by Nathan Adams
Her dimples showed in a smile. “Yes, but that’s . . . “
“Punishment,” he reminded gravely, hiding a lascivious grin. “I’m of a mind for plenty of punishment ahead.”
“Will you still think so when I mismatch the buttons on your shirts because I don’t sew well?”
“I’m 30 years old. Do you think I don’t know how to sew a button?”
“You surely didn’t marry so that you would sew your own buttons?” she inquired incredulously.
“I wasn’t thinking of buttons.”
She was silent as she considered this. There were times when her countenance was so open that her thoughts were plain to read. There were other times, such as this, when she seemed to be part of a greater mystery, one which he would perhaps never be able to decipher.
The stagecoach rambled on. The ride was rough and he was looking forward to being on his own two feet again.
After a time, Trice looked up at him, her expression open again. “I suppose sewing doesn’t matter as much as other things in marriage,” she suggested. She sounded hesitant, as if she needed to be reassured of something.
“No,” he agreed, “not as much.” He grinned at her. “I think we’ll do all right. We’ve done all right so far.”
Trice blushed. “Yes,” she agreed, “but what about when we’re in Liberty Bell?”
Gerrit tilted his head. “You look very pretty in that bonnet,” he observed. “I expect you’ll look just as pretty when we’re home.”
She studied him closely, her intriguing eyes fixing her gaze upon him. “I don’t know very much about anything besides bonnets and such,” she said finally. “Will you be disappointed in me?”
She was too young to have awakened in the morning burdened with the knowledge that the day would end in the same unwelcome solitude with which it had begun. He barely knew how to assure her that she was exactly what he wanted in a wife, a winsome woman who would be there waiting for him when he returned at the end of the work day. He’d been a bachelor long enough to fend for himself; he could cook after a fashion and sew his buttons if need be. He took his clothes into town for laundering, but it didn’t require much book learning to figure out how to fill a basin with water and wash them. He hadn’t sought a wife because he wanted a servant. He had what he wanted; he might not be able to frame pretty words around his feelings for her, but he felt them strongly just the same. It would be his work to make her understand that he loved her the way a cowboy loved a woman. Not with fancy clothes or poetry but with a strong back, hard-working hands, and a heart that would never fail her.
He stretched his long legs out in front of him. Back to Liberty Bell before nightfall. He’d take her home. He had a feeling that she’d get along fine with Lady Jane and Luther and Jezebel and Stonewall. There were stumbling blocks ahead, he realized. There were things in his past that she didn’t know. And maybe there were different things in her past that he was unaware of. Maybe marriage meant that when a man and a woman became one, forsaking all others, they found a shared place where their secrets, whether divulged or kept, were safe.
He didn’t know. But he did know that nothing in life had ever prepared him for the joy of his mail-order bride from Boston.
The End
Return to the TOC for Bonus Content
Dear Mr. Carmichael
Chapter One:
Constance Patience Morgan had a difficult time living up to her virtuous name. She could never focus long enough on any task to ever be deemed constant — whether it be arithmetic, cooking, or remembering which sister was seeing which beau. Likewise, she lacked the patience to ever put in the effort to improve her focus on things like arithmetic, cooking, and keeping track of her sisters' beaus. It was unfortunate that she had been given such a name, for Constance was convinced it was a sign that the stars were aligned against her at birth.
Which is why she chose to go by Cora.
Yet, despite her attempts to ignore her inability to live up to such virtues, she still found herself forced into situations that required constant patience.
Such as the curse of being the youngest of three older, demanding sisters.
"Cora!" shrieked Mia, the eldest of the Morgan sisters. "Where is my parasol?"
The sound of items being tossed about echoed throughout the small, rickety house. The Morgans needed a new home, but ever since their father passed away, they had been scrapping pennies just to get by.
"Your parasol?" sputtered Eva, the second Morgan sister. "It's my parasol every second Sunday of the month and it's —" a long pause as Eva, not one for numbers, attempted to calculate the date "— June 16!" she announced triumphantly.
"It's the 17th you ninny," Olivia, the third Morgan sister, chastised Eva. "That makes it the third Sunday of the month, which means it's MY parasol," she enunciated vehemently.
"No," interrupted Mia. "You borrowed it when it was my turn because you wanted to impress Billy Carlton, so that makes it my turn this week."
"But you took it last week to impress Geoffrey Avery," wailed Eva.
As their bickering burst into a cacophony of raised voices and poorly constructed arguments, Cora tried her best to drown out her elder sisters. Being the youngest, she had learned to accept getting last pick. Besides, she had no need for the coveted parasol; the man she longed for would never see her carrying it anyways.
Cora let out a frustrated sigh. The last she had heard of Matthew Carmichael, he had left Boston to go west; Texas to be exact. Although she hadn't seen him in years, the thought of the added distance between them caused her young heart pain.
Cora knew better than to pine after a man she would never have. She also knew better than to have fallen in love with a Carmichael; especially one that had only ever said two words to her in her whole life. Cora looked out the window longingly, while a dreamy smile spread across her face. She could remember those words as if they were spoken yesterday.
"Son!" bellowed Mrs. Carmichael. "Get back here," she commanded with the intensity of a General.
Twelve-year-old Matthew cast Cora and her sisters an apologetic half-smile, "Sorry girls." He sent them a mischievous wink before trudging towards his mother.
Matthew had come up to their yard — back when they lived in the same plush neighborhood as the well-to-do Carmichaels — to ask if the Morgan sisters would like to join his siblings in a game of tag. However, they were interrupted when Mrs. Carmichael herself came strolling by.
"You do not fraternize with the Morgans," she spoke loud enough for her words to reach the ears of the four young girls. "Never speak to them again!" She grabbed him roughly by the collar and proceeded to drag him back the Carmichaels' property.
Cora shook her head in an attempt to clear her memories and negative emotions. So he hadn't exactly spoken to her, but she had always believed his words had been directed toward her.
Cora remembered they all had been surprised by the severity of Mrs. Carmichael's words and had proceeded to run inside to ask their parents as to why she disproved of them.
Their parents refused to elaborate. Instead, all they told them was that the Carmichaels were no longer friends of the family and, while they should always make sure to extend them polite kindness, it was probably best not to associate with them anymore.
The girls hadn't understood it at the time, but they knew something bad must have happened, as things had not always been that way. Mia vaguely remembered that their parents used to be invited to dinner parties at the Carmichael estate. Despite the odd turn of events, the Morgan girls chose not to let the disapproval of the Carmichaels get to them.
At least the others didn't; Cora was a whole different story.
From that day on, Cora was fascinated by the handsome, forbidden boy that lived one yard over. Sometimes she would sit at her window and watch him as he practiced targets, or fencing, or painting in the back yard. She longed to be right next to him, to share in his passions.
When their father died
and they had to leave their childhood home, Cora not only felt heartbroken over the sudden dismantling of their family, but she also felt like she had lost the opportunity to finally get to know Matthew and hopefully mend fences between the Morgans and the Carmichaels. She had also hoped that, once she'd blossomed into a woman, Matthew would finally notice her. But that hope was dashed the day they left the upper class neighborhood for a more modest home.
As for the awaited womanhood, which she thought would bring the womanly figure needed to gain the attention of the handsome Carmichael, it never came. Although she had developed a small bosom —which was better than none — she still felt awkward and gangly, despite now being nineteen.
She wondered how young adulthood had treated Matthew Carmichael. She imagined he was having an incredible time in Texas. He probably owned a ranch or two, fought cattle thieves daily, and possessed the strength and agility to wrestle a bull to the ground with his bare hands.
She gave a little forlorn sigh. She figured wherever Michael was, the stars were most certainly shining down on him favorably.
Chapter Two:
Matthew Carmichael lazily polished another glass. He enjoyed bartending at the local saloon, but it wasn't quite the Wild West experience he was hoping for when he quit his job as a lawyer in Boston and bought a one-way ticket to Texas.
Matthew had coasted on his good looks and prosperous family name for most of his life in Boston, but here he was just a regular nobody, and he liked it that way.
His move here had been exhilarating; the moment he stepped off the stagecoach, it had awakened a wilder side of him. He had always had a desire to take life by the bullhorns, both literally and figuratively, and wrestle it to the ground in a cloud of dust and sweat.
Texas made him feel more alive than the stuffy world of Boston ever had. Here, it felt just dangerous enough to keep him on his toes.
"Joe?" Matthew called to his boss who was currently in the middle of a poker game with one of the local patrons. "Do you mind if I head out for a bit?" Matthew needed to make a trip to the post office.
"Alright," Joe muttered without looking up. He played a card and then whooped with victory as his opponent's face dropped. "Got'cha there," he cried out in a voice that started a few of the clientele.
Matthew chuckled, "I'll take that as a yes." He put down the glass he had spent the past half hour polishing and made a beeline for the door.
As he stepped outside, the hot summer sun beat down on his face. Texas summers were brutal, but Matthew didn't mind. He put on his hat and strolled down the street toward the post office.
He had a few letters to send to some friends and siblings — he liked to keep them informed of his adventures.
Matthew ducked into the small building that served a multitude of purposes: post office, law office, newspaper office, etc. The owner, Ivan Johnson, was a man of many trades. He was actually the first one to welcome Matthew into town and offer him a job as the local lawyer. Although Matthew liked working for Ivan, he hadn't traveled to Texas to do the same stuffy job he did back in Boston. When a job opened up at Jack's Saloon — the previous bartender had decided California and the promise of gold was more for him — Matthew snatched up the opportunity. Bartending came naturally to him, while the excitement of saloon brawls kept things interesting.
"Howdy Ivan." Matthew had already begun to adopt the slang of the West. "I've got some mail for you." He pulled out a wad of letters from his satchel.
Ivan was a stocky man with wire-rimmed glasses. He didn't look very intimidating, but Matthew had seen him lay down the law with enough tough-as-nails cowboys to know that he had a bit of a bite. Ivan looked up from tallying inventory. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," he drawled. "How is the saloon these days?"
"It is alright," Matthew tried to mimic Joe's drawl. "It was a bit slow today, so I thought I might come by." He held up the stack of letters, indicating his purpose.
"Well you're in luck!" Ivan rose from his chair and headed to the back. He returned momentarily and brought with him a large, crisp envelope. "Looks like you have some mail here." He traded the letter for Matthew's stack.
Matthew let out a tortured groan as he saw the name emblazoned on the front — Lucille Carmichael.
Matthew tore open the envelope and quickly scanned the contents.
Ivan cast him a worried look. "You alright?" he asked hesitantly.
"Not for long," Matthew shook his head. He waved the letter in front of him, "my mother is coming to visit."
"I take it from your ghostly appearance, that this is not a good thing?" Ivan questioned.
"It would be perfectly fine if I was handling just her," he emitted a second, more tortured groan. "But you see here," he leveled his gaze with his former employer, "I told a few white lies to keep her off my back, and now I can't deliver."
"Well, who hasn't?" Ivan chuckled. "We all say what we must to keep the family back East from worrying." He paused as he surveyed his friend again, "It can't be that bad, can it?"
"Well—" Matthew struggled to reveal the art of his deception. "I told her I was married and the owner of a large Texas ranch."
Ivan burst out laughing. "You? A rancher?" he chortled. "Or even a husband? You're a committed bachelor for sure."
"I'm not really sure how I am going to explain that I'm a bartender at a local bit house, and that I'm unmarried." He shook his head in defeat. To say that his mother had the habit of being a bit over-bearing was an understatement.
He needed a plan, fast.
"Well, it's a good thing you walked through my doors!" Ivan exclaimed enthusiastically.
Matthew shot him a bewildered look. "I was thinking just the opposite. I would rather not have found out that my mother was due to pay me a visit," he spoke grimly.
Ivan chuckled. "Not that son. I can help you acquire the ranch and the bride."
Matthew's jaw dropped. "Really?" he asked with wary eagerness. It sounded too good to be true.
"Well," Ivan motioned for Matthew to move in closer, as if revealing a secret. "I know that George Gavin is looking for someone to manage his ranch while he is away. Although he is looking for someone with a bit more experience, I'm sure we could play up your skills as an educated man and we could persuade him to take you on." He gave him an assessing look, "Now you might not be able to get away with claiming the ranch for your own, but you can show your mother around the place, have her stay in town during her visit, and then send her back on the first coach out of here." He clapped his hands together like it was a done deal," she'll never know the difference."
Matthew was a bit skeptical, but he didn't have much choice. It was either Ivan's plan, or the wrath of his mother.
"I'll do it," he quickly agreed.
"Good. I'll sort the details out with George."
"That takes care of one problem, but how are you going to find me a wife?" Matthew was curious to see what kind of solution Ivan would dream up for him. Women in Texas were of short supply — especially in their small town — and he doubted any of the local girls would settle for the local bit house bartender.
"I'll order you a bride," Ivan proclaimed.
Matthew couldn't have been more confused. "What do you mean? Like, from a catalogue?" Matthew sure hoped Ivan meant a real woman and not a bag of sugar dressed up in lace and calico — or worse, one of Ivan's poker friends dressed in lace and calico.
"Yes, exactly," he added. "I will contact an agency and have an ad placed for you. With your luck, a nice girl will take it as an opportunity to better her life."
"But I don't want to get married, I just need a 'bride' temporarily," Matthew stated. He worried Ivan was getting a bit carried away.
"Exactly! The girl doesn't have to marry you once she gets here; you can offer her some money to pretend to be your fiancée and then pay to have her settled up somewhere nice. With the shortage of women here, she will be a bride in no time."
"I don't know Ivan," Matthew hesitated. Iv
an's scheme was completely ridiculous, had too many variables, and was completely dependent on an individual being desperate enough to try and make it work. Matthew wondered if he was actually desperate enough to be that individual.
"Well Matthew, perhaps you are right. I'm sure once you explain to your mother the situation, she'll understand," Ivan offered sympathetically.
"I'll do it!" Matthew said, a little too eagerly.
Ivan was taken aback by his sudden change. "Well, sure," he offered a wry smile. "You just need to fill out a few forms for George's place and fill out a description for the bride order."
"Where do I sign?" Matthew asked. The moment Ivan had used his "mother" and "understand" in the same sentence, he knew the scheme was his best option. There was no way the outcome could be any worse than dealing with his uptight, overbearing, high-society mother.
At least that is what he told himself.
Chapter Three:
"Come on, let's just take a quick peek inside," suggested Eva.
"Are you going to run off out West now and marry a gold miner?" teased Mia as she flipped through a ladies fashion magazine.
"No," Eva stuck her tongue out at her elder sister. "I just want to see what the ads for brides say," she explained. "Besides," she added, "those poor men must be terribly lonely all alone in the middle of nowhere without a woman to keep them warm," as she spoke, she got a far off look in her eye.
"Hogwash," interrupted Olivia.
"Language!" chastised Mia.
"What I meant," Olivia continued, "was that a women should strive to be more than just some man's bed warmer," she said hotly.
"Olivia!" Mia scolded again, "We are in public." She looked around her to make sure no one had heard her sister's words. Mia was all about keeping up appearances.
Both Eva and Cora giggled at Olivia's bold words and Mia's embarrassment.
"Well, Cora and I are going to do what we want, right Cora?" Eva turned to her for validation.