by Tia Siren
“We can start now if you like.” She looked back to smile at the four boys. Their eyes had widened, and they looked at the wall curiously. “I can read this story to you. It’s a very interesting story about a man and his jumping frog. Would you like for me to read it to you?”
“Yes, yes, Miss Ella!” Freddie was the first one to respond, and his brothers followed suit quickly. Even Raymie had regained his composure and came over to look at the words on the wall.
An hour later, Andrew came through the front door and stood still for a moment. The house was quiet. It was never quiet. He looked around suspiciously, noticing the broken vase that had been partially cleaned up. He glanced down the hallway and then up the stairs nervously.
“Boys?” he called out and took the stairs up two at a time. The first door to the right was Raymie’s so he swung it open.
He didn’t expect to see his four sons sitting on the floor surrounding Ella. Carl was once again on her back. She appeared to be reading from papers they had ripped down from the wall.
“What is going on?”
Freddie was the first one on his feet to run toward his father.
“Papa!” he called out excitedly. “Mama Ella is teaching us to read! She says we don’t have to go to the schoolhouse if we don’t want to and that she’ll teach us right here. But I want to go to the schoolhouse, papa, that’s where other kids are! And Raymie wants to be a banker, papa! He does!”
With that, the other three boys approached their father and started talking all at once.
“Whoa, my sons!” Andrew laughed. He gestured for Ella to come to him, as well. She got to her feet and approached slowly. He noticed she looked nervous and shook his head, reaching out to touch her cheek and brush a loose strand of hair away from her face, gently pushing it behind her ear.
“Is this true? You would like to teach my sons? You don’t mind being here with them all the time?”
She shook her head. “Not at all, Andrew. I would be proud to teach them. They are lovely boys, you know.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You are the first to say that, my dear. I am glad. I am very glad.” He pulled her into a hug that she didn’t expect. She put her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest with a sigh. Tingles covered her when he whispered in her ear. “Do you think you can take a grouchy old man and fall in love with him, too?”
She looked up at his deep green eyes and had to admit it. “Yes,” she said. “I think I already have.”
“I have been distant,” he said in a low voice.
“I have been watching. You are a good father and a good man with plenty to be concerned about. You work hard for these boys. They know it and so do I. I am proud to be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m so happy to hear that, Ella. I really am.”
He lowered his head and gave her a kiss, which she returned. It was the warmest, best kiss she had ever had. And it was only the beginning.
*****
THE END
MariAnne’s Escape – A Mail Order Bride Romance
Enough was enough.
For the past four years, MariAnne Parkinson had counted every day as just another day to survive; a challenge and obstacle that she could only conquer—never savor or truly enjoy.
It hadn’t always been this way, she reasoned. The first 18 years of her existence had been a time of love and laughter, pleasure and prosperity; a life of light that she had shared with her parents and sisters on the vast expanse of their Texas horse ranch.
The day after her eighteenth birthday, however, had brought some most unwelcome tidings: the news that she was bound to marry her father’s business associate, Leon Campbell--a man whose dowry would pay the bills that would save their foundering farm.
“A pretty steep price to pay for my freedom,” she mused, reflecting on the virtual living hell that she endured from day to day.
Although always pleased to help her family with the rigorous duties that kept their ranch running, she never could embrace the role of ranch hand; and that is the unpaid job title she was given the day after her wedding. Her husband dragged her into his corn field at the break of dawn and commanded her to clear the field of all robust stalks; telling her that she would have no supper until the task reached its rightful completion.
And even after she met this lofty goal and retired to their modest ranch house, she also found that it was her responsibility to prepare the supper that her husband tried to deny her; feeding him and his crew of surly ranch hands before eating herself.
“And if only that was the most serious complaint I had to lodge against that man,” she thought now, cringing as she contemplated her many miserable nights spent at the home that quickly morphed into a house of dreadful horrors.
Although she’d never coveted the idea of retiring to bed in the company of the oily, unattractive Leon—a man thirty years her senior—MariAnne at least had hoped that he would be gentle in their lovemaking. Yet the rough, sometimes violent rutting that occurred each night in their bedroom proved just another form of abuse; just another form of dehumanization that threatened to steal her every last ounce of happiness and well-being.
The birth of her daughter Ellie two years ago had served to introduce some much needed comfort and succor to the agony of her troubled situation. With the dark brown eyes that mirrored her mother’s and the sweetest smile she ever had beheld, this beautiful little ray of sunshine blessed and brightened her mother’s life; her luminescence dimming just a bit every time her resentful father—jealous of the way in which sweet, adorable Ellie commanded his wife’s attentions and consumed her love—screamed at her for the slightest offenses--once for spilling a bit of milk on the kitchen floor.
When Ellie came to her with tears in her eyes one too many times, MariAnne knew that she had to take action; so with this in mind she charged into the kitchen and confronted her husband—shaking her fist in the face of the man who towered over her with a menacing glare.
“Now you listen here Leon,” she commanded, adding in the harshest tone she could muster, “For three years now I have done my level best to be a good wife to you; tolerating your horrid treatment every day and night, and all for the sake of my family back home. Yet I shall NOT stand by and watch you scream at my daughter—teaching her to fear you, and possibly to hate herself. I do not ever want to hear you saying her name with anything but the greatest love.” She paused here, adding as she squared her slender shoulders to proud effect, “Or my name, for that matter. You are my husband, Leon, and Ellie’s father. You are not our master, our lord or our boss man. You treat your ranch hands with more respect than the people who bear your name, and that is a travesty. It has to stop, and it will stop now.”
She fell silent then, pinning her husband with a narrow eyed look that brimmed with both hatred and a sense of challenge.
These same eyes flew wide seconds later, as a fuming Leon pulled back his fist and slammed it into her delicate chin; drawing a scream from deep in her throat as she staggered backward, clutching a face that now throbbed with pain.
“That’s what happens to disrespectful wives who disobey their men,” he sneered, adding as he turned away, “And if Ellie ever shows me the same type of attitude, then she is bound to get the same treatment. And that’s a promise.”
Glaring after him with incensed eyes, MariAnne fought the urge to jump on his back and pound him upside the head. She knew all too well, however, that he could overpower her and knock her senseless in a matter of seconds—leaving her daughter alone and defenseless in the company of a madman.
“I have to make a plan,” she thought, drawing a deep sustaining breath as she nursed her bruised jaw with a gentle hand.
Over the next month MariAnne seized upon the single viable escape that gave her temporary release from her prison of a home; her weekly unsupervised trips to the market in town. Here she sold eggs for the little bit of extra money that she could call her own; money that her husband inte
nded her to earmark for the purchase of fabric and hair pins—those feminine accessories that would help her look her best for the man she married.
Yet instead of spending her meager earnings on yards of floral print calico, she brought the coins home and stowed them away in the gold tinted jewelry box she kept on her dresser; the only wedding gift that had proved of any use to her since the beginning of her marriage.
Then one night, when her husband left the house with the brash announcement that he would be out late at a downtown saloon and not to bother waiting up for him, MariAnne assured him that she would not and locked the door behind him; gathering a few articles of her and her daughters’ clothing into a large carpetbag and retrieving her savings from the jewelry box.
Slipping into a long wool coat that concealed the fabric of her mint green calico dress, she grabbed a second coat for her daughter and took their carpetbag firm in her hand.
Finally she ventured to Ellie’s room and took her by the hand; her heart wrenching as her daughter scooped her favorite rag doll up into her arms and lifted her tiny chin to ask her mother, “Where are we going, Mama? Where are you taking Dolly and me?”
Forcing a smile even as her tension wrought heart pounded in her ears, MariAnne pulled her daughter behind her as she made quick steps toward the door.
“That’s a good question sweetheart,” she told her daughter, adding as she clasped her little hand in hers and made fast tracks for the door, “All I know is that, wherever we’re going, it’s bound to be a good sight better than where we are.”
Chapter two
MariAnne reconsidered these words a half hour later, as she and her daughter shared a hard wooden bench at the center of a hot, dry and overly crowded train station.
After walking with her daughter down the long dirt road that separated her husband’s sprawling Austin ranch from the bustling downtown area, she had rushed with Ellie through the wooden double doors that accessed the train station; hoping against hope that they would avoid a confrontation with the heathen who, or so he had told her, played poker at a saloon just a mile away.
“I need passage for two to San Antonio on the next available train,” she told the dour, salt and pepper haired gentleman who worked at the ticket booth.
The man nodded, quoting her the rate for two tickets in a rote, mechanical tone.
Leafing through the wad of bills that she withdrew from the depths of her purse, she counted them slowly, one by one; performing this count a total of three times before letting loose with a frustrated sigh.
“I’m afraid I’m just a little short,” she said finally, adding as she pinned the now frowning ticket agent with imploring eyes, “Look Sir, my daughter and I simply must leave town on the next train available. And while I can’t reveal the specific reason as to why, I assure you that we are not about to embark on a pleasure trip. It is very important that we….”
“Next!”
Silencing her with a single loud word, the ticket agent waved her out of the way as he seared her with a cold eyed glare.
MariAnne shook her head.
“Please Sir, I have my 2-year-old daughter with me,” she plead, struggling to steady her voice as a loud, rough sob arose in her throat. “We need to leave here this evening, and I’m just a few dollars short. Please show us mercy…”
“Next!” the clerk repeated, this time reaching forth from the ticket booth to emphasize his words with a light shove that knocked MariAnne from the line.
Incensed at this show of blatant disrespect, the scowling woman struck a condemning finger stern in the clerk’s direction.
“How dare you, Sir! You are not a gentleman,” she accused the stone faced man, adding as she used her free arm to clutch her daughter tight to her side, “I will speak to your employer at this station. Now!”
Rolling his eyes in the face of her fury, the ticket agent made a vague gesture in the direction of the bench that formed a modest centerpiece for the stifling station.
“If you wish to continue to make a public spectacle of yourself, Madame, then please do so away from my ticket booth,” he demanded, adding as he turned away, “I have to see to my paying customers.”
It was at that point that an exhausted MariAnne collapsed with her daughter on the surface of the wooden bench that formed the center of the station; clutching a now crying Ellie close to her as they huddled together in a cocoon of pain.
“Oh baby girl,” MariAnne muttered, hugging a sobbing Ellie as she continued, “I am so sorry that I had to bring you into a world where people are so cruel to each other. Just know, though, that there are some really good folks out there—like your grandma and grandpa. As soon as we can, dear love, I am going to take you to meet them, as well as your aunts. We are going to a place where people laugh and love each other, where beautiful yellow roses grow and the sky is broad and blue. And I know without a doubt that little Miss Ellie will be the queen of the house.”
Lulled and comforted by these soft spoken words, Ellie smiled as she leaned her head against her mother’s chest and shut her eyes tight; finally drifting off into a comfy sleep as her mother held her close.
“Wish I could do the same thing,” she mused, adding as she rubbed her daughter’s back, “Truth be told, though, I have no idea as to where this little one and I are going to sleep this night.” She paused here, adding with a thoughtful frown, “I might have enough money for one night at the inn down the street—but then most of our funds would be depleted, and then where would we go? I can’t even ponder the notion of going back home; it may just be the last thing that Ellie and I ever did. Yet we wouldn’t last long out on the streets, either—not with all the thieves, rustlers and drunks in these parts. I do have a few friends here; but once that husband of mine finds out that I’m gone, the first place he’ll look is at the homes of our friends--and God help them if they make any effort to shield or protect me. He’ll go through us to get to Ellie and me, and then God help us all.”
MariAnne froze then, a few errant tears descending her own fair skinned cheeks as her entire being suddenly was overcome by a sense of complete and total helplessness.
For once the ever strong Texas filly had no answers, no energy, and precious little fight to bring to her current situation. For once the undefeatable MariAnne felt prepared to surrender; too weary and frightened to take another step.
Just then her precious little girl shifted restless in her arms, reminding her of the reason that she should, that she must go on with life; not resting until she found a safe and joyful place for them both to live.
“One of the two main reasons,” she reminded herself, adding as she sat upright on the bench and straightened her firm spine, “My life matters as well, and I will be dad gum it if I allow that varmint I married to rule and destroy me. I shall survive—somehow.”
Just then she shut her eyes tight, praying to the Lord above—the one that her parents had taught her to turn to in times of need and challenge—for some small hope of an answer.
“I just need that second wind, dear Lord—that wind of a hope,” she prayed in silence. “Please God—just show me the answer, show me the way, and I swear to you that I will hit the ground running. I will make a wonderful new life for my daughter and me—I just need a good head start.”
She jumped then as the scrap of thick parchment brushed harsh against her leg; bringing her to attention as she snapped her eyes open and cast a condemning look in the direction of the offending paper.
“So that’s my answer, dear Lord?” she inquired aloud, sending a narrow eyed quizzical look in the direction of the sky, “A paper cut?”
Shaking her head from side to side, MariAnne leaned forward to retrieve the phantom paper, which turned out to be that day’s issue of The Ramblin’ Report; a local newspaper filled with a smattering of timely news items, printed amongst a sea of advertisements that supported the publication of the periodical.
In search of a momentary distraction from her troublesome
dilemma, MariAnne opened the newspaper to cast a casual glance at its contents; her gaze drawn immediately to a bold bordered advertisement that boasted a most intriguing headline:
Wanted: Mail Order Bride.
“Criminy,” she mused, rolling her eyes heavenward. “The Ramblin’ Report has precious few standards when it comes to advertising.”
Just curious—not to mention repelled—enough to read on, she proceeded to peruse the remainder of the ad.
“Let me start by saying that I never envisioned myself placing an advertisement such as this one; one that publically advertises for a bride. Yet at this point I fear that my need is most pressing. I am a deputy sheriff in this area who recently acquired a sizable ranch by way of inheritance, and I need a pair of helping hands to work my land and help me succeed. Furthermore I would far prefer that this pair of hands be soft and feminine—while still belonging to a woman of spirit, a true pioneer.”
MariAnne nodded.
“Mmmm, sounds most familiar,” she mused, adding as she inclined her head in a show of keen curiosity, “Yet I must inquire this. If—and this is a most significant if—I were to respond to this ad, what would this gentleman have to offer me?”
Just curious enough to read further, she shifted comfortable on the surface of the bench as she read the remainder of the advertisement.
“You may be pondering as to why you should even consider responding to this most unique request,” the ad read.
“Indeed,” MariAnne confirmed, eyebrows arched. “Do tell.”
“Well let me tell you as to why you should consider assuming the role of my worshipped mail order bride,” the advertisement continued. “First of all, as indicated, you will be worshipped in my care and company. I never shall treat you as a ranch hand on my property. I would wish for us to toil side by side, sharing equally in the work and the responsibility of tending our land while also reaping its fruits. And when we retire at night to my beautiful new ranch house, I promise to treat you as a princess in her palace; to love and honor you, as our vows would state.”