“Perhaps, but ‘grit,’ as you so delicately put it, is hardly a selling point in this instance. I’m afraid we cannot accept them. Parents enroll their daughters here expecting us to maintain a certain clientele. Our establishment is like a rose garden, if you will, where the girls are tended and sheltered and kept from contact with … shall we say, ragged little weeds.”
He glanced at the girls, his ire rising. There in the fancy front room, they looked as out of place as tin cups at a tea party, but by sugar, they didn’t deserve to be called weeds.
The tears on Number One’s lashes and the bucky set to Number Two’s jaw tore things completely. He slowly rose, planted his palms on the desk, and loomed over the dried-up old stick of a headmistress.
“Lady, those aren’t weeds. They’re little girls. Girls who just lost their mother. You’re about as sensitive as granite and twice as hard. I need someplace to put them, but I’d rather leave them with a pack of wolves then under your ‘tender’ care.”
She shrank back, flinching with every word and jumping when Bear cracked his fist on the desktop hard enough to make the inkwell hop. Gathering her dignity, blinking, and pushing her chair away from him, she stood.
“Mr. McCall, get out. Neither you nor these ragamuffins are welcome here. I suggest you find yourself a wife to care for them instead of trying to farm them out. Though I pity the poor woman who would marry you. You come in here dressed no better than an Indian, with your animal skins and wild hair and a beard that would make a billy goat proud, demanding that we take your problem off your hands. Well, we’re not going to do it, so you might as well be on your way. And don’t come back.”
At the mention of a wife, Bear’s blood boiled right over. “I’d rather poke a rabid mama grizzly in the eye than get married, but even that’s preferable to leaving the girls here with you, you old viper. Calling them weeds and saying they don’t measure up to your lofty standards. Well, I’m glad they don’t, because I’d be ashamed to be related to anyone who resembled you. I wouldn’t leave a dog I didn’t like in your care.” He whirled, upsetting his own chair and not bothering to pick it up. “C’mon, girls. We’ll find somewhere a little more fitting to our lofty standards.”
Slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows gave him immense satisfaction.
As he stalked down the drive in the dusk of early evening with the girls scampering to keep up behind him, Bear had a mental image of his last bridge turning to a pile of embers.
Emmylou trudged up the steps to the Front Range Hotel, weary to her marrow. The white-clapboard building looked neat enough, though after her latest experience, she was on her guard. She entered the lobby. Doors opened on her left into a restaurant where plenty of noise emanated. Smells of baking bread and roasting meat hit her, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. The sound of breaking crockery shot through the first floor, followed by a shout.
“Forget it. I quit.” A petite dark-haired woman stomped out, yanking off her apron and tossing it behind her. “I refuse to be treated like this.” She hit the door and didn’t look back, leaving Emmylou staring after her.
A short, hand-wringing man shuffled into the lobby, peeling the apron from around his neck. He flung it down on the counter. “Dinner is about to start, and I’ve no waitress.” He muttered and twisted his hands. “That’s the third waitress I’ve lost this month. Seems no matter how much I pay, they won’t stay.” He sighed. “Can I help you? Do you want dinner or a room?” His droopy eyes looked up at her, as if hardly daring to hope.
“How much are your rooms?” Please, Lord, don’t let them be too expensive.
“Two dollars a night. Food in the restaurant is extra.”
Her heart sank. At that rate, she would be broke in two nights.
He looked her up and down. “Say, you wouldn’t want a job, would you? I need a waitress. You ever waitressed before?”
A spark of hope flickered in her chest. “Does the job come with a room?”
He scratched his cheek. “I guess I can spare you a room, but it won’t be much.” He named a paltry wage. “Best I can do if you’re gonna be boarding here, too.”
She could hear her aunt deriding her as she packed her bag. “A mail-order bride? You’re going to regret this. You never look before you leap, expecting somebody to catch you when you fall. You’re impulsive and reckless, and it will land you in trouble one of these days.”
“I’ll take it.” It wasn’t as if she had a lot of choices, and sometimes when the Lord gave you an opportunity, you had to leap at it or it would pass you by.
An hour later, she was sure she’d made a mistake. The cook was a surly Russian who spoke almost no English. He knew the words beef and chicken, and that sufficed to prepare the orders. Emmylou scribbled on her order pad, sliced pie, dished up green beans, and juggled hot rolls. She sloshed coffee into cups, poured a hundred glasses of water, and trotted up and down the dining room a thousand times.
Her baggage sat in a cramped little cubby off the pantry where the proprietor, Mr. Luverne, had shoved a cot. The window was bare of any covering, something she would have to remedy before bedtime.
But first she would have to make it through this dinner service. There were so many tables, and she was only one woman. Most of the customers were males, and the longer the wait, the more rowdy they became. She worked as quickly as she could but fell further and further behind.
Then it happened. After setting down four plates of roast beef swimming in gravy, trying desperately not to spill on the tablecloth, herself, or her customers, one of the men at the table reached out and swatted Emmylou on the bottom. She yelped, plunking the last plate down so hard the gravy shot up and splattered her in the face.
The men roared as she jumped back and swiped at the brown sauce dripping from her nose.
“Hey, darlin’, why don’t you come over and sit here. I’ll help you clean yourself up.” The offender leered and patted his lap. His buddies laughed again.
Using the hem of her apron, Emmylou cleaned the droplets off her forehead and cheeks, marshaling her dignity. “Sir, I would thank you to kindly keep your hands to yourself.”
“Aw, c’mon, sister. I bet it’s the most attention a man’s ever shown you.” He smirked, licking his lips.
Emmylou began to get an inkling why the other waitress had quit. “I can do without your attentions. Enjoy your meal.” And get out.
“Say, ain’t you that gal that got ditched over at the depot today? A mail-order bride or somethin’? I saw the whole thing.” He then told the story to the rest of the men at his table and quite a few others around him, including Mr. Luverne, who was seating yet another group of diners.
Emmylou balled her fists and lifted her chin. At the rate the tale was spreading, she’d be surprised if it didn’t appear as the lead article in the local newspaper tomorrow.
Her dignity suffered several more times as she wove through close-packed tables with her hands full of plates raised high. One man even pinched her! The male patrons seemed to think she was an object for their amusement. Her cheeks burned, and her hands itched to slap their smug faces. When will this shocking, degrading day end?
The rush finally became a steady flow, which became a trickle. Emmylou cleared tables and refreshed tablecloths while the cook went out back to smoke a vile-smelling cigar. Her back ached, and her feet protested every step. How many miles had she walked in the last three hours? It felt like a hundred.
Mr. Luverne directed another group of diners into the almost-empty room. “It’s late, but I reckon we can accommodate you, since you’re taking a room, too.” He pointed her way. “Hey, tell the cook there’s four more.”
And just how was she supposed to do that when he didn’t speak English? If she said anything other than “beef” or “chicken” to him, he scowled and growled.
A mountain of a man entered the room, and her heart sank. He wore flannel and buckskins, had hair that hung over his shoulders, and had a
beard sorely in need of a trim. If he was bringing three more friends like himself, she would insist Mr. Luverne serve them. She’d had enough patting and pinching to last her a lifetime. Tomorrow, she’d carry a wooden spoon with her and whack the wrist of any man who dared lay a hand on her, that was what.
To her relief and surprise, the man stepped aside and let three children come before him.
“Pick a table.” His voice was rumbly and deep.
Three darling little girls with hair as red as her own. The oldest boosted the youngest into a chair and scooted it in for her before taking a seat herself, and the middle one climbed up and knelt on her chair, examining every corner of the room. Emmylou had a feeling that one didn’t miss much.
Glancing down at her stained and rumpled apron, Emmylou grimaced. Her hair was probably a rat’s nest, and her dress was limp.
The eldest girl looked as tired and defeated as Emmylou felt. Poor thing. Where was their mama?
Their father removed his hat and hung it from the back of the littlest one’s chair and slid out of his coat. His elbow poked from a tear on the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and the well-worn fabric stretched across a pair of brawny shoulders that would’ve made a buffalo proud. He meticulously rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms dusted with reddish-brown hair.
Realizing she was staring, Emmylou composed herself and approached. “Evening. I’m afraid, late as it is, there’s only roast beef left, but there’s plenty of beans and bread. And there’s coffee, milk, or tea to drink.” She held her pencil ready over her order pad.
“Guess we’ll take the roast beef then.” He flipped his coffee cup over. “And coffee.”
“Coffee for the girls?”
He frowned. “I guess milk for the girls.” He crossed looks with the oldest one. “That work for you?”
She nodded.
Emmylou didn’t bother the cook. She loaded the plates herself from the pots and pans still on the stovetop and carried them to the table. When she’d served them, she prepared a plate for herself and brought it to a table near her last customers so as to be handy if they needed something.
Sinking onto the ladder-backed chair, she took a moment to say grace before opening her napkin and spreading it on her lap. Her feet screamed inside her high-buttoned shoes, and her back and head ached. But not as much as her heart. One blessing of being so busy was that she didn’t have time to grieve her lost marriage. Not that she had been in love with Cletus. But she had been prepared to learn to love him if at all possible. To make a new life for herself far different than where she’d come from.
“Are we really going to stay in a hotel?” The middle girl tore off a big piece of bread and stuffed it into her mouth. “I ain’t never slept in a hotel before.”
The man grunted. “Got to. No trains until morning.”
The oldest girl cut her littlest sister’s food for her, but the tiny child only managed a couple of bites before she pushed her plate aside and laid her head on the table.
“What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?”
Emmylou couldn’t miss the panic in the man’s voice.
“No, she’s just tired.”
Emmylou knew just how she felt. Poor little mite. Her own plate looked none too appetizing. All she really wanted was to go to bed and try to forget this whole day.
The man shoveled food into his mouth as if he were stoking a furnace. “You girls can have dessert if you want.”
The middle child froze, her eyes widening. “Really?”
“Sure. There’s bound to be pie. Pick out what you want.”
Emmylou pushed herself up from the table and forced a smile. “What will it be, ladies?”
Apple won the day all around, and Emmylou cut three extra-large pieces. No sense bringing one for the baby. She was sound asleep.
When Emmylou set the plates on the table, the oldest girl looked up at her. “Are you married?”
Emmylou flushed. “Um … no, I’m not.”
“Do you want to be?”
“Excuse me?” She blinked.
“Do you want to be married?”
The man let his fork clatter to his plate. “Hey, stop that.”
“What?” The girl turned innocent eyes his way.
“You know what.”
“The lady at the boarding school said you need a wife. I like this one.” She pointed up at Emmylou, who stood frozen to the spot like a lamppost. The child turned to her. “Our mama died, and we have to live with him now. He needs a wife in a hurry to look after us girls. He’s about had it with us and has been trying to get rid of us all day. If he doesn’t find a wife, then he’s gonna have to take care of us himself, and none of us want that.”
When the man snorted and shoved his plate away, the girl looked at him like a teacher reprimanding a child. “You know it’s true. You need a wife, even if you don’t want one. You’re a parent now. That means you have to do what’s best for us girls, even if you don’t like it.”
He looked like he’d swallowed a wasp.
Emmylou’s knees gave out, and she plopped into a chair. “That’s very kind of you, dear, but I couldn’t possibly marry your father. He’s a complete stranger.”
A snort came from the doorway. The Russian cook leaned on the jamb. “You were mail-order bride, yes? Going to marry a stranger? But groom—how do you say it?—ditched you at train station? Is talk all over town.” He shrugged. “You marry this one. Get out of keechen and hotel. You make better wife than waitress, I think.” He straightened and sauntered through the dining room, letting the kitchen door flop in his wake.
Was she awake? Was this a dream? Perhaps she was still in her bed in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and at any moment she’d wake to the caustic demands of her cranky aunt, and this horrible day would disappear. She’d been jilted by her intended, proposed to by a child on behalf of her … cousin? … and found that the Russian cook who had said not a word to her all evening spoke somewhat comprehendible English.
The middle girl bounced out of her chair and came over to take Emmylou’s hand. “Please say yes. You look a little like our mama. And you won’t mind that we have red hair, since you have red hair, too.”
Chapter 3
Bear liked the way the woman cupped Number Two’s head. She looked tired to death, and she’d been jilted by the man who was supposed to marry her, but she still took time to be nice to the girls.
Not that he wanted to get married. No sir. But if he was going to get married, it would be to someone who understood heartbreak.
And he did need someone. Number One looked at him with pleading eyes, and Number Two inclined her head toward the woman as if telling him to make an offer before she disappeared.
He started to wipe his mouth with his sleeve then remembered his manners and used his napkin.
“Ma’am, what the girls say is true. I do need a wife in a powerful hurry. They got sent to me completely out of the blue, and I don’t have the foggiest notion what to do with them. I tried to find a place for them, but that didn’t work out so well. If you were prepared to become a mail-order bride, then I guess you aren’t one of those women with their heads all full of romance and nonsense about courting and love and such.”
Her lips twitched, and he thought she might be trying not to smile. Had he been too blunt?
“Anyway, I live up past Idaho Springs. I have a cabin and a claim, and I have enough money to support you and the girls.”
The woman moistened her lips, and her hand crept up to smooth her hair into the knot at the back of her neck. “Sir, I don’t even know your name.”
“You can call me Bear. Everybody does.”
She had blue-green eyes, the same color as the mountain lake just below his cabin.
“Bear?”
“He growls like one, doesn’t he?” Number Two tugged on the end of her braid. “You should’ve heard him when that lady at the boarding school called us weeds. I’m glad she didn’t want us. I didn’t want to
stay there.”
Trying to drag the conversation back to the point at hand, Bear glared at the girl before turning back to the woman. “Look, I know this is all kind of sudden, and you don’t have to decide tonight. We don’t leave until nine tomorrow morning. For now, I’d best get these girls up to their room. Number Three’s already asleep, and the other two should be, too.”
“Number Three?”
Glad that his beard hid the red he was sure crept up his neck, he shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been calling them. Tell her your names.”
Number One stood and gravely held out her hand. “My name is Miriam DeWitt. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Emmylou Paxton, Miriam.”
Number Two bounced up on her tiptoes. “I’m Deborah. And that”—she pointed to Number Three—“is Tabitha. Can we call you Emmylou? I like that name. We have Bible names, because Ma liked Bible names. Is Emmylou a Bible name?”
“No, sweetie. It’s a combination of my parents’ names. My mother was Emma and my father was Louis.”
“My ma’s name was Isabelle. And my pa’s name is Oscar.” She wrinkled her nose. “If I was named after both of them, my name could’ve been Isacar or Osabelle.” Her giggle hunched her shoulders.
“Bedtime.” Bear cut across the giggles. Little girl giggles made him uneasy.
Number Two—Deborah—clung to Miss Paxton’s hand. “I want her to put us to bed.”
“She’s got work to do, I’m sure. She doesn’t have time for that.”
“Please, Miss Emmylou? It’d kinda be like when Mama would tuck us in and hear our prayers.”
Again Emmylou caressed Deborah’s head. “I don’t mind, if it’s all right with your … with Mr. Bear.”
Truth be told, it would be a mighty relief. “Sure. If you want to.”
Emmylou and Deborah started toward the foyer, and Miriam took a couple of steps after them before turning around. Number Three—Tabitha—he needed to start calling them by their names—still knelt on her chair, her head on the tablecloth, sound asleep.
The Convenient Bride Collection: 9 Romances Grow from Marriage Partnerships Formed Out of Necessity Page 47