The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride, Much Ado About Marriage

by Iris Kelly

  “Then you have a duty to her, Mr. Knight. For it is for your sake and the sake of your paper that she has entangled herself with Zachary Scott. You must protect her. Not just from physical harm, but from desperation. It is not an easy thing to be alone in this world. It is her heart that I worry about.”

  This time, it was Sebastian who sprang to his feet. “Miss Norris’s welfare is my utmost priority. Depend on it. And if the pursuit of this investigation jeopardizes her in any way, I won’t hesitate to put an end to it.”

  “I am so relieved to hear it, Mr. Knight. The thing I wish for most of all is Abigail’s happiness.”

  Sebastian nodded his assent and quickly departed. Beatrice watched him from the front window.

  “Marital happiness, Mr. Knight.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sebastian strode back to his office, too preoccupied to take notice of his surroundings. He did not hear his name being called repeatedly until a breathless young man, Robert Mason, caught up with him and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Robert, what is it?”

  Robert took a moment to recover his breath, but he was too excited to hold his news in for long.

  “The card player—the big loser, his name’s Eugene Simpson and he’s a bank manager for First Security in Laramie. They’re supposed to have a hundred and twenty thousand dollars in customer accounts. Shall we call for an audit and find out how much they actually have? Or more to the point, how much they have left?”

  Sebastian was intrigued. “That would be rather disturbing if it turns out to be the case. And highly newsworthy. I’ll make the arrangements for the audit. I should also probably alert the Sheriff’s Office in Laramie. They’ve got to keep an eye on Mr. Simpson during the audit.”

  “Yeah, he’ll be on the run for sure.”

  “Good work, Robert. Take tomorrow off. I’ll let you know as soon as we get any word on the bank.”

  It only took three days of telegraphs and frantic planning before the results of the audit were made known. Almost a quarter of customer account holdings had vanished—over thirty thousand dollars. What a mess it would become. There was clearly no way to recover those funds. Mr. Simpson was immediately marched from his bank to the jailhouse. The powers that be hotly debated if and when the customers needed to be made aware of this shocking embezzlement.

  Sebastian was somewhat sensitive to the fact that the news would inevitably lead to a run on the bank, and the owners begged for time to liquidate their own private resources to restore the losses before the news was presented to the public. Sebastian agreed to wait two weeks. It was a colossal story, in any case. And he had Abigail’s keen intuition to thank for it.

  He would have invited her out to dinner to celebrate their breakthrough article, but they still needed to avoid being seen together in public. He offered, once again, to make her a meal at his home. Abigail was elated that they had finally come across a big story—there was certainly cause for celebration. But why should she impose on Mr. Knight again? It was her turn to provide the meal.

  So Sebastian watched curiously as Abigail confidently attempted her first meal in Cheyenne. There was really little reason for her confidence. She had not been called upon to do her own cooking while she was living in the Boston boardinghouse, nor in her husband’s well-staffed home, nor in the plush accommodations she had grown up in. But she had hovered around many a stove top in her day—it had always looked very straightforward. Some dishes were virtually foolproof. Like beef stew. Nothing easier.

  “Miss Norris. I think the meat might be burning.”

  “Oh, no! Oh, oh, ow!”

  In her haste, Abigail had managed to worsen the evening with a burn to her hand.

  “Over here. Put it in cold water,” Sebastian ordered. “Stay there, and I’ll get some salve.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Knight. I’ve ruined the meal. And we meant to celebrate our story.”

  “There is still much to celebrate, thanks to you, Miss Norris. Admittedly, it may be the barest of stories. The only one who can supply the useful detail required is Mr. Simpson, and while he has offered a full confession to his crime, he has refused my interview request to get the full story—the motive behind his actions.”

  “He is ashamed, embarrassed to have been so out of control.”

  Sebastian dried Abigail’s hand and rubbed a dab of the medicinal salve on her burn. “How is it?”

  “It hurts just enough to remind me that I have no business in the kitchen.”

  “Your other talents are of much greater value. Anyone can manage a plate of scrambled eggs. Well, perhaps not you.”

  Abigail gasped in mock offense. It was the first time he had teased her.

  “I was about to offer you a gift, and now, I’m not so sure you deserve it.”

  “I’m very fond of gifts. Though, I can’t remember when I last got one.”

  “I know who Mr. Simpson will talk to.”

  She waited for Sebastian to catch on.

  “Flamin’ Annie!” they said in unison.

  “That is a very good thought, Miss Norris.”

  “He will only be open with a fellow gambler.”

  “Will you be able to leave for two days without suspicion?”

  It didn’t take long to fabricate an excuse that Zachary would accept. An old paramour of hers in Kansas City had died, and she got word by telegraph that she was to be mentioned in the reading of the will. It was a profit motive that was guaranteed to appeal to the salon owner.

  He regretted her absence from the card room—he didn’t want the admirers and curiosity seekers to start drifting to other establishments in search of her. Still, she seemed to be earnestly considering his proposal, and since he had promised freedom, it would hardly make sense to object.

  In a matter of twenty-four hours, Abigail had checked into her Laramie hotel and headed to the jailhouse. Her instincts had been correct. For all the money that she had won off him, Mr. Simpson greeted her with relief, like an old friend, and he readily consented to unburden himself.

  Although Abigail had seen many gamblers who seemed wildly out of control at the table, it was fascinating to her to hear the inner workings of Mr. Simpson’s mind. Every losing session instilled him with a sense of entitlement. He was due. The world owed him a winning night. Other people won. Wasn’t he just as good as them? Didn’t luck float in the air and fall on everyone when it was their turn?

  It was particularly informative to know his state of mind as the losses mounted on any given night. He quickly lost his desire to go home with any winnings. He was simply filled with a painful desire to get back the money that had just been lost—ten dollars, then twenty-five dollars, then a hundred dollars. He always tried to give off an outward appearance of indifference, but these were painful losses. That probably still would have been true if he had been using his own money. To know that he was using the bank money added an additional nasty sting to the catastrophe.

  Oddly enough, he never worried about getting caught. Why should he? He had been bank manager there for six years. He had the owners’ complete trust. No one ever came in and counted the money in the vaults besides himself.

  Now that the worst had happened, he was surprised at how much relief he felt. He had managed to drain a quarter of the bank’s holdings. If he hadn’t been stopped, in two years’ time, it would all have been gone. And he would have had to go on the run, a wanted man. But even beyond his own fate, the thought of so many good, hard-working people losing their life savings, their businesses, and their futures because of him—that was more unbearable than anything. Yes, he was very glad that he had been stopped.

  Abigail wondered if he had started embezzling soon after he obtained his position.

  “Oh no. I was as upright as they come. I did a fine job. It was only . . . eighteen months ago, when I lost my mother. She was a wonderful person. You’ve never met anyone so kind. I had a very difficult time with it. A very difficult time. And I began
to go to the card rooms to push it out of my mind, just for an hour, just for an evening, to forget that she was gone.”

  As she watched Mr. Simpson’s eyes fill with tears, Abigail could see that his was a story much more about grief than greed. She offered what comfort she could and thanked him for his candor. He expressed gratitude for the opportunity to explain himself and warned her never to fall into the same trap that he had.

  For all that she had tried to push him away, Abigail couldn’t wait to see Sebastian again. This story was what they had been working toward. She couldn’t wait to share it with him. As it so happened, she didn’t have long to wait at all.

  She received word at her hotel that she was to stay on the train when she got to Cheyenne. There, she would be joined by Sebastian, and they would travel together to Denver! Sebastian’s father was insistent on meeting the mother of his future heirs, and he wouldn’t change his will until he had been satisfied on that score.

  What a daunting prospect. Winning admiration from a saloon full of gamblers was one thing. But a prospective father-in-law! Flamin’ Annie did not seem like a persona that would be welcomed into the family.

  *****

  Abigail could see Sebastian on the train platform as he prepared to board. What a silly flutter of relief she felt. Of course he was there. This trip was about securing his inheritance. It was the whole purpose of their alliance. But things had become so personal between them so quickly. Perhaps the breaking of this news story and the rational steps taken to appease Sebastian’s father and guarantee the inheritance would focus Sebastian’s attention away from her charms and squarely onto his own ambitions.

  As he entered the train car, Abigail had to admit that he was breathtakingly handsome. Not that she hadn’t noticed before. But she had generally tried to regard his good looks as an annoying distraction—something that had no value for a woman who was done with thoughts of love and marriage.

  Now, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement and pride to be seen in the company of such a fine-looking man. It was, indeed, their first joint public appearance, of sorts, as they had taken such great pains in Cheyenne not to be seen together. But the train car was full of unfamiliar faces. It seemed a very acceptable risk.

  As Sebastian sat down beside her, with such an expression of warm welcome on his face, it was clear to Abigail that her attempts to deflect his affection had failed, which should have bothered her more. But it wasn’t bothering her at all, and she resisted the effort to probe into her own motives and uncover the reason.

  “You are looking very well, Miss Norris. I trust your journey was successful.”

  “Indeed it was. I think you are going to be very pleased with the story, for there is more depth to it than either of us had imagined.”

  Sebastian listened in rapt attention, with only a few inexplicable lapses of concentration owing to how snug and flattering Miss Norris’s traveling suit was. How her eyes sparkled as she animatedly laid out the story. With some exertion, he forced himself to attend to the details of her report.

  “It’s a difficult thing to fathom—how that blind compulsion to continue playing grips him. Did you ever feel anything close to such an irresistible impulse?”

  “Only in the smallest degree. There is something maddening about a long losing streak. I confess, you can start feeling a bit frantic. But my bad nights were always cushioned by the fact that as a house player, I had someone to share the loss with. I also recall telling myself on a number of occasions that if I didn’t lose once in a while, I would be suspected of cheating. So losing nights are the price I had to pay to maintain my good reputation.”

  “Hmm. Have you noticed that sometimes you will refer to your life as Annie’s and sometimes as your own? It’s a curious thing.”

  “You’re very observant, Mr. Knight. And I must confess that I have felt some confusion over the matter. I do know that when I am Annie, I am free of doubt or confusion or guilt.”

  “And when you are . . . Abigail?” Sebastian almost blushed to address her so familiarly. But he wanted to know who she was inside, to herself. Was she still the same Abigail he had hatched this plan up with, the same Abigail who had developed such tender feelings for him?

  “I suppose it would make sense to say that I am Abigail when I am by myself. But even then, Annie is there, flaunting her carefree ways and daring me to argue why my life has better merit. I am primarily still wholly Abigail . . . when I am with you, Mr. Knight. She is a flawed creature. Does that make it fair to say that you bring out the worst in me?”

  After a brief moment of shock, Mr. Knight joined Abigail in a burst of laughter.

  “We should consider ourselves fortunate that Annie is so easily summoned. I was able to put Mr. Simpson at ease, and he was able to confide in me as if I had been family.”

  Abigail proceeded to tell Sebastian about Mr. Simpson’s loss of his mother, the maddening grief, and how he fell into gambling to shut out the pain. Sebastian listened with increasing agitation—so much that Abigail had to interrupt her story.

  “What is it, Mr. Knight? Have I disturbed you? You look very troubled.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “I am angry with myself, Miss Norris. It should have been clear to me, and yet I was blind as a bat. I told you once that I had a brother who was given to excessive gambling and extraordinary losses.”

  “You did say something about him, yes.”

  “My father and I have long despaired that he will ever make anything of his life, and I have criticized him harshly for the waste he has made of his life . . . but hearing of Mr. Simpson’s loss, it brings me back to the death of my own mother. I was sixteen years old and he was twelve.

  “We both took it very hard, but his reaction confounded me. He abandoned his studies and started to get in all kinds of trouble, and by the time he was sixteen, he was frequenting the bars and saloons. And what is a drifting young man likely to do in such an environment? He became a card player, but not a particularly successful one. I can only imagine how he managed to replenish his funds. He never held onto his money for long. Like Mr. Simpson, he had the compulsion, but not the talent.

  “But what I see now, so clearly, is how the loss of a mother caused them both to create enough noise and chaos in their lives to drown out the pain. It was not my way of grieving, and so I never understood it. But it was his. I should have been more understanding. I should have tried to help. I was so harsh, so sanctimonious. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, Miss Norris.”

  “Mr. Knight, it is to your credit that you feel this regret so deeply. Your brother is still alive?”

  “Yes. He stops in on my father every few years. He even came to Cheyenne once. Never again, I’m sure. Certainly not to be lectured to by me.”

  “Where there is life, there is hope. I should like to meet him. Perhaps, like Mr. Simpson, he will feel less judgment coming from a fellow cardsharp.”

  “Oh, ho. It seems I am in the company of Flamin’ Annie, after all.”

  “No, it is just an accurate state of affairs. When I was a seamstress in Boston, I did not enjoy it, but I had to own it as my profession. Now, the fact of the matter is, despite the generosity of the stipend you have secured for me as an employee of the The Cheyenne Chronicle, that ninety percent of my present income comes from card playing. That money doesn’t belong to Flamin’ Annie. It belongs to me. And it is comforting insurance against a very uncertain future.”

  “I should hate for you to be reliant on that income from lack of other options, Miss Norris. As I have always promised you, the inheritance from my father is substantial, and I will gladly gift you with ten percent of it. You will be able to chart any course for your life that appeals. But I warn you, I shall fight my hardest to hoard your skills for my paper. Your talent there is unique and irreplaceable.”

  Abigail looked away, flustered to hear such praise. With a gasp, she looked back at him as she felt him take her hand in his.

  “I didn’t
mean to startle you, Miss Norris. But I had meant to prepare you for this visit. My father knows that I sent for a mail order bride, but in my letters to him, I have given him the impression that a wholesome amount of affection had developed between us. I know that he will be more convinced that he is not being deceived—although he is—and that we are legitimately intending a true and loving marriage. While we are with him, it seems advisable to demonstrate those signs of affection that he will be expecting from a couple who profess to be falling in love. Forgive me. I did present the case to him in rather poetic terms.”

  “Really? I wish I had been able to see those letters. So, what are you suggesting, Mr. Knight?”

  “I’m suggesting that you call me Sebastian. And I must call you Abigail. That will certainly communicate a degree of intimacy that he expects to see. We must also endeavor to indulge in a few fleeting gestures of closeness. If we were a normal betrothed pair, I believe we would find every excuse to touch hands, or exchange whispers, or shun the company of others and wander off by ourselves. Or at least, that is what I have observed. Of course, I am no expert in love. Do you agree?”

  “I think that if we were to carry on in that fashion, there would be little doubt in your father’s mind that the first of his grandchildren was expected to arrive in some six or seven months’ time.”

  “Miss Norris!”

  “It’s Abigail. You mustn’t lose sight of our scheme, Sebastian.”

  “Clearly, I am outmatched. I am glad to see you are up for the challenge of what could be a very demanding visit. Perhaps I should give you some time to rest. Sleep, if need be. My father is likely to try your patience.”

  “If I am in a difficult spot, I shall summon Annie and put your father in his place. But you are right. I’ve not had much time to rest. If I could just close my eyes for a while, I am sure I can arrive refreshed. You may continue to hold my hand, if you think it advisable. I have no objection.”

  “I think it’s something that we should become comfortable with. There are few other sights that convince an observer of romantic fervor.”