Mail Order Bride- Summer

by Sierra Rose

  “Boys,” said Paul, in mild reproof, starting forward again.

  But Hennessey was having none of it. His elegant black boots were planted firmly in the fine powder underfoot, refusing to budge. “Tell me, now. Is it Molly? Is she all right?”

  “A little farther,” Paul soothed. “C’mon, we’ll have us some coffee and a little confab.”

  A careful prodding, or a determined strong-arming? Either way, there was, apparently, no escape. Quinn put up one more feeble defense: “It’s near to supper time, is it not? Perhaps a stop at one of the restaurants, first...”

  “Naw. We got enough busybodies in this town. You don’t want the whole place knowin’ your personal business.”

  Not that it mattered, thought Paul glumly, as they trudged along. Enough game-players had seen (and probably commented upon, later) Hennessey’s rather dictatorial removal from the table; enough spectators had witnessed his somewhat ignominious exit from the Lot to question the whole affair. Were he a betting man, himself, he’d wager that gossip was already spreading like the sludge on a pond.

  Which was how the jail house coffee tasted. Nothing new there; it always did. It lightened his heart, just a little, to observe their detainee take a sip, screw up his face, and nearly spew the contents out into a spittoon.

  “Now, tell me about Molly,” Quinn, seated in front of the sheriff’s imposing desk, demanded.

  “You know she’s been hurt pretty bad.”

  “Hurt? Molly?” Again that look of honest bewilderment. Amazing, how he had his act down to a science. You’d almost believe he was a very worried husband. “How was she hurt? Where is she? What can I do?”

  “You’ve already done enough, you—” and Colton, bursting in where he shouldn’t, with a healthy snarl, added a filthy epithet that whitened Hennessey’s already pallid face.

  “Colt.” The quiet reprimand sent his deputy back to position, standing on guard near the window. Paul took a sip from his own cup, meanwhile watching Hennessey over the rim. “I went out to pay a visit to your wife this mornin’, sir.”

  “And what could possibly cause you to head into the country, Sheriff?”

  “All part of my duties, Mr. Hennessey. Just keepin’ an eye on things, and what’s goin’ on. My town, my people, my jurisdiction. Anyways, I found her in poor shape.”

  The man’s mouth twisted slightly through his beard. Not a smile. A smirk. “Did you, now?”

  “Ahuh. Definitely mistreated.”

  “Oh. Well.” He lifted one narrow shoulder, even as the smirk broadened. “Then I must beg Molly’s forgiveness. She is such a ravishing bride that I—uh—well, I became a trifle—uh—overenthusiastic during our bed sport. Got so carried away by her beauty that I simply couldn’t help myself. You understand. If I caused her a bit of—discomfort—then I am truly—chagrined.”

  “Chagrined.” Paul’s long fingers carefully straightened the few items atop his desk: the coffee mug, a pencil, several sheets of paper, a couple of books. “I don’t know what your upbringin’ has been, Mr. Hennessey, but I can tell you that men ’round here cherish their womenfolk. Ain’t nobody but a criminal ever tries to beat ’em near half to death!”

  With the last sentence, surprisingly the restrained, self-contained sheriff could no longer suppress his outrage. He surged to his feet, a malevolent force gathered all in one powerful human body that had even the suspect suddenly quailing in his chair. Just what had he conjured up, anyway?

  “Sheriff?” Concerned, Austin took one hesitant step forward.

  Paul’s dark brown eyes blazed with heroic fire, boring into the man before his desk. He stood absolutely motionless, only the breast of his blue shirt lifting rapidly with each harsh breath.

  “Sheriff.”

  “Yeah, Aus. Sorry.” Folding his rangy frame back into its compact form atop the wooden seat, Paul clasped his hands together before they could inadvertently do physical damage. Just what he had warned everyone against. “You’re aware we have charges pendin’ against you.”

  “Indeed? And what, pray tell, might those be?”

  Just as one adversary was regaining control, the other was regaining bravado. In fact, Hennessey was getting quite ready to enjoy this confrontation in which, he was sure, he held the winning hand.

  “Desertion and abandonment, for one.”

  “Why, because I left Molly behind while I came here to seek some sort of gainful employment? Very few places available on a Sunday, it’s true, so I did the only thing I could think of—I got staked to a card game. Won a nice pot, too. Which, as you might guess, I was planning to use for Molly’s comfort and support. It’s hardly my fault she didn’t pay attention to what I told her about my plans.”

  Talkative, suddenly, when defending his position, untenable though that was.

  Paul’s mouth tightened. “I found the empty bottles on the floor of that shack you dumped her in. You got to drinkin’. Too much. Way too much.”

  “And is celebrating one’s long-awaited marriage now a crime? I admit, too much liquor can release some—inhibitions... But I do believe I acquitted myself fairly well in that department, regardless.”

  “Then, on top of everything else, there’s the proof of your abuse. What you’ve done to her. Your—questionable—prowess—aside, there’s your out-and-out assault on a woman you took as wife.”

  “Aye, there’s the rub.” Astoundingly, shockingly, Hennessey chuckled. He swung his arms wide, and stretched the muscles, as if to flaunt how at ease he felt despite the sheriff’s questioning.

  “It will be,” snapped Colton. “Once you’re convicted and put away.”

  Hennessey sent that same infuriating smirk over toward the deputy. “I hardly think so. You said it yourself—I took Molly Burton as my wife. We’re legally wed.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to—“

  “Ah, but it does. The lady is my property; everything she does and has is mine, including her utterly delicious little person. In other words, gentlemen, I own her. Do you understand me, all you tough and tenacious lawmen? I can do anything I want to Molly Hennessey, and you have absolutely no recourse against me.”

  He was prepared with a comeback to every accusation. Snake-oil salesman, indeed.

  Rising slowly, almost insultingly, he encompassed those frozen in the room with one sneering glance.

  “Now. I’d appreciate your telling me where you’ve stowed her, so I can retrieve my wife and we can go home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE FIRST INDICATION of the deluge about to come was Mrs. Henrietta Blankenship’s firm knock upon the front door at ten o’clock Monday morning.

  Camellia, not only heartsick but sick to her soul, had spent a restless night shifting from position to position in the big double bed beside Ben. Even as he had given her so much comfort by his very presence, by his cuddling, by his listening, she had taken more comfort in the fact that he, too, was deeply affected from the weekend’s traumatic occurrences, and sleep had come to him, as to her, neither easily nor sweetly.

  She was exhausted.

  It seemed that, since the day she had first stepped down from her wagon train onto Turnabout’s dusty boardwalk (and promptly collapsed), nearly two months ago, a whirlwind of events had swept her up to keep her feeling in a permanent state of siege. She might as well be living inside the eye of a tornado, or at the top of a roller coaster about to plunge down.

  Insides knotted up like an embroidery skein, dull pounding in the back of her head, cold clammy hands beset by an occasional tremble—that was becoming her normal physical condition. Each morning found her tense with anticipation, just trying to get through one catastrophe while waiting for the next to barrel in like a tidal wave.

  Along with worry and anxiety came blame.

  The fault for Molly’s whole disastrous mail order marriage could be laid directly at her door. If only she had stood stronger against the girl’s entreaties, if only she had not surrendered to the demand
s of her spoiled little sister, if only she had worked to delay the nuptials for another few weeks...or a few months...or a few years...

  No matter how much her intractable spouse insisted no fault could be laid to her actions, no matter how often he tried to “Oh, pshaw” her occasional moments of self-recrimination, Camellia was miserable with guilt.

  It was a heavy burden those slender shoulders were carrying. The wonder of it was that she hadn’t cracked under the strain.

  True to her calling, yesterday Camellia had set to work providing aid and succor for the little wounded bird, with its broken wings, hiding in the bedroom upstairs. Several tedious trips lugging pails of hot water to the second floor had filled the small hip bath, into which a generous hand had tipped the contents of Gabriel’s entire bottle of arnica. After that, Molly had needed no persuasion to cast aside her ruined garments and sink full into the healing waters.

  She had revealed only a few more details of her grueling night at the Rutledge shack, details which she knew her sister, married and experienced, would understand. Finally, after soaking away the worst of the visible filth, she was wrapped carefully into a fresh nightdress, given a good dose of laudanum, and put back to bed.

  Leaving Camellia to agonize even more about the outcome of this rash venture.

  Surely the girl could not return to such an abusive husband. But what were her alternatives? The idea of separation was only remotely possible, since Quinn would, doubtless, not allow it. Divorce was simply out of the question. Divorced, even for the most logical of reasons, Molly would be seen as a pariah, shunned by everyone around; she would not be allowed to rejoin society anywhere, and no decent woman would even speak to her.

  Barbaric, and cruel, and unfair, especially given that her husband was the root cause of all these troubles. But there it was. A woman who married was little better than chattel. Higher on the scale than a ranch dog but probably lower on the scale than a good milk cow. So she’d better hope that the man she chose as spouse would be kind to her, and true, and caring.

  As Ben was.

  Not for the first time did Camellia give thanks to all the stars above that Benjamin Forrester, with whatever his minor faults, had proven to be exactly the mate she wanted—and needed—in life. How fortunate she was! It would behoove her to remember that, during their infrequent heated occasions when opinions differed and two strong personalities clashed.

  The appearance of both Ben and Paul at her front door, several hours later on that worrisome Sunday evening, did little to inspire reassurance concerning Molly’s uncertain future.

  “Yes, I let him go,” the sheriff repeated for the third time, in response to Camellia’s apprehensive question. “Had to, for the moment. Man, this is good coffee, Miz Forrester; thank you.

  The stuff my deputies throw together at the jail tastes a lot like sheep dip.”

  “But why?” Camellia, having set the granite ware pot down in the middle of the table with a thunk, was all but wringing her hands. “Why couldn’t you put him behind bars, as you promised?”

  “Excuse me, darlin’, I don’t recall Paul promisin’. I do recall me wishin’.” Her husband did his best to set the record straight.

  “Well, that isn’t good enough. I’m surprised he isn’t here right now, pounding to be let in so he can drag Molly away!”

  The sheriff’s grave dark eyes shifted from one to the other. “And he has every right to do just that, ma’am. Molly is his wife. As Hennessey reminded me a while ago, he owns her.”

  “Owns!” Camellia spat out. “Owns! As if she’s a pet. One tied up and helpless, and poorly treated, and starved of all human decency.”

  “Afraid so.” Discerning brown fingers wrapped around his cup, Paul leaned forward as if to emphasis a point.

  “You can’t possibly believe—”

  “What happened out in that cabin, however terrible it was for your sister, ain’t considered illegal. It ain’t a crime, d’ you understand? I can’t arrest him for it.” A shadow of deep distaste passed over his face. “Yes, ma’am, I know the whole system is skewed against women. Ain’t nothin’ I can do about that, neither. Howsomever, I let the man go deliberately. Wanna see what happens.”

  By this time Camellia’s legs would no longer support her. She sank onto a chair and, wanting to weep, leaned one elbow on the table. “What does that mean?”

  Paul’s quiet smile, this a mere movement of muscles in the rugged face, did not bode well for the vile man at large in their quiet town. “I warned him to stay away from this house, and from all you Burton ladies. Told him he’s got no call even to think about resumin’—uh—well...his marital relations—till Miz Hennessey is completely back to health. Meanwhile, I’ll be watchin’ him.”

  “He guessed that Molly is here, Cam,” Ben volunteered. “We just need to make sure she stays safe until we find a way outa this mess.”

  “But—Hannah? Letty? What about them?”

  “I got me two deputies with itchy trigger fingers, Miz Forrester. We’ll all three of us be takin’ turns guardin’ your house, and Mrs. McKnight’s boardin’ house, as well. If need be, I can call up a few extra men.”

  “Oh, Ben.” She sniffed back a tear. “All of this is—it’s such a heart scald.”

  “I know, sweetheart, I know. But we’ll get through it.”

  They stood together at the front door, the two Forresters, each with an arm around the other, backlit by the soft glow of mellow kerosene lamps and the warmth of a loving household, when Paul departed a little later. If he felt a stab of wistfulness at the picture, even loneliness, he gave no indication. He merely turned, as he reached the gate, to lift one hand in a final farewell before disappearing into darkness.

  “What would we do without him, Ben?”

  “Dunno, Cam. He’s sure doin’ right by this town. And by us.”

  As difficult as the time might be, at least she had a strong but tender husband to share it with her. To let her lean on him. “He’ll be our sheriff for a long while yet, won’t he?”

  Chuckling, he moved her back inside to close and lock the door. A broad, ordinary door, painted a solid ordinary color, as sturdy as he was. “As long as he keeps on bein’ elected, I reckon. A marshal runs his town. A sheriff runs his county, b’sides, and the citizens vote to put him in office. He’s got a lot of power, does Paul Winslow, and I’d back him any day of the week.”

  “He’s a good man, isn’t he, Ben?”

  “The best.”

  “I like him, a lot. He’s a wonderful friend to our family.”

  “Ahuh.” He cast a glance down at the beautiful black-haired woman snuggled against his shoulder, with an inscrutable expression. “To our family.”

  And now here she was, on a Monday morning which had greeted her aching eyes with threatening gray skies and an air of gloom and doom. A mood reinforced by her importunate visitor.

  “Mrs. Blankenship. Please, come in, won’t you?” Her fingers childishly crossed behind her back, meanwhile, hoping that would drive the insufferable gossip away. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”

  “Land sake, it’s like a broiler oven out there, and just about ready to rain. Give me something cool, girl. Lemonade would be nice. Here. I made you a shepherd’s pie.”

  Startled, Camellia accepted the large covered dish that was being thrust into her hands. “Well—um—thank you. May I ask why?”

  “Figured you’ve have enough to do, now that you’ve got your sister back with you. Heard she was all beaten up, almost to a pulp. You want me to sit here, in your parlor?”

  “Oh—uh—yes, of course. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

  Feeling overwhelmed and slightly dizzied, Camellia escaped to put her visitor’s offering on the table. Fetching glasses, pouring cool raspberry shrub, slicing cornbread to place on a plate gave her the few minutes she needed to regain control. So, the word was already out. No matter whose prying eyes had witnessed Molly’s return; no ma
tter whose flapping tongues had gladly passed rumor from one to another. The damage had been done. She could only try to contain it.

  “What’re you doing out there?” Mrs. Blankenship demanded. Although, since the kitchen and parlor opened into one large L-shaped room, she could easily see every movement Camellia made. “I didn’t expect to be kept waiting this long.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Camellia apologized smoothly, appearing with refreshments. “The delay was unpardonable.” Tongue in cheek, of course. Joining her unexpected guest, she took a seat in her favorite chair and waited.

  Henrietta was certainly dressed to the teeth for such an early-morning call. Probably hoping to catch her hostess unaware and slatternly, thought Camellia, with a streak of malice. A broad-brimmed black hat, weighted down by some ghastly dead bird; a long-sleeved black-and-white striped gown, firmly buttoned to a high collar and decorous hem; sedate white fingerless mitts. The very picture of what she assumed was high society—that was, several years behind St. Louis fashion, and, no doubt, another five years behind that as compared to New York and London.

  “Well, I must apologize myself for not stopping by earlier,” said the lady, taking one critical sip from the delicate porcelain cup, reserved just for company. “You and Ben being newlyweds, I figured it was best to leave you alone. Then I saw you were working—actually working!—in your husband’s store, and I had to recover from the shock of that discovery, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Whatever has possessed you to lower yourself in such a way?” she demanded. “Doesn’t your husband make a good enough living to provide for you?”

  Camellia’s eyes flashed bright blue and her fingers curled into fists. All the warning signs, could her guest but realize, of temper beginning to rise. “I hardly think that’s any of your—”