Sixteen Brides

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Mr. Drake hadn’t shown his face in the ladies’ emigration car since redefining the prairie fire as renewal. Now, as the train began to slow for the long stop at Plum Grove, he stuck his head in the door and directed them to “proceed to the Immigrant House,” where they would have opportunity to “freshen up” before the supper that they would enjoy during the unloading of a couple of freight cars and the taking on of water and fuel. “I’ll join you in the Plum Grove Dining Hall soon to discuss our arrival in Cayote later this evening. Until then, I trust you’ll all enjoy taking the air here in Plum Grove.” With that, he was gone.

  Feeling rumpled and out of sorts, Ella stood up and stretched. When the train lurched unexpectedly, she nearly fell.

  “Land sakes,” Mrs. Morris exclaimed, “what are they doing now?!”

  Ella straightened her bonnet as she said, “Mama, I’m going to make sure they don’t unload our chickens by mistake. I should have been keeping closer watch at the last few stations. I hope they aren’t sitting unclaimed on some siding east of here.”

  “Ella.” Mama motioned for her to bend down and look.

  Ella looked. And plopped back down beside Mama. Men. Along row of men waited just below the weathered sign that read Plum Grove.

  “I told you there would be a parade of bachelors.” Mama grinned. “And we aren’t even to Cayote yet.”

  Ella was not amused. What were they doing there, anyway? Were they really there to meet the ladies? Apparently so, for that was Hamilton Drake talking to them, and whatever he was saying wasn’t making them happy.

  “I don’t know why he’s so upset. I think it’s nice. And kind of…exciting.”

  That was the youngest of the sisters-in-plaid, and since, other than introducing herself at lunch yesterday, she hadn’t said a word, everyone stared at her in surprise. She blinked. Glanced shyly at her three sisters. Shrugged. “Well…all I mean is…it’s nice to feel…welcome.” She turned back to peer out the window. “And the tall one in the plaid shirt is kind of…nice looking.”

  Ella adjusted her bonnet. None of it had a thing to do with her. She had chickens to check on. With a promise to meet Mama over at the Immigrant House, she hurried off the train. As she barreled past the men and toward the freight cars, one of them shoved Mr. Drake aside and stepped forward.

  “I like a beefy gal,” he said and, snatching his hat off his head, introduced himself as Ed Ostergaard.

  Beefy?! Ella ignored him and marched to the far side of the platform to watch and wait for her chance to check on her birds. It was impossible not to be aware of the tone as the men teased Mr. Ostergaard about his “beefy gal.”

  Silence made her glance back at the men and from them to the train. Watching them all watch Caroline Jamison would have been amusing if it weren’t also pathetic. Men. All alike. Their heads moved in unison, first up toward where Mrs. Jamison hesitated before descending, and then down as she took each step. Finally, all those heads moved from left to right as Mrs. Jamison glided across the platform to join Ella. Not a single one stepped forward to introduce himself to her. Struck dumb by a vision of loveliness. Ella scolded herself for the bitterness in that thought before Mrs. Jamison said something that turned her attention to Plum Grove.

  “Not much of a town, is it?”

  Ella pointed toward the framed outlines of three new buildings. “No, but it’s growing.” She indicated the grassy space between the train station and the buildings a short walk across the prairie. “Someday this will be a real road running alongside the tracks. And there”—she indicated the imaginary line running perpendicular to the tracks and toward the short row of half a dozen businesses—“that will be Main Street. I imagine they already call it that. See those red flags in the distance? Probably meant to stake out a town square.”

  Mrs. Jamison nodded toward the two-story log building next to the Immigrant House. “Where do you suppose a body gets logs for such an enterprise out here?”

  Ella didn’t know, but she intended to find out. Maybe she and Mama would have a log cabin.

  “Why does there always have to be a saloon,” Mrs. Jamison murmured, pointing to the one building “across Main” from the five false-fronted buildings identified as the Immigrant House, Haywood Mercantile, Plum Grove Dining Hall, Pioneer News, Lux Implements, and Ermisch Livery. “Do you suppose Cayote will look this…way?”

  “You mean this pathetic?” Ella said. “I hope not.”

  “And do you suppose we’ll have to face a similar welcoming committee?”

  For the first time Ella realized that Mrs. Jamison wasn’t really using her ruffled parasol to keep the spring sun off her lily white face. She’d perched it on her shoulder to block her view of the men—and theirs of her. Ella chuckled. “I never did want to mess with a parasol. But I think you just showed me a new use.” She glanced at the group of men and back down at Mrs. Jamison. “Varmint deflector?”

  The southerner laughed softly and twirled the parasol. “Maybe a saber if those particular varmints don’t disperse directly.” She frowned. “How’d they know to gather?”

  From his place in the haymow, Matthew saw a gold parasol open. He counted sixteen women and as many men, each group staying to themselves as if battle lines had been drawn on either side of an imaginary space into which no one dared step. When a few other passengers appeared from the direction of the dining car, Matthew’s attention was drawn away from the women. He tensed. The swagger…the Stetson…and a wrangler riding up with three mounts in tow. Everyone in Dawson County recognized that gelding. Luke had been back east.

  Another passenger stepped off the train. Even from this distance the man’s size was impressive. I’m easy to spot, Cooper had written, just like Joshua’s giants in the land. So. Jeb Cooper, the man who’d purchased the homestead, had come to Plum Grove on the same train as Luke and those women. It was good timing for Matthew. Linney would be busy helping Martha in the dining hall. That would give him a chance to meet Cooper without her wondering at her reclusive pa’s interest in a new arrival.

  A horse screamed. Matthew looked toward the tracks just in time to see Luke lead a dark gray horse off the freight car. Swiping his forehead with one sleeve, Matthew returned to forking fresh hay into the empty stalls below. He’d head over and introduce himself to Jeb Cooper a little later. After he was certain Linney was busy with the new arrivals—and after Luke and company were well out of town.

  Caroline had been far too nervous at the river crossing to pay much attention to Lucas Gray’s horse. All she really remembered was impressive size and spirit. But as the freight car doors screeched open and the creature whinnied and tossed its head, and as the afternoon sun glistened against the pewter-colored coat, she caught her breath. The stallion stomped and snorted.

  “Wow.” Jackson let out his breath in a low whistle.

  “He sure is somethin’,” Sally said. “And don’t he know it.”

  Lucas Gray strode up the gangplank and into the freight car. While he was inside, a cowboy road up with three horses in tow—another gray and two bays. Johnny True and Lowell Day mounted the bays. Everyone watched as the stallion danced its way down the gangplank alongside its owner.

  “Gorgeous,” Ella murmured.

  “The horse is nice, too,” Zita joked.

  “Mama!”

  “I’m old, Ella. I’m not dead.”

  “Aw, you ain’t so old,” Sally laughed.

  Gray handed the stallion’s lead to one of his “boys,” then leaped astride the gray gelding. He spent the next few minutes helping to herd livestock from the freight car into the sod enclosure behind the station. A burly stranger with a full beard and a floppy hat manned the gate to the corral. When Caroline noticed that one arm ended in a stump, she wondered at the brute strength on display as he easily handled the massive gate with one arm.

  When Ella stepped down to check on her livestock, Caroline went with her. She might not be able to avoid another “cat and mouse” with Lucas Gra
y this way, but at least she wouldn’t have to wade through an entire crowd of voyeurs.

  Ruth stood inside the station alone, trembling with emotion. She’d ducked inside to get a drink of water. And to avoid Lucas Gray’s little performance. Now—now she didn’t know whether to cry or scream. For the moment, she did neither. Instead, she filled another dipper with lukewarm water from the stoneware crock in the corner. When that didn’t help her calm down, she crossed to the window opposite the tracks. The men were obeying Mr. Drake, making their way off the platform and heading back toward town. As she watched, more than one unhitched a horse, mounted up, and galloped off toward the west. Toward Cayote. She took another drink and wondered what to do. Part of her wished she hadn’t overheard. Part of her was glad she had. And all of her longed for the calendar to turn back and make everything since George’s sudden death a bad dream from which she could awaken.

  I’m telling you, this trainload of brides is already promised to Cayote, the man had said. But I’m headed back to St. Louis next week. You have my word I’ll bring the next load right here to Plum Grove. But only if you disperse immediately. I can’t have you ruining things for the boys over at Cayote who paid to have first chance at a bride.

  She’d wanted to scream. If he’d said the word “bride” again, she might have. As it was, the best Ruth could do was sit down on the bench and try to gather her wits. Had the other ladies signed on with the notion of marriage? She hadn’t exactly gotten to know them on the ride out. Maybe she was the only one—but no, she could not believe that. Mrs. Barton had spoken of nothing but land and a homestead. Sitting across from her all this way, Ruth had overheard enough to feel certain of Mrs. Barton’s plans.

  She needed to think. Taking a deep breath, she exited the train station—sadly, just as Lucas Gray rode around the back side of the sod corral and up to the platform. At least most of the other ladies were already on their way to the Immigrant House. Maybe without them looking on she could keep her wits about her and keep from blushing like a fool.

  Removing his hat, he smiled up at her. “I wanted to say that I’ve enjoyed meeting you and repeat the invitation for you—” Just then Jackson and Mrs. Jamison came along, and Gray included them, “—all of you to visit my ranch.”

  When Ruth said nothing, Gray nodded at Jackson. “I have to get Hannibal back to the ranch and introduce him to his own ladies yet today, so I can’t be part of the crowd over in Cayote. But I’ll be at the dance on Friday, and we can make plans to turn you into a proper cowboy then.” He glanced at Ruth. “With your approval, of course.”

  He put his hat back on and tugged on the brim, then grinned as he said to both Ruth and Mrs. Jamison, “I sincerely hope you will both decline any and all proposals of marriage at least until Friday.” And with a little salute, he rode away.

  Ruth’s hand went to the frill of lace at her throat even as Mrs. Jamison muttered, “I never saw a man who thought so highly of himself. And what in tarnation was he talkin’ about—proposals of marriage? And a dance? I don’t remember anything about a dance on Friday night. And what did he mean by there bein’ a crowd in Cayote?”

  Out of the corner of her eye Ruth saw Hamilton Drake duck into the telegraph office. He was probably sending a telegram right now. Promised brides arriving soon. She cleared her throat, then spoke to Jackson. “I…I want to telegraph your aunt Margaret and let her know we’re…here…almost. And…” She rummaged in her bag for a nickel. “Perhaps you’d want to check at the mercantile for some more lemon drops for Mrs. Grant? And something for yourself.”

  Mrs. Jamison produced a nickel of her own. “I’d be obliged if you’d get some peppermints for me, too.” She thrust a coin into Jackson’s palm, then glanced at Ruth.

  “Tell Aunt Margaret I’m getting a horse!” Jackson said, and bounded down the stairs and toward the mercantile.

  The moment he was out of earshot, Mrs. Jamison spoke up. “Are you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on—besides Lucas Gray’s bein’ rude—’cause you are not the kind of woman who gets the vapors just because a man’s mouth wanders along the edges of propriety.”

  Ruth shook her head. “It’s—” she broke off—“so embarrassing. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. Not to see it for myself.” Taking a deep breath, she told Mrs. Jamison what she’d heard Mr. Drake say to the group of men. She then repeated everything Lucas Gray had said during the lunch stop the day before, ending with, “…and I thought he was teasing me. Putting me through some silly western initiation.” She gestured toward the station. “Drake is probably in there sending a telegram to Cayote right now so his ‘welcoming committee’ can be on hand to—” She shuddered, and then every emotion in her congealed into rage. Rage overcame every rule of etiquette she’d ever been taught, and while what she meant was that she was going to give Hamilton Drake a dressing down he’d never forget, what she said had a distinctly “military” vocabulary. The look on Mrs. Jamison’s face when Ruth finally ran out of steam made her blush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. If you came west to find a husband, that’s fine. But I didn’t. And I…I just…”

  Mrs. Jamison chuckled. “It’s all right, honey. I heard much worse when I was nursin’ poor Basil at Jefferson Barracks, and no—I didn’t come west on a huntin’ party.”

  “Jefferson…Barracks?” Ruth couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

  Mrs. Jamison nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I may sound like molasses and corn bread, but my husband’s uniform was every bit as blue as your general’s.” She nodded toward the telegraph office. “The thing is, if you walk in there and scorch his sideburns, I’ve a feelin’ we’ll never see Mr. Hamilton Drake again. He’ll hightail it with his little bundle of cash and leave us all stranded right here in Plum Grove. He promised a return ticket to anyone who changed their minds. He should at least have to keep that promise.”

  “How do we get him to do that?”

  “Oh, honey,” Mrs. Jamison said, “you just leave that to li’l ole Caroline.” And she fluttered her eyelashes.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  These six things doth the Lord hate…

  PROVERBS 6:16

  Is everything all right?”

  Caroline started as Drake’s voice sounded from the direction of the combination train station and telegraph office. When he strode toward her and Mrs. Dow with a suspicious look on his face, Caroline twirled her parasol. “Left my sunshade here on the train. Just because a lady moves west doesn’t mean she has to turn brown as a sharecropper.” Please don’t let him have noticed I’ve had it all along. Please…

  Drake offered his arm. “May I escort you over to the Immigrant House?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Caroline said, “but I don’t want to delay you. I need to send a telegram. My dear aunt Tillie insisted I do so once I’d arrived safely.” She patted Drake’s arm. “And I’m as safe as safe can be, so I thought—” Her heart began to hammer as she blathered nonsense. How am I going to rescue myself out of this?

  Thankfully, Mrs. Dow did the rescuing as she took Drake’s free arm and said, “Mrs. Jamison may not require an escort just now, but I’d welcome one.” She made a show of looking around. “Jackson seems to have deserted me for the charms of Plum Grove.”

  “I’ll be over directly,” Caroline said. When Drake insisted they would wait, she sighed. “I surely do appreciate your kindness, but…” She dabbed at an imaginary tear. “The fact is, I’m feelin’ rather…emotional…and…homesick…and…” She feigned a great attempt to keep from bursting into tears. “I’d just like a little privacy, if y’all don’t mind.”

  “We understand.” Mrs. Dow patted her arm. “Even the bravest of us has had moments of undesired emotion on this journey. You’ll be fine, Mrs. Jamison. You tell your family we’ve a champion we trust.” She smiled at Drake.

  Caroline looked toward the station so that Drake couldn’t see her rolling her eyes. Mrs. Dow was laying it on a little thick. But then, like
a bottom-feeding catfish taking bait off a wicked hook, Drake added his reassurances and proceeded to help her descend the stairs leading down off the platform. Caroline sailed toward the station, pausing just inside to peer through the far windows and make certain Drake didn’t sneak back to eavesdrop.

  When Drake and Mrs. Dow reached the Immigrant House, Caroline stepped into the telegraph office, where the balding operator—James McDonald, according to the engraved nameplate on his desk—sat hunkered over a piece of paper tapping out what had to be Drake’s message to the men in Cayote. When Caroline cleared her throat, he jumped, then stammered, “C-can I help you, miss?”

  She smiled. “You go right ahead and finish with that.” She pointed to the message. “I’ll just wait right here.” The minute McDonald finished dot-dot-dashing his way through the note and set it aside, she shrieked, “A mouse!” Jumping back, she pressed herself against the wall, staring at the floor with what she hoped was a convincing level of feminine terror.

  As a good gentleman should, McDonald jumped up and hurried to her rescue, muttering about mice and traps and nothing-to-fear and needing a good cat or two. When Caroline slumped against him in a near faint, he half carried her behind the counter to his own chair, then hurried to the waiting room and the water crock to retrieve “a bit of refreshment.” In the seconds he was out of sight, Caroline read Mr. Drake’s telegram. Sixteen brides arrive 8 P.M. Southern belle. General’s wife. Farm women. All lovely. Sixteen dance cards confirmed. First dance guaranteed. Cash due by noon Friday.

  There was no subterfuge involved in Caroline’s subsequent need to fan herself to cool off. When McDonald returned and set a tin mug of water before her, she continued the fanning as she exclaimed with wonder that “all these wires and such can send a missive to loved ones far away. How does it all work?” Visibly relieved that her moment of hysteria had passed, McDonald set about explaining the finer points of telegraph wire.