Read Second Chance Bride Online
Authors: Jane Myers Perrine
Second Chance Bride
All she could think about was how blue his eyes were, not cold as she’d thought earlier. His smile, even the tiny sliver he showed her, made her breathless. She didn’t feel at all like Annie or Matilda, but instead like a new, very happy and slightly unsure young woman.
“You have a wonderful laugh,” he said in a voice that made Annie believe he’d felt the same way about their shared moment.
What was happening between the two of them? She was overcome by a need to know more about the man. He slowly reached out and took her hand, looking at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world.
His daughter Elizabeth’s voice shattered the enchanting moment. “Father, I’m tired.”
In an instant, he let go of her hand. She put both hands to her cheeks. How could she have dared to look at John like that? And yet, he’d returned her gaze and held her hand. If she weren’t so happy, she’d be completely terrified.
grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, has a B.A. from Kansas State University and an M.Ed. in Spanish from the University of Louisville. She has taught high school Spanish in five states. Presently she teaches in the beautiful hill country of Texas. Her husband is minister of a Christian church in Central Texas where Jane teaches an adult Sunday school class. Jane was a finalist in the Regency category of the Golden Heart Awards. Her short pieces have appeared in the
Houston Chronicle, Woman’s World
magazine and other publications. The Perrines share their home with two spoiled cats and an arthritic cocker spaniel. Readers can visit her Web page, www.janemyersperrine.com.
Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.
—
Philippians
3:13–14
This book is dedicated to Betty Davis Lynn,
who has been a friend for longer than I can
remember. Thank you for all these years of
friendship and your Christian example.
Also to two friends and critique partners:
Ellen Watkins and Linda Kearney,
who keep me headed in the right direction.
And, as always, to my husband George for his love
and support, even when he hated hearing those
three little words—I’m on deadline.
Central Texas, 1885
A
nnie MacAllister’s father had always told her she’d never amount to anything because she never thought anything through. Maybe he was right. Maybe that’s how she’d ended up in this swaying stagecoach while a disapproving woman glared at her in disgust and a dumpy man across from Annie leered.
Only an hour after the stagecoach left Weaver City, she tried to disappear, to shrink back into the hard bench of the stagecoach. She heard the elderly woman mutter, “Common.”
Annie knew why the woman said that. Annie wore a cheap dress, tight across the bodice and fraying at the cuffs. Her long hair curled over her shoulders, and she wore paint on her lips and cheeks.
The expression on the man’s face showed that he knew exactly what Annie was—an immoral woman who’d worked in a brothel. What he didn’t know was how much she’d hated every minute of it—how she’d been forced into it.
Next to Annie sat a young woman who wore an undecorated black straw hat and a plain, gray cotton skirt. Her matching basque was trimmed with what had been a crisp white collar when she got on the coach but was now limp and soiled from the dust of the trip.
“Is this your first trip in a stagecoach?” the young woman asked Annie in a soft, educated voice.
Well, if that wasn’t a surprise. The woman actually spoke to her in a friendly way. “Yes,” Annie answered, then added, “ma’am.”
“Mine, too.” She smiled. “My name is Matilda Susan Cunningham.” Miss Cunningham spoke clearly, just like Annie’s mother had, although that was so long ago it was hard for Annie to remember.
“Miss Cunningham.” Annie nodded. “I’m Annie MacAllister.”
“Where are you going, Miss MacAllister?” Miss Cunningham asked.
“Trail’s End.”
“I’m going there, too.” Miss Cunningham nodded. “Will your family meet you?”
Annie shook her head.
“My employer will meet me,” Miss Cunningham said.
“Not your family, Miss Cunningham?” Annie almost bit her tongue. She should know not to pry.
“Please, do call me Matilda, won’t you?”
Annie nodded, delighted by the attention of this kind woman.
“No, my family won’t meet me.” Matilda sighed. “My parents died when I was thirteen. My brother, only two months ago. That’s why I had to find employment.”
As Matilda looked out the window, Annie realized that they looked a little alike. They both had dark hair and dark eyes, and were tall and thin, although she’d noticed when they’d waited for the stage that Matilda carried herself proudly while Annie hunched over.
When the coach stopped at a home station, all the passengers got off and entered the small frame building. Annie gazed yearningly at the beans and greasy meat the cook stirred and slapped on a tin plate.
“One dollar,” said the station agent.
She only had three dollars and fifty-one cents to last her until she found work. She was hungry but not hungry enough to spend a penny yet. She went out to the porch and washed her hands in the pewter basin.
“Would you share some of this meal with me?” Matilda stood on the porch with her plate. “I don’t believe I can eat all of it. If you don’t mind helping me, I would appreciate that.”
Wasn’t she the nicest lady? To make charity sound as if Annie were doing a good deed for her. “Thank you, Matilda.”
“Let’s say a prayer first.” Matilda bowed her head. “Dear Lord, we thank You for Your bounty. We thank You for leading us into new lives and know You will be with us wherever our paths take us. Amen.”
Annie had been so startled she hadn’t had time to bow her head before Matilda began to pray. She hadn’t heard a prayer since her mother’s funeral. Matilda’s prayers were probably answered. God hadn’t bothered to grant any of Annie’s.
As the afternoon wore on, the pitching and jolting of the coach changed to a rocking motion, and everyone slept. At a stop in Rotain, the leering man left. An hour after that, the disapproving woman got off with one more glare at Annie. Oh, how Annie wished people could see her for the person she was, not for the deeds she’d been forced to commit to survive.
Well, that was the very reason she was on this coach. When she couldn’t stand her life for one more day, she’d pulled together every penny she’d saved. Most of it had gone to buy the ticket to Trail’s End, a town the ticket agent said no one ever visited. Once there, she’d get a new job, maybe cleaning houses or even working in a shop. She’d live an upright and respectable life and wouldn’t have to put up with slurs and lecherous glances.
Matilda and Annie were alone on the last leg of the journey. They chatted for a while until the warmth of the coach caused Annie to fall asleep. She dozed until the lurching of the vehicle woke her with a start.
The motion flung her against Matilda, then tossed them both against the door on the other side of the coach. Annie grabbed the leather curtain and held it tightly, but Matilda’s flailing hands couldn’t grasp anything to keep her from ricocheting around the interior. She was thrown hard against a window. Then she smashed into the door on the right side and it made a loud crack and opened wide. The young woman flew from the carriage, screaming in pain and terror.
For a few seconds, Matilda’s screams continued.
Then the cries stopped. Completely.
The coach finally came down on the right side with a terrible crash. Annie’s ankles twisted beneath her, and her head hit the door frame.
Dust billowed up and engulfed her. Tears ran down her face, mixing with Matilda’s blood, as well as her own, as it streamed from a cut on her head. Silence shrouded the coach until a man shouted from above her, “Are you all right in there?”
“I’m—” Annie croaked. She swallowed and said in a shaking voice, “I’m alive but the other woman—” She sobbed, the words catching in her throat.
The driver opened the door above her, reached down and pulled her up. The pain in her arm was sharp.
Once she stood on the road, Annie looked at herself. She was covered in blood and grime, her pink dress smeared with splatters and splotches of red while blood stained her sleeve as it dripped from a gash on her arm.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Wheel came off. Spooked the horses,” the driver said. “I’m going to have to ride to town to get a new one.” He looked inside the coach again. “Where’s the other passenger?”
“Back there,” Annie said, and pointed fifty yards behind. Fresh tears rolled down her dirty, scraped cheeks. “She fell out.”
In spite of the pain, Annie ran toward Matilda, who lay absolutely still. “Matilda,” she whispered as she took one of her friend’s limp hands.
“No use.” The driver shook his head. “She’s dead, ma’am. Looks like a broken neck.”
Annie sobbed. Matilda had been nicer to Annie than anyone in years.
She’d
had a future. Someone would meet her in Trail’s End and help her get settled. Someone expected her. She’d been on the way to a place where she’d begin a new position, where she’d be respected and admired.
How sad that a decent, upright woman with a future had died and left the woman who’d worked in a brothel behind. It should have been Annie. She had no future. No one would miss her. No one cared about her. No one even knew where she was.
Annie should have been the one to die.
“Do you know her name, ma’am?”
As she stood there, Annie remembered the words of that haughty passenger, how people had called her terrible names for years, how men always tried to take advantage of her. Memories of all the slurs and beatings and sins that were her life assailed her. Annie would never be able to get away from that. Never. No matter what jobs she found or how far she traveled, people would always recognize Annie as the woman from the brothel, cheap and sinful and beneath them. Women would judge and men would leer.
She didn’t want that following her for the rest of her life.
She took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before she said, “Her name was Annie MacAllister.”