ROMANCE: Mail Order Bride: A Sheriff's Bride (A Clean Christian Inspirational Historical Western Romance) (New Adult Short Stories) (2 page)

Chapter Three

The newspaper concealed in the folds of her skirt, Beatrice made her way with clandestine movements out of the house. Her mother had gone calling; Beatrice had claimed a headache. It wasn’t a lie; her mother had taken her to the dressmaker’s yesterday for her London wardrobe and there had been no way out of it.

Stepping out of her shoes, Beatrice climbed her tree and settled into her usual perch. The newspaper was the favorite reading of several of the kitchen maids who giggled and dreamed of going West and marrying a cowboy. Busy with their work, Sallie and Dinah would never notice that the newspaper advertising for mail order brides was not in its usual position in the kitchen. They had no idea that Beatrice knew the layout of the kitchens as well as she knew this tree. Hennings would have guessed, but Hennings had the advantage of having known her since birth.

She skimmed through the advertisements; one or two sounded promising, but nothing captured her fancy. If she were going to take fate in her hands and make her way across the continent, she wanted to be certain that she’d be eager for what awaited her.

Kittens.

The word caught her eye. She looked closer.

My name is Gerrit Reilley. I am the sheriff of Liberty Bell, Texas. Our town has a church, a school, a general store, and other places of business. The stagecoach comes through twice a week.

Where were the kittens?

I am law-abiding and God-fearing. I can read and write. I bring in decent wages and can support a wife and family. I own my home.  I have a milking cow, a horse and saddle, two pigs, a goat, a dog, a cat, and kittens. If you could marry a man and be a wife to him, I would be as good a husband as I can, though I have never been married. But I am willing to try. I am 30 years old. I hope that isn’t too old. Please respond if you might consider becoming my wife.

Liberty Bell, Texas. Beatrice looked up from the newspaper and thought of her fun-loving brother Simon. Liberty Bell was where he had died, but maybe it was a sign. Gerrit Reilley . . . Beatrice tried the name out. It sounded strong. He had kittens. That boded well, she thought. A heartless man would not advertise for a wife and include kittens in his proposal.

She scrambled down from the tree and returned to the house. The maids were cleaning, the kitchen was empty. She replaced the newspaper and scurried upstairs. Sitting at her desk, she took ink and paper and began to write.

Gerrit didn’t open the letter until he went home that evening, but throughout the day, he was aware of its presence in the pocket of his trousers. Lorna McGill had delivered the letter in person, not from dedication to her work as postmistress in the general store but from curiosity.

“Who do you know in Boston, Sheriff?”

Reilley was alone in the office, reading a report about a cattle rustling gang that had been striking close to Liberty Bell.

“I have a maiden aunt in Boston, Miss Lorna,” he lied.

“She surely writes a fine hand.”

“She surely does,” he agreed, noticing the delicate penmanship on the envelope.

“Doesn’t look like an elderly lady’s hand,” Lorna said.
“I didn’t say she was elderly, Miss Lorna,” he replied. “She’s something around your years, I reckon, and you’re just a girl.”

Lorna’s girlhood was long behind her, but as the maiden aunt in Boston didn’t exist, Reilley just wanted her to leave so that he could finish the day’s business, go home and read his letter.

Dear Mr. Reilley
, he read that evening when he got home. By the time he’d chased Lady Jane back to the coop, booted Luther from the house, milked Nettie, fed Stonewall and admired Jezebel’s kittens, he decided he’d rather dine on bread and cheese rather than cook.

Dear Mr. Reilley,

I read with great interest your advertisement, and I would relish the opportunity to come to Liberty Bell Texas to be your wife. I have longed to live in Texas for a very long time. My name is Trice—that is pronounced Triss, which rhymes with kiss—and I am old enough to wed a man of my own choosing and I think I would choose you. I also have chickens and a cat and a horse; I wish I had a dog as well. I have never milked a cow. Is it hard to learn how? I am willing to learn.

Please tell me about Texas. I have never been West although I’ve ready much about it. Have you ever been in a gun fight? I understand that they are quite common. Is it dangerous to be the sheriff? Please tell me everything about Liberty Bell. Do people move there frequently? Do you have many visitors from the East? I hope that you will write back and relate to me the story of your home.

Truly yours,

Trice

Dear Miss Trice,

I would rather learn about you than write about Texas. It’s not hard to milk a cow. It just takes practice. I’ll teach you how. Liberty Bell is as safe as any town in the West and safer than many. There’s a fort a day’s ride east of Liberty Bell if we need help, but we take care of most things ourselves. The town is growing fast but most people are honorable. You haven’t told me much about yourself. Texas isn’t a fancy place; we don’t have the kinds of high society that you’re used to in Boston. But Texas is a fine place if you want to live your own life.

Dear Mr. Reilley,

I haven’t done very much of note, so there’s very little to tell. I don’t suppose I have many practical qualities; I’m told that I daydream too much. But I’m not flighty, so please don’t think that. I’ve never fainted and I once, with a friend, helped the farrier when a mare was giving birth. That was a most amazing thing to witness. I hope you don’t think me unladylike for telling you this. The truth is that I don’t enjoy high society and I would think it fine to live in a place that isn’t fancy, and I would prefer to learn how to milk a cow than ever have to endure anther afternoon making social calls. If you think that someone like me could be a suitable wife for someone like you, then I want to come to Texas as soon as possible. I don’t want to wait any longer. I suppose you want to know if I am frightful to look at. I have been told that I am pretty, but of course beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.

Truly yours,

Trice

Dear Trice,

I’ve enclosed a railroad ticket for you to come to Liberty Bell on the train. I think you and I could get along tolerably well and I pledge that I will try to make you as happy as a woman can be if you will consent to be the wife of a humble sheriff. No one would ever call me handsome, but I am not so ill-favored that I scare the critters.

Gerrit Reilley

Dear Gerrit,

I will be on board the train. Thank you for the ticket. I look forward to meeting you and becoming your wife.

With love,

Trice

Chapter Four

Sheriff Gerrit Reilley strode through the swinging doors of the Lucky Liberty Saloon. It was late morning and the saloon was nearly empty. Several of the girls, who would be dressed to delight once night fell, were yawning over their drinks.

“Morning, Sheriff,” one of the girls greeted him. “She’s---“

“I know the way,” Reilley replied, tipping his hat out of courtesy. A female might not be a lady, but she was a woman, and a man tipped his hat to the fair sex. It was the way of things in Texas, and Reilley was as polite to one of Josephine’s gals as he was to the preacher’s daughter.

The girl raised her glass to him in mocking salute. Reilley went up the stairs and knocked on the door at the end of the corridor where Josephine DuBarry had her office.

“Come in.”

Josephine’s office was dominated by a four-poster bed with a garnet-hued coverlet on top, tasseled pillowcovers, and artwork on the walls which an artist had painted when he lacked the funds to pay for his drinks and female entertainment. Reilley supposed that gentlemen in Paris were accustomed to seeing such paintings in a woman’s bedroom, but he wished the artist had chosen Texas landscapes instead of brothel scenes. It was typical of Josephine that she flaunted her profession at every opportunity.

Josephine, wearing a gleaming silver and white wrapper, looked up from her desk as he entered. “Why Sheriff Reilley, what a surprise,” she said in mocking tones. “Won’t you sit down?”

Reilley sat down on one of the silk-cushioned chairs against the wall. They were chairs designed for appearance, dainty and petite, a complement to the feminine appeal of the room. Although they were sturdier than they looked, the men who came to Josephine’s room didn’t come to sit in chairs.

“When is the day?” she asked him, pulling out papers and tobacco so that she could roll herself a cigarette. She knew what the sheriff thought of her bad habits; annoying him was part of the reason she indulged. “Soon, yes?”

Reilley had come here determined not to quarrel with Josephine. She knew his intentions; he’d been honest from the very beginning. He was tired of living alone and taking a man’s pleasure by paying for it. He wanted a wife. He’d found one who had answered his advertisement. He felt that he owed Josephine an explanation, although she’d never given any indication that she expected one.

“I’m heading to Laredo to meet her; she’s coming in on the 3:30.”

“You’ll be married in Laredo?” She exhaled; wispy tendrils of smoke framed her face.

He nodded, uncomfortable at discussing the details of his marriage to a mail-order bride from Boston, Massachusetts, knowing how Josephine despised Easterners and what she thought of as their staid, settled ways.

“When will you come back?”

“We’ll stay in Laredo a couple of days before we head on back. I’ve got things covered.  Gil and Berndt will be taking care of the town while I’m gone.”

“Cole’s not back yet?”

Reilley frowned. “Not yet.”

“He’ll be all right. He’s bringing back a cattle rustler, not a hired gun. That Cole might be young, but he’s got steel in his britches.” She grinned. “Trust me on that.”

Reilley flushed but said nothing. Silence was more effective with Josephine; words only set the spark blazing. He stood up. “I just came by to say—“

“To say goodbye? To say that now that you’ll be bringing home your prim little Old States wife, that it wouldn’t be proper to come ‘round the Lucky anymore? You’re a grown man, Gerrit Reilley, you can do as you please.”

“Josephine, I came by to say that if you need me, you only have to send for me. Marriage isn’t going to change that.”

She tilted her head back. She was older than he, but she was keeping the years at bay and her skin was as smooth and flawless as if she’d never ventured out in the sunshine without her parasol and bonnet and gloves. Her neck was smooth and slender, her jawline taut. Texas tested a woman’s beauty and usually won, but Josephine DuBarry was tougher than Texas. “You think your little Boston bride is going to give you permission to come here?”

Reilley picked up his hat. “If you need me, send for me. Nothing is going to change what we have between us, Josephine.”

“Did you come for my blessing?” Josephine crushed out her cigarette and walked around her desk to stand before him. “You can have it, but I think you’re making a mistake. Maybe I’m wrong.” She laughed, her voice harsh. “I hope you’re making the right decision, I really do. I must be loco.”

She was a tall woman but he was a tall man. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Give Mrs. Reilley my best, Sheriff. I doubt we’ll meet again.”

“We’ll meet again, Josephine. Never think we won’t. Marriage won’t change that.”

She smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, but it wasn’t her usual mocking one either. “But if you meet me in the street with your Boston wife on your arm, will you greet me? Or will you simply tip your hat out of courtesy and move on by? And when your wife asks you ‘who is that woman’, will you tell her that I’m the sort of woman best not spoken to?”

Josephine was always thinking far ahead of him. He hadn’t gotten to the train station yet and she had him meeting her in the street with his wife on his arm.

‘I’ll always speak to you, Josephine. You won’t like what I have to say, but I’ll speak. We mean a lot to each other.”

“You’ve got to get to Laredo, Sheriff Reilley. It wouldn’t do for you to be late.” Her gaze softened. “You look fine. That plaid shirt looked mighty grand on the school bell, to be sure, but you’re a not a bad looking man and there’s many a woman who wouldn’t mind having those tom-cat green eyes of yours looking at her in her next-to-nothing. Your little Boston bride might even fall head-over-hells in love with you.”

Beatrice, traveling across a landscape she’d never seen the likes of before, marveled that the sky and hills and land could alter so much as the train crossed.  She’d only ever been in the East as the train headed farther west, she felt as if she’d left New England for another country. Everyone was very kind to her when she explained that she was traveling to meet her husband; Beatrice neglected to mention that she was meeting up with her husband-to-be and that she’d never laid eyes on him. As the train moved, so quickly that it would make horses feel quite embarrassed, she thought, she thought back on all that she had had to accomplish in order to take her leave without being noticed.

She’d gotten Paul the footman to take two trunks to the train station. She’d explained that while most of her luggage would be with her on the ship, she was sending some of her belongings to Liberty Bell, Texas, where her brother had died. She wanted a memorial for him, she said. Paul was young and simple and malleable and he agreed to do as she wished, not questioning her instructions. The actual leaving hadn’t been difficult; she knew better than anyone how to move with stealth in and out of the house and into the stables where she’d arranged for Mercy, her mare, to be saddled for a morning ride. Knowing how fond she was of animals, and how soon her departure was looming, the stable lads were more than eager to do her bidding.

No one knew that she wasn’t going to be on board the ship which was scheduled to depart at the end of the week for London. She wanted to be the best possible wife for Gerrit Reilley, but the only wives she knew were Beacon Hill wives and she doubted if her husband was going to have much use for a wife who matched those qualifications. But she didn’t have the talents he would be expecting, either. She couldn’t paint or draw, her musical skills were rudimentary, and she had never learned to do anything with a needle but embroider, and that poorly. She had managed to convince Mrs. Kirby to teach her how to cook and bake, however, playing upon the woman’s sympathies with tales of drafty English castles and food that was cold by the time the servants delivered it to the dining room from the kitchens on the bottom floor, just above the dungeons. And she probably wouldn’t eat much at all, Trice had declared, because it was well known that English mamas absolutely despised their American daughters-in-law. When her mother was out, Beatrice had been taught to cook by Mrs. Kirby while the housemaids were sworn to secrecy. Hennings pretended not to know what was going on, but he was sympathetic. He had a less lugubrious impression of English manor houses than the one that Miss Trice had created for Mrs. Kirby, but if the poor girl wanted to spend a bit of time with the household staff before she was sent off to London, he wasn’t going to deny her.

She would miss Hennings. And Mrs. Kirby. And Paul and the others. It struck Beatrice that she would not miss her parents very much. Papa was never at home anyway except to dine, and that wasn’t all the time. And Mama . . . Mama was not an easy person to miss, Beatrice realized. When she had children, she vowed, she was never going to force them to marry someone they didn’t even know. Of course, she was marrying someone she didn’t really know, except for letters they’d exchanged, but that was her choice. Beatrice settled into her seat. Having the choice made all the difference.