Mail Order Megan (Widows, Brides, and Secret Babies Book 11)

by Elissa Strati

  ~~~

  The rest of the trip went quite smoothly, as train travel goes, with both ladies exclaiming at the changing landscape, admiring the farms and fields of crops or dairy cattle, shaking their heads at the smoke issuing from factory furnaces, marveling at the breadth of the Mississippi as they crossed into St. Louis, and expressing awe at the flatness of the plains. The novelty of the converting beds wore off quickly in the general discomfort of long distance travel, despite the relative luxury of their situation. Strolling through the train for exercise or to the dining car, Megan observed how crowded it seemed with row after row of seats and no privacy to speak of, and thanked her lucky stars that her brother had seen fit to let her travel in style.

  Flora, of course, knew most of the porters and maids aboard; before too long they had gotten to know every one of the staff as each took turns keeping an eye on the ladies and babies. Johnson and Mr. Stevenson took charge of coordinating the efforts and there was even usually someone standing guard while they slept.

  Seeing the care being taken to protect the women, Pete realized a serious search was on for him. He was careful to keep out of sight at all times even if it meant not being able to spy on his quarry. But, after all, they were on a train. Where would they go? He’d just bide his time.

  Flora continued Anna’s work of training Megan in the intricacies of childcare. Fortunately both children traveled well and there were few of the inconsolable crying jags such as could occasionally be heard from other children as they traversed the cars.

  Mr. Brandt had gotten off the train with Willie in Harrisburg. He still hadn’t “spilled” about the other thief, but Mr. Brandt had promised to keep in touch to let them know what happened.

  In New Mexico Territory they began to see desert and mountains and the terrain continued to change as they got even further west. Ultimately they came to the Arizona Territory. While all remained sere, the vegetation became more plentiful and the rock formations caught their attention as the train wended between piles of massive stones, fallen from cliffs or wind-sculpted, the magic of her fiancé’s descriptions fully justified by what Megan saw from the window.

  And, finally, they arrived at the Benson station.

  CHAPTER NINE – Benson

  Johnson made it a point of honor to escort the ladies and their equipage from the train, aided by Mr. Stevenson, who offered his arm to Miss Maddux as she descended onto the platform.

  There was only one black man waiting in the crowd. Spying them, he hurried over, nodding his head to Megan, but sweeping his hat from his head and grasping Flora’s free hand in his before bowing low before her and kissing her fingers.

  “Oh, my,” he breathed, “you are more than I ever dreamed of!”

  Peering shyly at Moses from under her lashes, Flora reached down to pull back the light blanket shading her son’s face, and whispered, “This is baby Sam.”

  He studied the infant’s face intently, then declared, “I am proud to call him ‘son.’ A son! I have a son!” he crowed softly.

  ~~~

  Flora and Megan had talked at length about possible introductions and how they would handle them. With their arrival in Benson, Flora’s job was completed. She’d be heading off to Tombstone with her new husband.

  Now their relationship became purely one of friendship. They had agreed that as affianced new brides they should be on an equal footing.

  “After all,” confided Megan, “one of my teachers was an ardent suffragette and I found her arguments to be quite compelling. We sit at Adam’s side, not in his shadow or under his heel, but as partners in life. We are both women and should be equals, not just with each other but with our new husbands.”

  Flora had smiled her gentle smile, recognizing Megan’s naiveté, but also her genuine belief and good will. Praise God and pray she’d never have to witness the harsher realities of relationships, not just among the various races but between men and women.

  Now came a moment of truth.

  ~~~

  Flora touched Moses’ arm gently and turned back toward Megan.

  “Megan, may I introduce you to my intended, Moses O’Henry? And Moses, this is my travel companion, Miss Maddux.”

  Admirably, Moses never raised a brow nor cast a glance askance over at Camellia, but bowed over her offered hand, as he had with Flora, not quite so deeply and his lips fell far shy of fingers, but in the same manner as he must have seen in his southern childhood.

  “A pleasure to know you Miss Maddux.” He glanced around. “Are you being met?”

  “Yes. My fiancé should be here shortly. Don’t worry about me, I know you have a long way to go to get to Tombstone by nightfall. But I would like to enquire whether you may know a man called Tom McNeel.”

  Moses’ eyebrows rose. “Why, yes! He and his partner proved a claim not too far from mine! We both found color at about the same time, but rumor was his was a bit richer.”

  He paused, seeing the confusion in both women’s faces.

  “That means traces of ore. We are mostly mining for silver in Tombstone.”

  He continued his tale. “Mr. McNeel disappeared a few months ago. Someone said he was heading home to bring his wife and daughter west.”

  Megan was stunned. He wasn’t here? “Are you sure? Did anyone see him leave?”

  “No, ma’am, it was just a rumor. But I can ask around for you if you like.”

  “Oh, would you please? You see, I’ve brought his daughter out to him. His wife passed away just before I left and she has entrusted Camellia to my care.” She waved her hand toward the basket sitting next to them in the shade of the building, atop her trunks.

  “I’ll see what I can find out. How can I reach you?”

  “Flora has my direction. She has promised to stay in touch!” The women smiled at each other.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Absolutely. Mr. Stevenson, our conductor, is over there keeping an eye out for me!”

  The two women hugged. “Now don’t you start crying or I will!” and, again laughing as they had throughout most of their journey, they bid each other adieu.

  ~~~

  Glancing around the platform she realized most of the passengers were gone, only a few still waiting to meet someone. And the train was fully loaded, ready to depart on its continued journey, heading next to Tucson, but eventually California. Mr. Stevenson had come over a few minutes earlier to say he’d asked the Station Master to keep an eye on her until her fiancé showed up but he looked concerned.

  “Oh, no need to worry! You know Mr. Bristol works for the railroad and is in charge of building the spur line heading toward the mines.” She pointed to some track angling south from the station. “I am sure he will be here momentarily! Besides, there has been no sign of anyone with a large mustache like the one Mr. Brandt described. If he was on the train at all, he probably got off in Harrisburg to try to rescue his accomplice!”

  Mr. Stevenson shook his head somberly. “I’m worried just the same. You continue to take care, Miss! The man’s a scoundrel and he’s still on the loose.”

  “I promise to keep my wits about me and be on the lookout for anyone who seems suspicious.”

  He nodded but didn’t look convinced. He wouldn’t be there to keep an eye on her and he still felt decidedly uneasy. Looking around the nearly empty platform, he signaled the Station Master who waved to indicate he was on the job. Then he turned back to her to bid farewell.

  “Since you will be living in Benson you must come visit me once in a while as we pass through! I will want to know how Miss Camellia fares, and you, too, you know!”

  She had become quite fond of the conductor and would miss him, and told him as much. He assured her he felt the same and would be sure to bring her some more of Mrs. Stevenson’s jam tarts when he came through again. Her face lit up.

  “Oh, please be sure to thank her for me and let her know they are the best I’ve ever had!”

  And the train b
lew its whistle and he had to go. She waved as it left the station and a number of uniformed arms up and down the length of the train waved back.

  CHAPTER TEN – Mr. Bristol

  Not sure what else to do, she continued to wait. But if someone didn’t appear soon, perhaps she should ask a porter to arrange for a hansom to take her to the hotel.

  She gazed at the sleeping infant in the basket atop her trunk, then turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  "Miss Maddux?" The speaker was taller than she but not imposing despite the stiffness of his bearing. His uncertainty was obvious but he was clearly trying not to let it show. His nervousness actually relaxed her own a bit.

  And then she saw him take in the basket and its contents. And the outrage it sparked.

  "Miss Maddux, I was expecting a maiden!"

  "And I, sir, was expecting a gentleman!"

  A shocked silence ensued as each glared at the other, then Megan turned her back on Mr. Bristol and raised her arm to summon a porter.

  "Hrmmm, uhm," he cleared his throat, "perhaps you have an explanation for this, erm, uh . . ." His voice sounded plaintive and Megan felt herself waver from her own outrage. She turned back to him.

  "You're right. I had no opportunity to write to you about the child before I left. But this is hardly the place for extended discussion." She glanced around at the few remaining passersby who quickly averted their heads as if they hadn't been gawping at the evident disagreement being enacted before them.

  Mr. Bristol pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.

  "No, no, this will not do. It will not do at all." Seeing the porter approach he nodded to the man abruptly and pointed toward the trunk. "Please assist the lady with her things. My buggy is just over there," he pointed with his chin. Then, giving a stiff bow, he offered Miss Maddux his arm.

  "One moment, Sir," she replied, dipping her head slightly, then turning back to her luggage she secured the basket over her free arm before resting the other hand lightly on his extended appendage. The babe remained asleep.

  Silence reigned as Mr. Bristol neatly handled his equipage, conveying them a scant few blocks from the station over dusty roads. The town wasn't much to look at. There were a few wide streets with a fair amount of commerce, mostly consisting of what Megan took to be ore wagons, based on Mr. Bristol's descriptions in his letters.

  Those letters had been rather sweet and Mr. Bristol had sounded quite lonely. It was that, finally, that had convinced her to come west. But now?

  “Perhaps you would care to share why you were so shockingly late?”

  He blanched slightly, realizing his reaction had prevented him from apologizing for his extreme tardiness.

  “Indeed, it was unavoidable, but I beg you will accept my sincere regrets that I was not on hand to greet you as you stepped down from the train.” He deftly shifted the reins into one hand as he reached into his breast pocket to withdraw a handkerchief, with which he proceeded to mop his brow. He cast his eyes briefly toward her before returning his attention to his driving and both hands to the reins.

  “There was . . . an incident.” He paused.

  She waited.

  “And?” she finally prompted.

  “And,” another glance, “there was an attempted holdup of the stagecoach,” he sighed. “One man was injured, but not before he shot his assailant. I had to wait until the sheriff’s deputy arrived.”

  “Is this sort of thing common?”

  He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It is not unknown, but I wouldn’t necessarily call it common . . .

  “Ah, here we are.” He brought the conveyance to a stop in front of a trim house of modest size, compared with hers in Philadelphia, but clearly larger than its neighbors. Looping the reins, he quickly descended and walked around in front of the horse, absently patting its head as he came around to help her descend.

  The front door had opened and out spilled an ample woman dressed in a brightly-colored, flowing gown of an unusual cut, and a young man of no more than ten or twelve years, perhaps a bit older than Toby. Both had the tan complexion she’d seen on a number of people as they drew south and who, Johnson had explained, were of Spanish descent, but intermixed with the native Indian tribes, which produced the duskier hue. The Spanish, and then the Mexicans, had held all of this land for centuries before the United States had acquired it by force of arms or purchase.

  This, thought Megan, must be the housekeeper, Señora Suarez, about whom Mr. Bristol had written. The woman hurried up, nearly knocking Mr. Bristol aside, and raised her arms to Megan.

  “¡Ay, mira! ¡Qué bebé, tan bonita! Te la quitaré.” The Spanish was rapid, but Megan thought she’d said something like, Oh, look, what a pretty baby; let me take her from you.

  “Muchas gracias, señora,” Megan replied, handing down the basket.

  “¿Usted habla español? ¡Qué bueno!” (You speak Spanish? How wonderful!)

  “Solo un poquito, lo siento.” (I’m sorry, only a little.)

  “I know you said you had learned Spanish but I didn’t realize you were so proficient. You will have to teach me!” Mr. Bristol reached up his hand to assist her from the carriage.

  “Well, I clearly have to work on my accent, and she was speaking so rapidly I was having trouble following, but, yes, I’d be delighted to help you!”

  Camellia had awoken when the carriage stopped but had become somewhat accustomed to travel, so did not object to being swooped through the air and scooped out of her basket. Her eyes were caught by the large earbobs on Señora Suarez, and her hands reached up to grab. Laughing delightedly, the woman moved her head back and grabbed the baby’s hands in her own before planting a fat kiss on her forehead.

  “Miguel take el equipaje to rooms for you. You no tell me bebé.” Speaking rapidly in Spanish to Miguel, who nodded several times, she turned back to her employer. “Señor Bristol, señora, you come. Mi hermana have bebé, she feed.”

  She started toward the door and realized they hadn’t started to move.

  “You come now!”

  Megan looked at her fiancé with a slight frown puckering her brows, as she followed Sra. Suarez.

  “I’m not sure, but I think your housekeeper has just arranged for a wet nurse for Camellia!”

  “Yes, speaking of your daughter . . .”

  Glancing around he realized they were being watched by a number of neighbors and passersby. Placing a hand on her back, he urged her thus to hurry her steps and ushered her inside.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN -- Explanations

  The house was comfortably furnished in a style she had not seen before, solid pieces with carved wood and leather, and spotlessly clean despite the apparently ever-present dust outside.

  “You go la sala. I bring el café,” Sra. Suarez announced as she headed off for the kitchen with Camellia.

  There was a banging noise as the trunk was dragged into the house. Evidently Miguel had acquired some assistance, as the sound of young voices speaking rapid Spanish carried from down the hall.

  “It always seems like chaos, but everything seems to get taken care of,” Mr. Bristol shook his head in wonder.

  He escorted Megan into the parlor and invited her to sit. She would rather have been pacing about to burn off some of the nervous energy which seemed to fill her, but that would have meant he’d have to stand, too, and would be most rude of her.

  “You must know I cannot possibly stay here with you,” Megan stated as she sat on a delicate settee. “We are not married. I’m afraid I rather assumed you were taking me to a hotel.”

  “Actually, I expected to see the preacher waiting here for us. I had arranged for him to be here today for that very reason, as he rides a circuit locally and is not always in town.”

  “But clearly you cannot wish to marry me now, having decided I'm a soiled dove,” she replied, rather sharply.

  He sighed. “Upon sober reflection, I cannot imagine your brother playing such a
shabby trick on me, and your letters did not reveal a person of ill repute but rather a kind, warm-hearted, and generous soul. Therefore, now that I am over the initial shock I felt at seeing an unexpected infant, I am convinced you have an explanation to share.”

  She gave him a level gaze, then reached into her reticule, withdrew Sonia's letter, and passed it to him.

  He looked at the letter and then at her.

  “With your permission?”

  She nodded gracefully and he opened the envelope and read its contents, going back a few times to reread certain passages, before looking up at her.

  “I . . . see,” he said slowly. “This does put rather a different complexion on the matter. And she hadn't heard from him since he told her of his strike? How long ago was that?”

  “Perhaps six months. She had written to him of their coming child and he responded with delight. She wrote again to let him know they had a daughter, but she never heard back.

  “Sonia sent her journal along with her husband’s letters and some jewelry included in the valise with the baby’s things, as her daughter’s legacy. Little Camellia was well loved by both her parents even though she has not yet met her father. His disappearance is of grave concern.”

  He studied her face thoughtfully. “I think perhaps a visit to Tombstone would be in order, since that's where his mine is located. I may find someone who knows him or how to contact him.”

  “Actually, I just met a miner who knows him and has agreed to check for me.”

  “Miss Maddux, you continue to astound and confuse me. How would you have had the opportunity to meet a miner?”

  “Are you getting back on your high horse, sir?” she replied wistfully. “The Ted in your letters seemed a much less imposing and far more thoughtful and caring individual.” She sighed. “The miner, Mr. O’Henry, is the fiancé of my traveling companion, Flora Kemble.”