Mail Order Bride- Winter Read online

  MAIL ORDER BRIDE

  WINTER

  Sierra Rose

  Copyright © 2017 by Sierra Rose

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Journey to Turnabout | Hannah Burton: Winter | Synopsis

  Journey to Turnabout | Book Four: Hannah Burton / Winter | Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten | Established businessman seeking wife to share future. | Good prospects in small town; will be well cared for. | If interested, please respond to “Ualraig,” c/o this newspaper

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Unavoidable delay. Sincere apologies. Arriving shortly. Will explain. Very impatient.

  Epilogue

  Journey to Turnabout

  Hannah Burton: Winter

  Synopsis

  AS THE LAST OF THE Burton girls to remain single, Hannah, at age 21, is not really looking to be married. She has her own place to live (a room in Mrs. McKnight’s boarding house), her own job as a newspaperwoman (working for the cranky owner/editor at odd hours), and her own life (independent to the utmost).

  All seems to be well. She is close to her three sisters, and their husbands. But who can exist vicariously through other family members? She is beginning to find that her spinster estate is not as satisfying as she’d hoped, being left alone and lonely.

  Even the arrival of Abigail Fitzsimmons, a newly made widow, can’t really bolster her spirits.

  Given the paucity of available bachelors in town, Hannah decides to follow the successful lead of her siblings: she starts checking newspaper advertisements for men seeking a wife.

  Of all those sad and desperate appeals, she finds one that might be suitable. His name is Ualraig, but information is not easily forthcoming. It could be said, in fact, that he holds his cards close to his chest. She doesn’t even know where he lives.

  Finally he suggests they plan to connect there in Turnabout. Trouble is, he’s delayed again and again, until Hannah almost gives up hope of ever actually meeting her prospective bridegroom.

  Then a near-calamitous event takes precedence to all else, and Hannah’s world is turned upside down

  Journey to Turnabout

  Book Four: Hannah Burton / Winter

  Chapter One

  THE PAGES OF A SMALL town newspaper, circa A.D.1870 (moving rapidly into 1871), reflect mostly what’s happening in that particular small town, condensed to two large pages, typeset on both sides. Or four pages. Or, possibly, if something really spectacular (i.e., completion of The First Transcontinental Railroad in Promontory, Utah, on May 10 of 1869) or something really terrible (i.e., the Fisk-Gould Scandal, which caused a financial panic on September 24, also known as Black Friday, of the same year) is taking place, the weekly edition might be expanded to six.

  The information concerning a really spectacular or a really terrible event, if it were happening at some distance, might be sent by telegram. An eyewitness, such as to fire, flood, or some other natural or man-made disaster (of which there were many), might even leave the scene long enough to send dispatches via rail vehicle, or stagecoach. It certainly wouldn’t do if both the East Coast and the West Coast simultaneously broke off the continent to fall into space, leaving all those in the nation’s center completely unaware.

  Hannah Burton hadn’t quite decided the nature of her job—or its actual title—at the Turnabout Gazette, since circumstances varied from day to day.

  Twice, she had attended Sunday services at the Rock of the Lord Pentecostal Church to witness, and write a charming article about, the baptisms of two infants who wanted nothing to do with the cold water being poured over their heads and were determined to scream a protest.

  She had written the (albeit) very brief, but respectful, obituary of one Cole Forrester, with the few facts available at her fingertips.

  A single attendance at the recent town council meeting had left her hoping never to do so again. In fact, she had gained a new respect for her brother-by-marriage, who had held the bellowing hotheads somewhat at bay with gavel and some hotheaded bellows of his own. And all over the minor issue of whether Turnabout ought to go dry for the Sabbath.

  “Why, you would have assumed that everyone there was squabbling over election of the next president,” she marveled, speaking later to Ben when, a series of fisticuffs having been narrowly averted, he was escorting her to her room at the boarding house.

  He had grinned. “Now, requirin’ the Sabbath to be dry is a thirsty issue, Hannah. You don’t wanna come b’tween a man and his liquor.”

  “Huh. It seems to me that man ought to have the foresight to stock pile a few bottles in his own private cabinet, instead of wrangling in public like a bunch of wild steers.”

  “True. All true. But, y’ see, closing down the bars is somethin’ the women folk would like. The men, however, wanna keep ’em all open.”

  Her eyes widened. “The battle of the sexes—over booze? But why?

  “Some fellers need to escape the hen coop once in a while, just get out with other fellers so’s they can puff out their chests in manly pride. Even on Sunday. But we ain’t near finished with this issue yet, b’lieve me. May take another year or two to get it settled. We’re slow movers, here in Turnabout.”

  Reporting on weddings gave her pure delight. And she’d had two immediately, only one week apart, for both sisters. How poor Camellia had survived all the hullabaloo was certainly a wonder.

  So Molly and her sheriff were nicely settled in his house (although the grand piano, requiring the efforts of several strong men to move it, was still tied up in limbo, in Ben’s barn). With an odd-jobber at her beck and call, Molly was swishing around happily, up to her elbows in paint and plaster dust, changing this and changing that. Her dearly beloved had already bowed to the inevitable and arranged with a carpenter to add that requested music room along the side, next to the small parlor.

  It is always best, Molly had whimsically reflected, to strike while the iron is hot. Before the bloom is off the rose. In this case, however, given Paul’s complete infatuation with his equally infatuated bride, she felt that bloom might last a good many years.

  As for Letty, she and her new husband, Ben’s brother Reese, had celebrated with their own beautiful ceremony, on November Twelfth. No special wedding gown for her—other than her Sunday best, a marvelous concoction of turquoise silk, bustled with flounces and trimmed in black lace. She was far too relieved and overjoyed by her husband’s fortuitous escape to crave fancy furbelows.

  Immediately following the festivities, Mr. and Mrs. Barclay had moved into a small vacant rental whi
le they considered options for building a home of their own. A deliriously happy Letitia was continuing with her studies and her assistance to Doctor Havers (somewhat shocking the general populace), in between household duties and honeymoon spooning.

  Hannah was enjoying her assigned task of pursuing details for these articles she wrote. Such a legitimate means of prying—and, what was more, the subjects practically pinned her down to bubble over with facts and details, almost without even being pressed.

  Meanwhile, back to the question: what was she? Society reporter? News hound? Political spy? Advertising manager? Or jill-of-all-trades when it came to general work?

  She shared some of her duties with another employee, Cornelius Throckmorton, who, despite the grandeur of his name, spent only a few hours in the newspaper office once or twice a week. Mainly he set type; sometimes he swept up the floor or changed the current pot of coffee sludge for fresh or emptied garbage; on rare occasions he ran errands. From there on, rumor had it, he divided his free hours between the Firewater Saloon and the Prairie Lot.

  Both Corny and Hannah did serve at the pleasure of the editor and owner, a bespectacled, graying man named Oliver Crane, whose reputation for shortness of temper rivaled that of Ben Forrester.

  “Do I want to make this my career, like Margaret Fuller, of the New York Tribune?” Hannah, elbows propped upon the only desk, conveniently situated by the window, wondered aloud.

  “How the blue blazes d’ you expect me to know?”

  “Or possibly the intrepid Jane Swisshelm who serves as Washington correspondent? Especially since I’d never planned on having a career at all, especially this one.”

  “No,” her irascible boss countered. “You came in here and bullied me into takin’ you on, when I’d no intention of hirin’ anybody else. Certainly not some—some—woman!” As if she were a species of dangerous alien never before seen on earth..

  And, as if in derision for his own weakness, he had aimed a perfect hit at the nearby spittoon.

  Thoughtful, Hannah sipped at her cup of coffee. Drinkable, since she herself had brewed the pot fresh this morning, despite Oliver’s complaint that she would soon bankrupt the paper with her expensive tastes. Simply because she refused to keep adding ground beans to the original infusion, as the males did, and because she insisted upon starting with a clean coffeepot.

  Men, she had been heard to mutter.

  All in all, she liked what she was doing now, even if she had had to hound Oliver for the position. More to the point, unless she kept busy, she was leading a lonely life, and sometimes feeling it. With all three sisters married and settled into their homes, she alone was left at the boarding house, under Mrs. McKnight’s doting but too-vigilant eye.

  Much as she enjoyed pottering in the dirt, as Molly had teased, with her gardening business, the season had wound down and she was looking forward to a quiet winter without plants to care for. They were like children, she supposed, needing food and water and a good place to grow. Sometimes she feared that a patch of flowers was as close as she’d get to ever being blessed with a family of her own. It hardly seemed fair that she alone must make her way forward in life, without benefit of a good strong mate at her side.

  “You woolgatherin’ again, Missy?”

  “Of course I am, Mr. Crane. That’s when I do my best work.”

  “Huh.” Typical male response. Mumbling something that included the word “respect,” he shoved the slipping spectacles back into place on his beaky nose and returned to the advertisements he was putting together.

  Hannah wasn’t really daydreaming. She was collating the notes she had written during the most recent meeting of the Ladies’ Aid Society, readying the article for print. In between, she did occasionally stare out the window, just to clear her mind.

  Every good writer knows how this works. Hitting a brick wall, when the ideas simply refuse to gel and the words refuse to flow, can cause a logjam. Everyone has their own way of unjamming those logs. Some go for long walks. Some fetch a cup of coffee or meet friends. Some engage in housekeeping tasks, such as washing windows or beating the dust from a rug.

  For this moment, right now, Hannah was watching a cool breeze pick up a stash of crisp oak leaves and swirl them off down the street like a miniature tornado. Another breeze, this one slightly more temperamental and chill, rattled a few of the smaller branches. As if to offer a foretaste of the winter to come. It was November, after all, with the date for the Communal Thanksgiving Dinner just a few days away.

  Another social event to cover. Oh, well. At least she’d partake of a wonderful meal.

  “You off in another world now, Miss Burton?”

  Hannah sighed. “I’m sorry to take so long, Mr. Crane, when we’re both working under a deadline. Here, I’ve finished. Is there anything else you need for me to do?”

  He looked up at her over his spectacles, taking in the neat and trim black striped dress—almost a uniform—covered by a leather apron that protected fabric from the usual wear and tear of a printer’s shop. “You wanna head on over to the Sittin’ Eat and find out if Ezra is plannin’ to run his weekly ad, and, if so, does he want us to keep things the same?”

  “Of course.” Hannah, having removed the coverall, was already reaching for her lightweight coat and reticule. “Shall I tactfully remind him of his unpaid invoice from last month?”

  “Good point. Yeah, remind him. And no need to be tactful about it.”

  She took care of her allotted task at the Sittin’ Eat, both confirming and reminding, and lightly refused Ezra’s enthusiastic offer of something to eat, something to drink, maybe just some nice conversation. More work to do, she explained, slipping out the door; boss is a tyrant, you know.

  A new enterprise had just recently cropped up in town, and its doors, she discovered as she prepared to pass on by, were open for business.

  Several months ago a caravan, one similar to the wagon train in which she and her sisters had arrived at Turnabout more than six months prior, had pulled into Main Street. Gossip quickly spread that it was a woman alone—alone, that is, except for the obligatory half dozen or so men serving as drivers and general roustabouts—in charge of the group. Within just a few days she had settled herself and her entourage at the Drinkwater, begun to search available properties for a residence, and purchased a valuable corner building at the edge of the commercial district.

  She had signed the hotel register as Mrs. Abigail Fitzsimmons—a nice, high-sounding name, which might give a clue to her identity. But only a few in the area had actually been introduced to the lady. Fewer still had taken on the task of developing and creating a practical interior for her venture, to the lady’s specifications, since her employees had also dived right in on the construction.

  Hannah, who had not yet met the new resident, and had not even been treated to a description, occasionally wondered what was going on behind those closed doors and those covered windows. Other than a plethora of hammering, sawdust, and the frequent disgruntled oath of a worker.

  Located several blocks away from its competition, the place featured a sizeable plate-glass window that looked out upon what was attempting (through Hannah’s own efforts, a few months ago) to be a small park. Just chock full of struggling bushes, a bench or two, and some flowers far past their prime.

  Hannah decided to stop in and meet the owner. After all, some advertising must be done to make potential customers aware they could walk through the door. A Grand Opening might be arranged. Not that she had any experience in the field, but it would be worth a try. If she failed, the project could always be turned over to her employer.

  “Good day,” a plump but cheerful woman said in greeting, as a bell jangled at the door to announce Hannah’s entrance. “I’m Abigail Fitzsimmons, proprietor of Table of Contents.”

  “And a good day to you, as well,” Hannah, stepping up, returned the smile. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. My name is Hannah Burton. What an imag
inative title you’ve chosen for your enterprise. And—oh, my. Oh, my!”

  Stunned, she had barely gotten herself over the threshold before taking in her surroundings.

  The almost palatial room might have been lifted, intact, from some British nobleman’s castle. How on earth had Mrs. Fitzsimmons managed to keep such richness hidden for so long a time? And how had she managed to put this fairy-tale place together in such secrecy?

  What she saw before her was a parlor, complete with an elaborate fireplace built in rococo style, its flames curling up in welcome, this cool day, behind a screen. The walls had been papered in a soft green whose design held a multitude of pale pert mums, and the deep cornice molding, with its white paint, provided a soothing contrast. Floor to ceiling draperies of satin cream, complete with jabots, hung at every window, no matter its size or shape.

  Comfortable furniture filled the space. Settees upholstered in purple velvet, side chairs covered in purple damask, wing chairs decorated in purple brocade, all accompanied by small marble-topped side tables and larger tables draped in white linen. Underfoot, plush Persian carpets lay scattered across the walnut floor.

  Nor had accessories been forgotten. Painted ceramic lamps galore, candle sconces, a glittering crystal chandelier, sideboards holding a generous supply of precious china and silver, only enhanced the overall impression. And books. Beautifully bound leather books, stamped in gilt, rested everywhere, within easy reach, and stood neatly aligned upon the mantelpiece and several tall mahogany shelves. Almost like a library, in a separate section set off by a half-wall, behind which reposed a number of parlor chairs, wooden rockers, footstools, and the like.

  Bedazzled, Hannah turned to her hostess. For that was the effect: not as shopkeeper, but as lady of the manor. Who could not help responding to such friendliness, in comparison to the abstracted or rather surly greeting from Wally Knaack, at the Sarsaparilla, or the absence of any greeting at all from Ezra Draper, at the Sittin’ Eat.