A Farmer For Christmas (Spinster Mail-Order Brides Book 4)

by Marisa Masterson

  Well, living with Oliver and his family this last month had reinforced that she had no taste for charity, nor did she want to take care of someone else’s children, even if she was related to them. She now shared her bedroom with the youngest of the girls, who still wet the bed. Also, the children played terrible pranks on her, such as hiding a frog in the bureau drawer under her pile of petticoats or filling her shoes with jelly, like one of them had done today.

  Having suffered over a hot stove last summer making that plum jelly, she’d been less than forgiving. Wiping out the shoes, she’d stuffed her feet into them and stomped out to visit Miss McKinley, her closest neighbor.

  Even after cleaning them, one of her shoes made a squishing sound as she walked across the yard. Hearing giggles behind her, Myra turned and caught her two oldest nephews peeking around the corner of the curved front porch. Both stuck out their tongues when they saw her look in their direction. Little beasts!

  Kindly Miss McKinley had made her an offer that seemed more tempting after a month with these children. After the funeral last month, she’d pulled Myra aside and explained in her bird-like voice, “I’m making marriages for spinsters like yourself, dear. Wouldn’t you like a chance at a life outside this house now that your parents have passed on?”

  Though intrigued, Myra cringed at marrying a stranger. That day she hadn’t been as desperate as she now felt. With no inheritance and no money, she saw this as her only option.

  Climbing the four steps of her neighbor’s front porch, she passed the wicker chairs sandwiching a brilliantly red geranium and knocked on the front door. Careful not to peer through the lovely oval window she’d always admired, as that would be considered poor manners, she waited patiently for Miss McKinley or her maid to answer the knock.

  The lady of the house answered the door herself, smiling happily at her visitor. “Myra, dear, I felt sure you would come to see me this week.” While she talked the woman’s hands fluttered, reminding Myra of the wings of a bird taking a dust bath.

  Following the woman into her front parlor, Myra seated herself where her hostess indicated and then gave her a quizzical look. “Why did you think I would be visiting?” She had only decided today to become a mail-order bride.

  “Why, it’s the noise from that house. With each week it’s become more horrendous. No one with the chance to leave would continue to live there,” the woman chirped confidently before offering Myra a glass of lemonade, which she turned down.

  Understanding what the woman meant, she used this as an opening for the conversation. “That’s it exactly. Those children make the home intolerable. The work I can handle, though I am exhausted by bedtime.” She shook her head as if shocked at her nieces and nephews. “No, I need to get away from the kids. Would you be able to match me with someone so I can escape children?”

  Tapping a finger to her lips, the older woman thought for a moment. “How soon do you want to leave?”

  Giving a humorless laugh, she asked, “Would tomorrow be too soon?” As she said it, Myra looked at the woman. When Miss McKinley shook her head no, disappointment filled Myra.

  Embarrassed, Myra dropped her gaze. “I knew there would be no way for me to leave so soon. I just…”

  The woman warbled, “No, I mean that tomorrow is not too soon. I have a groom who is desperate for someone to keep house and to care for his very ill mother. He’s already sent the money.”

  “Will he care that I’m no beauty? Or that I’m almost past childbearing age?” Myra mentally tapped down the hope she felt tugging at her. A home of her own. No children. What a dream come true!

  The matchmaker quickly reassured her. “He didn’t specify about looks. He did say he was tall with wavy blonde hair. He’s German, you see. A farmer in Wisconsin.” With her typically rapid movements, the woman jumped up from her chair and left the room. Stunned, Myra watched her back disappear out of the room.

  Before Myra could decide if she should stay or whether Miss McKinley’s flight from the parlor meant she intended for her to go home, the woman returned waving a sheet of paper. She moved to stand beside Myra and handed the paper, a letter, to her.

  “I wanted to give you his letter as well as the money he sent.” Rather than letting Myra read the missive, she continued speaking, “This is a wonderful opportunity for you. Nonetheless, I want you to remember one thing.” The woman’s somber tone caused Myra to tense as she waited for her to continue speaking, “No matter the difficulties at first, you must have faith that the man truly wants a wife.”

  At the younger woman’s confused expression, the matchmaker hurriedly explained, “I like to send my brides off with a verse I feel the Holy Spirit has laid on my heart for each. As I read this man’s letter, I thought of you. Quickly, a verse came to mind that I feel you will, for some reason, need. ‘Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.’ Hebrews 11, verse 1, though I am sure you knew that already.”

  Stepping away from Myra, she urged her to stand. “Come on dearie. I think you had better use the money your groom sent to purchase a train ticket today before you speak with your brother. I worry that neither Oliver nor Louise will want to lose your free labor.”

  That is a concern! How will I tell them I am leaving? Though her thoughts filled with worry, Myra smiled at the other woman and reassured her. “Oh, I am confident they will want the best for me. After all, the house is too crowded now. One less person will free up space for the children.”

  Miss McKinley looked doubtful but wished Myra well. At the door, she hugged Myra and made one request, “Please write to me and let me know about your new home and the family you meet there. I will continue to pray for you each day, as I do for all of my spinster brides.”

  Checking the watch pinned to her bodice, Myra saw that she had just enough time to scurry to the train station and back before needing to start supper. Hurrying down the street, she didn’t see the shadow following her.

  That evening, Louise sent five of her six children up to bed as soon as the meal had finished. Bernard, the oldest, stayed at the table with the adults. Typically, Myra had to chase around the house, gathering the little darlings since their mother rarely involved herself with bedtime. Both Myra and Oliver gave the woman a startled glance when she sent the children to bed early.

  While looking at Myra with cold anger, Louise prompted her son, “Bernard saw something very interesting today, Oliver. Tell him, Bernard.”

  With only mild curiosity showing on his face, Myra’s brother waited for his son to speak. Myra, though, began to wonder if the boy had spied on her through Miss McKinley’s parlor window.

  In a voice that cracked as he spoke, Bernard proudly declared, “I watched Aunt Myra buy a train ticket today.” Like she was a bug he had been tormenting, he eagerly studied Myra’s response.

  Bernard was doomed to disappointment since his mother immediately dismissed him from the table. “Off to bed now. Be sure that all of the others are in their beds,” his mother ordered.

  The sullen boy loped out of the dining room, shoulders slumping as if he’d been denied a treat. At the doorway, he turned and glared at Myra, as if she had caused him to be sent to bed.

  Oliver Smithson rose and walked to the chair where Myra sat. Looming over her menacingly, he placed a hand on the back of the chair. “Why would you need a ticket and where would you get money for it? Have you stolen from me?”

  In her mind, Myra muttered the verse from Hebrews, clinging to all she hoped for in her future. If she were to marry, she would need to stay strong right now.

  When she tried to stand so she could face her brother, Oliver shoved her back into the chair, squeezing her shoulder. Wincing from pain, Myra forced words out between gritted teeth. “I decided to become a mail-order bride. My groom supplied money for me to travel to Wisconsin.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. Why did she tell him her destination?

  Now both of Oliver’s hands pinned her to the chair. Sticki
ng his face into hers he growled, “Absolutely not. You will not embarrass our family name by running off. I won’t lose what you bring to the family every month.”

  Even afraid, Myra curiosity ate at her. “Mother used to say the same thing. Really, I help the family every day, not just once a month.”

  Oliver didn’t answer her. Instead, he exchanged a look with Louise while shaking his head. When he stepped away from Myra’s chair, he cleared his throat while clenching and unclenching his fists. “Go to your room now, Myra. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

  Deciding to hide the truth of when she planned to leave, she agreed and rose to leave. Louise whined, “You can’t let her go! I need her help to cook for us, especially since Christmas is less than two weeks away.”

  “Now, now Louise. Let’s walk my dear sister to her bedroom.” The confused woman took his hand and they left the room. Myra followed them obediently.

  At her door, Oliver spoke with uncharacteristic gentleness. “When did you plan to leave, sister?”

  Taken off guard, Myra answered without considering repercussions. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “That is what I feared,” he snarled before shoving Myra into the room. The door slammed, and the turning of the key echoed in the silent night.

  Locked in! She should have expected something when Oliver’s manner suddenly dripped with consideration. Now what?

  Outside the December wind whistled and a tree branch scraped against her bedroom window. The sound gave birth to an idea that started her quaking. Could she really reach the ground using the tree? As a girl, she had never once tried to climb one.

  Nervously, she glanced at the small girl asleep in the bed. The tyke inevitably woke every three to four hours, unusual for a three-year-old but a fact nonetheless. If Myra planned to sneak away, she needed to pack and scamper out the window.

  Moving to the armoire, she eased the doors slowly opened so that the hinge wouldn’t creak. Then, taking the carpetbag from the shelf inside, she pulled her burgundy Sunday dress and two work dresses from hangers, choosing the two with the least wear. Tiptoeing to her dresser, she packed drawers, chemises, socks, and hankies. With hardly enough room for them, she stuck in her wrapper and two nightgowns.

  The photo from her dresser to, showing she and her mother, as well as her brush and comb, weighted down the clothes so that she could shut the bag. Just as it snapped shut, Myra spied her rose cream. Not sure if she would have funds to replace the cream, she opened the bag and shoved it in as well.

  Picking up her heavy woolen cloak, she began to drape it around herself and then stopped. How would she crawl down a tree wearing it? Changing her mind, she picked up the black garment along with her bonnet and walked to the window. Opening it, she tossed both down to the ground, hoping she would soon be safe on the ground and able to retrieve them. Her bag followed next with a quiet thud as it landed.

  At a small moan from the bed, she froze. In the act of lifting her foot over the windowsill, she balanced awkwardly while looking toward the child. When the little girl didn’t move, Myra sat her bottom on the sill and pivoted so both feet hung outside. Shifting forward, she grabbed for the thick branch, her reticule dangling from her wrist.

  Getting her hands on the branch proved easy. She worked her way, hand over hand, to the main trunk of the tree. Once there, she clung to it and caught her breath. Now to find a foothold and get out of this tree.

  After making her way partly down the tree, Myra’s foot slipped. She couldn’t stop the cry of alarm as she fell. When she landed on the tree root, she did swallow the yelp of pain. Still, her brother’s face appeared in the parlor window. Myra thanked the Lord that shadows hid her and hid in the shadow of the tree for several minutes before gathering up her belongings.

  Panic gripped her at the sound of the front door slamming shut. Sending up a silent prayer of thanks that her brother stayed in the front and didn’t come to the backyard where she hid, Myra raced, ghost-like through the shadows, to Miss McKinley’s back door.

  Tapping very softly, she waited. When no one opened the door, she knocked with a bit more force. Hearing grumbles on the other side of the door, Myra sagged against the door jamb. She would be inside before her brother caught her.

  The gray-haired cook, wearing a faded dressing gown, opened the door a crack. Recognizing her, the woman opened the door wide and, without saying a word, motioned for her to enter. When she would have spoken, the old woman held a finger to her lips and pointed toward the front of the house.

  After a moment she recognized Oliver’s voice. “Well, if you are sure you don’t want me to search your home. After all, I am positive I saw an intruder head this way.”

  Miss McKinley chirped a cheery goodnight and the front door shut. Rapid footsteps sounded and Miss McKinley appeared in the doorway. “Won’t be long before he realizes you’ve run away. Does he know where you are headed?” she asked, wringing her hands.

  Forcing her breathing to slow and calm, a moment passed before Myra could answer her. Then she spoke with a sob in her voice. “No, just that I planned to take a train tomorrow. He’ll be watching the depot now. I won’t be able to go without him catching me boarding the train.”

  Miss McKinley smiled. “Did I ever tell you about my mother’s love of wigs? She had several and they are in the attic.”

  Confused at first, Myra returned the smile as she realized the matchmaker intent. “Shall I be red-headed? Do you have any spectacles?”

  Without answering, Miss McKinley looped her arm through Myra’s. Leading her out of the room, they chattered about the disguise they planned to put together.

  Chapter 2

  After six days on a train, the bedraggled woman longed for clean clothes, a warm meal, and safety. She feared disembarking to stretch her legs at any of the stops, in case her brother had sent telegrams to the police at the stops. Whenever she saw a man with black-hair similar to Oliver’s she cringed and ducked her head.

  On the day of her departure, he’d waited at the station. With spectacles, the red wig and a bonnet that she’d borrowed from her benefactress, he hadn’t recognized her. As the train pulled away from Charleston, she prayed that it would be her last view of Oliver.

  With the conductor’s call of, “Next stop, Idyll Wood,” she pulled out a small mirror from her reticule. Checking her hair in it, she noticed small smudges of soot on her forehead and nose.

  Oh dear, no time to visit the lavatory! She touched her hanky to her tongue and scrubbed at each. At least she wouldn’t meet her groom with a dirty face. Still, she couldn’t do anything about the clothes she wore or her desperate need to bathe.

  Sighing, the bedraggled young woman rose and, bag in hand, prepared to descend the steps of the passenger car. Nervous but ready to meet her husband, she searched the few people gathered for a sign proclaiming her name.

  Nothing.

  Waiting a moment, she realized that she stood in the way of several people. With her shoulders slumping in embarrassment and dejection that no one met her, Myra moved into the depot’s waiting room. Both warmth and the scent of new wood greeted her.

  Going directly to the ticket window, she smiled at the man there. Rather than returning her smile, he stared stupidly and waited for her to speak. Suddenly uncomfortable, she cleared her throat and fidgeted with the reticule around her wrist. “Did Reinhold Sittig perhaps leave a message for Miss Myra Smithson?”

  The man’s features scrunched into a look of confusion. Since the lines in his face now lined up with that look, she guessed it was one he wore often. “Nah, no message. And there ain’t no Reinhold Sittig.”

  Alarm filled her. Had the man written using a made-up name? “What? I have a letter from a Mr. Reinhold…”

  A deep, rich baritone interrupted her then. “I’m Reinhold Sittig.”

  Turning, Myra came face to face with an impossibly perfect man. His honey blonde hair waved to his collar. A chiseled chin and defined cheeks graced that handsome visag
e. But what drew her eyes were his thick mustache and lips. Though she’d never been kissed, those lips created thoughts that made her want to giggle.

  Knowing she’d stood dumbly, staring, Myra composed herself as best as she could, considering this moment introduced her to her future. As she opened her mouth to greet her fiancé, the ticket seller chortled, “Nah, you’re not Reinhold. You can’t fool me, Holder Sittig.” Then the man released a donkey-like laugh that startled several nearby travelers.

  Taking hold of her elbow, her groom-to-be steered her away from the demented railroad employee and moved outside, speaking as they walked. “I go by Holder. Ignore poor Amos in there. He’s never been what we’d call ‘right’.”

  Once outside, he faced her and searched her features. What he looked for she didn’t know. After a moment of study, sincere confusion stamped itself on his face. “Why would a woman like you need to marry a stranger?”

  Myra knew her nose was a squat button and her eyes were too big for her face. His question confused her. “I don’t understand what you mean?” Now she was confused.

  “I expected a skinny old-maid with no bosoms. Not like you.” At that, he waved his hands to outline her body’s shape. “You are built to be a wife and mother. Men back East must be stupid to pass on courting you.” Satisfaction emphasized his words.

  She blushed at his plain speech. “You are very plain spoken.”

  When he shrugged but said nothing, she tried to answer his question. “I suppose most men don’t care for the way I look.” Though she gloried in him not minding her full figure and figure larger than popular bust, Myra hurried to explain her reasons for deciding to marry him. “I’ve cared for my parents, but they are both passed on now.”