A Mail-Order Christmas Bride Read online

  I think I do love you, Annie Mills.

  ****

  The winter storms continued for almost two weeks. During that time, the Mills women stuck to indoor tasks, sewing and repairing clothes, and other daily chores. In addition, the three women began planning Adele’s June wedding and getting her hope chest completed.

  Annie discovered she was quite adept at embroidering. In one of her boxes, she found an unexpected, beautiful surprise—dozens of skeins of blue and silver embroidery thread. Not knowing why they were there, she used them to embroider her sister’s monogram onto the linens—a lovely, personalized gift that she could offer Adele.

  Annie began to feel more comfortable in her family setting, and they seemed delighted to have her back—a new and improved Annie, they all let her know in their own ways, who talked and laughed with them.

  Though weeks had passed, she never stopped thinking of Drystan. If she couldn’t have him…well, she would have to be content to dream about him. But oh, how she wished it could be more!

  ****

  Drystan had had a hard week. The rapid turn in the weather seemed to bring out the winter flu. He sat down, tired and frustrated after a long day, wishing he knew more about this disease and its cures. Angry that he could do so little to help, he had watched several infants and several elderly patients die these past weeks. He was exhausted, but too irritated to sleep.

  He hadn’t heard from his mail-order bride, and right now, he was glad. He didn’t need any other problems in his life at the moment.

  He missed Annie. She would know what to say to help him through this epidemic and give him the strength he needed. Annie. He remembered the thesis she had written and given him. Maybe reading her work would make her seem closer.

  He got up and lit his kerosene lamp. A blustery wind was blowing sleet against his window. He wrapped himself in a woolen cape and took out Annie’s thesis, The Influence of Margaret Fuller on the Women’s Movements. Annie had beautiful handwriting…not unusual for an educated woman. But…there was something familiar; something in the way she formed her “M” and “F”…

  In spite of the cold, he quickly jumped up and hurried to his desk to retrieve a small packet of letters from his mail-order bride. His hands shook as he took off the blue ribbon and looked at the handwriting on each and every one of the letters. Each letter was signed with a name that was suddenly very dear to him—Margaret Fuller.

  For the first time in weeks, Drystan smiled, then he laughed.

  By Jove, they’re the same woman. My Annie is my fiancée!

  He reread the letters, the smile never leaving his face.

  Ah, well, for the first time in a long time I have something to think about besides sickness, death, and a strange mail-order bride. Relieved, he turned off the lamp and thought of Annie. Now, he only had to convince her. But the handwriting on the letters and the thesis was a wonderful start.

  ****

  Over the next couple of days, the weather began to clear, and a dry cold settled in. The influenza outbreaks seemed to ease up a bit, but Drystan knew they would be back in force in January.

  In the meantime, he and Jenifer took advantage of their scant days off by going out and doing some Christmas shopping. He had been shopping not only for his sister, but for Annie, as well. He wanted this Christmas to be the first of many. He had told Jenifer about his discovery, and excited, she had suggested that they drive out to the Mills’s homestead that day, but Drystan knew he was needed in town. The trip would have to wait a little longer.

  ****

  On Christmas Eve, the siblings were dining with elderly Dr. Brown in the restaurant of a local hotel. Drystan was just about to ask the doctor to cover for him for a few days as he had some personal business to attend to when the front door to the eatery burst open.

  “Doc, Doc!” A man and a boy dressed in sheepskin coats rushed into the dining room.

  “Mathew? Robert? Is Annie all right?” Drystan stood up.

  “Annie’s fine, Doc,” Robert said, panting. “It’s Mother! We had a kitchen fire in the bunkhouse. Mother was cooking a goose for the hands when the stove blew and lit the bunkhouse. Father ran and saved Mother, but she’s burned bad.”

  The older doctor didn’t hesitate. “Go, son, and help them out. I can handle the town for a few days, especially with Jenifer to assist me.” Drystan thanked him hurriedly, and the men ran out of the hotel restaurant and into the night.

  “We got three fresh horses, your black bag, and some warm gear,” Mathew shouted. They mounted up and rode out quickly.

  ****

  Several hours later, cold and numb, they arrived at the Mills Ranch.

  “I’ll take care of the horses,” said Owen, the old foreman. “Y’all just git in there an’ save Missus Mills, Doc. Please.” He turned away before emotion overcame him.

  From the doorway, Annie shouted and ran down the porch steps to him. “Oh, Drystan, you came!” She reached to hug him, and he enfolded her in his arms.

  “Of course, I came. Where is your mother?” he asked.

  “She’s in the washing room,” she responded as she led the way.

  “The washing room?”

  “Well, yes. I could control the heat there and continue to bath her in cool compresses.”

  Drystan entered the room to see Mrs. Mills lying on a cot, covered with wet linen. The temperature was comfortable, and a cut-up green succulent lay in a pile next to a bowl with greenish goo in it.

  “Aloe. You know about aloe.” He smiled briefly, but then took off his jacket and washed his hands in the washbowl Adele had prepared for him just as Annie had instructed her to do. A hot iron indicated the clean linens were sterile.

  “We gave her laudanum, Doc. She was in a lot of pain. Will she be all right?” Mr. Mills asked uncertainly. “We just didn’t know what else to do.”

  Drystan bent over Mrs. Mills, checking her temperature and pulse. “You’ve done all that I could do. Now, we must wait and hope that no infection sets in. The burns seem to be contained on her extremities. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  The family took shifts in reapplying aloe to Mrs. Mills’s burns. Clean linens replaced the used ones. Mrs. Mills awoke and took some broth, but then fell asleep again. Annie insisted that the exhausted siblings get some rest because they had been working since dawn.

  “Well, Annie, you’d better get that doctor some chow, seeing as how we interrupted his supper,” Mathew said before leaving the room.

  “I’m a bit hungry, but I’m used to skipping meals,” Drystan said.

  “Nonsense. Let me get some dinner for you,” Annie said.

  In a few minutes, she returned to get him. Her father was there, and Drystan was explaining what was happening. “I just gave her some more laudanum, so she can rest. So far, no blistering and no red lines of infection. Thank goodness, you knew what to do. I think she will be all right—but I say that with caution. We still can’t be certain.”

  “Thanks, Doc, for coming out here,” Mr. Mills said emotionally. “You go have some supper, now. Annie will have something fixed for you, I’m sure.”

  “I do,” Annie said. “Come eat.”

  Drystan took her arm as they started for the kitchen. “Sit with me, Annie. I have something to tell you.”

  Annie took a deep breath. The day had come. She was certain of it. “Did your mail-order bride finally arrive, Drystan?”

  “She did.”

  Disappointment clutched at her heart. Her fingertips tingled. She tried to school her features; to be understanding. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known this would happen. “I see. And when—when did she arrive?”

  “Actually, she arrived in October.”

  “Oh? What took her so long to let you know she was here?” She couldn’t look at him. Sadness and disappointment were gnawing at her. If she looked up, he would see it.

  Quietly, in the loveliest Welsh lilt she’d ever heard, he answered, “She couldn’t tell me because
she had forgotten who she was.”

  Annie remained silent for a moment. She slowly raised her gaze to his. He was watching her, waiting for her to realize the truth of what he was saying.

  “What? You mean—I was your mail-order bride?” She looked at him incredulously. “How do you know?”

  “Luckily, you gave me your thesis. Margaret Fuller was the subject of your thesis, and for some reason, you had chosen Margaret Fuller as your bride’s name—I’m supposing in case you wanted to back out of it,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Lastly, the handwriting was the same.”

  He took her hand. “I am deeply in love with you, Annie. Will you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?”

  Annie could hold back her emotion no longer. She had loved Drystan Thomas from the moment she’d seen him standing over her after the accident, care and concern written across his handsome features. Only now could she admit the agony she’d endured when she believed he belonged to another. What a lovely, old-world proposal he’d made...a fairy-tale ending to this odyssey she’d found herself in the midst of. She didn’t have to question her feelings any longer. She loved him. She loved him. Her heart sang.

  “Yes, oh, yes!” Tears of pure joy streamed down her face.

  Just then, the clock in the hall struck midnight. They gazed into each other’s eyes. Christmas was here, with its own gift—one she’d never expected or hoped for.

  “Merry Christmas, Drystan, my love,” Annie murmured.

  Love blazed in his eyes as he gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “There’s no mistletoe above us, but I think I’m going to kiss you anyway, my dearest Annie.”

  She smiled as his lips met hers and they shared a Christmas kiss, the first kiss of many, many more to come.

  About the Author—Jesse J Elliot

  Jesse J Elliot now writes about what she loved so much to read about, watch or see in her travels—the Old West, except her stories always have a strong female protagonist. Her work has appeared in Frontier Tales Magazine and will be published in The Best of Frontier Tales, Volumes 5 & 6. Two new stories are also scheduled for publication in 2016. In her previous life she taught K-6, community college, and Educational Methods at the university. In her free time, she reads, travels, country-and-western dances, and visits her family ranch in New Mexico.

  A Holiday Hoax

  Meg Mims

  When mail-order brides “switch” grooms in Holliday, Nebraska, will they succeed or end up in ruining their futures?

  Chapter One

  “Mrs. Vera Sanders.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  She stopped at the stairway’s bottom, a tray of soiled dishes between her cold, thin hands, before the polished reception desk. Vera had been up since before dawn, working with the cook to prepare the day’s meals, including breakfast or dinner orders to be taken up to certain guests’ rooms. Dried mud tracked the carpet she’d swept less than an hour ago. A chill wind sent shivers through her until a hotel guest shut the door behind him. Wary, Vera met her boss’s piggish eyes. He didn’t look pleased. His reddened flesh bulged above his tight collar, matching his bulbous nose. He traced a fat finger along an envelope’s edge.

  “Is that letter for me, sir?”

  “It is. Since when have you begun receiving correspondence?” Mr. Briggs couched his stern question with a waggle of his wiry gray eyebrows. “From a Mr. Baxter Cunningham. You remember the hotel’s policy, I trust.”

  “Of course, sir. Personal business shall not impose on any job duties,” Vera repeated to his satisfaction. Balancing the tray on one hip, she snatched the thick envelope and stuffed it into her apron pocket. “Thank you, sir. I’ll read it tonight.”

  “Remember we have a late Saturday supper! I shall deduct the cost of paper, ink, and postage from your wages once again when you answer—”

  She ignored the grating voice that followed her. Vera hurried to the noisy kitchen and dumped the load she carried beside the pile of other dishes. She nodded to Mrs. Gruber who stood red-faced and panting at the blazing stove; Vera plunged her hands into soapy, hot water. Three young girls in aprons hurried to fill coffee pots or platters of food before they rushed to the dining room. Vera didn’t mind scrubbing dishes, flatware, pots and pans. But she was dying to read the letter. She could tell Mr. Cunningham had enclosed a photograph.

  What would it be like, giving up all that she had gained here in Mulberry Grove, only a few miles from her late husband’s farm? Starting over out west in a new place would be a huge adjustment. Vera had only traveled to Cincinnati once, as a child. She’d followed Jacob here from Pa’s farm near Marietta, less than fifty miles away. She had no idea how far Holliday, Nebraska, could be. It seemed on the other side of the world.

  Vera supervised the girls who rushed through serving the late supper, and then through washing and drying everything all over again. Her mind wandered while she swept the floor. Nebraska. Were there still savage Indians on the warpath? She didn’t think so, from what she’d read in the newspapers, but perhaps such dangers weren’t being reported. Not that she’d mourn leaving Mulberry Grove. Jacob had left major debts after his death. Vera had sold nearly everything they’d accumulated to settle them. All she had left, after a decade of marriage, were clothes and books from her days as a school teacher.

  Ma and Pa had passed away, so Vera had no choice but to go forward.

  Mr. Briggs came in close to midnight to count out their wages. Mrs. Gruber took hers without a word, although the girls eagerly thanked him. Vera stewed in silence while he deducted items from her earnings. He set several coins on the table.

  “I suppose you’re thinking of marrying again. Is that what the letter is about?” He sounded gruff. “A good woman like you could do better than another farmer.”

  “I could, indeed.”

  Briggs’s eyes slid downward and then met her gaze. “Well?”

  Vera didn’t reply. She pocketed the coins and turned her back on him. Briggs stood watching them hang their aprons, staring at the younger girls who tiptoed past him. They jumped when he cleared his throat.

  “Mrs. Sanders. Are you planning on marrying again?”

  She turned slightly and spoke in a low voice. “That is my personal business, sir.”

  “It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

  “I am not certain.” Vera met his gaze without flinching.

  He didn’t seem satisfied but said nothing else. They all breathed a sigh of relief once Briggs left the kitchen.

  “Die Nase voll haben—he is full in the nose with himself,” Mrs. Gruber muttered.

  The girls burst into giggles. Vera had to bend over the sink to hide her silent laughter. Her stomach hurt, and she swiped her damp eyes several times. She suspected Briggs had intended to propose. But that pompous fool would be the last man she’d ever accept. His arrogance grated her nerves. She wasn’t a young girl who feared his every command, so why would he care about her plans? Unless he wanted to keep her working here.

  “All is well. Gute Nacht,” Mrs. Gruber said. “Home you go.”

  The girls wearily trudged out the door, accompanied by one of their brothers who’d come to fetch them. Mrs. Gruber and Vera climbed the back stairs to their small rooms. The hotel owner had partitioned one room into two, each holding a narrow bed, washstand and mirror, plus pegs on the wall for their clothes. Pitifully small and mean, the size of Vera’s old pantry.

  Vera and Jacob had managed a two-story farmhouse, barn, chicken coop, several orchards, and a hundred acres of land. Things had changed so fast.

  Once inside, Vera locked the door and braced a chair beneath the knob. Briggs had once knocked on her door when she’d first started working at the hotel, with a flimsy excuse to check the lamp; he’d nearly forced an embrace. Only her lethal four-inch hatpin kept him off. But he’d punished her in retaliation, docking her wages for missing or broken china, bent flatware, extra kerosene for the lamp she read by, soap to launder her clothes. W
orth the price to keep him at bay, however.

  She had to leave. Becoming a mail-order bride seemed the only way out. Besides, Briggs would work her to death preparing for the hotel’s holiday season, decorating and baking, cooking, serving, and cleaning up afterward. Vera would rather be married to a stranger than go through all that again. Even if it meant leaving the few friends she had here and missing whatever snatches of time she could visit and celebrate.

  Her hand shook as she slit the envelope’s end with the hatpin, then stopped. She left the envelope on the bed and turned to the washstand. Her usual routine always settled her nerves—washing up, changing to her nightdress, brushing her hair one hundred strokes after turning down the lamp. When she’d finished, she slipped beneath the bedcovers. Groping for her future, she held the envelope against her bosom, and prayed in silence until sleep overcame her.

  Vera woke, groggy after waking so often through the night. The first rays of dawn shimmered on the muslin curtains. Sunday meant an afternoon of rest, but she could not wait until having privacy to open the packet. She slid out the letter; train tickets fell out, along with a list of directions, and a grainy photograph. Vera squinted at the man on horseback, the surface too faded to make out his face. His wide-brimmed hat shadowed half his figure. One hand held the reins. He looked confident. Resourceful. Behind him, the treeless land showed several rock formations in the distance.

  She unfolded the letter and studied the handwriting—a careful script with a man’s forceful touch, rigid in its spacing. Vera could sense a hint of his underlying personality. A man like Cunningham knew what he wanted, and how to achieve it. His advertisement for a bride mentioned his age of thirty—her same age—and of being a bachelor, but rough in manners. Yet his words were not harsh.

  Holliday, Nebraska, October 1890

  Dear Mrs. Sanders:

  I thank you for answering my inquiry. I have enclosed a photograph and the correct tickets for your transportation needs. They are good for any time in the next month. I trust you will bring whatever necessities you require. I have reserved a room at the Hotel Aberdeen, since I may be away on business when you arrive. I own a prosperous cattle ranch, and need a woman of your experience to help manage the household, guide the servants, and to share in my life and love. Upon our mutual agreement, we can be married and begin our life together, hopefully before Christmas. I am,