Caroline's Promise (Valentine Mail Order Bride 5)

by Faith Parsons

  Caroline picked up the pen and wrote in her nicest handwriting: Caroline Akiko Kaspar. Then she handed the pen to Max. And held her breath.

  Max hesitated, pen poised over the paper, squinting suspiciously. Oh mercy, was he having second thoughts? Would they still be married if he didn’t sign it?

  The minister made an impatient noise.

  Max frowned harder and scribbled something. Caroline craned her neck, trying to read what he’d written—it was probably too much to hope that he also had an embarrassing middle name. But his scrawl was so messy, she couldn’t read it at all.

  It didn’t matter, he’d signed it. She was officially his wife.

  ῭ ΅

  The wedding reception was brief—too many of the participants had farms or ranches to get back to, chores to be done before nightfall. The townsfolk who attended treated Caroline as if she were perfectly normal. Everyone seemed eager to welcome her, and to tell her how much they liked Max. Not one of them asked where her parents had come from, or asked her to say something in her own language. No veiled comments about her origins either. It was as if they considered it normal for a woman of mixed ancestry to be marrying one of their own. Was it possible that on the frontier it didn’t matter who her ancestors were? Or were these people simply being polite for Max’s sake?

  Maybe out here, a person’s ancestry didn’t matter as much as it did back East. Almost a third of the locals had olive or copper complexions, and even the palest-skinned folk mixed their English with words from another language that Caroline had never heard spoken before. Guajillo. Saguaro. Mesquite.

  Max hadn’t said much during the reception, just nursed a mug of beer and watched the festivities. He didn’t even protest when Bart teased him about having lips so powerful, his kiss made women swoon. Caroline wanted to crawl into a hole and hide when everyone had laughed at Bart’s joke.

  As the evening wore on, though, she still felt welcome, and the tension between her shoulder blades eased. Was it possible she’d found a place where she might be accepted for who she was?

  Max didn’t say much on the wagon ride home, either, although he did answer any question she asked. But when the conversation started to feel more like an interrogation, she’d let the silence settle around them.

  Some of the plants here were so odd—cactus, Max had called them. Some tall with a branch or two, others shaped like tiny balls with flowers on top, like a porcupine with a bouquet on its head, and strangest of all, some looking like trees made of spiny pancakes all glued together.

  She was itching to paint them. She wanted to paint the mountains, too. She bet they'd be gorgeous at sunset.

  Be practical, you won’t have time to paint anything. You’ll be busy cooking and cleaning. Raising babes too, if you’re lucky.

  She wanted to be lucky. But somehow that didn’t stop her from wanting to paint.

  “There’s the big house,” Maxwell said, jolting her back to reality. He pointed at a grand one-story wood building with a sheltered porch that ran all the way around the front of the building. It looked big enough to house a dozen rooms, maybe more.

  He pointed to a smaller cluster of buildings farther out. “There’s the bunkhouse where the hands live.”

  It was as if he suddenly spoke another language. She nodded and bit her tongue, not wanting to seem ignorant.

  “That over there’s the barn, and the tool shed. The other big one’s where we keep extra feed when the grazing’s bad.”

  She nodded again.

  “And that doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?” He blushed. “Sorry. Uh, by hands I mean ranch hands. The men who take care of the animals and—”

  “Your employees, yes.” Her words sounded curt, even to her own ears. She sighed, tried again. “Who else lives with us in the house?”

  “No one. I mean, sometimes Bart and Juliet sleep over in the guest rooms.”

  Did he mean it? She thought of the room she’d shared with two other girls in New York City, measuring ten paces by twelve. “That whole house is—just for us?”

  “Uh, it’ll be more than just us soon. I hope.” He gave her a sideways glance, then resumed staring at the road ahead.

  Caroline decided that Maxwell was adorable when he was embarrassed.

  She smiled. “I hope so too.”

  Chapter Four

  Caroline prepared a simple supper—there’d been ham and an unfamiliar pale cheese in the larder, and a full loaf of bread in the pantry. As she assembled sandwiches for herself and Max, she found herself missing the strong stoneground mustard and fluffy egg-glazed rolls from Mrs. M’s delicatessen.

  No, she didn’t miss mustard and bread. She missed eating the sandwiches with her friends. Listening to Sarah exclaim over a new book. Tasting Mae’s latest experiment in baking. Praising Jewel’s embroidery. Even cleaning up after their bible study group. It hadn’t mattered what she and her friends did, as long as they did it together.

  Now, even though she was married to Max, she felt alone.

  Max devoured his sandwich, licking his fingers. “Delicious.”

  Hardly a test of her cooking skills. But it made her feel warm inside that he made a point to praise the first meal she prepared for him.

  And then the awkward silence returned.

  “I’ve got some accounts to look over,” Max pushed his chair back from the table and gave his stomach an exaggerated pat. “Unless you need help unpacking?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Caroline said quickly. It was much too early to go to bed. But two days of tolerating prying looks from other passengers on the train as she tried to get comfortable on the hard bench had left her feeling stiff and drained—and even less ready for the rigors of her wedding day. Or wedding night.

  A few minutes alone would be heaven.

  Max brought her trunk into the room at the end of the hall. Their bedroom was decadently spacious, with the biggest bed she’d ever seen draped in a riotously-colorful blanket—turquoise, grey and white stripes, punctuated with navy blue and emerald green diamonds.

  She reached out to touch it.

  “The natives make those. Call themselves Navajo.” He raked his fingers through his short brown hair. “If you don’t like it, we can get a comforter.”

  Replace that gorgeous one-of-a-kind blanket with a factory-made bedspread? She shook her head. “I love it.”

  He smiled and left her. She didn’t have much to unpack; the only thing she hesitated over were her grandmother’s paintings. The red lacquered frames would actually look nice on the cherry dresser near the door. But no, she was supposed to be giving up impractical things. And the obvious foreignness of the style would just remind Max that she was only three parts British. She hid the paintings beneath her stockings, in the bottom-most drawer.

  By the time she had unpacked her clothes into the wardrobe and dresser, she was tempted to just lie down on the huge bed and let herself drift off to sleep.

  But Max would have…expectations.

  So she returned to the main room, where she found him clutching his head with both hands as he scowled at the papers on the desk before him. He didn’t seem to notice her standing there.

  She cleared her throat.

  He jumped in his seat and shoved some of the papers under a book. But not before she saw the words Past Due printed on one in big red letters.

  Max assumed a casual pose which just happened to place his elbow on top of the book that hid the overdue bill. “Done already?”

  “Can’t fit that much in one trunk,” she said lightly. Would he tell her about the past due bill? Should she say something? She wasn’t sure how to bring it up without it sounding like an accusation.

  “Why don’t you rest?” He shook his head, seeming as surprised as she was by his own gruffness. “I mean, you must be tired.”

  This was their wedding day. She didn’t want it to also be the day of their first fight. But… “I don’t want to start our marriage with a lie.”

 
; Max’s expression darkened.

  Caroline didn’t let it stop her. “I’m your wife now. If there’s a problem, we should solve it together, don’t you think?”

  “It’s nothing.” His fingers started drumming against the desk top. Just like when it had been time to sign the marriage certificate.

  She sat on the sofa to his right and gave him her full attention. Grandmother used to do that when Caroline hadn’t wanted to talk about being made fun of at school. The old woman would lean back, fold her hands in her lap, and listen until Caroline couldn’t help but talk.

  Max’s fingers drummed faster. “Clarence says I still haven’t paid last month’s feed bill, but I’m sure I did. I must’ve lost the receipt.”

  Ah. So he was trying not to worry her. “A fresh set of eyes might help.”

  “Maybe.” But he didn’t get up and offer her the chair at the desk.

  “How do you keep your accounts?” she prodded.

  He didn’t answer, but his eyes shifted to the small blue notebook near his still-tapping fingertips.

  She pretended not to notice, for fear that if he realized he’d given himself away, he might try to hide the notebook from her.

  He shifted in his seat. Looked away. Shifted again. He reminded her of a naughty pupil being called out in front of the class for getting the wrong answer.

  Maybe she should let it go this time. The Max she knew from their correspondence wouldn’t lie to her. “If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll respect your decision.”

  He sighed, and his fingers stilled.

  “I don’t want you to worry,” he said. “My notes are a little messy, that’s all.”

  The front door slammed open, revealing a long-haired man in dirty, disheveled clothes and a straw hat.

  “Oh, pardon ma’am.” The newcomer snatched his hat off. “Bessie’s calving and it’s coming out wrong.”

  Max jumped to his feet. Hesitated. Looked at Caroline. “I’ve got to help with the birthing.”

  “I’ll look for your receipt, if you want me to.”

  “Thank you,” he said, not looking thankful at all.

  ῭ ΅

  The sun had set and the supper hour was long past by the time Caroline had finished going through Max’s accounts. She felt ill as she neatened up the pile of papers, squaring up the edges. Not only was he missing some receipts for bills he’d marked as paid, he’d also recorded many of the figures incorrectly. Often the numbers were jumbled or reversed, but sometimes they were just plain wrong—he’d written a five instead of a two or a six instead of a nine. There were so many mistakes in his records, it went beyond carelessness. Dropped out of school, maybe? Had his parents been so poor that they couldn’t spare him from the family business when he was a child?

  She was going to have to tell him that he owed about three hundred more dollars than his account notebook indicated. No, they owed that money. As his wife, she was on the hook for it too.

  Not to mention, last month’s mortgage payment didn’t seem to have been made.

  She heard his footsteps on the porch as she finished another calculation—an estimate of his income for the rest of the year based on what his few bank statements from the previous year indicated.

  That number was worst of all.

  ῭ ΅

  When Max came through the front door, his clothes were filthy and he looked exhausted,

  “Why don’t you wash up while I make some tea?” Caroline had suggested.

  But now he sat at the kitchen table in clean clothes, face and hands scrubbed, hair damp, looking at her expectantly. She placed a steaming mug before him and took the opposite chair.

  How did she tell him that they were broke?

  “You didn’t find the receipt, did you?” he asked in a reluctant tone.

  She shook her head, bracing herself. Best to just get it over with. “There were some…inaccuracies in your account notebook. Between the mortgage and all our other outstanding accounts, I calculate we owe more than nine hundred dollars.”

  His mouth dropped open.

  She hurried to fill that horrible silence. “But maybe you’ve still got some papers I haven’t seen. I can talk to the bank—”

  “The bank’s always trying to squeeze money out of ranchers trying to make an honest living.” Max scowled into his mug. “I can’t believe you’re taking their side.”

  Not fair. “I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m just telling you what the numbers say.”

  “I thought you of all people would give me a fair shake. Not assume I’m stupid, like everyone else does.”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “I never said you were stupid.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Max, I just want to help.” Should she offer? “You’re already working hard to run the ranch. Why not let me worry about keeping track of the bills?”

  He gulped down the rest of his tea, then pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m going into town tomorrow. I’ll straighten things out with the bank then. Thank you for your help.”

  He stomped down the hall to their bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

  Caroline collapsed in her chair, covering her face with her hands.

  Now what?

  Chapter Five

  Dressed in her Sunday best, Caroline followed Max out into the sunny churchyard to join the rest of the congregation. She’d slept on the parlor couch last night, thinking it best to give him time to cool off before they spoke again. It must have been the right decision, because he’d woken her up with an apology. He’d made coffee while she cooked breakfast, and by the time they’d finished eating, she had hope that whatever damage she’d done to their relationship would heal over time.

  But that didn’t change the fact that they were up to their ears in debt.

  She waited until Max was in deep conversation with the feed store owner to slip away on a mission of her own. She found Juliet drinking punch with several other teens, and beckoned for the girl to join her.

  “Wasn’t that a lovely service? Did you see Elyse’s hat? She just got it from a specialty shop in Chicago. I didn’t know peacock feathers would be so shiny. Have you ever seen a peacock before?”

  Caroline smiled. “Yes, yes, I didn’t either, and no. Who here works at the bank?”

  “Mr. Carver is the teller,” Juliet nodded at a thin, light-haired man in a beige jacket, then turned to nod again at an older, portly gentleman in a pinstriped black suit, “and Mr. Maier is branch manager. Why?”

  “I need to speak with them about our mortgage,” Caroline said, then realized Max might not be happy if he learned she’d been talking about their finances. “It’s a secret. You can keep a secret, right?”

  Juliet’s eyes got big. “Yes, absolutely, without a doubt, my lips are sealed.”

  Good grief. I’ll be lucky if that girl lasts a day without mentioning it to Bart. But maybe a day would be enough time to find a solution. If she could show Max a clear path out of debt, maybe he would forgive her for taking the initiative.

  Glancing first in her husband’s direction to be sure he was still talking to the feed store owner, Caroline approached Mr. Maier.

  The man smiled at her and offered his hand as he congratulated her on her wedding. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to attend the reception, I just got back into town last night.”

  She nodded. “You’d be welcome to stop by any time for tea. It would be a pleasure to get to know you.”

  “Thank you,” the older man said, but he glanced in Max’s direction. Caroline couldn’t help but wonder what arguments Max might have had with the banker.

  “May I be frank, Mr. Maier?”

  That got the bank manager’s attention. “Please.”

  “I’m aware that my husband’s account keeping might not be entirely up-to-date, and I wondered if I might make an appointment to discuss our mortgage with you.”

  “If you’re thinking to beg for mercy, I don’t know that it’ll
do much good, ma’am. Max is already two payments behind. My hands are tied when it comes to a delinquent account. The home office has processes, and I’ve already done what I can to delay them.”

  Two payments behind? Caroline took a deep breath. Looking at the notebook last night, she’d thought he’d only missed one. “Max and I have every intention of sorting things out and making the payments. It’s just…his records are a bit confusing. It would help if I had all the figures.”

  “I’ll be happy to see you next Wednesday afternoon.” Maier leaned closer and said, in a conspiratorial tone, “Frankly, I’m glad you’re stepping in. Max’s been downright ornery. It’s as if he doesn’t even read the papers he signed. I hope you can help him see reason.”

  “I see reason just fine,” Max snapped, glaring at the banker as he grabbed Caroline’s elbow. “And you won’t be meeting with my wife unless I’m present.”

  Caroline let Max pull her away to a relatively-secluded spot at the far corner of the churchyard before she said, “You didn’t need to be rude.”

  “You didn’t need to go behind my back.” He released her, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think I’m stupid.”

  “You’re the one who keeps using that word,” Caroline replied. “I think running a ranch is a big job. You need help keeping the accounts.”

  “I’m not an idiot, I know what everyone says about me when I’m not around.”

  “Well I don’t. What do they say?”

  He flushed, looked away. “When I was in school, the McIverson boys used to call me Max the Moron. On account of I’m too dumb to learn to read.”

  “I don’t believe that.” But it was clear that Max did. Suddenly, she saw it all in a whole new light—his hesitation about signing their marriage certificate, his defensiveness about letting her see his notebook. If he struggled just to copy a figure from a receipt to his account book…wait. “What about all those letters you wrote to me?”

  “Bart.”

  “He’s the one I’ve been corresponding with?” Horror suffused her. Bart had read everything she’d written?