Accidental Mail Order Bride: A Clean Western Romance Page 3

  “Here you are, Miss Jameson.” Mr. Roth was back, huffing a bit as he laid the flour and sugar down on the table. “What else for you?”

  “Beans, please. A bit of coffee. Mr. Ellis, anything else you can think of?”

  He shook his head and gazed out at the sky as Mr. Roth retrieved the goods. It was another fair day, cloudless and warm.

  “There’s a storm coming,” Mr. Roth warned him as he settled down behind the desk again.

  “There hasn’t been a storm all winter,” Samuel protested.

  “Aye, and all the more reason for this one to be terrible. You mark my words.” He nodded sagely. “My bones are aching, all of them.”

  “You only broke the one,” Samuel said, paying little credence to the man’s words. He saw Clara’s rebuking look and muttered an apology. “But I’m sure you’re right. Never known you to be wrong.”

  “Now, that’s a smart man.” Mr. Roth pointed at Samuel and spoke as an aside to Cora. “A good catch, that one is.”

  Cora’s cheeks flamed and she stuttered something. Samuel, hoping to cover her embarrassment, pulled out his money, but just then Mr. Roth slapped his palms down on the table.

  “I almost forgot! Curse my old mind. One moment, Miss Jameson. I have something for you.”

  “Oh?” Cora looked relieved by the change of topic.

  “Aye. One moment.” He hobbled into the back room and came back waving a letter. “It arrived just yesterday, miss, from a Mr. O’Toole in New York.”

  “Oh!” She looked at Samuel. “Mr. Herman’s contact in New York!”

  He felt his heart sink as she took the letter, and for a moment, he wanted to rip it from her hands and burn it. He twisted his cap between his hands, trying not to make a sound. He could be calm. He did not even know what was in the letter.

  But his worst fears were confirmed a moment later. She looked up, her eyes wide.

  “Mr. Herman has sent word,” she said quietly. Her face was pale. “I’m not join the family in San Francisco.”

  Chapter 6

  Cora kept her back rigid and he hands clasped in her lap, trying not to sway with shock as the cart jostled its way home over the dirt roads. Over and over she reminded herself that this, this life, this few weeks in Mr. Ellis’s cabin tending chickens and hauling water from the well, was the shocking thing. That Mr. Herman should ask her to join the family in its new location was perfectly normal. It was, in fact, what she had hoped for.

  So why did she keep thinking, miserably, that she would not be able to finish the quilt for Mr. Ellis? Why did she feel such grief at the thought of leaving the tiny cabin behind? Her hands had become rough from the work of the farm, and she fell into the tiny pallet bed each night with exhaustion, sleep claiming her before her head touched the pillow. It was hard work, living on a homestead, hard and cold and without fine food or music or refined company. This was not what her mother had raised her for.

  Or was it? She remembered her mother’s gentle smile when Cora asked about her father, dead and gone long since. Why don’t you marry again, Mama? You’re so pretty. Her mother always answered the same way: True love is rare, Cora. I’ve never loved a man half so well as I loved your father.

  And now, Cora forced herself to remember her mother’s cautions, the veiled words about Robert and his mother. She had been far too polite to say anything cruel, but she had never held with Robert’s moralizing, or the way his mother treated the servants. Cora, when you should marry well, as I am sure you will do, make sure to choose a man who treats even the smallest and weakest as his friends. Robert, Cora knew well, had never been that man.

  But Samuel was. She knew it in an instant. Even when Cora had thrown his offer of marriage back in her face, he had offered her the use of his home. He had never been free with his hands or his words, and no matter how gruff he was, it was always respectful.

  Would it be disrespectful, then, to tell him that she did not want to go to San Francisco any longer? Would it be too forward for her to say that here in Nebraska, even with the back-breaking work, she had found something more real and loving than she had ever expected? She gathered her courage to speak, and prayed that God would give her the words.

  Mr. Ellis, I would very much like to ask…

  “It’s good Mr. Herman called for you,” he said abruptly, when she looked over at him.

  Cora froze, her eyes wide. “I…”

  “You’ve been awful polite about it, but farm life isn’t for a lady like yourself.”

  She flushed and looked down at her hands. “Actually, Mr. Ellis—”

  “No, no need to say otherwise. Don’t let those fancy manners trip you up.”

  “Mr. Ellis—”

  “Yes, it’ll be good for you to be in a proper city again,” he said, nodding his head. He did not look over at her.

  She fell silent, her hands twisting in her apron. She had been right this whole time. When he said she was not wicked, when he told her that she had a good heart, it had all been pretty lies. She was useless on the farm, and wicked, and he wanted to get rid of her—like Robert had. Like the Hermans would, too, someday.

  How had she ever thought she could outrun this?

  “I’m very sorry to have inconvenienced you, then,” she said softly. Her lips felt numb, the words coming out all wrong. Her voice seemed to belong to a stranger. “Very sorry, indeed, Mr. Ellis.”

  “Nah.” His voice was concerned all of a sudden. “It’s been a pleasure, having you on the farm.”

  “You needn’t lie for politeness’ sake,” she told him simply, fixing her eyes on the horizon. “I know I’m a very poor farmhand. I have no doubt that when your wife arrives, she will be a better companion than I.”

  “I wouldn’t say—”

  “Mr. Ellis, I implore you not to be driven to lies. I understand my place.”

  He fell silent then, as she had expected him to, and she felt a savage satisfaction to have her place in the world acknowledged at last. Of all the people she had known, he was the only one to tell her the truth about herself. What he had said before, about her heart and her goodness, was only an attempt at gentlemanly lies. It had been very kind of him to try to pretend, but he should know that the truth was worth more than her feelings.

  They were almost to the house before he spoke again. “Here now, how about that book?”

  “You may of course keep it, Mr. Ellis. Or I would be happy to reimburse you from my wages as soon as possible.” She climbed down from the cart herself and almost ran to the chicken coop, desperate to be away from him—as he was so clearly desperate to be away from her. There, she pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her tears. This had been a stolen season, a stolen few days. But this was not her place, not her world.

  Chapter 7

  Samuel trudged his way through the bracken in the ditch, swearing as he went. It had been a bear of a time, these past few days. The weather continued fair, almost unnaturally so, and the cows were wont to wander off and get themselves stuck in brambles, huddling under bushes and trees as if there were snow pelting from the sky, instead of only a clear, cloudless blue. The cocks were crowing so early in the morning that they must think it was summer, and even his mare was anxious, jibing at the least little thing.

  And Cora…

  Samuel shook his head. She’d been nigh unto silent since Friday. That she was desperately unhappy was clear enough, but why? She’d been a good sport about her work on the farm, but it was clear to anyone with eyes that this life wasn’t one for the likes of her. Her poor hands had turned red and chapped, and she slept like the dead each night. That she put a good face on it, smiling and exchanging kind words with him, only made him feel more guilty.

  He worked up his courage now, alone, and drew in a breath.

  “I would have married her,” he said to the brambles. There. Had that been so difficult?

  Yes, because now his chest seemed to ache. He spotted the lost cow at last and set out afte
r it, trying to shove his feelings away—but they only rose up more strongly. Those words showed the root of it, he realized now. He had brought her back to his house for kindness’ sake, unable to bear the thought of her dying in the cold or at the hands of some rough homesteader, but the truth was that from the very first, when she drew water from the well and made that first leaden set of biscuits, he’d been more than half in love with her. Never a word of complaint, and the most interesting conversations he’d ever had with anyone. Why, she’d even told him she liked the wide Nebraska sky.

  But to keep her here would be selfish. A woman like Cora deserved a soft bed with silk sheets, fine soap to wash her face at night, and pretty dresses to show off her red hair. He’d never held much with fanciness, but if ever a woman deserved it, it was her. She should be among her own kind, teaching those rich young ladies how to behave—maybe giving them a scrap of her own kindness in the bargain so that they would treat their servants so shabbily. The world would be a better place for her presence in it.

  The wind whistled around him and he looked to the horizon, frowning. Was that a line of clouds? He squinted, and shook his head. He had enough time to get back before dinner, with time to spare, and those clouds would be nowhere close by then. All that remained was for him to determine whether he should bring the herd back or not. Pulling out his knife, he sawed at the branches that held the heifer trapped, all the while murmuring soothing noises to her.

  As he led her up the slope, he listened to the wind and made a quick decision. The storm would be nothing, most likely—but he should bring the herds back in any case. Better safe than sorry, and a night out of the cold wouldn’t hurt them any. Whistling as he hopped up on his horse and turned up his collage, shivering in the cold wind, before he began the slow business of urging the cows back to the homestead.

  His mind was only half on his task. This was best, he reminded himself. Best for Cora, and best for him. He’d blame himself for his whole life if he let her waste away in this place, and she would never accept his suit in any case—or worse, what if she did out of guilt? No, he could not impose on her. She was the type of honorable young miss who might think she owed it to him to marry him for the shelter he’d offered, and he’d not let her think such a thing.

  No, no matter her upset, she should go to California. Perhaps it was simply that with her employment back in her grasp, she was troubled to have done such demeaning work as she had. That might be it. He shook his head and urged his horse along. There was a time when he would not have wondered such things; she had turned his head upside down, that woman. It was good that she would be gone soon. As she would be, tomorrow evening.

  He looked up into the sky as the first few flakes swirled around him.

  Chapter 8

  She saw the clouds rolling in a little after four, if the old clock on the mantle was anything close to correct. She’d brought in the eggs from the coop, calling each of the chickens by name and spending more time than she ought to laying out new straw for their bedding. She’d milked the goats and begun a new cheese; she’d make sure that Mr. Ellis knew how to keep it. And the bread dough was rising nicely.

  She let out an ungraceful hiccup of a sob. This was ridiculous. She should be glad to be going to San Francisco. It wasn’t as great a city as New York, perhaps, but then, she had been glad enough to come to Nebraska, hadn’t she? She would have fitting employment: needlework instead of quilting, serving tea instead of stewing beans, and mending dresses instead of milking goats. She would have scones with her lunch and lemonade in the summers, and companions to talk about literature and geography and all manner of interesting things.

  She didn’t want to go, she thought, as packed her few belongings into the carpetbag. She was afraid of that world now: the world where smiles seemed to mean one thing but meant another, where one could never be sure of another’s regard. She would have to remind herself that when Mrs. Herman was polite, it was for form’s sake and not from genuine affection. This time, she would have to remember to stay in her place.

  Not that she was likely to forget what had happened the last time, when she tried to escape it. She tried to remember why she had even been tempted, and could not. The fine dresses Robert bought for her had been uncomfortable, as likely to make her lose her breath as they were to be far too cold for the weather, and the jewels had not been as enchanting as she suspected they should have been. There was never a proper soup or big mug of tea for a lady, only tiny portions and dainty cups, and she was forever having to watch her manners around Robert’s mother.

  And there had been no warmth, she saw that now. Robert was all glitz and glamour, always with a joke or a clever put-down, and she had always been laughing or dazzled or swept along in his misbehavior, like a small child liking a wayward cousin. When he came home late and reeking of gin, it was always with a sweet smile for her and some clever evasion that made her forget her questions. And when he tried to force himself on her, only to say that her beauty had driven him to it…

  Her hands stilled at the packing and she gazed off into space. Was it then that he had chosen to be rid of her? Had she wounded his pride, perhaps?

  No. That was ridiculous. It was her wicked tendency to blame others for her misdeeds. She returned to her work, only to stop once more. The wind was no longer just whistling around the cabin, as it was wont to do—it had taken on a lower tone, eerie. She peeped out the window and then opened the door, looking up as the first flakes of snow started. The clouds were much closer than they had been before; she could not ever remember them moving so fast.

  And Samuel was out in it. She did not even think, only grabbed her shawl and forged out into the wind. The chickens were herded into the barn and shut in their coop there, and then she barred the great door closed so it wouldn’t bang and ran toward the smudge on the horizon—Samuel’s herds, she hoped. She ran and ran until her feet ached and her sides were aching, and at last she saw him gallop toward her on his mare, swinging down from the saddle.

  “What’re you doing here?” His voice was gruff.

  “The snow.” She pressed her hand to her side, trying not to gasp. “The clouds came in so fast, and I thought…I was worried…you might not see.”

  “Dammit, girl.” He was fairly snapping at her, his brows drawn together. “Get back to the cabin. It’s a storm comin,’ I see it.”

  The snow was swirling so heavily that she could hardly see him now. “Come back with me.”

  “I have to get the herds inside.”

  “Then I’ll help.” She reached out to grab the lead rope of one of his cows, a heifer he said the others followed.

  “Get back inside!” His words were nearly lost in the rising wind. “It’s not safe out here.”

  “Then it’s not safe for you, either!” She struggled against her rising panic. “Let’s get the herds inside, or we’ll both be out in it.”

  “Damned foolish woman.” He swore and whistled to the herds. “Get on the horse. And don’t say you won’t, or I’ll carry you home myself.” He fairly tossed her into the saddle and took the heifer’s lead rope, hauling her through the wind.

  Cora remembered little of the journey. She called to the heifers when they strayed, and the tiny shape of the barn was sometimes visible through the billows of snowflakes. She was glad when her fingers went numb at last, and she was swaying with tiredness from trying to hold her place in the saddle, too cold to worry about the impropriety of riding astride with her knees gripping the horse’s flanks.

  They barely got the cows into the barn before a gust of wind very nearly tore the door off its hinges. Cora cried out as the cows lowed anxiously.

  “Let me get it.” Samuel strode to the door.

  “I’ll help you.” She hauled the heavy bar from the wall as he tried to hold the doors steady. But the next moment, the wind gusted again and the door escaped his grasp. Cora hardly had time for a moment of pain as the wood panel struck her, and then the world went dark.

/>   Chapter 9

  “No!” The wind stole his voice as Samuel wrenched the door away, slamming it closed in one savage movement. He skidded to his knees on the dirt floor, picking up Cora’s unconscious body. “Cora. Cora, please. Miss Jameson—wake up, please wake up.” Blood was running from the side of her head, and he swallowed back a sob of fear.

  Hoisting her into his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder, he pushed his way to the tiny back door of the barn and steeled himself before opening it. The wind howled around him as he forged through the drifting snow to the cabin. Gusts sent him staggering and it was all he could do to keep his feet. When at last he staggered into the cabin itself, he barely got the door closed behind him.

  He placed her on the bed and wrapped both quilts around her, shivering as he stoked the fire. The whole cabin was shuddering, even his firm foundation hardly a match for the winds outside, and she was so cold, so cold, and not moving…

  “Miss Jameson.” He knelt beside her, dipping his handkerchief in the bucket of water and beginning to clean the cut on the side of her head. “Can you hear me?”

  She made no sound, not even a moan of pain, and he resisted the urge to scream his anger and his pain into the night. She could not die, not like this. She had gone out into the storm to warn him, and if she died—

  “Miss Jameson…” His voice trailed away. “Cora.” She could not hear him. “You can’t die. I won’t let you die.”

  And yet, what could he do to stop it? He was no doctor. He wasn’t God.

  You should pray, Mr. Ellis. He could hear her voice now. She liked to chastise him when he failed to give thanks for his meals, and he knew that she would say such things even now. Even now, when God had failed her utterly. He clenched his hands together until his fingers ached, and then he reached out to take her hand in his, chafing it gently.