Trudy shook her head. “You don’t want to start your new life out with a falsehood. That would be bad luck.”
“I don’t have any other choice. What’s done is done.”
The sound of approaching voices propelled Evie up off the bed. She picked up the empty water pitcher to go.
“Wait.” Trudy went to her trunk and rummaged through it hastily. “Here.” She brought out a small, beautifully cross-stitched handkerchief. “This was my mother’s. I’m sending it with you to carry at your wedding. Something borrowed, something blue. But do mail it back to me as soon as you’ve wed—send it to my father’s home—so I can take it with me to Montana and carry it at my wedding. And send me a letter, too, telling me all about Chance and your home and—everything else. If we keep writing back and forth our friendship will never die.”
Evie sucked in a breath. “A gift from a mother is much too precious to lend, even for a short time.” When Trudy wouldn’t take it back, Evie glanced down. It was small. Blue stitches on white. Love Never Fails. That was all. But it was more than enough to release the storm of tears she’d been holding back all day.
Chapter Four
THE LAST of the afternoon sun glimmered through the aspen leaves as a gentle breeze eased across the land and ruffled Chance’s hair. The house was a bit further along, but not much. Mr. Lichtenstein had found ten pounds of nails from somewhere, making it possible to get the outside walls up and most of the interior studs set. The structure was like a big box with a front porch and a magnificent view of the night sky. Chance was actually going to miss the sight when the roof went on.
Sweeping sawdust and wood shavings into the middle of the room, he let his mind wander. He enjoyed every aspect of construction, from digging the foundation to cleaning up each night. The house had taken on a life of its own. At some point in time, his bride would make it warm and welcoming. Right now, though, the dwelling’s personality was somewhat somber, a sort of wait and see.
Bending over, he reached for a nail bent squarely at the tip, then tossed it into a tin can. He’d learned the hard way how precious even one nail could be. No shame in pounding it straight and using it again. Ambling to the front door opening, he stopped and leaned on the broom handle. The wide-open acreage was like a balm to his soul.
The homestead faced east. Directly across was an enormous old oak that gave the front of the house a vestige of shade. Two hitching posts on either side of the porch dressed up the plainness of the yard, then the land rolled out into a rambling pasture, where his small herd of beef—each wearing his big H, little dangling C brand, for Holcomb Cattle—now grazed. Around behind and a distance away on a raised plateau was the holding tank for water pumped from the windmill that stood beside the barn. Last year, the well and water system were the first things he’d put in. His father would be proud to see what he’d accomplished almost singlehandedly.
He’d been delighted when a heifer was born last night, a new addition to his herd. The spindly little creature now slept peacefully, curled in the grass, while her mama grazed by her side. The wagon trail into Y Knot curved from the west and rolled up between sparsely placed trees to the homestead. On the left-hand side of the yard was the barn, the structure he’d felt most important to finish before the fall, and before the snows hit. Then came a small smoke shack and outhouse. All he needed to complete this picture was a wife. Evie.
At that thought he shifted uneasily. Five days had passed since he’d sent the post with Evie’s fares. One for the train from St. Louis to Waterloo, and the second for the Wells Fargo stage from Waterloo on to Y Knot. Maybe he should have insisted on traveling to Missouri to fetch her himself. Make sure she made it safely. He’d offered and she’d declined.
Still, it preyed on his mind. He’d sent one last quick note to explain one more time how far Y Knot was from any big town. Then, on a sentimental whim, something had taken hold of his senses and he’d stuck a tiny buttercup into the envelope, just something to make her smile. He shook his head. He’d turned into a sap.
It was strange. He wanted to protect her, love her, watch her marvel as the geese flew overhead on their way to warmer grounds. Was it possible to love someone you hadn’t even met? His heart said yes, at least with respect to him and Evie Davenport. Evie Holcomb, he corrected in his mind. He wanted to open up to her completely. Hold nothing back. Still, a tiny voice in his head whispered for him to go slow. Test the waters. Things weren’t always what they seemed. The memory of his mother kissing him good-bye, breaking his heart, was a reminder he best never forget. He scrubbed a hand over his face, and looked into the sky.
Dexter, his black-and-white border collie, bolted out from the aspen grove, his tail tucked tightly between his legs as he ran hell-bent for the house. As he approached, the scent of skunk permeated the air. “Down!” Chance called when the dog was within thirty feet. “Don’t you dare come one step closer.”
Dexter dropped to the ground and woefully placed his nose between his two outstretched legs. A pitiful moan drifted over to Chance, along with a stink that would make a sailor cringe.
Chance let the broom drop to the floor with a sharp rap and strode across the porch, down three steps, and over to the animal. “I don’t feel a bit sorry for you. You know better than to chase that cantankerous critter. This is the fourth time this year he’s sprayed you.”
He and Dexter had been a team for almost three years. Dexter was a darned good dog, too, great at herding, knew all his commands. Chance couldn’t run the ranch without him. Now though, it looked as if Dexter was trying to disappear into thin air. What was he going to do? Skunk lasted a long time. What a nice welcoming gift for Evie.
The dog kept his head down, ashamed.
“Evie’s scheduled to arrive on the stage—tomorrow.”
A pitiful sound vibrated from the dog’s throat.
Chance chuckled, unable to stay mad at his friend for long. “All right. I forgive you. Let’s get you washed up as best we can.”
***
Evie clutched the windowsill of the rocking Wells Fargo stagecoach as mile after mile of rugged land passed before her eyes. Patches of dense forest, flat open grasslands, mysterious-looking mountains far off on the horizon put a shiver in her heart.
Her stomach churned. The inside of the coach was musty and warm, and the motion made her tummy tilt and sour. If she never stepped foot inside another coach after this trip, she would be happy. This was not how she envisioned meeting her betrothed—with droopy hair, a sheen on her forehead and nose, and in need of a good scrub.
Sighing, she glanced at the small book Mrs. Seymour had given her at Christmas—The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness for the Use of the Lady in Polite Society by Florence Hartley.
She opened to the first page.
1.Conversation is an art. A lady learns to sympathize while listening attentively. It is ill-bred to interrupt. Use a clear, distinct voice. Read and listen wherever there is an opportunity and store away knowledge for stimulating topics to speak about later. Affectation is vulgar. Keep purity, honesty, and charity in mind at all times.
2.The way to make yourself pleasing to others is to care for them. Truly, from the heart. Make sacrifices. Show them they are important to you. Affectionate, tender looks. Tiny acts of kindness. Give others the preference at every occasion.
Evie closed her eyes, recalling the cool, misty morning three days ago when she’d left St. Louis for good. She’d donned her most serviceable brown muslin dress, with a fitted bodice and drop waist, keeping the yellow serge for Sundays and visiting, and the blue hand-me-down velvet for her wedding. She’d brought along her black uniform, too. With the pretty, detachable crocheted collar and cuffs Trudy had given her, Evie was sure the black skirt and shirtwaist would come in handy on many occasions.
Also, after much heartfelt soul-searching about space, she’d packed both her aprons, the ruffled for company and the serviceable for her everyday chores. If she wore t
hem with something other than her black skirt and shirtwaist, no one would know they’d been part of her maid’s uniform. She had so few articles of clothing, leaving something so useful behind would be a mistake. At the last second, she’d stuffed her feather duster into her carpetbag, too. She’d had it for years, and something about leaving it behind just didn’t feel right.
That morning, she’d quietly snuck out the side door of the house to start her new life. Alone in the early light, she’d taken one last look at the large red-and-white Victorian that had been the only home she’d ever known. She’d been born there, and her mother had died there, and was buried in the cemetery down the street.
A squeeze of emotion gripped her heart as she had struggled to memorize the little details that made the house special. The tall, round turret that always made her think of Rapunzel, locked away. The climbing yellow roses blooming on the trellis above the parlor window. The gingerbread trim. Home. But no longer. She was on her way to a new life.
With a bit of a heavy heart, Evie wiped her forehead with her every-day handkerchief.
“Get used to it.”
Evie looked up. The woman she’d been traveling with hadn’t spoken more than ten words since they’d boarded. Evie smiled, grateful for a distraction. “Get used to what?”
The woman looked to be in her thirties. Her dainty nose had just the perfect scoop and her fingers were slender and elegant, lovely to watch. Golden locks, when not done up as they were now, must reach all the way to her derriere. She wore a beautiful red satin gown and a string of red stones about her slim neck. Her smile was impish, but it was her blue eyes that caught and held Evie’s attention whenever she’d looked her way. Evie fought the niggle of envy warming her skin.
“Being dirty. This is the West, sugar. We’re not in St. Louis anymore.”
Evie sat forward, anxious to speak of her old home. When she wasn’t sick with excitement and fear over finally meeting Chance, she was brokenhearted from homesickness. This was the first time she’d ever been out of the city. “You’re from St. Louis too?”
The woman shrugged. “St. Louis, San Francisco, Boston. I’ve traveled the world.”
“How exciting! Have you been to France?” Evie’s mother had been part French and had shared many wonderful stories about Evie’s grandparents before they came to America.
“Well, no. Not France. But lots of other places.”
“Are you going to Y Knot?”
She nodded.
Why was a beautiful—Evie surreptitiously glanced at her ring finger—single woman like her going to a small, rugged, hole-in-the-wall like Y Knot? Maybe she’s a mail-order bride, too. Mail-Order Brides of the West was not the only mail-order brides agency in the world. Evie noticed advertisements springing up more and more often. But she’d not ask anyone a personal question like that.
Her heart swelled. My first friend. “I’m Evie Davenport. Soon to be Mrs. Chance Holcomb. I’ll be living in Y Knot, too.”
The woman’s softly colored eyebrow lifted, and Evie felt a tense undercurrent of some sort ripple through the coach. “Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, soon-to-be Mrs. Chance Holcomb. I’m Fancy Aubrey.”
Had she said something wrong? Evie wondered if she’d somehow inadvertently been rude.
Anxiety made Evie dab her forehead with the cloth in her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, too. This is the first time I’ve traveled out of St. Louis. Knowing that you’re from St. Louis is a great comfort to me. I hope we can be friends.”
Fancy Aubrey smiled in her mystifying way and nodded. “Of course we’ll be friends. Out here you’ll find that women are outnumbered six to one. Any time spent in the company of the fairer sex is appreciated.”
Evie squelched a sigh, not quite sure what Fancy meant by her last comment. “Yes, of course,” she echoed. At the last stop, the driver had informed them they’d be reaching Y Knot at approximately three in the afternoon. She glanced at the tiny watch pinned to her bodice. They were almost there.
***
Chance pushed a shank of hair behind his ear, grimacing at his reflection as if he’d never seen himself before. He should’ve gotten a haircut. For the third time, he settled his Stetson on his head and turned his face from side to side.
He wrestled a stupid-looking smile onto his face. Gathered his wits.
“Hello, Evie, it’s good to meet you. Meet you finally. Finally meet you?” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Davenport, how was the trip? Miss Davenport? Evie? Hello.”
Picking up a glass of water from the dresser top, he gulped down several swallows.
This was harder than castrating the bull calves.
“Hello, Evie, thank you for agreeing to be my mail-order bride. My name is Chance Holcomb.”
Disgusted with himself, he smacked the dresser in frustration. The half-full glass tottered and he grabbed it just as it fell. Of course she knows my name, you idiot!
Come on, simpleton. Get it right.
“Hello, Evie. The house I promised you isn’t finished and you’ll have to sleep in the snow.”
He turned abruptly, paced tensely to the window and stared out, trying to see Y Knot through Evie’s eyes. The town looked shabby. Why would a city girl choose to come to a place like this?
Turning again, he caught sight of his good coat laid out on the bed. He’d bathed and shaved—but forgotten the haircut. Oh, well. Nothing he could do about it now. The stage was due in fifteen minutes. Staying in the room for another moment wasn’t an option. He needed to feel some air on his face to settle his stomach. Donning his jacket, he ran his palms down his trousers, then pulled open the door. It was time.
At the bottom of the steps he met Francis in the entry of the hotel.
“Chance?”
Chance cleared his throat. “What’re you doing here, Francis?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Francis looked him up and down, fingering a small, paper-wrapped package he was holding. “Going somewhere?” He could see the boy had more questions, but was holding back.
“I’m here to—” they said at the same time.
Chance tried to smile, but it felt stilted. “You first.”
“I need to ship this for the ranch. Forgot yesterday.” He held out the box. “I’m putting it on the stage.” He glanced at the wall-hanging clock. “Should be pulling in anytime.”
“And you’re in the hotel because…” If he could keep the kid talking, perhaps he’d forget to ask what he was doing here.
Francis’s face went dark, the chip back on his shoulder. “It’s a free country, Chance. I don’t report to you.”
“You’re right.” Chance opened the door and went out, followed by Francis. Time was short. He listened for the horses, the wheels, his heart smacking against his ribs.
The street was practically empty. Looked like he and Francis were the only ones interested in today’s stage.
“Why are you all dressed up?”
Chance didn’t have the opportunity to answer before the rumble of the stage drew their attention. A second later, a team of six horses, their necks and hips lathered white, their round, ruby-red nostrils surging for air, careened around the corner between the bank and assayer’s office and approached Cattlemen’s Hotel at a lope. Dirt kicked up from the wheels, leaving a four-foot-wide track. All noise was drowned out as the conveyance headed their way.
Chapter Five
“WHOA, NOW,” the driver called out. The man, weathered from years in the sun, drew back on the reins and worked the squeaky brake with his boot-clad foot. “Whoa there, boys and girls. Listen up. Come on down to a walk.” He smiled and gave a quick wave to Chance and Francis as the coach rocked to a halt and dust kicked up all around.
Chance couldn’t stop a smile from forming on his face. His belly settled and suddenly he was ready and eager to meet Evie. Who would’ve thought his feelings could flip-flop so fast.
When he stepped toward the stage door, Franci
s caught his arm.
“You!” The boy’s huge eyes glistened with surprise. “Holy smokes saints alive! You’re the one who sent for a mail-order bride!” He shook his head and then mumbled, “I can’t believe it.”
Chance pulled away from Francis and reached for the door, turning the warm metal handle.
“Chance?” a soft voice asked in a throaty purr as a woman wearing a tight red dress extended her hand.
Confusion rocked him as he helped her down.
“Evie?” Her powdered face and voluptuous figure were not what he’d been expecting. Evie? His Evie was a high-class saloon girl?
She batted her lashes. “Hello, darlin’.”
Her seductive smile sent a jolt zipping through his body.
“Holy smokes saints alive,” Francis whispered in awe from a foot behind him. “Holy smokes saints alive,” he said again.
The woman’s gaze zeroed in on Francis. “And what’s your name, love?”
The boy gulped and started to shake. “Fra-Fra—”
“Chance?”
At the sweet sound, Chance swung around, relief flooding his heart. The voice and the sensibility of the letters he’d read so many times matched the young woman perched in the coach doorway, and he knew intuitively who she was.
Large, wonder-filled eyes searched his as he took in her silky, soft skin, small nose, and perfectly shaped lips. Her curly, honey-colored hair shone in the sunlight, though wisps here and there were albeit a bit frazzled from the arduous travel. Her slim figure almost looked girlish, instead of that of a young woman of twenty-two. Then she smiled and his heart took wings. A dimple transformed her cheek and her lashes dropped shyly over her eyes. He reached up, encircled her small waist with his hands, and set her gently on the ground. My wife.
“Evie,” he said in a clear, practiced tone. “How was—” His voice wavered. He stopped. He gazed meaningfully into her expectant eyes. “Evie,” he began again slowly. “You’re more beautiful than a sunset filled with rose-colored clouds or a December sky filled with twinkling stars.” He blinked and prayed his face wasn’t red. “I’m in awe.”
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Evie (McCutcheon) Page 3