by P. Creeden
“No, I’ll get it,” Mrs. Harp said, gesturing for the two men to remain seated and then wiping her hands on her apron as she left the room.
Neither Clark nor Joe continued eating their soup. Even though the hunger still gnawed at Clark’s midsection, the desire to lift a spoon to his mouth had fled. His ear strained toward the front door of the ranch house. But the kitchen door kept the words said in the foyer from reaching them where they sat. Slowly, Clark stood. Joe stood with him. The two of them just stood there, watching the kitchen door. A bit of tension built in Clark’s stomach. Dread filled him. Somehow, he felt certain the news at the door was going to be bad. Just as Clark started toward the heavy wooden door standing between him and the object of his curiosity, Mrs. Harp came swinging back into the room, her brows knit together.
“There’s a Mr. Sykes at the door for you, Clark. Says he’s a lawyer from Dallas,” she said and began wringing her hands.
Clark’s heart sank. Now he was truly certain the news wouldn’t be good. He headed out of the kitchen and found two men standing in his foyer with their hats off. He called to them, “Hello, I’m Clark Masterson. Would you two gentlemen like to come into the parlor and have a seat? Anything to drink?”
One of the men took Clark’s offered hand and shook it. “I’m Gordon Sykes, and this is Milton West. We’re both from Dallas and would be happy to talk to you in the privacy of your study if you have one?”
“I don’t. Will the parlor do?”
“Yes, then that will be fine.”
Mrs. Harp stepped up. “I’m happy to take your coats and hats.”
They both nodded their thanks and handed them to her. Then they followed Clark into the parlor. Once they were all seated, Mr. Sykes pulled some papers from his briefcase. “I’m here on behalf of your Uncle Simon in the city. He would like to sell the western portion of land tract that he owns. If you’d like to purchase it yourself, he’s willing to let it go for three hundred dollars. However, if you’re not, then he’ll be letting it go on the open market for four hundred and fifty.”
Clark blinked at the man, a lump forming in his throat. “But my uncle said I could use that land as long as I wanted to. There’s no reason for him to be doing this to me right now. It’s nearly winter. I can’t even sell the cattle and get the money that he needs. I’ll need to take out a loan. And what of the eastern tract of land?
“Your uncle says that he’s willing to wait until you sell the cattle in spring for the remainder of the money, provided that you are able to give him a down payment now of $100. And that you’re willing to get remarried.”
“What?” Clark couldn’t believe his ears. “What does my marital status have to do with any of this?”
“You are Mr. Masterson’s only living relative. He has designs on giving you all of his estate, including the eastern portion of the land here in Oklahoma, and the land he owns in Dallas. They will be yours to do with as you please. However, he wants to be certain that he will not be giving you these things as a dead end. He doesn’t want you to be childless, the way that he is. So, when he heard of your wife’s passing, that’s when he decided to send us out here to make sure you get your house in order.”
Anger welled up within Clark. For a moment, he could only see red. Then he stood, hands fisting, and shook his head. “I don’t see what business this is of my uncle’s. He’s got no right to come in here and tell me what I should and should not do. If I decide I never want to marry again... If I decide that I do not want to have children... then those are my choices. I will not let anyone make those decisions for me.”
Both men stood, lips drawing thin as they backed away from Clark. Though Clark would never raise a hand to either of them, he could understand their fear of him. In that moment, he surely felt like socking someone. Mr. Sykes cleared his throat and gestured for Mr. West to head back toward the doorway. “Well, then if that’s how you feel, we’ll take our leave. Mr. West and I will be staying at the inn in town for the next three days. If you find a way to pay the full price of three hundred dollars before then, come and visit with us. If not, then let us know that you are agreeing to our other terms. If neither, then the tract of land will be sold to a Mr. Cahill, who has already expressed interest in the property.”
“Cahill?” The blood drained from Clark’s face as his skin turned cold. “My uncle will sell the land to Cahill?”
“That is what he told us, yes.”
Clark gripped the back of a chair as his knees grew weak. Cahill owned the land next door where he raised sheep. Sheep could tear apart land faster than cattle, and left nothing behind for them to eat. If Cahill got a hold of the rights to use that land, Clark would be done for. His jaw tightened as he said, “I’ll talk to the bank tomorrow.”
The two lawyers were already collecting their hats and coats from Mrs. Harp. “Have a good rest of the day, sir.”
And then they were gone, slipping out of the door, letting in a cold draft of air in their wake. For a long moment, Clark just stood there, his face in his hands. He’d already borrowed money against his spring cattle in order to make sure that he had enough hay and oats for the winter to fatten the steers and make sure the horses had enough to make it through. The Farmer’s Almanac predicted a cold winter ahead. Clark swallowed hard and then looked at the closed door in front of him. This winter was going to be even harder than he’d expected.
Chapter 3
Clark had been to both banks in town, and neither of them would give him a loan. His heart sank as he watched the sun sling lower in the horizon. A breeze blew around him and kicked up the flurries that had started to fall. He had only a little daylight left; it would be dark before he reached home. The black mare he had hitched to the post in front of the bank nickered at him as he approached her. “Easy, Smokey, old girl,” he said as he patted her on the forehead.
The lone, asymmetrical star she had there seemed to glow in the last vestiges of light. Like the little bit of hope that Clark had had left that he might be able to get the money he needed in order to keep his ranch going. If the western tract sold, he’d lose nearly half the property, and if his uncle decided to be even more tyrannical, he could sell the eastern tract, and leave Clark with only twenty percent of the land that he was using now. He couldn’t run a ranch on that. He’d be forced to lay off all of his workers, sell the last twenty percent... and do what, exactly? He’d never thought of doing anything other than what he was doing. Would he go and work on someone else’s ranch and just become a cowboy?
At least then he’d be tied to nothing and no one would be able to tell him what to do.
He sighed as he mounted Smokey. It just wasn’t practical. Selling the horses and the cattle and laying off all his workers would crush him and crush his spirit. He couldn’t do that to them as it was getting so close to the holidays. In two days, it would be December... In those same two days, he had to decide what he was going to do about what his uncle was requiring of him. Even if Clark agreed to go ahead and get remarried, how would he come up with the hundred dollars? The banks wouldn’t even lend him that much. He reined his horse and turned toward the south end of town and his ranch. The light was fading fast, so he picked up a nice lope to get home faster. Maybe he could stop by the livery and sell a couple of horses. Two or three. He frowned. That was unlikely since he knew the livery had just went to an auction recently and sold a couple of horses they wouldn’t need to use through the winter. Ugh. Everything was made worse by the time of year.
There had to be a solution of some kind. He needed to find an answer. By the time he got home, a clearing sky and full moon sat overhead. A halo spread out from the moon, washing out the smattering of stars near Orion’s belt. He swallowed hard as he dismounted Smokey and led her into the barn. Once there, he lit a lantern and untacked the horse. After offering her a couple quarts of oats, he got her ready for turn out. She had a bit of sweat mingled into her shaggy winter coat where the saddle was, so he rubbed her down with a
rag and then curried her and brushed her out before checking her feet. Then he led her outside and turned her out in the field with the other horses. Smokey neighed the moment she entered the gate, head up and listening. When one of the herd answered, Smokey went galloping off into the darkness at the sound of the other cry.
Even Smokey had a family to return to. Although they’d spent the day riding and getting work done, she still had the energy to run and greet her loved ones. Clark’s heart sank again as he missed his Mary. Yes. He’d once had the dream of having many children and his quiver becoming full of blessing—as the bible said. But he’d let that dream go entirely when Mary had taken ill and passed on. He’d shoved down those desires and decided to live for something else. The ranch. And now his uncle was threatening to take the ranch away from him. To keep it, he needed a family. But how was he going to find one in such a short amount of time. His uncle was a shrewd man. Would he allow Clark the luxury of promising to marry soon? Of course, he wouldn’t.
As Clark trudged up to the house, he still hadn’t come up with a solution. It was bad enough that he’d lost his wife, his family, his dreams, would he also lose the ranch, too?
He entered the house and hung his hat and coat on the rack.
Joe and Mrs. Harp both stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Joe studied his face a moment before asking, “I’m guessing things didn’t go well at the bank then?”
Clark shook his head, a lump forming in his throat and keeping him from being able to speak.
His lips thinning, Joe nodded. “I expected as much. What are we going to do now? Do you have a plan?”
Again, all Clark could do was shake his head to keep the tears that stung the backs of his eyes from forming and slipping down his cheeks.
“Have you thought about who you might want to marry?” Mrs. Harp asked in a gentle voice.
Before he could even stop himself and school his expression, Clark shot a glare at her. “I don’t want to marry anyone. No one could replace Mary. I’m wholeheartedly not interested in getting married again.” Then he deflated as he saw the couple’s raised eyebrows and surrendering stances. “However, I will marry. I’ll marry so that I can be one step closer to keeping the farm. Still, I have no prospects for marriage, and no idea how I would be able to come up with the down payment so that I can pay my uncle.”
A sigh escaped Joe as he stepped closer and rested a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “Your uncle is asking a hard thing from you and in a short amount of time. I’m not sure there’s an easy solution to this.”
“There might be,” Mrs. Harp said quietly, “If you’re willing.”
Both men looked up at her. Clark furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Harp swallowed and weaved her fingers together before saying, “I have a sister who lives in Maryland. She tells me there’s this gypsy lady who is a matchmaker there. The woman is supposed to be blessed by God with the uncanny ability to make a match that works. If you’re willing to take on a mail-order bride chosen by the matchmaker, she will chose one for you.”
Joe frowned. “But what does that have to do with the money?”
The woman shrugged, looking a bit chagrined. “A lot of the families of the women back east have at least some measure of wealth. Many of them will come with a dowry. It’s not uncommon for a man of your stature, with a ranch, who can provide very well for a future wife, to ask for a dowry.”
Clark’s chest quivered at the thought. “Ask for a dowry? I know that in other times, one was offered, but is it really not unusual to just ask for one?”
“I really don’t know,” the woman said, shaking her head, “but it couldn’t hurt to try.”
Slowly, Clark let out a breath as he let it sink in. Could he really get a wife and a dowry to save his ranch within a few days? Was it even possible? Joe squeezed his shoulder. “What do you think, Clark? It’s only a little after six right now. If you want, I could run down to the railroad and telegraph office in town and send off a telegram tonight. I know that Sam down there at the office will do it for me. He owes me one.”
The tremble that started in Clark’s chest moved through his whole body. This was all happening too fast. “But what would the telegram say? How could we word it?”
“Just tell the truth,” Mrs. Harp said. “You’re a widower of means, twenty-seven years old, owner of a ranch. Looking to start a family. Need a bride with a dowry to show she is a woman of means as well.”
“When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound half bad,” Joe said, grabbing his coat from the rack by the front door.
Clark reached out and grabbed the man by the shoulder. “Are you sure about this, Joe? Do you both think this is the right thing to do? Shouldn’t we pray about it or think on it?”
Joe nodded and patted Clark’s hand. “You two pray about it and I’ll go send the telegram. It’s possible that this will be a dead end. But it’s also just as possible that the right woman will come along with the right dowry to make keeping the ranch a reality. We’ll just have to trust God to provide. Don’t you think?”
For a long moment, Clark held the man’s shoulder and looked him full in the eye. He didn’t know it, but he held his breath, too. He realized it when he let the breath out, removed his hand from Joe’s shoulder, and nodded. “All right. Let’s trust God and ask Him to provide.”
“Amen,” both of the Harps said as Joe shrugged on his coat and headed out the door.
Chapter 4
The next day at noon, the bakery got especially busy as people lined up in the bakery shop, looking for hot cross buns. This was the time of day they usually expected a large number of customers to come in for the buns, but the number had nearly doubled since Winnie had the idea of making the buns sweet by adding icing to the cross they made in the buns with the knife after cooking. Word had slowly gotten out and now customers had even given them a nickname.
“Could I get a half-dozen of those Christmas buns?” a mother with two young children at her sides asked. “It’s been all the children have been able to talk about since I came in last week. I may even have to make a trip up twice a week, the way they go on and on. I tried making a batch myself, but the children have protested, saying yours are much better.”
A smile spread across Winnie’s lips, the secret to her buns were in her liberal use of fresh butter and cream with a dash of cinnamon. “Thank you,” she told the woman as she placed the buns in a paper bag for the woman to carry.
Once the bakery had sold out of the buns for the day, things finally began to settle down. Her brother, Justin, looked over at her and nodded toward the door. “Will you put the sign up that tells everyone that we’re out of those buns?”
Winnie nodded and started toward the door with the sign. But just as she reached for it, the door opened, and the bell rang overhead. A young boy of about twelve came in. He jumped back at her nearness as he met eyes with Winnie. “Oh, ’scuse me, ma’am. I have a message for a Miss Winifred Holt.”
At the sound of her name, Winnie’s heart squeezed in her chest. Who could possibly be sending her a message? “That’s me.”
“Here you are, then,” he said as he handed her a purple slip of paper that smelled of lilac and then darted back out the door.
Justin called from the other side of the counter. “Who was that?”
She shrugged and then called back, “A messenger boy,” and then continued out to put the sign on the door to let others know there were no more buns for today.
As she headed back in, she peered at the distinctly feminine paper and sniffed it again. Then she admired the lovely scrawl of her name.
“Is it for you?” Justin asked. “Who’s it from?”
Coming around the counter, Winnie shrugged again. “I’m not sure.”
Justin drew closer and peered over her shoulder. “Looks like it’s from a woman.”
“That’d be my guess as well,” she said, studying the paper on both sides.”
After a f
ull minute, Justin growled. “Well, are you going to open it or just stare at it?”
She shivered at his harsh tone, then she shook it off and opened the note.
Miss Holt, I have found a match that would be mutually beneficial to both you and the potential suitor. He is a man of means and asks that his wife be one of means as well, evidenced by a dowry. If you are willing to accept his offer of marriage and your family willing to produce a sufficient dowry, then Mr. Clark Masterson of Masterson Ranch in Tulsa, Oklahoma Territory will accept you as his wife. Please let me know your answer today as time is of the essence.
“Oklahoma,” Winnie whispered as her throat grew tighter. She read the letter again to be sure, but before she reached the end, Justin had snatched it out of her hand.
“How did she find you a match so soon? Didn’t you say it would be a week before you’d hear anything? It hasn’t even been two full days yet.” Justin’s eyebrow raised as he looked at her and sniffed the paper himself. “Lilacs?”
The small measure of success Winnie had felt earlier slipped away from her like a tenuous vapor. Like a puff of smoke. It didn’t last like she’d hoped it would. She’d created the buns only a week before, in the hopes that she wouldn’t have to see the matchmaker, as her mother had said she would. With the success of the buns, she’d hoped that maybe her parents would see her as an asset to the family instead of a burden, and perhaps change their mind and let her stay. But as she read this letter, she wasn’t sure that the success would be enough. Maybe if she had another week or two to prove that the Christmas buns would be enough of a boon to help them decide she was useful. But right now, would they?
Justin pushed the paper back into her hands just as something crashed upstairs. “Well, you better go and tell them now. The letter says that the matchmaker needs to hear something today.”