by Zina Abbott
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Mail Order Lorena
Widows, Brides & Secret Babies
Book 17
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Zina Abbott
Copyright © 2020 Robyn Echols writing as Zina Abbott
All rights reserved.
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Dedication
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This book is dedicated to all whose ancestors lived on the American frontier.
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Acknowledgements
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A special thank you goes to
Linda Carroll-Bradd of Lustre Editing for proof-reading this manuscript,
To Virginia McKevitt of Black Widow Covers for the book cover.
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Disclaimer
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All the characters described in this story are fictional. They are not based on any real persons, past or present. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, is coincidental and unintended.
Map of Kansas Trails, Forts and Stagecoach Stations
Butterfield Overland Despatch – 1865-66
Holladay Overland Mail and Express –
Smoky Hill Division – 1866
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Prologue
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Little Rock, Arkansas
November 24, 1864
L orena Mayfield knew that when most people in the South thought back on this month of November in 1864, they would think of it as the month when General Stirling Price’s attempt to take Missouri for the Confederacy failed. However, for her, it would be the month in which she lost her father—her beloved papa—to the heart ailment that had plagued him for the past several years. As she gazed out the front window of the rectory, not for the first time, she mulled over the question of what the future held.
Too unsettling a topic to dwell upon, she turned her memory once more to the day that not only changed her life for the worst, but led to her being forced from her home of the past twelve years—November second. Gray-faced and struggling for the breath needed to project his words beyond the pulpit to the smattering of congregants—mostly women, children and older men—Daniel Adams preached his last sermon. That afternoon, although he left most of his food on his plate, he complimented Lorena on the dinner she prepared. He rose from the table and settled in his favorite chair next to the window to catch the afternoon light while he read his Holy Bible.
After she finished clearing the table and washing dishes, Lorena checked on her father. She discovered he had fallen asleep with his scriptures open and the bottom edge resting in his lap. His hand held the book pressed against his abdomen. She removed the book, straightened the page that had crinkled, and set it on the table. She next found a small pillow to support the side of his head, which rested at an angle in the direction of his right shoulder. She covered his legs with his favorite crocheted afghan her mother completed mere months before her death and tucked the top edges around his shoulders. She recalled sitting in her own chair by the other window that bracketed the fireplace. She embroidered a lavender floral design on a white linen handkerchief in preparation for the thirteenth month anniversary of the death of her husband, Edward Mayfield. At that time, she would enter six more months of half-mourning. She hummed several hymns she knew her father enjoyed. She rose from her chair to feed the chickens and coax them back into their coop for the evening. When she returned from that chore, she realized her father had entered his eternal rest.
In an effort to return her thoughts to the practical, Lorena blinked and inhaled. The past few weeks had been consumed with responding to letters of condolence and sorting through her parents’ personal possessions. Several she had crated or packed in a pair of barrels. Not two hours earlier, shippers loaded them on a wagon to begin their journey to Arabella’s home, where she knew her sister and brother-in-law had a barn in which to store them. Once she arrived at her sister’s home, the two women could go through the items and decide who would keep what.
She turned her gaze toward the foyer. She had already packed the majority of her personal clothing in her trunk and a valise, which now waited by the front door for her departure in the morning. The few clothes she would need for traveling as far as Carthage, Missouri, her needlework, and her Bible she would place in her carpetbag upon arising. After breakfast, she would leave the rectory for good. She planned to stay with the Osgoods over the weekend, listen to the new pastor’s sermon this Sunday, and board the stagecoach to begin her journey to her sister’s home on Monday.
The Osgoods had invited her to come today, Thanksgiving Day, but she had declined. She gave as her excuse that she did not wish to intrude on their family celebration. The truth of the matter was, she could not bear a celebration of thanks. This past year, she had lost the two important men in her life. She must leave the home she had known as hers since she was a young girl—her home even after she married Edward. Since Edward enlisted when Arkansas entered the Confederacy in May of 1861, they persuaded her father to allow them to marry before Edward reported for duty. He gave up his rooms and stayed at the rectory with her.
Edward, oh, Edward! I miss you so. And, Papa—you were my rock. Now both of you are gone. Lorena reached inside her sleeve and pulled out her handkerchief—dyed black, like everything else she wore. The comments, intended as compliments, she received that, with her dark brunette hair, dark eyes, and pale complexion, the black flattered her appearance rather than washed out her skin, brought her no comfort. She dabbed her eyes and then looked down at the dreary cloth square, now faded after several washings. The white handkerchief she worked on the day her father died now lay in the bottom of her trunk. Even though June third—the anniversary of the day Edward fell at Cold Harbor, Virginia—was a little more than six months away, she would continue to wear full mourning until then for her father, as well as Edward.
Lorena fought down the anger that threatened to rise. In spite of her grief over losing her husband and father, and as unhappy as she felt over losing her home, she knew God had not abandoned her. Others besides her suffered a similar, if not even more distressing, future. After all, she did have her sister to go to for the short term. Why must I keep reminding myself of my blessings? I must have faith. Surely, in the overall scheme of things, all would work out for her good—would it not?
A knock on the front door snapped her out of the downward spiral of grief and despair she fought to keep herself from sinking into. She stood frozen in place, wondering, who could be calling? Did they not see the black draping around the door signaling a recent death? However, since her father no longer lived in the house to answer the door, and since George, Betsy and their two sons no longer were there, it now fell to her to see who came to call. She must decide whether or not to open the door.
Fingering her mourning brooch with a lock of Edward’s hair inside, Lorena quietly stepped over to the window and parted the curtain. A man with his back to her stood outside. He wore a camel-colored, wool suit coat over dark trousers. Above his collar, she made out the white stand-up neckband of his shirt and the edge of a black necktie. A fringe of slightly too long, dark blond hair brushed the top of his clothes.
The man turned until he faced her, his gaze locking on the part in the lace curtain.
Lorena dropped her hand and stepped back. A wave of warmth spread up her neck and onto her face. He, no doubt, realized she watched him through the window rather than coming directly to the door. She straightened and inhaled. Why should she not be cautio
us? She was a woman alone now. City residents had spent over four years living in uncertain conditions. First, Arkansas abandoned its initial resistance to leave the Union. Second, after suffering defeat by Union forces, which took over the state government here in Little Rock in 1863, the city found itself surrounded by a large hostile populace who recognized a different Confederate state capitol—first in Hot Springs, and then in Washington, Hempstead County.
Lorena squared her shoulders and moved to the door. Now wishing she carried her father’s Colt pocket pistol hidden in her clothing, she opened the door to greet her visitor. As he turned to face her, she jerked her chin up and leaned back. From his appearance, he looked to be someone she should recognize, but she felt certain she had never met him before. She kept her face expressionless as she watched his gaze roam over her from her brunette hair, worn parted in the center and pulled back into a conservative chignon, to the hem of her now-fading black gown. “May I help you?”
A hint of a smile on his lips, his gaze met hers and held it. “Mrs. Mayfield?”
“Yes, I am Mrs. Mayfield. Please state your business, sir.” She still could not place him.
His smile widened into a grin. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Lorena straightened her body to her full height and, curling her fingers, hooked her hands at her waist. “I’m afraid not, sir. If we have met in the past, I do not recall the occasion.”
“We are family, Mrs. Mayfield. My father told me of my brother’s death once I returned home from the war.”
Lorena sucked in a breath. Of course. This was Edward’s younger half-brother by his father’s second wife. Lorena never met Timothy before, although among Edward’s possessions she packed away in her trunk was a daguerreotype taken in studio a few years before the war. The senior Mr. Mayfield sat in a wooden chair with an upholstered cushion, flanked by his current wife and a teen-aged Timothy wearing his hair much shorter than at present.
Edward had been ten years older than Lorena. He told her Timothy was her same age but born two months after her birth. Now, he was no longer a boy, but a mature man.
She studied his face. She guessed his blond hair, blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and more rounded face he inherited from his mother. Lorena knew she descended from one of the German families that settled in St. Louis, Edward’s home city. However, the shape of his jaw, his eyes, his eyebrows, forehead, and hairline—they came from his father. She saw in them the same features Edward had inherited. No wonder he looked so familiar. “Welcome, Mr. Mayfield—Timothy—it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Please, come in.” She opened the door wider and motioned him into the foyer.
Lorena began to lead him into the parlor with furniture now bereft of the packed-away personal photographs, table scarves, and knick-knacks she once used to decorate it. She stopped and turned back to face him once she realized he failed to follow her. She stiffened her posture and lifted her chin as she watched him, his hands on his hips, peruse her once more.
“So, you are Edward’s widow.”
The tone he used, one she sensed held a hint of derision, prompted a shudder of unease to course through Lorena. Did she imagine he held something against her? How could he? She had never done anything wrong or hurtful to him or anyone in the Mayfield family.
The times she wrote to his and Edward’s parents, she had never criticized or found fault with any family member. She did mention, early on in her marriage, that Edward joined the 3rd Arkansas Infantry, a Confederate regiment that enlisted for the duration of the war, and he served as a second lieutenant. However, she quickly learned that, like so many living in St. Louis, the elder Mayfield supported the existing government. Timothy joined a Union regiment. In her letters, she refrained from referring to anything political. She shared no details of how the conflict progressed locally. She did not wish to be the source of discord within her husband’s family.
What reason could he possibly have to resent her? I must be imagining things. “Yes, you are correct. Would you care to take a seat in the parlor, Mr. Mayfield? I am happy to offer you tea.”
“Timothy. I’m your brother-in-law, remember?” Timothy entered the parlor and looked around the room. “I had hoped for something stronger than tea.”
Lorena shook her head. “No, this is a rectory. Timothy. My father did not keep spirits in the house. He was of the opinion that doing so would set a poor example for his flock.”
Timothy huffed sardonically. “I doubt staying sober is a necessary qualification for being a spiritual leader. Our company chaplain, or so he billed himself, drank more than any man I know.” He slid a gloved hand along the top of a table. “It appears that you have either sold everything but the furniture, or it was stolen.”
Lorena’s thoughts whirled. The stories Edward told you about him took place when he was a child. He is a grown man now. You must not assume the worst. She chose her words carefully. “While he was still alive, my father and I did sell a few things to get by. You see, with the difficulties of the war, his congregants struggled to continue to provide the financial support we enjoyed before. What I have left, I packed and shipped off to my sister’s home.”
Wearing a wry smile, he turned back to her. “And you saved nothing for yourself? That is taking Christian charity to an extreme, is it not?”
“I will shortly be joining my sister. The new pastor and his family are due to arrive this Friday. I will be leaving the house tomorrow to stay with friends until Monday. From there, I leave on the stagecoach.” As she observed Timothy study her, Lorena again experienced the sensation of something crawling over her skin. It is just nerves. You are apprehensive about the changes in your life now you must leave all that has been familiar all these years. You did not expect him. “Excuse me, Timothy. I’ll return soon with the tea.” She fled the room before he could respond.
Lorena managed to hold her hands steady as she brought in the tea tray. The plain china pot and cups came with the rectory, and she intended to leave them behind after she used and washed them the following morning. She noticed Timothy sat on the small settee. She placed the tray on the table in front and sat in a chair set almost at a right angle to the sofa. She poured out a cup and handed it to him. “I apologize for not being able to offer any cream. Also, sweetener has been very dear for months.”
Timothy studied Lorena as he leaned back and sipped his tea. “Where does your sister live?”
“Carthage, Missouri.”
“And who will be traveling with you, Lorena?”
Lorena’s shoulders twitched at his use of her first name. He might be her brother-in-law, but she did not feel they were on close enough terms to use first names as he insisted. “I am traveling alone. It will be a short journey—no more than five days.”
Timothy set his cup and saucer on the tray and leaned toward her, his forearm braced by his knee. “You should not travel alone, Lorena.”
Lorena blinked. “I’m sure it is very proper, Timothy. I am a widow, not an unmarried young woman.”
“It might be proper enough to be considered acceptable, but that does not make it safe. Allow me to escort you. As your brother-in-law, it is not only my duty to see to your well-being, but it would be the least I can do for my late brother’s widow.”
Lorena’s lips quivered. Normally, an offer of escort would appeal to her. However, the idea of traveling with this brother-in-law, a man two months her junior about whom she knew very little except by reputation, shared with her by her late husband, of Timothy’s younger days, did not bring her a sense of comfort. You are being silly. He is family. “That is a generous offer, Mr. Mayfield—Timothy. However, I would not wish to inconvenience you. I’m sure you have other business you must see to.”
Timothy shook his head. “At this time, Lorena, my only business is to see to your welfare. I came here for that express purpose. Knowing you lost Edward, and then learning from the letter you sent my father informing him of your father’s passing, I came to see
how I might be of assistance. Please allow me to escort you.”
Lorena swallowed and looked down at her hands holding her cup of tea. I mustn’t misjudge him because I know of a few of his youthful antics. Judge not that ye be not judged. “Thank you, Timothy. If you are certain you are in a position to stay in town until Monday and then travel with me. I’m sure the Osgoods will not mind you calling on me at their home.”
Timothy stood. “If there is nothing more keeping you here for the four days, other than a desire to visit longer with friends, I prefer to leave tomorrow. Do you have your ticket already?”
Nothing is really holding me here. Dare I agree? “Yes, I have my ticket. I’m not sure if the stagecoach company can change it to an earlier date. Besides, I don’t think they leave until Friday.”
“Leave it to me, Lorena. I have business to see to in another city on the way, and the coach we will take leaves mid-morning tomorrow. We can cash in your ticket. I’ll pick up any extra cost for the new tickets you’ll need, plus the extra hotel room costs.” He held her gaze as he offered her a slight bow. “Thank you for allowing me to perform this small service for you.”
Lorena blinked. Too many changes too fast. “Thank you, Timothy. I appreciate your offer.” In the event of the stagecoach being attacked by ruffians, he would afford me greater protection than Papa’s pocket pistol. “I accept. I’ll have everything ready in the morning by seven o’clock.”
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November 25, 1865
That evening, after a late supper at the coaching inn, Lorena waited for Timothy to unlock the door and hold it open before she entered her room. Again, she found her gaze drawn to Timothy’s valise stacked with her trunk, valise, and carpetbag against the wall by the dressing table. He left it there after paying the youthful hotel clerk to bring up her trunk, giving the explanation that he preferred to return downstairs to the dining room to eat before they closed the restaurant for the night. He ordered and paid for a nice roast beef and mashed potatoes supper—something neither her budget nor the wartime distribution chain in Little Rock had allowed her to afford for over a year.