Mail Order Bride Tess: A Sweet Western Historical Romance (Montana Mail Order Brides Series Book 2)

by Rose Jenster

  Sincerely,

  Tess

  Blushingly, she told Jane after church that she had entered into a correspondence with one of Leah’s acquaintances.

  “I know all about him. Leah writes me often, and she was so pleased and a little smug when he came to their place, hat in his hand, and offered his apologies for being gruff with her about putting you forward as a potential bride. He’s over the moon for you already, Tessie. Leah said when he stayed to dinner he talked of little else but your letter and that you said this or you asked about that!”

  “Truly?” she smiled happily.

  “Truly. Only think this began when May and I showed you those papers, didn’t it?”

  “Indeed it did. You may claim another match, though I think Leah will fight you for the credit of this one.”

  “It’s a good job of work, whomever’s done it. The Lord put you in this man’s path, is what I think, but it never hurts to help the Lord along, I always say,” Jane laughed.

  Tess hugged her impulsively, and Jane embraced her warmly. The two women stood, smiling at one another in mutual happiness and goodwill. Tess returned the cowboy novel she had borrowed and accepted another about a highwayman, feeling rather rebellious to read something so obviously beneath proper literature.

  Mr. Thoreau, she felt certain, would disapprove, but she felt giddy and girlish and enjoyed them in that spirit. She might, she told herself, read some Tolstoy soon to counteract the affects of popular fiction.

  When she parted with Jane, Tess went into a shop and selected a few papers of seeds and a small sack of bulbs. It was only a few cents worth of hop,e but she would secret those away beneath her bed and dream of planting them on Luke’s land in Montana. She referred to her list and checked off the ones she had purchased.

  At home she snipped some fresh rosemary and set to work making a sauce for the chicken using a recipe she’d studied. Her mother patted her shoulder approvingly as she passed. After supper was served punctually, she sat down to work on her letter to Luke.

  Dear Luke,

  I’ve told Jane, Leah’s sister-in-law and my particular friend, about the advertisement and our correspondence. I know how you feel about people discussing your personal business. It was important to me to be very open about my journey toward what promises to be a fuller, more purposeful life.

  I am not ashamed of answering your ad, nor am I ashamed of you. It is natural for me to disclose this to those dearest to me. I have told only my mother and Jane, but I will confide in my sisters if our correspondence unfolds as I expect.

  It is hard for me not to feel that I know you, but then I become frightened…afraid that I’m filling in the details of your character based upon what I wish, as if I were imagining you from scratch. If I say something wrong, if I assume something that isn’t correct, please let me know. I wish to know you, not some illusion I have made up out of a pathetic lonesomeness.

  It’s only that I’m so terribly happy to have you, even the promise of a letter, the notion that you might think of me once in a while. Thank you for that brightness in my life that originates with you.

  Tess

  It was the third letter she had written him since she got his response, and soon she would begin looking in earnest to see if he had sent her a letter. She went downstairs to borrow her mother’s thimble—Tess was always misplacing her own. Her mother beckoned her to come sit down at the table beside her. She passed her an envelope.

  “This arrived the day before yesterday,” she said softly.

  Tess examined the envelope, addressed in that handwriting that was already familiar to her from so much scrutiny—bold and slanting, masculine. It was addressed not to herself but to her parents.

  “You may read it,”

  “Has Father seen it?”

  “Yes, I’ve shown it to him. He was not best pleased I can tell you, Tessie,”

  “Is he awfully angry? Oh, to think he knew and said nothing!” She bit at her nails fretfully.

  My Dear Mr. & Mrs. Sullivan,

  It is my privilege to have received a letter from your daughter Teresa in response to my advertisement for a bride. I would like to introduce myself and perhaps reassure you as regards my means and character before entering into a personal correspondence with her.

  I am twenty-eight years old, a sheepherder, and carpenter in Billings out in the Montana Territory. I was born and raised in Montana, the only son of a country doctor and his wife. My good father passed away six years ago, but my mother and sister yet live. My sister has a family of her own, a husband and two sturdy little boys of whom I am uncommonly fond. I have a homestead with a cabin and pasture land for my flock to graze in addition to a large garden.

  The West is yet populated by men for the most part, and I found myself in want of a wife. I consulted with Henry Rogers, a friend of mine, who placed an advert last year which brought him great joy in the form of his espoused wife Leah Weaver as was. I believe Mrs. Rogers was a friend of yours, and you may appeal to her for an accounting of me as well.

  My wool is a profitable concern and my garden combined with hunting renders me self-sufficient. I do odd jobs in carpentry as a pastime and to lay by some savings in case of some disaster…my mother is Irish by birth and has instilled in me the imminence of doom and the need for preparation. Should your daughter favor me with her hand in marriage, she would be well provided for and have both the comfort of a devoted husband and the proximity of her friend Mrs. Rogers for society in addition to my good mother and sister.

  I attend church weekly. I do not gamble, nor do I drink to excess. I am a skilled marksman, able to protect myself and mine with my gun or my bare hands if need arose. She would be in no danger on the frontier with me to safeguard her against any threat, man or beast. Her daily life would consist of preparing meals, doing household chores, and perhaps a walk into town to see friends or attend Mrs. Rogers’ embroidery circle.

  Neither heavy farm tasks nor livestock care would fall to her lot. I value her interest in literature and would wish for her to have ample opportunity to read and to then discuss with me the opinions she formed. Her enthusiasm and sweetness, her thirst for ideas, have won me over in her letter, and it would be my honor to win her over as well, to win her heart, to gain her hand in marriage.

  It is my wish to assuage your concerns with this missive. I invite you to reply with any questions you still have. I hope to earn your blessing through devotion to your daughter.

  Sincerely,

  Lucas Cameron

  He had written to her parents, then, declaring his intentions. Every doubt Tess had about being presumptuous, about expecting a proposal when they might not suit—was washed away in light of his words. Luke had said she won him over, that he wanted her parents’ blessing—he would provide for her, protect her. Tears stood in her eyes as she handed the letter to her mother.

  “That letter went a long way with your father, the part about him using guns or his hands to defend you,” her mother said at last.

  “I’m glad it made an impression,” Tess faltered.

  “Your father may seem rigid to you. He’s worked long years bossing that floor at the mill, keeping quotas up. He knows the importance of keeping on your time, of following the rules. This man, he met you in a newspaper, but he went about it the right way writing to us. It showed respect,” her mother said, producing another envelope, “He enclosed a letter for you and asked that we give it to you if we see fit. I see fit.”

  Tess’s fingers closed around the letter gratefully, and she kissed her mother’s cheek.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to—I’d like to read it now.” She tried to make her way slowly to her room, pressing the letter between her palms excitedly.

  My Dear Tess,

  If you are holding this letter, I have passed the first test. I wrote to your parents asking their blessing that I may court you. I can only pray that they understand the feeling behind my poor words and accept my suit. I
f I might convince them of my sincerity, the next more crucial job is to persuade you of it as well.

  My object in this correspondence is to secure your regard, to bring you out to Montana Territory to make you my wife. I do enjoy your letters and find myself quoting them to friends. I read them over, time and again, and I am phrasing letters to you while I shingle a roof or move the sheep to the far paddock.

  I want your letters, but I also want your presence—your friendship but also your affection. What I am asking you is this: Will you exchange letters with me in good faith with an expectation of becoming Tess Cameron before the year is out?

  I cannot begin to tell you the relief it is to put the question to you so plainly. I would not hold you to an engagement if you find that I do not suit your idea of a husband, but I want some assurance, some confirmation that this is a serious exchange for you as well.

  You asked about the homestead. I’m not in debt to any man nor any bank. I have a cabin that I built myself with a front room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. It is snug in winter with every chink in the logs well filled. There is a stock lean-to, a hen house, and a small stable for the horse and the cows. The cows keep me in milk and butter, and the hens lay enough eggs that I sell some to the mercantile for townsfolk to buy.

  I keep the egg money in a jar. It is a habit I got from my father, who always said the egg money was Mother’s mad money…if she saw a length of ribbon or a set of combs she wanted, she ought not to have to ask him for permission, he said, and I feel much the same way. Though in your case I expect it will be a book instead of ribbons. I know this is dry financial talk, but a woman as much as a man deserves to know the money situation.

  I will tell you something of my family now. My father passed away of an illness six years ago. My mother lives now with my sister Aileen, her husband and their two sons, James and Carl. I have dinner with them one night a week. I was there this past week telling them about you. Aileen knows Leah, of course, and is learning some sort of lace making from her, so she had heard about you from Leah as well. She is ready to love you, to have you for a sister. I thought again and again how I wished you were there to meet them, how you would love them. How I hoped you might, in time, love me as well.

  I know that this represents a major change for you, breaking out of the stifling city life and sewing all day bent over your work indoors. Perhaps, it could come to mean being with me as well, sharing a life with someone who will endeavor to understand you, to share your interests and want to hear your opinions. Someone who will, if I may be bold, kiss you at the break of dawn each day.

  I get up early in the morning to tend to the animals, and though I would not expect you to rise at five as I do, I would want to wish you good morning. Then we could have a cup of coffee together before I start into town for carpentry work. Maybe you would walk with me and go visiting or help out at the church. Maybe you would stay behind at the cabin and sweep the floors and read a book while bread baked in the oven. I would come home to you at the end of the day.

  There are some spruce trees at the edge of our property line, and at the break in the trees, that is where I would catch sight of you out on the porch, and I would break into a run.

  These are the thoughts I have been carrying. Thoughts of yourself.

  Yours,

  Luke

  Tess blushed and smiled and pressed her fingers to her lips with a thrilling sort of embarrassment that he had mentioned such a thing as kissing her good morning. Why, the implication…that they might share quarters and sleep side by side as a married couple! That they would kiss!

  Certainly, she had read sentimental novels in which the hero had kissed his lady love’s hand or even pressed a kiss to her brow, but to think of being kissed on the lips was so completely improper, so strangely exciting. A giggle escaped her, and she folded the letter, wondering where she might secret it that it might not be uncovered by a curious mother.

  What if her mother asked to read it? If she should come upon such an improper suggestion, Tess knew the letter should be burnt, that she would be forbidden ever to write him again. She was torn—she wanted to keep the letter to read again and again, but she feared that it could be found. Ought she to tear it to pieces and stuff it into the grate to burn up? Ought she to hide it beneath her mattress? She glanced left and right anxiously, then tucked it beneath her mattress before writing back to him.

  Dear Luke,

  My parents were much impressed by your kind letter to them, and my mother at least has given me leave to write you. My hopes are serious and quite real. I appreciate that you do not sport with my feelings but say straight out what you intend. It made me smile to think of sweeping a floor, of brewing coffee in your kitchen. There is no way to say how much that idea charms me.

  Now tell me of yourself, of those books you read by lamplight in the long winter evenings, of the friends you visit and the delightful nephews. I have one nephew of my own, but I have only seen him twice. My sister Carol and her husband live in West Virginia so we do not see them often. Little Matthias is, I believe, three years of age now. My sister writes of his antics and what a clever little chap he is, though I am sure each child seems so to its own mother. I minded my friend Jane’s little boy Walter a few weeks ago. He is a round and noisy little one who loves to chew his rag ball that I made him with scraps from the shop. Jane laughs and says that he is part hound dog, but I think he is getting more teeth soon.

  The cowboy book ended happily, but it was a near thing—our hero was winged by a bullet and had to complete the gunfight with his off-hand. Miraculously, he managed to vanquish the villain left-handed and all was set to rights. Now I am reading another borrowed dime novel, this one about a highwayman who steals only from the rich. He has long flowing Byronic hair and I expect him to die tragically, perhaps saving a baby from a runaway carriage or puppies from a burning building. He is both too noble and too criminal to survive the tale…one could never tolerate seeing him placed in a prison where he rightfully ought to be sent.

  I am reading a bit of Dickens to balance my tawdry novel habit. I find the Two Cities to be bracingly grim in contrast to all that flamboyant sentiment. I’ve not much news. I suppose there’s the fact we’ve received a new shipment of notions at the shop and I’m instructed to press all customers to embellish their gowns and jackets with buttons, braid, and anything else I might conceivably stitch to a garment to increase its price. This is neither the most elegant, nor most friendly tactic, I believe.

  I hope fondly that I may not be subject to such directives this time a year hence. I hope with equal fondness that my letter finds you well and perhaps pleased to receive such a missive.

  Sincerely,

  Tess

  Soon, letters lay thick in the ribbon-tied packet she kept in her drawer. It seemed that Luke had taken to writing weekly as well, not waiting for a reply but keeping a conversation in its own way. One letter might discuss a sudden spring storm, another the early morning hunting jaunt with his friends for which he served as guide, taking them to a silent hidden spot and then finding that their jostling sport startled the animals. He had built a smokehouse to use late in summer to preserve more meat for winter. He referred again and again to “small improvements” he was making to the homestead, and it was implied that those changes were for her eventual benefit.

  Tess, for her part, tried to keep her letters light and entertaining—an amusing misunderstanding in the shop, her newlywed sister’s failed attempt at roasting a chicken. It cheered Tess to view her days as things to describe to Luke, to entertain him.

  Chapter 8

  Luke sanded the grain of the wood until it was silken. Not a single splinter would mar the finish of the dining table. He had crafted the oval-shaped table and four chairs from wood he felled on his homestead for the purpose. When it was complete, he set it on its legs and looked at it critically. Even to his eye, it was beautiful, flawless. He had begun it the night he sent the letter to Tess’s parents. />
  Luke didn’t want her to come to Montana to eat at the battered and marred hand-me-down table he’d gotten from his parents when he and Willa went to housekeeping together. This was a new start, and Tess deserved as many things new and unmarred as possible. Himself, he could not restore to an unharmed state—his heart had been broken, and he had suffered great loss. But he could give her a new table, as well as the set of dishes he’d ordered from the mercantile. They sat stacked, gleaming with newness, on the shelf above the washbasin as he sat at his old table, eating from a tin bowl, waiting.

  Dear Tess,

  Please come to Montana. Your ticket is enclosed. It is a round trip ticket, as though you were traveling on holiday, though I expect you to make this your home. Instead of arranging for a room at the boarding house with Mrs. Hostelman, I have asked Mr. and Mrs. Rogers if you might stay at their inn for a few weeks until you decide if a life with me would suit you.

  I thought you might be more comfortable near your old friend than among strangers. I hope you approve of these arrangements. I am eager to see you, but at the same time, anxious that you might be disappointed.

  I feel that I know you. I have come to care for you deeply, but there are certain parts of courting that must be conducted face to face. I cannot in a letter, for example, sit uncomfortably in a chilly parlor stirring too much sugar into my tea nervously while trying to think of something to say to you. I cannot take your hand in mine, nor ask you to sit by me in church, if you are not here by me. A ring is not something I should like to send through the mail. I would rather place it on your flesh and blood hand.

  You ought to know I have sent a letter to your parents about this scheme as well with my assurances that you will be safe and well looked after in Montana Territory. I have asked your father’s permission to marry you. It is with that end in mind that I beg you to come west, and come as soon as may be. I am lonesome for you.