by Gina Welborn
“Alfred and Martha Deal, in addition to running a second-rate boardinghouse, sell women who will not be missed into prostitution.”
He jerked backward against the padded seat. “How long have you known this?”
“It doesn’t matter. As long as people stay out of my business, I return the courtesy.” She paused for a moment. “Sometimes the Deals ride the trains, offering their card and a shoulder to cry on to naïve young women who, when their rosy dreams are shattered, want to disappear to wallow in self-pity. They approached Emilia on her way into town last year.”
“I assume they did the same for Miss de Fleur.”
She nodded.
“Excuse my cynicism, but why do you care?”
“Were it just Miss de Fleur, I wouldn’t. She made her bed, so she can lie in it.”
Her callous answer didn’t surprise him, but he was hard-pressed not to reach across the seat and throw her from her own carriage. “So why the dramatic declaration of war?”
“Because she dragged my Nico along with her.”
“Your Nico?”
“He’s a good boy. I’m thinking of adopting him when he gets back from his grand adventure.”
He choked on a laugh. “Replacing Mac?”
“Nico loves me as the mother he’s never known. Mac keeps telling me love can redeem any soul. Who knows, maybe it will.” She pierced him with her brown eyes. “Nico is family.”
“Fine, but I’ve not hurt the boy.”
“Oh, but this was not our agreement. You were not to even threaten my family.”
He gritted his teeth. He didn’t see the connection and he didn’t want to ask.
“Your fire at The Resale Company resulted in a breach of our . . . understanding. This was not your intention, but the consequences will be meted out just the same.” She cocked her head. “I’m curious. Did you set it yourself or hire an underling?”
He’d used one of his best employees, a man who had followed instructions to the letter before slipping out of town unnoticed. Unlike Edgar Dunfree who, against orders, used his own name to purchase the printing press, a sale recorded and preserved in a cloth-bound ledger now burned to cinders. If anyone else made the connection between a man who used to boast of their once-close working relationship, the leveling foot found in Collins’s barn, and a printing press, there was no longer any proof.
“Are you afraid your Nico will be accused of arson given his . . . other activity?”
Her patronizing smile mocked his mimicry of her dramatic pauses. “You refer to his vandalism at The Import Company, of course. I have chastised him and acknowledge that he played some part in the threat against him for which I blame you.”
“Speak plainly, woman. I tire of your games.”
“Very well. In plain terms, you pitted Isaak and Jakob Gunderson against each other by using Miss de Fleur to fuel their long-standing rivalry as a means to force Isaak from the mayoral race. As a result, in the literal heat of the moment, they humiliated the girl with dual proposals. She turned to the Deals for a solution. Nico, although he loves me, is more attached to his sister. He planned to flee with her and would have met with her same fate. My disgust for children conscripted into prostitution is well-known to you. It is for this that I will destroy you.”
“How could I have foreseen such a convoluted turn of events?”
“Ignorantia juris non excusat. I laid down the law, and now I will not excuse you.”
He tapped the gold-plated top of his cane. “You’ve gone to great lengths to keep your little rescuing ring hidden from the other brothel owners, and with good cause. How do you propose to destroy me when I have the means to destroy you, as I did Hendry, by stirring up hatred against you?”
Her countenance held no fear. “When one side has all the weapons, it is a slaughter. That is why, my dear Jonas, this is war.”
DON’T MISS
New beginnings await in Helena, the Montana Territory’s most exciting city—where faithful hearts stay strong and true as they pursue their passionate dreams.
TO CATCH A BRIDE
A Montana Brides eNovella
Available wherever eBooks are sold.
Enjoy the following excerpt from To Catch a Bride....
Chapter One
Montana Territory
July 13, 1865
Marilyn Svenson sat still, clutching her reticule and maintaining a placid expression despite the indignation growing inside. She had no wish to speak ill of the dead, but why had the late President Lincoln appointed Judge Williston over the newly created Montana Territory when the man clearly wished to be anywhere but here?
In a calm, measured tone, she said, “Your Honor, I own a copy of the Homestead Act of 1862, if you would like to verify the law.” Although it was back on her ranch and an hour’s drive each way to retrieve. “It clearly states that a widow can file for head-of-household status.”
“And I told you to remarry or go home.” The heavily bearded man repeated his earlier advice without giving her the courtesy of looking her in the eye. Judge Williston had latched onto the first option she’d presented when he’d asked why she needed a meeting with him—that of remaining in Montana Territory and proving up her claim alone—as though it was her only option.
Outside of remarrying or going back to Minnesota, she had two other options: to purchase the homestead outright or to hire men tired of searching for gold to do the hard work required to prove up her claim. Her late husband, Gunder, had cultivated only two of the requisite five acres, and although she could harness the oxen well enough, breaking thick sod as well as digging out and hauling away large rocks on an additional three acres was beyond her physical strength.
She had plenty of gold stashed in cleverly disguised canning jars to pay for both land and labor, but she was vulnerable enough these days as a single woman in an area where males outnumbered females three hundred to one. Letting anyone know she had that much gold invited ruin.
Which was why she hadn’t mentioned it to Judge Williston. She didn’t know him or his reputation well enough to take such a risk. More to the point, it wasn’t the judge’s place to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. The law said a widow had a right to take over a claim. What she did with it after that was her business, not a complete stranger’s.
Marilyn opened her overstuffed reticule and retrieved her copy of the homestead claim Gunder had filed with Idaho territorial authorities two years ago. “Sir, all my records are in order.” She unfolded the documents and held them out toward Judge Williston. “As you can see, this is an addendum noting the change from Idaho to Montana territorial jurisdiction last year.”
The judge looked up, but his gaze focused on the papers in her hand. “Mrs. Svenson, all the record-keeping and legal understanding of the Homestead Act will not help you chop wood, plow acreage, or complete any of the other chores God built a man to accomplish. If you insist on remaining in Montana, your only option is to remarry”—his gaze flicked to her green-checkered calico dress as though it proved she was past mourning—“at which time your claim will be transferred to your new husband. As I said, either remarry or go home.”
Marilyn breathed deep. She wasn’t about to justify herself, her clothing choices, or her behavior to him, but she’d specifically worn this dress because of the sheer fabric. Etiquette required mourning colors because Gunder had passed only two months ago, but with the temperature being what it was, black wool was too impractical. Besides, this was the first dress Gunder had bought her after their wedding six years ago. Regardless of the temperature—and despite how snug it was—wearing it honored him more than black, gray, or lavender could.
Facts that were irrelevant to the matter at hand.
If Judge Williston wanted her to go home, he should help her claim head-of-household status to sell the land before she returned to Minnesota, a fact so obvious she questioned the judge’s competence. Furthermore, returning home—and remarriage, for that matter—was
an option, not a forgone conclusion.
She folded the papers back into fourths and stuffed them into her reticule. “I have no intention of losing my homestead because I have not been granted head-of-household status. It is my right to claim that status. I insist you tell me how to accomplish the change.”
Judge Williston’s expression hardened. “I shall do no such thing, madam. I’ll not aid a woman on a fool’s errand no more than I would have a hand in her death. Both apply in this situation.”
Why did men always underestimate her intelligence and resolve? She knew full well that her best option was returning to Minnesota. In the two months since Gunder’s death, she’d considered every possibility, but she wasn’t going home without some compensation for all the hard work she and Gunder had put into their claim.
Marilyn stood. Out of courtesy, the judge should have arisen as well, but he didn’t because they both knew she was a good three inches taller than he. “If you will not help me, sir, I shall find someone else who will.”
His laughter filled the room. “Good luck, madam, because I am the only person who can grant you head-of-household rights.”
She refused to believe that. If she chose to stay or sell, she’d figure out a way to get what she needed. “Good day, sir.”
Marilyn strolled out of the office, into the bright summer sun, and—
She stopped in midstride. What looked like dozens of small blobs floated across her field of vision.
“You all right, Mrs. Svenson?”
Marilyn looked left. Young Simpson stepped away from the hitching post in front of the judge’s temporary office. “I don’t know. I see—” Before she could say spots, a wave of dizziness struck. Marilyn closed her eyes. Instantly she felt the lanky youth gripping her arm and waist.
“Please don’t faint,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can hold you up, and Judge Williston will never let me be a deputy if I let a woman fall.”
Marilyn breathed deep until the dizziness stopped and she could open her eyes without fear of spots clouding her vision. Young Simpson had grown a good three inches since she saw him last, but he was still six inches shorter than she and didn’t look like he’d weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.
“I walked outside too quickly,” she reasoned aloud, “and my eyes couldn’t adjust to the brightness.”
“I bet you’re getting a migraine. Ma has them often.” He released his hold on her yet didn’t step back. “You need help walking to your wagon?”
“No, no, but thank you for the offer.” Marilyn walked toward her buckboard at a slow pace. She kept her chin down, fanned her face with her reticule, and used her straw hat’s wide brim to shield her eyes from the sun. Upon reaching the buckboard, she looked back at the judge’s office.
Young Simpson stood where she had left him. She waved to let him know she was fine. He waved back and headed inside the ramshackle building.
She climbed into the seat, jerked on her riding gloves, and took up the reins with her right hand. After releasing the brake with her left hand, she clicked her tongue at Archimedes, and they headed north up the street toward The Repair and Resale Shop to drop off a wagon wheel needing a new rim.
Marilyn gritted her teeth in exasperation.
Judge Williston treated her like she didn’t belong in Montana Territory, or like she and Gunder had been foolish to come. He didn’t know how much thought they had put into everything, from when to leave Minnesota, what to bring, and where to settle.
They’d specifically chosen land halfway between the two major gold strikes in Bannack and Kootenai to be far enough away from the mining towns to ensure Marilyn’s safety from the rough men. They’d made peace with the Chippewa Indians, trading beads, candles, and yards of silk their first summer in exchange for food while they planted their garden and built outbuildings to shelter their chickens and Jersey cow. Once eggs and milk were plentiful, they traded them for dried meat so Gunder could concentrate on building their cabin and they didn’t have to deplete their small herd of sheep before breeding them for more stock.
It had worked perfectly. They’d made a significant amount of money by selling meat, eggs, milk, butter, cheese, and a plethora of fruits and vegetables to the men who’d come to dig gold out of the ground.
When gold was struck only a few miles away last year in Last Chance Gulch, Gunder and she were too well established to leave simply because a mining town sprang to life nearby, complete with all the typical squalid conditions. Gunder had simply exchanged his weeklong trips to deliver goods to the mining camps in Bannack or Kootenai for an hour-long trip into Helena.
Marilyn thought back on her conversation with Judge Williston. Had she mentioned that, during their first year in Montana, when Gunder made those weeklong trips, she’d chopped wood and guarded the livestock? Would it have made a difference in the judge’s decision about helping her claim head-of-household status?
Probably not.
As the buckboard bounced along the rutted dirt road, several miners emerged from the dingy canvas tents lined up in a neat row. Prostitute Alley, as it had been unofficially named, was busy. She recognized several of the men who were handing palm-sized cloth bags to half-dressed women as those who had proposed marriage to her at Gunder’s funeral.
Marilyn looked away, mostly to keep any man from inferring her attention welcomed his pursuit, but partially so none of the prostitutes would see her pity and interpret it to be condemnation. How many of those women had lost the protection of husbands, fathers, or brothers in the War Between the States? How many of them saw no other option but to sell themselves for a canvas tent and a crust of bread? Survival over morality.
“There but for the grace of God . . .” Marilyn kept her eyes on the road ahead. She wanted to help them but had no means, not when she needed every bit of ingenuity and gold to keep from ending up in Prostitute Alley herself. One day, though, perhaps she would be in a position to offer assistance.
She slowed the wagon, drawing it alongside The Repair and Resale Shop. The owner, David Pawlikowski, had been the only man at Gunder’s funeral or in the two months since who hadn’t used every opportunity to tell her how much better off she’d be if she married him to save her homestead.
She climbed out of the buckboard and waited for the spots to reappear. None did. Other than heavy perspiration, obviously from the summer temperature, she didn’t feel nauseated or dizzy. No brimming migraine either.
Her earlier near-fainting spell had to have been the drastic change in light.
The moment Marilyn stepped over the shop’s threshold, a handful of men surrounded her, shoving one another out of the way as they strove to shake her gloved hand and to remind her of their names, businesses, and wealth . . . or wealth to come any day now.
Clang. Clang. By the third clang, they fell silent.
Marilyn stepped to the side to see Mr. Pawlikowski standing behind his sales counter.
He laid a cowbell and the wooden spoon he’d used to bang it next to the register. “How about we give the lady a moment to shop?” His voice reminded her of the reverend back home in Minnesota. Was it the deep timbre? Or how he commanded respect through gentleness? Perhaps the shop owner had been a chaplain during the war. That could be why he seemed more like a reserved, dutiful man of the cloth.
Marilyn gave the men surrounding her an expectant look. With murmured apologies, they meandered back into the store. She strolled down the center aisle through an assortment of crates, barrels, and mining equipment, amazed that such a hodgepodge of goods were in such neat array. Her home, which was half the size of the store with a fraction of the items, was in a constant state of disorder now that Gunder was gone.
Once she returned home, she’d clean her messes and not let anything distract her.
Definitely this time.
When she reached the back of the store, Mr. Pawlikowski extended his hand across the L-shaped counter to shake hers. “Mrs. Svenson, it’s lovely to see y
ou this afternoon. How are you?”
From anyone else, she would know the question was nothing more than a toss-away phrase said in greeting. Not with Mr. Pawlikowski. If he asked how someone was doing, he truly wished to know. It took a special kind of person to care for others with such genuine consideration. Which explained why his shop was always busy, or at least was busy anytime she had visited. A person could find a listening ear from David Pawlikowski.
She admired that about him.
He was also taller than she, which was a rarity, although he was several inches shorter than Gunder had been. Except for Mr. Pawlikowski’s height, he was the opposite of Gunder. Where her husband had been thickly muscled, wore his blond hair closely cropped, was clean-shaven, and symmetrically handsome, Mr. Pawlikowski was on the lanky side, wore his dark hair to his shoulders, had a mustache, and was more irregularly featured.
“Mrs. Svenson?” Mr. Pawlikowski said, looking vaguely amused.
Her checks warmed at having been caught studying him. “Yes?”
“How can I help you today?”
“I have a wheel rim that needs repair.” She motioned to the front door. “Could you—?”
“Of course.” He came out from behind his counter. “George, I’ll be outside with Mrs. Svenson. Make sure no one leaves with something they haven’t paid for.”
“You got it.” The short, bearded man wasn’t wearing a shopkeeper’s apron. Was he an employee or just someone Mr. Pawlikowski trusted?
As she led Mr. Pawlikowski to the door, Marilyn glanced about the shop. If only she had time to peruse this cornucopia of goods. Her gaze caught on an unfamiliar gadget. She stopped at a bookshelf beside the door and picked up a brass circle with what looked to be tin windmill blades surrounding a scale in the center.