Mail Order Bride: JUMBO Mail Order Bride 20 Book Box Set

by Hope Sinclair

  Perhaps he would send his bedsheet to her for laundering, then intentionally soil his new sheet to give her added work. Or, maybe he’d pull another trick with his lunch—he could ask for cubes of meat and send them back for being cut too large, then send them back again for being cut too small.

  Jack all but chuckled at the different “games” he entertained, and he tried to decide which of them would be the most effective and fun. But, before he could make that decision, fate—in the form of Mr. Clark—stepped in.

  “I just wish there was something I could do around here to put my nursing skills to good use,” Mary Ann said as she dusted around the furniture in the front room.

  No sooner than she finished her sentence, Mr. Clark rushed into the house, unannounced.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” he muttered, panting and trying to catch his breath. His face was red and swollen, and it appeared as though he’d been crying or otherwise emotionally strained.

  “Dorothy’s ill,” he went on, still panting. “She’s very, very ill.”

  “By God!” Julia exclaimed in concern. “What happened?”

  “I got no idea what happened,” Mr. Clark replied. “Alls I know is she was fine this morning at breakfast. We each went off to do some chores, and then I heard her coughing and spitting up—and, next thing I knew, she was on the floor, crying and squealing.

  “I picked her up and loaded her onto the carriage and headed for Doc Hansen’s place straight away. But, when we got to his house, his wife said he wasn’t there. He’d been out visiting homesteads all morning—said that three or four other families had fallen sick with similar symptoms.”

  Julia and Mary Ann both gasped and stared wide-eyed at Mr. Clark as he continued.

  “I left Dorothy there with Doc’s wife and came here to get you,” he explained. “You both are nurses, and, right now, that’s what my wife—and the rest of Bright Valley—needs.”

  “Who are the other families?” Julia asked, tossing aside the broom she was holding.

  “Don’t know if I remember all of ‘em,” Mr. Clark replied. “But, Doc’s wife mentioned Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and the Jones boys—and she said the baker, his sister, and their wards were sick too.”

  Julia stood still for a moment, then her jaw dropped. “That’s nine people,” she said, shaking her head. “Including your wife, there are nine people with this sickness in Bright Valley.”

  She turned to Mary Ann. “I pray this is not the start of an epidemic,” she said softly.

  Just then, something “clicked” in Mary Ann’s head. “You said the baker is ill also?” she asked Mr. Clark, sidestepping Julia’s heartfelt comment and calling to mind the disappointing image of the man she’d seen out the outpost a day earlier.

  “Sure is,” Mr. Clark replied.

  Julia remembered the baker’s appearance. He was short, bald, and rotund… and had yellow, blood-shot eyes and several carbuncles on his face. He had yellow, blood-shot eyes and several carbuncles on his face, she told herself, holding these facts against her practical knowledge.

  “We very well may have an epidemic on our hands,” Mary Ann said, turning to Julia and returning to her comment. “But, if we act quickly, it’s not too late to stop it.”

  Mary Ann took charge of the situation and instructed Julia to go to Doc Hansen’s house and assess Dorothy Clark’s condition. “I’ll meet up with you there later today,” she assured Julia as she headed for the doorway.

  Mary Ann looked to Mr. Clark. “I need you to take me to the baker’s house,” she told him. “Drop me there, and then go look for the sheriff—and have him come to the baker’s house as well.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the older man said, respecting Mary Ann’s command.

  Behind his closed door, Jack Montgomery shuddered. He wasn’t particularly fond of people, but he wished no one any harm, so he was greatly disturbed by what he’d heard about the sick townspeople and possible epidemic.

  It was no small thing for nine people in a town like Bright Valley to fall ill overnight. It was no small thing indeed! When things like that happened elsewhere in the country, they usually were quickly followed by death.

  Jack had seen friends, family members, and fellow soldiers die from such sicknesses, and it was something he did not want to see again. The thought of losing his sister; his pleasant neighbor, Mrs. Clark; or even the ill-skilled baker saddened him and terrified him immensely—and, as he gazed out of his window and watched Julia ready her horse, he prayed to God that this would not be the last time he ever saw her.

  But, then, Jack noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and it completely captivated his attention. Mary Ann’s mop of silky brown hair flopped as she jumped onto the Clarks’ carriage, and the way the light hit it made it glisten like burst of struck oil.

  As the carriage took to motion, Mary Ann’s hair swept back over her shoulders, and, when her face came into view, Jack felt his heart swell, then sink down to the pit of his stomach. That face—those dark blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and soft, pink lips—he’d seen it before… in his memories, in his dreams… in that horrible fire.

  Jack felt lightheaded and dizzy, and he stumbled backwards a bit, nearly falling over. Mary Ann—his nurse—was the spitting image of the woman he’d watched perish during the war. She looked exactly like her, and now she, too, stood to die, if she, like the other nine people in Bright Valley, fell victim to this sickness. He couldn’t stomach losing such a beautiful creature not once, but twice, in his lifetime, and he decided to do for Mary Ann what he could not do for the woman in the fire.

  He decided to help her.

  NINE

  When Mr. Clark dropped Mary Ann at the baker’s homestead, she was met at the door by Doc Hansen. She explained to him that she was a nurse with extensive experience, and that she’d come there to help him.

  Doc Hansen was relieved to have a skilled nurse—or anybody—there to assist him, and he quickly ushered Mary Ann into the house and took her to the patients.

  In total, there were four patients in the house—the baker, his sister, and their “wards,” Gretchen and Isabella, the mother and child Mary Ann had befriended on the covered wagon. All four of them appeared very ill, especially Gretchen, who was sweating profusely, murmuring to herself, and otherwise not responsive.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with them,” Doc Hansen admitted. “Nor do I have any idea what’s wrong with the two other families I saw this morning, who were suffering similar symptoms.”

  “I don’t know what is wrong with any of them either,” Mary Ann said, looking over her huddled-over patients.

  “But, I think I’ve garnered some clues that will help us figure it out and help this sickness from spreading any further.”

  Doc Hansen’s eyes widened beneath his spectacles.

  “Please,” he plead, “go on.”

  “Look at this man’s eyes and face,” Mary Ann said, calling the doctor’s attention to the baker.

  “Yes,” Doc Hansen replied. “I took note of that. Mr. Peterson also had similar marks on his face develop this morning—that’s part of why he called for me this morning.”

  “But this man had these pustules on his face yesterday,” Mary Ann noted. “I noticed them at the outpost, when he came to retrieve his bride-to-be and her daughter. At first, I just thought they were pimples brought about by a slovenly lifestyle. But, now, I believe they may be a sign of a more serious, deeper infection—one that he has passed on to others, possibly through his bread.”

  “It’s true,” the baker said meekly, struggling to speak. “I had these boils for a couple days now, and haven’t been feeling too good. But these townspeople are hungry and I need money, so I kept baking anyway—up until last night, when I got too sick to go on.”

  “Tell me,” Mary Ann instructed, looking the baker in his yellow eyes. “Did you sell bread to anyone this morning?”

  “Yes,” the baker replied, coughing. “But I didn’t sell m
uch, or to many people. I only had a few customers before shutting down early.”

  “And, who were those customers?” Mary Ann inquired.

  “There Petersons got a loaf,” the baker answered. “And I gave the Jones boys some scraps after they helped me move a bag of flour. And, Mrs. Clark was in as well, for some rye.”

  “Mrs. Clark?” Doc Hansen asked.

  “Yes,” Mary Ann and the baker replied in unison.

  “She fell ill just a short while ago,” Mary Ann added.

  “Did you have any other customers?” the doctor asked, investing new interest in the conversation.

  “Old Man Hall got some biscuits,” the baker said, stuttering. “And, Mr.—”

  The baker’s voice trailed off, and he started convulsing violently. Doc Hansen lunged forward to catch him before he fell off of his chair, and Mary Ann reached out to steady him as he did. In all the commotion, neither one of them realized that the door had opened—and, it wasn’t until the sheriff spoke up that they realized they had company.

  “What’s going on here?” the sheriff asked. He had a full, thick mustache and appeared to be a weathered man, but he seemed disgusted by the roomful of sick people.

  “There is a sickness spreading throughout Bright Valley,” Mary Ann answered. “The baker has an infection that he’s passed along to the townsfolk through the bread he sold this morning.”

  The sheriff curled his nose at the stench in the room and shook his head at the newfound information.

  “What can we do?” Mr. Clark asked, stepping out from behind the sheriff’s back.

  “Go to town, and stop at every homestead along the way, and warn people about the bread,” Mary Ann responded. “Tell them not to eat any bread they bought from the baker, and to burn whatever bread they have. Make sure that everyone knows about it.

  “And go round to the Peterson, Jones, and Hall houses—as well as to Doc Hansen’s place—and tell anyone who is infected that they are not to leave their properties, under any circumstances.”

  The sheriff and Mr. Clark—two strong dignified men in their own rights—took heed of Mary Ann’s instructions and began coordinating their efforts.

  As the two men discussed who would deliver the news to which homesteads, Mary Ann walked over to check on the baker’s sister, then to check on Gretchen’s daughter, Isabella.

  The girl lay folded up on a bench near the door. She was breathing heavily and quivering, but was still alert and smiled as she saw Mary Ann approaching. Mary Ann’s heart ached at the sight of the sick child, but she couldn’t help but smile back, both because she wanted to comfort the girl and because she was touched by what she was holding.

  In her sickness, as she lay there, clinging onto her life, she hugged the ragdoll that Mary Ann had given her the day before.

  “I hope your doll isn’t sick too,” Mary Ann said, treating the child with humor. Isabella shook her head and tried to giggle.

  “Poor little thing,” a voice said from behind Mary Ann. She turned and saw that it was the sheriff who’d spoken. He gazed down at Isabella with a fatherly look on his face, and she smiled, as best she could, at his expression.

  No sooner than Isabella smiled, her smile swiftly turned upside down, and she started shaking. But, her spasms were much different than those Mary Ann had witnessed in her mother and the baker. They were far more intense, and there was something far more terrifying about them.

  “Fire,” Isabella cried through her chattering teeth.

  “Fire,” she whined again.

  Mary Ann and the sheriff looked around the room, but there was no fire to be seen, not even in the stove.

  “Oh dear,” Mary Ann said, placing her hand atop the child’s head. “She must be having another one of her spells. Her uncle’s house was burnt down by bandits during the war, and her mind sometimes travels back to that time.”

  The sheriff nodded, indicating that he comprehended what Mary Ann had explained, and Mary Ann smiled down at the child.

  “No, no,” the child muttered, wincing out of both fear and pain. “The man—the man from the fire.”

  “What’s she talking about?” the sheriff asked, looking at both Mary Ann and Isabella with a raised brow.

  “I don’t know,” Mary Ann lamented. “As far as I knew, she couldn’t talk. Her mother said she hasn’t spoken in a year, not since the accident. She was the only survivor, and all of her relatives in the house were killed.”

  “The man from the fire,” Isabella repeated in a fading voice. Her eyes started fluttering beneath their leads, but, nonetheless, she mustered up the courage to raise her arm.

  “There,” she said, pointing toward the open door. A split-second later, her arm dropped back down to her body, and the ragdoll she was holding fell to the floor.

  Mary Ann shook the girl gently, trying to wake her again. “The man from the fire?” she asked. “He’s here?”

  Isabella did not respond or move, but the sheriff and Mary Ann did. They both turned their heads to look out the door, at the spot Isabella had pointed to. Lo and behold, there stood a man in the doorway. He was somewhat roguish in appearance and was a bit dirty, but his ample body, chiseled face, and red hair were otherwise pleasing to the eyes.

  When the man noticed the attention he was receiving, his face contorted into a frightened scowl, and he swiftly turned and started to run away.

  “That must be one of the men who set the fire who killed her family,” Mary Ann shouted at the sheriff. “He’s a murderer and a thief! You must chase after him!”

  The sheriff reached to his hand to his side and readied his pistol. “Stop!” he hollered as he ran out the door, chasing after the man. “Stop in the name of the law!”

  Mary Ann rushed over to the doorway to watch as the sheriff went after the man, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him tackle him to the ground.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Mr. Clark sang out from somewhere behind Mary Ann. She turned to look at him, with a confused expression on her face.

  “You don’t know who that man is, do you?” Mr. Clark asked, making his way over to the doorway.

  “No,” Mary Ann replied, staring out as the sheriff pulled the criminal up off of the ground. “Who is that loathsome beast?”

  “That loathsome beast,” Mr. Clark answered, articulating his words, “is your patient… That’s Jack Montgomery the sheriff’s got there.”

  TEN

  “I can explain everything,” Jack bellowed from the front porch of the baker’s house. “Please, just hear me out.”

  Mary Ann ignored Jack’s request and sat quietly in her chair. Her patients were all in fever-induced slumber, and there was little she could do but watch over them as she watched over herself.

  The sheriff and Mr. Clark had left only moments earlier, to carry word of the sickness throughout the town, and they’d secured Jack to the porch before leaving. His arms were behind his back, wrapped around a support beam on the porch, and were cuffed at his wrists, and his legs were bound with two leather straps.

  Indeed, the two older men were hesitant to leave Mary Ann “alone” with Jack without anyone there to protect her in the unlikely event he should break free. But, despite their hesitance and concern, they had to pursue the greater good. Even though Jack was a scoundrel, and was to be held responsible for his crimes, it was more pressing that they save the town from the spread of an epidemic, rather than escort a single man to the sheriff’s station.

  “Please,” Jack screamed from the porch again. “Just give me a few minutes of your time, and it will all become clear.”

  It was well after noon now, and the sun shone heavily down on Jack’s form. His brow was sweating, and the beads of perspiration were agitated the scrapes he suffered when the sheriff wrestled him to the ground.

  Jack bowed his head, both out of a sense of defeat and so that the sweat would drip to the ground, not over his sore face. He’d pretty much given up all hope that Mary Ann would hear h
im out. But, then, he heard her voice.

  “What will become clear?” she asked snidely, peeking out from a small crack in the door. “Julia told be about the nightmares you have—the ones about a fire—and, now, this child, whose father and relatives died in a fire, has fingered you for being on the scene. I don’t expect anything you could say to make things any clearer than that.”

  “But, you don’t understand,” Jack started, lifting his head. “I—”

  “Oh, I understand!” Mary Ann retorted, cutting him off.

  “I understand perfectly now. It all makes sense. This explains why you keep to yourself and won’t interact with other people—why you keep yourself holed up in your room. You’re riddled by guilt over what you did, and were afraid someone would find out who—and what—you really are.”

  Jack shook his head and made a sour face.

  “It also explains why you were so childish with me yesterday,” she went on uninterrupted by his physical response.

  “You have an evil disposition. When you aren’t robbing them or setting their homes on fire, you’re manipulating them and torturing them with your unreasonable demands.”

  Mary Ann slammed the door shut in a huff and returned to her chair.

  “I’m not a murderer, woman!” Jack shouted in a voice that almost sounded sincere. “Nor am I a thief. I didn’t start the fire that killed that girl’s family… I came upon it after the fact, and it was I who saved her life.”

  “You’re a liar!” Mary Ann exclaimed as she jumped to her feet and headed for the door.

  “I am no such thing,” Jack screamed back. His voice sounded raspy and hoarse, and he lowered it once he saw Mary Ann open the door again.

  “It was a horrible night, about a year ago,” he explained, taking on a regretful tone. “I was making my way back to camp with two other soldiers, when we happened upon a house in flames. An elderly man stood by the porch, and explained to us that his house had been set on fire by looters, and that his daughter had rescued him and pulled him from the blaze.