Seth lifted his hat from the rack and shoved it on his head. Tucking his coat under his arm, he strode out the door. He had a road to clear and a bridge to build.
* * *
Trudy sat in her father’s study. He’d left the house earlier, so she had privacy to read Evie’s letter. Peace and privacy, she amended. Every other room in the house was practically denuded of furniture or already filling with Minerva’s things. Only in her father’s sanctum had everything remained untouched, and Trudy could pretend…or at least try to pretend, that she wasn’t leaving for Montana tomorrow.
She eagerly began to read Evie’s words.
Dearest Trudy,
Thank you so much for writing back so soon. I received your letter yesterday, delivered by Chance, who’d gone into town. It was my first day alone on the ranch, and I must tell you I was a little frightened. The land is so vast, open, so different from St. Louis, where there is a person on every corner. My heart sank a little when I watched him ride out, disappearing over the horizon like a tiny little speck. But I survived. Now, looking back, I had a very peaceful day. Productive. I’m doing my very best to be the wife Chance deserves.
I have to tell you I giggled when I read your first letter. I can hear your voice in your written word, as clear as if you were sitting by my side. I will try to do as you asked and give you more details of my new husband and my home.
Chance is tall, at least six feet-two inches. His light brown hair has a habit of falling into his eyes, and so when he is hatless, he is constantly pushing it back. I ache for the day when I feel confident enough to do it myself. His green eyes are so earnest I find myself wanting to tell him everything, and you know as well as I do, that is something I can never do. It makes me so sad, and I regret starting my life out with a falsehood. I shudder at the day he finds out how I came to have his letters. He’s kind, and tries to relieve my nerves. (I seem to have a case of them almost all the time!) His voice, deep as the ocean I’ve never seen, can make me smile and anticipate what lying with him will be like when the month-long wait, Mrs. Seymour’s stipulation, is over. He is honorable and has just asked for a kiss or two.
My home, now complete, is lovely. Of course, it is the complete opposite of the Mail-Order Brides of the West Victorian, but still, it is the most beautiful place I’ve known because it’s ours! It’s a prairie home made of bat and board. I have a real stove, which I still don’t know how to use well. I envy you all your knickknacks and crates of home beautifiers and conveniences. My poor Chance got the raw end of the deal.
I really must go now, and finish this, this…stew, I’ve been trying to fix so there will be something for Chance to eat. I wish you were here, Trudy, telling me how to cook! In my next letter I will write about the new friends I’ve made.
By now, your father has married, and perhaps you will soon be on your way to Sweetwater Springs. I cannot wait to hear about your exciting new life. Like you, I want all the glorious details.
Although, I didn’t have time to tell you in my first letter, after the wedding I slipped your handkerchief into the envelope of the letter I’d already written. I want you to know, I loved the hanky so very much and felt your presence when I carried it during our wedding. I sent it back to you with all the love in my heart and hope you’ve received it. I will wait with bated breath until your next post.
Love,
Evie Holcomb
Raw end of the deal, indeed! In her next letter, Trudy would admonish her friend and let her know Mr. Holcomb had acquired a wonderful bride in Evie. All the possessions in the world wouldn’t make up for a sour or selfish disposition. Just think of the man who was about to end up with Prudence Crawford! She’d have to remind Evie of that.
Maybe Evie saved Chance from marrying Prudence. Trudy laughed at the thought, even though she knew Mrs. Seymour wouldn’t have matched the woman with a rancher. I’ll have to write and suggest that to Evie. It will make her feel better. She also made a mental note to tell her friend to send the letter to Sweetwater Springs instead of St. Louis.
Trudy reread the letter, pausing to savor the details and imagine her friend in her new life. She couldn’t help envying her friend, who’d found a loving husband and happiness. Trudy wanted those things for herself.
But with the risk I’m taking, who knows if I’ll be as blessed?
CHAPTER NINE
Seth spent the day of his wedding straightening the house before Trudy’s arrival. He couldn’t make the place less shabby and bare, but he could at least dust what little furniture he had, sweep the floor, and wash the windows. As Seth worked, he tried to see the place through Trudy’s eyes and increasingly had to fight a feeling of shame. Why hadn’t he noticed the walls needed whitewashing, or that the dog had chewed part of the braided rag rug made by his mother?
The more Seth did, the worse he felt. He scrubbed down every surface in the kitchen and blacked the stove until it gleamed. He barely recognized the old thing. Yesterday, he’d chopped enough wood not only to fill the firebox, but to have a week’s worth stacked on the corner of the porch.
He surveyed the shelves of the pantry. Yesterday, he’d made a trip to town to stock up on provisions. Since the overbearing Mrs. Cobb was nowhere in sight, Mr. Cobb, the shopkeeper, relaxed enough to remark to Seth that he’d bought so much, he looked to be preparing for winter two seasons early. Seth hadn’t responded to the man’s curiosity.
Now, he checked off his provisions. In preparation for Trudy’s arrival, Seth had a big batch of beans soaking in a cast iron pot. Two loaves of Mrs. Mueller’s bread, one brown and one white, and a dozen rolls waited in the breadbox for their first meal together. In the pie safe, he had one of the baker’s apple pies and another mincemeat. Hopefully the last bread and desserts I’ll ever have to buy.
In the pantry, several jars of jam and pickles from the mercantile showed jewel-bright colors on the shelves next to a canister of tea. Cloth and burlap bags of various sizes, containing flour, rice, coffee beans, brown and white sugar, salt, and beans, sat on the floor in the corner. In the cellar, he placed a butt of bacon, a crock of creamy butter, a jug of milk, and a dozen eggs. Baskets of apples, potatoes, carrots, and turnips were still left over from last season, although they’d shriveled over the winter. Several smoked hams hung in the loft.
Hopefully, he’d bought everything Trudy would need or want—at least for the next month. But who knew what she was used to eating in St. Louis. Well, she won’t go hungry.
In the loft, Seth tried to neatly stack the odds and ends that had ended up there against the walls. He held up a pot with a broken handle. Did he really need this? Or the box of his mother’s clothes? Or the china plate with a crack down the middle? Should he throw this stuff away or let Trudy decide what she wanted to do with them? He ended up shoving the old things into a trunk in the corner.
He made a pallet for himself in the middle of the loft. Much easier to keep his promise to Reverend Norton and to Trudy if he wasn’t sleeping in the same bed with her. Seth wondered how long he’d have to sleep up here. Days, if he was lucky. Weeks would probably be more like it. Months would be plain ole punishment, and years….
Before his mind could make up any worse scenarios, he climbed down from the loft.
Earlier in the week, he’d taken the bed linens and all his clothes, except his suit and the old ones he’d worn, to Widow Murphy to be laundered. Now, making up the bed in his room, he saw a hole in one sheet. He’d known about the tear; in fact, he’d made sure to position it so he wouldn’t catch a toe and rip open the material while he slept. But during the day, Seth never gave his bedding any thought, nor remembered to have the sheet mended.
He stared at his bed, feeling helpless and wishing he’d thought to ask Mrs. Murphy to repair the rent in the sheet. Of course, she’d charge him an arm and a leg for the work, when Trudy, with her handworking skills, could sew the tear up for free. But the hole added one more way to feel lacking in what he had to offer his bride.
He covered up the sheet with a wool blanket and a patchwork quilt made by his mother. As he smoothed the quilt, he noticed how faded the colors had become.
Seth straightened, wincing as his sore muscles protested. He’d spent yesterday working in the yard, pulling weeds and taking a shovel to bury any piles left by Henry. At least the old dog usually used the same area.
He’d dug up the garden so it would be ready for spring planting. Although he should have taken care of that chore a month ago, gotten started on some seeds... But he’d been too busy. Seth rolled his shoulders, wondering if it would be too soon to ask Trudy to rub some liniment on his body. After a few seconds’ thought, he decided it probably was.
When the house was finished, he turned his attention to the barn. Earlier, he’d mucked out the stalls, and now, Seth brushed the horses until their coats shone and swept off the wagon seat. Then it was his turn.
He drew himself a bath in the cramped tin tub, shaved, and put on his suit, feeling strange and uncomfortable in the clothes he hadn’t worn since Dan Palmer’s funeral. Or was it BJ and Lisette’s wedding?
Seth stood in front of the small mirror over the washstand. He hoped he looked presentable. Nothing about his person would make a female turn tail and run to catch the train before it took off. He could still fit in his five-year-old suit. Neither the suit nor his shirt had holes or patches or stains.
He preferred his face clean-shaven. Hopefully, Trudy wouldn’t mind him not having a mustache and side-whiskers. He had a full head of brown hair that waved to his shoulders, no missing teeth, a nose that was a little on the strong side but fit his face, and the Flanigan eyes—the eyes of his mother, and from what she’d told him, of her father, brothers, sisters and nieces and nephews—gray with a black circle around the iris. A glance from him could unnerve some women. He hoped Trudy wouldn’t be one of them.
When he looked at the silver pocket watch that had belonged to his father, Seth saw he had an hour to spare before he needed to leave for town. He took off his jacket and hung it on the rack next to his old straw hat, his Stetson, and a knitted scarf. After pulling out a chair, he sat down to think. For the hundredth time, he went over the list of tasks he’d wanted to accomplish before Trudy’s arrival to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.
He took the garnet ring from his pocket and polished the stone with his sleeve, feeling a sense of melancholy. He’d chosen the stone because Lucy Belle often wore red. He wondered if Trudy would like the color. At least, she’ll never know her ring was originally meant for another woman.
Seth thought back to BJ and Lisette’s wedding. Practically the whole dang town had attended, not like this wedding where only the Nortons would be present. Lisette’s sisters had decorated the church with flowers. Flowers! He shot out of his chair. A bride needed flowers on her wedding day.
He raced out of the house, disturbing Henry, who bestirred himself to see what was the matter, following in his master’s wake. Outside, Seth glanced wildly around, searching for flowers. Not many grew in May, at least not near the house. He couldn’t see any around the place. Not even any wildflowers.
He cast his mind around for options, thinking through what blooms might grow at this time of year and where he could find them. Coming up blank for flowers around his home, he thought of town and remembered seeing budding roses climbing over the fence of the doctor’s house. He might have to beg, borrow, or steal—or, at least, reveal his secret to Mrs. Cameron. But somehow he’d make sure Trudy had a wedding bouquet.
He hitched up the team to the wagon and spread a folded blanket out across the seat to cushion the bench. Back in the house, he washed his hands in the horse trough, and donned his coat and hat.
Outside, Seth climbed into the wagon and set off to town. For the first time he took the new road, not that it was anything but grass until he came to the creek. He’d chosen a spot for the bridge where he’d only have to take down two trees, one on each side. The felled cottonwoods lay where he’d had the team drag them out of the way. With the press of regular farm work, there hadn’t been time to chop up the trees after he’d built the bridge. He’d get to that task soon enough.
They crossed the bridge, sturdy planks nailed together with several cross pieces underneath. He listened to the clickety-clackety sound of the wagon wheels on the wood. As they crossed the rushing creek, high with snowmelt, the scent of water and greenery from the thick bushes and trees on either side wafted to him.
Once in the open, Seth glanced to the right—to see blue-gray mountains still capped with snow rising in the distance. A few puffy clouds like giant sheep drifted across a blue, blue sky. He hoped Trudy would like the view.
On the road to town, with nothing to do but think, his apprehensions built. What if he didn’t like Trudy? What if she didn’t like him? Would they still go through with the wedding? What if they thought they liked each other enough to wed, but then found out they didn’t suit when it was too late? His fingers tightened on the leather reins.
No matter what, I’ll be a good husband. She’s promised me she’ll be a good wife. We should be able to rub along together without causing too much friction.
He remembered his meeting with Reverend Norton…the power of the minister’s prayer. As he drove, he sent up another entreaty to Heaven. “Please, dear Lord. May we like each other! Help me make her happy.”
Seth had a feeling if his wife was happy, then he’d be content. Something about saying the simple request to the Almighty comforted him. His nervousness eased—not entirely, but enough.
In town, he drove straight to the doctor’s home. In Seth’s opinion, the place was one of the nicest in Sweetwater Spring’s, mostly because of the beautiful yard, with its red roses—most still buds—climbing over a white picket fence. Trees with budding green leaves shaded either end of the yard, and a lilac bush bloomed in the corner, smelling so sweet, he wondered if he should ask for lilacs instead of roses. Mrs. Cameron would know best what was appropriate for a wedding.
Seth debated about using the front door or going around back to the doctor’s office. Since nothing was wrong with him, he chose the front, stopping near a hitching post and setting the brake.
Once he’d jumped down and tied up the team, he opened the gate and walked up the brick path. On the white porch, he hesitated before knocking. He didn’t like to be beholden, even for something as simple as flowers but he needed a good start to his marriage more than he hated asking for a favor. Seth tapped on the door.
Mrs. Cameron answered. She wore an apron over her dress, and from the smudge of flour on her nose, Seth assumed he’d interrupted her baking. Her curly red hair was slipping from the knot she’d twisted on the top of her head, and corkscrew curls dangled around her face. Her green eyes shrewdly assessed him, obviously checking for injuries or illness. “Mr. Flanigan, how can I help you?” she asked, a Scottish burr to her voice.
Seth took off his hat and held it in his hand, debating what to tell her. “I’m in need of flowers, ma’am,” he blurted out.
Her eyes widened. “Perhaps you’d better come inside and tell me the story.”
Seth had about twenty minutes before he needed to meet the train, so he allowed her to usher him into the entryway, where the smell of fresh bread lingered in the air, and from there to the parlor. The room had a green-velvet settee and a comfortable tan leather chair that he’d bet was the doctor’s, facing a brown velvet wingchair. In addition to the furniture, the parlor had glass lamps, doilies, lace curtains, a rose-patterned carpet, green wallpaper, and knick-knacks on the carved mantle—all the things his house lacked.
Just stepping inside made him feel ashamed of his own place. Seth wished he’d woken up earlier to the fact that he’d neglected to provide a comfortable home for himself, much less a house he’d feel proud to bring a bride to.
Mrs. Cameron waved him to the settee, then moved aside a plump flowered cushion so she could take a seat in the wingchair across from the brown leather o
ne. “Would you like tea, Mr. Flanigan?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.” He twisted his hat in his hands, wondering how to begin the conversation. “You see, I’m getting married today. Within the hour.”
Her eyebrows rose. “I’m sure I would have heard gossip if you were courting someone. How did you manage to keep such a big secret?”
Should he tell her the truth? When he’d come up with the idea of pretending to have a bride waiting, Seth had never thought through that he’d be lying to people, well lying to more than the men at the saloon. Dishonesty didn’t set well with him. But he thought of the reaction of the men—especially McCurdy—and knew he couldn’t reveal to anyone that he’d sent for a mail-order bride. He decided to stick to the truth as much as possible.
“My wife-to-be, Miss Gertrude Bauer, is arriving on the train in twenty minutes.” True. “We’ve been corresponding for quite some time.” No need to tell her quite was only a month. “We’ll be married when she arrives.”
“Of course,” murmured Mrs. Cameron. “Have you met before?”
Seth hesitated. Looking into Mrs. Cameron’s shrewd green eyes, he couldn’t lie. “No, ma’am. But I’d appreciate you not mentioning that fact to anyone.”
She smiled, showing crooked teeth. “I understand. Marriage is difficult enough. No sense having unnecessary gossip make Miss Bauer’s introduction to Sweetwater Springs…to you…any harder.”
“No, ma’am,” he agreed, grateful for her understanding. “Miss Bauer is the daughter of a lawyer who lives in St. Louis.”
“Ah. It will be nice to have another educated woman to talk to. I look forward to meeting her.” She tapped the arm of her chair, thinking. “Bring her here first, Mr. Flanigan. I can tell you from my experience that Miss Bauer would welcome a chance to freshen up and change into her wedding gown. Traveling by train is dreadfully dirty and uncomfortable.”
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