The Annex Mail-Order Brides: Preque (Intrigue Under Western Skies Book 0)

by Elaine Manders

  She could hardly believe the huge bins of corn already shucked, but she supposed eight men working together could clear a whole barn full of corn quickly. Silence fell as she made her way to Byron’s side.

  “I brought you fellows some hot cocoa.”

  Byron helped her set the basket and pot of hot liquid down on a bale of hay. He poured as she held each cup and the men lined up. “Adela found that mistake in Pa’s books I was telling you about.” Byron spoke loud enough for them all to hear. Apparently, he’d decided to share the bookkeeping error with the neighbors after all.

  Abel Hawkins took his cup. “You want to come look at my books, Miss Adela. I need to find a mistake like that.” For once she didn’t blush at the grandfatherly tease.

  “How do you know they’ll make good on that payment, Byron.” Another man dropped his last ear of corn in the crib.

  “They will,” someone else said. “They’re an honest outfit. Still, you’d better go see them in person.”

  “Their headquarters are in St. Louis.” Byron filled his own cup, and Adela glanced around the room. She’d not thought of that. If Byron went to St. Louis, he’d not have any time to spend with her before she went home.

  “Couldn’t you just write them?” she asked.

  Byron poured the last cup and gave it to her. “The fellows are right. I expect I’d better take the documents in person, and the ledger you reconstructed, so I can explain to them.”

  “I suppose.” She wrapped her suddenly cold hands around the hot mug. A cloud descended on the festive gathering, and turned into a thunderhead when Hilda Jane sashayed in.

  She made a point of stopping by each of the single men, except Byron, and leaving a flirt in her wake. “Adela, you’d better get back to the house. We’re setting out the sandwiches, and after that, we’ll start cooking the candy. Sweets for our sweeties, right fellows?”

  “Hey Hilda Jane, you gonna partner me in the taffy pull?” one of them asked.

  “Nah, she’s gonna partner with me.”

  “I’ll have to pull with Byron,” Hilda Jane said.

  Byron sloshed the liquid in his cup. “I’m going to…that is, I’ll be helping Adela,” he sputtered.

  “She’ll be busy. Bertha says Adela will be making the peanut brittle.” Hilda Jane turned on Adela, “Isn’t that right, Adela. You know how to make brittle?”

  “Yes, she gritted through her teeth. She was certain that task had been assigned to her because one had to watch the candy pot constantly. “I know how to make brittle.”

  After the simple supper of sandwiches, Adela stood over the hot boiling syrup as laughter floated from the parlor. She’d been kept busy in the kitchen all afternoon. Shut away from the merry-making as she was, she felt an affinity with Cinderella.

  Two saw horses and planks fashioned a table set up with portions of hot taffy in several porcelain bowls. They’d wait until the candy cooled enough to be handled, then couples would stand together, each one taking hold of the candy and stepping backward to pull it into strips, then they’d meet together and pull again. The candy would get lighter and harder after each pull until it couldn’t be stretched any more. The final strip would be laid onto the oilcloth covered tabletop and broken into pieces.

  The job of pulling was usually given to the unmarried couples. It was about the most intimate thing they could do outside of dancing.

  And Hilda Jane was pulling with Byron.

  Making brittle was a solitary job, watching the syrup until it turned amber and quickly removing it from the heat and adding the peanuts. Greased cookie tins lined the kitchen table where she’d pour the still hot brittle out. When it cooled, it would be easy to break into pieces.

  Bertha walked up and peeked into the pot. “I think it’s about ready to take off.”

  “In a minute or two.” No way was Adela going to take the syrup off until it was done. She knew her brittle.

  “I’ll get the fudge ready to put on the stove,” Bertha said. “No, I’ll make the lemon meringue pie.” She hustled around. “What happened to my lemons? There’s just one left.”

  Adela glanced around. “Oh, I’m sorry. I made lemonade yesterday while you were at the Lynstrums.”

  “You mean I can’t make my famous lemon meringue pie—Byron’s favorite pie?” Mrs. Calhoun moaned as if she’d been robbed of her greatest honor.

  When Adela looked back at the bubbling amber syrup, she knew she’d almost waited too late. Holding the pan handle with her apron, she took it off the stove, praying it wasn’t burnt. She held her breath while adding the peanuts and sighed as the dark amber foamed as it should. Thankfully, it wasn’t burned.

  She finally gave her full attention to Bertha. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know you were saving the lemons, but we have so much candy, I doubt anyone will miss the pie.”

  Bertha frowned. “Oh, yes, they’ll miss it all right. Nothing we can do about it now, though. The store won’t get any more lemons until after Thanksgiving, but that won’t be your concern.”

  Did she mean she thought Adela wouldn’t be around for Thanksgiving? It was a question Adela was asking herself. If she was going to wrangle a proposal out of Byron, she’d have to do it fast. But he was going to St. Louis, a trip that would take several days at best.

  A shout went up. “Oh, it’s made taffy.” Bertha rushed off to see how the couples formed the candy. This was their fun way of running the taffy pull. The couples would be judged according to how original they laid out their taffy. The winning couple was expected to kiss.

  Adela followed Bertha and stood in the kitchen door, watching the four couples pulling the taffy with much brashness on the part of the fellows and giggles on the part of the gals. One of them formed a long rippled ribbon, another loops, one couple tried to form connected hearts, but the candy was getting too hard, and they came out as lop-sided circles.

  Hilda Jane was doing her best, but Byron pulled her efforts into a mess of knots. Still, Adela bit her lip as everyone voted for the best. When Wilber Soranson and Beth Hanson, a shy fifteen-year-old won, squeals and howls bounced around the room. The girl lifted her flaming cheek for Wilber’s kiss, as everyone applauded.

  Adela clapped along and glanced up to find Byron staring at her. Their gazes locked in mute agreement. They would dance later. The toil and bother of the day—Mrs. Calhoun’s complaints, Hilda Jane’s cattiness—all fell away in that look. Adela and Byron might not share a kiss tonight, but he would hold her in his arms.

  Chapter 17

  It was Byron’s third day in St. Louis. The first day, he’d met with the shipping company’s accounting department. The second day he met with their management, who’d asked him to get back with them today, after they’d checked with their bankers.

  Now he returned for the verdict. He greeted the young man who managed the front desk with a smile. They were familiar with each other by now. “Mr. Jacobs will see you right away, Mr. Calhoun.”

  Right away? That could be good—or bad.

  In the inner office, a pudgy middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and a sparse beard, rose and held out his hand. “Good-day, Mr. Calhoun. I believe we can settle the matter today. You’ve been very patient, but you understand we had to check our records from over a year ago.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. I should have discovered the oversight earlier, but…” He let the sentence hang.

  Mr. Jacobs held out a draft. “Your records are correct. It seems our bookkeeper heard of your father’s death and was waiting for instructions. He forgot about the matter when no one contacted us. Fortunately, he remembered the incident when we brought it to his attention.”

  “Fortunately for me too, Mr. Jacobs.” The figure on the draft matched Adela’s number exactly. He shook Mr. Jacob’s hand and left in a swirl of emotions.

  He wanted to get back to Adela, but there was one more thing he had to do in St. Louis. Hoisting himself into the saddle of the horse he’d rented, he headed for the jeweler
s.

  Inside the shop, the proprietor met him with a nod and a smile. “What can I do for you, young man?”

  “I want to look at your rings. I’m going to get married.” There, he’d finally said it. Regardless of Ma’s feelings or Byron’s own sense of inadequacy, he knew Adela was the woman he wanted to be hitched to for the rest of his life.

  The jeweler took him to the back where the rings were kept under glass. Byron tried to visualize each one on Adela’s slender finger. He kept coming back to one and tapped the glass. “That’s the prettiest ring I’ve ever seen.” The price tag indicated it would take a big chunk out of his reclaimed money, but it looked like it belonged on Adela’s finger.

  The jeweler took it out and handed it to Byron. He held it up to the light, and the stones glinted, increasing his desire to see the ring on Adela’s finger. “What is this stone?” He touched the larger stone.

  “That’s an amethyst, sir, and those two smaller ones are real diamonds—not glass, I assure you.”

  About all Byron knew of diamonds was that they were expensive and rare. But Adela was rare—a precious stone set in the wilderness. He liked the analogy. This was the ring for her.

  After haggling over the price of the ring for ten minutes, Byron paid and pocketed it. He’d have paid the full price, if necessary.

  Later, as he boarded the train for home, a contentment filled his soul. As soon as he got home, he’d propose. The long trip home would give him plenty of time to pray that she’d say “yes.”

  Chapter 18

  Adela held the curtains back and watched the rain turn the yard into a muddy pond. Byron had warned her it could be next week before he returned, but she still watched and prayed for his safe travels.

  The sound of the back door opening drew her attention. Bertha’s too. The older woman scrambled from her rocker. “Who can that be?”

  Hilda Jane came into the parlor from the dining room, almost running into Bertha. “Has Byron returned?” She sent her usual contemptuous glance to Adela.

  “No. How’s your pa?”

  “Back to normal. He’s out barking orders to Clem and Jack.”

  “Well, come on in and sit a spell. You can help me untangle my yarn.”

  Hilda Jane pulled up a straight back chair and took the ball of green yarn Mrs. Calhoun handed her. Adela went back to her corner and set her book in her lap. She wouldn’t be expected to join in the conversation, nor did she want to.

  “You’d think Byron would send us a telegram, letting us know when he’d be back,” Hilda Jane said.

  “Did he send you a telegram, Adela?” Bertha asked.

  “No, but I don’t expect one. How long it takes will depend on what the company says.”

  “Sure hope it’s not a fool’s errand.” Hilda Jane’s accusatory tone was easy to ignore. Adela tried to find where she’d left off reading.

  Silence fell over the room for several minutes, then Hilda Jane hissed. “I’m going to have to cut this yarn here. Adela would you go get the scissors for me. I left them on the sideboard in the dining room when I was cutting up rags the other night.”

  Adela snuck a glance at Bertha to see if she’d already found the scissors. Since she said nothing, Adela laid her book face down on the side table and ambled to the dining room. She found the scissors where Hilda Jane said they’d be. Then she noticed an envelope propped at the back of the sideboard.

  As if to assure her who the letter was for and from whom, the envelope had the words “To Adela, from Byron” written in bold letters. A quiver ran through her. Had Byron left her a note when he left? Had it been here all the time? Neither she nor Mrs. Calhoun used the sideboard unless there was company. What could he write that he couldn’t have told her before he left? Her heart pounded with the possibilities, and she wanted to run to her room and devour the letter.

  Instead, she slipped it into the pocket of her apron and took the scissors to Hilda Jane. With great difficulty, Adela returned to her chair and tried to focus on her book. All the while, the letter burned in her pocket.

  After a decent length of time, she stood. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have something to do in my room. I’ll help you get lunch ready in a bit, Mrs. Calhoun.”

  “Take your time. We need to put a few more potatoes in the stew. That boy, Dick, is eating us out of house and home.” Dick had returned just after Byron left, and Lem had let him stay.

  No sooner had Adela closed her bedroom door than she took the letter out and ran a fingernail under the flap. It sprang open easily enough. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she read.

  Dear Miss Mason,

  I am forever in your debt for finding the bookkeeping error that I hope will solve so many problems. I have enjoyed your visit very much indeed, and hope you found it to your liking.

  As you came out here with the understanding that it was for us to get to know each other, and neither of us was obligated to more than that, I think we both agree a marriage would not work. My mother is difficult to live with, and she’s old and set in her ways, and I fear the stress of our rustic way of life, coupled with her moods would lessen our esteem for each other over the years.

  Please forgive me if this isn’t your understanding as well. You will make a wonderful wife for the right man, and I pray you shall.

  Since I will be away for a little while, I suggest you take this time to return home. Enclosed are your tickets. This will save us from any uncomfortable feelings we might have in saying good-bye.

  Most Sincerely, Byron Calhoun

  Numbed to the core, Adela held the paper for several minutes. Finally she looked into the envelope and found the tickets.

  But the man who wrote those words was not the Byron she’d come to know—to love. Yet she recognized his penmanship. Hadn’t she read and reread three long letters from him? She would know his hand anywhere.

  It made no sense, unless she’d simply read him wrong. Their dance the night of the taffy pull meant nothing to him. But what of his kiss? His words? Was he just being nice to her? Apparently the kiss came up short in his expectations. Everything about her must have been lacking.

  She went over every minute of their last days together, searching for a clue. He’d seemed distracted on the day he’d left, but she’d put that to his distress over the unpaid wheat shipment. Maybe that was it. She’d exposed his lack of business sense. Finding the glaring bookkeeping error must have shamed him, and what man wanted a wife smarter than he?

  He didn’t love her. If he did, he’d appreciate any help she gave. He wouldn’t care what his mother thought. Yes, he’d have to honor his mother, but he wouldn’t let her stand in the way of marriage to the woman he wanted to marry. Leaving this note and insisting she leave in his absence not only showed his cruelty, but his cowardice. Two things she’d never have believed him capable of.

  It began with a letter, and now it would end with a letter.

  Feeling sick to her stomach, she buried her head in the pillow, letting the tears come. When she couldn’t squeeze another tear, she prayed for strength. She’d never felt so alone and forsaken. The women in the parlor would offer no comfort. She had no friends here.

  With resolve, Adela pushed herself up. She wanted her friends. Ramee, Carianne, and Prudie. They would be filled with compassion. They loved her. Instead of telling her they’d told her so, they’d gather her into a warm hug and let her have her cry and comfort her. How she needed their comfort.

  She got up to pace the floor aimlessly, stopping at the window long enough to see the rain had stopped and sunlight tried to break through. Maybe that was a sign. No matter how dark the circumstances, light would always return. She dragged her trunk to the middle of the floor and opened it, then began gathering her things and stuffing them in a haphazard heap.

  Mrs. Calhoun would agree to let Dick accompany her to the depot. She just prayed another train would be leaving today.

  Chapter 19

  Byron’s train didn’t pull out
of St. Louis until the next day, very early, as the dawn stretched lacy fingers of pink and gold over the horizon.

  Escalating anticipation rode with him all the way to Crabapple. He should have sent a telegram so she would be waiting at the depot. Inpatient with himself, he rented a horse from the livery and threw his bags over the nag’s shoulders, then hoisted himself into the saddle. The horse was old but fresh, and covered the distance home in good time.

  He looked a sight and smelled worse, but that wouldn’t keep him from seeing Adela first thing. He’d wait until he freshened up to give her the ring. Take her for a walk down to the apple orchard. The trees were bare of all fruit and leaves this time of year, but the path was usually clear of puddles, even after a hard rain.

  Inside the house, Ma greeted him. He dropped his bags and went into her hug. “Where’s Adela?”

  She stiffened, telling him something was wrong. He knew Ma about as well as anyone, knew when she tried to hold something back. “What happened?”

  “Adela’s gone.” She turned and walked away as if that was the only explanation necessary.

  He caught up with her. “Gone where? To the barn? The field? The—”

  “She went back to Massachusetts, Byron. Said she didn’t think marriage would work out and wanted to spare you a confrontation.”

  “A confrontation?” Byron looked at her stupidly. Adela had left, gone home, without having the decency of saying good-bye. That wasn’t something his Adela would do.

  Except she wasn’t his Adela, never had been apparently. He’d been a fool. No. “I don’t believe it.”

  “She got a letter. I didn’t read it, but she packed right away, and said she had to get back to her friends.”

  One of them might have gotten sick. There had to be an explanation.

  “She made it clear to me she didn’t intend to come back.” Ma’s words shattered his hopes. She grasped his arm. “Take time to think this out. You don’t want to cause a scene for yourself or her.”