His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  “I think I’d prefer to wait for a bit. Perhaps I’ll come and visit later, after you have returned home and put up the memorial for Maude.”

  “That would suit me very well,” Charlotte said softly.

  Mr. Wakefield fidgeted in his seat. “Miss Fairfax... I’m sorry about...” He pointed his finger like a gun and waved it about, imitating how he’d threatened her with the weapon. “I bear no ill will,” he went on quietly. “If anything, you helped Maude...showed her kindness and respect in death.”

  Charlotte wiped away a tear. “I’m not blameless. Far from it. I caused you to travel all the way out here in false hope. And I blurted out her secret when I had no right to do so.”

  “Maybe the journey did me good. And secrets always come out anyway.” He held out his hand. “I wish you well, Miss Fairfax.”

  “And I you, Mr. Wakefield.”

  Charlotte took his hand, felt the trembling of it, although the young man was succeeding in pulling himself together. Perhaps she should remain longer with him, Charlotte thought, but she was eager to see Thomas. She left Mr. Wakefield at the Imperial Hotel and hurried over to the doctor’s house.

  Thomas was outside by the hitching rail, mounting on Shadow. He held one arm stiff, and she could see the white of the bandage peeking through the tear in his shirt.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’ll live.”

  “Are you going?”

  He didn’t meet her eyes. “I have chores to get on with.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  He finished tying on whatever he’d purchased at the mercantile and turned to face her. He shot her a sharp glance from beneath the brim of his hat. “Do you think I enjoy being shot at and humiliated in public?”

  “Humiliated...I...” She took a deep breath. “What have I done that is so very wrong...? I didn’t kill poor Miss Jackson.”

  “No. But you lied and deceived, and now you’ve spilled her secrets to the world.” Thomas tugged at the stirrup strap, although it didn’t need straightening. “It was one thing to have our marriage annulled because you didn’t suit for the life out here. It’s another thing for everyone to know that you fooled me from the start. And I never intended to announce it to the world that I had arranged to marry a woman who carried another man’s child. I had my reasons for it, but they were my own.”

  “I...” Charlotte closed her eyes, then blinked them open again and saw the stark, angry expression on Thomas’s face. Every word he said was true.

  “Mr. Wakefield has forgiven me,” she said quietly. “Can’t you?”

  “Mr. Wakefield will leave on the train next Thursday and can put today behind him. I live here. Today will be part of all my tomorrows.”

  Making no more comment, saying no more goodbye, Thomas mounted on Shadow, wheeled the horse around and rode away from her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charlotte went back to the schoolhouse, tumbled into bed. Tomorrow, she would borrow a horse from Dottie Timmerman and ride out to Thomas and make him listen. She’d tell the children there was no school and leave first thing after breakfast.

  She’d find a way to earn his trust and forgiveness. Then she’d persuade him that she was the only suitable bride for him and they would figure out an honorable way to release him from any contract with a second bride. Next, she would convince him she was competent with farm chores. And finally, she would make him understand that she loved him.

  Four steps. Difficult. But not impossible.

  All night, Charlotte tossed and turned on the narrow cot behind the blanket curtain, trying to come up with a workable plan. In the morning, she woke up fuzzy headed, and had barely finished dressing when someone was banging at the door.

  Oh, no. Not again. She hurried to the door, pulled it open. It was Timothy Perkins, clutching a breakfast biscuit in his hand. “They want you at the Imperial Hotel.” He took a bite out of his biscuit, whirled on his feet and skipped away.

  They? Who they? Who could want her now?

  Charlotte picked up her silver-backed mirror and checked her reflection. Her face was pale. Dark shadows beneath her eyes gave her a wanton look. Flyaway curls framed her face, but she decided not to take the time to repair her upsweep.

  Nerves shot through her belly as she left the schoolhouse and hurried along the dusty street to the Imperial Hotel. In the lobby, two square tables had been pushed together. Behind them, three people sat in a row.

  Gus Osborn.

  Gladys Hayes.

  Art Langley.

  “This is the meeting of the town council of Gold Crossing,” Miss Hayes boomed. Dressed in a purple gown that strained at the seams, she was sitting in the middle. The short, squat Gus Osborn on one side and the tall, gaunt Art Langley on the other looked like a pair of unmatched bookends flanking her.

  “Gold Crossing has no town council,” Charlotte remarked.

  “With the rapid expansion of the town, it was deemed appropriate to establish one,” Miss Hayes informed her. And then she launched into a speech about moral values and how a schoolteacher formed the minds of the young generation and needed to be above reproach.

  “Did you not live with Mr. Greenwood as man and wife under false pretenses?” she trumpeted, bosom heaving, layers of chins wobbling. “Did you not assume another woman’s identity? Did you not lie and deceive?”

  “I...I...” Charlotte faltered. What could she say? It was all true.

  The knot in her stomach tightened as she listened to Miss Hayes pronounce her unworthy and terminate her employment as a schoolteacher. Gus Osborn and Art Langley looked sheepish but said nothing in her defense.

  Charlotte fought back. “It will take months to find another teacher.”

  “The school will close for the summer vacation.”

  “You owe me twenty dollars for two weeks’ pay.”

  Art Langley stirred in his seat. “You can continue to live in the schoolhouse until the beginning of September. The rent is twenty dollars. That will make us even.”

  “But the influence on the children...” Miss Hayes started with vigor, but tapered into silence, moral outrage defeated by the prospect of parting with twenty dollars.

  Gus Osborn banged a gavel against the tabletop to conclude the town council meeting. Charlotte found herself ushered out into the street, jobless and in disgrace. It had been wrong, so terribly wrong, what she had done. The list of people she’d hurt seemed endless.

  She had six weeks until the beginning of September.

  Six weeks to sort out the mess she had made of everything.

  * * *

  Thomas stood in forlorn silence at the edge of the cornfield. Water dripped from the brim of his hat and ran down his back inside the collar of his rain slicker. After a month of drought the skies had opened and not closed again. It never rained this hard in July. And it certainly never rained for three days solid.

  The gunshot wound throbbed at the top of his arm. He’d worked from dawn to dusk, digging drainage channels, erecting stone walls to fortify the banks of the creek against flooding. It was no use. Even if he had the full use of both arms, it was too late to save the crops. The roots were rotting. The corn would die before it could ripen.

  Bitter and defeated, Thomas walked up the muddy slope toward the cabin. He would lose the farm. He had borrowed money from the bank with the promise to pay it back in August. He had counted on making enough when he sold the crops to the stores in Flagstaff and Jerome, but he’d be lucky if he harvested enough to keep from starving until the bank evicted him.

  Was there no end to his bad luck?

  In the cabin, he lit a fire in the stove, put on a pot of coffee and sat at the table. He fought the urge to abandon the fields to their fate and ride into town, just to get a glimps
e of Charlotte. He needed something good in his life, some tiny spark of joy, even if it was just looking at her from afar.

  The anger that had flared in him after she revealed to the entire town that she had deceived him about her identity had evaporated, even before he reached home that day. Now he regretted his sharp words at her.

  His eyes fell on the sheet of paper on the table. Of course, when he’d visited the post office just before he’d been shot, there hadn’t been any letter for him from Michigan. He’d threatened to write every week until he received a reply. Last night, he had started another letter. Thomas pulled the piece of paper closer and stared at it.

  Dear Mother

  He’d never got beyond the first two words.

  He heard shouts outside. The whinnying of a horse, wagon wheels creaking. What an odd time for someone to visit, on a rainy afternoon. He went to the door. The wagon had already turned around and was heading back up the slope. A small figure wearing a green skirt and jacket was hurrying out of the rain, up the porch steps.

  Charlotte.

  His heart gave a single hard thump. For a second, happiness at the sight of her enveloped him, so powerful his body shook with the emotion. Then Thomas considered their circumstances, and his pleasure faded. He’d lost everything. All he had left was his honor. He had to make her leave before he lost that, too.

  At first, Charlotte rushed toward him with eager footsteps, almost making him believe that she was about to launch herself into his arms. Then she must have noticed his brooding scowl, for she halted beneath the porch canopy.

  “Two prospectors were going by,” she told him. “They gave me a ride in their wagon. I would have come earlier, but Dottie refused to let me have her horse. She said it’s too dangerous to ride across the desert in the rain.”

  “You shouldn’t have come.” His tone was strained.

  “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I am all right.”

  He returned to the table. Charlotte glanced around the cabin, went to the stove, opened the hatch and threw another stick of firewood into the flames. “I thought you might need help,” she said lightly.

  “I don’t need help.”

  “I suspect you do.” She peered into the milk jug, then into the stone jar where he stored fresh eggs. Both were empty. He’d not collected the eggs and, too exhausted to cook, he’d had nothing but milk for his breakfast, lunch and dinner, adding indigestion to his growing list of woes.

  Charlotte marched to the door, paused to take his rain slicker from the peg on the wall and pulled it on. The garment swamped her.

  “I won’t be long,” she said.

  Unable to stop himself, Thomas followed her. She went to the barn. The rain had eased to a drizzle. He didn’t feel the damp on his skin. He didn’t seem to feel anything at all.

  The chickens clucked with joy as Charlotte walked in. Polk danced around her feet. Harrison hurried to the wood stack, proudly leading her to a hidden egg.

  Did chickens recognize people? Perhaps they did. Thomas watched Charlotte search, listened to her crooning and chattering to the hens, as if the creatures were beloved pets. When her basket was full, she handed it to him.

  “Take these in. I’ll be a moment longer.”

  He left her, assuming she wanted to visit the privy. Back in the cabin, he sat down at the table and stared at the unfinished letter.

  Dear Mother

  Words refused to come. When the door opened, it occurred to Thomas he’d lost track of time. Twilight was already falling, throwing shadows into the cabin.

  Charlotte walked in with the milk pail, poured the contents into the jug.

  “You don’t know how to milk,” Thomas said with a frown.

  “I reached an understanding with Rosamund. If she gives up the milk, I’ll stop bothering her.”

  Memories of their days together flooded over Thomas. It didn’t matter that she lacked the skills of a farm wife. It hadn’t mattered from the start. Her good humor, her pleasure in simple things more than made up for it.

  “When will the wagon fetch you back?” he asked.

  “It won’t. You can take me back tomorrow.”

  “You can’t stay here for the night.”

  “I’ve stayed before.”

  “Before, I thought you were my wife.”

  “I don’t understand.” She contemplated him, appearing genuinely puzzled. “Until Miss Hayes decided to stir up trouble, no one seemed to mind that I had lived here with you for two weeks, even though our marriage was later annulled. Why should it be any different from me living here now?”

  Thomas tried to explain. It surprised him she didn’t see it herself. Maybe people from big cities had a different moral code from small-town folks. “Marriage is a powerful shield to protect a woman’s reputation. Before the annulment, you had the benefit of that shield, and then, the annulment was proof that the marriage had not been consummated. Now, if you stay here, you don’t have that shield, and when you leave, you won’t have that proof.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You should. You’re a schoolteacher, with a reputation to protect.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Thomas listened to the tale of how she had been dismissed. Anger rose in him. “Miss Hayes,” he muttered. “She’s a professional spinster. No man ever wanted her. She resents the idea that men look at other women and find in them what she lacked.”

  “And what do you find, when you look at me, Thomas?”

  Charlotte’s hazel eyes searched his. His breath stalled. The words had sounded as if she was offering herself to him. I see beauty and courage and joy and everything I ever wanted. Only now I have no home to offer to a woman.

  The loss of all his hopes and dreams crashed over Thomas. He stared at the letter in front of him and spoke in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter what I see. You are an educated woman, fragile and tender, unused to hard work. You can’t stay here. I can’t take the risk that you’ll be forced to tie yourself to me and find the life too hard and begin to hate me. I grew up being hated by everyone around me. I can’t bear the thought of suffering the same fate again.”

  Thomas had been keeping his eyes on the unfinished letter while he spoke. Now he glanced up at Charlotte. Her expression reflected confusion and disbelief. The words, never spoken out loud, poured out of Thomas, harsh and bitter.

  “I was born thirteen months after my father went off to join the gold rush at Comstock Lode. He came back three years later to find some other man’s bastard in his house. I’ve heard people whisper that a drifter, a big man with fair hair, had been sleeping in the barn, helping with the farm chores. He spoke little English. Some say he was Russian, some say Polish. My mother has never told me if he took her by force but I assume he must have done.”

  “But Thomas...it wasn’t your fault...”

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t my fault. But I bore the hate.” He picked up the letter, crumpled it in his fist. No point in writing another one. “I know you’re alone, and you have no one looking after you, and it might seem like a solution to come back to me, but you must not. It would be a mistake.” He got up to his feet and headed for the door. “I’ll go and sleep in the barn. In the morning, I’ll take you back into town.”

  With those words, Thomas walked away. Walked away, clinging to the fear, to the sense of defeat, and to some vague idea of honor, instead of reaching for the happiness he had for a few short weeks believed could be his.

  * * *

  It was all going terribly wrong. She’d had a plan. First she would show Thomas her competence as a farm wife. Then she’d tell him that she loved him. Then he would forgive her for having deceived him. Then they would deal with the problem of his second bride.

  Four steps, in the order she had
decided might work best.

  But now, she was bouncing on the wagon bench beside him, on her way back into town. In some odd way, the journey seemed identical to their original trip when he had fetched her from the Imperial Hotel, only they were going in the opposite direction, and at a much greater speed.

  The same troubled silence.

  The same emotion-filled glances.

  He cared about her. She knew he did. But something had come between them. Something new. Something even worse than before. Charlotte had felt his rejection from the first moment she stepped into the cabin last night. The cold, hostile shield she’d felt around him had meant that although she’d made good progress with step number one—showing him she was a competent farm wife—she’d not had the courage to do anything about step number two—telling him that she loved him.

  Thomas deposited her outside the schoolhouse. The earth was soft and slippery. The sun was out, but the smell of mud hung thick in the air. To start with, Charlotte thought he expected her to climb down on her own, but then he jumped down to the ground, circled the wagon and lifted her from the bench, a pair of strong hands curled about her waist.

  She touched her fingertips to his cheek. “What’s wrong, Thomas?”

  He set her on her feet. “You should not do that. Miss Hayes is watching. I saw the curtains twitch in her window when we drove by.” With that parting comment, he climbed back up to the wagon bench, gave a command to Trooper and rolled the wagon away along the muddy street.

  Charlotte watched him pull up outside the mercantile. He didn’t come out again. She waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Eventually, she gave up the waiting and went into the schoolhouse, then came out again and resumed her waiting.

  An hour later, Thomas finally strode out of the mercantile. He paused on the porch of the Imperial Hotel, tacked a poster to the wall, then did the same outside the railroad station.