A Mail-Order Christmas Bride Page 26

  “Off to pay the grocery bill,” the boy said, and resumed his task.

  “Let me know when he returns. All right?”

  Duncan nodded. Vera glanced in the parlor again, where the fragrant balsam tree stood in one corner. Strings of popcorn hung over the boughs; glass ornaments and tiny unlit candles decorated it as well. The carved sofas and armchairs had been brushed and polished, and the coal stove glowed red. The scent of evergreen wafted from the swags that hung over every doorway and the ropes wound around the banister. The oak wood floor gleamed from yesterday’s polishing. She headed to the kitchen next and forgot all about talking to Cormac in their rush to prepare the special holiday dinner.

  Shortly after noon, Vera surveyed the loaded buffet table with pride. Roast turkey stuffed with sage and onion dressing filled a platter; a second one was piled high with thick steaming slices of meat from another bird, plus the wings and drumsticks. Two tureens of mashed potatoes swam with golden butter. Roasted and boiled vegetables, plus sauced cranberries, filled bowls. Woven baskets sat on each small table, heaped high with light buttermilk biscuits, along with pots of creamy butter.

  She shooed the two girls in white bib aprons over their dark dresses toward the kitchen. “Fetch the plates and put them here, Kate,” Vera ordered. “Mattie, make certain all the table settings have flatware and a napkin. Go around the room and check.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Cormac peered around the door’s frame. “Is everythin’ ready?”

  “Almost.”

  Once the girls finished, Vera signaled her husband. He looked handsome in a blue and green plaid kilt with a black leather pouch—a sporran, Cormac had once explained, to hold keys and money—along with a lace jabot at his collar, black vest and wool jacket. She untied her apron and smoothed out her skirts. Vera had altered a cream and green velvet polonaise overdress with a satin bow over the bustle from the former Mrs. Ferguson; it fit snugly, but she felt more festive wearing it than her own best dress.

  It seemed the whole town had come to partake of the feast. Pastor Thomas spoke a blessing—quickly, without fuss—before people filled their plates and sat down. Sheriff Daniels saluted her, holding an overflowing plate, on his way to a table.

  “Mighty fine grub, Mrs. Ferguson. Mighty fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pleased, Vera stood watch and sent Katie and Mattie to switch empty bowls, baskets, and platters with refilled ones. At last Vera sent the girls to fetch trays of pies, sliced and ready. Apple, pumpkin, mincemeat, and custard with raisin—everyone could choose their favorite. Kate and Mattie sat with their families, while Vera finally took her place at a back corner table. Duncan and Cormac stood, so Adele stopped chatting.

  The young woman looked resplendent in a bustled gown of dark rose moiré silk, trimmed with a band of pale pink silk on the upper skirt, and white lace along the hem and sleeve edges. Her dark hair had been pulled back beneath a band of tiny silk pink rosebuds fastened above a mass of ringlets. Pearl earrings dangled from her narrow lobes, and a tiny gold chain hung around her slender neck that led to the cleft of her bosom. Vera had not seen her wear jewelry often, but Adele clearly had an extensive wardrobe.

  “No plum pudding?” Adele asked her.

  “We’re serving that on Christmas Day.”

  “Well, that was a feast indeed,” Cormac said with a deep sigh. He raised an eyebrow at Vera. “I thank the good Lord that He sent my wonderful wife out to Holliday. I count my blessings every day.”

  Vera flushed hot, pleased by his compliment. She’d heard too few while working so hard to improve the hotel. To think Cormac had fought her every step of the way, and now, he was grateful! Ha. She smiled to herself.

  Adele dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “You’re very lucky. In a month, your wife has made this hotel one of the finest west of Omaha.”

  “Indeed she has!” He grinned wide.

  Vera was too hungry to join the conversation. Besides, she’d let go of her burning resentment at both of them. Adele had never lifted a finger to help and expected far too much than their other guests, but Vera should have guessed that. At least Duncan improved his behavior. Once the boy received praise for his hard work and the attention he’d been craving, he followed her directions and guidance with eagerness. Duncan also improved in school. But Cormac still ignored his son for the most part.

  She couldn’t expect a miracle in all ways.

  He gazed at her, blue eyes bright, with a sly smile that reminded her of last night’s passion. Baxter Cunningham’s absence seemed to prove he cared more for his business than a future wife. So much for ‘sharing in his life and love.’ Vera turned to Adele.

  “So. Next week you’ll meet your fiancé. You’re not getting cold feet?”

  Her cheerfulness didn’t fade. “Oh, no. I’m glad he’s coming, at last. And I want to marry on Christmas Eve. That will be so romantic.”

  “Baxter Cunningham? Romantic?” Cormac roared with laughter and slapped his knee. “You’d be’er think again, missy, if ye have hopes fer romance!”

  Adele’s eyes grew wide, and she threw down her napkin in disgust. “What do you mean by that? He’s a gentleman, unlike present company.”

  “Is that so? If ye expect inny manners from Cunningham—”

  “Cormac, please,” Vera interrupted. “Mrs. Sanders is our guest.”

  Adele stuck her nose in the air. “I’ve heard plenty of good things about Baxter and his cattle ranch during my stay here in Holliday.”

  Cormac winked at Vera. “Aye, ye’ve heard what many want ye to believe. There’s two sides to iv’ry story, though. Bart Cunningham, his da, is no saint. The apple didna fall far from that tree. Wait an’ see, that’s what I always say. Aye, Duncan?”

  His son actually laughed. “Wait and see.”

  Vera’s worries ratcheted up several notches. She’d asked about the Cunningham family while working to transform the hotel; both Kate and Mattie had related a few juicy tidbits of gossip, all in the same vein as what Cormac had related last night. Vera figured she may have gotten the better end of switching grooms, and that Adele would regret her plan. That couldn’t be helped. There was no turning back now.

  “The wait’s over,” Gus sang out and scrambled to his feet. “What a surprise! The Boss has arrived early.”

  A crowd of diners rushed to the windows, chattering and pointing. Vera peered around Cormac to see a group of horses picking their way down Main Street and leaving a churned trail in the snow behind them. Adele’s panicked expression surprised her, though. The young woman slipped from the room without a word. Leaving her meal half-finished, Vera followed. Before she could trail Adele upstairs, Cormac caught her arm. He glanced up with a grin, shaking his head when Adele’s door slammed shut.

  “Well, now. Perhaps the gairl isna so eager to meet her groom after all.” He headed behind the reception desk. “I’ve added up the bill for Mrs. Sanders’s long stay. We’ll see what Baxter Cunningham has to say about that.”

  “Cormac—”

  “Nay, don’t be makin’ excuses for the gairl. There’s somethin’ off about her. I knew it the moment she opened that pretty mouth. She’s hidin’ a secret.”

  Vera felt sick. The scratching of Cormac’s ink pen on paper distracted her. “How much is the bill?” she asked, wringing her hands.

  “Plenty, given so mainy hot baths, laundering her clothes, the room and board—” He shook sand over the sheet and then carefully swept the used grains into a brass bowl. “I’ll wager Cunningham will spit blood at this amount, all right.”

  Vera wiped a spot on the window so she could watch the group of men halt before the hotel’s porch. An older gentleman swung down off his horse, tossed the reins to an inferior, and then rummaged in his saddlebags. The young cowboy dismounted with a scowl and looped both sets of harness around the railing. Compared to the others, he seemed the runt of a litter, probably only a few inches over five feet. All the men wore dark brown
leather coats with chaps, wide-brimmed hats and neckerchiefs.

  The diminutive man swaggered up the steps and breezed through the door. “Well, well. Are you my new bride?”

  Vera stiffened until Cormac’s arm slide around her waist. “This is my new wife, Cunningham. We married the day she arrived,” he announced.

  “Then where is my fiancée?” Baxter demanded. “Gus said she’s been stayin’ here the last two months. I didn’t expect to be gone so long, though.”

  “I believe Mrs. Sanders is in her room.” Cormac held out the sheet of paper. “The bill for keepin’ your fiancée safe and sound till now. Cash only. Your father still owes me plenty from the last time you sent for a mail-order bride.”

  Vera glanced at him in surprise. “The last time?”

  “Aye. And another afore that.” He grinned. “Guess they didna like what they saw when they arrived.”

  “Is that why you sent a photograph of you on a horse?” she asked Baxter.

  “So? What business is it of yours?”

  Vera pitied the short man, whose face flushed beet red. Clearly, he felt uneasy looking up at her, and Cormac’s commanding presence added to it. She understood, without the need for an explanation, why other women would reject him. Seeing Baxter’s weak chin, trembling hands, and the feigned swagger of his step, Vera may have done the same. But what was this secret of Adele’s that Cormac had sensed from the beginning?

  Baxter snatched the bill from Cormac. “What the devil—this bill is twice what we owe you from before!” He stabbed a finger at the paper. “I’m not paying this, Ferguson! You ran up the charges on purpose. What’s this about a hot bath every day? And laundering, mending, and pressing her clothes? And what in tarnation is this last item? Five bottles of Miss Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound?”

  “You’ll have to ask your fiancée that question,” Vera replied, trying not to laugh. She thought everyone knew the major ingredient in that so-called medicine. Adele had sent Duncan to the store twice a week to fetch a fresh bottle, complaining of discomfort and pain to Vera, although the young woman’s breath told the real tale.

  “I tried tellin’ her she’d catch her death bathin’ so often,” Cormac said. “She looked a bit shriveled, too. She wouldna listen to me, nor to the little woman, here.”

  The other men tramped inside, leaving muddy boot prints all over the lobby. Vera noted that the oldest, whose swagger outmatched Baxter’s—clearly he must be Bart Cunningham, given the facial resemblance—was average in height and at least three hundred pounds. His huge belly strained against his dark wool coat. Bart’s luxurious mustache above a thick white goatee belied his nearly bald head when he swept off his hat. His deep voice boomed throughout the hotel lobby.

  “Did Ferguson steal your bride, Baxter, before you got the chance to meet her?” He turned to his son. “And what’s that?”

  “The bill for Mrs. Sanders,” Cormac said. “And you still owe me from before.”

  Baxter surrendered the sheet to his father, who turned purple in rage at the figure totals on the bottom. “What in blazes—”

  “Watch yer language. My wife is a lady, if your son’s fiancée is not.”

  “All right, all right. You’ll get your money!” Bart turned to Gus, who perked up when confronted. “Why didn’t you take the girl to the ranch?”

  “I never got an answer when I sent you a telegram,” he said. “Besides, there weren’t no one there to cook or clean—”

  “That’s her job, you idiot!” He whirled to face Baxter. “You better set your woman straight on what’s expected, or she’ll run you into the poorhouse. Not me, you! I won’t be mollycoddling both of you. If you marry her, she’ll work to pay off this bill. Unless you want it to come out of your wages.”

  “Aw, Pa. I ain’t even met her yet!”

  “What does that matter? We can’t send for a new woman every year and then let her bolt for the hills. You’ll marry or find your own way somewhere else.”

  “You can’t force anyone into a marriage,” Vera said.

  Bart eyed her with a shrewd gaze. “I hear you came out as a mail-order bride, along with this pretty young widow woman, Mrs. Sanders?”

  Cormac grinned again. “Aye, she did. And she’s a MacIntyre, to boot.”

  Vera didn’t speak. She didn’t have a drop of Scots blood. Shame filled her heart again, the same sick feeling she’d battled last night and every night since her arrival in Holliday. But she couldn’t tell the truth in front of all these people.

  “Well, where is this Mrs. Sanders?” Bart demanded.

  His son hung his head. “Upstairs in her room. Gus, go fetch her.”

  “Me? She won’t have nothin’ to do with—”

  “Boss! Looky what I found!” A cowboy had burst into the hotel with a wriggling bundle over one shoulder. “Tied a sheet to the second story balcony and then fell into a snow bank tryin’ to climb down. Hope she ain’t got a broken bone.”

  “Let go of me! Let go!”

  “Speak o’ of the devil,” Cormac muttered.

  Vera had recognized Adele’s shrill voice. The young woman pummeled the cowboy’s shoulders and slid to the floor when he dumped her, ungraciously, at Baxter’s feet. She struggled to stand, her wool cape gaping open; the rose silk and lace of her skirts and her French-heeled boots dripped with muddy snow. Adele’s hat was skewed half over her face, the feathers soggy. The damp ribbon bow hung limp under her chin.

  “Not another one gettin’ cold feet,” Bart said with a groan. “You’re Mrs. Sanders, the widow? You knew what you were getting into when you came out here.”

  Adele glared at the older man’s son. “You can’t keep me here. Why should I marry a pony when I can find a thoroughbred out in California?”

  “Oh, is that it?” Baxter stared at her eye to eye, since she matched him in height. “What makes you think I’d marry a scrawny chicken like you!”

  His father cackled. “I’d say you two are well suited to each other. But Mrs. Sanders had better pay off that bill before she leaves town. If she doesn’t like the idea of working in the saloon, she can marry you. Get the preacher, Gus.”

  “Work in the saloon?” Adele looked murderous. “I’m not a tart willing to work in a dirty saloon! Besides, your son promised I could stay at the hotel until his return. It’s not my fault he didn’t come for almost two months.”

  “It’s not his fault you ran up the bill with all these extras. Daily baths, and medicine we could sell in the saloon for all the alcohol content,” Bart shot back. “Seems you treated Mrs. Ferguson like a personal maid, too. If you’d sent your clothing to the Chinese laundry down the street, you’d have saved three-quarters of the bill.”

  “I wouldn’t trust them to polish my boots!”

  “Maybe we could have you work there, if you think you’d do a better job.” Bart folded his arms over his barrel chest. “We own that building, too. Your choice.”

  “You can’t order me around—”

  “Actually, he can.” Sheriff Daniels filled the dining room’s doorway. “I believe the letter Mr. Cunningham sent to you included expensive train fare, with arrangements to stay at this hotel if he was out of town. You accepted his offer, which is legally binding as a contract. If you choose not to marry, so be it. The basic room charge is his responsibility. But all the extras are yours. Pay that part of the bill, Mrs. Sanders, and you can leave Holliday free and clear. If you are not able, then you shall work off the debt.”

  Adele resembled a cornered animal, her eyes narrowed, her fury clear. She turned to Vera. “Tell them, go on! Tell them what we agreed to do. I was supposed to marry Ferguson, and you first accepted the offer from Baxter Cunningham!”

  Cormac slid an arm around Vera. “Is that true?” he asked, close to her ear.

  Her knees trembled at the controlled anger underlying his tone. “Yes. Adele thought you were too old for her,” Vera said, her voice shaky. “It was her idea to switch grooms. I meant to te
ll you before now.”

  “So you both kept the secret, all this time.”

  She nodded, her face burning, and flinched when Cormac shoved past her to face Adele. “Too old for ye? Too old? How would ye know that afore you met me?” He hissed those words, but the younger woman merely sniffed.

  “Your letter mentioned a ten-year-old son, and how you were widowed after fifteen years of marriage. You must be close to forty.”

  Cormac suddenly shot a meaty hand out and grasped the thin chain around her neck; he dragged her close, ignoring her cry of pain. He fingered an oval gold disk fastened on the chain that had been hidden inside her cleavage.

  “Where did you get this locket? Tell me, or I’ll wring your neck!”

  Adele’s face turned ashen, and she gasped in terror. “My grandmother gave it to me,” she squeaked. “Let go—Baxter, do something!”

  Vera moved forward in concern, but Gus blocked her way. Sheriff Daniels caught Baxter as well before he could rescue the young woman. Cormac sprung open the locket and then shook his head in disgust.

  “Your grandmother gave you this? Then why is my late wife’s miniature portrait inside? Duncan, isn’t this your mother?”

  The boy crept over and then nodded, silent. Adele cringed. “I swear to you, my grandmother gave me this long before I left Pittsburgh! Tell him, Vera. Tell him about my family back home, and why I had to leave.”

  Vera shook her head. “I never met any of your family.”

  “But it’s all true!”

  “A liar and a thief.” Cormac tugged the chain over her head. “I wonder what else we’d find in her baggage,” he said to the sheriff. “You’d be’er search her things. She must have left everything upstairs, in Room Three, tryin’ to sneak out afore we noticed she was gone on the next train. Remember, a few of our guests reported missing items over the last few weeks. Our hired girls denied takin’ anything, but I kept a list.”

  “Will you press charges?” Sheriff Daniels asked. “If so, she’ll stay in jail until the circuit court judge makes his rounds. Might not come till March or April, depending on the snow we get this winter.”