Mail Order Bride: My Montana Romance, #1

Prologue

W here in Sam Hill have those worthless sons of yours disappeared to now?

Unperturbed by the irascible tone, Miranda Falcon carefully added a few more flour-dusted chicken pieces to the pan full of hot grease sizzling on the stove before making a mild reply. "My worthless sons?"

Brushing her hands against an enveloping apron, she turned to confront her husband of nearly forty years. A still pretty woman, despite silvered hair, age lines around her blue eyes, and extra weight carried with pride and composure, she was used to his easily roused temper and, in most cases, merely tossed it aside as of no consequence. The experiences of more than half a lifetime had taught her how to handle her spouse.

Yeah. Got somethin’ I wanna discuss with every last one of ’em. Dammit, couldn’t they show a little respect for their father once in a while?

Land sakes, Charlie, what’s wrong with you? You’re as crochety as that old snappin’ turtle down by the—oh. Comprehension dawned, like light breaking over a dawn sky, and she paused. Today’s the day, is it?

Yeah, it is. Wouldn’tcha think they’d be comin’ in for dinner pretty soon?

Seems to me you’d be knowin’ better’n anybody where they’d be, she calmly pointed out. Are you the boss of this place, or aren’t you?

Oh, Randy. A chuckle that sounded rusty for having been used so seldom dispelled the black mood hanging over the room. We know well and good who’s the boss of this place. It’s you, darlin’.

Why, Charles, you old sweet talker, you. Smiling, she sashayed her comfortable curves straight into his open arms for a brief mid-day hug. With her head resting against his sturdy shoulder, she patted his arm in its flannel sleeve. Honey, those boys are gonna be so mad at you for what you’ve done.

Even somewhat mollified by his wife’s warm nearness, he was still rumbling, like a temperamental teakettle set to boil. Goldarnit, Ran, you gotta admit somebody had to do somethin’. Time is just a-wastin’ away, and nothin’ happenin’ with those four yokels. Needed to set fire to their britches, doncha figure?

Miranda leaned back slightly to look up at the man she had loved so completely for so long. Overlong black hair shaded to gray, to match the mustache, blue eyes faded now but still far-seeing, weathered skin, tall formidable frame designed to comfort and conserve: her Charlie, whose loyalty she had never questioned, whose ability she had never doubted. You’re a take-charge kind of guy, that’s for sure. But couldn’t you just let nature have its way?

I would’ve, honey, if it looked like nature might be winnin’. But I felt I had to get a-goin’ with my own two hands. Yeah, the boys will be mad. But, in the long run, I’m right about this, and they’ll have to admit it. You’ll see.

Mhm. Maybe. Then, after another pat, she moved again to the pan of chicken being fried, that couldn’t be left long unwatched without burning itself to cinders. Well, now, I think Cody mentioned at breakfast that he wanted to check fencing up in the north pasture, after that storm the other day.

North pasture, huh? Musta had my mind on other things when all these plans were bein’ made. Did he take anybody with him?

A sudden spatter of hot grease forced Miranda back a step or two, away from the cook stove.

Didn’t you hear him say he’d have Jesse go along, with the wagon and materials? And the young’uns were set on headin’ into town for some supplies.

Supplies, Charles repeated the word with derision. He wrapped a towel around the coffee pot handle to pour a cup of the thick strong stuff that boiled from morning till night. Checkin’ up on local gossip, more like. Or sittin’ round a poker table. Lazy sods. D’you expect ’em back in time for dinner?

Charlie, they are not lazy sods. All four of those boys work hard here at The Cottonwood, and you’re very well aware of it. She might have been a bantam hen, with hands on hips and arms akimbo, standing ground over her chicks. And of course they’ll be back in time for dinner. I have yet to see the day any one of you male Falcons misses a meal!

Charles backed off. No one, but no one, messed with Miranda when her dander was up. And that moment seemed to be fast approaching.

All right. Gonna go do some paperwork at my desk. You’ll call me when dinner is ready?

She was using a long, sharp-tined fork to poke at the ambrosial chicken as if she’d like to be poking it into somebody’s ribs instead. Don’t I always? she demanded with asperity.

Feeling it safer to ignore that, Charles fled.

The Cottonwood Ranch had been established on some 10,000 acres, along the eastern foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, the ride of an hour or so on one fast horse from a thriving hamlet auspiciously named Pasto Verde (green grass).  Farther east, and slightly north, lay another thriving hamlet in an area once inhabited by the Ute, Arapahoe, and Cheyenne peoples. First called Fountain City, the trading center formally organized during the Pike’s Peak Gold Rush would, in six years, incorporate as Colorado Springs.

Originally, the Cottonwood’s main house had been built for sturdiness and shelter, as a large log cabin which held cooking, living, and sleeping facilities all in one room, plus a dogtrot out to the laundry facilities. When the ranch began to prosper, over the years, and the family began to enlarge, so, too, did their quarters. An add-on provided a spacious parlor, complete with flagstone fireplace big enough to hold an ox and wood floors smooth and bland as honey; other add-ons sprouted substantial wings for bedrooms, spare rooms, guest rooms, and catch-alls.

A haphazard design, it was true. Yet the finished product, under Miranda’s capable hand, proved to be comfortable and cool in the summer, with an overhang of cottonwood leaves and oak branches; and comfortable and cozy in the winter, given plenty of stoves, rugs, and knitted afghans.

The gathering place for all meals was the enormous kitchen. Against one wall stood a formidable black iron stove, with its burner plates, its water reservoir, its baking oven and its warming oven. Against the opposite wall stood an equally formidable fireplace. In between ranged the sink—complete with the hand pump for running water—various work spaces, cupboards and cabinets, a wood box neatly stacked and supplied, and an assortment of pails, baskets, and receptacles placed for use in a corner.

In the center of the room, atop its multi-colored hooked rug, stood a hand-sawed and lovingly polished plank table, built to accommodate a growing flock of Falcons.

It was here that all five men eventually assembled, just at noon: everyone together, and on time, contrary to Charlie’s earlier testy comments, in ones and twos. Seated at the head of the table, he looked around at his brood from beneath bushy gray brows. Waitin’ on you, Randy, he announced, interrupting a few minutes of busy conversation.

Comin’. I’m comin’. A trifle breathless, after scurrying back and forth with filled platters, she slid onto her chair and bowed her head. All right, then.

Silence followed, while the old man spoke a blessing on this house, its people, and the food they were about to eat, amen.

Hey, Ma, you really outdid yourself today, commented Cody, the eldest son.

A tall, stalwart rider of the range, with shining black hair threaded by his mother’s silver, and eyes the color of lapis mined in their very own state, his was the appearance given to dime novel heroes written about the Old West. He was also closest to his mother’s heart, though she claimed to hold no favorite.

Miranda looked up with a smile. Well, I know how you boys love your fried chicken.

And mashed potatoes and gravy, chimed in Jesse, the second son, in looks and manner almost a twin. Except for the change of hue from strands of silver to solid blue-black.

And biscuits drippin’ in butter, added Samuel, next in line. Shaking back a lock of ebony hair that had defied the comb during washing-up, his eyes crinkled with humor as he passed around bowls and plates for everyone to dig in. Azure eyes, the bright cheerful tone of a summer sky, that, given the chance, would send interested girls into a secret rhapsody.

And maybe some chocolate cake for dessert, hopefully piped up Daniel, the youngest Falcon at 25, and the most amenable, and most resilient. Probably fighting for scraps against his older, more strong-willed brothers had made him so.

Pausing to scoop up green beans fresh from the garden, Charlie sent a glare around the table. You think your ma has nothin’ better t’ do than cater to you good-for-nothin’ idjits? Didn’t see none of you out there killin’ the chicken, nor pluckin’ off its feathers, nor scoopin’ out its innards.

Charles, interceded his wife, on a warning note. I had Jake take care of all that. You remember Jake, don’t you? The ranch cook?

Dammit, o’ course I remember Jake! You think I’m goin’ senile or somethin’, Ran?

The four brothers exchanged a rueful look. The old man was at it again, like a volcano full of hot lava building up, for whatever reason, until the whole mess could be spewed out. They sometimes wondered how their mother had put up with him all these years. Usually, in this kind of mood, the boys simply cut and ran.

The point I’m tryin’ to make is, Charles went on, around his work at tearing apart a bun warm and crusty with sugar, you need some help around here. Just too much work for one woman to handle. It’s been goin’ on for too long, and it ain’t right.

Miranda took a sip of coffee. I won’t deny there’s a lot of work. On the other hand—

Sam and Danny coulda been here, at least puttin’ plates on the table, ’steada losin’ their shirts at some poker table in Pasto.

Poker table! and Losin’ our shirts! both maligned and misjudged youngest sons set up a howl of protest. We haven’t been off the ranch today, Pop. If you’d looked, you coulda seen us haulin’ stuff off to work on the fence, with Cody and Jess.

Hmmmph. Well, then.

Too proud to admit defeat, their father subsided enough to continue his meal, with only pockets of conversation going on around him, in between hearty bites of everything that had been prepared. A comment about the continued nice weather, after a violent storm two days ago; another comment about the slow recovery of a ranch hand’s sprained ankle; someone’s query as to the condition of a prized mare, safely shut into a near corral for the last few weeks before giving birth.

Finally, with plates scraped clean and a refill of coffee cups, the boys began making preparations to leave, for wherever duty called them next.

Hold on a minute, all of you, Charlie interposed. Got somethin’ I need to get off my chest, and it’s important. So just sit yourselves back down while I speak my piece.

This time the look exchanged between four brothers lasted longer, in a mixture of curiosity and indulgence. A sort of What’s the old guy up to now? silent question, as evidenced by raised brows and small doleful grimaces.

Some hemming and hawing ensued, as Charlie gathered his thoughts. Then, grabbing a sheaf of papers from the table behind him, he drew a deep breath and plunged in.

Every last one of you is gettin’ long in the tooth. You, Cody, you’re what, 32 already? Got me four sons and no woman anywhere in sight, no matter how much I’ve pushed you. Well, that stops here and now. I’ve taken matters into my own hands.

Cody, as eldest, was beginning to feel a twinge of apprehension. What’re you talkin’ about, Pop? What matters?

If beetling his brows at those scattered around the table could be considered an expression, then Charlie was working it full force. And breathing hard, to boot, with bright color rising to flush his weathered complexion.

I answered ads in the personal sections of some newspapers. Oh, yeah, your mother knew all about what I was doin’, don’t worry. She even helped me.

At this point Miranda attempted to intercede. Not that I approved of—

But this was my idea. So I picked out mail order brides, wrote to ’em in your names, and, after a few back-and-forths, I proposed. Still in your names, o’ course. Four brides, four bridegrooms. You got prospective wives on their way, any day now.

The combined simultaneous reactions might have been pricelessly hilarious, if not for the fact that one man had just wreaked havoc on a number of unwitting lives.

Cody (setting down his cup with a bang): What are you—

Jesse (rocking his chair flat from two legs to four legs with a crash): Have you lost your—

Samuel (dropping knife and fork onto the table with a clatter): What gave you the—

Daniel (slamming his fist flat down with a thump): Where did you get the—

Be quiet! Miranda exclaimed, her voice carrying over and slicing through the fooforah.

And, as always, when their mother spoke, the boys immediately settled down to listen.

Your father is talking to you about what is going on, she