The Mail-Order Brides Collection

by Megan Besing

  She closed her eyes. “This is my fault. I should’ve never gone to the mining camp.” When she looked at the reverend, she saw understanding in his eyes. “He told you what happened?”

  “Yes.” He paused a moment before adding, “He also mentioned a letter he found.” There was no reproach in his voice.

  “He read Danny’s letter.” Tears choked her throat. “I never meant to hurt him. I planned to burn the letter this morning, before we argued.”

  The kindly man nodded. “Your husband needs you now.”

  “I’m sure he hates me, Reverend. I haven’t been honest with him.”

  “He loves you, Phoebe. The question is, do you love him?”

  She blinked, the answer suddenly so obvious. “Yes! Yes, I do love him.”

  “Then tell him.”

  Declining the reverend’s offer to accompany her to the church, Phoebe flew to the lean-to and saddled Dolly.

  “Hurry, girl,” she shouted, urging the mule into a run.

  Thunder in the distance and a chill in the air told of the approaching storm, but she didn’t care. Luke needed her.

  When the church finally came into view at the edge of town, she tied Dolly next to Ulysses as fat drops began to pelt the ground. She hurried up the whitewashed steps and entered the dim building. A breath of relief escaped when she saw Luke in the front pew, hunched over with his head in his hands.

  “You shouldn’t have come out in the storm, Reverend Whit,” he muttered. “My mood is as black as the sky, and nothing you say will change that.”

  Phoebe moved up the aisle, her heart heavy knowing she was the cause of his pain. More than anything, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him she was sorry. “It’s me, Luke,” she said softly when she drew up beside him.

  He sprang to his feet, his hair disheveled and a wild look to his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Reverend Whitaker came by the cabin and told me where you were. I was worried.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Why would you be worried about me? I’ve never mattered to you before.”

  The words cut like a knife. “That isn’t true. I care very much.”

  “As much as you cared for your precious Danny? Yes, I know all about your Reb.” He glanced to the brooch at her throat, and she realized she should’ve stopped wearing it the day she married Luke.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Danny,” she whispered. “I wanted to, but—”

  “But you knew I wouldn’t marry you. Isn’t that it?”

  Phoebe bit her bottom lip then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Finally, some honesty.”

  They stood in silence, with so much to say yet not knowing where to begin.

  Tell him, Reverend Whitaker had said.

  She reached for his hands, finding them cold to her touch. He frowned when she brought them to her heart.

  “Before the war, I gave my heart to Danny,” she said, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “He wasn’t a Confederate soldier then. He was a boy I loved. When he died, I didn’t think I could ever love again, but…” Her pulse thrummed. Whether Luke could forgive her or not, she had to risk it all and tell him the truth. “But I love you, Luke. You are my husband, and I love you.”

  The storm raged outside with rain splashing against the windows and thunder shaking the small building. But it was the storm she saw in Luke’s eyes that frightened her.

  Could he ever forgive her?

  Luke stared at Phoebe. Dared he believe her? She’d lied since before she arrived in Carson Springs. Was she now saying what she must to keep him from throwing her out?

  He closed his eyes, feeling the beat of her heart beneath his fingers.

  The joke was on him, and he knew it.

  He couldn’t throw her out, even if every word that came from her mouth was a lie. He loved her. God help him, he loved her. When he looked at her again, he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Can’t we start again, Luke?” she whispered, her grip on his hands tightening. “Right here, in the church, with God as our witness.”

  “That’s mighty bold talk, don’t you think? With God as our witness, there can’t be any secrets between us. Are you prepared for that?”

  She nodded. “I am. I’ve asked God to forgive me for not being honest with you, and He has. Now I’m asking you to forgive me, too.”

  A flash of lightning rent the sky, illuminating Phoebe’s hopeful face. In that moment, Luke realized the dark thoughts that had tormented him all afternoon had fled the moment she entered the church. In the same way the nightmares he’d lived with had abated on his wedding night. God, he acknowledged, had sent him a beautiful wife in answer to his prayers for healing despite his undeserving. Despite his own sin and failings.

  How could he refuse to forgive her when he himself had been forgiven so much?

  “Can you forgive me, Phoebe?” he said, dropping to his knees with her hands gripped in his own. “I’ve been a fool.”

  She knelt in front of him, the tears on her cheeks shiny in the waning light. “No more than I.”

  “I love you, Phoebe. More than I could’ve ever dreamed possible.”

  She moved forward until there was but a breath between them. “I love you, too. Let’s go home, my husband.”

  The kiss they shared was filled with hope, healing, and the promise of new beginnings.

  Michelle Shocklee is the author of The Planter’s Daughter and The Widow of Rose Hill, the first two books in the historical romance series The Women of Rose Hill. She has stories in numerous Chicken Soup for the Soul books and writes an inspirational blog. With both her sons grown, she and her husband of thirty-plus years enjoy poking around historical sites, museums, and antique stores near their home in Tennessee. Connect with her at www.MichelleShocklee.com.

  Miss-Delivered Mail

  by Ann Shorey

  Chapter 1

  Waters Grove, Illinois

  1884

  Waters Grove simmered in an unseasonable May hot spell. Horses’ heads drooped as they waited at hitching rails in front of stores. Few ladies were out shopping, but that suited Helena Erickson just fine.

  At twenty-five years old and single, with pale blond hair framing what Helena believed to be an unattractive face, she’d grown tired of ignoring the pitying glances of girls she’d known all her life. They pushed baby carriages and led children by the hand as they ventured from millinery to dressmaker to grocer on the wide streets surrounding the town square. Their smug expressions telegraphed the superiority of their status as married women.

  Her prospects for marriage in Waters Grove had dwindled to zero, unless she counted old Mr. Holmes, who’d marry anyone who’d have him. Helena jutted her chin in the air. She hoped by her brisk stride she’d give the impression of being too busy for idle conversation.

  She turned right at the corner of Central Avenue and Reed Street and hurried down the block toward her family’s modest frame dwelling. Once inside, she dropped her parcels on the table, thankful it would be a couple of hours before her father returned from work. She’d have time to tidy the downstairs.

  After sweeping the rooms, she turned toward the back door then halted with the dustpan midway toward the waste bin.

  A crumpled envelope lay on top of the accumulated trash.

  What on earth? It hadn’t been there earlier.

  She placed the dustpan to one side and plucked the envelope from its resting place. The address read “Miss Felicia Trimble.” As far as she knew, no one by that name lived in Waters Grove. Why would such a letter be in the Ericksons’ trash? Beyond curious, she opened the envelope. A folded sheet of paper was tucked inside.

  When she drew out the paper, several pasteboard rectangles slipped from the fold and fluttered to the floor. She flipped open the page. It wasn’t as though she was snooping. She needed to solve the mystery.

  Dear Miss Felicia,

  Forgive me for addressing you in such a familiar manner, but since
we are to be married I trust you will understand.

  Enclosed are your tickets for the journey from Waters Grove through Chicago to Spalding, my home in Washington Territory. Based on your agreement to my proposal of marriage, I shall be awaiting your arrival on May 26 next.

  Yours in sincerity,

  Daniel McNabb

  She bent to retrieve the tickets. Somewhere, a Miss Felicia Trimble was expecting this letter. The best thing to do would be to return the letter to the post office. The postmaster might know if someone with that name…She stopped and stared at the address on the envelope. #6 Reed Street. This house. Her house.

  Helena frowned. Reed Street meandered all the way out toward farmland. Obviously, Mr. McNabb copied the address incorrectly. There’d still be time before supper to walk to the post office if she left now. As she folded the letter around the tickets, the screen door slammed shut and her younger brother burst into the kitchen.

  “You found that letter?” He guffawed. “Funny, eh? I answered his advertisement for a joke. Never thought he’d fall for it.” He plucked the envelope from her fingers. “ ‘Felicia Trimble’—sounds like a dance-hall girl.”

  Helena snatched the letter back. “Joseph Erickson! This isn’t a joke, it’s cruel.” She leaned against the table in the center of the kitchen. “Mr. McNabb spent good money to buy these tickets. You must send them back to him and apologize.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell Pa.”

  “Go ahead. I’m sixteen. He can’t make me do nothing.” His gaze hardened. “Anyways, Pa won’t care. He don’t care about nothing since Ma died—’cept maybe that job of his.” He brushed past her and stomped up the stairs.

  Heart pounding, she dropped onto a chair. Joseph was right about Pa. Without their mother’s cheerful presence, he’d retreated into silence. He ate the food Helena prepared, read the Daily News, then climbed the stairs to bed. At daylight he left for the lumberyard.

  The pasteboard rectangles burned in her fingers. Tickets to Washington Territory. A homesteader needing a wife. She crossed the room and called up the stairs. “Joe, did you send a picture?”

  “Course not.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “None of your business.” His bedroom door slammed.

  Fine, then. He’d probably written about housekeeping skills and a taste for adventure. If Mr. McNabb was desperate enough to advertise for a bride, he likely wouldn’t be choosy.

  Daniel McNabb stood at the door of his cabin, his face lifted to the spring sunshine. A soft breeze stroked the rolling grassland covering the prairie. God willing, by next year he’d be able to prove up his claim and purchase a land patent.

  He and his brother had plowed a ten-acre patch for wheat the first year they’d taken up their claim. Now, after years of hard work, forty acres of sprouted wheat greeted his eyes. He felt sure his new bride would be happy living so far from town, since he’d taken pains to describe his homestead land. Her eager reply had convinced him. Felicia Trimble was the bride for him.

  Before going to the springhouse for water, he turned back for another look at the interior of the cabin. A table and two chairs, braided rug, cookstove, and a separate bedroom. Everything a woman could want. He’d even hung muslin curtains over the window next to the door.

  A hollow feeling in his chest stole his satisfaction with the cabin. If only his brother—Daniel shook his head. He wouldn’t think about Ross now. Why spoil the day?

  In two weeks, Felicia would be here and his new life would begin.

  After a silent supper, Helena bent over a basin scrubbing flecks of burned potatoes from a cast-iron skillet. She’d spent more time dreaming about leaving Waters Grove than she had paying attention to the stove. Thankfully, Pa hadn’t complained. But then, he never did.

  She rested the cleaned pan on the drainboard and looked around the room, trying to imagine what conveniences a homesteader’s kitchen might hold. A reliable cookstove? An icebox? Then she laughed at herself. Wondering about a kitchen when she hadn’t met the man. Hadn’t even decided to use the tickets.

  “Are you done dawdling? Lamp oil isn’t free, you know.”

  Helena spun around when she heard her father’s voice. “Yes, Pa.” She reached above the table and turned off the lamp, leaving the room in semidarkness. A faint twilight glow from the window over the sink sketched a path to the foot of the stairs.

  “Well, then. Good night.” His stockinged feet brushed against the treads as he mounted the steps.

  Her fingertips touched the envelope in her apron pocket. The printed tickets indicated a departure date of May twenty-first. Today was the fifteenth. She had one week to decide.

  Chapter 2

  Helena spent much of the next day gathering courage to speak to her father. Her chores passed in a blur of sweeping, dusting, and scrubbing while her mind traveled to Washington Territory. So far away. So filled with opportunity for a better life. Yet if Pa said no, she wasn’t prepared to defy him.

  After storing the cleaning supplies, she checked on the beef and vegetable stew simmering at the back of the stove. As soon as Pa and Joseph returned from work, she’d pop biscuits in the oven. The warm cinnamon fragrance of Pa’s favorite dessert, blackberry jam cake, swirled through the kitchen.

  He said little during the meal. Helena choked down a few bites of food, her throat too tight to swallow. Her thoughts spun. How could she explain where she got the tickets without starting a row with her brother? She sagged with relief when Joseph banged out the back door to spend time with his friends.

  She cleared the supper dishes and then placed the cake in the center of the table. A small smile cracked her father’s solemn features. “Is that blackberry cake?”

  “It is.” She slid a generous slice onto a small plate and handed him his dessert. While he ate she pretended to be busy at the sink, but as soon as she heard him lay down his fork, she spun around.

  “More cake, Pa?”

  “No, I’ve had plenty.”

  “Coffee?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What is it? You’re acting like your Ma used to. You got something to tell me?”

  “Yes.” Helena drew a deep breath. “Yesterday, I found a letter in the trash bin.” She told him about Joseph’s deception, the letter, and the tickets, holding up her hand in a “wait” gesture when his mouth dropped open. “I’m an old maid, Pa. I want to use those tickets, go to Washington Territory, and be Mr. McNabb’s bride.”

  Her father stared at her.

  She hurried on, running her words together. “I’ve thought of nothing else since yesterday. This is my best chance. But I don’t want to leave without your blessing. Please, Pa.”

  Head bent, he put his fist to his lips and closed his eyes. After a long moment, he looked up. She could tell by the set of his jaw he’d made a decision.

  “You sure about this?”

  “Yes.” Heat raced through her body. She held her breath and prayed she wouldn’t faint.

  He pushed himself up from his chair. “Go, then. You have my permission.”

  His permission. Not his blessing. She rubbed her chest as though she could erase the pain in her heart.

  Helena paced back and forth across the parlor in her father’s house. His armchair rested next to a small table containing a lamp and several copies of the Daily News. A rose-colored sofa—her mother’s choice—sat facing a braided rug in the center of the room. Polished shelves in one corner displayed knickknacks—teacups, a souvenir fan from a trip to Chicago, and a porcelain figurine of a girl with a basket of flowers.

  The train would have to leave without her in the morning. She couldn’t do this. She’d find a way to repay Mr. McNabb.

  No.

  She’d be on the train, headed west. Away from a colorless life to one of promise. She stopped pacing next to the corner shelf to trail her fingers over a pink and gold teacup and saucer. Of everything in the collection, Helena loved those the most. Maybe it wa
s the gold handle, or the golden fleur-de-lis painted on the pink china. She lifted the delicate cup. Her mother had brought the set from her family home when she married Pa.

  A tear splashed on the gold rim. Helena blinked hard and then picked up the matching saucer. Now it would be her turn.

  Helena sent a critical glance at her reflection in the cheval mirror in her bedroom. She wore her best travel costume, one she’d remade from her mother’s wardrobe. The pointed bodice dipped over a pleated dark green moiré-patterned skirt. She’d curled her blond hair into a fashionable fringe on her forehead then settled an embroidered bonnet over the chignon at the back of her head.

  She lifted her valise containing a shawl, toiletries, and a change of clothes. The balance of her belongings were packed in her trunk, which her father had already placed in the back of their wagon. No trace of her presence remained in the room.

  “I don’t have all day,” Pa hollered. “Boss only gave me a couple hours off.”

  “Yes, Pa.” She hurried out to the waiting wagon, settling beside Joseph. Her father slapped the reins across the horse’s back.

  Dust swirled behind them as they traveled toward the station. Helena clutched her gloved hands together in her lap, praying they’d see no one she knew when they arrived. She’d not told anyone she was leaving. Bad enough that Joseph treated her as though she’d taken leave of her senses—she didn’t relish facing the same reaction from townsfolk.

  She uttered a relieved sigh when they arrived. Several families were gathered on the platform, but no familiar faces. A small boy tugged at his mother’s hand, apparently eager to run along the tracks. Two men stood engrossed in conversation. At the far end of the building, the stationmaster held out his watch as he stared along the rails.

  Her heart hammered when her father touched her elbow and guided her to a position near the station entrance. In a few minutes, she’d be leaving Waters Grove. After an hour’s ride on the Short Line railroad, she’d transfer to an overland train in Chicago for the trip to eastern Washington.