at the woman, when she barked out another order.

  “Start passing the bread around.” A second later she set a huge bowl next to him. “Fill your plate with potatoes then pass the bowl on.”

  As soon as he did, she set down another pot. “Now cover your potatoes with this.”

  The thick gravy looked more like stew, but he did as ordered, as did everyone else, ladling the stew over the potatoes.

  Setting another plate of sliced bread atop the one that was already empty, she said, “Eat up. There’s plenty.”

  Appreciative groans echoed throughout the room, and his could easily have joined the others, but Steve held it in. Not only because the mouthful of potatoes and stew was delicious and the delectable smell of apples still filled his nose, but because he sensed something familiar about her, yet couldn’t say what. Other than... It couldn’t be her. She was on her way to Denver.

  Once again squeezing between him and Brett in order to do so, she set a large baking pan in the center of the table. “Once you’ve had your fill, there’s apple cobbler for dessert.”

  Steve had a great desire to twist about and get a good look at her, but the appreciative groans from his men had him leaning toward Brett. “I owe you, my friend. Where did you find her?”

  “At my place, waiting for a ride,” Brett answered.

  “Hey,” Jess said. “Didn’t I see you get off the train with the other women today?”

  Steve’s spine stiffened as he spun about. As their eyes met, his and her sky-blue ones, he knew she was the woman he’d seen at the train station—she knew he knew, too.

  She quickly turned toward Jess and leveled a glare that could have sliced the cowboy in two. “No.”

  Jess nodded. “Yes, I did. I saw you.”

  “You couldn’t have,” she said. “I did not get off the train with the other women.”

  “I’m sure—”

  “That would have been my sister,” she said, cutting Jess short. “We look alike.” Setting a smaller kettle on the table, she said, “This is caramel sauce for the cobbler. It’s best eaten warm.”

  The men needed no further invite than that, even Jess, and though Steve wanted a piece of that cobbler so bad he could taste it, his mind couldn’t get off why she was in his kitchen. Why she’d claimed she was going to Denver. His gaze settled for a second on each one of his men, wondering which one was responsible. Jess had been the only one he’d seen at the station, and was also the only one who’d been remotely taken with the idea of a bride.

  “You sure—”

  “Eat,” Steve told Jess, cutting short whatever the other man had been about to say. He’d get to the bottom of it, but feeding his men came first.

  “You want cobbler, no?” Brett asked.

  “Yes.” Steve took the dish, spooned a large portion onto his plate and then took the smaller pan and poured the thick brown syrup atop the cobbler. It was even better than the meal had been, and that shouldn’t have been possible.

  Silence other than satisfied moans and groans surrounded the table again—and polite requests for more.

  Once they’d all had s
econds, and would have taken thirds if the pan hadn’t been empty, Steve nudged Henry and then nodded toward the door. His silent command circled the table. With obvious reluctance, one by one the men stood, thanked the woman generously for the meal and then exited the house, closing the door quietly behind them.

  Steve contemplated his words and what might follow carefully before asking, “Why aren’t you on your way to Denver?”

  She paused stacking the empty plates and met his gaze eye for eye. Hers were bluer than the Kansas summer sky, but they weren’t nearly as friendly.

  “I—I—uh—”

  “You are one of those brides.”

  The gasp that sounded came from Brett.

  “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” the blacksmith said. “She cooks like my ma.”

  “No, I’m not one of those brides,” she snapped. “I had no intention of marrying anyone.” As she glanced toward Brett her gaze softened slightly. “Still don’t.”

  Steve read around her answer. “But you are from Ohio. You are one of the girls the mayor paid to have sent out here.”

  “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” Brett said again.

  Flustered, Steve growled, “I never said I didn’t want her.” He bit his tongue as soon as the words were out. “As a cook,” he clarified. Mainly because her eyes had grown as wide as the plates she’d been about to pick up.

  “Oh, Miss McCary!”

  The shout was slightly elongated and slurred, but he recognized Rex’s voice and a hint of shame stung Steve’s gut. He hadn’t checked to see how the man was doing. Frowning at how Rex sounded, he pushed away from the table. She was already on her way into the room off the kitchen and Steve paused at the doorway.

  “Can I have a little more tonic?” Rex asked, smiling at her.

  A smile from Rex was as rare as the rest of the men washing up before eating.