The Telegraph Proposal

  Yancey placed her gloved hand in the crook of his arm. “I am.”

  “Not without this.” Carline reached sideways to retrieve a bridal bouquet of pink and red roses interspersed with purple clematis and white Madonna lilies. She handed it to Yancey. “And there’s one more thing.” Carline turned her wrist and pulled a long blue ribbon from her sleeve. “Something told me to rescue this when you threw away your Hale treasures.”

  “My something blue,” Yancey whispered as she took the satin ribbon into her hand. She’d forgone the final accessory of the tradition, rationalizing that the memory of her blue hair ribbon from the day she met Hale was enough. To hold it in her hands broke the tenuous hold on her emotions. She let go of her father’s arm and pulled Carline into a hug while crying happy tears. “Thank you, my sweet friend.”

  “No, thank you. I have family still and a new family to look forward to because of you,” Carline whispered. “But if you don’t stop crying, I’m going to pinch you.”

  Yancey laughed and let go. She wiped her tears, then held up the ribbon. “Where am I going to put this?”

  “If I may?” Papa took it from her, then lifted her left hand and tied the satin around her wrist. “Let this remind you that today you join your life to Hale. Love him well, teach him how to love you, and may the God who loves you both bind you close to each other and to Him.”

  “Amen,” Luanne whispered.

  “Oh Lord, hear our prayer,” Carline added.

  Yancey broke into tears again. True to her threat, Carline pinched Yancey’s forearm. Not hard, but enough to make her stop crying. She brought her emotions under control with several deep breaths. When she was calmer, she took one last peek at herself in the mirror and wiped traces of her tears from her cheeks. “All right. I’m ready.”

  Papa offered his arm again. Yancey took it, and they followed Carline and Luanne out of the room, up the stairs, and down the aisle.

  Hale stood still as a statue, only his hands moving as he clenched and released his fingers. He was dressed in a black suit, his blond hair freshly cut and brushed away from his high forehead. Behind his glasses, his eyes were solemn with a touch of—was it awe?

  Ten-year-old Yancey resurfaced in a giggle which twenty-one-year-old Yancey ruthlessly suppressed. Still, she had to appreciate the irony. Every childish dream she’d ever imagined was coming true in this moment.

  Mac and Isaak stood to Hale’s right. Mac kept sneaking peeks at his wife and baby Finn. Isaak grinned and stood tall, his demeanor different now that his gentle bride had convinced him to relax and enjoy life a bit more.

  Wishing to capture every moment of this perfect day, Yancey peered through her filmy veil to take in all the well-wishers crowded into the church pews.

  Jakob and his new fiancée, Colette, were sitting next to her aunt, Mrs. Hollenbeck.

  Mr. and Mrs. Pawlikowski smiled like they were the proud parents of the principals.

  Antonia Archer and her mother smiled like they were responsible for the nuptials, which—to be fair—they were. Somewhat.

  Roy held eight-month-old Grace, who had her chubby hands entangled in his beard.

  Geddes stood next to Mama, both of them beaming.

  The Earl and Countess of Devon stood on the other side of the church, Hale’s mother pressing a handkerchief to the corners of each eye in turn. Their son, Edward, stood at attention beside his mother, though he kept looking around as if he was trying to find an escape.

  Beside them were two empty places, one reserved in memory of Lily Forsythe and the other for the man Jonas Forsythe once was.

  Next to the open seats, Hale’s father stood alone. His second family had been invited, but he’d chosen to journey without them. He’d arrived two days ago and was heading back home tomorrow. The reunion between him and Hale had been stilted, but Yancey appreciated the effort both men were making to repair their bond.

  In the next moment, she stepped beyond the pews and had eyes only for her groom. He moved to stand next to her father.

  “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” Pastor Neven recited the familiar opening question of the ceremony.

  Papa cleared his throat and sniffed. “Her mother and I.” He took Yancey’s right hand, placed it in Hale’s left, then stepped back to sit beside Mama and Geddes.

  Hale squeezed Yancey’s hand, and they stepped forward in unison.

  The ceremony took on a dream-like quality. Yancey heard Hale vow to love, honor, and cherish her. She spoke her vows to him, repeating Pastor Neven’s words verbatim. She handed her bouquet to her sister so Hale could slip the warm gold band on her ring finger. They prayed. And then were pronounced husband and wife.

  She was Mrs. Hale Adams.

  “You may now kiss the bride.”

  Hale lifted the veil between them. The look of awe was more pronounced than at the beginning of the ceremony. Yancey placed her hand on his chest, an instinctive gesture she didn’t understand until she felt his heart beating under her palm. His heart was now hers. It beat for her and her alone.

  He leaned closer. She lifted her face to welcome his kiss, shifting her hand from his chest to wrap it around his neck and draw him closer. “My precious Yancey,” he whispered an instant before his lips claimed hers.

  She melted into him, repeating her vows without words. For better or worse, this perfectly imperfect man was hers to love and cherish for the rest of her days. She wrapped her other hand around his neck so she could touch the blue ribbon tied around her wrist.

  Oh, how she loved a happy ending.

  Authors’ Note

  This was a difficult book to write. We did not take lightly the deaths of Carline’s parents or Lily Forsythe. Sometimes terrible things happen which have no rhyme or reason, and sometimes they happen because of a choice we make or someone else makes that affects us. While we love our happily ever afters as much as the next person, we also know that real life includes painful events. We intentionally skimmed over much of the grieving process—this is a romance after all—to emphasize the point of taking the good and the bad in people and in situations. That theme ran through not only this book but the entire series in the characters of our warring judge and brothel madam.

  Much of Jonas Forsythe’s character was formed after a conversation Becca had with Dr. Ellen Baumler about real Montana politics and William Clark. He was a huge advocate of Anaconda as the capitol city and bought votes with five-dollar bills, although not counterfeits to our knowledge. He did say, “I’ve never bought a man who wasn’t for sale,” which we paraphrased. He also owned a mine and used convicts for free labor. With such a wealth of chicanery, we didn’t have to make up much.

  As for Madame Lestraude, we patterned her after Josephine Airey (aka, “Mary Welch” and “Chicago Joe”) who owned several businesses—both legitimate and illegitimate—in Helena. She was one of its wealthiest residents in her heyday. In his autobiography, The Land of My Dreams, Phil Weinard wrote: “She (Chicago Joe) used to say that she had no one she could trust ... I would often find gold pieces under the sofa or behind a door, and other out-of-the-way places.” That little tidbit showed up in The Promise Bride and accounts for “Mr. Green’s” loyalty in this story. Joe was a shrewd businesswoman who figured out ways around the law. When charged with operating a “hurdy gurdy house” in 1886, her lawyer argued that the music in Joe’s saloon was provided by a violin, a piano, and a cornet, and not by a hurdy gurdy—a boxed, stringed instrument played by turning a crank. The jury returned a verdict of “not guilty” (from Montana: The Magazine of Western History). Maison de Joie was a real brothel owned by Lillie McGraw. We chose to use it instead of one of Joe’s houses because we liked the juxtaposition of a brothel called a House of Joy.

  One final historical tidbit: The St. Peter’s Hospital we described opened in 1887. An operating room was added in 1889. It was built by women who used their considerable wealth and influence to improve the lives of everyone around them. The ho
spital superintendent was a real person. Her full name was Miss Georgia C. Young. She graduated from the Nurse’s Training School at Connecticut State Hospital and managed St. Peter’s from 1886 until 1906.

  We hope you have enjoyed this series, including the eBook novellas. We’d love to hear from you, so find us online at www.GinaWelborn.com or www.BeccaWhitham.com.

  DON’T MISS

  From the Montana Territory to the farthest railroad stops across the magnificent West, love has a way of finding those who need it the most ...

  ANYWHERE WITH YOU

  A Montana Brides eNovella

  Available everywhere eBooks are sold.

  Enjoy the following excerpt from Anywhere With You . . .

  Chapter One

  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.

  —JANE AUSTEN, Sense and Sensibility

  Denver, Colorado

  Fitzroy estate

  Thursday, August 9, 1888, approaching midnight

  “Letty, what”—sniff—“what did you”—sniff—“say?”

  At the sound of Beatrix’s heartbroken voice, Colette Vanderpool-Vane grabbed a second novel off the shelf, then descended the library ladder. “There’s more to life than this, and I have two books that will prove it to you.”

  “Jane Austen does not have the answer to everything.”

  “She was right when she wrote, ‘Know your own happiness. ’”

  A pitiful groan reverberated from Beatrix. “You quote Jane Austen because, like her, your heart has never been ripped out of your chest by a mons—” Another round of wails drowned out the last syllable in monster.

  Colette stepped off the ladder. Her heart ached as she stared down at her dearest friend crying prostrate on the Persian rug, an uncorked bottle of wine in one hand, a corkscrew in the other. For all Beatrix’s claim that she’d spend the rest of the evening at home drowning her sorrows away, neither of them had anything to drink or eat since leaving the opera. Of course, they’d had no choice but to flee at intermission after the callous Henderson Smyth abruptly announced his wish to end his and Beatrix’s engagement.

  Colette tossed the novels into Beatrix’s favorite reading chair. Life was too short for Beatrix to waste another second bemoaning a lost future as Mrs. Henderson Smyth. His actions tonight proved him to be the cad Colette knew him to be, and what Bea had refused to see because of his ability to say what a person wanted to hear.

  With determination and force, Colette pried the corkscrew then the wine bottle from her friend’s grip. “Come on, get up. We’re going downtown.”

  Beatrix turned her head toward Colette. “Why?”

  “It’s time you see how big the world really is.” Colette wiped away Beatrix’s tears. “Uncle Schelley’s building has the best views in Denver.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “We can sneak up the fire escape.”

  “But that’s”—Beatrix’s voice lowered despite them being alone in the library—“trespassing.”

  “Uncle Schelley is my godfather. He won’t mind.” And Colette knew he wouldn’t. For all practical purposes the Schellenberg building was hers, since she was the main inheritor of his estate, so she wouldn’t really be trespassing.

  “Letty, did you forget that Denver has a curfew?”

  Of course she hadn’t forgotten. She’d considered every potential hindrance to her cheer-up-Beatrix plan. “The curfew doesn’t apply to us.”

  Beatrix’s brow furrowed in thought. “I’m pretty sure the mayor said anyone under the age of twenty-five caught out between midnight and five a.m. would be arrested.”

  “No, only gang members and hooligans,” Colette clarified. “And we are neither.”

  Besides, the curfew was wrong at best and discriminatory at worst—reasons enough to ignore the ordinance. She read the papers. She knew not all crime was committed in the evening or was done by those under the age of twenty-five. She also knew full well that some city officials and police earned graft from underworld bosses and brothel owners, like Soapy Smith and Mattie Silks.

  “Come on.” Colette nudged Beatrix into standing. “Trust me, Bea. We can sneak in and out and no one—not even your parents—will be the wiser. You need this. Your heart needs to experience something wonderful.” Seeing the world—and Bea’s romantic future—was far grander than one little man named Henderson Smyth.

  Beatrix’s eyes welled with tears. “You would do this for me?”

  Colette touched her dear friend’s tear-moistened cheek. “I would do anything to make you happy again.” She paused, thought about what she’d committed herself to, then amended her pronouncement with: “Except murder.” She grinned mischievously. “I have to draw a line somewhere.”

  The corners of Beatrix’s lips eased up a fraction. Not a smile per se. Nor did her desolate expression change any, but for the first time since Henderson Smyth shattered his better-than-he-deserved fiancée’s heart, Colette saw—and felt—a spark of hope. Today was the beginning of Beatrix Fitzroy’s future, and a good future it would be . . . if Colette had any say about it.

  Monday morning, August 20

  Colette folded the quilt, then wedged it between the jail bars separating her cell from Nehemiah Foster’s. “From one friend to another.”

  Mr. Foster’s eyes grew watery. “Thank you.” He stretched his mammoth hand out to her.

  She clasped his hand between her equally grimy ones. “Please write that letter to your wife.”

  “Ruth won’t forgive me.”

  “She may already have and is merely waiting for you to say you’re sorry.”

  A throat cleared.

  Mr. Foster’s gaze flickered left, to the police officer standing outside the door to Colette’s cell, and he withdrew his hand from her hold. “You do right, Miss Colette, and stay out of trouble, you hear?”

  “I hear.” And she fully intended to. Of course, what she should do and what she did didn’t always match up. Which was why she’d spent the last ten days in jail. Eleven, if one wanted to count the night she and Beatrix were arrested.

  She should’ve—

  She halted the thought because, if her godfather taught her anything, it was that life was too short to live with regrets and should’ves.

  Colette raised her chin. “If trouble finds me, Mr. Foster, I will do as Mr. Shakespeare advised—‘The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.’” Pleased with her clever response, she strolled through the cell door that Sergeant John Phillips held open while wearing a look on his face as if he’d rather be anywhere but guarding the city jail today.

  “You’re not funny,” John Phillips said—more like grumbled—as he walked next to her.

  “That’s mean of you to say.”

  “I don’t get paid to be nice to you.”

  Colette winced. How could he say that? She’d been a dear friend to John Phillips since her father had hired his father to be the gardener of their estate. She’d helped him win the love of his life. She’d never been anything but sweet to him. Yet the moment he locked her in a jail cell, he’d been cold and distant. Maybe something else was bothering him.

  Was that gray at his temple? Colette tilted her head to the side for a better look at John Phillips’s close-cropped black hair. Twenty-two was too young to start graying. The poor dear seemed burdened. A wife and children did that to a man. Or so Papa claimed was the reason his ginger hair had been gray since Colette could remember, which meant a majority of Papa’s burdens came during her siblings’ maturation years and not hers.

  She lowered her voice so no one else in the jail would hear. “Did you and Millie have a spat?”

  He gave her a flat-eyed, don’t-meddle-in-my-life stare.

  Before she could respond, he impolitely nudged her into the main office. A trio of police officers standing next to a desk stopped talking. They all looked her way. Ch
ief Lomery exited his office. The four men took turns shaking her hand and wishing her well, a surprise considering how uncordial Chief Lomery and half his police force had been to her after she’d insisted she could not in good conscience pay the fine for trespassing or the one for breaking curfew, nor would she pay any other fine they thought they could get away with charging her with. Nor would she accept anyone—not even her godfather—paying the fines.

  “Under the circumstances,” Chief Lomery finished saying.

  Colette gave him a gracious smile. “Actually, sir, Uncle Schelley had wanted to dismiss the charges against—”

  “She understands,” John Phillips said, cutting off her defense, “and she won’t make the same mistake again.” He gripped her elbow, then rudely pulled her down a side corridor leading to an iron-covered, wooden door.

  Colette raised her chin. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

  “You’re still not funny.”

  “I wasn’t trying—”

  “Stop!” He jerked the door open. After they stepped outside, he slammed the door behind them. “You need to take life more seriously.”

  More seriously? Colette blinked as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight. “I lasted ten days in jail without my parents’ financial aid or emotional assistance. I survived on two meals a day and slept on a tick cot with nothing but the quilt Beatrix was only allowed to give to me only after she paid a minor fee, which we all know was a bribe. To top it off, I endured a lack of toiletries and luxuries to which I am accustomed. Not once did I cry. Not once did I complain. Nor did I accept my godfather’s willingness to come to my aid.”

  She paused to give John Phillips a moment to praise her fortitude, integrity, and good cheer.