Mail-Order Grooms: The Complete Boxed Set

by Amelia Smarts

  Trying to wrench her arm free was of no use. She whimpered when he squeezed even tighter. A moment later she saw his eyes widen, and then he released her. She took that opportunity to run back toward the Harringtons’ cabin. In doing so, she turned and collided with Adam, who had come up upon them unbeknownst to her. She rammed into him with such force that he had to reach out and steady her to keep her from bouncing off him and falling to the ground. She nearly cried with relief.

  Adam kept a hand on her shoulder and spoke to Johnny. “What’s going on here?”

  The sound of Adam’s voice made Betsy shiver. She couldn’t remember ever hearing him sound so cold and threatening, and she was reminded in that moment why her pa always said he was a hard man.

  “Nothing, sir,” Johnny said, his cheeks still red. “I was just saying hello to Miss Blake.”

  “Yeah? You have an interesting way of doing that. Did he hurt you, Betsy?”

  Betsy’s entire body was trembling, and tears came to her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. She didn’t want to get Johnny into trouble. She just wanted him to leave her alone. Now that his boss was involved, one word from her could mean a loss of his job. When she looked at Adam, he was staring at her with concern.

  He seemed to know all that was needed with his own observations. He gave Johnny a hard stare. “Get out of here, and don’t come back unless you plan to go to the doctor directly after. Consider yourself fired.”

  His jaw dropped. “But, Mr. Harrington, I didn’t mean…”

  Adam removed his hand from Betsy’s shoulder, stepped forward, and grabbed Johnny by his collar. “You’d better start making tracks before I make you buzzard bait. After what I saw, you grabbing Betsy’s arm like that, you’re lucky I don’t report you to the marshal. I still might. Leave!”

  When Adam released him, Johnny spat on the ground and turned to walk away, giving Betsy a wounded, angry look before he left.

  Betsy stared after him. She still couldn’t find her tongue, but Adam didn’t expect her to speak. He only patted her shoulder and said, “Come on, I’ll take you home and you can tell your pa what happened.” He led the way toward Betsy’s house, a grim expression on his face. When they arrived at her cabin, he saw her safely inside.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harrington,” Betsy said to him from the doorway, having finally gathered enough air to speak.

  Adam shook his head. “I’ve never liked him. He’s a greedy deadbeat—wants a lot of pay for not much effort—but I never thought he’d stoop so low as to manhandle a girl. Tell your ma and pa.”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  Later, after much discussion with her parents, she lay awake in bed for some time. The room held only a small amount of light from the sliver of a moon outside, so she stared up into near-black darkness, listening to the crickets and thinking about the evening’s events.

  Her parents had been furious to hear that Johnny had spoken to her in such a way and bruised her arm, and they were pleased to learn that Adam had fired him. Her pa had shaken his head and said, “I always think he’s too hard on the hands, but right about now I’m feeling grateful he’s a hard case.”

  Betsy was more convinced than ever that she didn’t want to marry a cowboy. She determined while lying in bed rubbing her arm that she would indeed place an order in the paper for a mail-order groom. But she needed to go about it without anyone knowing. Her parents wouldn’t approve. If she told them, they would scold her and insist that she marry someone in town.

  She shuddered at the memory of Johnny spitting on the ground and his comparison of her to a female dog. She didn’t want to settle for ill-mannered boys her own age. She wanted a gentleman, someone older and more mature, who would treat her like a lady. Before she drifted to sleep, the matter was settled in her mind. She would post an ad in the paper for a husband, just like Susannah had done, and hope she’d be as lucky in finding one.

  A few days later, when she walked to the telegraph office to send her advertisement to the New York paper, she felt a stab of guilt over what she was about to do. She’d never done anything secret before, and now she was engaging in a clandestine activity of great importance. Not only that, she’d decided to stretch the truth about her age in the advertisement. Since she wanted an older man, one who was mature unlike the boys she knew in town, she decided she would need to present herself as a little older.

  She gave her advertisement one final read-through before handing it to the clerk.

  Woman, fair of face and strong of body, 25, seeks man age 25 to 35, for marriage. Must be well-dressed and well-mannered. Occupation of a gentleman required. Skills in music and dancing preferred. Respond to Betsy Blake of Virginia City, Nevada.

  Satisfied, she left the telegraph office and walked to the post office, where she informed the postmaster of the letters she anticipated receiving from men responding to her ad. She asked for his silence, and he agreed when she handed him the money she’d earned from watching Caleb and Mini.

  As she trotted home, she felt guilty again, both for not telling her parents of her plan and for lying about her age. She justified the misdeeds in her mind, however, with the knowledge that her parents would likely be happy in the end to see her married to a gentleman.

  As for her future husband, she would explain the reason for lying about her age when she met him. Surely he would understand she was only putting measures in place to ensure their compatibility. Since she acted older than her eighteen years, she didn’t want to be matched up with someone any younger than twenty-five.

  She arrived at the cabin after her errand in town to find that both her parents were away, her pa at the range working and her ma likely in the barn feeding the horses. She walked to her room. As soon as she entered, she immediately knew something wasn’t right. Perusing the space, her heart began to pound painfully in her chest.

  It took a few moments to realize that everything was different, but only slightly. The rug over the hardwood floor was bunched up in one spot, revealing a lighter, cleaner portion of the floor. Her dresser had been moved, only a few inches, but enough that she noticed the skewing of her reflection in the mirror on top of it. The top drawer containing her undergarments was open, and when she looked inside, she saw that someone had rummaged through them, leaving them unfolded and scattered.

  The changes felt insidious and taunting, and she suspected who they came from. Johnny was letting her know that he had been there. She felt unnerved, but what she found on her pillow terrified her. Her hands trembled as she picked up the folded piece of paper and opened it. Attached to the note was a dead butterfly, speared through the middle with a pin. Upon reading the message, scrawled in red ink, she dropped the letter and ran out of the house.

  Dearest Betsy, aren’t butterflies beautiful? You remind me of a butterfly. Did you know that if you kill one, it can’t fly away from you? Its beauty can be admired forever.

  Chapter Two

  Roderick Mason watched Annabelle storm out of the restaurant in tears. He rubbed the spot on his cheek where she’d slapped him and looked around to see the other patrons in the New York Steakhouse shaking their heads in disapproval at him.

  Nosy old biddies, he grumbled to himself.

  He had a reputation for being a bit of a rascal and had been slapped by offended women before. Still, it never failed to surprise him when it happened, and especially this time. Annabelle was a picture of grace and manners. Truth be told, he admired the fact that she’d walloped him and wished she’d exhibited that much pluck earlier on in their acquaintance. Instead, she’d always acted as steady and as emotionless as a rock. Like most women of her station, she kept her voice perfectly soft and level and batted her eyes in such a way that made most men’s legs turn to jelly.

  If Roderick were like most men, that day he’d have asked for the beautiful Annabelle’s hand in marriage at the fine dining establishment. They’d been courting for three months and that was more than enough time
to preface an engagement. Instead, he’d decided to act so appallingly that she would end the courtship altogether. He knew it was better for a woman’s pride if she did the breaking up, and he felt he owed her that bit of dignity as a parting gift.

  That was why, as he poured her tea, he explained in graphic detail his various sexual proclivities or, as those in polite society would call them, deviances. It was his description of figging that finally incited the reaction he was waiting for. He told her how he would like to bare her bottom, bend her over the bed, and stick a freshly skinned finger of ginger up her bottom hole. Annabelle’s eyes had widened considerably, and her cheeks assumed a rather fetching pink quality. He went on to explain the effects doing so would have on her lovely posterior, more specifically the burning that would spread throughout her anus and warm her entire nether region. He said it would be an effective punishment for her, should she ever behave poorly while they were married.

  It was at that point that she stood from her chair and exclaimed, “You unwholesome miscreant! I’ve never heard anything so disgusting and unnatural. You deserve to be tied to the whipping post and flogged!”

  Without changing his expression, he set down the pot of tea and held out the sugar to her, which she ignored. He shrugged and set it down. “Funny you should mention that, darling,” he responded smoothly. I rather like the idea of flogging. Flogging you, that is. Not me.”

  At that point she told him she never wanted to see him again and slapped him across the face. He saw stars for a moment, but recovered quickly enough. His mission complete, he drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.

  “Done with your meal, sir?” the waiter asked stiffly, looking down his long nose at Roderick with what was clearly disapproval. He’d be the gossip of the city for weeks—the scamp who made the lovely Annabelle Jones cry.

  “Yes, thank you,” Roderick replied, placing the knife and fork neatly across the plate. “I will have a cup of coffee now, if you please.” He flashed a wink and a smile at the group of older ladies sitting at a table nearby, who were quite obviously whispering about him. They probably assumed he would leave the diner after being so publicly shamed, but Roderick refused to behave in any way predictable to those who judged him.

  Society and its wretched predictability could go to blazes. That was, in fact, his main problem with Annabelle. She was perfectly lovely and observed every etiquette with practice and ease, from daintily dabbing at her brow with her embroidered handkerchief to treating him to a quaint ditty on the piano. Everything she did bored him. There was nothing exciting or unique about their communication, for she would never dare to say something unseemly in order to make him laugh. Her words were spoken with care and feminine coquettishness. If he married her, he could pretty much guess how the rest of his life would go.

  Their wedding would be an extravagant event worthy of two society people in New York. She would probably sing a popular love song and dedicate it to him with a shy smile. She knew music just well enough to be considered good, just like she knew enough French, embroidery, and painting. Nothing about her was extraordinary, except perhaps her impressive ability to be ordinary in everything.

  They would have children, two probably, and their children would grow up in a way suitable to people of their station. A nanny would see to most of their care, while Annabelle would attend to the duties expected of her: hosting dinner parties, attending charities, and visiting acquaintances. He would spend his free time, when he wasn’t working as an architect at the most successful firm in the city, hunting and playing polo.

  All would be perfectly nice. The problem was that Roderick couldn’t imagine anything more loathsome than having a nice life. He wanted adventure, and he wanted a woman who challenged him, not one who fit nicely into his life.

  He felt a pang of guilt for his ungenerous thoughts toward Annabelle. She wasn’t the right woman for him, but she wasn’t a horrible person either and she didn’t deserve such contempt. Ending the courtship was a blessing for both of them. Though she clearly hated him now and likely felt hurt, in the long run he’d done her a favor. It would be hell for her, being married to a husband with such an impossible itch that needed scratching.

  Roderick felt something not quite as serious as despair, but more painful than disappointment. He didn’t see how he would ever find what he wanted. He wanted a woman without airs or devices, someone as guileless as a child and as outspoken as a man. Did such a woman exist? Sipping his coffee, he picked up the newspaper and read it as a way to distract himself. He turned to the personals section that contained ads written by single men in the west, which was always interesting reading for him. It provided a glimpse into a totally different lifestyle than he knew.

  The west held a sort of intrigue to many in the east. Like others in his circle, he enjoyed reading about matters foreign to him, such as ranching and farming. More than once he’d thought about traveling there and seeing what all the fuss was about.

  As he read the ads, something caught his attention. He squinted, unsure if he’d read correctly. Nestled between two men’s ads was an ad written by a lady requesting a groom. That was certainly different. It seemed she wanted someone mannerly and well dressed, who was a gentleman. His lips quirked up. Silly girl. She probably thought all men in the east strutted around in tailcoats and top hats. Of course, he was not much better enlightened about women in the west. He pictured them all wearing gingham, bonnets, and bows that were twenty years out of fashion.

  As Roderick savored every word of the unique advertisement, he came to realize that he possessed every preferred and required trait the young lady was seeking. He thought about how much more he could impress her, if she was indeed so unfamiliar with a gentleman’s behavior, and he wondered how many men would respond to her. Would she receive any legitimate responses at all?

  She offered nothing in return to a man moving out west to court her, unlike the men’s ads which promised their bride security and a place to live. The only kind of men who might venture in Betsy Blake’s direction were men such as himself, who had very little to lose and who possessed the means in which to take a trip for pleasure. He doubted there were many men like him at all. A grim realization hit him. She might very well become a victim of a man with ill intentions, who would enjoy toying with a woman naive enough to boldly place a foot into unknown territory.

  Roderick didn’t even know her, but that thought infuriated him. He admired what she was trying to do and, perhaps more significant, he understood it. She was trying to find someone well-suited for her, and she was willing to take a risk in order to do so. That was much braver than anything he’d done to find a spouse. He’d only courted the women he was supposed to associate with according to everyone’s expectations around him.

  He gulped down the rest of his coffee. Before he could overthink it, he strode to the telegraph office and sent Miss Betsy Blake a response.

  Man, 30, architect by trade, in want of a strong, fair-faced young lady. Knows manners and etiquette. Can even dance and play the piano in exchange for a smile. Respond to Roderick Mason of New York City.

  It was a flippant-sounding note, written hurriedly without much thought because he knew he’d likely not receive a response. As soon as he wrote and sent it, he pushed the matter out of his mind, not wanting to get his hopes up and feeling rather silly for having any hopes at all.

  He continued on with the activities of his life, feeling dull and uninspired, and on top of that displeased with himself for not being appreciative of his good fortune. He often wondered if there was a God looking down on him, mourning the fact that all the blessings he bestowed on one man were in no way returned with gratitude.

  Roderick had achieved great success as an architect in New York City, having created original plans for beautiful buildings that were praised by architects throughout the country and abroad. His reason for going into architecture, besides having a knack for design, was because he liked studying buildings. That had
been a source of pleasure for him, from as far back as he could remember. He especially like studying the various structures of houses, and he supposed that had something to do with never having a place to call home as a child. His parents died when he was very young, and though they left him with a generous inheritance, he effectively grew up in boarding school.

  Now as an adult, he enjoyed owning his own house, which he’d designed. An attachment to it formed, since it was the first place he’d ever felt comfortable and settled into. The modern touches he gave the building served as symbols of his talent, but otherwise he did not like to flaunt his skills. He’d kept his architectural awards in a stack on his desk until his butler insisted on hanging them in the corridor next to the paintings of his deceased mother and father. It wasn’t that he didn’t take pride in his accomplishments, but he didn’t put much weight on them. They didn’t seem all that extraordinary to him, for he hadn’t achieved what he considered the most valuable and impressive accomplishment of all—love and a family to share his wealth with.

  When his butler delivered a letter from Miss Blake to him in his study on a cold September morning, Roderick couldn’t contain his excitement. He set aside his tobacco pipe, grasped the envelope, and tore it open, eager to see what it held. He hadn’t experienced that kind of curiosity since childhood.

  His heart leapt at first glance of the letter. It was two pages long and written in penmanship he would describe as sweet, with shorter strokes than someone on his side of the country would use. To his great pleasure, the letter was well-written with no obvious errors, even as it conveyed a sort of charming innocence flowing from the hand that wrote it.

  I was delighted, sir, to read your telegram. Yours was the only note that made me laugh, and I thought that if you could make me laugh from thousands of miles away, in person you are likely to be a true merrymaker.