The Harvest Time Mail-Order Bride (Holiday Mail-Order Brides Book 14)

by Kit Morgan

  The Harvest Time

  Mail-Order Bride

  By

  Kit Morgan

  ANGEL CREEK PRESS

  The Harvest Time Mail-Order Bride

  (Holiday Mail-Order Brides, Book Fourteen)

  by Kit Morgan

  © 2015 Kit Morgan

  Kit’s complete collection of stories

  To sign up for Kit’s newsletter to find out about upcoming books and other fun stuff, visit www.authorkitmorgan.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people are purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Angel Creek Press, The Killion Group and Hotdamndesigns.com

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  One

  Gundersons’ Stage Stop, Washington Territory, October 1872

  Isabella Fortuna Cucinotta stepped off the stage with the bearing of a queen. She swept her skirts to the side and waited for the man who’d been kind enough to help her with a few new words of English. He’d taken her under his wing at the last stage stop, and she enjoyed his company. He epitomized everything she wished her own father could be, but wasn’t.

  No, Antonio Cucinotta was anything but kindly. Or reasonable. Or honest. Or loving. Or … well, the list was long. Which, of course, is why she’d run away.

  “You’ll like Mrs. Gunderson’s cooking,” her new companion said. “I always enjoy a visit with her when I come through this way.”

  “Your sister … she is a good cook too, eh?” Isabella asked in her heavy Italian accent.

  “Leona? Oh, for sure – one of the best around. Maybe you and that new husband of yours can come to Sunday supper while I’m in town. Once you get married, that is.”

  Isabella arched an eyebrow. “Si,” she agreed, or at least hoped so. Her English wasn’t good, and she wished she hadn’t let her American friend Mrs. Ridgley answer the letters from her prospective groom. But then, she wouldn’t have gotten this far if she hadn’t.

  “Signore Hughes,” Isabella began. “What is it like being … ah, what is the word … sheriff?”

  He motioned her toward the Gundersons’ porch. “Okay, I guess. I’ve been doing it most of my life.”

  “Have you ever married?”

  “Me? Oh no, not me.”

  “Why you not marry?” she asked, genuinely curious. She liked the man – he was easy to talk to and had a calming voice. Again, unlike her father.

  “I … well, I guess I never found the right woman after …” His words faded and he swallowed hard.

  She stopped and turned to him. “After what?”

  “Never mind. Today’s not a good day for that story.”

  Isabella smiled rather than press him as she’d normally do. But there was sadness in his eyes, and she wondered if the love he spoke of (for what else could cause such a look?) had died. But speaking of love … “You come to my wedding, eh?”

  “Why, I’d love to come to your wedding if’n I’m able. I think that would be fine. Besides, I know Leona will have her hand in it somehow.”

  “What is this, hand? What will she do?”

  Sheriff Hughes laughed. “My sister loves weddings. She’s usually involved in most of the ones that take place in Nowhere.”

  Isabella thought about that a moment. Would this woman be in her wedding? Why? “What she do in these weddings?” she asked, her voice suspicious.

  “She’s not going to be in your wedding, but she does like to help a bride get ready.”

  “How you know this when you live so far from her in … in your town?”

  “Clear Creek,” he reminded her. “Leona writes me all the time and tells me about each and every one.”

  Isabella took a moment to decipher his words. What would his sister think when she saw that Isabella had no wedding dress? Would she treat her as others had, like some lowly servant? But she was not a lowly servant – she was a seamstress-turned-laundress – due to lack of work – and everyone knew there was a difference, at least in her world.

  That world was far behind her, though. What this one believed … she had no idea.

  They entered the two-story structure and stepped into a huge dining room. Isabella counted six tables that could accommodate at least forty people between them. Sheriff Hughes had explained earlier that three, sometimes four different stages passed through on any given day, some of which stayed the night. The stage stop was at a crossroads, and the Gunderson family had been operating it for as long as anyone could remember.

  And the sheriff knew the place well – he visited his sister and nephews once or twice a year, either coming directly from Clear Creek or after seeing his brother Liam in the Idaho Territory. “Mrs. Gunderson!” he said and held out his arms.

  “Why if it isn’t Harlan Hughes!” a woman exclaimed from behind a counter. She hurried to where they stood and hugged him. “Come to visit Leona and the boys, have ya?”

  “That’s the plan,” he said, then let her go. He turned to Isabella. “May I introduce you to my new friend? Mrs. Gunderson, meet Miss Cucinotta. She’s going to Nowhere as a mail-order bride.”

  Mrs. Gunderson took one look at Isabella and beamed. “A mail-order bride, ya say? Congratulations!” She suddenly stopped and gave Isabella a quick perusal. “My, but you’re pretty! Someone’s going to be a lucky man! Who is it?”

  Isabella smiled, pleased she understood most of what the woman had said. “Calvin. Calvin Weaver.”

  Mrs. Gunderson’s eyes widened as her smile faded. “I, ah … met his brother Benjamin’s wife not long ago.” She gulped and looked at Sheriff Hughes. “They passed through here on their way home from town. Arlan, the oldest and his wife had twins, cute little things. I sure hope they don’t grow up like their …” She stopped and glanced at Isabella. “… well, never mind. You two hungry? I got sandwiches made up!”

  Sheriff Hughes smiled and headed straight for a table. “Bring them here! I’m starved.” He pulled out a chair for Isabella, who stiffened, then sat down. What did the woman mean? What was she about to say? Grow up like whom?

  Mrs. Gunderson hurried into another room and soon re-emerged with a tray of food. She set a plate of sandwiches between them and gave them each a small bowl of soup. They were the only passengers heading to Nowhere and had the stage stop to themselves for now. Because of that, Mrs. Gunderson joined them. “I’d best get a bite before the two o’clock passengers arrive. Besides, I want to get to know your friend a little better, Harlan.” She looked at Isabella. “Where are you from? Not from around here.”

  Isabella gave her a
tentative smile. It was hard enough being an immigrant in New York City. Things hadn’t been much better when she fled her father and his outrageous demands and wound up in New Orleans. But maybe, just maybe, things in the West would be different. “I come from … the East.” She wasn’t sure which city to tell her. What if her father somehow tracked her this far? Best not to leave a trail he could follow.

  “My, just listen to that accent,” Mrs. Gunderson said and took a sandwich. “Say something else.”

  Isabella glanced between the two Americans. No one back East wanted to hear her talk. She did, however, notice that the further west she came, the more curious people were about her accent. She smiled and shrugged. “Buon pomeriggio, signora. Come stai?”

  Mrs. Gunderson’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Oh, why that was wonderful! I’ve never heard anyone speak … er …”

  “Miss Cucinotta is Eyetalian,” Sheriff Hughes explained.

  Mrs. Gunderson smiled with delight. “I’ve never had a foreigner stay here before – well, except for a few English folks. How exciting!”

  “We’re only here for an hour,” he reminded her.

  “Don’t ruin my moment, Harlan,” Mrs. Gunderson scolded. “I at least want to be able to tell folks we’ve had some variety pass through this week.” She turned back to Isabella. “Now what made you decide to become a mail-order bride?” She turned to Sheriff Hughes. “Does she have any idea where she’s heading?”

  He shrugged. “She’s here, ain’t she?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” Mrs. Gunderson gave Isabella a sympathetic look. “You know where the Weaver farm is, don’t you?”

  Isabella stared at her. “Weaver farm?”

  “Yes – your intended Calvin lives a good day’s ride from town. You won’t get much company out there except for the family – though it is a big family. I hope you’re okay with that, you coming from the East and all.”

  “Farm …” Isabella said as she tried to translate the woman’s words. “Company?”

  “The Weavers live far away from the town of Nowhere,” the sheriff clarified.

  “Oh! Far away.” Isabella noticed the woman’s sympathetic look. “How far away?”

  “Takes all day to get there,” Sheriff Hughes said, holding his arms out wide. “A long time.”

  Isabella understood that. She drew in a deep breath. “Good.” The further from town, the better. It would make it all the harder for her father to find her.

  * * *

  Calvin Weaver inspected himself in a mirror. He’d shaved, put on his Sunday best and was now trying to take care of the finishing touches before meeting the evening stage. He took a comb and carefully ran it through his hair. A cowlick popped up and he tackled it with the comb again. No luck – up it sprang. “Oh, dagnabit!” He threw the comb onto the dressing table and smacked the cowlick with his hand a few times.

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna work,” Arlan said. He walked over to his younger brother and put an arm around him. “Try some water.”

  Calvin glared at the cowlick in the mirror, then at a pitcher sitting atop a nearby table. “I shoulda thought of that ‘fore I started combin’.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t,” Arlan pointed out as he snatched up the comb, went to the pitcher and dipped it. He pulled it out dripping and returned to his brother. “If this don’t work, ya might have to try somethin’ else.”

  Calvin took a deep breath, a determined gleam in his eye as if going into battle. “Yeah, like scissors.”

  Arlan laughed and handed him the comb. “She’ll love that cowlick of yers, ya just watch.”

  “Well, I dunno …” He tried the wetted comb. It helped … for about three seconds. “Doggone it all!”

  Arlan shook his head in dismay. “If you don’t rein in that temper of yers by the time the stage gets here, your bride’s gonna get a gander at you, turn tail and get right back on it.”

  “She ain’t!”

  “She will if’n you don’t pull yourself together. Shoot, I thought Benjamin was bad.”

  “You weren’t there when Charity got off the stage,” Calvin reminded him. “You were at Doc Brown’s.”

  “I know, but I rode into town with everyone else, remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” Calvin stared at the comb. “I forgot. Just like I’ve been forgettin’ everythin’ else.”

  “Nerves’ll do that to a fella.”

  “Well I wish mine’d stop!” He threw the comb onto the dressing table again. “And that goes for ya too!” he said to the cowlick and smacked his head again.

  “Pomade?” Arlan suggested with a chuckle.

  “Nah, it ain’t gonna work anyway. Nothin’ ever does.”

  “Calm down, Calvin, ‘fore ya bust a gut.”

  Calvin walked over to the bed and sat. His family had arrived in town yesterday – Ma Weaver, Arlan, Samijo and the twins were staying with their relatives the Quinns who ran the mercantile. Benjamin and his wife Charity had a room at the hotel, down the hall from Calvin and Daniel’s. As soon as Calvin married, Daniel would join the others at the Quinns’.

  Married. Calvin put his hands in his lap and sighed. He never thought he’d see the day. But here it was, and in moments he’d be leaving the hotel to meet his mail-order bride.

  “Well?” Arlan prompted.

  Calvin looked up at him. “Well what?”

  “Ain’t ya gonna panic? I hear tell Ben did before Charity got off the stage.”

  Calvin smiled. Benjamin sure enough had. “I ain’t like Benjamin. He didn’t so much as get a letter from his bride. No wonder he was nervous.”

  “Scared out of his wits is more like it.”

  Calvin smiled. “Yeah, you shoulda been there.”

  “Sheriff Riley told me all about it. Still, seeing him come unglued woulda been fun.”

  Calvin’s smile broadened in recollection. “It was.”

  “How come ya ain’t nervous?”

  Calvin shrugged. “I am, ya know that. But me and Isabella got to write back and forth to each other a spell. A few letters, anyway. When Mrs. Ridgley finally found a bride for Benjamin, I thought he’d get to do the same. I never expected him to get hitched ‘fore I did.”

  “Don’t matter who got married first, just so long as ya did. Ain’t never seen Ma so happy – ‘cept maybe when I got married, that is.”

  “Yeah, she is happy, ain’t she?”

  Arlan nodded and sat next to him. “You boys just make sure of one thing while yer still under Ma’s roof.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That yer wives get along. That’s a might more folks in the main house than when we were growin’ up in it. It’s still Ma’s, if ya think about it – ya and Ben need to think about buildin’ places of your own.”

  Calvin nodded. Arlan was right. Benjamin and Charity had had a rough start already and even though the rest of them weren’t really sure what all it involved, the tension in the house was palpable for a few days. How much more if two couples were in disagreement at the same time? What would Ma do? And what would it do to her? “I’ll make sure we get along.”

  “See ya do. Now let’s go. It’s almost six o’clock.”

  Calvin wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers a few times and stood. This was it. In a matter of hours he’d be married. That is if the town preacher wasn’t in the middle of supper. Daniel was supposed to be checking to make sure he was home – he wasn’t yesterday when they got into town.

  Their Aunt Betsy told them he and his wife had been invited to Warren Johnson’s farm for the evening. They must have spent the night. But come early afternoon, they still hadn’t come back. Rumor was Warren had gotten himself a new cider press, and everyone knew how good the cider from the Johnson farm was. Maybe the preacher and his wife had stayed to help him make some.

  “What if I cain’t get married tonight?” Calvin asked as they headed for the door.

  “Then ya get married tomorrow.”

&
nbsp; “But tomorrow’s the Harvest Festival. I was kind of hopin’ I’d be married before then.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’d have a good excuse not to go.”

  Arlan put his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Why?”

  Calvin stared at him a moment. “’Cause, dagnabit, Isabella is so … so … well, everything I ain’t. Folks are gonna laugh at us. We’re opposites, Arlan, plain and simple. Just look at her letters – ya can tell she’s a real lady. And what am I?”

  Arlan put an arm around him. “Yer a Weaver, that’s what. Now let’s go.” He pulled Calvin to the door, opened it and shoved him through.

  Calvin preceded him down the hall like a man going to the gallows. Yesterday on the long drive to town he’d been all kinds of excited, but now that his time had come, he felt … hmm, how exactly did he feel? The excitement had worn off and he wasn’t as nervous as Benjamin had been.

  No, the best way to describe it was … scared. But it wasn’t the typical great jumpin’ horny toads, will she like me? Will I like her? No, this was more along the lines of what in the world was I thinkin’?

  “What’s that?” Arlan asked from behind him.

  “Nothin’,” Calvin said quickly. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. They always went cold when he was nervous. But what he felt went way beyond nerves. He felt totally unprepared for a wife. In all aspects.

  It was one thing to hanker after one, to laugh and tease his brothers about their wives. It was another thing to finally have the responsibility of having his own. He tried to breathe deeply as they approached the hotel doors, but it was difficult. His chest was tight, his heart thundered and he was starting to sweat! This was worse than fear and he knew it.

  Calvin, more than anything else, felt inadequate.

  Two

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about, Miss Cucinotta. My sister Leona tells me the Weavers are … ah, right fine folks.”