by Rachel Bird
“Oh.” Charity set the tray on the bed and picked up the dress. “I’ll ask Hannah to—”
“I don’t really mind, you know. I understand we’re the same size, and I know you’re hard on your clothes. But I do wish you weren’t always so hard on mine.”
She sounded so tired, so broken.
This was terrible. Charity felt so guilty—because she was!
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s all right,” Naomi said. “I just… I’m just tired. I need a little peace and quiet, if only for one night.”
“Maybe… maybe you need more than that. Won’t you reconsider your position with Mr. Overstreet?”
“I’ve already reconsidered it, and no. Another place is just as likely to be worse as it is to be better.”
“But what about a husband, having your own home? Mrs. Vanderhouten—”
“No! Not that.” Naomi clasped Charity’s hands. “I’ve thought a great deal about what I’m going to do with my life. I have a plan. I’ll stay with Mr. Overstreet a while longer, and when Belle and Brady have a family, I’ll go live at Nighthawk and help with the children. It’s the prerogative of the older spinster sister.”
“But—”
“Hush now.” She stood and chucked Charity under the chin—as if Charity was the one in need of cheering up! “I’m sorry I was so short with you before. Today’s been was a long day.”
“You hush. I tore your dress.”
“I don’t especially like that dress.” Naomi took Charity by the shoulders, turned her around, and gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Now let me go to sleep. I’m tired.”
In her bedroom Charity retrieved Mr. Morgan’s letter from her journal and sat down at her writing desk. She set out a blank sheet of stationery and filled her pen. If there had been no Mr. Morgan, her sister’s plan might have been a good one. Not perfect, but reasonable.
But there was a Mr. Morgan. A healthy, wealthy, respected cattleman who wanted a wife. And Charity wasn’t going to let him get away because Naomi was too worn out at the moment to think of her own good.
They would both thank her one day.
Naomi was a wonderful person. Hard-working, generous, loving. But truth be told, she couldn’t write letters worth the salt on her potatoes. It was better this way.
They would all laugh about it later.
Dear Mr. Morgan,
My name is Naomi Steele. Recently you wrote to Mrs. Abigail Vanderhouten of Vanderhouten Brides regarding my sister, the former Mrs. Belle LeClair. Unfortunately, your letter declaring your interest in Belle arrived too late. My sister has married Mr. Brady Fontana, the sheriff of Break Heart, who owns a fine ranch outside town.
Mr. Morgan had only himself to blame for losing Belle, and Charity had no qualms rubbing it in and using it to press Naomi’s case. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, sir!” she said to his letter. He’d think twice about dragging his heels a second time.
However, Mrs. Vanderhouten is of the opinion that you and I might be well suited to each other. She showed me your letter and suggested I write to you to regarding this matter.
It’s certainly an odd thing to extoll my supposed virtues to a stranger, but as I’ve recently come to a similar decision—namely, to consider matrimony—I will set aside my pride and expose myself to your scrutiny.
I am twenty-five years old, of medium height and build, and have dark hair and blue eyes. Being my sister’s sister, I too am the daughter of a church sexton and niece of a preacher, but I am no man’s widow as I have never been married.
Though I would never presume to replace the dear mother your son and daughter lost, I am good with children. I helped my mother run her household and cared for my sisters and brother from the time I was twelve until she, with my pa, died in a rafting accident last month at Break Heart Bend.
I am in excellent health, have all my teeth, and am of sound mind—if you overlook the reckless act of writing this letter. If you are amenable to our union, my only request would be that you come to Break Heart for the ceremony, if it would not be too inconvenient.
I look forward, indeed, to hearing from you soon.
Naomi Steele c/o Vanderhouten Brides
Break Heart, Colorado
Chapter 11
Charity had barely unlocked Tagget’s door the next morning when Abigail rushed in, eager to know if she’d spoken with her sister about Mr. Morgan. She had “Naomi’s” letter in her pocket, and she handed it over for perusal.
Abigail read aloud as Mae listened at the counter. With each line, the matchmaker’s lips thinned.
“I knew I should have talked to Naomi first.”
Charity stole a glance at her boss, whose face was a blank. Was it obvious to Mae that she had written the letter? Obviously, it was too impertinent. Naomi would never express herself that way. As usual, Charity’s emotions had bullied her common sense into making a mistake. She’d felt Mr. Morgan needed a lesson, so of course she had to deliver one.
Sometimes she despaired of ever overcoming her selfishness!
“I doubt Mr. Morgan will come to Break Heart to be married.” Abigail frowned. “That’s not how it’s usually done.”
“Of course he’ll come.” Mae waved away that worry, at least. “Rosamund hasn’t had a preacher since Parson Jones was strung up for murder.”
“Since… what?” Charity couldn’t have heard her right.
“That’s true.” Abigail chuckled, not in the least scandalized. “I hear the Rosamund town council has finally followed our example and voted to build a proper church.”
Murder? Maybe Persie’s wild imaginings of the West weren’t so far-fetched after all.
“For too long, this part of the country was dependent on saddlebag preachers,” Mae explained. “When we built the Little Church here in Break Heart, we added a parsonage behind it—a very charming little cottage, I might add—hoping to entice a preacher to stay permanently. Which it did.”
“Parson Hood.”
“The very one.” Abigail nodded. “He knew a good thing when he saw it.
“We were hoping for a married parson,” Mae said. “Rosamund’s experience notwithstanding. But Parson Hood immediately sent for his sister to keep house for him, and she renders him as calm and civilized as any wife would.”
“Humph.” Abigail sounded unimpressed. Probably because she hadn’t been able to make matches for either of the Hoods. “At all events, you’re right, Mae. Mr. Morgan might be happy to come to Break Heart for the ceremony. The parsonage was a good investment.”
“Faith says Break Heart is going to build a schoolhouse now,” Charity said. “I like that.”
As Mae and Abigail congratulated themselves on their town being much more forward-looking than Rosamund, Charity couldn’t help but claim a portion of the glow of their pride for herself.
I belong here. This is my home now.
What if Faith were to marry Parson Hood? The house was small, but it would do nicely enough for a family if ever he was inclined to take a wife—and it would mean another of her sisters would always live close by.
Aloud she said, “The cottage behind the church is charming.” But sadly, she knew it would never happen. Faith detested Break Heart’s preacher.
“Your sister Faith can wrinkle her nose at Parson Hood’s failings all she likes,” Abigail said, as if she’d read Charity’s mind. “But she would have been sad indeed had there been no one to pray over your poor mother when she was laid into the ground or to marry Belle and Sheriff Fontana so conveniently on the day of their choosing.”
Charity didn’t feel like defending Faith—especially since she agreed with Abigail. Besides, she really wanted to know about that other thing.
“What was that about the murdering preacher of Rosamund?”
“He was a circuit preacher too,” Abigail said. “The people of Rosamund enticed him to stay, promising to build a real church and a house for him and his wife. But in the meanwhile, they wer
e put up in a room over the Dilly-Dally Saloon.” She wrinkled her nose, whether at the idea of a parson being put up in a saloon or at the saloon’s name, Charity couldn’t tell.
“Unfortunately, the parson fell in love with one of the barmaids,” Mae said drily. “He took his wife on a picnic one day and shot her through the heart, hoping to be free of her. He was found out, of course, and strung up outside the Dilly-Dally before the foundation was even laid for his church.”
“Goodness.” Picnics were dangerous affairs in this part of the country.
It was the kind of story Charity would expect to read in the newspapers, serialized and drawn out for dramatic—not to mention commercial—value, the truth of it embellished not a little. If it had only been Mae talking, she might suspect the whole thing to be a tall tale, but Abigail contributed with absolute sincerity.
No matter. It was a great story, and it was going in Charity’s journal—and her next letter to her cousin. Persie would eat it up.
Just then, to her great relief, Gil Breaux’s timely arrival saved Naomi’s letter from further examination. Still, Charity admonished herself. If it was necessary to write another, she’d better take care to copy her sister’s tone as well as her handwriting.
This had to work! Naomi couldn’t truly long to spend her whole life as someone else’s housekeeper—or even as a nanny to her own nieces and nephews.
“Remember,” she told Abigail and Mae when Gil was gone. “Tomorrow at church say nothing to Naomi. If she thinks for one minute we’ve been discussing this, she’ll refuse to even meet Mr. Morgan.”
If she had the opportunity to refuse, that was. After Abigail’s reaction to the letter, now Charity was afraid she’d ruined everything. She didn’t know Mr. Morgan, and the letter’s impertinence might cause him offense. She could well have destroyed Naomi’s chances, her good intentions run off the rails by her lack of discipline!
And worse, now she couldn’t tell Naomi about any of this until Mr. Morgan’s response came. For only then would she know whether she’d scared him off. He might well write to inform Break Heart Brides that he’d changed his mind entirely.
Chapter 12
Faith glanced over her shoulder. Behind her the pews slowly filled while Hortensia Hood manned the reed organ and launched into “Shall We Meet” with muscular vigor.
With relief, she noted Charity and Naomi sitting together. The trouble between those two the other night must have blown over. She’d been torn—she wanted to ask what was wrong, and she also wanted to respect their privacy. Privacy won in the end. Anyway, it was probably nothing. Most likely, Charity had borrowed something of Naomi’s again, and again with bad results.
Hannah had rushed off to sit with Jane Stedman, leaving Mrs. Vanderhouten free to join Mrs. Gensch and Mae Tagget. Charity called those three the Main Street Trio, and it sure fit. Mr. Gensch usually sat with Sheriff Fontana, and today Luke joined him to keep him from being alone.
This was so different from Minnesota! In Uncle James’s church the Steeles always sat together, as did every family in the congregation. To Faith, growing up, the arrangement seemed natural and right, and it had never crossed her mind to question it.
Here at the Little Church of Break Heart Bend, nestled in a charming meadow at the edge of town, families arrived together, either walking or in wagons or buggies, then dispersed immediately to form new groups. Friends sat with friends, creating a neighborly warmth that felt more like a community and less like a gathering of tribes.
Absently, Faith murmured, “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!”
“Appearances are often deceiving.” Lily Rose sat down beside her. The manager of a bawdy house being friends with the niece of a minister would have been unthinkable back home. “And isn’t it redundant, spouting scripture in church?”
“Someone’s got to.” Faith didn’t mind Lily Rose’s teasing one lick. “Heaven knows we can’t rely on Parson Hood.”
The Little Church’s preacher meant well, but he rarely got his verses right, even with a Bible open on the lectern in front of him. Most didn’t notice, and others or didn’t have the confidence to question him, but she had no patience for his lack of fastidiousness.
She and Pa used to play a game. They’d talk about some ordinary thing, often trivial, but they were only allowed to speak in scripture. They’d go back and forth until one was either stumped or made a mistake. Even one word wrong, and the game was forfeit. Pa had called it “Faith’s game” because she was his only formidable opponent, the only one who could get past two full quotes without stumbling. She missed him so much.
The “doves” of Sweet Dee’s were tolerated at church, barely. They came in now together and sat in the last pew at the back. The decent women of the town—and their daughters—kept as far front as possible.
Sweet Dee’s owner, however, was a different story. Delilah Montgomery didn’t show herself much in public these days, but she came to church on Sundays and sat where she liked.
She was the richest woman in Break Heart, and she spread her wealth about quite liberally, in ways the town couldn’t refuse. She’d absorbed half the expense of building the Little Church, and she would contribute a goodly sum to the upcoming school project, above and beyond her taxes. The day would come when things were different, but for now there weren’t enough so-called decent women in Break Heart to muster an opinion as to where she should sit.
Lily Rose’s presence beside Faith seemed to have offended the occupants of the pew behind them. Mrs. Grayson had stopped talking midsentence to stare, and her daughter Marella mouthed a silent, astonished O.
Faith put on her best fire-and-brimstone expression, learned from Uncle James. “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged.”
Mother and daughter simultaneously stuck their noses in their hymnals—just as Harman Polk came through the door.
“Criminy!” Faith sputtered. Her goodwill toward her fellows fell away and she glanced at Lily Rose. “I can’t have one day free of that man.”
The acting sheriff strutted up the aisle, accepting greetings and good wishes from those who’d heard the tale, spread by himself, of how he’d saved the ladies at the dressmaker’s shop from the Deckoms. He slid into the pew behind the Main Street Trio, giving the ladies his most unctuous smile. The lickspittle.
“I need to talk to you.” Lily Rose leaned closer. “Yesterday Polk came to see me at Sweet Dee’s, and I swear he’s up to no good.”
“You say that because he’s taken a shine to you.” Faith could give back as good as she got. “The other day he couldn’t stop staring. You’d best be careful of your spinsterhood, Lily Rose. The man is utterly smitten.”
“Very funny.” Lily Rose’s claim she would never marry was stronger, and more believable, than Charity’s. “But you’d better be careful about the business taxes. He was at Sweet Dee’s last night talking about coming by next week to collect.”
“I knew it!” That cussed scalawag!
And there he was, chatting up the Trio as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Probably scheming to collect their taxes too. The general store and the Lilac Hotel brought in a pretty penny—and the modiste was no picayune player, Faith had been stunned to learn.
The number of decent ladies in Break Heart might be small, but it was growing. And it was ferociously dedicated to the establishment of a community that followed the forms and rules of good society. Among those with daughters, a dressmaker who could re-create the best fashions from back East had been a godsend. Abigail, sharp businesswoman that she was, had raised Jane Stedman’s fees in accordance with the rising demand for her services.
The music stopped in the midst of the hymn’s chorus. Hortensia Hood sat frozen on her bench. The air went out of the organ, and the boisterous melody sagged to silence. Like a militia trained to parade, everybody turned in one movement, following her gaze to the front door.
They all caught their breath.
<
br /> Three Deckoms—Jessop, Cole, and Red John—swaggered in and headed for the back pew opposite Sweet Dee’s doves, who were as aghast as anybody.
Faith leaped to her feet, stepping on the hem of her dress. She felt impotent as well as awkward, having left her firearm at home. And then her nemesis beat her to the punch.
“Hold up there, boys.” Polk pounced on the chance to chase the ne’er-do-wells from the temple and prove his mettle. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Why, we come to hear the word of the Lord, Sheriff. No different’n you.” Jessop Deckom’s voice was high-pitched, thin, and steely, and the look he gave Polk sent ice through Faith’s veins.
Red John, no surprise, was grinning at Charity like a lovesick loon.
Cole stood apart from the other two, silently observing and alert. He’d dressed with care, and unlike his brother and cousin, he’d removed his hat. His hair was clean and neatly brushed back. Alone of all the Deckom men, he was truly handsome. He could pass for a respectable citizen—if he wasn’t a Deckom. His gaze landed on Faith, and the corners of his mouth turned up like he’d spotted a fresh-baked cherry pie.
Lily Rose leaned close so that only Faith could hear. “Utterly smitten.”
“Hush!”
“All are welcome to the Little Church.” Parson Hood had arrived. He looked right at Jessop and showed no fear—which raised the man up in her estimation. “Why don’t you gentlemen hang your hats and holsters in the vestibule, and then we can get started.”
It wasn’t a request. Faith was impressed.
And when the Deckoms followed his instructions, she was amazed.
As usual after the service, the congregation gathered in small groups in the churchyard for a bit of gossip and catching up on news of the prior week. Today the air was tense. No one offered the Deckom’s any welcome, but none took exception to their presence either, if you didn’t count the icy stares sent their way.
Faith and Lily Rose were discussing Polk’s shenanigans with the taxes when Charity joined them. She listened for a minute, then her eyes flashed with indignation. “So your suspicions are confirmed. It’s just not right!”