Mail Order Bride- Fall Page 3

  It wasn’t until the meal was over and Ben was leisurely finishing his third cup of coffee, before making a move to return to the mercantile, that Letitia broke her news. She had considerately, deliberately delayed until every course seemed to be resting comfortably on the path to digestion and the couple was in an agreeable mood.

  No matter. With the very first words, all went awry.

  It probably would have been easier, Letitia reflected on another sigh, had she called the whole family—and Doc—together at one time, stated her case, and then let everyone duke it out.

  “I’M TOO OLD FOR THIS,” Ben grumbled, pushing back his chair to begin pacing the width and length of the kitchen. Another similarity to the doctor: brothers under the skin. “I never signed on to be responsible for so much ballyhoo. My own wife, sure; and whatever she gets herself involved in. But sisters, too? And three of ’em, no less! No, sir, I just ain’t cut out to run a whole dad-blamed flock of scatterbrained females!”

  “I beg your pardon!” Camellia’s ears perked up. At that moment, she couldn’t tell for sure with which one she was most irritated: her husband, for his insensitivity, or her sister, for her impetuosity. Actually, it might be a toss-up.

  “Uh.” The head of the household came to a screeching stop. “Now, darlin’, y’ know how I get when things upset me. B’sides, we ain’t talkin’ about us. We’re talkin’ about Letitia, here.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said levelly. “But we’ll have a private conversation later on when we can talk about us, what do you think?”

  “Uh.”

  Fascinated, Letty watched while the tips of Ben’s ears turned beet-red and the furrows cut into his lean cheeks deepened. Amazing what a talent for management her eldest sister had hidden away all these years. In moments of stress, Camellia brought her errant husband to heel as easily as one lightly touched spurs to the flank of a restive stallion. And yet, he seemed quite content to let her slip the bit between his teeth and the bridle over his head.

  She only hoped she might enact the same effortless restraints over her own husband, should a situation so warrant.

  Of course, she had yet to learn how the lure of the kitchen, combined with the charms of the bedroom, might effectively sway any man’s opinion in his wife’s favor.

  “And you, young lady.” Camellia turned the full force of that brilliant blue gaze upon the girl inwardly writhing in her seat. “Kindly explain yourself.”

  That was the look she and Molly had earned, time without measure, during their irrepressible preadolescence when caught in some mischief. Attaching their mother’s pearl bobs to the reluctant ears of a carriage horse, for example. Or rifling through, at the precocious age of seven, their mother’s wardrobe for the most fantastic bits of lace and flummery ever owned, which could be used for imaginative play in the muddy court yard. Or being tempted to climb a ladder, accidentally and invitingly left behind by workmen, onto the stable’s roof—and getting stuck there by panic and tears.

  Wait a minute.

  She was no longer a child, to walk in fear of her sister’s wrath.

  “I’m no longer a child,” she calmly informed Camellia. “I’m capable of choosing my own course, thank you very much, and of making my own decisions.”

  Mutiny! First Molly, the adored youngest, and her disastrous determination, and now Letitia. No wonder that Camellia felt her maternal authority slipping away. In but the flash of an instant she thought, Fine, then, so be it. She had other fish to fry.

  “Very well.” She began to gather plates and silver haphazardly together, with a clink and a clatter. “You’re all grown up. Then I shall simply wash my hands of any repercussions resulting from this mad venture.”

  Quailing a bit, Letitia began to back track. “Well, but—no, I didn’t mean that—”

  “Will I be allowed inside the church when you proceed with your wedding plans?”

  “Oh, Cammy, please don’t take it this way. I wasn’t trying to cause you upset.”

  Serene as a Madonna, she rose and turned toward the sink. “Goodness gracious, I am hardly upset. Just wishing to know my limitations, that’s all.”

  But her slow, stiffened movements gave those words the lie. Even though this show of independence might be a natural and understandable progression of events for anyone seeking to slip free of childhood’s restraints into adulthood, Letitia realized that her sister had been hurt.

  Only those of similar character have the power to unerringly strike where the most harm can be done. Who knows us better than a close family member—father and son, mother and daughter, and so on—with whom we share the most personality traits? Their worst feature is, oftentimes, our worst feature. And who better, then, not only to thrust out and stab home the knife of discontent, but to twist and turn it, for good measure?

  Ben snorted. As so often happened, his spurt of temper had blown in as quickly as a thunderstorm and as quickly blown out again. While he might rant and rage over some crucial issue, his flare-ups were usually short-lived. Within a few minutes, the threatening clouds would be gone and the skies sunny once again. It was an admirable quality, to be angry—and then to let it go, without grudge.

  “Camellia is just worried about you,” he said, and, surprisingly, approached to lay both his hands on Letitia’s shoulders from behind. A definite show of support! “But she ain’t mad. I reckon you’d oughta tell us more about this fellah—what you know, anyways. Then we can size him up when he lands in town.”

  Deep relief washed over the prospective bride, leaving her limp and hollow-boned in her chair. “I don’t want to make you late for work...”

  Laughing, Ben reseated himself across the table. “Honey, you forget, I own the place. Reckon I can decide when I go back. C’mere, Cam, my love. Let’s try to talk things over with calm heads.”

  “Easy for you,” sniffed Camellia, too proud to bend just yet. “You’re not the one who has had to bail this family out of trouble on every occasion known to mankind.”

  “Cam.” Just a hint of reproach could be heard in the cajoling male voice, as he reached out to draw her in. “You don’t want trouble betwixt the two of you. Get over here.”

  Without another word of dissent, she obeyed. Perhaps it was the slight sternness of the male figure that had overpowered her inhibitions; perhaps it was the love she had come to feel for the man. Which ought to hold out hope for any other girl contemplating a similar style of marriage.

  Letitia, feeling slightly less antagonistic, began to describe her actions of the past few months. Of course, she had already proven to be a free spirit, a maverick for her times, by her determination upon a medical career. It followed that placing an ad as Mail Order Bride would come next.

  “You don’t seem to know much about him,” Ben pointed out.

  “Not yet. He ought to be arriving here any day now, and I’d planned on a more thorough—um—investigation then.”

  “Has Molly’s misadventure slipped your mind?”

  Letty’s lovely rose-colored lips tightened. “Of course not. I will be careful, I promise you. And doesn’t every mail order bride necessarily have to take a leap of faith? I’m just more fortunate than most, because I have a home—of sorts—and I’m settled. Besides, if we’re talking examples, there is the experience of you and Ben to consider.”

  “What experience?” demanded Camellia. “We had months of correspondence to provide a solid foundation for our marriage, and both Mr. Llewellyn King—remember our St. Louis family lawyer?—and Mr. Farraday of the Peerless Matrimonial Services could assure me of the safety and sanctity for both sides.”

  “And what happened just after you and Ben repeated your vows? I believe the two of you had some silly misunderstanding, and you nearly called it quits, then and there.”

  Camellia had no response to that accurate accusation. Stymied, clearly disgruntled, she subsided in her chair, shifting her heavy earthenware cup from hand to hand.

  It was left f
or Ben to take the high road. With an appeasing smile, he placed a light hold on her forearm, and its green-sprigged dimity sleeve, as a reminder that he was still here. “As long as you don’t rush into anything. There’s no need to rush. All right?”

  “I thought,” said Letty coolly and crisply, “I had already made my position clear on that point.”

  “Just don’t want you goin’ back on your word, girl. Once bitten, twice shy, y’ know. So—uh—you kinda liked the cut of his jib, huh?”

  At that, she had to smile. “I’m not sure what that means, Ben. But if you’re asking whether I took his letters at face value enough to invite him here, with a possible union—well, yes. I did.”

  “Okay. Reckon we’ll just wait to see what happens, then.” Pushing back his chair, he rose and snapped his suspenders back in place. “Now I really gotta get back to work. Elvira is gonna be all over me like a duck on June bugs, wonderin’ why I’m late.”

  “But, I thought you said—”

  As he plopped a rather weather-beaten hat upon his head, Ben gave a grin that was not exactly Mona Lisa in style, but close. “A man’s gotta have some secrets. Ladies.”

  After the door had closed upon his exit, Camellia surveyed her sister for a lengthy, silent minute. Finally, she said, “Letitia. Scars? Really?”

  The girl managed to resist making a childish face in retort. “Camellia. Scars. Really.”

  Chapter Five

  A TOWN THE SIZE OF Turnabout, with its two thousand residents (give or take a few here and there), might be considered the perfect size. Small enough for a visitor to make himself right at home with those strolling about, big enough for a newcomer to get lost in until he had sized up any situation.

  Walking one’s horse down Main Street, or driving one’s wagon either loaded or unloaded, presented the traveler with quite a favorable impression (and a consideration as to whether to move on, or stay): plenty of mature oaks and sycamores, lending plenty of shade, and plenty of water troughs for thirsty mounts; several blocks of thriving businesses, side by side, with customers partaking; half-barrels parked here and there with actual flowers spilling out their blooms (courtesy, no doubt, of green-thumbed ladies, and any masculine help they could enlist).

  It was a pretty place, whose outward appearance alone might draw in new citizens.

  Such a one might be, opined several of the porch-sitters outside Forrester’s Mercantile, the rather dusty fellow climbing down from his chestnut filly over near the Drinkwater. Come a far piece, thought one, cutting off a chaw of tobacco. Likely had himself some rough times, decided another, reaching for the cup of coffee their amiable shopkeeper always provided for the gang, indoors or out. Musta been on the road a right smart while, the third spoke up.

  Whatever his background, the rider could be heard murmuring to his horse as he got her settled to drink. Then, hauling down a carpetbag from behind the saddle, he slowly made his way along the boardwalk and inside the hotel. The spectators, all watching avidly from across the street, also noticed that he was limping, just a little. That could have been due to the normal stiffness of traveling in one position for too long a time, or to some injury.

  Well, time would tell. Once the man had checked in, the nosiest of the sitters—probably old Pete—would hike himself on over and have a little chat with Lancelot Tucker, desk clerk in the lobby. When you’re bored, with nothing to do on a mild and mellow autumn day, you take whatever excitement you can get.

  “Yes, sir,” Lancelot, offering his usual smile, greeted the visitor. Lance, a tall, thin, balding man with the perpetual hunch of a stork, seemed to wear good humor like a mask. “What’ll it be for you today?”

  A wide, shadowing hat brim allowed no fine distinction of facial features, but the voice was quiet and faintly amused. “I assume you’re in the business of rentin’ rooms?”

  “Oh, indeed we are. Several kinds, some more opulent than others. What would you like?”

  “Second floor. Don’t need nothin’ opulent—just a bed and the basics, is all.”

  “Ahuh. And how long will you be staying?”

  “Not sure yet. That a problem?”

  “No, sir, not at all, Mr.—uh—Mr.—” The signature on a fresh page of the Drinkwater register gave no clue as to identity, being not only scrawled but finished off with a large ink blot.

  “Then, for now, let’s say a week, and I’ll let you know if my plans change.” He bent forward, favoring his left side just a bit, to retrieve the bag on the floor. “You got a bath house anywhere abouts?”

  Lancelot beamed. “Sure do. Right next door. They provide you all the soap and towels and hot water you might want, plus shavin’ gear if you need it. All for just twenty-five cents.”

  “Sounds reasonable. And a stable for my horse?”

  “Absolutely. A few blocks south, then turn right. Norton Livery. Double the fee, I’m afraid, but Abel takes good care of any animal in his province.”

  “Much obliged.” Picking up a room key placed on the counter, the newcomer made his way to the stairs and began ascending.

  He had barely made it to the landing, and a turn thence to the next floor up, than Pete Buttinsky (not his real name, Lord knew, but fitting) swung inside the open front door to demand, “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Stranger in town, Lancelot,” said Pete in slow, labored tones, as someone explaining the facts of life to another someone not quite right in the head. “You did notice, yeah? Who is he?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” sniffed the clerk, turning away.

  “Huh.” Without further ado, Pete reached to reverse the hotel ledger in an attempt to decipher the scribble. He frowned. “What the dad blame is this kinda stuff? Can’t read it for nothin’.”

  “Nor should you. Good day, Pete. You’re trespassing.”

  “G’wan with you! This’s public property. For all you know, I’m gonna march right over into that there dinin’ room for a meal.”

  “And for all I know, you and your cronies will take a flying leap right over the next full moon. Scram, Pete. Plenty of rumors out on the street for you to pass along.”

  Definitely disgruntled, the old man was forced to concede defeat and return to his confederates, where he promptly filled them full of imaginary facts. Meanwhile, the stranger dropped his carpet bag in the room to which he had been assigned, then made his careful way back downstairs to tend his horse.

  Renting a stall from Abel Norton took the work of a few minutes; removing saddle and tack and all accompanying bits and harness took a little longer. As did the gentle currying and combing—even a soft crooning of, “There y’ go, Stargirl. Yeah, feels good, don’t it?”—as her owner worked on the neglected coat, checked the hooves, gave a friendly pat here and there. It wasn’t until after he had turned her out into the grassy, shaded pasture that he betook himself to the bath house for some long-delayed cleanup of his own neglected frame.

  All of which mightily impressed Abel.

  “A man who takes care of his hoss first is a man t’ be reckoned with, in my book,” he reported later over supper at the Sarsaparilla.

  There was general agreement to this around the table, amongst his several comrades.

  “What’s his handle?” asked one of the ranchers, ready to head out for home after loading his buckboard with supplies.

  “Dunno. Listed everything under the filly’s name. Star.”

  “Traveled far, y’ figure?”

  “And light. Not much extra to his bedroll or saddle bags. Come t’ think of it, not much extra to him, neither. He ain’t carryin’ a lotta weight.”

  After a leisurely assignation in the tub with some pine-scented bar soap, and a satisfying shave, the stranger, glimpsed by just a few, had taken a slow stroll through Turnabout’s evening streets before disappearing into the Drinkwater. And somehow, all during that first day in town, he had quietly gone about his business without divulging a single fact about himself to curious onlooker
s.

  “Huh. On the run, most likely,” offered Pete the next morning. Having enjoyed a leisurely serving of ham, scrambled eggs, and flapjacks at the Sittin’ Eat Hash House, he had joined his fellow sitters at their regular job.

  “Been layin’ low, that’s a fact,” chimed in Oliver Rutledge. “Who knows what he’s hidin’ out from? Anybody seen him around and about yet t’day?”

  Charlie Gamble aimed a stream of tobacco at the nearby spittoon and almost hit his target. “Heard he had an early breakfast here at the hotel. Then he went and vanished again, like a puff of smoke.”

  Ben, seeking to relieve the tedium of his weekly bookkeeping, chose this moment to emerge for a well-deserved break. Stretching his arms wide, taking a deep breath of the foliage-scented autumn air (and discounting the pungent odor left by passing equine traffic), he shook his head at the trio of gossip-mongers.

  “You fellahs are a treat. Whose reputation are you tearin’ down now?”

  “You ain’t heard about the stranger in town?”

  “Stranger?” The shopkeeper’s ears, so attuned to the town’s drumbeat, almost visibly fanned out. “I been buried up to my nose in accounts. When did he get here?”

  “Yesterday,” said Pete with a grin. If Ben’s ears were so susceptible, than doubly so was Pete’s nose, quivering now at the tip. “Been tryin’ to find out who he is, but we ain’t seen hide nor hair of him yet.”

  “What’s his name?”

  With a shrug, Charlie aimed again at the spittoon. Ben took a hasty sideways step. “That’s what nobody knows. Right mysterious, wouldn’tcha say? Stayin’ a week, from what I heard.”

  “Oh, just a week?” The sensitive antennae folded in on themselves. “Well, I’ll leave it up to you boys to ferret out the man’s story. Feel free to pass it along.”

  Forgetting for a moment upon just whose porch he was taking up space, Pete cast a baleful look upon his host as he returned to duty. “Sometimes I don’t think that gent takes us at’all serious.”