The Mail-Order Brides Collection

by Megan Besing

  Sean rested his hands on the table. “You don’t sound enthused about marriage. Don’t let the ceremony this afternoon dissuade you. Usually the firearm is aimed at the groom.”

  Delia narrowed her gaze. “Gaining a husband is simply trading one authority for another.”

  “You never know. Maybe you haven’t found the right man.”

  “Widows have much more freedom,” she mused. “But I’ve never been able to figure how to become a widow without being a wife first.”

  “That is a pickle.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m determined to make a name for myself in the newspaper business.”

  “You don’t have a very high opinion of men, do you, Miss Lawrence?”

  “Fine talk from a man who called women foolish distractions.”

  He winced. Her barb had struck home. “That comment was directed toward my brother. I apologize for disparaging your sister in the process.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said. Tugging off the single glove, she glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes. “You’re probably right, though. I don’t think Becky has any idea of what it’s like living and working on a ranch. Our father is a lawyer and we live quite comfortably. Becky is the middle child, and she’s always had sisters to help with the chores. She’s never had to manage a household alone. We’ve always looked out for her. I think we may have smothered her a bit.”

  Like Sean and Paul, the sisters had been raised beneath the same roof but with shockingly different results.

  Sean tented his hands and drummed his fingers together. “You and your sister are both seeking an escape. Which begs the question. Fame and fortune are merely a means to an end for you. Are you running toward something, Miss Lawrence? Or merely running away from yourself?”

  Chapter 4

  The question caught Delia by surprise.

  She curled inside herself, away from the truth. Finding the hidden motivations in others was exhilarating. Looking inside herself was less appealing. She feared the parts of herself she’d hidden from the world. Her mother had been talented. What if Delia never achieved even a modicum of her mother’s success? What if she simply wasn’t capable?

  She took a deep, fortifying breath. “My mother was a nurse. If she’d been born a man, I imagine she’d have been a decorated surgeon.”

  “I didn’t realize they decorated surgeons.”

  “You may joke all you want because you have choices.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  “I apologize, Miss Lawrence,” the colonel spoke quietly. “I expect I’m going to be doing a lot of apologizing in the next few days.”

  She feared that given the same opportunities, she’d take the easy path. She feared she wasn’t brave at all. She feared she was only good enough to serve as fashion editor on the women’s pages. This trip was her test.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much; you won’t be seeing me after today.” She infused her voice with a cheery lilt she didn’t quite feel. “You’re expected back to your unit, aren’t you?”

  “They’re capable men.”

  The tightening of his lips defied his casual words. Below the table, his heel tapped against the floor. He was jittery and impatient, barely able to contain his tightly leashed energy. Given the choice, he’d choose his army unit over her. He’d make the choice she feared she couldn’t.

  Her chest tightened. She was growing more like her mother with each passing day. She had one chance at something more. One chance at a life beyond a stack of ironed trousers as her legacy. Her hands trembled and she tightened them. Colonel Sean Morgan was the greatest temptation of all. She’d never had to control her emotions because she’d never been tempted. He lured her away from her goals. He was giving her a glimpse into why her mother had chosen a different future.

  The waiter appeared with two plates, saving her from examining her heart further. One of the plates was piled high with sliced beef, mashed potatoes, and a generous river of gravy. The other held the grizzled end of a roast, a tiny mound of potatoes, and barely a trickle of brown sauce.

  The waiter gently set the heaping plate before Delia and dropped the second plate out of Sean’s reach with a clatter, then politely inquired if Delia needed anything further.

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “This all looks delicious.”

  Following his exit, Delia pitched her voice low. “I definitely wouldn’t eat that. A few years ago, I interviewed the kitchen staff at the Palace Hotel for my school newspaper. I won’t ruin your appetite with the tales of what happens when the staff takes a disliking to one of the patrons. Suffice to say, it’s rather unappealing.”

  Pushing away his plate, Sean offered a tight smile. “You are not meeting with an outlaw.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to stop me.” She gestured with her fork. “There’s plenty of food on my plate if you’d like some. I can’t eat all this.”

  “I’m your nearest male relative,” Sean said. “I forbid you from meeting with an outlaw.”

  Delia snorted. “According to the laws of Montana, you have absolutely no say in my affairs. Only a husband or a father can prevent me from meeting Mr. Helm.”

  “How old are you anyway?” he asked.

  “Planning my tombstone, as well as my funeral?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  “I thought you were younger. Although I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not very gentlemanly.”

  “It’s a number, Colonel Morgan. Nothing more, and nothing less. Withholding or prevaricating isn’t going to change the passage of time.”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s assume that you interview Littlebury. What then?”

  Her stomach dipped. She’d have to find another, more important, more dramatic story. Becky’s marriage and her correspondence with Littlebury Helm had come together in a most fortuitous manner. She’d leaped on the opportunity with no thought as to what lay ahead or behind her.

  “Have you ever heard of Nellie Bly?” she asked.

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Nellie Bly is a female reporter with the Pittsburgh Dispatch,” Delia said. “She wrote several intriguing articles about the plight of working women. She even took a job in a box factory alongside the other female workers. She immerses herself in her reporting completely. She meets her subjects in person and writes alongside them.”

  “I’ve never heard of this paragon.”

  “That’s because she’s a woman and women don’t get accolades. We’re relegated to the women’s page and forced to write silly stories about fashion, society, and garden blights. Nellie didn’t let them silence her, though. She’s made of sterner stuff. She’s currently doing a series of articles about the customs of the Mexican people.” Delia slapped the table, rattling the flatware. “She’s in Mexico. Alone. And she’s my age. What have I done? Nothing.”

  “Mexico is one thing. Risking your life to interview a murderer is quite another,” Sean added helpfully. “You can’t sell any newspaper if you don’t live to tell the tale.”

  Each day she lived at home she felt as though the rooms were growing smaller and smaller, trapping her.

  Delia’s head snapped up. “For a woman to escape the fashion pages, she’s got to find a story with broad appeal. Something exciting.”

  “I understand your motives. But if you’re abducted and killed or, or, or other things I’m not willing to discuss over supper, then someone else gets your column space. Dead reporters can’t write stories.”

  Delia made a sound of frustration. “You sound like my father.”

  “Your father sounds like a sensible man. What’s wrong with prudent advice?”

  “That’s just the sort of talk that keeps women trapped into writing about the latest spring fashions. If I have to transcribe another paragraph about Mrs. So-and-so having a party, or whether bustles are getting bigger or smaller, or what vegetables are good for sandy soil, I’ll go mad. I want mor
e.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with reporting about gardening. Think of the excitement. The danger. You could be stung by a swarm of wasps or attacked by a rabid gopher.”

  She planted her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. “Name one reporter from the fashion pages.”

  “I don’t read the fashion pages.”

  “Precisely. I’m not going to live and die in obscurity. I’m going to leave my mark on the world.”

  “Why is that important?”

  Sudden emotion burned behind her eyes. She’d always been different from her sisters. She’d always been odd. Her father had doted on the other two. His most common refrain rang in her ears. “Why can’t you be more like your sisters?” She’d prove that being different wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Instead of answering, she said, “Why are you in the army?”

  “Because, well, because…” His face flushed and he tugged on his beard. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “I’m going to be famous.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d said the words aloud until he threw up his hands.

  “By winding up in a shallow, unmarked grave? You won’t be famous. You’ll be forgotten. People only remember the murderers, not their victims.”

  “I believe we’ve exhausted the subject.” She plucked at her napkin, her head bent. “I was wondering if you’d teach me how to fire a gun.”

  She held her breath for his answer. Her father had nearly exploded when she’d posed the innocent question.

  “Yes. If you insist on pursuing this matter, I will teach you how to fire a weapon.”

  Her jaw dropped, and she quickly regained her composure. She’d been anticipating more of an argument. Suspicious now, she cast him a sidelong glance. She’d noticed that people often mumbled their agreement merely to end an argument, even if they had no intention of following through.

  He was a man of his word, and she’d use that knowledge to her advantage. “Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Excellent. I’ll purchase the firearm immediately. There were more guns for sale at the general store than canned goods.”

  “A fact that should give you pause. This is dangerous country.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m a quick study. I’m certain I’ll be proficient in no time. I’m sure you’re anxious to return to your unit. I’ll wait in Tobacco Bend until Becky arrives.” She smoothed her napkin over her lap. “The doctor said she should be able to travel in a day or so.”

  “You’re waiting alone?” he asked.

  Delia frowned. “I forgot to stow a proper companion in my trunk.”

  “You’re young. You have your whole life ahead of you. People love you. Can you imagine how your father will feel if something happens to you?”

  “This is growing tiresome.”

  “I didn’t want to do this, but you deserve the untarnished truth.” Sean pressed his palms against the table, appearing to collect himself. “Littlebury Helm killed two of my men.”

  Delia gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Malone died quickly, but Reeves lingered. He was gut shot and there was nothing we could do but wait. They were two good men. Two men who might have done great things. But we’ll never know, will we? We’ll never know because Littlebury and his gang of Innocents murdered them.”

  Delia glimpsed the colonel’s red-rimmed eyes before he turned away.

  She blinked rapidly. “This is important to me.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “I’ll cease trying to convince you otherwise.”

  “I do know what I’m doing. You’ll see. Everyone will see.”

  She didn’t know anything of the sort, because the more the colonel spoke, the more she feared she was making a terrible mistake. But if she turned back now, she’d spend the rest of her life bent over an ironing board.

  Sean studied a display at the mercantile. Delia had been right about one thing. The General Store had more guns than canned goods. The setting sun streamed through the windows, glinting off her rich, brown hair, and Sean’s posture softened. There were pistols and rifles and enough ammunition to start a war with a small country.

  Despite the events of the day, she’d attacked her meal with the zeal of a ranch hand after a long shift, then charged ahead to the next task. She was far tougher than he’d assumed earlier. She’d been shaken by events, but she’d recovered quickly. He didn’t imagine many women could suffer through a near kidnapping and shootout and still charge ahead with more errands.

  She was also determined to put herself in harm’s way. Nausea roiled in his stomach. He’d known her less than a day, and already he couldn’t imagine his life without her. The world tipped and he steadied himself with a hand on a nearby display. He’d never believed in love at first sight, but he was starting to question a lot of assumptions he’d held previously.

  Keeping one eye screwed shut, she peered down the barrel of a Colt .44. “This one looks nice.”

  Sean tipped the barrel toward the floor. “You are going to drive me into an early grave.”

  After setting the gun on the counter, Delia signaled for the store clerk. “I’ll take this Colt and four boxes of ammunition.”

  The clerk was one of those nondescript men that lacked any defining features. He had nondescript blond hair, nondescript features, and a nondescript mode of dress. He could have been plucked from this store and dropped into another anywhere in the country without anyone noticing the difference.

  “Four boxes of ammunition?” Sean raised two fingers, and the clerk nodded. “Are you planning on interviewing someone or arming a militia?”

  “Just a precaution.” She added a bag of licorice to her order. Licorice and ammunition. There couldn’t be a more fitting commentary on the current situation. “What are you going to do after you finish the telegraph line?”

  For starters, he was going to bring the gang of Innocents to justice. “I don’t know. We haven’t received an assignment yet.”

  The future stretched before him. There were no challenges left in his career, no mountains left to climb. He’d done all he’d set out to do in the army. He’d made the rank of colonel younger than his father, and he’d soon complete the telegraph line. A task his commanding officer had deemed impossible.

  There was always the rank of general. Except another promotion held no appeal. Near as he could tell, outside of a war, generals spent most of their time overseeing the troops. Becoming a general also meant navigating political minefields. He’d never been much for politics.

  Delia crouched before the glass counter. “I’ll take half a dozen pewter mugs, as well.”

  “Are you writing a story or setting up house?” he scoffed. “I obviously don’t appreciate journalism.”

  “The mugs are for Paul and Becky.” She tossed him a withering glance. “I didn’t want to drag a gift halfway across the country.”

  “Oh. Of course.” He leaned over her shoulder. “Add a half dozen of the pewter plates.”

  Delia graced him with a smile that sent his heart thudding in his chest.

  He swallowed around the lump in his throat and turned toward the clerk. “Is there a good place for target practice?”

  “Out back. Take the trail to the creek.” The nondescript clerk glared, his voice dripping with anger. “You’ll see the spot.”

  Sean glanced over his shoulder, searching for the source of the man’s irritation, but the store was empty.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “I don’t appreciate when a feller hits a woman.”

  “This was an accident,” Delia interrupted, touching her swollen eye. “I brought it on myself.”

  The clerk scowled. “That’s what he’d have you think.”

  “Let’s go.” Sean gently urged her away from the counter. At this rate, they’d have him run out of town on a rail. “You’re not helping, Miss Lawrence. While I appreciate the pr
otective zeal in this town, we’d best be about our business.”

  The clerk added several empty bottles in a metal carrier to their order for target practice. Delia counted out her money and placed the empty handgun in her reticule. The barrel stuck out the top and she tightened the tassels.

  Sean raised his eyes heavenward and prayed for forbearance. “Let’s practice. We only have another hour before dark.”

  “You’re being rather accommodating, all of a sudden.” She eyed him, her brows furrowed. “Why?”

  “Because learning to fire a gun is the first sensible idea you’ve had all day.”

  “Not the first, surely. I recommended that you not eat anything the waiter served.”

  He wasn’t unsympathetic to her plight, merely cautious. Hadn’t he set out to prove himself all those years ago? No one had stopped him. Least of all a father distracted by his new wife. Sean had ridden into danger, time and time again, and had risen through the ranks. How would he have reacted if someone had tried to stop him?

  He’d have ignored their advice.

  Sean took Delia’s elbow and guided her down the narrow path. Cicadas called and the wind ruffled through the leaves. The sun was shining and the temperature was ideal. Neither too hot, nor too cold, as though Mother Nature was smiling on them.

  Delia blended well with her surroundings. She smelled of spring and her eyes sparkled like a clear, summer’s day. His heart swelled and a buoyant joy unlike anything he’d ever known flowed through him.

  He doffed his coat and spread the material on a large, flat rock at the edge of the stream then motioned for Delia to sit.

  She thanked him and moved her skirts aside before perching on the edge. For the next fifteen minutes, he demonstrated loading and unloading the gun, along with gun safety. Smart and capable, she quickly mastered the task. Satisfied with her progress, he stood and crossed the narrow plank bridge traversing the creek. A raised table had been positioned on the far side, and he set several bottles on the bullet-riddled surface.

  He jogged back to where Delia waited. “Now we shoot.”

  Minding his instructions, she carefully lifted the barrel and aimed. “I’m ready.”