Mail Order Beau

by Maya Stirling

  Here, in Sweetheart Falls, the old rules didn't apply. Out here no-one judged Martha in the way they had before. When her beau had stopped calling it had obviously happened because Martha had been deemed unworthy. Her family were not quite good enough.

  Out in the West all those old rules were thrown away. For a moment Martha felt a burst of liberation. The wind blew through her hair, and she found herself smiling.

  Ethan looked at her. "Martha, you look pleased with yourself," he observed.

  She nodded. "I'm kind of looking forward to this morning," she said.

  Ethan frowned. "To choosing a cow?"

  "Yes," she said. "To making a choice."

  The first view of the Bar T ranch was intimidating. Unlike some of the other spreads in the region, since it had been one of the first to open when Sweetheart Falls was established as a town, the Bar T had been well developed. The buckboard came over a ridge, and Ethan pulled up and paused to take a look.

  "Well. Would you look at that," he said, obvious admiration in his voice.

  It was indeed impressive, thought Martha.

  The main ranch house consisted of two floors, a long wooden porch on front, white painted exterior and high narrow windows along the ground floor. There was a terrace on the outside of the upper floor.

  Even from the distance of the hill she was on, Martha could tell it was a substantial spread.

  Around the main building were scattered a variety of barns, equipment stores, stone cottages and corrals. Martha could see the figures of ranch hands going about their various business. Horses moved around inside the corrals.

  It was a truly impressive sight.

  Ethan tipped his hat back and whistled. "How can one man own all that?" he asked no-one in particular.

  Martha didn't know what to say. She could only think about what it would be like to live in such a place. There was so much space!

  Ethan flicked the reins, and the horses moved on.

  They made their way down onto the plain, and rode under the large wooden sign with the Bar T carved into it. They passed the corrals, and drew up in front of the ranch house. Some ranch hands paused in their work to take a closer look at the buckboard and it's occupants.

  Up close the ranch house was stunningly impressive. It was in fine condition. Martha had thought that most ranches were run down affairs, inhabited by busy, untidy men. This one was well kept and clean looking.

  The door to the ranch opened, and Mr. Brook came out. On this day, in contrast to when she had met him at Hettie's, he was dressed more appropriately. He wore rough pants, a loose shirt, and there was a red neckerchief tied round his throat. He looked like a totally different man from the one who had stood by Hettie's fireplace the day before.

  "Good afternoon to you," he called out, stepping off the porch and onto the dirt.

  "Afternoon Mr. Brook," said Ethan.

  "Glad you could come out today," said Mr. Brook. "And how charming to see you brought a lovely young lady with you."

  Ethan stepped to the side of the buckboard, and extended a hand to Martha, helping her down off the seat.

  Martha straightened her dress, and gazed up at the ranch house.

  "This is my sister in law, Martha," said Ethan.

  Martha extended a hand, and Mr. Brook shook it gently. "Pleased to have you both here today." He said nothing about their previous meeting.

  "I believe you have something we'd like to consider today," said Ethan.

  Mr. Brook appeared momentarily taken aback, as if he had misunderstood what Ethan had said. Then he composed himself and replied: "Of course. What we discussed before. Can I offer you both a refreshment. It must have been a long journey for you both."

  "I'm okay. I don't need anything. However, perhaps Martha might prefer to get inside, out of the sun for a while."

  Martha nodded. "Perhaps some water, if it's not to much trouble," she said to Mr. Brook.

  A rotund, grey haired, elderly lady with friendly eyes emerged from the ranch house, wiping her hands on a well worn apron. Her gaze fixed on Martha.

  "Perhaps Mrs Proudie can take care of you while I show Mr. Macleod around. Mrs Proudie is the one who's really in charge around here. Don't worry. She won't bite your head off. She really is a sweet thing. Once you get to know her."

  Mr. Brook gestured to Mrs. Proudie. Martha stepped forward gingerly, and the elderly woman smiled gently.

  "Don't listen to him, my dear. I'm the housekeeper around here. I try to keep the unruly men on this ranch well fed and well behaved. It's a battle, I can tell you. Come. You must be exhausted after your journey," she said, beckoning Martha forward. Martha noted that Mrs. Proudie's voice was deep, and almost, dare she say, manly. However, there was a kind and soft quality to it as well.

  Mrs Proudie took Martha's elbow, and led her into the ranch house.

  Martha stepped into the hallway, and her nose was immediately assailed by the smell of home cooking.

  "That food smells delicious," Martha said to Mrs. Proudie.

  The old woman smiled, showing strong white teeth. "That must mean you have a good appetite," she said.

  The hallway led on either side to large rooms that were well furnished with substantial wooden chairs, tables and cabinets. Martha recognized the furnishings of wealth, and wondered what such things were doing out here in the wilds of Wyoming.

  A narrow staircase led up to a balcony. Paintings decorated the wall by the side of the staircase. Martha tried to look more closely at the images, but Mrs. Proudie tugged on her arm. "Let's get you into the kitchen my dear. You must be thirsty."

  Martha followed Mrs. Proudie into the kitchen. The contrast between the Macleod kitchen and this one could not have been greater. Martha gazed around at the appliances, fixtures and fittings. She marvelled at the luxurious quality of what she saw. The stove and the water pump looked brand new. Even back East, a kitchen like this would be something to be proud of.

  Mrs. Proudie drew water, and handed the glass to Martha. The glass was cold in her grasp, and the water felt even cooler as she swallowed it. She immediately felt refreshed. The journey had been hotter than she realized, and it was good to sit down in the cool of the kitchen.

  "Would you like to rest a little before your lunch?" Mrs. Proudie asked.

  "Lunch? I didn't know there was a lunch planned."

  "There is a modest meal planned. I do believe you are expecting to meet with our owner. Am I right?" Mrs. Proudie raised an eyebrow.

  "Word certainly gets around," said Martha.

  "I do pride myself on the food I serve up here at the Bar T," Mrs. Proudie said. "Since this is obviously such a special visit, I did prepare one of my best for you both."

  "Us both?"

  "My understanding is that the main lunch is only for you and my employer."

  Martha suddenly understood that a private lunch had been arranged for herself, and the owner of the ranch. Alone.

  "Isn't Mr. Macleod invited?"

  "I believe Mr. Brook has made another arrangement for himself and Mr. Macleod."

  "I see. In that case, I shan't rest for the moment," said Martha. She took another sip of water. "How long have you worked here?"

  Martha was sure she saw a little frown crease Mrs. Proudie's forehead. "I've been with sir for two years now. As you can see outside, we're only just settling in, since he just took over the ranch. Previously we were..." Mrs. Proudie paused and smiled as if recalling something important. "I'll let him tell you anything more," she said, making it clear that there wouldn't be any more talk of her employer, for the moment.

  Mrs. Proudie glanced at the clock on the wall. "Let me show you into the dining room."

  Martha felt a flutter of excitement. She was going to meet the man at last, and she wasn't sure she was ready. Glancing down at her dress she suddenly realized that she looked positively dowdy. It surely wasn't appropriate that she should meet a potential new husband looking the way she did.

  She sighed
and placed the glass down on the table.

  "Don't sigh dear. You look lovely," Mrs. Proudie said, almost as if she had read Martha's mind.

  She followed Mrs. Proudie through the hallway, past the staircase, toward the rear of the house, until they came to a panelled wooden door.

  "If you'd make yourself comfortable inside, I'll let him know you are here," Mrs. Proudie said.

  The elderly housekeeper walked slowly away, leaving Martha standing, nervously at the door. She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  Her breath stopped in her throat when she saw what was inside. Stepping into the room, the first thing that impressed itself upon her was the scent of the flowers. The dining room was decorated with a glorious, blazing variety of flowers that lined the cabinets and tables in the room. The sweet smell filled her nostrils. There was riot of color that made the small room look almost like a garden. She had never seen so many flowers in one room in her life!

  Her feet were rooted to the spot as she gazed around the room taking in the blaze of color.

  A long table filled the middle of the room. Upon it were expensive looking plates and silver cutlery. Two places had been set on opposite sides of the table. Martha closed the door behind her.

  She stood for a moment, and took in the sight of the room. It seemed almost out of place in a Wyoming ranch.

  There were paintings on each of the walls, mostly landscapes. The whole room exuded a sense of taste and sophistication which Martha found surprising for a rancher. Some of the things looked like they had been brought from back East. She had spent her fair share of time in salons and society dining rooms, and this room wouldn't have looked out of place in Maine or New York.

  The familiarity of the objects in the room made Martha feel a tinge of longing for the life she had given up back East. Growing up there, she had sometimes felt comfortable moving in the social circles, savoring the possibilities that life offered to those with even modest means. This room made her feel as if she were eighteen years of age again.

  Martha picked up a fork, and felt the heaviness and quality of it. She ran her fingers across the fine texture of the white tablecloth.

  At the far end of the room was a smaller dark, wooden sideboard which sat beneath a painting. It was a detailed rendition of a large, three storied residence.

  Martha went to the end of the room, and stood in front of the sideboard, examining the painting.

  Something caught at Martha's throat as she looked at the sepia toned, sketchy image. There was something familiar about that house, but she couldn't quite place it. She gazed at it, and scrutinized the details of the front of the house. The driveway in front of the mansion had a horse and carriage parked on it. There was something about it, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

  Martha frowned, and placed her hands in the sideboard. She lowered her head, and looked down at the top of the sideboard. This time her heart skipped a beat. At first she couldn't believe what she was looking at.

  Her mouth went dry, and she couldn't swallow. She blinked a few times, shook her head gently, and gazed at the object which lay on the sideboard.

  It couldn't be!

  Martha moved her hand hesitatingly towards the small, oval shaped locket which lay there. It was as if it had been placed there to cause exactly the response that it had just done in Martha. She drew her hand away sharply leaving the locket untouched.

  Martha recognized the locket. She had seen it, or something like it, before! That thought caused her heart to thud in her chest; she felt her face drain; her breathing became tight.

  The locket was gold and decorated with carved flowers. A long, thin chain was hooked onto it, and lay nonchalantly to the side. The object lay on the sideboard as if it were deliberately on display. It had been placed there for effect; exactly the effect it had elicited from Martha.

  She couldn't bring herself to touch the locket. The overwhelming desire she now felt to know for sure, battled with the confusing, overpowering thought which had seized her mind.

  Memories flashed into her mind; images from years before; conversations held in secret; feelings that had threatened to overwhelm.

  It couldn't be! Could it?

  Martha forced her trembling hand to reach for the locket. The touch of the gold was cool against her fingertips. She lifted the oval piece, and felt the weight of it in her shaking hand.

  There was a clasp on the side. She knew that if she pressed the clasp something would be revealed to her, and she wasn't sure she was ready for that.

  Martha took a deep breath, pressed the clasp and the front of the locket flipped open with a soft click.

  There it was!

  It was what she had known would be there. She looked at it and her blood chilled.

  It was an image of herself; a small, sepia toned likeness of a younger Martha.

  Before she had time time to consider what that meant; before she could turn and run out of the room; before she could do anything to deal with the situation, she heard his deep, resonant, familiar voice from behind her. She didn't dare turn, but she knew who was standing behind her.

  "Hello Martha. It's so good to see you again," her ex beau, Logan Crawford, said to her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Martha whirled around as she heard Logan's voice. The locket fell from her numb fingers landing on the wooden floorboards with a sharp, hard crack. Surely she must be dreaming; it couldn't be him. Could it?

  Logan was standing in the doorway, looking not much changed from the man who had given up courting her back East, three years before; the man who had been her precious beau; the young man who had left her in order to keep his own father happy; the tall, handsome Easterner who, as a young woman, she had thought would be her future husband. He was standing right in front of her.

  "Logan! How can this be?" Martha croaked.

  Logan smiled that familiar broad, warm grin. His eyes lit up at the sight of her; those ice shard blue eyes that had captivated her on so many occasion in the past.

  Martha's heart was thudding like the wheels of a steam train. She thought she was going to pass out. She gripped the front of the sideboard to steady herself.

  Logan took one look at her, saw the reaction his appearance had caused, and moved swiftly from the door to her side. His boots made a firm sound that echoed in the room.

  "Martha. Are you feeling okay?" he asked, standing before her, his hands reaching slowly for her. He seemed hesitant to touch her.

  The room was spinning around Martha's head. She must be hallucinating. How could Logan be here? Was he the mysterious rancher? He must be. That would why he hadn't given her his name beforehand.

  Logan took her by the arm and sat her down on one of the dining room chairs. Martha rested against the soft upholstered back, and tried to get her breath back. She looked at Logan, who was kneeling on the floor by the side of the chair, concern written across his features. His broad forehead, high cheekbones and straight, firm jaw were fixed in an expression of deep worry.

  "Martha take a breath," he said urgently.

  "May I have a drink of water?" Martha wheezed.

  "Of course. How stupid of me not to ask," Logan said, going to the dining table, and pouring water from a pitcher into a glass. He handed it to her. Martha noticed that Logan's hand was shaking slightly. She wasn't the only one finding this whole situation difficult.

  Martha drank the cool water and exhaled. Her senses were starting to come back to her. She looked at Logan, starting to believe now that he was real; that he was here, in the flesh.

  "Logan? Is it really you?"

  "It is me, my dear. Your senses aren't deceiving you."

  "But how is this possible?"

  "Now is not the time to go into that. You need to compose yourself." Logan ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. "Indeed. I don't know what I was thinking, introducing myself like this. It seemed like a good idea before. But now I can see that I should have come to you again in a c
ompletely different manner.

  Martha took another sip of water. "It's no matter. I just cannot believe that you are here. That we are in this room together."

  Logan's eyes softened. "I am so glad to have found you at last."

  "What do you mean?"

  Logan took Martha's shaking hand in his. "I've been looking for you for a long time Martha." His eyes fixed, intently on her, and she felt something shift deep inside her.

  "How? Why?" she asked.

  "It's a long story." His voice drifted off. He reached his hand toward her head, and shifted a stray hair away from her face. He smiled as he did so, but Martha drew herself back, leaning away from his hand.

  "It's been a very long time Logan," she said firmly.

  Logan withdrew his hand and stiffened. "I know. It's been three years. Extremely long years."

  Martha looked away to hide the fact that her eyes were beginning to moisten.

  "You left me Logan; without so much as an explanation. After all we had been through, it was the least I could expect. An explanation," she said, her tone hardening.

  Logan flinched visibly at the change in her voice.

  "Let's take a few moments and not discuss the past. I know you've got many questions; and I'll do my best to answer them. However, for now I want to see you calm."

  "Oh Logan!," Martha sobbed and lowered her head. She wasn't going to cry; she absolutely refused to do that; not in front of him. Logan placed a hand on her shoulder and Martha stiffened at his touch.

  For the briefest moment Martha leaned her head to the side, and rested her cheek against his hand. It felt good to touch his hand again. It had been so long; so often she had dreamed of what it would be like to feel his touch again. Now she was here with him, his hand against her cheek, that familiar old sensation of peace settled on her for a moment. Then the quiet voice of rebellion and reason whispered to her.

  Martha lifted her head. "How could you do this? How could you play such a trick on me?"