Mail Order Regrets

by Julianna Blake

  What right did he have to be angry? Except, perhaps, for being called out about his brutish behavior? That was it, she decided. He’d been caught, and turned his own shame to fury at her for exposing his intentions. No matter. Soon she would be in her new home, and he would go far, far away. After the past few days with Clay Porter, she was glad that Croft Ranch was so far from Helena. She hoped never to run into the man again.

  Two long hours passed. The sun came out, dazzling across the snow, making it seem as if the storms of the last few days were nothing but a dream. The road grew wider, and the tracks of other sleighs appeared at a crossroad. Then Clay was guiding the horses on to a turn-off, and she could see cattle fencing. Were they almost there? She felt a nervous flutter in her stomach.

  They passed an old, weathered sign along the side of the road.

  RUSTLERS GET DEAD

  TURN BACK NOW

  The sign was shot full of holes.

  She looked up at Clay, a question on her lips, but the hard set to his mouth reminded her that he was angry at her—and she at him. She shifted her gaze back to the land ahead, and saw what appeared to be small buildings of some sort. Sheds for storage, perhaps? Then a large barn came into view. All the outbuildings appeared hastily erected, nothing that would last for very many years.

  The barn loomed larger as they approached, and she could see about a dozen men walking back and forth between the outbuildings, loading packs onto horses, carrying items from the barn. But where was the wonderful home that Mr. Croft had described?

  As they got closer, Madeline saw what she feared must be the house. She had mistaken it for yet another log “outbuilding”.

  It was a cabin, not the grand house she had expected. There was no painted wooden siding, no white gingerbread trim, as she had imagined. It was stark and severe in appearance, with a porch running along the front and a few steps leading down to the yard, which consisted of a mess of stomped-in, frozen mud and slush, which spread from the house to the barn, and to the other buildings. Everywhere else was covered in snow, which stretched out across the rolling plains in a never-ending sea of white. It was a lonely landscape, and the house sat in the middle of it, appearing forlorn and forsaken. If it weren’t for all the men and horses and muddy tracks, the place would have looked abandoned.

  Madeline pulled down the furs and took out her hat, pinning it carefully atop her head, and smoothing her hair. She didn’t have time to pull out a looking glass, so she hoped she didn’t look too travel-weary.

  One of the men jogged up the front steps and called into the house as the sleigh pulled to a stop. Clay hopped out and held his hand out awkwardly to Madeline to help her out of the sleigh. She brushed herself of, straightened her coat, and took a deep breath.

  “Well don’t just stand there, Porter, bring in the bags!” hollered a deep, gruff voice. “It’s cold as the devil’s heart out there, and you’re two days late!”

  Madeline looked up just as the head—which had appeared in the open doorway—disappeared within, followed by the slamming of the door. She’d barely seen a glimpse, just saw that he had dark hair, and was much shorter than Mr. Croft would be. Was this Mr. Croft’s manservant, then? It seemed the man needed a good lesson in manners, greeting guests in such a way. She could see that she’d have a job ahead of her, training his staff in proper decorum. Cara had obviously been mistaken in thinking that Mr. Croft wouldn’t be hiring any new staff—the man she’d seen briefly was clearly new to his job.

  She turned and caught Clay watching her, but his eyes shifted away almost as soon as hers lit upon him. He took out Madeline’s valise and took her elbow to guide her up the icy steps. As Clay opened the door, Madeline stepped inside, and had to hold back a sigh of dismay.

  The house was unkempt. “Stark” and “severe” would describe the inside just as well as it did the outside. There was no decoration, no hint of a woman’s touch, not even the barest of comforts. While Cara’s small cabin had been cozy and welcoming, this dark cave was barren and foreboding.

  The kitchen was large with a long table hewn from two large split logs, with matching log benches. On the table was spread a thick, oily cloth, upon which sat a dirty, scuffed-up saddle, with various small tools scattered around it. There were no comfortable seats by the fire, and unless one of the doorways leading to the back of the cabin led to a parlor, it didn’t seem that there was one.

  She took it all in with one sweeping glance, then met eyes with the man she presumed had “met” them at the door. He was short—almost as short as she—with a round paunch. He was at least twenty years older than Madeline, which was a good age for a manservant, although it didn’t bode well for her, as the man had obviously learned bad habits in his years of service, which may be hard to break. Even as she waited to be announced, the man stood scowling at them—or at Clay, at least—with as stern a glare as she’d ever seen.

  She looked around, expecting Mr. Croft to appear. When he didn’t, she inquired of the grouchy manservant. “Could you please announce to Mr. Croft that Madeline Barstow has arrived? Mr. Croft is expecting me, though I’m afraid we’ve been delayed quite a bit.”

  The man lifted his bushy black eyebrows, which, like his hair, were threaded sparsely with grey. His stern expression cracked, then fell away as he broke into a rotten-toothed grin. Then he let out a guffaw, slapping his knee. The laugh went on and on, and Clay shifted uncomfortably at her side.

  “Why are you laughing?” She frowned. Really, this man’s impudence will need to be addressed!

  “Oh, girlie, you really are a peach!” The man’s laughter died away, and he wiped tears from the corner of his eyes. “You’re looking at him, Miss Barstow! Sam Croft, your new husband.” He spread his arms wide, with a flourish.

  Madeline was horrified. No. No! This was not the man in the photograph she’d received. The man in the photograph was much younger, more well-kept. Not the bedraggled, scruffy, dirty man before her. It must be a joke. That’s it! There was some resemblance, she could see, so it must be the father of her intended. He wants to see if I have a sense of humor, that’s all.

  She cleared her throat, and reached to the valise Clay held, pulling from the side pocket the home management book that Cara had given her. She opened the cover and took out his most recent letter, and removed his photograph from the envelope.

  “This is Mr. Croft. I’m afraid you can’t fool me that easily,” she said with a tight smile. She didn’t think that his joke was very funny, but she took it with as much grace as she could muster.

  “Madeline.” Clay said quietly at her side. “Madeline.”

  She turned, reluctantly looking him in the eye.

  “That is Mr. Croft.” He raised one eyebrow slightly in a subtle I told you so expression.

  “No.” Her blood ran cold as she looked down at the photograph, then back at Mr. Croft. “I don’t understand.”

  Croft’s oily grin and shrug told her he was lying before the words came out of his mouth. “It was the most recent photograph I have.”

  “You…you said you were thirty years old.” She tried to hide her shock—she didn’t want to insult the man—but he was not the man he’d made himself out to be.

  “No, I believe I said the photograph was taken when I was thirty. And it was.”

  Madeline was absolutely sure that was not what he had written. If he had, she’d have asked about when the photograph was taken. She’d noticed that the photograph looked a bit worn, but brushed it off, because she remembered that he’d apologized for its condition, since it had traveled across the country with him in a box of items that had been damaged in transit. She’d thought no further about it.

  “You also said you lived near Helena.” She pinned him in her gaze.

  He met it with his own cold, black eyes. “And so I do. Helena is the closest city to where this ranch is located. Closest city on the railroad, that is.” A sly smile played about his lips.

  Croft was a liar, and i
f he lied to her about his age, his photograph, and how far he lived from Helena, then it was likely that Clay was right about everything he’d said. Horror squeezed her chest as she tucked the book and photograph back into her bag. She looked up at Clay, and saw pity in his eyes.

  No! She would not suffer that look! She left Boston to avoid the pitying, mirthful looks from her peers for marrying below her station. She would not bear it from the likes of Clay Porter! She’d rather die first.

  “Well, now that introductions are over, let’s get back to business.” Croft’s sly expression hardened into a frightening mask of anger. “What took so damned long, Porter?” Croft demanded. “I hired you to do a job, and when I hire you, I expect delivery on time.”

  “I apologize Mr. Croft, but the weather was severe. We had intermittent storms. We had to hole up in a cabin the first night, instead of my sister’s home, and then stay at my sister’s the next night, as planned. Then the next day, another storm hit about two hours into the drive, and we had to hunker down in the sleigh under some trees and a tarp. Weather didn’t clear until middle of the night, and we set out first thing this morning, going as fast as we could given the road conditions.”

  Croft’s jaw clenched, then unclenched. “How convenient for you. What, did you think you could have first try at my little bride, here? Been so long since your own wife died, that you thought you’d deprive me of mine?”

  Madeline was appalled, but Clay spoke before she could.

  “That’s an insult not only to me, but also to your bride-to-be. If you have no confidence in my own honor, have confidence in hers.”

  She could see Clay’s fists bunched at his side, the one hand gripping her valise so tight she thought the handle would crack, but he made no move to challenge Croft physically.

  “Is that so?” Croft shifted his glare to Madeline, then let his eyes crawl down her body slowly, then back up again.

  She felt dirty just from his eyes moving over her, and was sure he was imagining every inch of her body without clothing.

  “Seems to me if you make your deliveries late, I should get half my money back.” He squinted at Clay, sizing him up. “I already had my men saddling-up to go out looking for you.”

  “Seems to me,” Clay growled, “that if I go to extra trouble and extra work to get your lady here to you safely, in one piece, and risk my own neck doing it, that I should get paid double.”

  Croft let out another burst of laughter. “Well we both know that won’t happen, don’t we? Tell you what, we’ll call it even.”

  Clay didn’t respond, but Madeline could see the tension in his muscled arms.

  “Looks like it’s time for you to go, Porter. Leave my wife and me alone.”

  “She’s not your wife yet, Mr. Croft. Where is the minister?”

  “He was here two days ago, when you were expected to arrive. Had to leave. Had things of his own to tend to.” He looked at Madeline with his sly smile again. “Old man Carter was a minister back in his youth. He got out of the game, became a wheat farmer, but he can still marry a couple all proper-like. We’ll take a ride out to his place this afternoon and get it all done and be back in time for you to make supper. Boys haven’t had a decent meal since Mrs. Giebler left last week.”

  “She—your housekeeper left? Already?” Madeline’s stomach tightened.

  “Oh, did Porter here tell you about that?” He shot Clay a warning glance.

  “No, his sister, Cara, did. I thought the housekeeper would be staying on to help, until you found a replacement.”

  “Honey, you are the replacement! I thought about hiring a new housekeeper, but why do that when a wife does all that for free? Plus a wife can satisfy all a man’s needs, not just fill his stomach.” He leered at her, letting his eyes roam her bosom.

  She took a step back, and her stomach lurched. Her arm bumped into Clay’s, and it was all she could do not to clutch his arm and beg him not to leave her alone with the wretched Samuel Croft. When she looked up at Clay, his eyes still held pity…tinged with anger and concern.

  “Are you sure about staying Madeline? It’s not too late,” he whispered.

  She brought herself up straight, and side-stepped away from him. She wouldn’t let him think she needed his pity. “I can take my bag, Mr. Porter. Thank you for bringing it in for me, and for getting me here safely. Give your sister my regards. Tell her I’ll write as soon as I can, and maybe we can stop off to say hello the next time we go to Helena.”

  Clay handed the bag off to Madeline, and she held her breath, her heart quickening as he leaned in. She wished she would feel that when her husband touched her after they were married, but the mere idea of Croft touching her made Madeline’s skin crawl.

  “Oh, don’t bother telling your sister that, Porter. No need for my wife to go into Helena with me when there’s plenty to be done around the house. Right, my dear?” He looked at her expectantly, giving her the same warning glance he’d given Clay.

  “Y-yes. Of course.” She looked down, afraid to let herself see any more of the pity that she knew must be in Clay’s eyes again. She’d be stuck on Croft Ranch, indefinitely. Trapped, just like Clay had said.

  “Well, Porter, I’d offer to let you spend the night in the men’s’ bunkhouse, but it looks like you have plenty of daylight left to get back to your sister’s house and stay there for the night. Right?”

  “Right,” Clay mumbled.

  She could feel his eyes on her, but Madeline refused to look up. She couldn’t bear it. She’d burst into tears if she did. Instead, she bit her lip and said nothing, although every fiber of her being urged her to leave with him.

  “Good luck, Miss Barstow.” He nodded at her, then headed out the door. She waited as she listened to him clomp down the steps. A moment later, there was a crunch of snow as the horses headed out.

  She looked up at her betrothed. “We should have offered him some food for the journey. He gave the last of his rations to me this morning.”

  Croft’s face contorted into a sneer. “Oh, should we? Let’s get one thing straight. There is no ‘we’, there is only ‘I’. As in, this ranch is mine, and you’ll do what I say. And I don’t waste resources on a delivery boy who was too ill-prepared to plan for bad weather.”

  Her breath left her, and an icy rush of fear flooded her heart.

  “Now then,” he advanced a step, and Madeline stepped back, clutching her valise. “Let’s talk about my wife spending the night with a strange man. Did you let him touch you? Did you let him crawl between your legs and pump away on you?”

  “No!” She was shocked at his meaning and his vulgar words. “I would never!”

  “Oh sure you would,” he sneered. “All women are whores. Well you’re my whore now, and don’t you forget it!”

  He snatched the valise from her hands and hurled it across the room. Madeline heard something inside it break as it hit the log wall and fell to the floor.

  “If you ever let any man lay a finger on you without my say-so,” he backed her into a corner, “you’ll pay for it with your hide!”

  He grabbed her by the back of her head, with another arm around her waist, and crushed her to him, mashing his lips down upon hers. Whereas Clay’s kiss had been gentle and full of passion, with the sweet taste of honey on his lips, Croft’s kiss was hard, full of violence, with the sour taste of tobacco on his dry, chapped lips. She was taken aback, disgusted, and fought to free herself.

  But Croft didn’t let her go until he was good and ready. When he was, he pushed her back against the wall again, hard, and pinned her with one hand, while he let another hand rove up her chest, unbuttoning her wool coat and the jacket of her day dress. She struggled, but he was too strong. He cupped her breast through her blouse and chemise, lifting it out and away from her corset and squeezing it hard.

  “Stop!” she cried. “We’re not married yet. You’re hurting me!”

  The hand that pinned her shoulder to the wall grabbed her by the throat.
“Don’t. You. DARE. Don’t you EVER tell me what to do? I am your husband now, whether I choose to take you to that old preacher or not. You are MINE. And those who are mine will do what they’re told, or suffer the consequences. I will take you when I want you, as often as I want you. And you’ll take it, and you’ll like it, like the whore that you are. You hear me?”

  His eyes were filled with venom, and she saw the danger in them, clear as day. He’d kill her. He’d kill her if she didn’t obey, and he’d enjoy it, too.

  “Y-yes,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. She looked away, unable to bear looking at the man again.

  He tore her blouse open, and she sobbed as he tried to pull it down off her shoulders, along with her coat and jacket.

  “Please. Wait,” she begged. He planned to take her, right there in the kitchen, with men standing right outside the door. And they wouldn’t stop him, she knew. She could scream and scream, and they wouldn’t come.

  “What did I tell you?” he snarled, and stuck a finger in her face. “You don’t tell me to stop.”

  “I’m not asking you to stop.” She tried to blink back the tears, and paste a false smile on her face. “It’s our wedding day. Don’t you want it to be special? Don’t you want me to look my best? I could fix myself up, if you want. Make myself look pretty, so you can show me off to the minister. Then we could come back here, I’ll make a nice dinner, and you can…can…watch me take a bath and get all fresh and sweet and clean for you.”

  She shuddered at the idea of him watching her bathe, but kept her face in a frozen mask of a smile, and tried to ignore his filthy hands on her body. The glimmer in his eyes told her he was intrigued, and she pushed on, praying he would take the bait.

  “There will only be one first time for us, together, after all. And you can see I’m nervous as an alley cat right now. Long trip, first time in Montana, first time seeing my—” she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat “—husband. After the ceremony, and dinner, and a nice hot bath, we’ll be used to each other, and I’ll be more…accommodating. And you’ll like that, I’m sure you will.”