Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection

by Davis, Susan Page; Dietze, Susanne; Franklin, Darlene

  Jane looked to Mr. Lockhart standing at the bottom of the steps, wearing that fancy tan suit of his. “Where have you been? You missed Reverend Smith’s oral presentation on the history of the town.”

  He leaned against the wooden bannister. Slid his hat back with the tip of his finger, and a lock of white-blond hair fell across his forehead. “I’ve been helping Ebenezer Zumwalt persuade the guests abiding in his soon-to-be residence above his soon-to-be-open business to find habitat elsewhere.”

  “You’ve been there all day?”

  “All day,” he said with a smug grin.

  “I see.” Jane tried—and failed—to school her smile. “You must have a twin, for three people informed me you were loitering about my house while I was here setting up tables.” She descended the steps. “Truthfully, Mr. Lockhart, what shenanigans are you about?”

  “Do I have to answer?”

  She laughed. “Well now you do.”

  He held his arm out, a silent request for her to take a stroll with him.

  Jane nervously looked around. “Mr. Dixon is—”

  “Busy,” he cut in. His gaze shifted to where Mr. Dixon held the medicine chest Doc Carter had loaned them to use to collect auction money. Madeline, still standing on the upside-down crate, touched his shoulder. Somehow he managed to hold the chest and use both hands to lift her to the ground. Instead of giving him a flirtatious smile, she started talking to Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Since the altercation in the alley, Madeline hadn’t been the same.

  “She skipped the husband interviews,” Jane said, looking to Mr. Lockhart.

  “Are you jealous of your friend?”

  “What for?”

  “You chose Dixon, and yet he is there, not here.”

  “Ah.” Choose him she did.

  Mr. Lockhart looped her arm around his and led her away from the church. “Jane, my dear, this is where you are supposed to bat your lashes at me and say,”—his voice pitched falsetto—“why, sir, you sound jealous.”

  “I’m supposed to do that?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?” she asked, feeling a tad mortified.

  “Didn’t your sisters teach you the art of flirtation? It’s a useful skill, or so I read every month in Godey’s.”

  Jane opened her mouth then closed it.

  “I take that as a no,” he said softly, his breath warm against her cheek. The very air around them felt different. She felt different.

  She wanted … something.

  She wanted to be someone so bold, so daring, so confident in who she was that, like Ma Melton had, she could say to other women, “I want this man more than any of you ever could.” Doing that was no guarantee the man she wanted would reciprocate her feelings. If a man truly cared for her, he would not want her to be clingy. Or needy. If a man truly cared for her, he would ensure she knew his feelings and he would know hers without her needing to speak or allure him with batting her lashes.

  “I know I’m not good at flirting,” she said. When she saw that all-it-takes-is-practice-to-be-good-at-something look in his eyes, she added, “I am fine with that.”

  “You are,” he murmured. “I’m not sure I am.”

  “Why would you not be fine with me not being a flirt?”

  With an “Oh, Jane,” he stepped onto the dirt-packed street.

  Jane happily left him to his thoughts. If her sisters had taught her the art of flirtation, she would understand his comment. They hadn’t. Thus she didn’t. And yet the strange—whatever that was—feeling that had come over her had, thankfully, faded. All was right in her world again.

  Of course, she still didn’t see how flirting was a useful skill. Mistaken intention would be lessened if one were honest with emotions. Why did society consider it too brazen to say, “I regard you fondly”? Why make courting rituals so complicated?

  “Mr. Lockhart, did you know The Handbook of Good Society lists ways to flirt with a handkerchief, with gloves, a parasol, a fan, and even a hat? Even the movements of one’s eyes has flirtatious meanings.” Jane released a weary sigh. “I am supposed to remember dozens of actions and eye flutters and the meanings for them, and yet I cannot remember if the correct past tense of kneel is kneeled or knelt.”

  “For me, it’s sneaked, snuck, or snelt.” He groaned. “And I’m a writer.”

  “Now you are being silly.”

  “Then you must call me J.R.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “There isn’t one”—he winked—“but be adventurous and do it anyway.”

  Jane stopped walking upon reaching the boundary of her property, but he tugged her onward, leading her down the dirt path that ran alongside her house. “Where are we going?” she asked, feeling out of breath. From the pace. Certainly not from his nearness.

  “You’ll see.”

  They continued on. Past her garden. Past the well. Past the small corral with her horse, Lady, and goats—Chief Fish, Baby, Nana, and Fawn, all instantly bleating for her to bestow upon them some attention in the form of a treat. Past the carriage house and—

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  Mr. Lockhart stopped on the south side of the building. “Congratulations! It’s our own private Founders’ Day Celebration.” There on the ground was a blanket, a covered basket, and someone’s hand-cranked ice cream machine.

  She gave him a wary look.

  In response, he blinked both eyes repeatedly at the same time.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Flirting”—he grimaced—“I think.”

  Jane laughed aloud at that.

  “It’s the best I can do, sweetheart, for I am sorely lacking fan, gloves, and parasol.”

  “You do have a hat,” she reminded him. Then pointed at it.

  “Ah.” He rested it over his heart … and stood there like a soldier … saying nothing.

  Jane stepped closer. She leaned forward until her cheek was parallel with his and whispered, “I am afraid I don’t know what your hat is conveying.”

  He leaned toward her, just the tiniest bit. His smile faded. “Why didn’t you ask me why I’m jealous of Dixon?”

  She started to say he wasn’t jealous of Mr. Dixon and that this was no joking matter, but her argument might not withstand the seriousness in the depths of his gray-green eyes. He was jealous of Mr. Dixon. Her heart pounded anew. She wanted to believe—hope, even—that he cared for her. If he did, they could court. Maybe marry.

  If he cared.

  No, her heart cautioned. It was too much to hope … and yet she had to know. She needed to, which was why she could not stop the soft words from escaping.

  “Why are you jealous of him?”

  “Normally I wouldn’t be so forward”—his gaze fell to her lips, and her heart skipped a beat—“but when he kissed your hand, and you blushed, I realized my subtle courtship this week has been lost on you.”

  Jane felt her eyes widen. “You were courting me?”

  “Mrs. Kassel kindly pointed out that courting does not count if the admired lady fails to realize her suitor’s intentions.” He tilted her chin, angling her face to his. “I intend on remedying that beginning now. I think I’m falling in love with you, Jane Ransome, if I’m not there already. Will you allow me to court you?”

  She did not say anything right away. Not yet. She had never felt so treasured, so desired, so chosen. J.R. could have had his choice of any lady in town—in all truth, he did have his choice, and he chose her. If he would have participated in the interviews, she would have chosen him. Oh my. She had to let this moment stretch and grow and take root in her heart. The most wonderful man in town was falling in love. With her. If I’m not there already.

  If. Her cheeked warmed. If was such a mighty big word.

  “J.R.,” she whispered, and for a moment he leaned closer, as if he was about to touch his lips to hers, “I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”

  “If you’re not there already?”

&
nbsp; Jane smiled at the hopefulness in his voice. She nodded. “If I’m not.”

  He smiled.

  And then he released her. “I hope you like plain vanilla, because that’s all I have.”

  Chapter 9

  The more we love our friends, the less we flatter them; it is by excusing nothing that pure love shows itself.—Molière

  With the last of the ice cream eaten, J.R. stretched out on the blanket and rested one ankle atop the other. He folded his arms behind his head, using his palms for a pillow. The sweetness of the ice cream paled against the beauty who blushed as he’d recited to her his favorite William Wordsworth poem.

  She was a Phantom of delight

  When first she gleamed upon my sight;

  A lovely Apparition, sent

  To be a moment’s ornament;

  Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

  Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair …

  No more truer words described how he’d felt when he first saw Jane in the alley between the butchery and what was now a soon-to-be shoemaker shop.

  “You never told me why you chose Dixon?” he asked, studying the white clouds dotting the sky.

  “He asked for my help.”

  J.R. turned his head, just enough to see her sitting, legs tucked to the side. She’d moved the basket and ice cream bucket to the edge of the blanket. Her bare hands—gloves removed so she did not soil them with ice cream—rested in the lap of her blue-checked dress. Her lips curved. He’d slay a dragon for her. He wanted to, at least. Surely that had to count. Thankfully dragons had been vanquished by men who had known how to wield swords.

  He was more apt with wielding a pen.

  “And?” he prodded. “There’s more to your story. There has to be.”

  She drew a deep breath then let it out. “Prior to the husband interviews, I spoke with Mr. Dixon upon two occasions. He is a reserved man, who desperately yearns to find a God-fearing woman to marry, but women have told him he is too nice. So as I overheard his interview with Abby, I wondered why the brash demeanor. During our session, I questioned him, and he admitted he thought by adopting a more vibrant—his words, not mine—persona, he would interest a lady.”

  “With what did he ask your help?”

  “After expressing shame for his attempting to be untrue to his character, he thanked me for being a true friend. He suggested the ease with which we had in communicating would make an excellent marital foundation.” Her gaze looked to the field, to the carriage house, to the blanket. To anywhere but him. “I considered Mr. Dixon’s words then offered to choose him, thereby relieving him of any further interviews.”

  “Jane Ransome, you are a strong woman with a soft heart.”

  “He’d embarrassed himself in hopes of impressing a lady. I hated to see that continue.”

  “You agreed to court him out of pity.”

  “Yes.” She looked unsure. “Do you fault me for coming to his aid?”

  J.R. rolled onto his side, using his elbow to prop himself up. “If I hadn’t pursued you, confessed my feelings, would you marry Dixon for the sole reason you hated to see him agonize over courting a lady?” His heart pounded in his chest as he saw the answer on her face. “Why, Jane? Why would you marry a man out of pity?”

  “Because I want a husband.” The answer was obvious. In her mind.

  Not in J.R.’s.

  “Why do you want a husband?”

  “One is beneficial if a lady wishes to have children.” The words were said in such a calm manner J.R. knew she was being truthful about her desire to be a mother. But that wasn’t the deeper reason. That wasn’t the real reason. She turned her head, listening. “I hear fiddles. The dance is about to begin. We should go back.”

  He reached over to lay his hand atop hers. “My life is an open book. I’ve been honest about my feelings. You don’t have to be afraid to tell me what you think or feel. I want to know your fears. I want us to tell each other those things we’ve never told another.”

  Her eyes widened.

  And then she laughed. “You are drunk on your own hypocrisy.”

  He blinked. It took him a moment to understand what she meant. “I answered openly every question you’ve asked.”

  “Then I have a new question for you.” She leaned forward. “You refuse to join fellow believers in worshipping the very God you say you thank daily for saving you from hell and damnation and giving you new life in Christ. Why do you avoid churches?”

  He hadn’t expected her to ask that.

  J.R. shoved himself off the ground and stood. So he was a hypocrite. He strolled out into the field, staring out at the gently rolling landscape, blanketed with tall grass waving in the soft breeze. In the distance, a herd of bison roamed freely. Going where they wished. They may die tomorrow, but that did not stop them from living today.

  He didn’t hear her approach.

  He didn’t know she stood there until he felt her fingers lace through his. She tightened her grip. Or maybe they both did.

  “I haven’t stepped inside a church since I returned from the war. I can’t.” J.R. paused. “My pulse races, and I feel like I will lose what is in my stomach.”

  “Why not?”

  “Before his death, my father had been a college president. The war started, and Father cancelled classes. He said God ordered the trumpets to sound, calling all young men to battle.” J.R. turned to Jane, but she was staring out at the prairie. “All men … except me.”

  This drew her attention. “He couldn’t risk losing his only child to war.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Father swore he knew that if I went to war, I would die. He couldn’t live with himself knowing he’d sent his son to his death.”

  “People cannot see the future.”

  “My father didn’t have to see the future.” His voice choked. “He saw me. I’ve never chopped down a tree. I don’t know how to handle a team of horses or plow a field. Instead of riding horseback, I prefer to walk or ride in a carriage. I can’t load, shoot, or clean a gun. I don’t know anything about bows and arrows or spears or nets or how to use them to hunt. I’ve never been hunting. My father knew I didn’t have what it takes to be a soldier.”

  “But you did go to war, and you didn’t die.”

  “I didn’t die,” he repeated.

  Physically, he didn’t. Emotionally, he died every battle.

  J.R. took a breath then let it out in a lengthy exhale. The influenza that had taken his parents’ lives while he was away interviewing soldiers forever prevented him from proving to them that he had what it took to survive a war. He could fight using a pen as a weapon. The man he’d become returned with every body part intact. That same man learned to compose vignettes and ballads for a lady’s magazine in hopes of forgetting what he saw.

  “J.R.,” she said softly, cutting off his mental rambling, “I don’t care if you’ve never chopped down a tree. God doesn’t care if you can’t use a net to catch a fish. No one in Turtle Springs cares that you can’t shoot an arrow.”

  “I care.” Now that he’d uncorked his past, the words spewed forth. “I’m ashamed at what I never learned to do because I chose to stay inside and read a book. I’m ashamed of hiding out in my tent and pleading with God to keep me alive. I interviewed Unions and Confederates who swore they’d been called by God into battle, as if that justified taking another man’s life.” He released her hand. “I feel like I’m drowning in fear and shame. Every morning I wake and wonder if I step inside a church again, will God call me into another battle? I can’t, Jane. My father was right. I don’t have what it takes to be a warrior. I’m a writer.”

  “You’ve limited God’s grace to man-size proportions … and allowed your fear to grow into God-size proportions.”

  He winced.

  She looked from him to the horizon.

  Moments passed. Then minutes. Her lips twitched like she was trying to form coherency ou
t of her jumbled thoughts. He felt the same.

  “When I was a child”—her words came slow, measured—“we lived with my mother’s people. They taught me to fast during the day, to go from sunrise to sunset without saying a word or making a sound, to walk long distances without complaint, to track animals, and to stop the white man from taking what doesn’t belong to him.” The corners of her lips twitched upward. “I was happy … until I heard one of the missionaries talking to God as if he knew Him, as if God was his father and his friend. Our tribe’s shaman counseled the squaws to teach their half-breed children to not want colored dresses, not want cooking pots, not want a wheel to spin yarn, or a loom or a candlemold, or a wagon, a buggy, a lantern, a book.”

  For a moment she seemed lost in thought, caught up in memories.

  She cocked her head to the side and looked at him. “I didn’t want any of those things. I just wanted the white man’s God. I wanted a friend who would never leave me.”

  He gave her an understanding smile.

  She released a puff of breath. “Mama said I could not be a child of both worlds, so I was sent to live at the Shawnee Mission.”

  J.R. tensed. “By yourself?”

  “There were other half-breed children there. Mama said I would be fine,” she said, and it hurt J.R. to hear acceptance in her voice. “I wasn’t a needy child like my siblings all were. I was the fifth daughter. I could take care of myself, and this way I could talk to the God I loved and not bring shame upon Mama.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve. And now you know why my sisters never taught me the art of flirtation. The Reverend and Mrs. Pingree taught modesty in manners.” She turned from the field and strolled back to the blanket. Sitting, she drew her legs to her chest, smoothing her skirts over them.

  J.R. found a spot next to her. “I suddenly feel more thankful for the parents I had.”

  She wrapped her arms around her legs. “My uncle Chief Black Bob says that seeing the past makes a man wise, living in the past makes him a fool.” As she rested her chin on her knees, a furrow deepened between her brows. “I was engaged once.”

  “Why didn’t you marry him?”