A Mail-Order Christmas Bride Read online

  Yours Truly,

  Baxter Charles Cunningham

  Vera reread the letter twice more and then gazed at her future husband. She liked the sound of his name. She also liked the idea of helping him manage a large household without actually slaving in the kitchen as cook and maid.

  But Baxter could not possibly be like her Jacob—soft-voiced, gentle, unable to say no to all the new-fangled ways of farming. He’d bought extra land from a neighbor moving to Oregon, when he could barely keep up with what he had. Jacob had bought an extra team, plows and other equipment, plus extra seed to replant multiple times after a long line of devastating spring storms. Vera knew his heart had given out over all that work.

  “He wasn’t cut of farmer’s cloth,” she whispered. Jacob had been born a grocer’s son but rebelled, preferring to work with his hands and watch crops grow, harvest and sell. But carpentry should have been his lot. Not the endless toil in the fields. Baxter sounded like he knew the cattle ranch business. Vera knew the weather still mattered, since cattle had to eat. Still, she could manage servants and household accounts.

  A heavy pounding on the door startled her. “Mrs. Sanders! You’re late,” Briggs roared. “I shall dock you for every minute.”

  “I’m coming!”

  Vera raced to wash, don her mourning dress of black bombazine with a white lace collar and cuffs, and then put up her hair. She quickly packed her carpetbags with her belongings and then crept down the back stairs to the kitchen, winter coat over her arm, hat and gloves in hand. The fragrant scent of fresh coffee and baking bread, the sound of bacon sizzling in the skillet, made her mouth water. If only she had time to eat. Vera’s stomach grumbled in protest, however.

  “Mrs. Gruber? I’m so sorry, but I’m leaving—”

  “Vat is dis, Frau Sanders? Veer you are going?” Mrs. Gruber’s brown eyes widened when she spied the carpetbags. She fussed with bread, butter, cheese, and fruit while Vera quickly explained the offer she’d received. “A bride you will be, ja wohl! You are young, a good life out in the west you will make. Alles Gute!”

  “Thank you.” Despite her excitement, Vera hesitated from hugging the cook. “Once again, I’m sorry. It’s such short notice.”

  “Nein, nein. Herr Briggs will another frau bring.” Mrs. Gruber pushed a box into her arms. “This you take. For the train, müssen Sie essen.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Vera donned her coat, pinned her hat on, and then hid the box in her carpetbag. Then, she marched to the front door. Briggs glanced up from the registry on the reception desk, eyebrows raised at her coat, hat, and gloves.

  “I am leaving Mulberry Grove. For good,” Vera said.

  “What?” Briggs slapped a palm against the counter. “You can’t leave on the spur of the moment like this! How am I going to replace you so quickly?”

  “That is your affair, I’m afraid. Not mine.” She took satisfaction in his indignant anger. “Goodbye.”

  “You no-good, two bit tart! You can’t do this to me!”

  “I can, and I will.”

  “Damn you to h—”

  Vera slammed the door behind her. She walked along rutted Main Street, past squat buildings and false-fronted shops, to the railroad depot. Clouds had descended to hide the sun. Her coat wasn’t thick enough to keep out the chill wind. Vera slipped inside the squat building and perched on a wooden bench near the window, listening to an icy rain pelt the glass within a few minutes. The depot clerk braved the storm to raise the signal flag. She checked one carpetbag to make certain the thick envelope was safe.

  Once the train finally steamed its way down the track and stopped, she stepped outside. The cold dampness gripped her; Vera thanked the young conductor who helped her up the iron steps to board. Carefully she made her way down the aisle, bags in hand, swaying from side to side in exhaustion. At last, she dropped into an empty seat. The train lurched forward and then slowly gathered speed into the west.

  At last, she was free of the hateful Briggs and his hotel. Whatever came in the next few days and weeks, Vera intended to face it head on.

  Chapter Two

  After hours of sitting on various trains, transferring from one line to another through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri, Vera finally saw the bridge over the muddy Missouri River. The Burlington conductor verified they’d reached Nebraska.

  “Going all the way to Holliday? That’s up in the northwest corner,” he said with a shake of his head. “Still a long way from here.”

  She sighed. Vera had been dozing off and on throughout the various legs of this trip west and missed the crossing over the Mississippi. She’d read through one of her books, but slumbered yet again until bright morning sunshine woke her. At least this passenger car was nearly empty compared to back east. Bleary-eyed, Vera grabbed her carpetbags and strolled back and forth in the car. Stretching felt wonderful, and the longer she walked, the better she felt. The view outside had changed from hilly country with plenty of trees to undulating swells of empty prairie, dotted here and there with a sod house, a few scraggly trees—no doubt, with a water source—and plenty of birds.

  Vera finally chose the seat across from a petite, pretty, dark-haired young woman. A stack of hatboxes tied together filled the space beside her, and two valises sat at her feet. The young woman glanced up and smiled. The smart burgundy wool suit she wore had a double row of black buttons; her hat of black straw sported a curled red feather and had trailing burgundy satin ribbons. She stuck out one black-gloved hand.

  “I’m so glad you joined me! It’s been the most boring trip ever.” Her enthusiasm was infectious. “I’m Adele MacIntyre, mail-order bride—oh, I know what you’ll say, how could I possibly do such a crazy thing! But it’s so exciting. Just think, starting a new life hundreds of miles away, seeing a different part of the country, and it looks so wild! But I grew so tired of Pittsburgh. I wanted to see what living in a small town would be like.”

  Miss MacIntyre finally took a breath, which gave Vera a chance to speak. “I’m also a mail-order bride. I’m heading to Holliday, Nebraska—”

  “Why, that’s where I’m going! Who would have thought two men needed a bride in the same place. I hope it’s not the same man!” She rummaged in her black velvet reticule and drew out a letter. “Here’s what I received. Mr. Cormac Ferguson promised to repay me for my travel expenses. I’m lucky my grandfather had the money up front to pay for so many transfer tickets. Why, I nearly missed a connection in Chicago!”

  “Pittsburgh is a long way away.”

  “Yes, it is. I did have a sleeper compartment for the first train, at least. Mr. Ferguson owns a hotel in Holliday. Who are you marrying?”

  “Well, I’m not certain we will marry. I wanted a bit of time to get acquainted, and he agreed to that. I’m to stay at the Hotel Aberdeen in the interim.” Vera reluctantly pulled out the letter and photograph. “Mr. Baxter Cunningham owns a cattle ranch.”

  The young woman snatched the photograph from her hands eagerly without asking permission. “Oh, look at how handsome he is! And much younger than Mr. Ferguson, who admits being as old as forty! In fact, he owns that hotel, the one you mentioned. But I hope he doesn’t expect me to work there. I can’t even boil water without burning it. My parents had maids and a cook to do everything. I was sixteen when they were killed in a fire.”

  “I am so sorry,” Vera murmured.

  “It was awful. I was at boarding school and packing to come home for Christmas. Three years ago.” Her ribbons rustled when she shook her head. “The day I received the telegram, I fainted dead away at the news! Such a shock. My grandmother had to hire someone to fetch me in time for the funeral. That was the worst holiday in my life.”

  “It must have been—”

  “Horrible! Everything was ruined, and I was stuck with the gifts I’d bought. My grandparents had to sell them, Mother’s jewelry and clothing, the furnishings and our big house to pay all of Father’s creditors. We had no idea
he’d gambled so heavily in the stock market and on businesses that ended up failing. My grandfather was furious.” She sighed. “I’ll never enjoy another Christmas again.”

  Vera sat straighter. She couldn’t tell if Miss MacIntyre was more upset by her parents’ tragic deaths or her ruined holiday. The young woman kept chattering away, hardly taking a breath, telling stories of her privileged upbringing, her nanny and multiple tutors she’d had before being sent to school, the shopping trips she’d taken to New York City, her excursion abroad at fourteen to Paris, Rome, Vienna, and London. Vera fixed her gaze on the wide open sky and brown prairie outside the grimy window. Miss MacIntyre had a high-pitched tone that grated her nerves as the hours wore on.

  “—and then I couldn’t return to boarding school! Grandmother wouldn’t hear of it. Too expensive, and I had to attend ‘finishing’ lessons which didn’t cost them much. They pinch every penny, even though Grandfather has a gold mine out west, as if they’ll starve in their old age. I got back at them, though. I rejected every suitor Grandfather arranged for me to meet. Goodness, most of them were stuffy and proper, dull as chimney soot.”

  “Um-hm.”

  Vera wondered if Miss MacIntyre truly cared for her family. How odd that she deliberately turned down every suitor as revenge for their help. Vera had been grateful for any family assistance after Jacob died. Her sister had bought the black bombazine dress she still used as her best. Patched clothing and a barrel of foodstuffs from the church had all been welcomed as answers to prayer. She felt dowdy and old compared to this young woman in her tailored traveling suit.

  “You’re a widow, am I correct? Well, you had a choice to marry for love.” Miss MacIntyre sniffed into her plain linen handkerchief, streaked from smoke and the tiny bits of ash that swirled inside the passenger car. “I declare, I believe my grandparents wanted to get rid of me. The last gentleman suitor didn’t have more than a meager clerk salary, and was fat like President Cleveland.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “You’ve no idea what I had to put up with the last two years—”

  “I thought your parents died three years ago.”

  “Well, yes, but the first year of mourning didn’t count.” She avoided Vera’s gaze, her cheeks pinker, and fussed with her sleeves. “My grandparents never understood what I wanted, so I decided to leave Pittsburgh. You must have felt the same. What did you say your name was?”

  Vera hadn’t been given the chance to tell her yet. “Mrs. Sanders.”

  “So we both want to make a fresh start, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Miss MacIntyre looked pleased by her reply. “Well, a friend of mine traveled all the way to California as a mail-order bride. She’s written me a dozen times, about how beautiful San Francisco is, and how happy she’s been with her decision. I saw the advertisement in the paper by Mr. Ferguson, so I wrote back to accept—”

  She droned on and on. Vera’s head pounded. There was nothing for it but to sit and listen. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, wishing she had asked Mrs. Gruber for the powders the cook often mixed at night for a peaceful sleep. That’s what Vera needed. Sleep. Blessed, blessed quiet. She closed her eyes for a minute, letting Miss MacIntyre enjoy the sound of her own voice, which at times dropped into a soothing monotone. The young woman never needed prompting to continue. A mere grunt, or a brief ‘um’ sufficed.

  “—could change things. They wouldn’t have any idea. Would they?”

  Vera must have been dozing, her cheek propped on one gloved hand, until Miss MacIntyre shook her forearm. “Oh, I must have dozed off. Pardon me.”

  “That’s all right. You snored a little,” she said with a giggle. “Well, Mrs. Sanders, what do you think?”

  Startled, Vera blinked her eyes several times until her vision cleared. She sat up and breathed deep. Outside the window, the prairie looked emptier except for distant rock formations. Miss MacIntyre smiled in encouragement. She looked expectant, however, as if waiting for a reply. Vera couldn’t remember anything of her conversation.

  “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  “It would be so easy. And much better for both of us.”

  Wishing she wasn’t so fuzzy-headed, from lack of sleep, Vera fought a wide yawn. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Switching places. I will marry Mr. Cunningham, since he’s a much younger man. You marry Mr. Ferguson. He’s older and far better suited for you. And we’ll both live at the same hotel until Mr. Cunningham finishes his business.”

  “Switching places? You mean—”

  “What does it matter which bride they end up with? Men never really understand what we need, do they? And as long as their needs are met, cleaning, cooking, the rest,” she added airily with a wave of her hand. “It will be so easy. Here, you take the letter from Mr. Ferguson. I’ll take your letter from Mr. Cunningham, and his photograph. We’ll just smooth things over when the time comes.”

  “Smooth things over?” Vera’s irritation grew when she finally understood what Miss MacIntyre meant. She was also appalled. “Wait just a minute. You must realize that Mr. Ferguson is expecting a young unmarried woman. I’m a widow, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Just change from that black dress into something else. That will work.”

  “No, it will not.” She gritted her teeth at the young woman’s widened eyes. “You may have an extensive wardrobe, Miss MacIntyre, but I am not as fortunate. And what will these men do if they find out? I rather doubt Mr. Ferguson would accept me—”

  “Oh, how funny!” Adele MacIntyre laughed until tears sprung from her eyes. “Do you really think they’d find out if we don’t tell them? Or do you think they’re buying us outright, like milch cows. It will work, Mrs. Sanders. Trust me on that. They’re both unwed bachelors who want a wife. You can use my name and I’ll use yours, with no one the wiser.”

  “But it wouldn’t be honest—”

  “For heaven’s sake, you sound like an old-fashioned schoolmarm!”

  Vera narrowed her eyes. “For your information, Miss MacIntyre, I was a school teacher before I married. And I’ve been working in a hotel since my husband died. It’s not a cake walk. It’s hard work. To me, honesty is far more important than trying to pull the wool over two gentlemen’s eyes.”

  “I’m not suggesting we outright lie about all this,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “It won’t harm anyone, switching their letters. Mr. Ferguson will certainly appreciate a woman with experience in helping manage his hotel. He said exactly that in his letter. I certainly would disappoint him! I’ve never washed a dish or swept a carpet in my life.”

  “Why did you reply to his advertisement if you have no experience?”

  “I had to leave Pittsburgh, I told you that. Perhaps my parents indulged me, but is that my fault? I was so young when they died of fever.”

  “You said it was a fire—”

  “Yes, it was terrible. My grandmother’s maids used all the flowers from the garden to surround their caskets.” Miss MacIntyre clearly had no shame about lying through her teeth. She sighed. “Can you imagine me managing a hotel?”

  Vera realized that Adele MacIntyre wouldn’t know honesty if it slapped her on her bustled rump. Who was the woman, really? What was she hiding? And was she running from something? Or someone? How odd.

  “—other men were all farmers in Minnesota or Nebraska. I have no intention of being a farm wife. Heavens, I’d never survive.”

  “Being the wife of a cattle rancher may be no different,” Vera warned. “We didn’t exchange much in the way of correspondence, so I have no idea what he requires. His ranch is quite large, from what I understood.”

  “I’m sure everything will work out. He must have servants, at least.”

  Vera figured if Baxter didn’t, Adele would make certain he hired them.

  “Next stop, Holliday! Miss, ma’am,” the conductor said as he passed them.

  “Thank you,” Vera
murmured. Adele didn’t bother.

  “Here’s my letter. Mr. Ferguson didn’t send a photograph, however.” She thrust them into Vera’s hands. “You’ll keep this our little secret, right? Until we agree together to tell them, or not. Promise me.”

  Vera unfolded the sheet of vellum written by the hotel owner and noted the tight writing. Ferguson hadn’t wasted an inch of space. A true Scotsman, indeed. He’d covered the front and back and then signed it along the side margin. He sounded all business, first and foremost, wanting a competent partner to handle the account books, correspondence, greeting hotel guests with grace and attention, conferring with the cook for meal planning, and supervising the maids.

  He sounded as if a partnership was all he wanted, although Vera doubted that. Most men wanting a wife also expected a warmer bed. Children, too. Perhaps Adele was right. Ferguson might appreciate her far more than an inexperienced, spoiled girl. And she might prosper better than settling as the wife of a cattle rancher.

  “Yes, I promise. Though I still don’t see how it will work. Didn’t you send a letter and a photograph?” Vera asked.

  “No. Did you?”

  “I sent a telegram to accept his offer.”

  “Well, then. Leave everything to me. You even look more like a MacIntyre with your reddish-blond hair than me. Mrs. Sanders—I shall have to get used to being called that. What’s your full name, and maiden name?” The younger woman smiled broadly when told. “Oh, that will do nicely. Vera Eugenie Clark Sanders. Mine is—was, I mean—Adele Marie MacIntyre. Try to remember that.”