A Mail-Order Christmas Bride Page 25

  “Yes, of course.”

  Vera repeated Adele’s name in her head, multiple times. Adele Marie MacIntyre. It seemed silly, hoodwinking the men who’d advertised for wives and agreed to pay their way to western Nebraska. She knew some mail-order brides who’d been so disappointed, they actually returned home; their expectations had not been met, for one reason or another, most due to misrepresentation. The men had sent photographs of better-looking friends, or claimed to be employed and actually ended up to be shiftless drunks.

  Would that happen this time? Despite Adele’s eagerness, Vera wondered if their plan would backfire.

  Chapter Three

  Adele almost slid off the plush seat when the train lurched to a stop. She peered out the window, half-fogged with their breath, and wiped a spot clean. “My heavens! If this is Holliday, it’s more of a village than a town. Two streets, if that.”

  Vera shrugged. “I figured it would be small so far in west Nebraska.”

  She sniffed. Adele hadn’t known what to expect. Disappointment surged inside her while she gazed at the few scraggly trees bare of leaves, the slight rise of Main Street, and its low buildings—most with false fronts. Only one resembled a weathered old farmhouse, two-story, with a wide porch and old wagon wheels propped beneath the railing. A horse stood there, tied to a spoke, a blanket over its back. She sniffed again. Crude for a so-called town, and most of the inhabitants were no doubt backward and rude.

  A few people rose wearily to their feet and trudged outside to the platform. Vera did as well, her valises in hand, so Adele grabbed hers along with her hatboxes. She struggled not to bang her things against the seats’ carved arms, and finally reached the car’s end. A grizzled man in soiled trousers, a collarless shirt, and greasy brown leather vest reached out a hand to help them down the iron steps. Once Adele stood beside Vera, she shivered from the bitter wind that cut through her clothing.

  “Mrs. Sanders?”

  Adele pushed her way past the older woman with a smile. “I am Mrs. Sanders,” she announced. “And you are?”

  “Gus Walsh.” He swept off his dusty wide-brimmed hat to reveal a bald head. His smile broadened when he took in her face and figure. “Pleased ta meetcha, ma’am. You’re a sight for sore eyes. The Boss is a lucky man!”

  He turned and spat tobacco near the iron track. Ugh, disgusting. Adele waved airily at Vera. “This is Miss MacIntyre. We met on the train coming out from St. Louis,” she said and glanced around at the now empty platform. The piercing whistle drowned out her words, so Adele repeated the question. “Is Mr. Baxter Cunningham here in town? He said he might be away on business.”

  “Afraid so, ma’am. He told me to meet his future wife and make certain she’s settled at the hotel. And here you are. Bet he’ll be surprised to see you.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “You don’t look old enough to be widowed. Meanin’ no disrespect, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Adele ignored Vera’s sudden fit of coughing, as if she tried to hide her laughter. The older woman was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. How annoying. Adele pointed to the two trunks the uniformed porter had placed near her hatboxes and valises. “You may take my baggage to the hotel, Mr. Walsh.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The cowboy squinted at Vera and then back at Adele while he scratched his bristled jaw. “You sure you’re a widder?”

  “Of course I am,” she said sternly. What a stupid fool. Adele idly brushed coal dust and bits of soot from her burgundy skirt and sleeves. “Where is the hotel?”

  He jerked a thumb. “Right across the street, ma’am.”

  “That is the hotel?”

  Adele raised an eyebrow at the farmhouse, with its peeling paint, dust-coated windows, and sagging porch. Thank goodness she’d switched grooms with Vera! To think she would have been stuck there, waiting hand and foot on guests and doing God knows what for a man old enough to be her father. She opened her parasol to ward off the dim sunlight and that wind. Despite being early November, Adele hoped she could get to San Francisco by Christmas. She wanted a pleasant holiday season, not a frozen one.

  “Miss MacIntyre, you may help this gentleman with my baggage. After all, you’ll be marrying the hotel’s owner.”

  Vera stared at her for a long minute, as if thinking of a reply. Instead she whirled around in silence, the lazy chit, and marched toward the hotel. Adele smirked. Served her right, trading places before finding out what the situation was like. She followed Vera to the hotel. Her French-heeled boots clattered on the rickety steps, and one creaked so loud under Gus’s heavy weight she expected him to fall through the wood. The door slammed behind Vera. Adele held it open for Gus, who staggered under the weight of a trunk on each shoulder. He dropped them with a loud thud in the lobby; the reception desk resembled a wooden saloon counter to Adele’s eye. And a young boy with uncombed hair and a dirty face stood in a corner with a sullen expression.

  “Duncan, fetch the valises,” Gus said with a gasp. “And the hatboxes. I’ll send word to the Boss that you’ve arrived, Mrs. Sanders.”

  The boy trudged out the door, muttering a curse in defiance. Adele rolled her eyes. “When do you expect him to return?” She drummed her fingers on the counter, impatient.

  “He’s a bit busy, ma’am. A few weeks—”

  “A few weeks?”

  “Indeed, with him an’ his men hairding cattle to Montana,” a deep voice voice cut in. An immensely tall man with broad shoulders straining his white linen shirt, emerged through the narrow doorway, almost sideways. He raised his thin eyebrows. “I am Cormac Fair-guson, proprietor of this hotel. What can I do for ye ladies?”

  “There’s a room reserved for me until my fiancé’s. I declare, from the looks of the outside, this doesn’t resemble a decent hotel. It looks more of a farmhouse, and look at all the mud on the floor! Don’t you ever sweep in here?”

  Ferguson blinked. “There’s a bairn out back if you’d be more comfortable.”

  Adele huffed a little, figuring he meant ‘herding’ cattle, not ‘hairding’, and ‘barn’ for ‘bairn’. Ferguson had light brown hair that receded from his long forehead; wrinkles marked the skin and under his pale eyes. The thin beard couldn’t hide a stern square chin, and his crooked nose must have been broken at some point. She shuddered. No wonder he hadn’t sent a photograph with his letter. Adele would have rejected him outright.

  He looked more like a livery owner than a hotel manager, in fact, given his dusty trousers and boots. Adele’s neck hurt trying to meet his gaze. Duncan dragged in her valises and then returned with the hatboxes. He tossed them on the heap.

  “My son,” Ferguson said with pride, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “So what shall it be for you, ma’am? Needin’ a room, pairhaps?”

  Vera stepped forward. “Mrs. Sanders has come to marry Mr. Cunningham,” she said calmly. “I am Miss Adele MacIntyre.”

  He cocked his head. “Aye? Yer not quite wha’ I expacted!”

  Adele almost giggled, although she hadn’t quite followed his rapid reply. Ferguson spoke in a lilting patter, with rolling r’s that added a roughness to his speech; she could hardly understand him. Vera stood eye to eye with the Scotsman, and her shrewd gaze matched his. This would be fun if they ended up battling for the upper hand.

  “You did advertise for a wife, correct?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “And you did send for Miss Adele MacIntyre, correct?”

  Ferguson harrumphed, hands on his hips. “So I did. I’m needin’ a woman since my late wife died in childbirth two years ago. You wrote about havin’ plenty of expair-ience, cooking and cleaning at a hotel. I’ll not be weddin’ any woman who shirks from haird work. Weekends are pair-tick-u-lair-ly busy, with all rooms full. Are you sure you worked at a hotel?”

  Vera shot her a murderous look. Adele studied the ceiling, hoping innocence would cover the small white lie she’d told. What did it matter? Vera promised never to admit to the hoax, and th
ey’d both appear foolish if they confessed.

  “I first worked as a school teacher,” Vera said.

  “Why did you leave, then?” he asked. “Surely that’s a noble profession.”

  She hesitated before answering. “I had no choice.”

  Adele noticed Vera’s scarlet cheeks and wondered if Ferguson would question her further. He didn’t, to her dismay. She stepped toward the register and signed ‘Mrs. Vera Sanders’ with a flourish. “Well then, I hope my room has a featherbed with several thick quilts. It’s already chilly this evening. I cannot imagine what winter will be like.”

  “I’m surprised we don’t have a foot of snow yet—” Gus caught Ferguson’s cold glare. “I’d better mosey along and send word to the Boss.”

  Adele turned back to the hotel’s proprietor. “I’d like a hot bath in my room, too.”

  “Now ‘oo wouldna want a lovely hot bath after a long train jairney?” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Be’er try the Chinese laundry then, Missus Sanders. You’ll get no hot water here this late in the day for a bath.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Vera attempted to go around Ferguson, although he blocked her way to the kitchen. “You do expect me to work in this hotel, correct?”

  He crossed his meaty forearms over his chest. “Aye. But ye’ll not be wastin’ good firewood nor coal for the silly whims of any guest. There’s a bed upstairs, but there’s no feathers innit. One quilt. That’s all she’ll get, like everyone else.”

  “Then I’ll stay at another hotel,” Adele retorted.

  “This be the only one, unless you walk twenty miles south and twenty east. Unless you’d like to stay at the saloon. They might have a room in back.”

  “A saloon? Surely you must be joking—” She realized he was, given the amused glint in his eyes. Adele whirled around. “Gus? Gus! Oh, bother. He’s long gone. Perhaps I could hire a carriage to Mr. Cunningham’s ranch.”

  “No carriages at the livery, only horses. And it wouldna look right fer ye to be stayin’ out there alone, even with Gus in the bunkhouse.” Ferguson looked mightily pleased at her dismay. “Duncan, take the lady’s trunks to Room Three.”

  The boy scowled, but dragged the smallest trunk toward the stairs. Adele grabbed her hatboxes and followed. “Be careful! Don’t bang it around, you’ll scratch the brass—”

  Vera sighed. “So which room will I be using, Mr. Ferguson?”

  He jerked a thumb at the kitchen. “Be’er get started on supper fer our guests, Miss MacIntyre. An’ there’s a sourdough starter for bread.”

  “Don’t you have a cook?”

  “Quit the place a week ago. Afore her, I fired three others fer burned bread, dried up beef, bean slop—not what any dai-cent pairson could et.” Ferguson scowled in the same manner as his son. “I’ll take yer things to my own room. We’ll be married tonight.”

  Adele gasped from her listening post at the top of the stairs. Vera seemed furious, but said nothing as she pushed past him to the kitchen. Adele could only thank her lucky stars that they’d met on the train. If not, she’d be slaving in this hovel’s kitchen, making beds, scrubbing floors, and then having to—well, she knew very well what a man like Ferguson would expect in his bed. Baxter Cunningham wouldn’t be taking his pleasure with her, either. Adele planned to be long gone. For now, she could relax.

  She sashayed into Room Three and surveyed the grimy windows, dust-coated lace curtains, the swayback lumpy mattress on its iron frame, and the chipped pitcher and bowl on the washstand. Sordid, to say the least. Even the mirror on the wall hung crooked.

  But it would be home, sweet home, until a few days before Baxter Cunningham’s arrival. Once Adele milked this little delay, running Vera ragged with her demands, she would buy a train ticket and head west. She’d have to come up with the money somehow, but that wouldn’t be difficult—guests often left things lying about, items or money. Adele had managed before, changing her name, inventing one story after another in Philadelphia, Toledo, Cincinnati, Columbus, and Indianapolis.

  Now she would become Mrs. Vera Sanders, widow.

  Adele had to better her life before she lost her looks. Christmas would be far happier out in San Francisco. Baxter Cunningham had no idea what was in store for him. He’d be far poorer by the end of the year.

  Truly, she was too clever to remain under any man’s thumb.

  Chapter Four

  A soft snow drifted down outside the bedroom window. Vera wondered if what she’d heard about Nebraska blizzards could possibly be right. Perhaps the terrible drought this year had affected this winter’s weather. Holliday proved to be a close-knit community with two churches, a ladies’ quilting group, a one-room schoolhouse filled to the brim for late fall, winter, and early spring terms; farmers gathered at the general store on Saturdays to discuss the weather, next year’s crops, and the latest news from Chicago and Denver.

  And the train rumbled through twice a day on its way to Wyoming. At times, people would disembark to visit the bank, or take advantage of their hotel and its fine meals—word had spread like wildfire, so business had increased.

  With only five days until Christmas, Vera could relax a little. Since her arrival in Holliday, she’d worked hard to bring about changes to the Hotel Aberdeen. Tomorrow was a special dinner for guests and locals, at a special price. She had ordered two turkeys and a smoked ham from a local farmer, and spent all day making pies and bread along with Cook. The two hired girls had also helped. Vera rested a cheek against the cold window glass.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” Cormac slid his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. “I’d pay twice that, if you’re thinkin’ of me.”

  She laughed. “I was, actually. How you fought against hiring Cook, Mattie and Kate. How did you expect me to clean this place from top to bottom all by myself? It took us two weeks. I’m glad we changed the mattress ticks from straw to feathers.”

  “Aye, and you were right each time.”

  “I’m also wondering why Baxter Cunningham hasn’t arrived yet. Isn’t it odd?”

  Cormac led her to the wide bed and pulled her under the covers. “Nay. His father pulls the strings. Always has about the ranch doings.”

  “How many acres do they own? Are they as rich as people say?”

  “Aye. They run cattle over government land, with a standing order of supplying beeves to the Army. Cunningham owns most of the buildings here in town, too, especially the saloon. Except my hotel,” he said with pride. “But Bart is worried about leavin’ a legacy. He wants a grandson. His oldest boy married and moved to Denver, but he’s got two daughters. His second ran off to the Klondike. And then there’s Baxter. He disappointed the old man, in more ways than findin’ a good woman and settlin’ down.”

  Vera smiled at hearing his ‘doon’ for down. His heavy brogue seemed endearing now instead of a hindrance, although Cormac’s rough manners had put her off for weeks. In fact, she’d locked him out of their bedroom right after the hasty wedding. Despite his roars of protest, she laid down the law—there would be no wedding night until changes were made at the Hotel Aberdeen. They’d agreed to an uneasy truce. But now, they’d more than made up for lost time. His warm hands and passionate kisses fired her blood.

  Once again, she was thankful that Adele had come up with the idea of switching grooms. Vera’s heart had quickened at the sight of the tall, handsome Scotsman, who was different as night and day from her late husband. Cormac raged and stormed quickly, but had a tender heart, while Jacob had been soft-spoken and kind. But his simmering temper could explode and frighten her to no end.

  She tightened her arms around Cormac, reveling in their intimacy, having missed that special closeness of marriage for the last few years. Vera lost herself until they lay spent, panting and drowsy, sharing a few sweet kisses before sleep.

  This Christmas was bound to be the best ever. She’d found a man to love her, after losing everything back in Ohio. Vera stroked her husband’s hair and
muscular shoulders, glad she had taken the risk to leave and start over. Nebraska might be less settled than what suited her, with wild winters, lingering fears of Indian attacks, and an unforgiving prairie, but she felt safe here in Holliday with Cormac Ferguson.

  Her thoughts wandered to his displeasure while she’d worked so hard, toiling with the girls for hours with oil soap and rags, plus washing and ironing every curtain, beating the parlor and lobby rugs, scrubbing the kitchen stoves and blacking them, and plugging every crack to trap mice and bugs. When Vera threatened to hire a handyman, Cormac had reluctantly fixed the sagging porch and replaced the steps. He’d even scraped the peeling paint and whitewashed the entire building. A new sign with bold letters spelling out Hotel Aberdeen flanked by purple thistles had been nailed firmly in place.

  Cormac seemed pleased by the effect, too.

  Due to their hard work, the hotel tripled the number of diners coming in for meals on weekends. Even the number of overnight guests rose. Everyone was thankful for the cleaner rooms, the amenities of hot water, scented soap, and an ample hot breakfast, plus improved menus and food quality for lunch and dinner. But guilt still haunted her.

  Vera had promised Adele not to reveal the hoax, but the younger woman had not promised in turn. What would Cormac think of her if he learned of their deceit? She lay in his arms, troubled by fear, long after he’d fallen asleep. She ought to have told him. The longer this went on, the worse it would be for them both. That decided it. She had to reveal the truth tomorrow. Hopefully, Cormac would understand.

  But when Vera woke, her husband was gone. She washed and dressed for the day, then searched the hotel. Vera opened the front door and peered outside at the blanket of snow over Main Street. Rooftops glittered in the sunlight. Frost marked every window of the buildings as far as she could see, even the tiny train depot. Duncan swept the porch of snow and each step, no doubt preparing for their guests.

  “Where’s your father gone?”