His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  Three days later, another miner found Sam, unconscious but still clinging to life. The gold and the woman were gone. Sam survived, but the bullet had lodged in his spine. The doctor refused to operate. It was too dangerous.

  Sam was not able to ride, for the jolts on horseback might kill him. He roamed around the hills, walking in a crablike limp, dragging one foot. He scraped a living by trapping and hunting, surviving on what he could kill and eat.

  In six years, Sam Renner had turned into a ghost with long straggly hair, dirt caked on his clothing and the burning look of insanity in his eyes.

  From mining camp to mining camp he limped, looking for the woman who had betrayed him—a small woman with dark, curly hair. He carried a big skinning knife he sharpened every night by the campfire. And he told everyone that when he found the woman he was looking for, he’d gut her like a fish.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thomas shouldered his way through the throng of men on the station platform in Gold Crossing, looking for Charlotte. A head taller than most, he got a good view over the forest of hats—bowlers, Stetsons, slouch hats, even a top hat. There had to be almost thirty men waiting for the train.

  At the far end of the platform, Dottie Timmerman and Gladys Hayes sat on wooden chairs, bedecked in gowns with ribbons and frills, parasols twirling overhead. Manuel Chavez, the one-eyed card dealer from the Drunken Mule, stood beside them, holding a gleaming trumpet in his hands.

  The whistle of the train blew in the distance. A plume of steam rose like a white ribbon against the blue sky. The iron rails began to vibrate. The men cheered and surged toward the edge of the platform, fighting for the best position.

  Thomas cast one final glance around, satisfied that Charlotte had remained away. Not out of good sense, he thought ruefully. She must be busy putting the finishing touches on the schoolhouse.

  The train rolled in, screeched to a stop. Manuel Chavez lifted the trumpet to his lips and blew out a fanfare. Gus Osborn and Gus Junior held up a banner that said Welcome to Gold Crossing. Art Langley, looking officious in a frock coat and with a mayor’s sash across his chest—he was the one wearing the top hat—stepped forward to make an official welcome speech.

  The train door opened. A small, dapper man carrying a fancy leather suitcase in one hand stepped down and glanced around him. “Blimey,” he said with a delighted grin. “Didn’t think you was so happy to see me.”

  “Where’s the women?” shouted a man in a long duster.

  “And the orphans!” yelled Gladys Hayes from the end of the platform.

  “There’s no one but me.” The small man lifted his case higher. “Ed Newland at your service. I drum business for Newland Distillers. No more rotgut but fine bottled whiskey with assured quality.” He shook his head in wonder. “Best welcome I’ve ever had. I guess you folks care about your whiskey.”

  “There’s no women?” Art Langley asked.

  Newland shook his head. “Not as much as a petticoat.”

  A man in a black suit rushed toward the train. “I don’t believe you,” he shouted. “I’ll see for myself.”

  The crowd of men roared in agreement. Thomas watched as they surged forward, fighting each other to climb into the single car behind the steam engine. He could see them through the train windows, hurrying up and down the corridor, peering beneath the seats, as if the widows and orphans were playing hide-and-seek with them.

  Only a minute later, the men emerged one by one through the door.

  “There’s no women.”

  “Langley, you bastard. You fooled us.”

  “You just wanted to fill the saloon and sell your liquor.”

  “I want my money back,” shouted the man in a black suit.

  “I want my money back, too!”

  “And me. Four dollars I spent on a bed and dinner!”

  The chorus of men cried out how much Art Langley had fleeced them with his false promises about women arriving. The crowd surged into motion, heading toward the Imperial Hotel. One of the men picked up a rock and hurled it through a small side window. The tinkle of shattering glass mixed with the yells of angry males.

  “Gentlemen. Gentlemen.” Art Langley rushed ahead and stood on the steps, arms raised, like a politician on the campaign trail. “I assure you, the women will arrive. I have a signed contract from the Widows and Orphans Association in San Francisco. There must have been some delay.”

  “We’ll burn down your saloon.”

  Thomas saw a flash of alarm in Art Langley’s eyes, but the lanky businessman showed no other sign of panic as he addressed the furious crowd.

  “Gentlemen, I assure you—”

  Another rock hurled through the air. It hit Art Langley in the shoulder. Thomas pushed forward. Enough was enough. He climbed up the steps to stand beside the beleaguered mayor of Gold Crossing.

  “Enough of that!” Thomas roared. “Are you men, or a bunch of stray dogs on the scent of a bitch? You should be ashamed of yourself. If there had been any women on that train, they would have locked the doors and gone straight back to San Francisco, without ever setting foot in this town.”

  The crowd stilled but he could hear their angry murmurs.

  Thomas went on. “If Mr. Langley says there’s widows and orphans coming, then there’s widows and orphans coming. And I’m sure there’s something he can do to compensate you for the inconvenience of a wasted trip.”

  Art Langley flashed a strained smile. “Free drinks! Free drinks for everyone at the Drunken Mule.” He pulled out a pocket watch on a chain from his waistcoat and flipped the lid to check the time. “It’s three o’clock now. Drinks will be free for the next hour, until four o’clock.”

  Like an advancing army, the men surged up the steps and into the hotel. Thomas stood aside. Free drinks didn’t sound like such a good idea to him, but at least he had prevented a riot before the men switched their attention to Gus Junior and blamed the boy for spreading false rumors in his Informer.

  * * *

  Thomas sat alone by the window at the Drunken Mule, leaning back in the chair and lazily sipping from a glass of whiskey. Around him, the crowd was thinning. The miners were hardworking men, not inclined to waste daylight hours in a saloon, and only a few of them had benefited from the free drinks to excess.

  “Listen to this, fellers!”

  Thomas peered into a shadowed corner where three miners sat together. Two were dressed in worn jackets and canvas trousers and bowler hats they kept on even indoors. The third looked like a gentleman, with a gray broadcloth suit and neatly clipped dark hair.

  One of the bowler hats was talking. He was studying something on the table before him. Thomas pushed up to his feet and craned for a look. It was a copy of the Informer. He settled back down in his seat and listened as the man read out loud.

  “‘It is with regret that we announce the marriage between Mr. Thomas Greenwood, of Gold Crossing, and Miss Maude Jackson, from New York City, is to be annulled. Miss Jackson has taken employment as a schoolteacher until she can make arrangements to return to her home in the East.’”

  Thomas felt his ears burn. It sounded so trivial, the way it read in the paper. His shattered dreams had been reduced to a single paragraph under the heading Matrimonial and Family News.

  “It’s that sodbuster’s mail-order bride,” the well-dressed miner said. “The one who came in on the train a month ago.”

  “I saw it.” It was the taller bowler hat, the one who had been doing the reading. “They were married right there.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the porch outside.

  The smaller bowler hat spoke with a thick German accent. “I hear the sodbuster turned down a thousand dollars for her.”

  “She was a beauty,” the well-dressed miner said. “Worth a million.”

  The tall
bowler hat pushed to his feet. “Well, if she is no longer married to that sodbuster, what are we waiting for? There’s a woman, right here. Let’s go and call on her. The schoolhouse is a little way back from the church.”

  Thomas stiffened. But it was resentment, not fear. They seemed good men, decent men. If they wanted to call on an unattached female, he had no right to stop them. No right at all. He waited for the three miners to troop out of the saloon. Then he got up, tossed back the rest of his drink and followed them.

  * * *

  Charlotte heard the banging on the schoolhouse door. She’d been drawing a map of the United States on the chalkboard, copying it from a book. She’d got the southern border right, and the West Coast didn’t look too bad, but the Eastern Seaboard was going all crooked, and drawing Florida made her blush.

  “Come in,” she called out and put away the piece of chalk.

  Gus Junior had already been to tell her that the widows and orphans had not arrived. She vacillated between relief and terror—relief because her competence as an educator would not be tested just yet, terror because if the orphans did not come, she’d be out of a job.

  The door flung open and three men crowded into the tiny room. Two wore bowler hats and the rough work clothing of miners, the third a neat gray suit. All three wore tall boots that clattered against the floor.

  “Gentlemen.” Charlotte inclined her head. “How can I help you?”

  It never crossed her mind to be afraid. Papa had often brought his ships’ crews home to Merlin’s Leap. She’d known dozens of disreputable-looking sailors, and had discovered that most of them possessed hearts of gold, or at least of silver.

  The taller man in a bowler hat puffed out his chest. “We’ve come a-callin’.” He had pockmarked skin and hollow cheeks, as if he’d been starving. He could be no more than twenty. A boy, really. An eager, overexcited boy.

  Charlotte smiled. “You are most welcome. Perhaps you’d like coffee.”

  “Coffee would be very nice,” said the man in a gray suit. “I’m Stuart. Jenkins. These fellers are Mortenson and Rathke.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Charlotte replied. “I’m Miss Jackson.”

  “Howdy, Miss Jackson.”

  “I’ll put the coffee on.” Eyes sparkling with mischief, she clapped her hand to her mouth. “Whoops. I only have one cup. And there is nowhere to sit. The desks are too small. You’ll get stuck if you cram into them.”

  “Ve fetch table and chairs from the hotel.” The shorter man in a bowler hat, Rathke, spoke in a clipped accent.

  “Oh! Sind Sie Deutscher?”

  “Osterreicher.”

  “Splendid.” Charlotte flashed her visitors another bright smile. “I’ll put the coffee on. You can fetch a table and chairs. Put them outside, and we’ll have a garden party. Don’t forget to bring three more cups.”

  She watched them clatter away on their booted feet and set to work. As she was measuring coffee into a pot, the hair at the back of her neck prickled. She spun around and saw Thomas leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing his Sunday suit and a flat-crowned black hat that looked new. So, he had been to meet the train, too. Her back stiffened. Wasn’t two brides enough for him?

  “What do you want?” she said.

  She hadn’t quite forgiven him for burning their marriage certificate, or—if what Gus Junior had said was true—for sending for a second mail-order bride even before she had returned home to Merlin’s Leap.

  “Just came by to see everything is fine,” Thomas replied.

  “I see.” Charlotte gave a brief nod, ashamed of her sharp tone. Thomas had plenty of reason to be angry with her. She needed to be understanding. She was at fault in their situation, not him. “I’m about to have a garden party,” she informed him. “Would you like to join in?”

  Thomas did not move from the doorjamb. “Did you buy that tin of coffee?”

  “No,” she told him. “Miss Hayes gave me a bit, to get me started.”

  Thomas made a noncommittal sound. Charlotte frowned. She suspected coffee would be terribly expensive to buy. Everything seemed to be.

  Art Langley had paid her for the first month in advance. She had spent four dollars on a plain green cotton dress, the one she wore now, and two dollars on a straw bonnet. That only left four dollars for supplies until she got paid again.

  Outside, she could hear banging and curses and friendly squabbling.

  The Austrian miner appeared in the doorway. “Table is ready.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  The coffee boiled in no time. She carried the pot outside, taking a small slate writing tablet with her to use as a pot holder.

  The men were lounging in wooden chairs at one of the square gambling tables from the hotel. Five chairs. Four men. Three cups. Charlotte poured and passed out the cups, leaving Thomas till last.

  “Whoops,” she said with an artificially sweet smile. “We seem to have run out of cups.”

  Thomas dipped one big hand into the pocket of his unbuttoned suit jacket, pulled out another cup and set it on the table. There was a hard edge to his smile.

  Charlotte poured for him and resisted the temptation to create a spill. She put the pot down, dashed back inside to fetch her own cup and filled it with the last dregs from the pot—she had only allowed for three guests—and sat down in the vacant seat.

  “Well, gentlemen,” she said brightly. “This is nice.”

  She took a sip from her coffee. It was nothing but grounds. The sun burned down on her head. Flies buzzed around her. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a knife.

  “What are you doing still hanging around her, Greenwood?” the hollow-cheeked boy said under his breath. “You had your chance and you couldn’t hold on to her. Now clear off and let us have our turn.”

  “I’m seeing that Miss Jackson gets to return safely to the East where she belongs,” Thomas replied. “It’s clear she isn’t cut out for the life here. I’m sending her back because I don’t want to see her worn to death from farm chores and childbirth.”

  Charlotte nearly choked on the coffee grounds.

  The hollow-cheeked boy, Mortenson, made an expansive gesture with his coffee cup. “When I strike it rich, I can buy her silk and lace and diamonds and furs. She’ll have a houseful of servants and she’ll never need to set foot in the kitchen.”

  Thomas lifted his eyebrows. “And until then? Until you strike it rich?”

  The young miner shifted awkwardly in his seat and said nothing.

  Thomas took a sip and put his coffee down. “Until then you’ll expect her to live in a tent, which is freezing at night and sweltering during the day. She’ll spend her days doing laundry in a muddy stream and cooking on a campfire. Even I could offer her more than that.”

  The well-dressed miner, Jenkins, spoke. “Greenwood, I mean no criticism, but if the marriage has been annulled, perhaps you should stay away from Miss Jackson and give her the opportunity to meet another man who might suit her better.”

  “Gentlemen,” Charlotte said. “Mr. Greenwood and I bear no ill will toward each other.”

  “Fine,” Thomas said, narrowing his eyes at Jenkins. “I paid two hundred dollars for her passage. You are welcome to court her, but first you must pay me back my two hundred dollars.”

  A dark flush rose on the other man’s face. “You talk as if women could be bought and sold.”

  “Isn’t that what’s going on here?” Thomas took another sip from his coffee, his movements perfectly calm. “Mortenson here wants to buy her with gold he hasn’t even found yet. You want to buy her with a fine education that has no value on the frontier.”

  “My educational credentials are worth more than a few acres of fields scratched out from
the wilderness. I have a degree in Latin and Greek. I—”

  Thomas cut him off. “Latin and Greek?” He tilted his head to one side, as if considering the matter. “I think there’s a Greek cook in one of the mining camps. Yes, your education might be of some use, if you come across the Greek fellow.”

  Jenkins surged to his feet. “Now, look here...”

  “I will find gold,” Mortenson said.

  “The heck you will,” Thomas replied.

  Mortenson lifted his half-empty coffee cup and tossed the contents in Thomas’s face. Thomas didn’t cry out, didn’t swear, didn’t say anything. He didn’t even flinch. Slowly, he unfolded to his full height behind the table.

  Charlotte held her breath. He seemed so formidable, the slow certainty of his motion more daunting than any threats. It occurred to her that she had always thought Thomas a peaceful, calm person, but maybe it was because he had always taken care to appear so in front of her.

  Mortenson circled the table and charged with his fists raised. Thomas stepped aside. When the boy lurched past him, Thomas grabbed the collar of his jacket with one hand, the seat of his pants with the other and lifted him in the air. The boy kicked and thrashed. One of the blows connected with a thud against Thomas’s cheek.

  Charlotte jumped up and down. “There’s no brawling here,” she yelled. “You are my guests. I’m a lady. There’s no brawling here.”

  No one listened to her.

  Brawling was exactly what they wanted.

  * * *

  Thomas didn’t like fighting. It didn’t seem fair. His size, strength and reach gave him an advantage which tipped the balance in his favor. But sometimes pressure built up inside a man, like the steam builds up inside an engine, and then a man had no choice but to let it out before he did something worse.

  The three miners ganged up against him. Thomas didn’t mind. It evened the odds a bit. But not much.

  Jenkins danced and dipped and darted about, delivering quick jabs. The man had the benefit of some boxing training, Thomas could tell from his fancy footwork. The Austrian, Rathke, was the most tenacious. Mortenson fought dirty. The tooth marks on Thomas’s arm were proof of that.