Mail Order Bride- Fall

by Sierra Rose

  MAIL ORDER BRIDE

  AUTUMN

  Sierra Rose

  Copyright © 2017 by Sierra Rose

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Journey to Turnabout | Letitia Burton: Autumn

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen | Interlude: Sleepless in Turnabout

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  THE END | The last book in the series is available now!!!!!

  Journey to Turnabout

  Letitia Burton: Autumn

  TURNABOUT, SITUATED in the northeastern corner of Texas, is quite a decent small town: well-ordered, well-maintained, well-planned. With but one problem: there are no men.

  Well, yes, of course there are men. Husbands, and soon-to-be husbands, and used-to-be husbands, and those no women would ever choose to be husbands.

  But few eligible men.

  Letitia Burton, nineteen and as headstrong as the rest of her clan, has decided to do something about it. Mainly by secretly placing notices in various newspapers, advertising her charming self as a mail order bride. Within a few months, she strikes pay dirt. Through correspondence, Letty has accepted the proposal of one Reese Barclay, from Denver.

  It isn’t until he is actually on his way to town, however, that she confesses to her family what she has done. Ben Forrester, eldest sister Camellia’s husband, is livid. Has she so quickly forgotten the terrible scrape Molly got herself into, not long ago, under similar circumstances? Does she need to be told how risky it is to accept someone at face value, sight unseen?

  Disgruntled—and annoyed—she reminds him that Camellia, too, was a mail order bride who accepted him at face value. And that, apparently, their marriage has turned out all right. So far.

  Reese safely arrives. His meager letters had provided little description of himself or his background, other than making sure his intended bride is aware of the battle scars with which he has been coping. Meeting, they begin a tentative relationship that deepens and grows in a very short time.

  Then he pulls away, pleading a crisis of conscience: he needs to have steady work before they can marry; he needs to be settled; he needs to square away some details of which she is unaware.

  Their ensuing quarrel drives them apart with, apparently, no recourse. It is not until Ben and Camellia return from opening their second store, in Manifest, that more questions arise than can be answered, and the Burton clan must work furiously to protect one of their own.

  Because Reese Barclay is not who he claims to be. And prying open what he has concealed may yet tear the family apart.

  Chapter One

  TURNABOUT’S SUMMER drifted along, climbing up to the apex—that one span, of a couple weeks’ duration or more, when temperatures broiled their way into the stratosphere and the weather seemed fit for neither man nor beast (let alone the laboring women)—before sliding back down toward the beginning of autumn. Seasons turned, one after the other, just as did the earth on its axis, with maple and sycamore leaves changing color slightly, or fluttering gently to the ground.

  The verdancy of July and August gave way to what would become the annual harvest of crops: hayfields soon to be cut and the grass stored, grain to be scythed, garden produce to be preserved—all, in the manner of prudent ants, prepared against winter’s dearth.

  Reassuring, in a way. Simple routine unmarred by earth-shaking events can be a comfort. Most ordinary folks prefer their lives quiet and humdrum, devoid of that extra spark, that extra fillip, that extra oomph demanding action. Of course, there are some for whom chaos means challenge; some for whom excitement and stress and change constitute the meat, bread, and potatoes of their existence. They actually look forward to unusual doings, whatever those might be.

  Such a one was Letitia Burton.

  Oh, she wouldn’t seek out the sort of topsy-turvy activity (and probable graft) that besets a politician, say; or one of the Wall Street nabobs, who live and breathe by the rarefied air (and sometimes cataclysmic ups and downs) of the Stock Exchange.

  Just something that didn’t mean boredom.

  For some time stories of the irrepressible St. Louis family had swirled through the streets of Turnabout, gathering force and size like a snowball. Since the actual day of their arrival, in fact. With occasional malice, it was true, people being people more willing to share the hateful than the pleasant. But mostly with concern and interest and well wishes, and genuine fellow feeling. Because we are all just human beings under the skin, are we not?

  First the report of Mayor Ben Forrester’s shocking sudden nuptials had made the rounds (for those not directly invited to the wedding); next, news of the attack by the Putnam Brothers on his new wife, and then the subsequent involvement by local gendarmes in what had become the brothers’ far-reaching criminal pursuits.

  Ben’s exploits on the occasion of his participation in the posse that chased them down were witnessed with open-mouthed admiration and approval.

  “Never knew our mayor had it in him to handle a gun like that,” said Wilbur Knaack, owner of the Sarsaparilla Café. “Figured him to be totally about book-larnin’. He’s a good ’un, all right.” Wilbur hadn’t been asked his opinion of the town’s current leadership, but he offered it anyway.

  Abel Norton, over at the livery, said much the same thing. As commanders of their own little empires, the words of these businessmen carried enough weight that Ben ought to be assured of a shoo-in win next election cycle.

  As for Camellia herself, placed somewhat in the position of de facto first lady, everyone would agree she had moved easily and securely into the role.

  “Oh, Miz Forrester is a grand asset around here,” opined Mrs. McKnight, of boarding house fame. “Checks up on her sisters all the time, and so pleasant. Always talks to me friendly-like, just as if she ain’t a number of steps higher on the social ladder than I could ever hope to be.”

  Certainly a favorable impression had been made on Elvira Gotham, at the mercantile, and on a multitude of customers who often wandered in just to have a nice chat with the owner’s wife.

  “Camellia? Salt of the earth, I should say,” was the clerk’s unqualified viewpoint. “Never stands on ceremony. When she’s working at the store, she’s working. Just wants to help out, however she can. I hope she and Ben can open their second place soon.”

  Ben and Camellia had barely gotten themselves settled with the house and the marriage and the business, and all, than the youngest girl, Molly, put herself into a world of trouble wit
h her own marriage. Just a show of independence on her part, it was claimed, hitching up with some out-of-towner, thanks to a scheme no one knew much about, and a wrong ’un, at that. Treated her worse’n dirt, he had; beat her black and blue, according to rumor and fact.

  “Come from somewheres up north, didn’t he?” Amazin’ Adam asked the general populace. “What can you expect in that case?”

  “Well, Hennessey looked all spiff,” contributed one of his audience. “Maybe that’s the onliest thing that counts with these Burton gals.”

  “He looked like a riverboat dandy,” countered another from the pro-St. Louis camp. “Not surprisin’ the young lady got taken in. And, from what I heard, Ben did his best to dissuade her, but she was havin’ none of it. Set on her own ways, she was.”

  At least the unlucky bridegroom had gotten his comeuppance, and fair enough it was. Killed in that monster storm that had roared through here, worst in a century—tearing up trees, flooding Juniper Creek, leaving a coat of mud and broken branches that had taken a week to clear out.

  So there was Quinn Hennessey, buried at the far end of Turnabout’s only cemetery. Come to find out, he was some shady character with a yen for gambling and an even bigger yen to carry him a nice fat wallet stuffed full of greenbacks. Well, that had all come to naught, now, hadn’t it?

  “His widow is doin’ right well by herself, though, everything considered.” An acquaintance of Amazin’s offered his opinion, with a wink and a sly jab of the elbow.

  “Yessiree, nothin’ like takin’ up with the sheriff that’s done rescued you.”

  “Plannin’ on tyin’ the knot pretty soon, ain’t they? Sure didn’t wait very long before they set the date.”

  Not very proper, most people would say, with but a few months elapsed since her husband had breathed his last. Decency would have demanded she wait at least a year before taking the plunge again, and she should have been wearing widows’ weeds the whole time, as well.

  But, there. Things moved a little faster here in the west than in other places, and Molly and her stalwart sheriff deserved their piece of happiness. One could hardly blame them if they decided to rush the ceremony a bit. Paul Winslow had waited a right smart while to find the perfect lady to take to wife; once found, why wait, if the lady was willing?

  Besides, it would be a benefit to the whole town once he got himself wedded and bedded.

  The sheriff had always been a courteous man, whatever came along. He was controlled and quiet, never lost his temper, took neither side if a dispute had sprung up between two combatants. But, already, in the light of Miss Molly’s company, he was smiling more often, taking a more light-hearted approach to life, offering a more friendly tip of the hat or idle conversation with his community members.

  When they walked down the street together, hand in hand, you could just about hear his tall, sturdy frame creaking as it inclined slightly toward his intended, in deference.

  Sorta like, one sidewalk humorist suggested from his porch chair outside Forrester’s store, if that big ol’ gangly horse of the sheriff’s would bend down to touch noses with a kitten.

  And they made a mighty attractive couple, as well.

  Not to mention that the sheriff, his two deputies, and the mayor had combined forces to transfer Molly’s cherished grand piano from its storage in the Forrester barn to the small house Paul Winslow had been renting since his ascension to the law office, and now intended to buy. There wasn’t really space for the huge instrument inside the parlor, but Paul didn’t care. He’d move heaven and earth to some other clime entirely, if it meant cajoling a dimpled smile from Molly’s sweet face.

  Dr. Havers, called out of town to perform an emergency appendectomy, had returned in time to provide the most needed assistance. He stood back and yelled directions at the panting, sweating, straining laborers. None of whom seemed particularly grateful for his help.

  So the town had overwhelmingly approved of these two established pairs as a happy addition to their two thousand residents, all around.

  Then there was Miss Hannah Burton.

  No one dared discuss her particular situation around the pot-bellied stove in Forrester’s store, of course, or on the wooden porch just outside. Such indiscretion would hardly be suitable, given that the lady was now related to Ben by marriage.

  Talk flew instead from barber chair to barber chair, and here and there through the Drinkwater Rouge, and filled space at the Turnabout Haberdashery. Mostly complimentary, of course. Were anything derogatory spoken about any of the Burton girls, word would inevitably get back to Ben, everyone knew, and he was as like to take offense with his fists as with his mood and official position.

  “A mighty toothsome wench, that one,” mumbled an old codger near the stable, watching her walk past with shoulders back and stride swinging. “If I’s just a few years younger...”

  “Few years!” hooted his compatriot. A small pile of kindling attested to some skill with a whittling knife and the soft piece of wood he was working on. “Try fifty, Ezra. She ain’t hardly more’n a child.”

  “Got an awful neat shape to her, for bein’ that young. Nice full curves just where you’d expect ’em. Mmmm, hmmm. Wheredja think she’s headed with that shovel?”

  The whittler chewed his tobacco for a minute, considering, then spat into the dust but considerately outside the main line of traffic. “Doin’ some work for her sister. The married one. Heard she’s pickin’ up business from somea the females in town, flower gardens and such. Me, I can’t understand no woman wantin’ to grub around in the dirt.”

  Nor could most of the males (and a few of the females) in town. It didn’t stand to reason. Why couldn’t Hannah Burton do something respectable, if she needed money, like teach school, or open a hat shop, or just find herself a husband? This was a modern world; all sorts of employment opportunities existed for an enterprising young lady. She didn’t have to go around duded-up and mud-daubed like one of those miners digging underground for Lord knew what kinda minerals.

  “Well, I’d be happy to take her on.” Lester Mountebank, squint-eyed, balding, and rotund as a sleepy tortoise, almost smacked his lips over the prospect. Having enjoyed a fine dinner, he stood on the front steps of the Sittin’ Eat, sucking at a toothpick and taking in his surroundings.

  Sam Wheeler, assistant vice president of the Turnabout National Bank, threw his companion a glance of disgust. “Why, you dumb fool, Les. Think she’d ever consider you? That girl has class. Probably ain’t no one in town fit for her to make a match. You mark my words, she’s gonna look elsewhere. That’s if she decides to look at’all.”

  A few of the ladies took a much more determined stance.

  “There she goes again.” Martha Woodward, staring through the plate glass window of her husband’s tailor shop, sniffed righteously. “It ain’t natural, if you ask me. Why, it’s no more than some youngster, playing in a sandbox.”

  Mrs. Woodward’s co-conspirator, standing beside her, nodded her head so vigorously that the several artificial birds on her hat rustled their wings, about to take flight. “So unsuitable, don’t you think, dear Martha? Heavy-handed! And what is she calling herself? A gardener? A landscaper? A nurseryman?”

  “A horticulturist,” Henry Woodward, prompted by fairness, piped up.

  With one motion, both women turned on him.

  Henry quailed. He had served responsibly and honorably during the War Between the States; and, as he confided later to a drinking buddy over the Rouge’s generous bar, he would rather face the guns of a charging cavalry than the wrath of godly women with their skirts in a frizz.

  Especially when those women’s looks were homelier than a mud fence, and the target of their wrath might have been the beautiful subject of a Renaissance painting, stepped down from the frame.

  Last of all was Miss Letitia Burton.

  When word got out that she was actually working with Dr. Havers, that she was actually learning a trade, that she was actually planni
ng a future based on therapeutic care, Turnabout just about lost its collective mind. Imagine that, this gently born woman putting herself and her endurance to the test by dealing with the repulsive blood and gore of people needing medical attention.

  Why, everyone knew that any member of the gentler sex should surely be shielded from such harsh realities on the seamier side of life!

  A female in trade was certainly bad enough. Sometimes that was a necessity, such as Miss Elvira Gotham’s occupation, over at the mercantile. Still a lady, Lord knew; still delicate and fragile (despite her occasional use of a waspish tongue). It was hardly her fault that she’d been left a spinster, with no means of support other than this one.

  But doctoring?

  Obviously educated far beyond her needs, no matter what Letitia’s station in life.

  Why else would she take on such a demeaning, unladylike profession? Shame on her family (and especially Ben, as patriarch) for not refusing her permission; shame on Gabriel Havers for sympathizing with and encouraging her mad notion.

  “Well, now, there’s somethin’ to be said about bein’ nursed outa sickness by a filly as winsome as this here one,” ventured Lean Joe McKean, from the land office porch where he was busily engaged in propping up one of the support posts. “Pretty as a painted wagon, she is.”

  “Would sure make you wanna get back on your feet in a hurry, wouldn’t it?” agreed the assayer, Marcus Finch. “You think she’ll stick it out?”

  “Dunno. She’s got that kinda look in her eye. Reckon she goes after somethin’ and don’t give up till she’s got it. Still...a man can dream, can’t he?”

  Finch, watching the young woman in question stride along with great purpose, shrugged. “S’pose so. But not too much, since we’re both married. I don’t think our wives would take kindly to lettin’ some dewy-faced female be a-tendin’ to our needs.”

  If it seemed that there was a great deal of lollygagging going on, mainly by the masculine segment of the populace, while the Burtons were busy taking over the town, it was, mercifully, of brief duration and usually while the residents were proceeding from one business or event to another, based around mealtime. While working men did do their share of porch-sitting, and could find innumerable subjects to gossip about while whittling or spitting or getting their whiskers trimmed, they would eventually set off for their afternoon’s chosen work.