If only I knew what I was doing. If only I had better control of this situation. If only I’d not been abandoned…again. A sigh escaped her lips, and she gazed out the window at the blurred vision of crystal blue sky. “With more time, maybe I could find the best solution. Or be more diligent about searching out interested parties.” Sudden hot tears filled her eyes. Blinking fast, she turned her head toward the door to hide them from this handsome man. Admitting failure was not a positive trait in a potential wife.
“How about a different topic?” Missus Turnbull sat forward and ran her finger over one of the papers. “Mister Saunders, your letter stated a candidate must enjoy solitude. Can you perhaps give a few details about that request?”
Tavia listened, hoping her eyes didn’t appear too watery. Eagerness at hearing how his wishes could meld with her skills and abilities scooted her forward in the chair.
He glanced at the matchmaker before looking to his left. “Ranching involves lots of outdoor work, in which a wife wouldn’t be expected to participate.”
Wife! She actually sat within arm’s length of the man she might wed. Now was the time for her to speak up about the one requirement she didn’t meet. But, after all, what did a year or two of age really matter in a person’s entire lifetime? Plus Mister Saunders learning the truth might mean he’d choose another candidate. No other alternatives for her next companion position had been forthcoming from her acquaintances at the fort. Time was running short. The reality of her situation hit hard. She needed to be this man’s first choice. If not, she could be put out onto the streets. Black dots swam in her vision.
“Chores involving shifting the herds between grazing pastures, followed by calving and branding seasons…”
His words rolled over her thoughts, and Tavia pulled in even breaths, telling herself she would not faint. Although she’d never lived on a ranch, she figured the duties couldn’t be all that different than living on an army post. People needed to be fed and clothed. Cleaning of clothes and rooms had to be accomplished. A ranch meant wide open spaces and at its center stood a house. A sturdy building she could call home…her own home. A place she’d yearned for since she was seven years old. She swallowed against a tight throat.
What he’d said so far suited her. As she’d experienced to date, men performed the outdoor work, and women cleaned and cooked. She’d prepared and served plenty of meals during her growing-up years, either with one family or another. As an assistant in the fort’s laundry, she’d washed countless uniforms and scrubbed socks and long johns for all the bachelor soldiers. A couple of times, she’d even been called upon to assist the fort’s doctor in the dispensary.
“…not much grows there.” Mister Saunders paused and scratched his chin. “Do you like to garden, Miss Naughton?”
“Garden?” She jerked her head to meet his gaze, scrambling for the last remnants of his question. “Some. Missus MacKay had a few favorite flowers and a couple types of herbs. Toward the end, though, kneeling became too difficult at her age.” A lump blocked her throat, and she swallowed hard before continuing. “She took such stock on having a fresh flower at all times on the dining table. I did my best to follow her instructions when she was no longer capable of doing the tending herself.” I must be more positive about my abilities.
Clasping her hands to keep them from shaking, she set them on the table and looked Mister Saunders square in the face. “Sir, I know my experience in society is limited, and my view of the world has been only from the inside of an army fort. But, I’ve read many of the classics and can participate in an intelligent conversation. I’m a fast learner. Show me a task once or twice, and then leave me to master it. I can sew, knit, cook, keep a tidy house, and manage all those tasks on a limited budget. I’ve been told I have a pleasant reading voice, and, until recently, I sang in the choir every Sunday.” She stopped long enough to pull in a deep breath.
A smile twitched at the corner of Mister Saunders’ mouth. “That’s quite an accounting of yourself.”
Was that a jesting tone in his voice? “Since my youth, I’ve had to convince people of my capabilities so they’d make space for me in their household.” Not wanting to show any sign of weakness, she straightened and lifted her chin. “See, my mother didn’t survive my birth, and then my father died when I was quite young, making me an orphan. I’ve lived with a variety of families until I reached an appropriate age to secure companion positions.”
He reached out a hand toward her clasped ones then paused for a moment and let his hand drop to the table. “Missus Turnbull apprised me of your family background. But I appreciate hearing the specific details in your own words.”
His voice sounded so kind, she couldn’t hold back the hope that sprouted in her chest. Had he spent more time with the other candidates? Since she was the final one he’d spoken with, would he decide today? Did his understanding tone mean he viewed the two of them as well suited?
“Only fair for me to share my background.” He stood and paced the short width of the office. “Born and raised in Rhode Island on the eastern seaboard, I also attended school there and worked several years in the family business. Shipbuilders for five generations. My family still lives in Newport. That is, all but my late mother. Me, I wanted something different.”
Tavia watched him take three steps, pivot, and retrace his path. His movements were fluid and controlled, like he had to hold tight to his energy within the confined space of this small room.
“I’m the oldest and have three brothers and four sisters—the youngest two are by my father’s second wife. I came west five years ago to learn how to be a cowboy. Three years ago, I bought a ranch, built a house, developed a sizable cattle herd, and worked the operation into a profitable state. Now, I need a wife.” Mister Saunders stopped moving and rested his fingertips on the polished table.
The word “need” jarred her, and her gaze narrowed. “Do you also want a wife?”
Crossing his arms, he looked down toward where she sat. “I suppose. But I…” He glanced at Missus Turnbull and then back at Tavia. “Well, if I’m requiring my prospective bride to be honest, I should be as well.” Mister Saunders tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “A business arrangement with my rather controlling father will only be concluded upon my marriage. As long as said marriage occurs before December thirtieth of this year.”
This month? She straightened and sucked in a breath. “Oh.” So, the man had his feet to the fire, and that’s why he used the word “need.” Quickly, she mentally reviewed the few men she’d met through Missus MacKay who might command this sense of confidence or who owned land and a business. Not a single name came to mind. Before her stood a well-situated man she could entrust with her future. Only, he hadn’t really asked her to do so.
Now he stood still, his gaze searching her expression.
“I understand how a stipulation like you mentioned places an urgency on your decision.” There, she’d provided him with a hint.
Papers rattled, and Missus Turnbull cleared her throat. “You’re correct about the gentleman’s decision. So, Miss Naughton, I believe the time for your interview has now lapsed. Mister Saunders and I need to discuss—”
“No discussion required.” He lowered himself to the nearest chair and reached for Tavia’s hand. “Miss Tavia Naughton, will you agree to help me meet my familial obligation and become my wife?” From an inside pocket, he extracted an envelope. “Here’s a stagecoach ticket prepaid to Dorado to be used on Monday next, and a bank draft to cover your expenses until that date.”
Was this proposal truly happening? Pulse racing, Tavia glanced at the envelope and then back into his face. Her skin tingled where their hands clasped. A reaction that must be a good sign. The man before her appeared practical and forthright, as was she. His manner bespoke of a good upbringing. Somehow, she’d hoped for a proposal that included a bit more than details about transportation and incidentals. However, what he offered promised an answer to her future, the u
ncertainty of which she’d been dreading since she first realized Clarice’s days were numbered. A place to call home for years and years to come. One last, long look into his blue eyes confirmed her willingness to trust this man. “Yes, Mister Saunders, I accept.” The truth about the criteria she didn’t exactly meet weighed on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t force herself to speak it aloud. Smiling, she blinked back tears of relief and inhaled a deep breath.
An hour later, they’d been escorted into well-appointed chambers and stood within the county courthouse in front of a judge wearing a black robe. Missus Turnbull and a clerk stood a few feet away, acting as their witnesses. Tavia listened to vows that barely registered. In her hands, she clutched a limp nosegay Mister Saunders bought from a street vendor. His hand supporting her elbow kept her upright as she agreed to live with this man until parted by death.
In the next moment, his calloused hand skimmed her jaw, and he tilted up her head to receive the marriage kiss. A warm, firm mouth covered hers and moved across her lips, nibbling as if he bit from summer fruit. She leaned closer, enjoying the tingles along her lips. Pulsing blood warmed her body, making her think of the mysteries of the marriage bed.
Then, cool air touched her face as he stepped back and cleared his throat.
Tavia struggled to open her heavy lids and gaze into his widened eyes. If she wasn’t mistaken, she saw a flush graze his cheekbones.
Turning, he extended his crooked arm. “Well, Missus Tavia Saunders, shall we go sign the marriage certificate?”
She thrilled at the sound of her married name and slid her hand inside his elbow. “Yes, Mr., um, Fitzadam, we shall.” Instantly, the muscles under her fingers tensed.
His brows crashed down. “That’s not my name. Call me Fitz.”
“All right, and you shall call me Tavia.” She didn’t understand what had transpired from one moment to the next, but she was determined not to dwell on his momentary irritation. “I might need a few days to become accustomed to answering to my new last name.” At the open doorway, they turned right and stepped up to a clerk’s window.
“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Fitzadam Saunders.” The thin man behind the counter pushed forward a piece of parchment printed with calligraphic text. “Congratulations on your nuptials. Print your full names here and sign below.”
“All right.” Fitz accepted the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and started writing.
“Oh, and write down your birthdates. The gentleman here requested two copies for himself, so please make the notations on all three forms.”
Her stomach clenched. Why hadn’t she shared her unsuitability regarding the one detail having been important enough to her new husband to list in his introductory letter? Too late now.
When he finished, Fitz extended the pen in her direction.
Tavia completed the forms, taking care to write with a smooth hand. She sent up a prayer her new husband wouldn’t notice her birth year indicated she was almost two years older than his stated age preference.
Oh my, I hope I haven’t just invalidated the document securing my future.
Chapter Three
The following Monday morning, after a stressful week of dispensing with the last of Clarice’s belongings, Tavia sat on a bench in the San Antonio Bain and Company stagecoach office. A brown leather portmanteau and matching satchel rested near her feet. The key to the small two-bedroom house that had been her home for four years remained on the fireplace mantel—ready for the next officer’s family. A life that had been familiar and special was now part of her past.
Yesterday, she’d arranged for the Overland West freighting service to deliver the large trunk holding the rest of her belongings and the crate of books Mister, uh…Fitz had requested. Getting used to calling him by his Christian name might take a while. She’d only been on a first-name basis with women close to her own age. Mostly, because of her upbringing, she was in the habit of addressing males by their army ranks.
Thankfully, the storms that washed though the region ceased two days earlier. The stationmaster assured her the sunshine had dried the mud puddles quickly, and fair weather should hold for the duration of her trip. Sharing a small space with other passengers during a ten-hour ride might prove challenging enough. Clear skies would allow the option of rolling up the window coverings for fresh air and a bit of scenery when needed.
Across the waiting room sat a young couple jostling a chubby baby and passing her between their laps. The infant looked to be no more than a year old, and brown eyes shone from under the brim of her yellow bonnet. Shared smiles and lingering looks between the blondish man and brunette woman left no doubt theirs was a love match.
A pang tightened Tavia’s throat. Those displays were the type of joy and affection she’d always dreamed for her own life. Now as a married woman, she held onto hope this new relationship born out of necessity would prove comforting at the least.
The stomping of four horses caught her attention as the red-painted coach with yellow accents rolled up to the platform. Misty clouds streaming from the horse’s nostrils soon obscured their heads. After pulling her knit scarf tighter, Tavia gathered her reticule, buttoned her coat, and stood.
The stationmaster stepped from behind the counter and moved toward the gathered pieces of luggage at the edge of the platform. “Folks, the stage to Boerne, Dorado, Kerrville, and Fredericksburg is now loading.”
Dorado. The name of her new hometown. A place of permanence. An address that wouldn’t change. For just a moment, she closed her eyes and held good thoughts for the relationships she would soon build and the life she could develop with Fitz.
In a flurry of activity, passengers loaded and selected their places inside the stagecoach. The driver snapped the whip and whistled a two-tone note. With a jolt, the coach lurched forward, beginning Tavia’s journey. In a little less than half a day, she’d be in her new home.
The gray-haired gentleman sharing her bench seat slumped into the far corner and tilted his hat over his face.
On the opposite bench sat the young couple with the baby, speaking in lowered tones.
Tavia had studied the posted rules in the depot and knew passengers were expected to keep to themselves. But she was too excited about this trip to remain quiet. “Good morning. My name is Missus Tavia Saunders, and I have to admit to being enchanted by your little one. She seems so happy.”
From across the coach, the olive-complexioned woman smiled and gazed at the child perched on her lap. “Our little girl is a contented baby. We are truly blessed. Angela is on her first stagecoach ride.”
“Missus Saunders”—the gentleman on the opposite seat doffed his hat—“I’m Richard Weller, and this is my wife, Sylvia.”
“Nice to meet you both.” She braced an elbow against the coach wall for stability as the coach bumped through a pothole. “How far is your family traveling?”
“We’re visiting my father in Fredericksburg for the holidays.”
“Such an occasion will be special for you all.” Tavia knew the trip to the end of the line would last until mid-afternoon the following day. She didn’t envy the parents having to deal with a young one for that long a time.
Several hours passed in a mixture of quiet reading, landscape viewing, and sporadic conversation. Stage stops to harness fresh horses allowed for brief chances to stretch their legs and partake of coffee and meals when offered.
In recent months, Clarice’s deteriorating health had kept the pair confined to San Antonio. But, years ago, she and Tavia had taken a trip to Lampasas one fall so Clarice could soak in the mineral baths. That stagecoach ride had involved sightings of small towns every hour or so. Nothing like the empty plains and limestone rocks Tavia now saw broken only by sage bushes and stunted mesquite.
Life out here would be so different from the one she knew in San Antonio. Where were the big trees? A niggle of doubt entered her thoughts. Should she have asked Fitz more questions about the ranch house and the surrounding prope
rty?
The baby fretted, drawing Tavia’s attention.
The couple sat snuggled together with Sylvia leaning against Richard’s shoulder, and the adults appeared to be napping.
Seated in her father’s lap, Angela chewed on the hem of her dress and stared across the coach’s expanse with big brown eyes.
Tavia couldn’t resist. She leaned forward and held out her hands, to see if the baby would come, or if she’d be shy and shirk away.
Angela bounced a couple of times and dropped the hem before tilting her head.
Adorable. Bracing a hand on the stagecoach wall, Tavia shifted to sit on the middle backless bench, and then twisted to gather the baby into her arms. She studied the father’s face for signs of panic at the absence of weight in his lap, but he slept on. At the last stop, the older gentleman had opted to ride on the rear seat up top. So, Tavia settled herself along the length of the padded seat, stretching out her legs, and plopped Angela on her thighs.
The baby took the change of position in stride and grabbed for a button on Tavia’s coat.
For a while, she played with Angela, alternating from clapping the baby’s hands together, playing peek-a-boo in whispered tones, and letting the little girl touch items pulled from her own reticule. A silver hair clip, a compact, leather case of sewing supplies, a bottle of Beetham’s lotion. Angela appeared determined to taste everything, which resulted in a gentle tug of war between baby and adult. As a distraction, Tavia stood the child upright, facing the coach wall, and held a hand to Angela’s back as she dipped her knees and swayed to the motion of the stagecoach.
Angela cooed and smiled.
Tavia was pleased for the opportunity to give the young parents a respite. Although holding the soft girl close and watching her expression light up with the discovery of a new texture had only tugged on her own maternal instinct. These stolen moments showed her how much she yearned for a family of her own—even if tending a baby was more taxing than she’d imagined.
Mail-Order Haven Page 3