Mail-Order Brides of the West: Trudy (A Montana Sky Series Novel)

by Debra Holland

  Seth’s smile charmed her. He held out his arm, and she tucked her hand around his forearm.

  They strolled down the street, sometimes stopping as Seth introduced her to the townsfolk. She caught a few stiff looks directed at her husband and wondered why. But everyone seemed friendly to her and wished them well. Some asked Trudy pointed questions in poorly veiled curiosity. Seemed to her, she’d made the same response at least ten times.

  At the Murphy’s two-story clapboard house, no one answered the door, so Seth ushered Trudy around the side. A knock on the kitchen door also yielded no response, so the two continued into the backyard, where they found the couple working in the garden.

  Black chickens ranged around the yard, pecking at the ground. A shed big enough to be a stable took up one corner of the back, and a henhouse the other. The privy stood in the middle.

  A woman in a faded brown dress, wearing an apron of nearly the same color, stooped over a raised herb bed. She straightened, looked down her sharp nose and scowled at them.

  But the man came forward, extended his hand to Seth, who introduced Trudy, and took off his hat to nod politely at her.

  Trudy gave him a warm smile.

  Mr. Murphy was thin and stooped. He had a plain face with folded skin, as if he’d lost weight, straggly mud-colored hair, and kind brown eyes. A blue knitted scarf draped around his neck. He didn’t look as though he belonged with his sharp-edged wife.

  “Mrs. Cobb sent us to you to buy some eggs,” Trudy said. “She’s run out of them. Also I need to purchase some pullets.”

  Mr. Murphy’s slow smile made her relax. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said in a soft Southern drawl. “My wife raises the best chickens in town.” He cast a fond look at the woman as she moved to join them.

  Mrs. Murphy gifted him with a quick appreciative turn of her lips, before her scowl at Trudy slid back into place.

  Trudy studied the black hens, speckled with white. Single red combs adorned their heads. The chickens looked plump and healthy, their eyes alert. “I have Javas at home in St. Louis and liked them for their meat,” she commented. “As a bonus, the chickens tended to be smart, have good dispositions, and lay nice medium-size eggs. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I can spare you two pullets.” The woman said in a grudging tone. “And half a dozen eggs.” She named a price that had Trudy inwardly frowning.

  “That seems high, Mrs. Murphy.” Trudy began negotiations, using a mild tone.

  But the woman, perhaps sensing Trudy’s desperation, wouldn’t budge on her price.

  Knowing Seth watched her, Trudy wanted to impress her husband with her shrewd bargaining skills. But Mrs. Murphy remained sour-faced and adamant. Embarrassed, Trudy had to restrain her frustration with the woman.

  Mr. Murphy shifted uneasily, but he didn’t intercede. It was obvious who wore the pants in this marriage. He coughed deep in his chest.

  His wife threw her husband an anxious glance, strode up to him, and wrapped the man’s scarf tighter around his neck, tucking the ends into his faded flannel shirt. “You should put a coat on,” she ordered. “The wind’s coming from the west.”

  He patted her shoulder. “Now, my dear. Don’t fret yourself over me.” He pointed at the chickens. “You go show off your flock. I want to see what Mr. Flanigan thinks of my new mule.”

  The woman’s lips firmed, but she obeyed, jabbing her finger at the hens in a silent command for Trudy to head in that direction and practically charging over to the birds. Upon reaching the first pecking pullet, Mrs. Murphy stopped to glance over her shoulder at her husband, an uneasy look on her face.

  “Your husband doesn’t sound well.” Trudy gingerly offered the words, half-expecting them to be flung back in her face.

  “He caught a chill this past winter. Settled in his lungs. He’s better, but hasn’t quite thrown off the effects.” At the statement, the woman’s lips tightened.

  “What does Dr. Cameron say?”

  “Thomas refuses to see him. Won’t spend the money, and that I agree with. Doctors often do more harm than good, and so I told Dr. Cameron when he tried to rub his nose into our business. But I tell you, Mrs. Flanigan, if my husband had gotten sicker, I would have overruled him and fetched Dr. Cameron. Yes, indeed.”

  “Have you tried yarrow, Mrs. Murphy?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Yarrow? You mean the weed?”

  “Yarrow can actually make a medicinal tea,” Trudy instructed. “It’s a good tonic and it can help with a cough. The tea should do Mr. Murphy a world of good.”

  The woman looked around the weed-free yard, as if the plant would have magically sprouted between the neat vegetable beds while they’d been talking.

  “I brought plenty of dried yarrow with me. I can bring you a batch tomorrow,” Trudy offered. “A bit of sage might also be helpful. I’ll give you some of those leaves as well.” She paused to think. “That is, if Seth can spare the team.” In a helpless gesture, Trudy held up her hands palms up. “I guess I have to get used to living in the country, not being able to walk or use the streetcars when I want to go somewhere.”

  Mrs. Murphy exhaled as if in relief, and her stiff shoulders relaxed. “No need to make the trip, Mrs. Flanigan. I’ll drive out there and collect those herbs myself.”

  “That will be lovely, Mrs. Murphy. Perhaps you can stay for tea—China tea that is. It will give us a chance to further our acquaintance. Now, for those two pullets...”

  “I think I can spare a few more, Mrs. Flanigan,” the woman said in a conciliatory tone. She nodded, and the loose skin under her neck shivered. “Perhaps as many as six more. And two dozen eggs as well.” This time, the price she named sounded reasonable.

  Trudy clapped her hands in delight. “Wonderful.”

  “I can gather them, and if there’s not enough, I have more eggs in the cellar. Hortense Cobb can take what’s left for her store.” She held out her hand for Trudy’s basket and marched into the henhouse.

  It wasn’t long before she returned and handed the basket, considerably heavier, to Trudy.

  Trudy peered inside.

  Mrs. Murphy had filled Trudy’s basket with the light-brown eggs, carefully packing the sawdust all around them.

  “They look lovely, Mrs. Murphy. I have grand plans for these eggs.”

  The woman’s lips tilted up, the equivalent, Trudy supposed, of what other people probably considered a grin. “Now,” Mrs. Murphy waved, indicating a cluster of chickens. “Choose which ones you want.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Seth left Trudy chatting with Mrs. Murphy, of all people, and chasing down pullets to examine each one. All the birds looked the same to him. So he left the decision-making to his more than capable wife and headed back to the mercantile to retrieve his wagon. No way in hell would he walk down the main street of town carrying an armload of young chickens.

  Just the fact that his wife had melted Mrs. Murphy’s well-known hostility and skinflint ways astonished Seth. Few people got along with the woman. Yet, Trudy had softened Mrs. Murphy into actually giving her a decent price for the chickens and eggs—almost a miracle.

  Lost in thoughts of his wife, Seth skirted a mud puddle. Earlier, in the store, he’d been amazed when Trudy had mellowed Mrs. Cobb. With her kind manner, his bride had managed to smooth the easily ruffled feathers of the two most difficult women in all of Sweetwater Springs. Amazing woman, his wife. I’m a lucky man.

  His footsteps faltered as he passed Hardy’s. An old longing pulled him up short. And without thinking, he stopped to peer in the windows, like a boy with his nose pressed into the window of a candy store.

  At this hour, the saloon was mostly empty. No one stood at the bar, and a solitary cowboy nursed a glass of whisky at one of the tables.

  Only after Seth realized he was hoping for a glimpse of Lucy Belle did he tear himself away from the window. He hurried off down the street, discreetly checking to see if anyone had observed him. As far as he could
tell, no one had. But you never knew who was looking out a window.

  Hopefully, his odd behavior wouldn’t come to Reverend Norton’s ears. Hopefully, his odd behavior wouldn’t come to his wife’s ears.

  I was just acting on an old habit, he told himself. I wasn’t really looking for Lucy Belle. But his actions made him uneasy, ashamed really. Not what he would expect in himself.

  He almost felt like a drunkard who craved liquor, even when he knew alcohol wasn’t good for him—who yearned for that drink, no matter how long he’d been dry. Will I always want Lucy Belle?

  Sobered, Seth continued a slow pace down the street. He needed to pull himself together before he saw Trudy again. Things were going well between them—no, better than well. After her triumph with Mrs. Murphy, he knew she’d be happy and proud, and rightly so.

  Letting her see him in this mood would only dampen her spirits and might lead to questions he couldn’t, wouldn’t answer. So even if he had to put on an act, Seth would make sure Trudy stayed as happy as he could make her, regardless of how he felt inside.

  * * *

  Trudy stood with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy in front of their house, a crate of pullets in front of them. The basket of eggs rested at Trudy’s feet. While they waited, the two women discussed chickens, debating the best types of feed and kitchen scraps, and swapping stories of losing chickens to hawks or other creatures.

  Before too long, she could see Seth driving the wagon toward them. He pulled the team up and set the brake but didn’t make eye contact with her. Nor did he climb down. Instead he waited on the seat.

  That’s odd. Maybe he’s avoiding Mrs. Murphy.

  Mr. Murphy hefted the crate into the back of the wagon.

  Trudy picked up the egg basket and tucked it in the corner. She thanked the couple, and Mr. Murphy helped her climb up into the wagon.

  Seth flicked the reins, and the wagon pulled away.

  She turned and waved good-bye to the couple before settling back in her seat and facing straight ahead.

  From time to time, Seth would look at her and the corners of his mouth would turn up. But the smile didn’t seem real, and the lines around his eyes looked strained, not humorous.

  “Is anything wrong, Seth?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “You seem a little…” Not sure how to explain, Trudy made a helpless gesture. “Subdued.”

  “Just a little tired, I guess.” He shrugged. “Did Mrs. Murphy tell you about the time a dog chased her rooster down the street and it ended up in the mercantile?”

  “No, she didn’t. I bet Mrs. Cobb had a fit.”

  Seth grinned. “Sure did.” He proceeded to tell her the story.

  In listening and laughing, Trudy’s concern melted away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  That evening, on her mettle to deliver a meal her husband would enjoy, Trudy added some wood from the firebox to the stove. Then she checked on the biscuits, rising golden brown next to the deep-dish apple pie. They’d need about ten more minutes. The roast was finished, and the potatoes mashed until fluffy. The homey scent of cooking filled the room.

  Trudy had a few minutes of peace, and now was the time she could read the letter from Evie that she’d picked up from the train depot when they were in town today. She fetched it from her reticule and went outside to sit on the porch.

  Careful not to tear the paper, she opened the envelope and eagerly began to read.

  My dearest Trudy,

  I am sorry to write to you with tears in my heart, but I do not know what else to do. There is a kindly lady in town who has befriended me, but I hesitate to go to her with my troubles, as she is a close friend of my husband. I would not want to tarnish his name or reputation in any way. I so wish you were here with me and we could talk this over in person. But, since you are not, I will write to you now. I hope you will have some wise words that will help me in the infancy of my marriage.

  For some unknown reason, Chance has changed right before my eyes. Where he used to be kind and solicitous, he is now cold and unfeeling. I cannot imagine what has caused this except that now, after almost a week of being man and wife, he is regretting his decision to marry me and wishes me to leave. He has not said so, but I feel it without words. I see it in his expression. When I ask him, he tells me nothing is wrong. My heart is breaking. I love him and fear I have lost him already.

  All my love,

  Evie

  PS– Please forgive me for talking only of my troubles. I want you to know, your post brought joyful tears to my eyes. I’m so happy to hear how well everything is going for you. By now, you’re in Sweetwater Springs and have probably married Seth Flanigan. I do want to hear all about him, and I hope things work out better for you than they have for me. Perhaps I should advise you to not fall in love with your husband. For if he were to turn cold like my Chance, your heart would be broken.

  Her stomach tight, Trudy jumped up and raced into the house. She checked on the biscuits and pie, before dashing into the bedroom and rummaging in one of the boxes for her inkwell, pen, and paper. She took them to the table, and hurriedly scratched out an answer to her friend, determined to assure Evie of her support and to make some recommendations for what she might do.

  When she finished, Trudy blew on the paper to dry the ink and then gave the page a gentle wave. Then she folded the paper and went into her room to tuck the letter into the book she was reading. She’d address the envelope later. Hopefully, she could prevail on Mrs. Murphy to drop the letter off at the depot after her visit tomorrow.

  Still fretting about Evie, Trudy returned to her dinner preparation. She checked on the rolls and pie. Just another few minutes.

  Grateful she’d brought the results of last summer’s canning with her, Trudy loaded a plate with her pickles and spooned strawberry jam into a crystal dish, and then set them on the table next to the butter resting beneath the glass lid.

  Trudy wrinkled her nose at the store-bought cube. She was anxious to try her hand at making her own. She’d learned how from her grandmother, who’d always taken such pride in her butter.

  She’d unpacked the kitchen boxes, but even with the hutch she’d brought, now resting against the wall, crowded next to her icebox on one side and a pie safe on the other, there hadn’t been enough places to store all her pots and pans. So she’d tucked one of the crates in the corner and left anything she didn’t immediately need inside. Maybe later, her husband could hammer some nails into the wall where she could hang her frying pans, and when Seth had time, he could make her a cabinet to hang on the wall. Or perhaps, she could pay the carpenter in town to take care of the task.

  Henry, sleeping on the rug, lifted his head, nose pointing at the door.

  Trudy glanced out the front window and saw Seth washing up at the trough. She watched him for a minute, glad to have a chance to study her husband unseen.

  He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to keep them from becoming wet, exposing strong forearms. Her husband had big hands, work-worn and capable.

  She shivered, imagining them touching her body.

  He cupped the water and splashed his face, then dried himself with a towel hanging on the side of the trough. Once he finished wiping himself off, Seth took the towel away from his face, held it in front of him, and stared at the material. From his surprised expression, he looked as if some exotic fabric had magically appeared in his hands.

  Trudy giggled. She’d swapped the rag he kept there for one of her towels. Not a nice one, of course, but a thick, clean one without holes.

  His mouth quirking in a small smile, Seth glanced up at the house as if he knew she was watching. When he caught sight of her, his expression lightened. Without taking those compelling gray eyes off her, he folded the towel and laid it over the side of the trough. He picked up his Stetson from where it hung on the pump and dusted off the brim. Carrying the hat in his hand, he stalked toward the house.

  Trudy couldn’t see Seth once he climbed onto the porch, but
she heard the sound of his work boots on the steps, and her heart thumped to the sound.

  With a gasp, she remembered her rolls and the pie and whirled to grab two potholders and take the food out of the oven. To her relief, everything looked perfect, sending the fragrant smell of baking into the room. She set the pie on a rack to cool, dumped the rolls into a breadbasket and placed them on the table.

  “Smells good in here.” Seth had entered with stocking feet, so she hadn’t heard him. He hung his hat on the antler rack. “Makes a man feel hungry right down to his toes.” He wiggled his toes for emphasis. Gazing at the table, a look of awe slid over his face. “Looks down-right beautiful, Trudy.”

  A snowy cloth covered the old table. She’d placed a crystal vase with her wedding roses in the center and the dishes and silver she’d brought with her gleamed in the sunlight from the windows. He touched the rose pattern on a plate. “Going to be the fanciest meal I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Going to be the first of many,” she echoed. “Now, would you carve the roast, please?” She tilted her head to indicate the meat on a cutting board.

  He playfully raised his eyebrows at her command but took the large knife and serving fork from her.

  While he cut the roast, she dabbed a big pat of butter in the center of the mashed potatoes. She carried the serving dish to the table, then went back for the gravy bowl.

  Seth finished slicing the roast and laid the pieces on a platter. With a little flourish, he dipped the plate for her inspection.

  With mock gravity, she gave a regal nod of approval.

  He grinned and set the platter on the table, then held out her chair for her to take a seat before taking his place at the head of the table. For a minute, he surveyed the repast. “You’ve gone to quite a lot of trouble, my dear.” He spread his napkin on his lap, helped himself to two slices of roast, and passed the platter to her. Then he served himself from the other bowls.