A Bride for Keeps
Authors: Melissa Jagears
Tags: #FIC042030, #FIC042040, #FIC027050, #Mail order brides—Fiction, #Farmers—Fiction, #Frontier and pioneer life—Fiction, #Kansas—Fiction
| A Bride for Keeps | |
| Melissa Jagears | |
| Baker Publishing Group (2013) | |
| Tags: | FIC042030, FIC042040, FIC027050, Mail order brides—Fiction, Farmers—Fiction, Frontier and pioneer life—Fiction, Kansas—Fiction |
After three failed attempts, Everett Cline is not happy when another—uninvited—mail-order bride steps off the train. But is she the wife he’s been waiting for?
© 2013 by Melissa Jagears
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy,
recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception
is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress,
Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6333-9
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Wedding vows in chapter seven are from
The Book of Common Prayer
.
The hymn in chapter fourteen is
Fairest Lord Jesus
, translated from German to English by Joseph A. Seiss, 1873.
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Author represented by The Natasha Kern Literary Agency
A Bride for Keeps
“
A Bride for Keeps
treats readers to an engaging prairie romance when God’s will and love collide, delivering
a heartwarming, satisfying read.”
—Maggie Brendan, CBA bestselling author of
The Heart of the West
and
The Blue Willow Brides
series
“Melissa Jagears is a stand-out talent! Her fresh new voice is strong, stylish, and
makes
A Bride for Keeps
a page-turner for anyone who fancies a stirring love story. Vivid description and
unforgettable, heart-tugging scenes between hero and heroine transform the ever-popular
mail-order bride storyline into something much more real and three-dimensional. In
this appealing novel, Ms. Jagears demonstrates beyond doubt that the aplomb of the
writer determines the quality of the story.”
—Rosslyn Elliot, author of
Fairer Than Morning
and
Sweeter Than Birdsong
“Melissa Jagears has penned a tender tale of a mail-order bride who takes both the
groom—and herself—by surprise when love comes softly . . . quietly . . . to heal their
broken hearts.”
—Julie Lessman, author of
Love at Any Cost
“
A Bride for Keeps
is just beautiful. It put me in mind of Janette Oke’s sweet prairie romances but
with a bit more edge, which I found compelling. . . . I loved it.”
—Mary Connealy, author of
Fired Up
To my husband, who puts up with
a lot so I can write and believes in me
when I don’t believe in myself.
I wish I was more like you.
K
ANSAS
S
PRING
1876
Everett Cline loosened his grip on the mercantile’s doorknob and let the door shut
behind him. Kathleen Hampden waddled straight toward him, the white feathers in her
hat dancing like bluestem grass in the late March breeze. In the three years she’d
been married to the store’s owner instead of him, couldn’t she have bought a new hat?
He hadn’t talked to her alone since the day she arrived in Salt Flatts with those
identifying white feathers he’d been told to expect, but he hadn’t anticipated her
being married to Carl before she stepped off the train. Why hadn’t she thrown her
hat out a passenger car window and pretended she’d never been his mail-order bride?
“Afternoon, ma’am. Is your husband around?”
He glanced behind the long glossy counter cluttered with candy jars and sundry items
and saw that the door to the empty back room stood ajar. The two overflowing shelves
that cut the store into thirds kept him from being able to see into every corner.
The fabric table was a jumbled mess, and
a few potatoes lay on the floor in the corner, escaped from their bin. Were they the
only ones in the store?
Mrs. Hampden stopped three feet from him, the tang of the wood polish on her rag warring
with the leather and tobacco smells permeating the room. She was such a tiny thing,
even large with child. Perhaps it was a good thing she had married Carl. If she worked
outside as Everett did every day, the wind would have blown her away sooner or later.
“Mr. Hampden’s away on business, otherwise he’d have rushed out at the bell. Especially
since it’s you.” Her cheeks pinked.
Carl needn’t worry about him. Stealing someone’s mail-order bride was different from
stealing someone’s wife.
Everett fidgeted. “He has no reason to be concerned.”
“I know.” She rubbed her swollen stomach. “But he’s still worried your good looks
might make me wish I’d chosen differently.”
The skin under his collar grew warm, and he pulled at the strangling fabric. He might
be a decent-looking sort of man, but a lot of good that did him.
“I hope you have better luck today than you did with me, and you know . . . the others.”
She bit her lip. “I’m sure this time it will be for keeps.”
He swallowed hard and eyed her. What was she talking about? Surely another rumor about
him ordering a bride again wasn’t circulating. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s all right. Rachel told me.” Her voice was hushed, as if someone might hear.
He leaned down and whispered back. “Told you what?”
“About the lady coming on the afternoon train. She said you’d need prayer.”
Rachel.
He ran his tongue along his teeth and nodded absently. Surely his best friend’s wife
wasn’t pulling another one of her matchmaking schemes. She’d tried to set him up with
every girl in the county since the day her sister, Patricia, had left him for someone
else. When matchmaking failed, she’d pushed him into mail-order bride advertisements.
If she’d gone and ordered another one for him, by golly—
“I hope I haven’t upset you.” Mrs. Hampden’s concerned tone reminded him of her presence.
“I haven’t told anyone since . . . well, you know how they are.”
Yes, the townsfolk. Everett clenched his teeth. Every unescorted woman who stepped
off the train was asked if she belonged to Everett Cline. When she answered negatively,
some young man in the gathered crowd would drop to his knee and propose.
He stared at the saddle soap on the shelf beside him. What had he come in here for?
“I wish you luck.” Mrs. Hampden’s eyes looked dewy.
Everett squashed the felt brim of his hat in his clammy hands.
Third time’s a charm
hadn’t worked for him, and he’d never heard anything like
the fourth’s a keeper
. There wouldn’t be a fourth time for him. Well, fifth, if he added being jilted by
Patricia so long ago. Was there a saying akin to
five failures prove a fool
? He was a hairsbreadth away from confirming himself a dunce. “You have nothing to
wish me luck for.”
“Oh, Everett, surely this time it will work.”
“Really, Mrs. Hampden, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I can understand why you don’t want to say anything, but I’m the last person in Salt
Flatts who would tease you.”
He’d let her believe whatever she wanted, because nothing
would happen. “Thanks just the same.” He smashed his hat back on and hightailed it
out the door, down the steps, and toward the weathered wagon belonging to his neighbors.
Was this why Rachel insisted they needed him in town even though any train porter
could have helped her husband load the shipment she was waiting on?
He wouldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t do that.
“Come on now, Everett,”
she’d said.
“You can’t avoid town forever. Surely you have supplies to get.”
He reached into his pocket, clasped his scribbled list, and stopped in the middle
of the road. Rachel wouldn’t have gone so far as to invite another woman to Salt Flatts
to marry him without even telling him. Would she?
A horse sidestepped beside him, the boot of its rider grazing his arm. “Hey, watch
what you’re doing.” The cowboy glared down at him, the stench of bovine overpowering
the scent of the cheap cigar wiggling between his lips.
Everett turned and scurried across the dusty road and onto the boardwalk. He glanced
at his list. Should he return to the mercantile and face Kathleen again or confront
Rachel? Neither would be pleasant.
“Got me a letter to send, Everett?” Jedidiah Langston stepped out of the false-front
post office and stood next to his son, eighteen-year-old Axel, who perched on a stool,
absently whittling a stick. A smirk twitched the corners of the younger man’s mouth.
Everett’s hand itched to swipe the boy’s lips clean off his face, but he shook his
head instead. He hadn’t personally posted something for over a year—always sent his
mail in with the Stantons—but it seemed as if Rachel had decided to mail some correspondence
for him.
“Surely you’re hankerin’ for another bride by now. Helga’s
been Mrs. Parker for plumb near a year. Seems to me it’s about time you up and tried
again.”
Axel chuckled at his father’s joke, and Everett scowled at the mention of his third—and
absolutely last—mail-order bride.
He crammed the shopping list back into his pocket. “No letter, gentlemen.”
“Axel needs a wife about as bad as I need him off of my porch.” Jedidiah glared at
his lazy son, who only rolled his eyes. “Maybe your next one can marry him.”
Axel sliced the tip off his pointy stick. “Only if he orders a stunner this time.”
Any woman dumb enough to marry that boy would have to work to support them both. Everett
tipped his hat. “Good day, gentlemen.”
He’d been Axel’s age eighteen years ago, but he’d at least had some gumption, a promising
future, and an adoring girl on his arm. Yet he was still single. A mail-order bride
was probably the boy’s only hope, though Everett doubted he’d ever try for one. Axel’s
ma had once been a mail-order bride, and when her marriage plans hadn’t worked out,
she’d wooed Jedidiah over real fast.
Mrs. Langston was hardly ever seen in town, and Jedidiah never talked about her but
in disdain. Axel’s parents’ animosity toward each other didn’t help the boy’s disposition—as
prickly as a cocklebur and as useful as one too.
Everett marched over to the train platform and scanned the crowd. Rachel was nowhere
in sight, but her husband, Dex, reclined on his wagon’s bench seat, hat pulled over
his face. His soft snores jostled the brim resting on his nose. He couldn’t know his
wife had hatched another scheme. That joker wouldn’t have been able to keep a straight
face when
Rachel insisted they needed help. And he’d be too antsy to tease the daylights out
of Everett now to be sleeping.
Perhaps Mrs. Hampden had made a mistake and assumed too much. The town loved to conspire,
and though Dex was a joker, the Stantons wouldn’t plot against him like that. No,
Mrs. Hampden had to be mistaken.
Everett stopped at the depot’s window and perused the station’s chalkboard schedule.
Thirty minutes until the train arrived. The bunch of wild flowers he’d picked before
leaving home lay piled in his wagon bed. He snatched them and headed for the cemetery.
“Everett!” a voice called out, and he turned to see Carl Hampden hotfooting it from
the livery straight toward him. The tilt of his head and the look in his eyes reminded
Everett of a charging bull.
He stopped and tensed, half expecting the man to reach for a sidearm. “Carl?”
“Where are you going with those?” He pointed to the flowers.
Everett released his stranglehold on the prairie bouquet and kept his lips from twitching
up into a smile. He stood but ten feet from the mercantile entrance. “They’re not
for your wife, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Who are they for, then?” Carl backed up, but the heat hadn’t left his gaze.
“I don’t exactly believe that’s your business.”
Carl leaned closer. He’d evidently had garlic for lunch.
What did it really matter if Carl knew? “They’re for Adelaide Gooding.”
“Who?” Carl cocked an eyebrow.
Everett sighed. “My first bride.”
“Ah, I see . . . I guess.” Carl relaxed. “Well, carry on.”
As if he needed the man’s permission. He snatched Carl’s sleeve and dug out his list.
“Would you gather these items for me? I’ll return within an hour.”
Carl folded the note and tipped his hat.
Everett strolled through town, keeping the jonquils tucked by his side. Why did he
keep taking her flowers anyway? He looked at the sad, flaccid mess in his hands. Because
no one else would—and that was his fault.
He stepped through the gap in the waist-high stone wall, marched straight up to Adelaide’s
grave, and laid the flowers at her feet. “I’m afraid they’re wilted, but they’re better
than what you have.” Which was nothing. He lowered himself to the ground and stared
at her headstone. He hadn’t even known what birth date to engrave for his first mail-order
bride, but he’d done his best. Even wrote an epitaph:
Long-awaited and Missed.
Everett glanced around to make certain no one else was near. “Have you heard any talk
about me lately? Seems Mrs. Hampden thinks I’m crazy enough to try marrying up again.”
He grabbed a twig and scratched at the dirt. “I wish you’d held on for a few more
hours. At least so I could have told you that I . . .” He tossed his stick. Had he
loved her? He would have. But he no longer had any stir of feelings for this woman
he’d never met.
Closing his eyes, he conjured up the one image he had of Adelaide. Wrapped in a rough
woolen blanket, her face white as clouds, hair dark as a raven’s wing, and her mouth,
crooked and stiff as a fence post. The fever had stolen her breath and his hope.
The low hum of metal wheels against iron track rumbled from far off. With the toe
of his boot, he shoved a stray jonquil back into his jumbled pile. “Maybe if I’d lived
along
the Mississippi, I’d have had better luck ordering brides by steamboat.” He snorted,
and a gray-green pigeon above him fussed. “So you don’t think so?”
A whistle sounded. “Rachel’s always wanted a pianoforte. Please let it be a piano.”
But she’d asked Mrs. Hampden for prayer . . . and surely nothing she could order would
be so heavy she’d beseech God’s assistance. The tremor of the approaching train pulsed
through the soles of his feet.
What if there was another woman on that train coming for him? He clenched his trembling
fingers. Patricia had jilted him. Then Adelaide arrived dead, Kathleen disembarked
married to the shopkeeper, and Helga left him for another man with a better farm within
a week of arriving. He couldn’t begin to imagine what a fourth mail-order bride might
do. But he wouldn’t allow another bride to make a fool of him again.
She’d made a mistake. A huge, irrevocable mistake.
Julia Lockwood stared out the train’s window, watching the flat Kansas land sail behind
her, mile after mile. Nothing but waving grasses, clumps of trees, and a few outcroppings
of rocks. The vacant prairie lands wouldn’t conceal the past she ran from, and the
man awaiting her wouldn’t make it better—only worse. What had possessed her to believe
this was a good idea? She set her bag aside to stand.
“Young lady, you are making me queasy with your ups and downs, to-and-fros.” The buxom
woman across from her swished a fan violently. “Please, for once sit still.”
Julia hesitated, hovering above her seat. Her nerves wouldn’t obey the woman’s pinched-mouthed
decree. “I’m sorry. When I return, I’ll try not to get up again.”
The woman huffed. “Yes, do.”
Holding in her split pannier overskirt, she swayed easily through the center aisle
of the railroad car. A few days of travel had made her an expert at walking in a moving
train. She grabbed a strap hanging from the ceiling to make room for a young frizzy-haired
girl to pass.