The Mail Order Bride

by R. Kent

  A drastic drop in temperature woke me too early in the morning. Predawn appeared like a purple bruise covering an injured sky. I wrapped my arms around myself.

  TwoFeathers had quietly vanished, which was his way. My world felt somehow empty for his silent leaving. But there was no time to dwell. The venison had to be stored. And there were chores. And I should be setting my sights to checking traps. And gathering firewood for the colder months.

  My tanned hide shirt was greased with the muck of last night’s meat carving. I shucked the soiled smock, trying not to look at the wraps binding my chest. The grimy tunic would dry if laid in the sun. When it dried, I’d scrape the hide before wearing it again.

  A bucket of cold water was not what I wanted to confront in the dawn hours of a frosty morning. But I splashed the icy water onto my face and underarms, careful not to soak the doeskin bindings. If they got wet, they’d tighten too much. I’d have to take them off. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to look on the budding womanhood of the body that didn’t match the boy I knew I was inside.

  In the frigid air, I danced from one foot to the other, not looking down. I only owned one other shirt. My Sunday best. I was sore about using it. Tucked in, the flimsy cotton showed the lines of the wraps. I had to wear it billowy, which could catch and rip during chores. To protect the cotton shirt, I stuffed my arms into a warm coat, flattening the shearling wool collar.

  I stroked the ravaged skin of my neck. The rope burn scar alternated between shiny, smooth patches and lumpy, jagged areas. My eyes glazed over with assaulting memories.

  Shod hooves rang against stone. Hearty laughter. Blinding sun. Gunfire. Too much gunfire. Navajo dropped in fleeing poses. Children wailed. Gunfire. Lifeless faces twisted in anguish and horror. Flames. The choking, burning tug that went on and on. Then black. Nothing but black.

  I shook myself. It was the same each time. Horrifying snippets in the same sequence, with the same missing gaps.

  I pulled the kerchief twice around my neck before cinching the knot then stepped into the early morning sun.

  A sorrel colt stood in the split rail paddock. He glistened in the bright rays. October’s cold nights had teased his coat to grow for the coming winter. Even shaggy, he shined. I worked my fingers through the horse’s flaxen mane, speaking words in the language of my adoptive family. Practicing the low tones that sang to the animal’s twitching ears.

  He was a big colt with long legs, having seen five summers before I roped him last March. Charlie Horse and I had found the sorrel mired in the melting snows. Thin and exhausted, he was willing to follow behind Charlie Horse. And though Charlie Horse found reasons to run off this past summer, the sorrel had always stayed.

  I gentled the sorrel. Now that he was well-handled, I could ride him just about anywhere, doing just about anything. I wanted to keep him. Especially since Charlie Horse lamed up if the wind blew wrong. Or ran off whenever a mare whinnied. But I couldn’t keep him. Feed was short and I was desperate for trade goods. The sale of a horse meant my survival.

  Did I really need to trade the sorrel? Was I only trying to convince myself? I really liked the young horse. Maybe I could survive the winter without store-bought goods. I had a short stack of tanned pelts to trade. It might be enough for bullets. I could do without beans and salt. I didn’t need much.

  I rolled a patched blanket to fashion a harness collar low around the sorrel’s neck, settling it against his chest. Then, I ran ropes down either side. At the ends, I kept the ropes spread using a sturdy branch. With the harness contraption, the sorrel hauled the bundle of meat to the cellar hole as I led him.

  A small cache of carrots, potatoes, radishes, and onions were piled toward the back of the dug out room. Along one earthen wall were salted pelts. Hanging above the pelts were cured and smoked meats from my traps. It looked like a bounty. Worth more than any sorry riverbed plot panning for gold. But I still worried it wasn’t enough to see me through the coming winter months. If I was careful… If I ate sparingly…

  I stacked the salted meat on the cold floor and shuffled out.

  The sorrel had waited patiently. I took off his trappings then offered him water from the well. His soft muzzle gingerly touched the surface of the water, stilling for a moment, then splashing before drinking. He was mesteño. Whites called them mustangs. The little wild horses were suspicious by nature. It kept them alive.

  I rubbed his coat as he drank deeply.

  My browning garden was also thirsty. I tipped several buckets into the channels, soaking my short plants. Corral fences needed to be mended. A new breaking pen had to be built. More scrub should be piled for winter’s feed. A captured mare had foaled out of season. I’d have to pamper the pair in my existing round pen.

  The mare and foal gave me thoughts toward ranching horses by breeding them. I could raise the best horses in this part of the country, not just rope ’em and break ’em. But that was for another time. Now, the hard-packed, rocky ground had difficulty feeding mesquite thickets and cactus. It wouldn’t feed many horses. Not this year.

  I had a spit of grass along the Gila River. It wasn’t much. My land would need to be cultivated to produce proper feed if I wanted to breed horses. I tugged at the silk kerchief knotted at my neck. Rounding up stray cattle would be more lucrative. And I still wanted a milk cow. I loved milk.

  To be honest, cows were for cowboys. My heart was with the horses. It always had been.

  If I gentled horses under saddle, I could sell them to the blacksmith, who also owned and ran Molasses Pond Livery. Broke horses were hard to come by in the Arizona Territory.

  A jingling of harness stopped my runaway thoughts. A horse and buggy picked its way through the rocky expanse. I tied my holster down to my thigh and plucked the hammer loop off. Then waited.

  “Ma’am,” I said, pleasantly surprised when Rose drew in the lines and slowed the fringe-topped buggy to a stop alongside me.

  “Good morning to you, Austin.”

  I liked how Rose said my name. As if it held importance. My face instantly grew hot.

  “You have a package arriving on the stagecoach,” she said with a sunny smile, bobbing her head. The plume in her stylish hat nodded. She looked a lot like Lily just then, with her fancy dress and the netting corralling a feathered bonnet. Gloves accented her delicate hands. A scraggly bundle of wildflowers wilted next to her on the cushioned bench seat. “Heaven’s sake, Austin, don’t just stand there. Come on.”

  It hadn’t mattered that I didn’t order any package. And it hadn’t escaped me that no one would send me a package. I tied the sorrel to the side of the buggy, then hippie-hopped aboard like a starving rabbit to lush, green grass.

  What boy wouldn’t take a long ride into town with a pretty woman?

  Chapter Three

  I slowed the buggy horse to a quiet walk on the outskirts of town. Molasses Pond was still asleep. The road was empty. The boardwalks were barren. A couple of tent flaps lifted. A bell jingled as the door of Percival’s Mercantile opened to greet the early morning chill.

  Wood smoke hovered low as cook fires coughed to life. My mouth watered at the aroma of fried bacon. The scent of strong coffee drafted on the breeze. A rooster crowed. Chickens cackled as they were harried for their eggs. Steel rang in the distance, announcing the blacksmith was already into a long day of work.

  “In front of Percival’s Mercantile, if you please.” Rose flapped her gloved hand toward the store, then adjusted the shawl that slipped off her shoulder. As we came to a halt, she bundled the bunch of flowers into the crook of her arm like they were a newborn babe.

  In a gentlemanly manner, I offered to take Rose’s hand, helping her from the fringed buggy.

  “The stagecoach stops here,” Rose said. “Don’t forget to pick up your package.” She waved at the mercantile’s boy, giving him a coin to take the buggy back to Molasses Pond Livery.

  I gathered the sorrel. It would be a long ride home, but a smile on my face from th
e buggy ride with Rose would last the entire way and then some. I flipped a rein over the off side of the sorrel’s neck. There was no package.

  Rose pursed her lips and eyed me.

  “I need to get a few things in the mercantile,” Rose said. “Will you be here when I come out?” She flung the door wide and waltzed in, not waiting on my reply.

  I tethered the sorrel to the hitching post then perched on the boardwalk outside Percival’s Mercantile. What was another few minutes? I waited for Rose. I’d also wait for the stagecoach, figuring I was here, I might as well see what the fuss was about. I hoped the waiting wouldn’t be overlong.

  It wasn’t the waiting that bothered me, though I was not generous with my patience.

  The town was waking.

  I fidgeted at my neckerchief, then smoothed the front of my coat, checking the pockets. I had too few, with nothing in them. For something else to do, I stabbed my toe at the mud-spattered planks.

  The weather was cold. I was too hot. The sky had grown cloudy, and I preferred the sun.

  Snow was accumulating in the higher elevations. Its patches of white could be seen from here. That meant an early winter. Streams and rivers were swelling to eventually freeze. And game was descending into the lower basins too soon.

  Children dashed from around a corner, chasing a rolling barrel hoop. They stopped to stare. Men on horseback rode through town watchful of me. People gathered in clusters to whisper. Molasses Pond was slowly coming alive with the new day.

  I smoothed the kerchief against my neck again. Curious eyes followed the movement of my hand. I’m sure the prospect of catching a peek at my hidden scar had townsfolk twittering gibberish as usual.

  The stiff heels of Rose’s ankle boots tap-tap-tapped as she pattered from Percival’s Mercantile. I was relieved to have the distraction.

  Rose uncorked a small silver flask, tipped it to her lips, then took a long swallow. “Medicinal,” she mouthed as our eyes met. She puckered as if she sucked a sour lemon. “I got you a little something,” Rose said, “for the homestead and all.” She presented a wicker basket covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth.

  I reached for the cloth. “Not now.” Rose slapped my knuckles with her gloved hand. “What are you staring at?” she barked at the children. Their hoop fell over into the mud. “Haven’t you ever seen an honest, hardworking young man before?”

  I thought she said “man” kind of funny, but maybe I was just sensitive to it. I stood a little stiffer and widened my stance. “I’m used to the stares,” I said.

  When she turned back to me, her painted face was all soft and soppy. “Staring is rude.” She patted my cheek. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with who you are.”

  And I didn’t know what exactly she was referring to. Hiding the hideous scar? Dressing in fringed buckskins like a savage breed? Or suffering the body of a female while my mind, heart, and soul has always been a boy’s? Could she have known?

  Slight for a young man and ever cautious about that, I hooked my thumbs in my fat gun belt then scraped at the leather of the holster with the bitty finger on my left hand. Hovering little boys’ eyes grew wide. The children scampered away.

  Packing a hogleg on the frontier was a necessity. The law was afraid to venture this far into the new territory. Predators, both two- and four-legged, preyed on the weak and defenseless. For me, toting a sidearm provided considerable peace of mind.

  On the edge of wilderness, a gun was the great equalizer. The fastest gun… Well, the fastest gun usually got anything they wanted.

  I patted my “Slim Jim” style holster. I was proud of it. It had cost me half of last winter’s trapping.

  The gentle morning breeze was being chased out of town by a brutal wind. The dark sky turned even more threatening. I tugged at the fleece-lined collar of my waist-length coat to adjust its bulk to my earlobes.

  Folks milled like penned cattle. Their raspy whispers scratched at my ears. I could feel their eyes on me. The muscles across my back and shoulders tightened. The small hairs on my neck bristled.

  The attention of the townsfolk was more than mere curiosity about my scar. But I was probably being oversensitive.

  “This is quite enough.” Rose placed the basket on the boardwalk. “Austin, stay.” She stepped down into the muck. Her ankle twisted, nearly knocking her off her feet. She recovered clumsily. Rose lifted her foot and tortured the high-heeled short boot on more securely. She stomped directly across the muddy roadway, regained the boardwalk on the other side, and headed off to the Watering Hole.

  With nothing but the waiting, I propped my heel against the hand-cut clapboards of the store’s rough-hewn facade, leaned back, and rolled a cigarette.

  I didn’t smoke. I barely tolerated it. The taste was rank. The stench foul. Its acrid smell biting at my throat also stung my lungs. Hateful. But I struck a sulfur-tipped match after shoving the bag of works back into a breast pocket, then puffed the rolled paper to glowing.

  The act was part of who the fine upstanding townsfolk expected me to be. I pressed the cigarette to my dry lips and sucked the sour smoke until it filled my mouth. After holding the fumes in momentarily, I blew them out in a slow, steady stream. The tendrils of my exhale could be seen from a distance.

  I’d give them all their show.

  The Concord stagecoach clambered into sight. Its chinking harness brass, clanking tug chains, and creaking greased wheels were punctuated by harsh grunts from the driver as he chastised his team of six sweat-lathered horses. Loping hooves slopped and slapped the wet, cold earth. The animals were charging down Main Street like their tails were on fire.

  The driver yelled whoa and scrambled to take up his lines. Sloppy work for a six-in-hand teamster. I made a mental guess as to where the stage would actually stop, given the out-of-control nature of the rig. The coach sped past my expectations before jolting to a standstill. I’d bet the passengers had had one helluva rough ride for their money.

  Dust-smudged faces emerged, attesting to the wear and tear of their long journey.

  I didn’t much care about people. Especially strangers. But I’d exercise just enough graciousness to make sure the weary stage riders were clear of my path.

  The glowing end of my cigarette crept toward my fingers. I flicked it into the mud.

  Two women and four men wore grit from top to bottom. Grimaces contorted their worn faces. They were visibly unimpressed with their travel accommodations. Luggage was haphazardly tossed down. A satchel of papers burst open. Mail and posters took flight on the wind. The clerk from Percival’s Mercantile scurried after them. I stomped onto a skittering stack. WANTED was printed in bold black letters. I thought it was my own face that stared back at me.

  “I got them, Mr. Austin,” the clerk said. I automatically lifted my toe in response. “Mr. McKade can post these in the Watering Hole.” The clerk scurried toward the saloon.

  Passengers snagged their bags and wobbled off along the board walkway.

  Last year at this time, the only hired way to journey this far was by freight with mules. That took a lot longer, with the trip being absolutely miserable given the nature of the beasts and the kind of men attracted to driving them. But now there was stagecoach delivery. Even a lawless tent town like Molasses Pond showed signs of getting civilized.

  That cold wind burst especially sharp. My insides shuddered.

  Barflies congregated into the street from the Watering Hole. A couple of hounds scuttled across Main Street. Percival’s Mercantile emptied of patrons. Men on horseback were busily riding nowhere. And too many mud-caked miners slouched around the crumbling fountain in the center of town.

  On the boardwalk, outside of the Watering Hole, Rose appeared to be spitting stern words at McKade, as only she could do. McKade had shot others for mouthing off. He never paid Rose any heed though.

  I attributed the town’s newfound life, and my growing unease, to the advent of the stage’s arrival. It must have been big doings for a
little town.

  The ominous weather turned to drizzle. I picked up the basket from Rose then stepped forward. “The name’s Austin. Got a package for me?”

  The driver craned his head this way then that. “Nothing left up here. Sorry, son.”

  The lead horses jolted, loosening the man’s grip on his lines. The stagecoach was off at a brisk jog with the driver letting the six-up cover the distance to Molasses Pond Livery unchecked.

  I set the basket on the edge of the boardwalk then stepped into the sloppy street to collect the sorrel from the hitch rail.

  A small hand tapped my shoulder. “Did you say your name was Austin? I’m Sahara. I’m, um…your ‘package.’ Your bride.”

  “Huh?” I think I whipped around too fast because my brain didn’t keep up. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m your bride. Sahara.”

  What did she say? “Sahara—”

  “No. Sa-HAR-a. Not Sahara like the desert. Although that is my namesake, it is a different pronunciation.” She looked at me with distaste, as if I’d purposefully disappointed her somehow.

  I jammed a finger in my neckerchief and tugged back and forth like I was attempting to wrest a bone from a growling dog’s jaws. I didn’t order any bride.

  “Must be some mistake,” I declared. I don’t need a bride. I don’t want a bride.

  Her strawberry blond eyebrows lunged toward each other like they were squaring off. A flush crept over her cheeks that almost blended her freckles into an overall darker complexion. She adjusted her bonnet, then tugged at the bow under her jutting chin.

  “Um…I’m sure you’re a fine woman and all…” I scoured my sweaty palms along the outsides of my thighs. “You see, my circumstances are a little…delicate. Er, difficult. I don’t need a package—a person—a bride.”

  “What are you saying?” She looked at me with horror-filled eyes. She had the prettiest green eyes. And a heart-shaped mouth.