The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  Isaak turned back to his brother. “We will continue this discussion at home.”

  “No, we won’t.” Jakob tugged on the lapels of his suit coat. “I love you, Iz. You’re my favorite brother, but I’m a full-grown man who can make decisions on my own.”

  “The wrong ones.”

  Jakob looked Isaak in the eye. “In your opinion.”

  “If you think I’m wrong, why did you hide this correspondence courtship?”

  “I don’t necessarily think you’re wrong, I just don’t think you’re necessarily right either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Jakob opened his lips, closed them again, and huffed. “I haven’t told you about any of my correspondence courtships because, after every one of them failed, I would have heard an I told you so.”

  There’d been more women before this one?

  Isaak stepped closer. “You think this next one will be any different?”

  “Right there’s the difference between you and me. I hope it will be different. You prepare for the worst.” Jakob gripped the side of Isaak’s arm. “I know you always look at things to see what could go wrong so you can avoid mistakes, but that isn’t always good. It closes a man off to countless possibilities. Sometimes you need to jump into something and see what happens.”

  The convoluted logic stopped Isaak’s next argument in his throat. If Jakob believed his own nonsense, there was no reasoning with him.

  Jakob released his grip. “I’m going to Ming’s Opera House tonight with Yancey, Carline, and Geddes. Don’t wait up for me.” With that, he turned on his heel and rejoined the wedding guests.

  Isaak watched his brother’s progress through the crowd as he joined his friends. Both Yancey and Carline lit up the moment Jakob appeared. Of all the many reasons this mail-order or matchmaking or whatever he wanted to call it scheme was a bad idea, at least one of them should have penetrated Jakob’s thick skull. And why was he in such a hurry to get married? They were only twenty-two.

  This better not be another of Jakob’s it’ll-be-fun ideas. Courtship was a serious business. A man didn’t go into it unless he was prepared to marry.

  At least he shouldn’t.

  Hale walked across the hall to where Isaak stood. “In light of the fact we are celebrating a joyous event, I should be polite by not mentioning that I wasn’t the only one who noticed the disagreement between you and Jakob.”

  Isaak grimaced. “Think I lost any votes?”

  Hale pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose with one finger. “Voters have short-term memories. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Actually, you might.” Isaak paused for a moment to frame his question. “Have you ever run across a matchmaking service that offers a refund for a bride who doesn’t turn out to be as advertised?”

  Hale’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed I have.”

  Something in his tone of voice made Isaak look closely at the man he considered an older brother and had always admired for his unflappable good sense. “You already know about Jakob and the Denver matchmaker, don’t you?”

  Hale’s expression didn’t change.

  “You should have talked him out of such foolishness.”

  “Not my place. Not yours either, in point of fact.”

  Isaak groaned. Had the whole world gone mad?

  * * *

  He strolled through the reception, keeping a look out for important people he’d need to greet. He lifted his chin to acknowledge J. P. Fisk, the man who’d sponsored his membership to the exclusive Montana Club in downtown Helena. He’d worked hard to carve out a place beside the millionaires, elected officials, and powerful men of the territory. Sometimes his conscience said he’d gone too far, but every compromise of his integrity was for a greater purpose. A man couldn’t wield power and influence for the people he served—and for those he loved—if he wasn’t in a position of authority.

  Regrets over things like Finn Collin’s unintended death and inciting wrath against Joseph Hendry until he was also eliminated were useless at this stage of the game. His only option was to keep moving forward with his plans.

  He checked his pocket watch. Fifteen minutes before he needed to leave for his meeting about the November election and the Gunderson problem. Bribery was out. With Hendry dead, so was any chance of putting a nosy reporter on the hunt for a skeleton in the closet.

  But something needed to be done. Isaak Gunderson was too good as a candidate . . . and too likely to win with the Honorable Jonas Forsythe backing him. However, there was trouble brewing between the twins. Two men fighting over a woman always ended badly.

  How might he use that to his advantage?

  Chapter Four

  Northern Pacific Railway Depot

  Helena, Montana

  De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 1

  His photograph failed to capture his true appearance.

  For a long moment, and since fellow passengers continued to stroll past, Zoe took her leisure in staring at Mr. Gunderson’s impressive profile. His blond hair, from what she could see under his black hat, looked neatly trimmed. He was as tall as Mrs. Luanne Bennett had described, taller than anyone else on the platform, and stocky, although not corpulent based on how closely fit his black suit was.

  He stood on the train platform a car’s length away from Zoe, both hands clenching a bouquet of yellow roses as he scrutinized the train windows.

  Likely looking for a woman who fit an “eminently suitable” description.

  Zoe chuckled under her breath. The vagueness of Mrs. Archer’s words continued to amuse her. The telegram Mrs. Archer had shared yesterday during tea with Zoe, her daughter Antonia, and Mrs. Luanne Bennett had been brief.

  UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF EMINENTLY SUITABLE WOMAN IN DENVER STOP ADVISE YOU MEET IN PERSON IMMEDIATELY STOP WIRE FUNDS FOR TRAIN TICKET BY FRIDAY IF YOU APPROVE STOP

  The three ladies had insisted that Mr. Gunderson’s wiring of the funds within hours of the telegram being sent boded well for Zoe. She wanted to be hopeful. Mrs. Bennett had repeatedly raved about him, calling him her little brother because of how close their families were. While Mr. Gunderson and his brother were not the richest of the rich in Helena, their stepfather had made a significant amount over the years. Thus Jakob and Isaak Gunderson were, in Mrs. Bennett’s estimation, two of the most eligible bachelors in town.

  Good, respectful, considerate, God-fearing men.

  Zoe moistened her lips in nervous anticipation.

  Mrs. Archer’s follow-up telegram conveyed Zoe’s full name and when to expect her arrival in Helena. Nico had called her decision rash. She preferred to think of it as adventurous.

  Mr. Gunderson tugged on the bottom of his blue brocade vest, then pulled on his suit coat lapels one at a time.

  Zoe drew in a breath, took a step forward, and stopped.

  He turned.

  His gaze met hers, and Zoe smiled, hoping she looked eminently suitable to be his future bride. To increase the likelihood, she had worn her midnight blue traveling dress with an underskirt in brown and cream stripes and a matching straw hat adorned with feathers. She had also ruthlessly tamed her black curly hair into a modest bun at the nape of her neck.

  His mouth gaped.

  Zoe took his response as affirmation that he was pleased with what he saw.

  She weaved through the crowd and extended her gloved hand. “Mr. Gunderson, I am Zoe de Fleur.”

  He shook her hand, his blue eyes focused on her. “I never expected you to be this pretty.”

  Zoe felt her face warm. “Zank you. I am most happy to—” Her words died as a youth darted around a cluster of men. Nico? She leaned to the right to get a better look, but no dark-haired youths were in view on the platform.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Zoe looked up at Mr. Gunderson, his brow furrowed with concern. “No, no. My eyes tricked me into zinking I saw a friend from home.”

  He thrust the yellow roses at her. “Welcome
to Helena.”

  She raised the bouquet to her nose and inhaled the sweet fragrance. “Zey are exquisite.”

  “Just like you.”

  A throat cleared.

  Mr. Gunderson’s gaze shifted to the conductor. That moment looking away from her was all it took for Mr. Gunderson’s composure to steady, his shoulders to straighten, and his awkwardness to leave him. He smiled at her. And Zoe’s breath caught. He truly was a strikingly handsome man.

  He took her gloved hand and drew it over his arm. “We need to leave.”

  Zoe noted the number of glances their way as Mr. Gunderson escorted her toward the luggage porter, where a crowd of people waited to claim the trunks, cases, and hatboxes being unloaded from the train. While they waited their turn, Zoe looked for Nico . . . or at least the youth resembling him.

  People moved.

  Mr. Gunderson stepped forward.

  “. . . suggested I borrow a surrey,” he was saying, with no realization she had been distracted, “so we don’t have to walk to the boardinghouse I’ve secured for you. Once we drop off your things, we can go to lunch. Or you can take some time to refresh yourself after your journey and we can share a meal this evening.”

  “Will zis make trouble with your family?”

  “Trouble?” He snorted a laugh. “Oh, Miss de Fleur, the last thing you should fret about is my family. Someday they’re all going to thank me for bringing you to Helena. I’m glad you’re here. So glad.” Mr. Gunderson inched forward again as the crowd around the luggage porter thinned. “I’ve already made reservations for both lunch and supper at a new restaurant. It has the best food in town.”

  Zoe felt dazed. “You made reservations for both lunch and supper?”

  “I wasn’t sure which meal you would prefer to have.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “I didn’t want to take a chance on inferior food on your first day in town.”

  His words warmed her heart.

  “Next!”

  The luggage porter’s shout jolted Zoe out of her admiration of Mr. Gunderson. She handed the bouquet back to him, then dug inside her reticule for the baggage tickets.

  The porter took her claim tickets. He called out the numbers to the men inside the luggage compartment.

  Mr. Gunderson returned the bouquet to Zoe.

  She stood patiently while he hefted, loaded, and strapped down each of her wood-and-leather trunks into the surrey. Her four hatboxes were added last. With the same ease he had used to load her luggage, he lifted her into the surrey, spacious enough to seat four adults comfortably, and then walked to the other side.

  “It’s warm for March,” he said, climbing in. He pointed to the floorboards. “There’s a quilt under the bench if you get cold. Good thing for us the breeze is from the south.”

  “I will let you know if I am cold.”

  As his eyes—a lovely robin’s egg blue with specks of brown near the center—focused on hers, the seconds stretched into minutes. The silence deepened.

  Zoe moistened her bottom lip, unsure whether she was expected to speak.

  His lips twitched. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You have already told me zis.”

  “I hope you’re not tired of hearing it, ’cause I’m not tired of saying it.” He flicked the reins and the surrey started into motion, his action relieving her of having to utter a response.

  Zoe clasped her hands together in her lap, smiling to herself. She liked his ability to make her feel comfortable, as if they had known each other for years, not minutes.

  Truth was, she liked every bit of Jakob Gunderson.

  As they made their way up the hill, heading toward the cluster of buildings southwest of the train depot, Mr. Gunderson shared the history of Helena. The dirt-hardened roads here were hilly and crooked, reminding her more of the roads in France than in New York. The buildings were shorter, less grand. But the air carried a sweetness not found in New York or Paris. Or even Denver. The pedestrian and horse-drawn traffic on the road increased, and Mr. Gunderson slowed the surrey’s pace as he continued to speak.

  Based on his numbers, with over ten thousand residents, Helena had a fraction of the populace of Denver, but his beloved town had plenty of entertainments and the modern conveniences Zoe had grown accustomed to in New York City—the streetcar line, telephone service, and electric lighting.

  “I love ze theater,” she said when he paused to take a breath.

  “I do, too, but I should warn you, if a building in Helena is called a theater, it’s likely not the type for a lady of good breeding. Ming’s Opera House always provides wholesome entertainment. The Helena Orchestra is performing all this week. I’ll buy us tickets.” The hopefulness in his voice—joy, wonder, and anticipation—drew her attention away from the scenery.

  Zoe studied his chiseled profile. How was it he was not already married? “I would like to attend ze opera with you.”

  As they approached a two-story, triangular-shaped building on their right, she noticed the business’s name was painted in black near the flat roof. They stopped at the Y-shaped intersection, where the road they were on merged with two others. A group of Indians crossed in front of them, walking west. Each man wore blankets wrapped about him. The women carried baskets strapped to their back. The group entered the building, the same words painted in black also etched into the shop’s wide front window.

  Zoe recognized THE and CO., which could be pronounced Ko or So, depending on whether the C was soft or hard. Before she could sound out the middle word, Mr. Gunderson flicked the reins. The surrey sprang to life again.

  “This October will be our third annual Harvest Festival,” Mr. Gunderson said, glancing at her. “Have you ever ridden in a hot-air balloon?”

  Zoe admired the blue sky sprinkled with random puffy clouds. To fly a mile or more above the ground . . .

  She shuddered.

  He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a no.” He lifted his brows and grinned mischievously. “Would you ever ride in one?”

  “I would if I felt safe,” she admitted.

  “Challenge accepted. Trust me, it’ll be fun.” His gaze returned to the road, and before Zoe could respond to his comment, he spoke again. “Mrs. Archer’s telegram said you arrived in Denver, not that you were from there. Where is home for you?”

  “Paris.”

  His eyes widened. “As in Paris, France?”

  “I was born zere.” She clenched her hands together and rested them on her lap. “For ze last four years I lived in New York City.”

  “The farthest I’ve ever traveled from where I was born was Denver. I never—” He broke off, his expression no longer seeming happy.

  “What is it, Mr. Gunderson?”

  “Please call me Jakob,” he said absently, his attention on driving the surrey. “Mr. Gunderson is my brother.”

  After four years of living in America, where people were laxer in etiquette, she still could not use his Christian name after so short an acquaintance. Calling him—any male—by his first name implied a certain familiarity.

  She turned on the seat to face him. “I am most interested to meet your twin,” she said, because it was the truth, but also because she hoped changing the subject would improve his spirits.

  “Isaak and I aren’t identical, so you don’t have to worry about not being able to tell us apart.”

  “You are much blessed to have a sibling.” She paused for a moment before adding, “My papa passed away a year ago. We traveled many places and saw many wonderful sights.”

  He rested a hand atop her still-clenched ones. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Zank you.”

  He clicked his tongue twice, then pulled on the right rein, directing the horse to pull the surrey into the alley behind a two-story wooden building in dire need of a whitewashing. He halted the surrey, tied off the reins, and shifted on the bench to face her. “I’m glad you’re—”

  Zoe held up a hand, silencing him. “I am glad I am here,
too.”

  He chuckled. “Welcome to Deal’s Boardinghouse. It’s the finest one in Helena . . . and farthest from the parts of town a woman like you needs to avoid.”

  A stately man stepped into the alley. “Jakob! I see you have our newest guest.” The man smiled at Zoe. “Miss de Fleur, I am Alfred Deal. My wife and I are honored to have you stay with us.”

  A raggedly dressed boy younger than Nico pumped his arms up and down as he came running down the alley. He had sunken cheeks and a pinched expression in his brown eyes.

  Mr. Gunderson jumped from the surrey to block the boy’s path. “Slow down, buddy!”

  The boy scrambled to stop. He slipped and fell back onto the cobblestones. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  Mr. Gunderson helped the boy to his feet. “What’s your name?”

  “Timothy Sundin the Third”—he peeped at Zoe, then at Mr. Deal, then back at Mr. Gunderson—“but most folks just call me Timmy.”

  “Well, Mr. Timothy Sundin the Third, because you’re here and I could use some help, how’d you like to earn yourself a dollar?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “A whole dollar?”

  Mr. Gunderson nodded. “And if you do a good job of it, I’ll hire you to help over at that new brick building going up on Lawrence Street.”

  “That’s your building?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Whoa! It’s grand!”

  Mr. Gunderson grinned in obvious pleasure over the boy’s words. He grabbed two of the four hatboxes off the floorboard between the front and second surrey benches and handed them to Mr. Deal. He then grabbed the other two and offered them to the boy, who took them.

  “Follow Mr. Deal,” Mr. Gunderson said before walking to Zoe’s side of the surrey.

  The boy gave Mr. Deal a nervous look. His gaze lowered. “Uh, sure, sir.”

  Mr. Deal motioned for the boy to enter the boardinghouse first.

  Mr. Gunderson waited to speak until the boy and Mr. Deal were inside. “Helena has some sundry elements I wish I could shield you from, but I can’t. You’d be shocked to know what some children—girls, in particular—are conscripted into for the sake of a measly dollar. That boy is likely the child of a prostitute. I hope you don’t mind that I asked him to carry your hatboxes inside.”