His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  But right now, she had to concentrate on earning her keep.

  She dressed in the bedroom and hurried back into the kitchen to work on her relationship with Vertie, the green enamel cookstove. She opened the hatch with the iron poker. Added another piece of firewood. Took the coffee grinder down from the shelf. One handful of beans from the small jute sack. Round and round with the handle. The beans rattled, the grinder crunched. The heavenly aroma of freshly ground beans spread around the parlor.

  Last night, while she’d been busy clearing the sticky mess from the floor, Thomas had made coffee from the last grains in the tin, explaining every step as he went along. Charlotte repeated the instructions in her mind and measured three spoonfuls of coffee into the pot. One per person and one extra for the pot. She added two cupfuls of water, then slid the copper coffeepot into the middle of the iron ring and said a quick prayer it would turn out all right.

  Next step was breakfast. She’d make porridge. That must be easier than bacon or biscuits or whatever farming folk ate for their morning meal in the Arizona Territory. She found a tin of grain on the shelf. Was it wheat? Or oats? Could you make porridge with either?

  Lips pursed, Charlotte measured three cups of grain into an iron pot, added two cups of water and set the pot to boil on another ring on the stovetop. Satisfied with her efforts, she started searching for a stirring spoon.

  Breakfast was on the way.

  Thomas would be proud of her.

  Chapter Six

  Thomas strode into the parlor. He could smell coffee and something burning. The table was set. Coffee simmered on the stove. Beside the coffeepot, a big cast iron pot made loud bubbling noises, like frogs plopping up and down in a muddy pond.

  Charlotte spun around to face him. “I made you breakfast.”

  Thomas smiled at the pride in her tone. What more could a man ask for? A pretty wife and a meal on the table. He nodded and sat down, too overcome to speak. Charlotte flitted about in a flurry of green skirts and a white blouse. Her hair was coiled up on her head. Thomas hoped the curls would soon unravel to tumble down her back.

  He watched, ready to interfere if she risked burning herself, or created some other calamity. She remembered to use a cloth to protect her hands as she poured out the coffee. Thomas peered at the black trickle that flowed into his cup. It had the consistency of tar. Perhaps he could eat it with a spoon.

  “It might be a bit strong.” The pride in her voice had faded.

  “I like it strong.” Bravely, Thomas took a sip. And managed not to grimace. He ran his tongue over his teeth to stop them from sticking together with the glue-like substance.

  “Perhaps a bit too strong,” he said and pushed the cup toward her across the table. “You might add a drop of water into it.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Charlotte plunged the steel dipper into the pail and poured some water into his cup. Thomas didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d meant hot water, not cold. He stirred the mixture. Lumps of coffee floated around the cup. He ate them with the spoon, trying to get the balance between coffee and water about right.

  “What’s for breakfast?” he asked.

  “Porridge.”

  “Porridge?” he said, puzzled. “Not many people make it from wheat. Let me know if you prefer oats, and I’ll get you some. I grow it for the horses.”

  “This is...wheat porridge.” She waved airily toward the pot that had stopped rumbling like a volcano and was now making a sizzling sound. The burning smell had intensified. Whirling to the stove, Charlotte wrapped a cloth around her hands and prepared to lift the pot to the table.

  Thomas jumped to his feet. “Let me do that.”

  “No. I’m doing this. Sit down.”

  Startled, he sank back into his seat. She might be small, she might appear fragile, but his wife could muster up an air of command if she wanted to.

  He watched, muscles tense, ready to leap to her aid if she faltered. She managed to transport the heavy pot without mishap. All Thomas had to do was to reach across the table and shove a slate holder beneath the iron pot to stop the heat from scorching the tabletop.

  Charlotte lifted the lid. A notch appeared between her brows as she peered into the pot. Holding the lid in one hand, she dipped a wooden spoon into the porridge. A stunned expression spread across her face. She put down the lid and gripped the wooden spoon with both hands. With a grunt and a heave, she levered a huge lump of something solid out of the pot.

  Thomas positioned his plate beneath the object. It fell on the china plate with a splat. He poked at the thing with his fork. It had the consistency of rubber. “Is this how they make porridge in New York?”

  “Err...it’s not really porridge. It’s called a...porridge dumpling.” Charlotte passed him a knife. “You cut it into slices.”

  “I see.” Thomas felt laughter tickle in his throat. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She was biting her lip. Her shoulders were shaking. He lost the fight and burst into laughter.

  Charlotte swatted at him with the cloth she’d used to protect her hands. “It’s a porridge dumpling,” she managed between bursts of mirth. “Eat it.”

  “I’ll eat a slice if you eat a slice.”

  Quick as a flash, she sat opposite him. “Challenge accepted.”

  She pushed her plate next to his, picked up a knife and reached over to cut a wedge and slipped it onto her plate. After pulling her plate back in front of her, she stared down at the wedge. Her features puckered in determination, and then she picked up the congealed lump of wheat and crammed a huge bite into her mouth.

  Her eyes bugged. Her cheeks ballooned. She chewed. And chewed. And chewed. And finally she swallowed, with a shiver that rippled all the way down her delicate frame. Thomas rocked in his seat, laughter rumbling in his chest, his eyes streaming with helpless tears.

  A dainty forefinger jabbed into the air. “Your turn.”

  Thomas dropped his gaze to the big dumpling on his plate. He cut a wedge and shoved it into his mouth. The stuff had the flavor of sawdust and the consistency of boot leather.

  “You forgot salt,” he said after he’d finished chewing and swallowing.

  His wife lifted a single eyebrow. “I’ll remember it next time.”

  Thomas burst into another gust of laughter. Charlotte joined him. Between them, they ate every morsel of the porridge dumpling.

  Ten minutes earlier, Thomas had looked at his pretty wife and the table set for breakfast and thought, What more could a man ask for? If pushed for a reply, he might have said, Tasty food to fill his plate. Now he knew it didn’t matter. His happiness was complete, even if he had to survive on porridge dumplings for the rest of his days.

  * * *

  Charlotte washed the breakfast dishes and Thomas dried them. She had never thought there would be such sweet symmetry in housework. Her mother had tried to explain the thrill of sailing on a boat with her husband, just the two of them, united against the elements. Charlotte had never understood, until now. A wave of nostalgia washed over her. She lifted a hand to dash a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “It’s all right,” Thomas said softly. “It was a good effort.”

  “I’m not downhearted about the cooking. I was just thinking of my parents...of how it was for them, working side by side...the way we are doing now.”

  “Were they happy together?”

  “Blissfully. We were all happy. A happy family. Our father was a sea captain, but he gave up the long voyages after we were born. He loved sailing, and so did my mother. I didn’t, and neither did my sisters. Father often joked we must be changelings because we all got seasick on the boat.” She glanced up at him. “You said you have five brothers. Were you a happy family?”

  Thom
as turned away to stack a plate in the cupboard. He knocked over the sugar bowl. “Darn it,” he said, and seemed to forget her question as he focused on scooping up the sugar before it got ruined.

  By the time they had finished tidying up after breakfast, sweat beaded on Charlotte’s brow and trickled down between her breasts beneath her blouse. She peeked out through the window. Bright sunshine played on the leaves of the cottonwood trees.

  “It’s going to be another hot day,” she commented.

  “The summer will be here soon,” Thomas replied.

  She hesitated. “Would you mind if I took off my wool skirt and just wore a petticoat? I’m already sweltering, and I’d like to save my skirt for trips into town. I have nothing else to wear, just the two petticoats and one skirt.”

  “Wait here.” Thomas gestured for her to remain in the parlor while he strode into the bedroom. She heard the blanket box lid creak open and then slam shut.

  He returned carrying a bundle of clothing. “Try these on.”

  She took the garments, turned them over in her hands. It was a pair of sturdy denim trousers and a faded cotton shirt. “Whose are these?”

  “Doc Timmerman’s grandson stayed with me a couple of weeks last summer. He left those behind. You can use them if they fit. He was a strapping boy of thirteen. If he comes back this summer, he’ll have grown out of them.”

  She looked up from the worn garments. “I’m surprised there’s a doctor in Gold Crossing. Why did he stay when the town closed down?”

  “The doc’s really retired. He’s around seventy. His wife is the same age. They decided they were too old to leave. Art Langley stayed because he can’t afford to leave.” Thomas shook his head. “Poor Art. He keeps hoping.”

  “Hoping for what?”

  “Hoping that the town will burst back into life. You’ve met Art. He owns the Imperial Hotel. And the saloon attached to it, the Drunken Mule. And the mercantile. And the row of empty buildings beyond. Even the schoolhouse.”

  Charlotte recalled the innkeeper’s amusement at her wedding. “Is he the gaunt man who likes to play solitaire and laugh at other people’s misfortunes?”

  “Don’t hold it against him if he tries to find something to laugh about. Art Langley discovered the seam of gold and started the mine. He invested everything into the railroad spur. When the mine played out, he was left with barely enough to buy the buildings as people moved away. He spends his time trying to keep everything in good repair. He believes that one day someone else will find gold and then the music will play again and the whiskey will flow and the dancing girls will dance and the mine owners will pay him to use his railroad to haul out the ore.”

  Curious, Charlotte arched her brows. “Could someone find gold?”

  Thomas shifted one shoulder in an indifferent gesture. “I guess it’s possible. Art believes there’s gold up there, and he knows a lot more about mining than I do. Dozens of prospectors roam around in the mountains. They are what keeps the saloon and the hotel and the mercantile going, and generate enough business for the doc to see out his days in Gold Crossing.”

  “It’s sad,” Charlotte said wistfully. “A whole town just...vanishing.”

  “Don’t shed too many tears. If the mine hadn’t played out, I couldn’t have bought the farm. Land values plummeted. My operation is small. I trade with Art for things I can’t grow or make myself. In the fall, I make a couple of trips to Jerome and Flagstaff to sell the wheat and the corn.” His voice fell to a rough murmur. “I hope you understood you were not signing on for a life of luxury.”

  Charlotte heard the strain in his words. She flashed him a bright smile. “Let me go and try these clothes on. If they fit, I can dress like a proper farmer’s wife.”

  * * *

  Thomas waited, standing on the porch, leaning against the railing, taking deep breaths of the fragrant spring air. Sundown was his favorite part of the day, but sunup was not far behind, and he liked middle of the morning too, like this moment. The cow had been milked, the horses moved to pasture. The chickens were clucking contentedly around the barn.

  “What do you think?”

  He heard the voice before he heard the clatter of feminine footsteps across the porch. He turned around. The sensation that slammed into his chest was becoming all too familiar. Maybe he was developing a heart condition.

  Poised on her toes, Charlotte pivoted a full circle and repeated her question. “What do you think?”

  Thomas let his gaze drift over her. The denim trousers hugged the curve of her buttocks. The shirt swamped her. He could see at least three inches of pale skin above the loose collar. His gut told him that if he stood right beside her and looked down when she bent forward, he might get a peek inside the neckline.

  “What do you think?” she asked for the third time.

  Thomas allowed himself one final second of perusal. Best of all, her upsweep had failed to stand up to the swift change of clothing. Curls were unraveling to spill down past her shoulders. Delicate wisps framed her face, dancing in the breeze.

  “That’s good,” Thomas said. “Just like a farmer’s wife should look.”

  She gave a peal of laughter and racketed down the steps, bubbling with excitement. “Let’s go. I want to see everything. A complete tour.”

  Thomas showed his wife the beaver dam. She laughed and pointed in delight when she saw a flash of brown fur in the water. He showed her the lake. She strolled along the bank, seeking the best spots for swimming. He showed her the pomegranate garden with its fading blooms. She ran around, chasing the fragrant petals that floated like snowflakes in the air.

  By the time he’d showed her the fields of wheat and corn, he had become painfully aware that his wife knew nothing about agriculture. She seemed to think farmers frolicked in the sun and Mother Nature took care of the rest.

  “You have to plant the corn every year?” she asked, brows furrowed, head cocked in surprise. “It doesn’t grow back in the spring on its own?”

  Thomas clamped down on the twinge of disappointment. It was clear that she was an intelligent woman. New York had an excellent public library. He’d hoped she might have taken an interest in his profession, had prepared for her new life by reading a book or two.

  He shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes dwell on her slender frame and tumbling curls. A man couldn’t ask for everything.

  “No,” he said. “Corn doesn’t grow on its own. You plant in May. Then you water. A couple of times a week should be enough unless it gets very hot. You harvest the crop in August.”

  Her face brightened. “Irrigation. That means watering, doesn’t it? I promised to help. Show me how to do it.”

  “Later.” He pointed at her feet. “You’d ruin your leather boots. It gets muddy by the pump. Travis Timmerman left behind a pair of old rubber boots. They’ll be too big for you but you can pad them out with old newspapers.”

  He continued the tour by taking her into the barn. The big timber building was divided into two in the middle, with an entrance at both ends. The wood store and chicken coop occupied one end, the milk cow and the pair of horses the other.

  The chickens, all white leghorns, were scratching about in the dirt, clucking and squabbling. Thomas shooed them out of the way and led her into the shadowed interior of the barn. Stacks of firewood stood on the right, and straw-padded perches lined the wall on the left.

  He heard a frightened cry behind him and spun around, poised for a quick rescue, looking for whatever trouble his wife might have landed herself in this time. Charlotte was squatting on her heels on the earth floor, sucking at her forefinger. Next to her a hen danced in fury, flapping its wings and screeching.

  “It bit me,” she mumbled around the finger, scowling at the furious hen.

  Thomas crouched beside her. “Show me.”

 
She pulled her finger from her mouth and held it out to him. A dot of blood gathered at the tip. Slowly, Thomas lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed away the droplet at the fingertip. His eyes held hers. He could see a blush rise to her cheeks. Her hand was tiny in his, her skin soft. He could smell the faint scent of lavender.

  What did it matter if she wasn’t the helpmate he’d hoped for?

  What did it matter that she’d more likely add to his workload than ease it?

  He was no longer alone. That was all that mattered.

  “Don’t try to pet the chickens,” he told her quietly. “They are like cantankerous old women. That one—” he paused to nod at the aggressor “—is getting on in years. She is no longer a good layer and she likes to hide her eggs.”

  “What’s she called?”

  Thomas smiled. A chicken pecks her and she wants to know its name. “Harrison.” He pointed at the birds rootling and pecking on the ground in turn. “That’s Tyler. Polk. Zachary. Fillmore. Pierce.” Each bird wore a metal band on one leg, trimmed with a scrap of cotton in a different color, so he could easily identify them.

  Her merry laughter tingled down his spine. “The presidents! You named your chickens after the presidents.”

  Thomas nodded. “I started from Washington but a few have died. Tyler and Taylor sounded too similar, so when it came Taylor’s turn I used his first name, Zachary.” He pushed up to his feet and pulled her up with him. “Your job will be to collect the eggs every morning.”

  “The eggs! Where can I find them?” She spun around to face the wall with the straw-lined perches.

  “Sometimes they sit in plain sight on top of the straw,” Thomas explained. “Sometimes you need to search around. Sometimes it could be anywhere. Harrison likes to hide hers between the stacks of firewood.”

  In a comical stalking motion, feet rising high, fingers curled like claws in front of her, Charlotte marched up to the wall and searched the nearest perch. “I’ve got one.” She hurried back to him, as excited as a child on Christmas morning. A single white egg sat cradled in her cupped palm.