Christmas Mail Order Angels: The complete 11 Volume Set

by Darlene Franklin

  Alaska Weddings (3 novels set in contemporary Alaska)

  Mainely Mysteries (3 murder mysteries co-authored with Megan Elaine Davis)

  Mailbox Mayhem (two police stories set in Maine)

  See all of Susan’s books at her website: www.susanpagedavis.com

  A Christmas Rose

  A Christmas Mail Order Angels Novella

  By Brandi Boddie

  For a complete list of titles, visit Brandi’s Amazon Author page

  Cover design by Cynthia Hickey.

  A Christmas Rose. Copyright 2015 by Brandi Boddie.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be resold, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. Piracy is illegal. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, dialogue, incidents, and places either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my readers

  Chapter 1

  Angel Vale, Wyoming, September 1877

  Rosalie Chalmers adjusted her hat and circled the boardwalk in front of Underwood Mercantile, eager to stretch her legs after the twenty-five mile wagon ride from the train station to the small town of Angel Vale, Wyoming. Relieving the pins and needles in her legs wasn’t the only thing she was eager to do, however. She was quite anxious to meet Mr. Isaac Baker, the man she would soon call her husband.

  As a mail order bride, she wrote and received letters from him over the summer, but their exchanges were short and to the point. She had little inkling of what he looked like except that he shared her rich brown skin color.

  She smiled politely at the few mail order brides who resided on the boardwalk with her, also waiting for their prospective grooms to appear. There were once ten ladies, but most of them had met the men with whom they were matched and proceeded to leave for their temporary lodgings in a building serving as a makeshift boarding house.

  Where was Mr. Baker? Rosalie craned her neck to see a number of the town’s populace, practically all men, walk up and down the unpaved dirt road of Main Street. Some of the men glanced at her in curiosity while others moved on in a hurry. Rosalie hoped Mr. Baker hadn’t forgotten the day of her arrival. She didn’t know what to do in a new place so far from her hometown of Merville, Maine.

  She returned to the end of the boardwalk where her trunk and smaller valise resided. She didn’t take many belongings with her on the long journey across the country. When her aunt passed away last spring, she had to sell most of her possessions in order to pay for the burial. Rosalie touched an area over her heart where a small ache formed. Aunt Naomi had been the only family she’d ever known. Now she had only God and herself to rely on. She hoped it would be enough.

  Rosalie straightened when she saw a wagon approach the mercantile. The pair of horses kicked up a cloud of dust, partially obscuring her view of the driver. She fanned her hand in front of her face. Fine particles of dirt and grit irritated the delicate linings of her nose and mouth. She coughed and sneezed twice.

  Rosalie removed her handkerchief from the small reticule at her wrist and dabbed at the tears forming in her eyes. Once the dust settled, she got a good look at the man driving the horses. He sat tall on the wagon bench, his legs appearing a little too long for the seat. A long tan duster and beige shirt covered his wide shoulders and trim torso. Leather gloves protected his hands from the bite of the horses’ reins and the heat of early autumn sun beaming down over the land.

  The man wore a wide-brimmed hat similar to those Rosalie saw on the heads of rugged frontiersman whose images decorated the front pages of gazettes and adventure novels. He lifted his head and removed his hat. Dark brown intelligent eyes peered at her from a face distinguished by a broad brow and wide cheekbones that angled downward into a strong, square chin. Coffee brown skin stretched over his pleasing features. He appeared to be in his early thirties. “My name’s Isaac Baker. You must be Miss Rosalie Chalmers,” he spoke to her in a robust tenor.

  “Yes, I am.” Rosalie smoothed the front of her travel dress in a moment of self-consciousness. The dirt from her long journey by train left a grimy film on her clothes and under her fingernails that no amount of scrubbing seemed to completely wash away. She’d done her best to wash her face and hands at the station, but there was little else she could accomplish short of a vat of steaming hot water and a fat cake of soap. Did Mr. Baker notice the state of her appearance? She wished she had a chance to change dresses before meeting her groom.

  Mr. Baker’s eyes conducted an expedient, sweeping glance of her from head to toe, though he gave no visible reaction to her appearance. “I’ll take you to the building where you’ll stay until our wedding.”

  Rosalie blinked twice. Was that his greeting, a simple statement of his intention to take her from one location to the next? He didn’t even say “Welcome to Angel Vale”. Even the wagon driver who transported her and the other mail order brides from the train station managed to utter that much. “I’ll need help with my trunk,” she informed him while stooping to pick up her valise.

  Mr. Baker climbed down from the wagon. When his large boots touched the ground beside her, she saw he was well over six feet tall, dwarfing her five-foot-four-inch frame. He seized the metal ring on the side of the old, scuffed trunk and dragged it from the boardwalk to the side of the wagon.

  “You need a hand there, Isaac?” Rosalie heard a man call to him from the doorway of the mercantile.

  Mr. Baker gave him a nod. “If you don’t mind grabbing the other end of the trunk, Wyatt.”

  The man named Wyatt came to the boardwalk. He had a short, stocky build, with blond hair and a mustache of a slightly darker color. Like many of the men Rosalie had seen in passing, his clothes were worn and frayed around the shirt cuffs and pants hem. He grabbed hold of his end of the trunk and helped lift the heavy item from the ground. The two men had it in the back of the wagon within seconds.

  “Thanks.” Mr. Baker said after making sure the trunk was secure.

  “You’re welcome.” Wyatt turned away from him to stare at Rosalie. “Is this here the little wife you bought from a catalogue?”

  Rosalie’s lips parted in surprise at the man’s frank speech. Wyatt smirked at her reaction. Mr. Baker didn’t see it, though his jaw lined up evenly as he regarded Rosalie. “Her name is Miss Chalmers. We’ll be married within a few days.”

  “How do you do, sir?” Rosalie greeted Wyatt as proper manners dictated.

  He tilted his hat. “Wyatt Lester.” His gray eyes roved over her in such a way that she felt inclined to fold her arms to shield herself. “You don’t look like a girl from anywhere near these parts.”

  “She’s from back east,” Mr. Baker answered before she had a chance to respond. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take Miss Chalmers to her lodgings. She’s had a long trip and needs to rest.”

  Rosalie welcomed a chance to refresh herself after a lengthy journey, but she could tell Mr. Baker said it in order to make a polite exit from Wyatt.

  The blond-haired man nodded. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you from your little lady. Nice meetin’ you, Miss Chalmers, soon-to-be Mrs. Baker. I’ll see you around town, Isaac.” Wyatt tipped his hat again before ducking into the mercantile.

  “Are you ready, Miss Chalmers?” Mr. Baker came around to the side of the wagon to assist her in getting onto the bench.

  Rosalie expected him to simply give her foot a boost off the ground so she could climb up by herself. Instead, he placed his large hands about her waist and lifted her. She felt the strength of his hands even beneath the layers of his gloves and her clothing. A warm flutter went through her. Once her feet touched the floor of the wagon, she looked into his eyes. He returned her
gaze in what seemed to be a halting moment.

  Embarrassed, Rosalie averted her eyes and stared at her dust-caked boots. She had been a servant in a wealthy family’s household for years. It wasn’t as though a man had never helped her onto a wagon before. But this man was different. He wasn’t a paid driver who assisted her merely out of duty. This was a man she was going to spend her life with, a man she was going to call her husband in a very short while. “Thank you for assisting me, Mr. Baker.”

  The wagon shifted under his greater weight when he climbed onto the bench. “Call me by my first name Isaac. We’re going to be married soon. We may as well speak on familiar terms with each other.”

  “You may call me Rosalie, then.” Rosalie folded her hands in her lap in attempt to make more room for Isaac on the bench. It was still a tight fit. His leg brushed against the side of her thigh. His right arm pressed against hers. She drew in a breath as she was reintroduced to the warm flutter taking place within her body.

  Isaac took the reins and flicked them for the horses to move. The two animals pulled the wagon down Main Street. “The building where you’ll be staying is on the edge of town. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. One of my cows and her calf roamed too far this morning and I had to go looking for them.”

  Rosalie recalled reading in Isaac’s letters about his homestead property. He told her how he was able to purchase the land with the gold he acquired in his former days as a miner, though he didn’t provide a clear description of the property. He also didn’t mention the types of livestock he raised. Rosalie tried picturing what his residence looked like. Was it anything similar to what she saw in Angel Vale, where the buildings tended to be small and simple in structure? “In Maine, my old employer’s house was a few miles up the road from a dairy farm. Is your property similar to a farm, Mr. Baker—I mean, Isaac?”

  He shook his head. “On my homestead, I raise cattle, beans, a bit of wheat, and a few other crops. I sell some throughout the year and keep the rest to sustain myself, but it’s not a farm.”

  Rosalie failed to see how a homestead was any different from a farm, but she didn’t voice her confusion. Already feeling awkward around him, she didn’t wish to appear unschooled as well. “Angel Vale is small, but appears to be a growing town. Is your home close to Main Street?”

  “No, it’s several miles outside town. I don’t go into town very often, except for when I attend church or need to buy supplies at the mercantile.”

  “Where is the church?” She looked for a building with a steeple. She didn’t see one.

  “At the mercantile. The proprietor Jake Underwood is also the town’s pastor.”

  Rosalie bit her lip. Angel Vale was so small that the mercantile substituted for a church building. Isaac said he lived several miles out from the town. Did that mean his property was in an even more isolated and remote location?

  When she left the train station, she felt as though the outpost was the last vestige of civilization in a rugged western landscape. Merville was a small town, too, but the residents built their homes close together on the coast overlooking the ocean. Here in Wyoming, the land was so wide and sprawling she imagined there was enough room for every man to own thousands of acres with nary a neighbor for the next hundred miles.

  The wagon wheels rolled along in the road with a steady rhythm. Rosalie listened to it while she rode alongside Isaac in silence. They passed a rustic restaurant called Angel Vale Eatery and various small office buildings. She willed her mind to think of subjects to discuss. She was a quiet, reserved woman by nature. Her temperament was suitable in her previous place of employment, but now in her upcoming venture as the wife of a western homesteader, she didn’t know what to do.

  “In your letters, you described yourself as small, plain, and orderly, but I see it’s not the case.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rosalie glanced up at Isaac.

  He promptly cleared his throat. “I mean, where your appearance is concerned. You’re very pretty, not plain.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” She shuffled her hands in her lap. She wasn’t used to receiving compliments on her appearance. In her former life, she had only received praises for her neatness and attentiveness to the ladies in her employer’s household. Her presentation as a woman who might be deemed attractive was never considered. Even Aunt Naomi had frequently stressed how being capable was more important than being lovely to look at. Obviously, Isaac thought differently, and sought to esteem her for a different attribute.

  “The bedroom in my house isn’t finished,” he said. “It’s taking a few days longer to prepare than I expected. I hope it’s no trouble.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Rosalie replied quickly. Heat spread across the back of her neck and rose above the collar of her dress. At twenty-five, she was not oblivious as to what took place in the bedroom between a husband and wife. Still, the thought of being even closer to Isaac left her nervous. Was it not just fifteen minutes ago when they first introduced themselves to each other in person?

  A large building—relatively bigger than the storefronts and eatery they previously passed—appeared ahead. It was the only building in sight on the edge of town. Rosalie sat up taller as Isaac brought the wagon within ten feet of the entrance.

  He climbed down first and assisted her. He then proceeded to get her trunk from the wagon without aid since no other man was in sight. She hid her wince as the trunk hit the ground with a heavy thud. Rosalie followed Isaac out of the street as he dragged the trunk to the door of the building.

  The inside of the building reminded Rosalie of a storehouse. She supposed that was its future purpose. Multiple doors to individual storage rooms lined the walls.

  An older lady came out from behind a small table situated in a corner. Rosalie didn’t see her at first. The building was dim and she was tucked out of view from the doorway. “My name is Mrs. Agnes Phelps. Do we have another bride here for temporary lodging?” She looked expectantly at Rosalie.

  “Yes, Mrs. Phelps,” Isaac answered for her. “Miss Chalmers needs to stay here for a night or two until our wedding.”

  “I have a room ready. Follow me.” The matron directed them to where she wanted Rosalie to sleep. Once inside the tiny room, Isaac set Rosalie’s trunk in front of the bed. “The other ladies are having a meal in the adjoining room.” Mrs. Phelps pointed to a door nestled along the left wall. Would you like something to eat, Miss Chalmers?”

  Rosalie hadn’t eaten anything except a piece of buttered bread and cold coffee on the train earlier. She was so famished she feared her stomach’s growling would echo across the bare walls of the building. “Yes, I would enjoy a meal. Thank you.”

  “I’ll go and heat some water for you to wash. No doubt you wish to change out of those travel clothes.” Mrs. Phelps hummed as she went away. Rosalie assumed she left to also give her and Isaac a few minutes of privacy before he had to leave.

  Isaac walked towards the door, stopping in front of her. She could smell the leather of his coat and see the pupils of his eyes widen. “I’ll leave you to eat and rest, Rosalie. You’ll hear from me in the next day or so.”

  She managed a nod. He lingered before her for another moment and then returned to his wagon outside. As Rosalie watched him drive away, she knew when she saw him again, she would be sitting beside him on the bench. Practical strangers, they would travel together to his home as husband and wife. The thought left her both curious and frightened.

  Chapter 2

  Isaac thought of Rosalie on the way home. She was a beauty, with her almond-shaped brown eyes lined with thick lashes, and her heart-shaped face framed by thick mahogany hair. He wanted to touch the strands that peeked out from her hat. He imagined they were soft. Everything about Rosalie looked soft, from her delicate features to the smooth texture of her brown skin.

  He had his doubts about the mail order bride service at first. When the mercantile store owner Jake Underwood proposed the idea of seeking eleven brides for eleven m
en, Isaac didn’t think he would have much chance of finding a lady willing to join him out west, especially one who was black like him. In fact, when Isaac first came to the area five years ago, he was the only black miner to go prospecting for gold. It took coaxing from his friend and neighbor Tim to convince him to put down the fee for the service. “What do you got to lose?” Tim asked. “If Jake doesn’t find you a match, you’ll just be out of a few coins and the cost of postage.”

  Tim liked to joke. The fee was slightly higher than a few coins, but Isaac didn’t mind. He prayed for years, asking God to send a Christian woman with a kind heart his way to end his loneliness. If the Lord chose to provide a lady for him through less than conventional means, he wasn’t one to object.

  A nagging thought plagued him, however. Rosalie was quiet and withdrawing when they first met. He wondered whether she was pleased at the sight of him. Did he present himself well? He glanced down at his duster and the slight scuffs on his brown boots. He earned the scuffs from running after the lost calf. Maybe he should have changed into better clothes before going to town, but that would have delayed him longer. Surely Rosalie understood work on a homestead was rigorous, ongoing and more often than not, asserted priority over even the best-laid plans.

  Isaac allowed the horses to pull the wagon faster as his homestead came into view. The house stood out on the rolling green plains, surrounded by a field of wheat and plotted acreage of crops. The barn resided south of the house. Further west, large reddish-brown spots dotted the landscape. From the looks of things, his cattle were grazing peacefully. Tim did well to look after them while he was gone.

  Isaac found his friend and neighbor near the barn, preparing to put fresh hay on the recently swept floor. “Afternoon, Tim. Any news since I left?”

  “Nothing to report here.” Tim replied in his clipped Pennsylvania accent. He dropped a hay bale on the ground and wiped the sweat from his ruddy brow with a faded shirtsleeve. “Things have been quiet since we caught that cattle rustler last week and hauled him to the sheriff’s.”