The Mail Order Bride

by R. Kent

  The Mail Order Bride

  Synopsis

  Austin’s killed a man. Escaping his nefarious past and running from those who would force him to live as a woman, Austin dreams of becoming an upstanding man and homesteading alone on the fringes of the wild frontier.

  The burgeoning tent township of Molasses Pond is clenched in the bloody fist of the deadliest gunslinger the country has ever known, Lightning Jack McKade. McKade knows who Austin is. In fact, McKade knows more about Austin’s past than Austin does. He had a hand in creating it.

  On the last stagecoach until spring, a mail order bride, Sahara Miller, arrives in Molasses Pond. She claims to be Austin’s and has the documentation to prove it. But McKade’s gang will do anything to have her. Now Austin must choose: Strap on his twin six-shooters to protect the bride he never wanted, or turn a blind eye and keep his dream alive.

  The Mail Order Bride

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  The Mail Order Bride

  © 2020 By R Kent. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-677-3

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: March 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Tammy Seidick

  Dedication

  Wendy

  Brian

  Chapter One

  July 4, 1864, Molasses Pond, Arizona Territory

  “Austin, my boy, you need a wife.” The barkeep greeted me as if we had been in the middle of a conversation.

  The cavernous room of the Watering Hole saloon was empty. Green shades blocked the intensity of the sun. Circular tables littered the front of the hall. Their scattered chairs had spilled or wandered away. Flies congregated on the sticky splotches along the bar top. And a hound sprawled in the middle of the floor at the base of a long dead, potbellied stove.

  Summer’s heat hung like a malevolent presence.

  “Just a bottle of whiskey,” I replied, walking to the far end of the brass-edged bar.

  I spun a coin onto the bar, watching until it wobbled flat. That was my last coin. “And I’ll take a glass of milk.” I turned sideways to face the room, propping my elbow to affect practiced relaxation.

  Folks in these parts knew me as Austin. They knew me as a young man, hiding in the wilds of the frontier from a vile past, struggling to survive where grown men had trouble doing so. I cultivated their notions with a cold demeanor, a hardened look, and a lump in the right place.

  Stories claimed I was a savage suckled by wolves with the venom of rattlers running through my veins. I particularly liked the one about being a half-breed Apache. It was the hangman’s scar that no one had a fanciful explanation for. My White pa used to say, “If it can’t be explained, people will fear it.” All good. Fear kept folks from being overly friendly.

  Below the brim of my felted hat, nervous sweat slicked my forehead. I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. My Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shirt stuck to the middle of my back.

  I couldn’t relax around Whites. Even though I’m white.

  Jack McKade, the barkeep, was also the owner of the Watering Hole. He shoved a bottle toward me, pocketing the coin. He didn’t care for me much. Probably because I was a homesteader with no cattle to rustle and no family to harass. He couldn’t control me. And that didn’t sit well with the likes of McKade.

  I didn’t owe him anything. Mostly, I didn’t have anything he wanted. My land, maybe. But only if I had a strike.

  Wealth and domination over others were what a man like McKade lived for. Twisting folks up fed something dark inside of him. He wielded his power from behind the bar where pouring whiskey was the place to learn every man’s secrets.

  With a gruff bark, he ordered a woman to fetch my milk.

  A crooked leg kept McKade behind the bar. He didn’t limp or gimp. He wore a brace on that leg which made him more self-conscious of the weakness. He didn’t tolerate any show of weakness. Weaknesses got exploited. McKade preferred to do the exploiting.

  He was intimidating. McKade’s bellow could scare the skin off a fleeing rabbit. His laugh was akin to a spook howling in the night. And when he smiled, he looked like a crazed coyote on the hunt.

  Back East, my White pa had known a man with a leg brace. I don’t believe it was an uncommon sight.

  But this was Mr. Jack McKade of Molasses Pond who wore a brace on his left leg, and he didn’t take it well. Some say he was born angry. He had small, piggish eyes, warning of a bad temper. Fortunately, he wasn’t heeled. There was no fat gun belt encircling his generous gut. There was, however, a sawed-off, double-barreled scattergun handy beneath the bar. McKade was damned fast on the grab for his weapon. And not shy about pulling the triggers.

  I’d heard tales of a Lightning Jack McKade who was a no good scourge on the face of the earth. Big city newspapers said he was a gunslinging manslayer. Man or woman. It hadn’t mattered. He killed with equal callousness. Lightning Jack.

  Lightning Jack was one of the deadliest men alive. There were wanted posters from here to the East Coast. Whites said the law would never catch up with Lightning Jack McKade. Apache warriors told of Lightning Jack riding, untouched, through a hail of arrows. Navajo believed he was a spirit walker. And common folk said “yessir” to the gunman.

  I didn’t put much stock in stories.

  If this man was once Lightning Jack, maybe he was looking for a fresh start like the most of us. Pa had always said to take a man for who he was today. Today was what counted. He said, “Lucky enough to survive yesterday, a man was blessed with being allowed to scratch out a living today. He could be dead tomorrow.”

  I vividly remembered most everything about my White pa, but I could no longer picture his face.

  “Here ya go, hon.” Rose clanked the full glass onto the bar. Streaks of gray at her temples hinted that she was old enough to be my mother. Men called her “Cactus Rose.” They said she was a bit prickly. But she had always spoke kindly to me. She was the closest resemblance I had to an actual friend in town.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I wiped my slick palms on the sides of my hide-covered thighs, then yanked my hat lower over my eyes. I felt a flash of heat across my face. I hoped my cheeks weren’t glowing. I didn’t talk to women much. And I really liked them—in the way boys do.

  “Cause for a celebration?” Rose asked.

  “Put a claim on Homestead Act land.” One hundred and sixty acres, to be specific. The process was all formal and important, befitting the lengthy time and considerable effort to have saved ten silver dollars. The registrar at the land office had filled out the federal application. He figured I couldn’t read, much less write. I shocked him by printing my surname, Austin. Just Austin.

  All I needed to do now was stay on the claim for five consecutive years in order to gain its title. The sprig of land was all mine—well, in five years’ time. But nothing would shake me from my property. I meant t
o grow into a respected man, homesteading on the outskirts of Molasses Pond.

  The thought of my dreams coming true softened my stance. I ran a dry tongue over my cracked top lip.

  “Couldn’t have picked a finer day,” Rose chirped.

  Gunshots assaulted the stale air.

  Too quickly, I palmed the leather holster hanging from the heavy belt slung beneath my hip bones. I was as jittery as a long-tailed house cat sitting on a porch full of rocking chairs. Reminding myself to breathe, I kept my hand on the holster, keeping it away from my revolver.

  A cannon thundered.

  The wagon wheel chandelier shook. A candle stub dropped to the sawdust-strewn floor. The hound thunked its tail, not bothering to get up.

  I straightened from leaning on an elbow. A skinning knife, tucked at the small of my back, pressed against my spine. I found its sharp presence comforting.

  Rose sashayed to the saloon doors to watch the commotion. A red-feathered plume bobbed from her nest of blond hair. “It’s the Fourth of July! Independence Day.”

  Her sudden burst of glee calmed my ragged nerves.

  Though Rose was not the woman for me, my eyes lingered on her womanly attributes. A low-cut red silk dress plumped her stark white voluptuous bosom and squeezed her ample waist. Her skirts began as voluminous layers, but the front was tied up to her midsection.

  I eased my hand from the holster and flexed my fingers. My pa’s Smith and Wesson revolver waited obediently at the front of my left thigh. Its butt was forward for a cross-handed draw that I wasn’t proficient at. Pa had bought the gun new before our family joined a wagon train heading west in 1855. I’ve kept it close since his demise.

  Before putting my attention back on a delicious sip of milk, I flicked the restraining loop from the hammer of my gun. There was nothing innocent about gunshots in Molasses Pond. No matter the occasion. Not when McKade’s hired gunslingers were the only ones carrying.

  With a swallow of fresh milk, my eyes drooped. The soothing drink coated my parched throat.

  Shots rang out like a string of firecrackers. Whooping and hollering sang under the high noon sun. A slight breeze kicked dirt and dust from the floor. An occasional rushing reveler set the saloon doors to gently swinging. The tang of gunpowder filtered into the dry barroom air.

  I settled my side against the bar, concentrating on my beverage like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

  Independence Day, 1864. The eighty-eighth year of America’s Independence from British tyranny. But the country was at war with itself on one front, and at war with the Indians on the frontier. Through sheer willfulness, Molasses Pond had survived in spite of the country’s ills.

  The town was overripe for an explosive occasion. But not because of pride or glory in our country. It was an excuse to drink and gamble. It was an excuse to take a day away from empty sluice boxes and dried up creek beds. An excuse to not face another day of disappointment, starvation, and desperation.

  When I rode in, “Old Glory” was flying high from a crumbling, Spanish-Mexican fountain in the center of Main Street. The pastor had droned a sermon under the flag. While I signed for my claim of land, a banjo, with accompanying fiddle, had performed a rousing rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner.” And men fought over raising a Confederate flag.

  I had made it into the Watering Hole before guns blazed.

  A whistle preceded the next volley of cracks and blasts. The intrusion resounded in the vast emptiness of the saloon. McKade was at the other end of the bar wiping a greasy glass with a greasier rag. Rose stepped away from the doorway, patted her hair, and smoothed her skirt. I was determined to enjoy the milk.

  Holiday frolickers burst through the swinging saloon doors.

  Confederate deserters bellied up to the bar. These were McKade’s hired guns. Each was slick and lean. They wore store-bought shirts and kept their Confederate gray trousers tucked into stovepipe boots. Their weapons gleamed from polish. And their eyes were bright for a fight.

  I kept my head down, focusing on the glass in front of me.

  Litters of sorry looking prospectors tumbled in, jostling for chairs.

  Out of habit, I sized up the odds—one gunslinger to every half-dozen down-on-their-luck types. Given six-shooters, the numbers were about right. McKade knew what he was doing. His hired men held the advantage.

  Hard-luck diggers collected at the low tables, fussing with one another to pool their possibles for a round of drinks. Tattered shirts drooped from thin shoulders. Filthy pants had holes in the patches that were covering holes.

  The miners mostly contemplated the gnarly nails hooding the misshapen toes of their bare feet. They stole looks in my direction.

  My new shirt still had crisp creases from the shelves of Percival’s Mercantile. Even in the July heat, I knotted a black silk kerchief around my neck. It hid a hideous scar. My breeches were of fine doeskin. And I had moccasins of elk.

  Several diggers wedged in on either side of me to perch at the bar. Resentment wrinkled their weathered faces. The heat of them was intrusive. That was enough encouragement for me to move my gun-hand to the smooth worn leather of my holster again.

  Destitute men had nothing to lose. Desperation made them viperous.

  They didn’t have much to gain either, except favor from McKade. That made them unpredictable.

  McKade controlled their fortune. He wielded whiskey like a weapon. They could each only ever be as much as he allowed. And they would always be as little as he dictated. If there was any order in Molasses Pond, it could be found in a bottle of McKade’s whiskey.

  I’d never be a cussed miner clawing at rock on the speculation of a shiny crumble. I’d sooner sell my gun arms in service than squat in a trickling creek bed, rasping my fingertips bloody to pay for a lick of whiskey on Sundays.

  I’m opposed to cashing in on precious metal. Unless it’s lead.

  Gold, silver, and copper encouraged evil. Greed prospered. Greed changed men. It made them ugly. Ugly made for dangerous. I wouldn’t want to be ugly or dangerous. It was already rumored that I was evil.

  The air in the overcrowded saloon grew thick and rank. The scar beneath my scarf began to itch. I stuck a finger in at the knot to scratch at my neck. The top pale edge of the marks must have peeked from the covering. Wide-eyed stares traveled the length of the bar.

  I dropped my hand to caress the butt of my Smith and Wesson. It was the one thing every man understood.

  “Hey, boss. Get a load of the beads on that bracelet.” A gaunt man set back on his heels, stuffed his thumbs in a rope belt tied about his skinny waist, and whistled. “You get that from around here?” he asked then whistled again. “Turquoise.”

  At that word, the entire saloon hushed. Where there was turquoise, there was copper.

  I drew my sleeve down to cover the brightly colored beads. It was too late.

  The crowd flooded toward me. They scrabbled over one another. Crazed men shoved at me like corralled wild horses, frenzied against a fence. The rot of their festering breath trampled, hot and humid, over my cheeks. The stench of them pressed in on me harder than their rangy, sweating bodies.

  My skin crawled. Flight or fight. There were only ever those two options.

  A stout arm swung around my bunched shoulders.

  I swallowed at the tightness in my throat. Shifting from one foot to the other, I willed myself to dwell on anything but the fear of being trapped.

  A bony foot stomped mine. An elbow shoved into my ribs. A knee knocked at the protruding potato stuffed in the crotch of my breeches. And the riotous men clamored near to on top of me.

  My mind was on fire, fishing for distractions. I focused on the vegetation sitting in my breeches. It bolstered my courage. But a drastic shift would have been difficult to explain. It was slightly more to the left than I liked. But didn’t the majority of them hang to the left? It had to be perfect. I needed it correct. I needed to see me when I looked down.

&nbs
p; I clenched my thighs against the jostling. My back teeth ground so hard the muscles in my jaw throbbed.

  Flight or fight.

  I tightly embraced the carved, antler grips of my Smith and Wesson like I was reuniting with a long lost lover. Deadly heat piqued inside me. My palms were sweat-slicked. My mouth was dry. My stomach rolled. Survival screamed too loudly in my head. Flight or fight.

  The touch of the cool, curved, steel trigger made my finger twitch in anticipation.

  When the brim of my hat got knocked to the bridge of my nose, I coaxed the revolver’s hammer back.

  Click, click, click, click.

  The crackling of cocking stilled the swarm.

  McKade perked at the ominous noise. “Now hold on there.” He smacked his stumped shotgun onto the top of the bar.

  Silence filled the room.

  Under the threat of McKade’s splattergun, men cleared away from me. Miners crept to their tables. Cards came out. Everyone kept their chins tucked, sneaking furtive glances at McKade.

  Jack McKade lorded over the diggers. I speculated that he lorded over many of the town’s businesses too. But I didn’t know how far his reach extended. I did know that getting caught in his grasp would be fatal.

  The moment of silence moved back into normal saloon cacophony.

  “So how about it?” McKade swiped the barrel of his shotgun at a cat that jumped onto the bar. “No-good, greasy lout. Come back when you’ve caught a rat.” Stowing his gun beneath the bar, he said, “A wife? The boys are thinking on putting in to get you one.”

  “No. I’m all set. The bottle of whiskey and the glass of milk will do.” No complications. “No wife.”

  I can see McKade’s game. He’s looking for his next plaything.

  If I cared about someone, he’d find a way to use them against me, until he owned me. And he’s got his hired guns convinced there’s something in it for them in setting up his twisted plot. If they had a vested interest, McKade could control them in controlling me. He would never leave a trail that implicated himself. If anything went bad, McKade would need someone to blame. Someone to hurt.