Her Fearless Love (Seeing Ranch Mail Order Bride) (A Western Historical Romance Book)

by Florence Linnington

  August rolled his pencil between his fingers, and he looked down at the bank’s log, but the numbers looked like nothing but random scratches. His ability to concentrate had dissipated.

  He didn’t like how other people dismissed Miss Meyers. She had been through a good deal. Did she even have any friends in Pathways? Anyone to confide in?

  Setting his pencil down, August sighed and allowed himself one final glance out the window. There was still no sign of the quiet brunette.

  He could be her friend. Perhaps she would not find absolute comfort in his presence, but he could at least provide her with some companionship. A bit of laughter.

  Maybe even, one day, courtship.

  Since arriving in Pathways, August had only courted one young lady. And he’d waited too long to decide on pursuing things further with her and proposing, for she’d become frustrated with him and married a man from back east.

  That whole situation had probably turned out for the best, anyway. Looking back, August understood they would not have made each other happy. During their courtship, she had shown a great amount of interest in all things fine, from expensive dresses to large houses. She’d made it clear to August that, were they to marry, she would need a maid.

  Yes, things had turned out for the best there. But while August no longer wanted Christine Finca, he did want a wife. A family. His parents had had a wonderful marriage, and now he wished to add the same to his life.

  Could Margaret Meyers be his chance at that?

  It was too early to know, but August could not wait to explore the possibility.

  Chapter 2

  2. Margaret

  Chapter two

  “Anything else?” the rosy-cheeked woman behind the bakery’s counter asked.

  “No. Just the bread, thank you.” Margaret avoided the woman’s gaze as she handed over the coin. She knew the price without being told, as she’d run to the bakery several times before to fetch a loaf when the Bains’ cook was too busy with other things to bake that day.

  “I see you in here on the regular now,” the woman said. “You’re the Bains’ housekeeper, aren’t ya?”

  There was a slight accent to her voice, making Margaret think she’d likely been born in America but raised by immigrants. Was it Irish?

  “Yes, that’s right.” Margaret only kept eye contact for a moment before looking away again. The door to the bakery’s back room opened, and a younger woman entered. Margaret had seen her a few times before, but now she noticed the similarities in the younger and older women’s faces. They both had round features and sky-blue eyes, as well as stout figures.

  The younger woman set a tray of cookies on the counter and cast a curious look Margaret’s way. Realizing she stared, Margaret turned away.

  “Margaret Hawkins, yes?” the older woman asked.

  Margaret flinched at the name. “Meyers,” she corrected.

  On paper, she was still Margaret Hawkins, but in her heart, she was a Meyers. The name was the last thing she had to remember her deceased parents by, and she regretted ever letting go of it in order to become a Hawkins.

  “I’m Marcie Aarons,” the older woman said. “And this here is my daughter Lydia.”

  Aarons. Yes, that was Irish, was it not? And it made sense that they were mother and daughter.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Margaret said.

  “You as well,” Lydia said, wiping her hands on her apron and peering at Margaret with a look of intensity. Under the attention, Margaret shrank back. She wanted to find a dark cave and slip into it. Did everyone in Pathways know about her husband’s death? About how she had been suspect in it?

  It did not matter that the real killer had been found and sent to prison. It seemed the whole world knew that Margaret had suffered at the hands of her late husband. Just having others know what she went through brought shame. She had been raised to keep her private life just that: private.

  Margaret wrapped the cloth she’d brought with loosely around the bread loaf, but before she could make her departure, Lydia spoke again.

  “I haven’t seen you at the women’s meeting. It’s Friday evenings at church. Has anyone told you about it?”

  “Oh,” Margaret said in a small voice. “No, no one has,” she lied. “That sounds nice.”

  “Will you come?” Lydia asked. “It’s a great time. We do bible study and quilt. Oh, and other things, as well. Share novels and gossip.” She winked at her mother.

  Marcie Aarons laughed. “The men folk don’t know about that last part.”

  “It sounds nice,” Margaret said, aware that she repeated herself. She did not want to attend the women’s meeting, though. Or, rather, she could not.

  The thought of that many eyes on her at once... of their owners all knowing her past... Church once a week was hard enough, but Margaret went to service because that weekly communion with the Lord was the one thing that kept her breathing. Any interaction with people beyond the necessary amount would drive her mad.

  “Come some time,” Lydia said.

  “Perhaps I will,” Margaret lied. “Have a nice day.”

  Making haste, she took her bread and departed the shop.

  A heavy gust of wind did the job of closing the bakery’s door behind her. Chin to chest to keep the blowing snow out of her face, she trudged around drifts and onto the trampled-down section of snow.

  Before she could turn right onto Independence Street, a prickly feeling hit her neck. Margaret stopped walking and turned around to inspect the street behind her. A man in a fur hat entered the general store, and two women walked with their arms looped together.

  No one paid Margaret any mind, and yet she swore she’d felt someone watching her.

  Shaking off the odd sensation, she continued to the Bains’ home.

  It was odd to think of the place as her home. The family that employed her was nice, but to Margaret their home was merely a house. A place she worked and slept at. One day, she would probably leave it, but where she would go, she knew not. She’d come to Wyoming looking to be a wife and she’d ended up a servant.

  For her, the latter was infinitely better. Either way, she washed sheets and scrubbed floors. At least at the Bains’, no one screamed or put their hands on her. She also got a fair wage, which, combined with the money she made renting her cabin in Whiteridge, was adding up to a nice sum underneath her mattress.

  Thinking about the rolls of money, Margaret made a mental note to go to the bank soon and open an account. In her whole life, she’d never had enough money for that to be necessary, but now that she had dollars steadily flowing, she needed a safe place to keep them.

  At the two-story house, Margaret went around to the side entrance and knocked the snow off her boots on a brick there. Unwinding her scarf, she entered the kitchen.

  Lulu looked up from her fevered chopping of a potato. The cook was tall and strong, and certainly more skilled in the kitchen than anyone else in Pathways.

  Before catching wind of the housekeeping job, Margaret would not have guessed anyone who could afford hired help lived in Wyoming Territory, but now she saw she’d been wrong. Mr. Bain worked for a major railroad running through Pathways, and if he was not away on work then he was bringing important men home for supper.

  That was where Lulu came in. Her father had been a famous chef in New York, and he’d passed down his skills to his daughter.

  “Here is the bread,” Margaret said, setting the loaf on the counter. She unbuttoned her jacket and inhaled the kitchen’s warm air. Even a simple walk down the street had nearly frozen her cheeks and fingertips.

  Cleaving an onion in half, Lulu eyed Margaret. “You look like you need some tea.”

  “I am fine. Thank you.”

  Margaret crossed the kitchen, headed for the staircase, doing her best to ignore Lulu’s gaze.

  “Have some tea,” Lulu said.

  Margaret paused, her hand on the bannister. “I should really get to the washing.�
��

  “You have time, don’t you?”

  Margaret gulped in some air. It was the scene at the bakery all over again. She knew that each of these women likely only wanted to get to know her better. Perhaps they were even concerned about her.

  But that concern made Margaret withdraw more. Even before her husband’s death, she had been a person who did not like airing her dirty laundry. The manner of his departure had made her even more cautious. She constantly worried that people wanted to become close to her in order to glean grisly details about what happened in Whiteridge.

  “Perhaps later,” Margaret lied.

  Lulu said nothing, and Margaret climbed the stairs.

  The house was a new one, with shining windows and bright wallpaper. Margaret had a room at the very top, right across from Lulu, and the staircase they took from the kitchen was the servant’s access.

  Passing the second floor landing, Margaret continued up to the third. She had been telling the truth about the washing--she did need to tend to it. First, though, she wanted a moment alone.

  Walking through the streets always made her skin crawl. She worried that people would come up and attempt to converse.

  Returning to her room, even if for a moment, brought her some solace. She had made the space her own, pinning up some drawings she had sketched of the mountains and wolves. She’d seen the animals at a distance before and become fascinated with the unnameable qualities in their eyes. Every time she set her pencil to paper, she tried to copy those qualities. She never succeeded, but attempting to was a nice distraction from her near-constant loneliness.

  Taking a seat on the stool at the window, Margaret closed her eyes for a moment and pressed her cheek against the cold window pane.

  Opening her eyes, she gazed though the glass at the back yard. Two rows of footprints, left by three-year-old Horace and seven-year-old Charlotte, carved a circle in the snow.

  Margaret smiled to herself. She liked the children. They were polite, smart, and creative.

  It used to be, she dreamed of having children. Now, that seemed like a fantasy. In order to have children, she would need to have a husband. And how could she trust any man enough to marry him?

  Even before she married Russell, things had not been easy. No men had come to court her, probably because she was dirt poor, and her father had been in and out of her life until he eventually died drunk in the street. All Margaret had was her mother, and she’d passed five years before.

  Margaret clenched her jaw, refusing to allow tears to fall. This was her life now. She was an unwed servant. All she could do was pray and hope for the little comforts: a new book here. An hour alone to sketch there.

  Any hopes greater than those would be foolish.

  Chapter 3

  3. Margaret

  Chapter three

  The next morning, Margaret wrapped her wool scarf securely around her neck and donned her mittens. In her pocket, she had a letter for her only living relative: her Aunt Midge in Ohio.

  She’d written the letter the night before by candlelight, choosing to only give her aunt the most pleasant details of life in Wyoming. Midge was in her seventies and her old age had made her sensitive.

  Indeed, after Russell’s death, it took Margaret weeks to decide how best to tell Midge the news. Until that point, she’d never told her aunt about Russell’s brutish ways. Upon deciding to reveal the news of his death, however, she included his cruelty and how lucky she now was to be moving to Pathways.

  Her aunt had written back since then, telling Margaret that she could come and live with her in Ohio, but Margaret would do no such thing. After her husband’s death several years before, Midge had gone to live with some neighbors. They were people who took good care of her, and if Margaret were to move to Ohio, she and Midge would need to find their own home. Margaret knew she would not be able to provide for Midge as well as her aunt’s friends did.

  As she finished buttoning up her coat, the door leading to the end of the hallway opened and Mrs. Bain entered the kitchen.

  “Mice!” she cried out in exasperation. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked around. “Where is Lulu?”

  “She went to pick up more sugar,” Margaret explained, hoping Mrs. Bain did not need some assistance.

  “Have you seen any mice about?” Mrs. Bain asked, twisting her hands.

  She was a beautiful woman, the kind whose age it was nearly impossible to tell. Her husband had to be in his fifties, but Mrs. Bain could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five. She had the smoothest skin and the brightest eyes, and a pleasant demeanor to match. She was also incredibly nice to her servants, which surprised Margaret a great deal. Back in Ohio, she had worked for some time as a maid, and her employers there had treated her like nothing more than mud on their shoes.

  “Mice?” Margaret repeated. She’d heard scratching in the walls of her bedroom, but she had not seen any droppings. The fact that she should be dismayed over the critters had never crossed her mind. Mice were to be expected anywhere a person went.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bain said, dropping her hands and sighing. “I saw one of them just now, in the second-floor hall. I declare, we need a cat around here.”

  “A cat would be nice,” Margaret agreed, not sure what else to add. She glanced down at her pocket, where the letter to Aunt Midge waited.

  Mrs. Bain took in Margaret, seeming to notice her outer wear for the first time. “Are you off somewhere?”

  “Yes,” Margaret said hastily. “Just to the post office. Unless you need me here,” she added.

  “No, no. That is fine. I see you already tended to the sitting room.”

  “Yes.” Margaret folded her hands and waited to be dismissed. Since coming to the home, Mrs. Bain had asked Margaret once or twice about her life, but Margaret had found it difficult to provide anything other than the most subdued, simple facts. And nothing about Russell.

  She knew, of course. Everyone knew. It was the reason Margaret never talked.

  “Have a good walk then,” Mrs. Bain said. She looked uncomfortable. Was it because of Margaret’s detachment? Or because she was the lady of the house, standing around chatting with a servant in the kitchen?

  Margaret had seen Mrs. Bain standing around talking with Lulu before, either while Lulu made a cake, collected eggs, or did any number of things, so she did not think it was the latter. Mrs. Bain liked to talk, and she also seemed a bit lonely.

  It was because of Margaret. She made everyone uneasy now.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bain.” Lowering her eyes, Margaret went out the side door and into the crisp air.

  The post office sat at the far end of Pathways, across the street from the school. Margaret kept on the boardwalks when they existed and walked in the wagon tracks when they did not. The sun glinted off the snow and made her eyes water, so she kept her face down.

  At the post office, she turned the letter over with minimal interaction with the post master. As he took it, she couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the envelope.

  Suppose she did go and live with her aunt? At least she would be with family.

  But, no. She’d already decided that was not an option. Leave Midge be. The old woman was happy. Perhaps someday Margaret would find a way to be the same.

  Ducking her face against the harsh light, Margaret exited the post office--and collided with a firm chest.

  “Oh!” she gasped, stepping back. “Excuse me.”

  The man she had bumped into lifted his hat. “It is no worries at all. It is my fault. I did not watch where I was going.”

  “I was distracted as well,” Margaret said. “So I apologize again.”

  Without meaning to, she stared at the man a little too long. With shining, hazel eyes, a straight nose, and thick, auburn hair peeking out from under his hat, he was easily the most handsome man she had encountered in Pathways. Thinking back, she realized she’d seen him at church once or twice.

  “I believe we have not had t
he pleasure of meeting,” he said. “My name is August Dowdell. I work at the bank.”

  August. A beautiful name if Margaret had ever heard one. There was a smooth, languid quality to his speech. Was it a hint of a southern accent?

  “Margaret Meyers,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”