The Wrong Bride_A Christmas Mail Order Bride Romance

by Natalie Dean

  “Because I want to marry you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because I am big like a watermelon with another man’s baby inside me,” she said, watching him to see how he reacted to her candor.

  “Kasia . . . things don’t always happen the way we expect them to,” he told her.

  “I look like a dumpy old woman,” she said, pushing back some of the loose wisps of hair that were curling around her face.

  He laughed. She was a funny one. “I don’t think so,” he argued, putting both arms around her and pulling her closer.

  She looked up at him. He felt his heart begin to beat in an unfamiliar pattern as he looked into her deep blue eyes. She looked so young and so vulnerable that he just wanted to make sure she knew that nothing, not gossip or hellfire, could reach her while he was there to protect her. He’d never felt this way before and he wasn’t sure what it meant. He didn’t know if it was love or not. That wasn’t a question he could ask his brother or anyone else. He’d just have to figure it out on his own.

  Chapter 14

  Christmas Eve, 1885

  Preacher Tollison was a tolerant man and a pragmatic one. He knew that not every bride in Mesquite, Texas or the surrounding communities had waited for him to say the vows before nature got a head start on replenishing the herd, as one Texas father had phrased it. He’d heard about the unusual circumstances that came with this wedding.

  Eldora Kennesaw had corralled him after church the week before and had wasted no time on sentiment. “I don’t care what people are saying,” she said bluntly. She was leaning on her canes, with Elsie Pearle behind her for support, but Mrs. Kennesaw wasn’t wavering. “My grandson is going to marry Bonnie’s sister. She’s going to have a baby. It’s not Will Henry’s baby. There’s not a lot of time; she could go any day. You’ll be at the ranch at noon tomorrow to marry them. Her baby won’t be born without a father.”

  Preacher Tollison nodded agreement. He had no objection. It sounded like a ready-made solution. Will Henry Kennesaw needed to spend more time with life rather than death, and there wasn’t anything more full of life than a baby. The preacher didn’t know much about the girl except what the gossips said and Preacher Tollison paid no attention to gossip. People who gossiped weren’t Kingdom people, and they’d be answering to the Almighty for their uncharitable words.

  With that in mind, he showed up, as ordered, at noon on Christmas Eve. Will Henry, looking pleased and embarrassed all at once, opened the door to let him in. He was wearing a string tie and a grin that spread from one side of his face to the other. Preacher Tollison noticed that, although the two Kennesaws were twins, they had different smiles. Z Kennesaw always looked as if he’d just gotten up to mischief. Will Henry usually smiled because it was a good way to camouflage the thoughts inside that didn’t inspire smiles. But today, Will Henry Kennesaw smiled like he didn’t know how to stop smiling.

  The Polish girl, Katarina Yankovich, looked at Preacher Tollison fearfully, expecting him to chastise her for her sin. But he just took her hand in his and smiled. “Congratulations, ma’am. Will Henry is a lucky man. I know that the Lord God will bless this marriage. I pray that God will bring you both the joy and comfort of two becoming one.”

  She stared, owl-eyed, at his words. “Thank you,” she said humbly.

  Mrs. Z Kennesaw was sitting in the rocking chair, her baby in her arms, smiling broadly. Z Kennesaw stood behind her, staring down at the little one in her arms. Z looked like he wasn’t quite sure what had hit him. Preacher Tollison figured that was a good thing. Z Kennesaw had a wild streak in him, but a baby would tame that right quick. From what he’d heard, the girl from Pittsburgh had already made a head start on taming the high-spirited Kennesaw twin. Now fatherhood would continue the process.

  “No sense in dawdling, Preacher,” said Eldora Kennesaw firmly. “That baby is going to have the Kennesaw name, that is, if you can get on with it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Preacher Tollison said, hiding a smile. “I’ll get right to it.”

  When he realized that the pretty young woman standing up with William Henry Harrison Kennesaw was stifling labor pains, he moved through the wedding ceremony without lingering over his favorite passages. He didn’t know what exactly her story was, but it was plain that there had already been cleaving unto done. It happened that way sometimes. But Will Henry knew that and he wanted to marry her anyway. Will Henry looked very happy and the girl, Katherine, she said her name was, earning a satisfied smile from Mrs. Eldora Kennesaw, well, she was starry-eyed and dazed even in the flickering pains that were beginning.

  “God moves in mysterious ways,” he reminded them before pronouncing them man and wife.

  “He’s moving right quick,” Z Kennesaw said. “Preacher, thank you for coming out, we’ll be baptizing both babies at the same time. Right now, I think the bride had better get to bed fast or I think we’re all going to be welcoming the newest Kennesaw right here in the parlor on Christmas Eve.” He too, had seen how Kasia stifled her gasps when pain struck her. So had Grandmother, tensing each time the young woman moved.

  Will Henry picked Kasia up in his arms. “No hellfire,” he said softly as he carried her to his bedroom where the baby would be born. “We’re going to have a baby for Christmas.”

  “You’re sure?” she said.

  “Of course I’m sure. No hellfire. Stop thinking those kinds of thoughts.”

  “I mean about us. Marriage. I know this is not what you wanted when you sent for a mail-order bride.

  “Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder,” he reminded her, kicking the door open wider with his booted foot as he brought her to the bed and tenderly lowered her onto it

  “I will be a good wife to you, Will Henry, I promise you.”

  “I’m going to be a darn good husband to you, too, Kasia Kennesaw. And a good daddy to that baby. Only you’re going to have some explaining to do. Cause Grandmother figures this one’s a girl and she’s usually right about these things, and what Grandmother will do with a great-granddaughter named Anushka Kennesaw, I just don’t even want to think about.”

  THE END

  Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed the book, please take the time to leave a review on Amazon. Even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.

  Author’s Note

  After reading some of the reviews and getting feedback about this third book, I wanted to let you know that I will be making the next book about Elzbieta being a bride! So yes, you will be hearing more about her coming soon!

  About Author - Natalie Dean

  Natalie Dean has always loved reading historical fiction and writing. She pursued creative writing courses in college, but due to trying life circumstances, couldn’t pursue a writing career as she wanted in her early days. Now that her children are all grown, she is finally able to pursue writing like she has always dreamed of doing. She has several cats and one very spoiled Pomeranian at home. In addition to writing, she also has a beekeeping business that keeps her busy.

  If you enjoyed reading this book…

  Please take the time to leave a review on Amazon. It takes only a moment and gives you a chance to make a big difference! It also helps other readers like you decide whether or not to download this book ; )

  Click here to be taken to the Amazon page to leave a review

  Other books by Natalie Dean

  Brides of Bannack Series

  (included as bonus stories in this book!)

  Lottie

  Cecilia

  Sarah

  Brides and Twins Series

  A Soldier’s Love

  Taming the Rancher

  The Wrong Bride

  Brides of Boulder Series

  The Teacher’s Bride (Included as a bonus story in this book)

  The Independent Bride

  STANDALONE TITLES />
  Mail Order Groom

  Something for you…

  In appreciation to you for being a fan of my books, I’ve decided to host an Amazon Giveaway for a great Historical Western book I just read by Kit Morgan, The Partridge: The First Day: The 12 Days of Christmas Mail-Order Brides Book 1.

  THIS GIVEAWAY WILL END on December 26, 2017 at midnight PST. If you have made it this far in the book past that date, the link to enter the giveaway will no longer be valid. ) : I’ll host more giveaways in the future! My email list is always the first to know, so join my list if you want to be in on the fun!

  Click here to join the giveaway! ENDS ON DECEMBER 26, 2017

  BONUS BOOKS SECTION: Descriptions Included

  MAIL ORDER BRIDE COLLECTION I

  Written by Natalie Dean

  The Teacher’s Bride

  Boulder Brides Book 1

  By Natalie Dean

  Chapter 1

  The blonde prairie grass rolled by, waving like wheat in the sun. Waving like the last goodbyes of her family, who had shrunk slowly until they were barely perceptible black dots still holding their arms over their heads. The plains didn’t enthrall her. Greta Samuelson had lived in Atchison all her life, and all she really knew was the plains. She gripped her crocheted, drawstring purse tightly in her hands and listened to her companions.

  They were more interesting. The three women who shared the stagecoach with her all hailed from Richmond, Virginia. They had seen the worst of the war. They had seen it in its most brutal, life shredding form, but Greta believed she had seen it longer.

  Greta didn’t remember a time before there was either war or talk of war. She remembered events by age instead of by date. She was ten when the abolitionists brought the slavery issue to their doorstep, even younger when the first battle cry sounded. What the abolitionists nor the pro-slavery people seemed to understand was that their community was neither pro-slavery nor willing to support those who used violence to settle their differences.

  Like many of the early community, her family was Wesleyan in convictions and principles. Her uncle was an early circuit rider who had carried his convictions to Kansas. In 1856, while the fate of the territory was being decided by outsiders planning to use their home as a staging ground, her brother, Lester, heard the sound of the mission and joined the covered wagon groups traveling west to Oregon.

  It was because of Lester that she had taken an interest in the stagecoach traveling the Overland Trail, bringing letters, news, and parcels, and sometimes, a special message from her brother. It was because of Lester that she also yearned to travel west.

  This might have remained a fantasy if not for a very lucky circumstance. One of the regular stagecoach drivers, Owen, developed a fondness for her. Not an inappropriate one, by all means, but with the pleasure of an older man watching a child grow into a young woman. This child had watched, wide-eyed, not understanding the terrible passions that make men kill each other, asking only for news from the Overland Trail and its far more dangerous cousin, the Oregon Trail.

  Owen’s years of experience as a driver had given him a deep perception into human nature. As the war ended, his duties as a mail delivery driver were coupled with a delivery service of future brides. The war had left only broken pieces of men for single women to comb through. It left widows, destitution, and broken promises. At the same time, to the west, gold had been discovered, and the frontiersmen who had rushed to its calls had done so without wives or lovers to follow them. Now they were lonely. Some dreamed of starting families. Some just wanted a warm body to hold them at night. They all wanted the presence of women; any woman willing to live in a mining camp.

  Owen

  Owen’s mail bag was often stuffed with advertisements to give to the local newspapers, announcing the needs of the western pioneers. They weren’t always from the mining camps. Some were from cattle people and farmers who had staked their piece of land but had no companion. A few were from Christian communities hoping to develop their missions. The advertisement he carried with him the day Greta’s world began to change was a little different than the usual as he knew the author of it as well as he knew Greta.

  His mind became occupied by the young girl whose face was beginning to flower with her coming maturity and unblemished character. As pretty as she was, with sun-ripened curls framing her properly covered head, it seemed a waste to resign her to spinsterhood or a broken piece of man embittered by war. She deserved more.

  Greta greeted Owen as he pulled his mail bag from the seat and handed him a fresh-baked roll. “I’m taking these to the shelter,” she told him. “But I thought you should have one. Our wounded men aren’t the only ones who should be treated as heroes. Do you have anything for me today,” she asked as he thanked her.

  “No, but there is something you might still be interested in. It’s an advertisement. I’m obligated, mind you, to take it to the newspaper publishers, but I thought you might like to be the first to read it.”

  The advertisement had been short and to the point. “School teacher seeking wife. Must be able to read, write and know arithmetic. Prefer a woman of good composure, modest dress, and clean habits. Dancers, performers, and women of ill repute need not apply.”

  “You think I should be interested?” Greta had asked.

  “He is a good man and I know your heart is not here.”

  The advertisement was then circulated with the rest of the mail designated for Boston, but by then, there were so many far more exciting offers making the rounds of the major cities, there was very little notice given to this more demanding request. As a result, Greta had been the only one to answer his inquiry. Fortunately, Greta wrote very gracefully, and the school teacher had been intrigued.

  It was the foolishness of an old man desiring to be a matchmaker that started Greta’s journey away from home, but it was a journey that had been blessed. Greta had four sisters, all either of marriageable age or approaching it, and to have one well invested in an educational career was better than any of them could really hope for.

  Her hands twisted around the purse strings again, then she pulled out the letter to read one more time. There had been a lot of one more times on the trip, each one assuring her and giving her a little more courage as the stage carried her further from home.

  “Dearest Greta,

  I am gratified to call you this, as your letter hit a resounding note. It was a relief to know your handwriting is quite legible and you apply your skills intelligently. It was also of some interest that you already have a brother who has taken the noble course of bringing a civilized, God-fearing people into the west.

  It is of this nobility we shall speak. Boulder is a robust, active town in the Colorado/ Wyoming territory. Its growth brings a great deal of notoriety. There are the uncouth, the brazen, and the gun-slinging lawless, as well as good people who labor hard to wrestle a living from the land and who strive for peaceful communities.

  These peaceful communities cannot remain so without the proper guidance and education of their children. It is to this end that I have devoted my life, but this end would be better influenced by a proper wife and family to set an example. I am a man of modest but consistent means. You will not lack for food or shelter, although there shall be very few frivolities and indulgences. The rewards will be what our hands and minds have put together. If you are in agreement with this proposal, I have entrusted monies with the driver to bring you safely to our humble city.”

  It was signed, “Joseph Marston”. Greta liked the sound of the name. It rolled off the tongue easily enough. She wondered if Joseph Marston would look like Abraham Lincoln. She had seen him once, in her childhood, when he was campaigning for the presidency. She had thought he would look different from the plains people, but he didn’t. Tall and lanky, he looked very much like a younger version of the neighbor, Mr. Engel, who kept two wives on his farm as his first wife had borne only two children, which weren’t enough to cover all the duties.


  Some people criticized Mr. Engel’s decision, but her family never did. “It’s not our place to judge,” her father had said, just as it wasn’t their place to get involved with the Civil War.

  “You actually already have a marriage arrangement for when you arrive?” Asked one of the women, who kept a fan constantly brushing over her face while she gazed out over an endlessly rolling landscape, with nothing to decorate its swells except the prairie grass.

  “Oh, yes,” said Greta. “It would not have been permitted if I had traveled alone, without prospects.”

  “But haven’t you heard? The prospects are enormous! Look!”

  One of the ladies unfolded the newspaper containing the advertisement they were answering. It read, “Women needed at mining camp for cleaning, cooking, and entertainment. Marriages can be arranged with consent of both willing parties. Close to Boulder. All serious applicants will be considered.”

  “Then you are traveling entirely on faith?” asked Greta with astonishment. She was a little in awe of these women. The youngest was close to thirty, while the oldest looked like she was in her mid-forties. They dressed far more fashionably than she did, with hooped skirts, velvet bonnets, and satin bows. They rouged their lips and powdered their skin. Their eyes were hard, bright and wise.