The Thanksgiving Day Bride: Mail Order Bride Novels

by Sandee Keegan

  “I want you to go to Nevada,” Andrew corrected his sister. “Rhonda, women are heading west to marry complete strangers. This fella writing Heather could be anyone for all we know. Maybe the fella is a wealthy rancher, but why would wealthy rancher be searching for a bride all the way in Georgia? I want you to go find out who this fella is and get the truth. Once we have the truth, well then, we'll publish the truth and let this town know that we care about our citizens.”

  Rhonda rubbed her soft chin. “You know what,” she said in a curious voice, “you may be onto something. Sure, I'll travel to Nevada and conduct some investigating.”

  Andrew stared at Rhonda. “When you arrive, just pretend that you're Heather, okay? Don't let anyone know you're a reporter from Georgia. I'll have Mr. Morrow send a telegram to Nevada ahead of time announcing your arrival.”

  Rhonda stood up and walked to the dusty window. “Andrew, I'm going to need money for this trip and a few pretty dresses.”

  Andrew sighed. “I knew you were going to empty the bank of me. But don't worry, I've managed to save a few dollars over the years. I'll cover the expenses.”

  “Save a few dollars?” Rhonda asked. “Andrew, you're married to a very wealthy woman. You have more money than sense.”

  Andrew shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. “When it comes to marriage, money is common sense. Now, run on down the street to Mrs. Mulkey's Boarding House and start packing. I'll go buy your passage ticket, and later we can get the dresses you want and have dinner at the hotel with Susie.”

  Rhonda barely heard her brother. Her eyes were reaching for Nevada, for a new story, a new adventure, a new...life. “Sure,” she said in a low voice, “dinner with Susie.”

  Outside, the sun set high overhead, casting unbearable heat onto a small town filled with people who sometimes forgot that love mattered.

  <<<<<>>>>>

  “How drab,” Rhonda said in a disappointed tone as she stepped off a stagecoach onto a cold, dirt street lined with wooden buildings that were extremely run down and on the verge of decay. The only building that stood strong and attractive was a two-story hotel standing alone at the south end of town. “Is this Green Cliff?” she asked an old man who didn't seem very bothered by the icy winds screaming up and down the street.

  “Yep,” the old man answered Rhonda, reaching and up and taking a brown suitcase from a lean man who looked meaner than a rattlesnake. “Little towns like this are scattered all across the Nevada. Virginia City and Carson City are where most folks go to.”

  Rhonda bowed her head against a strong gust of wind. When the gust passed, she raised her exhausted eyes up and studied the old man. “Does the name Roger Steward mean anything to you? He's supposed to be a very wealthy rancher living in this area of the country?”

  The old man sat Rhonda's suitcase down at his feet, rubbed his chin, and then shook his head. “Little lady, a man named Mintfield runs this area.” Looking at Rhonda with curious eyes, the old man tossed a thumb toward the hotel. “Hotel is down the street. Is, uh, Mr. Mintfield going to meet you in town?”

  “I'm not looking for a Mr. Mintfield,” Rhonda told the old man in a firm voice, “I'm looking for Roger Steward,” she finished and picked up her suitcase. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  “Stay indoors, little lady,” the old man yelled after Rhonda. “Bad snow storm is on its way!”

  Rhonda heard the old man's warning but didn't reply to him. She walked to the hotel feeling the icy winds grabbing at the blue coat she was wearing. Cold, hungry, and a bit irritable and anxious for a soft bed and a hot meal, Rhonda climbed up a set of wooden stairs onto a veranda that seemed lonesome and forgotten. “And I thought my little town back in Georgia was drab,” Rhonda whispered and pushed her way through the front door of the hotel, walking into a warm lobby that was obviously decorated by a man and not a woman.

  “Help you?” a man asked Rhonda.

  Rhonda approached a wooden counter and sat down her suitcase. “I would like a room...oh, say, for seven days.”

  The man behind the counter was Mr. Paul Smith, a sixty-eight-year-old retired blacksmith who had bought the hotel from a gambler who had won the deed from the original owner in a poker game. Honest, kind and warm—yet a man of very few words—Mr. Smith smiled at Rhonda. “That'll be just fine,” he said.

  Rhonda quickly scanned Mr. Smith's thick gray hair sitting above a tough face that was no stranger to work and danger. It seemed funny to her that such a man was wearing a brown suit instead of dirty ranch clothes. “Do you know a man by the name of Roger Steward?”

  Paul slowly turned the guest registration book sitting on the front counter toward Rhonda. “What do you want with Roger?” he asked in a careful voice.

  “So you do know this man,” Rhonda said ignoring Paul's question. Pulling off a pair of white gloves, she glanced around the front lobby. “Brown, brown, and brown. I assume you supervised the decorating committee?”

  Paul scratched the back of his neck. “I guess the place could use a woman's touch,” he admitted.

  “Yes, it could,” Rhonda agreed. “Perhaps before I leave, I could give this lobby a hint of style and taste,” she said. “Now, back to Roger Steward. Where might I find this man?”

  “Ma’am, Roger Steward is a decent sort of fella. It ain't none of my mind what you want with him, but please don't cause him trouble.”

  Rhonda focused her eyes on Paul's face. “I take it Roger Steward is not a wealthy rancher? From what I learned from the stagecoach driver, a Mr. Mintfield is the man with the money around here.”

  Paul didn't like Steve Mintfield's name mentioned in his hotel. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Rhonda. “Little lady, don't mention that name in my hotel.”

  “Oh?” Rhonda asked and held back from asking an obvious question. “I understand. Now, where may I find Roger Steward?”

  “His ranch is north of town. Just keep on the old gold trail, and it'll take you right past his ranch.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Rhonda told Paul. “All I want right now is a warm meal and a soft bed.”

  “Dining room is through that door,” Paul said and pointed to a white door. “My wife will make you dinner. I hope steak and potatoes are filling enough?”

  “Add a little bread, and we're in business,” Rhonda smiled warmly.

  “Please sign,” Paul told Rhonda and fetched her the key to room #7. “Freshly painted room. You'll like it.”

  Rhonda took the room key, grabbed her suitcase, and trudged up a wooden staircase to a room that, to her relief, was clean and had a soft bed. After dinner, she made a few notes in a personal notebook and fell asleep listening to powerful, icy, winds scream and howl outside of the window in her room.

  The following morning, she wandered downstairs into the dining room, ate a warm breakfast of eggs and hot pancakes along with coffee, and then found Paul putting wood into the fireplace sitting in the front lobby. “If I'm mistaken, I think I'm the only guest in your hotel.”

  Paul tossed a log onto the fire, brushed off his hands, and stood up. The fireplace was roaring and throwing out the sweet smell of pine into the air. “You're wanting me to take you over to Roger's place?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Rhonda said, appreciating that Paul understood how to cut to the chase. “I can pay you.”

  “Keep your money,” Paul replied in a kind voice. “Mrs. Smith and I are doing just fine.”

  “So you'll take me to the ranch?”

  “As a favor for a paying guest,” Paul agreed.

  “Thank you,” Rhonda smiled and hurried upstairs to grab her coat.

  An hour later, after Paul hitched a poor looking brown horse to a run-down buggy, Rhonda was on her way to Roger Steward's ranch. “A bit cold today,” Paul called over a strong wind as the horse pulled the buggy down the front street of town.

  Rhonda studied the small buildings. She saw the general store, a doctor's office, a feed and grain store, a dress store, a jail, and even
an office housing an attorney, yet each building seemed deserted and lonesome, empty of life. “I can handle the cold,” Rhonda promised. Paul nodded his head and didn't say another word until he pulled the buggy up to a one bedroom shack. “This is it?” Rhonda asked.

  “Yep,” Paul said, glancing up at a large tree looming over the shack. The land surrounded the shack was rough but beautiful; Rhonda saw an open field to the east of the shack, a few large boulders spread out here and there, some rough brush, cold trees, and a worn-down horse corral that looked like it might fall over if a bird landed on it.

  “And somebody actually lives here?”

  “Yep,” Paul said again. “Sit tight.”

  Rhonda watched Paul climbed down from the buggy, stroll up to the shack, and knock on the front door. “Roger, it's Paul Smith. You home?”

  A minute later, the front door to the shack opened, and a handsome young man Rhonda's age appeared. “Paul?” he asked.

  Paul tossed a thumb at Rhonda. “Young lady sitting out there in the buggy wants to see you.”

  Roger moved his head past Paul and looked toward Rhonda. He saw a woman whose beauty was powerful enough to tame a stampede of angry bulls. His heart began racing. Surely the woman had to be the person he was sending letters to. “What is she doing here?” he asked Paul in a scared voice and quickly tucked in a gray shirt into a pair of brown work pants.

  “That's your business,” Paul answered and waved at Rhonda. “Young lady, you can come over.”

  Rhonda carefully climbed down from the buggy and walked up to the shack. With curious and watchful eyes, she examined Roger's face. “Roger Steward?” she asked.

  “Are you...Heather Morrow?” Roger asked Rhonda.

  “Are you a wealthy rancher?” Rhonda asked back and pointed her eyes at the shack. “Your letters indicated that you were a wealthy man.”

  Paul looked at Roger. Roger shoved his hands down into the front pockets of his pants as a gust of wind grabbed at his short black hair. “I...uh...there's coffee on the stove. How about a cup?”

  “I gotta be getting back to the hotel,” Paul told Roger and looked over his shoulder at Rhonda. “How long do you think you'll be?”

  “I'm sure Mr. Steward will be more than happy to ride me back into town. Isn't that right Mr. Steward?” Rhonda asked.

  “I...” Roger kicked at the ground. “Sure, I can take you back into town. I have a buggy.”

  “Terrific,” Rhonda beamed. Mr. Roger Steward was going to provide her with an excellent story that was surely going to make her small town back in Georgia drool for more.

  “Okay, then,” Paul said and walked away.

  “Uh...come inside, if you want,” Paul said in a low voice that was full of shame.

  Rhonda smiled and stepped into a dimly lit room being warmed by a small fireplace. The smell of a delicious stew cooking over the fire in a black cast iron pot filled the room. The room itself, Rhonda saw, was neat, clean, and well organized. On the north wall, she saw a stove, on the south wall, a bookshelf, on the west wall a bed, and on the east wall a sitting area. In the middle of the room stood a decent but humble kitchen table. “May I?” Rhonda asked and pointed at the kitchen table.

  “Oh, sure, yeah,” Roger said closing the front door. Nervous as a tick and ashamed that he had been caught in a lie, he wasn't sure what to do or say. Hoping to have built up his ranch before the woman he was writing in Georgia in arrived, Roger had hit some tough times.

  “Mr. Steward,” Rhonda said sitting down, “My name isn't Heather Morrow. My name is Rhonda Dandleton.”

  Roger stared at Rhonda. “Ma’am?”

  “I'm here on behalf of Heather Morrow's father who asked my brother and me to investigate you,” Rhonda explained. “Please, the coffee.”

  Roger bit down on his lower lip as his stomach tightened and hurried to make two cups of coffee. “Mam, I'm afraid I don’t understand?”

  Rhonda watched Roger nervously pour coffee into two small blue cups. “It's very simple,” Rhonda said accepting her cup of coffee from Roger. “You lied about being a wealthy rancher.”

  Roger sat his cup of coffee down onto the kitchen table. “I...” he tried to defend his lie, but knew he had been caught red-handed. “Yeah, I lied,” he sighed deeply. “Truth is, I was hoping to build up my ranch, but last winter really took its toll on me.”

  It was immediately clear to Rhonda that Roger Steward wasn't a bad man who intentionally lied. The truth, she saw, was that the man had hoped to become what he told Heather Morrow he was. Also, Rhonda noticed as she stared into Roger's worried face, the truth was that a lonely heart had dared to grasp at hope and had failed. “I'm here to take you to prison,” Rhonda told Roger in a nice voice. “Please, relax.”

  Roger looked down at Rhonda. The woman was beautiful, intelligent, and captivating. And what was he? A man who could barely keep his head above water. “I'm sure sorry I lied,” he told Rhonda. “I... well, I figured I could build up my ranch, that's all. It's kinda been tough since my brother died and all.”

  “Your brother died?” Rhonda asked and took a sip of coffee.

  Roger nodded his head. “Matthew and I worked the ranch together, but last spring he got threw from his horse and hit his head against a rock. I was writing Ms. Morrow by then.” Roger pulled out a chair and slowly sat down. “Honest ma’am, I would have never lied to that lady. Matthew and me, we were doing real good. It was Mathew's idea that I even start looking for a wife. He wanted to help me build up the ranch and get it ready for Ms. Morrow and then move up to the Oregon territory… Matthew didn't want to leave me alone.”

  “I see,” Rhonda said and put down her coffee. “By the time your brother died, Heather Morrow was under the impression you were wealthy.”

  Roger nodded his head. “That was Matthew's doing, too. He figured I could get a wife by lying about how much money I had. My brother, well, he meant well.”

  Rhonda looked deeply into Roger's eyes. “Your brother could read and write, but you can't, right?” she asked.

  Roger felt as if Rhonda had punched him in the gut. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “The bookshelf over there isn't holding any books. Instead, it's holding bags of flour and sugar.”

  Roger tossed his eyes toward the bookshelf. “You're a very smart woman. I guess you're gonna tell Ms. Morrow the truth, huh? I mean, that's your job, right?”

  Rhonda looked down at her coffee and then back up at Roger. “That stew smells delicious. I've already eaten breakfast, but I’m hungry all over again. Perhaps we can talk over a bowl of stew apiece...if you have enough, of course.”

  “Oh, sure, I have enough. I always make plenty. Guess I can't get used to cooking just for myself. I'm kinda used to cooking for me and my brother.”

  Rhonda heard sadness in Roger's voice. “I'm sorry.”

  “Me, too,” Roger said and stood up. As he did, a powerful gust of wind struck the shack. “Storm is coming,” he said and shook his head. “I better get to the stew.”

  Chapter 2: Stormy Days

  Rhonda took a bite of stew full of potatoes, carrots, and fish. “Very good,” she said. “Is that fish I taste?”

  “Not much money for meat,” Roger admitted lifting a spoon full of stew to his mouth. “I'm all out of cattle right now, and Old Man Mintfield is refusing to sell to me. He wants my land...I guess he'll get in the end. Not much hope for nothing else.”

  Rhonda watched Roger eat. Something about the man touched her heart. Was it his honesty, his handsome face, or his poor heart? She wasn't certain. “Where would you go if you lost your ranch?” she asked.

  Roger shrugged his shoulders. “My folks are buried here,” he explained. “Matthew and I came here when I was ten years old when this town was nothing more than a few wagons gathered together. My Pa came out here looking for gold.”

  “Oh?” Rhonda asked and then quickly caught her voice. “I see.”

  Roger kinda smiled to himself. �
�What you mean is to say is that my Pa struck dirt instead of gold.”

  “Yes. I'm sorry,” Rhonda apologized.

  “Don't be,” Roger told Rhonda. “Matthew and me, we knew Pa was striking dirt long before Pa finally gave up.”

  “Your Pa never found any gold?” Rhonda asked in a sad voice.

  “Just a little,” Roger admitted. “He put his findings up for me and Matthew. That's how we had enough money to start this ranch. But, no, Pa never struck it rich. My mother, she was a faithful woman, though. She stood by my Pa until the Lord called her home.”

  “The Lord?” Rhonda asked.

  “Jesus,” Roger smiled. “I ain't sad that my folks are with Jesus. I miss them at times, and I miss my brother too, but I know they're all okay and waiting for me.”

  Rhonda stared at Roger. Even though her own parents had been Christians, she and her brother had drifted away from their faith years ago. Hearing the name of Jesus spoken tugged at her heart. “You're talking about Heaven, right?”

  “Sure,” Roger said and took another bite of stew. “I've come to realize that Jesus knows best for me. If I lose my ranch, then it's because I need to move on down the road somewhere. Jesus will make a way for me.”

  “Are you really sure of that?” Rhonda asked. “I'm sorry, Mr. Steward, but it seems to me that a person has to make his, or her, own path in life. Faith is...acceptable, but it mustn't dominate one’s ability to think for his, or her, self.”

  Roger put down his spoon. “Ms. Dandleton, Jesus is everything. He is the living Word of God. If its one thing I know, it's that life is sure short, but life with Jesus is forever.”

  “Because your folks told you that, right? You can't read, so you haven't read the Bible. Your opinions are based on what others have told you.”

  “Nope and no ma’am,” Roger objected. “My mother read the Bible to me faithfully every day, and so did my brother. Now, Matthew wasn't a great reader, and he sure messed up a word or two, but he was able to pick up where our mother left off.”

  Rhonda nibbled on a spoonful of stew as the winds outside grew fiercer. “I'm sorry,” she told Roger, “but I just believe that faith and personal living are two different paths that a person must walk.”