Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  His half-brother, Dirk, could toss a pin into the air and catch it behind his back. The few times Morgan had tried, he only succeeded in producing painful lumps on top of his head.

  Scuffling sounded to his right, and Morgan glanced over to see Uli Gunther now stood within a few feet and mirrored his actions. The slap of wood into palms provided an offbeat rhythm.

  The blond cowhand from the Star S worked the pins in quick progression, his arm muscles bulging against the form-fitting cotton jerseys all the men wore.

  Erno, a shorter but no less muscular version of his brother, tossed pins on the other side of Uli. With barely a noticeable shift, Erno added a pin and juggled three.

  “Hey, guys,” Morgan ventured a low whisper. “Stick around after the session for an announcement.”

  As soon as he saw their nods, Morgan held tight to the pins and watched as Erno shuffled to stand opposite Uli. Four pins whistled between the brothers’ hands. The exchange was like one Morgan had seen years earlier when his family attended a circus performance. He admired the brothers’ dexterity and timing.

  Next, he moved to the pommel horse and worked through a series of motions where he swung a leg over to the forward side of the leather slab, lifting his hands in sequence to allow his leg to pass by. Focus was essential to keep his weight balanced under his shoulders and to lift his leg high enough not to bang into the “horse.” When his shoulders ached with strain, he pushed himself off, flexing his fingers against the burn in his palms.

  Anzel Crosby was next in line and stepped forward. The dark-haired leatherworker braced his hands on the wooden pommels.

  “Anzel, hang around at the end of the session.” Morgan blew on his stinging palms. “Maybe I should wear gloves.” Luckily, enough men were in attendance today that he got to rest for several minutes between each apparatus. To avoid disturbing the concentration of the person practicing, the waiting men spoke in low tones and only of essentials.

  An hour or so later, Morgan stood near a row of benches at the back of the hall, mopping his sweating face and neck with a small towel. His body hummed with the heat of exertion, and he looked forward to a soak in the tub at Treadwell’s. When he saw that most of the others had finished their exercise, he held up a hand. “Men, gather close for my announcement.”

  Red-faced men with disheveled hair and towels draped around their necks formed a half circle and waited, most with hands braced on their hips.

  Nervousness dried his mouth. Morgan stepped atop the bench, the strap of the satchel slung over his arm. “A while ago, I realized I was ready to settle down. I placed an ad for a mail-order bride and have received a quantity of responses much larger than I anticipated.”

  Men murmured to one another and then quieted.

  “I see your skepticism. I wasn’t too sure about the whole business myself. But for those of you who know Fitz and Tavia Saunders, you have to admit they are a good match.” He looked around and noted several nods, glad to see confirmation from the Gunther brothers who worked on the ranch and observed the Saunders firsthand. Good. The potential is obvious.

  Balancing the bottom of the satchel on his hip, he lifted the flap and pulled out the packets. Then he lifted his hand over his head. “What I have here, friends, are the letters received from women anxious to write to a man in the hopes of being married. A few say they are lonely and are only looking for a lively correspondence. Now, how many of you have thought about the scarcity of women in our area?”

  Conversations buzzed, and more men nodded.

  “Remember the last social event in the meeting hall and how we all only got a dance or two because the lines were so long? We don’t want to be like the original bachelor settlers who came following the 1848 Revolutions in Germany. You’ve heard the stories about a man having to tie on an armband and dance the female part. Am I right?” Encouraged by the increased volume of whispers and numerous head shakes as the men discussed the situation, Morgan lowered his arm and fanned out the stacks of letters like a hand in a card game. “Within these very envelopes might be the answer to that very problem.”

  “What are you offering, Shipley?” Uli crossed his wide arms and settled into a wide-footed stance.

  Frowning, Erno copied his older brother.

  “I want to share the wealth.” He stepped over his small handbag and paced a few steps along the bench. He always thought better when he moved. “Besides the fact I can’t respond to all these, I have found only a few of these women match what I’m looking for in a wife.” He saw frowns deepen and sucked in a quick breath before continuing. “I’m not saying any of these women are undesirable.” Except maybe for the few whose horrible spelling indicated they weren’t well educated. “Just that not every man wishes for the same attributes. I’d like to offer these letters to men with the caveat they are serious about responding to each one they accept.”

  “So we take a letter or two and just write to the women?” Anzel stroked a hand over his ebony beard.

  “Correct. In the first letter, you’ll have to explain how you came to possess the response. But I don’t think the fact you are writing instead of me will cause much concern.” Needing to downplay any problems, he forced a light note to his voice. His goal was to walk out of the hall with an empty satchel. “Like I said a moment ago, the tone of the letters shows these women want to meet bachelors.”

  “I don’t think so, Shipley.” From the back of the group, Sigfrid Ottokar shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. “I wouldn’t buy a horse sight unseen. Why should I consider writing a woman I’ve never met?”

  If a negative aspect could be found, dour Sigfrid was the one who’d do so. Morgan bit back a groan. “For the exact reason that a multitude of single women don’t live in this region for you to review or inspect.” This situation was where all his time thinking on the matter gave Morgan an advantage. He’d anticipated some of the opposing opinions and had formulated responses. “Your correspondence will be your inspection method. Of course, you could always drive to Boerne or Kerrville to meet eligible women. But how and when?”

  He paused, giving the men several seconds to think on their individual responsibilities and how such a trip would not be feasible. “Who has the time to drive fifteen or eighteen miles each way on the chance an unmarried woman will visit a café or the mercantile at the same time you do? Or say you make the trip to attend a special event in hopes of meeting a lady. You will be one among all the other bachelors who came for the very same possibility.”

  To accent his point, he shook his hand and let the envelopes slap together, feeling like a barker at a carnival needing to reel in his customers. “Here are guaranteed introductions. Think of writing a response to a particular letter like stepping opposite an unknown female at a Harvest festival social and asking her to dance. For the cost of a few sheets of stationery and several postage stamps, you can become acquainted with a bevy of partners.”

  At the last statement, he winced before forcing a smile. His mother and sisters would not approve of him treating the feelings of single women in such a cavalier way. “Gents, I’ve spent some time doing my best to match letters to many of you whom I know, basing the individual selections on similar backgrounds.”

  “How many are you keeping for yourself?” Wiry Lon Pallaton jabbed a pointed finger toward the bench.

  Morgan stiffened at the man’s narrowed gaze and accusatory tone. “Since receiving the letters, I have posted responses to three young ladies.” He wondered if he should mention the four separate stacks and that he’d chosen not to write to any women in the “skilled worker” category. Might be too many details about his preferences.

  “I’m in.” Anzel stepped forward and extended a hand. “I’ll take a couple.”

  Morgan grinned and jumped from the bench to the floor so he could settle the packets in his lap and untie the first thong. He flipped through the upper right corners, looking for the small initials he’d added to each envelope. “I actually fou
nd three potentials that might interest you.” Something he’d done for most of the bachelors. Three seemed like a balanced number. “Will you take them all?”

  Anzel nodded, accepted the envelopes, and moved to the side. The sound of rustling papers cut the silence.

  That single response proved to be a catalyst, and all the men formed a line.

  Morgan glanced between the stacks and those standing close, offering the selections as fast as he could. When he’d run through the pre-marked ones, he asked questions to narrow choices to fit within his categories and distributed more envelopes until the line ended.

  Seemingly by instinct, the men dispersed themselves around the room to read their letters.

  Leaning forward, he unhooked the strap from the soft-soled exercise shoe, pulled it off, and pushed his foot into his leather boot. Standing, he shoved his arms into his heavy denim duster. At least the full length allowed him to walk through town in his form-fitting pants without causing a scandal. When he looked up, he spotted several men exchanging envelopes. What in the dickens? His jaw dropped.

  As the Gunther brothers and Sigfrid walked by, Morgan overheard a few comments.

  “I’m partial to redheads.”

  “Never would consider a woman who’s taller than me.”

  “A dowry’s nothing to sneeze at.”

  Morgan snatched the handles of his small bag holding his towel, hairbrush, and shoes and stomped toward the door. The hours he’d spend in his attempt at matchmaking were obviously a waste. He’d have been better off making more furniture to meet his debt.

  Chapter Four

  A month later

  The farther the stage drove from the civilization of San Antonio, the more worried Ione became. When she lifted the corner of the leather flap and looked outside, the view through the window only tightened the knot in her stomach. Wide open spaces with not a building in sight. Prickly clumps of what she’d learned were cactus dotted the ground near the dirt trail. Squatty bushes of sage and scrub mesquite trees dotted the brown-grassed prairie.

  This was her first ever stagecoach ride, and she was not a fan of being bumped and jostled in such a small and confined space. She refocused on the scraps of fabric in her lap and took up her threaded needle. Like Grandma Mary said, stitching always helped to settle a troubled mind. Her maternal grandmother should know—she’d won prizes at the county fair for her beautiful quilt.

  While she’d waited in the well-appointed stage office in San Antonio before boarding, Ione’d read through the rules for passenger travel and knew she’d never seen anything so crass. Advice on which direction to spit for tobacco chewers. Recommendations on sharing drinks of alcohol straight from the bottle. An admonition against snoring too loudly or using a stranger’s shoulder for a pillow. So rude!

  She tsked-tsked then darted a glance around, hoping no one had heard her disapproving tone. Passengers were also forbidden from discussing robberies or Indian attacks, warned again hogging the provided buffalo robes and shooting at wild animals. Men would be put off the stagecoach if they acted toward a female passenger in an unchivalrous manner. At that time, she’d worried the stagecoach would be a less desirable means of transportation than the train.

  Now that she’d been on board for several hours, she’d come to know for certain her first thought was oh-so-true. The coach was such a small speck on the huge expanse of uninterrupted landscape. Only a little more than a year had passed since the Battle at the Little Bighorn. Although that event happened hundreds of miles away in Montana Territory, the fallen men had been trained soldiers. Bands of Indians still roamed lands to the west and south. Where could the travelers find protection from what might befall them? The rules stated passengers could carry firearms, but she certainly didn’t own one.

  Had she been hasty to leave Des Moines? Maybe she should have adopted a tougher attitude and held her head high against the gossips.

  A raspy snore erupted from the opposite seat. A traveler clad in rough denims and a leather jacket with fringe sprawled with his legs stretched across the aisle. His attire reminded her of performers in the “Scouts of the Prairie” stage show the family had attended in Chicago several winters back. Frontiersmen had been depicted as the guardians of womanly virtue on the borders of society. This man did not look like he had the skills to fulfill that role.

  Twice, she’d adjusted her position to avoid his long leg from resting against hers. She practically hugged the side wall, and her right knee would most certainly have bruises from bumping against the door. Each jolt and shake rattled her body, and she hadn’t figured out how to best brace against the sudden moves. Dust filtered inside through every open space, and she kept shaking her needlework to keep it clean. Even in early March, the air within the small space grew close and uncomfortable. For the past hour, she’d kept her handkerchief scented with lemon verbena close to hold under her nose when faintness threatened.

  “Arriving in Dorado, folks.” The announcement came from above the coach only a moment or so before the horses slowed to a walk.

  Finally. By the time she’d rolled a corner of the flap and tied it with a secure knot, the coach stopped. A glance outside revealed a wooden building with a shingled overhang shading the planked boardwalk. A block of wood painted red with the words “Stage Line” in yellow lettering hung above the door’s lintel. Leaning forward, she looked left at the adjacent building and noted it appeared almost identical, although wider. Past the structures stretched even more endless prairie.

  The latch clicked and the door opened, making the leather window covering swing.

  A tall man wearing a red plaid scarf shouldered a rifle with one hand and dropped a wooden block in front of the open door. “Allow me to help you, ma’am.” He extended a gloved hand.

  “I appreciate that.” Gathering her reticule and small carpetbag stashed near her feet, Ione accepted the help and stepped down to the street. For a moment, she swayed and stiffened her posture. Being on solid ground again felt good. And she savored the stillness—no creaking wheels or clanking harnesses. Only the chirp of a distant songbird and a bark from a dog that ran past.

  “Your suitcase will be unloaded and set inside the depot against the east wall.”

  My portmanteau. The schoolteacher in her made the correction, but at least she hadn’t spoken it aloud. “Thank you.” She grabbed a handful of the front of her woolen skirt and walked up the three steps to the boardwalk. From this vantage point, she got the first look at her new home of Dorado, Texas. Oh, my stars. A sense of unease settled deep inside.

  The main street where she stood looked to be only four or five blocks long with a livery stable at the far end and a saloon next door. No buildings of any architectural significance were visible. Most were single story and constructed of wood, some unpainted, and only a couple stood on stone foundations. A quick scan of the storefronts indicated the existence of a single business of each type offering several professional services, a jail, a mercantile, and one café. The only duplication was in the number of saloons.

  A chill ran over her skin, and she pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. This frontier town was tiny and primitive. Like the photographs she’d seen at Founder’s Day events of Des Moines in the 1840s.

  A man and woman walked toward her across the unpaved street, dirt scuffed by their steps clinging to their shoes. The woman’s attire was a simple skirt with no swags or drapes and a calico blouse under a shapeless coat. Her straw hat was not typical for the winter season. As the pair ascended the stairs, the woman stared at Ione, her gaze focusing on the burgundy hat decorated with black silk roses over her left ear.

  The full impact of what her father arranged trapped Ione’s breath in her chest. Granted, Mother had taken to her bedroom for a solid week following Ione’s pronouncement that she refused to marry the cad Bradford Whittington III. After that, Ione had endured another entire week of neither parent responding to her conversational overtures until she just stopped trying. At me
als, they barely made eye contact. No amount of volunteering her services at her father’s office or helping with her mother’s society events had removed the chill from the air when the three were alone at the house.

  She’d thought the impasse was broken when her father informed her that he’d heard from a former colleague who now lived in Fredericksburg, Texas, about an available teaching post. He’d presented the job as a great opportunity, especially one that became available midterm─a plum job to gain valuable experience. Now, she realized Father had just wanted her out of his sight, hoping his social circle would forget sooner the shame she’d brought to the family. Heat tickled the backs of her eyes, and she blinked fast, vowing not to create a scene in public.

  The scandal caused by cancelling her wedding needed to be left back in Iowa. Here in Texas, she had the chance for a fresh start. No one knew about NeNe, the detested nickname her younger brother, Chase, used that followed her throughout childhood. No one knew she’d failed to gain acceptance to medical colleges in hopes of following in her father’s footsteps. No one knew any more about her life than what she’d included in her application letter.

  Her new life meant she’d make her own way without worrying how her actions would affect her mother’s social standing or her father’s medical practice. Although, after years of not being sure, she now had a true purpose. Nothing would keep her from being the best schoolteacher who ever stood in front of desks filled with attentive and inquisitive students.

  After straightening her spine, Ione turned and walked inside the stage depot, her boots resounding with hollow thuds on the bare flooring. The raw scent of new wood filled the air, and she wrinkled her nose at the pungency. Passing several rough-hewn, long bench seats, she approached the single ticket window. At least, as the only person in the room, she didn’t have to wait.