Mail Order Bride: My Montana Romance, #2

Prologue

LET ME MAKE ONE THING perfectly clear, right from the start.

This misadventure was not of my doing.

I had no knowledge of what had been done or of what would happen; I had no input into the final decision. I was forced to accept a decree I had not sought and did not want.

But how often is any woman allowed the luxury of choosing her own path in life?

If bitterness rests in my words, and certainly in my heart, it is because of circumstances beyond my control.

In a few short years, a poem written by William Ernest Henley would be published, under the title Invictus. Once I had read its brief four stanzas, and had reached the maturity to understand its meaning, I would know that this was what my spirit had been crying out for.

"It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul."

Still, my future lay in the hands of my father.

My autocratic, despotic father, who had made all these arrangements, who had set the wheels in motion for my enslavement.

A man who had despised the very sight of me, ever since the day I had killed my mother.

Chapter 1

ANNABEL, DID HE EVEN say goodbye to you?

No. My face, with its carefully cultivated peaches-and-cream complexion, might have been made of stone, as was my heart. I had learned long ago, at a very tender age, to hide away all emotion, lest it be my downfall. Better to be thought cold and frigid, than to be caught up in a trap with no escape, ridiculed for the feeling which had made me who I am. No. He stood on the veranda, and watched me go. He and—he and—that wife of his.

She might as well have not even possessed a first name, since I had always referred to her thus. Ever since my father had brought her back to Riverbend Plantation from somewhere in Pennsylvania, some ten years ago, to serve as mistress of the house and of his bed.

You’re better off getting away. Gisela Craig, my ladies’ maid as well as my dearest friend, reached across the surrey’s leather seat to pat my hand. It’s an abominable situation.

Nodding, I shifted slightly to gaze around as our driver clopped along the lane, with all my earthly possessions—at least, those which I had been allowed to bring—stuffed into trunks and luggage behind me, as well as those belonging to Gisela. My last glimpse of the only home I had ever known in my twenty-two years; my last glimpse, probably forever, of the State of South Carolina. I was being forced to go west. The memory of what I was seeing now would have to stay with me for a long time.

By now, I had little left to say on any subject, having been browbeaten and shouted at and worn down to a nubbin for too many months. My father had decreed I should leave, and so I was. None of my earlier protests had managed to dissuade him one iota; nor had the stern voices of my five elder brothers, raised in outrage on my behalf, softened his stance.

My five elder brothers. Pah. Much as I had hoped for some sort of rescue, not a single one of them had stepped forward to offer me refuge. Still too dependent upon our father’s largesse, apparently, and too wary of exciting the wrath of their reluctant wives.

Maybe it won’t be so bad there, Gisela offered timidly.

Another nod. Much as I liked her and appreciated her company, right now I wanted nothing but silence. My poor head, under its weight of golden ringlets and top-heavy side-tipped hat trimmed in ostrich feathers dyed to match my dress, had been aching badly since dawn, upon my arising. The cool comfort of my bed, centered on the bare wooden floor of an airy second-story room, called out to me with a siren’s voice.

We might have been sisters, Gisela and I: both with fair skin and hair (although hers ranged more to the platinum, while mine ranged more to the buttercup); both with the greenish-gold eyes reminiscent of Bonner Creek’s shallow waters, near what once was my home; both slender enough to wear the latest fashion, had such attire been made available to us.

In temperament only did we differ. Whereas I had shut myself off and locked my inner self away, for protection, Gisela tended toward the outgoing, friendly charm for which Southern girls are so well known. Given her own background of hand-to-mouth sharecropper existence, before moving into the plantation house with me as a girl, it was an amazing testament to her personality that she could leave such misery and misfortune behind.

At least your expenses have been paid, all the way to Colorado, she said now, doing her best to cheer me up and put a brave face on the situation. Tell me again, what is the man’s name?

How could such a flood of tears be threatening my composure when my throat felt as dry as the country dust through which we were driving? Jesse Falcon.

And you said he had described himself?

Only a little. Black hair, blue eyes. Not much else.

Well, honey, think about this part. Ever since that nasty ol’ War ended, even fifteen years later, we southern ladies have had slim pickin’s in the available husband department. What’s left for us to choose from is either a fella missin’ some limbs, or a fella so old and feeble he’s got one foot in the grave. And that don’t count the ones that’re there already, and never came back!

Trust Gisela to put a prosaic but honest twist to the situation in which I found myself.

She was correct in every way. And, perhaps, not just for me, but for herself, at some time in the future.

By now, we had left Riverbend behind. My father’s well-trained, well-serviced and shining matched pair of chestnuts were trotting smartly along, on the curvy hard-packed road to bustling Sisyphus, South Carolina. I had never been so cognizant of my hometown’s name as at this present time, when I seemed to be endlessly rolling a boulder to the top of a hill, only to have it roll back down again. Such is the futility of life. Grim, indeed.

On the outskirts, not far from the school I had wanted to attend but been forbidden, one of the surrey’s great red wheels suddenly ran itself over a considerable chasm in the thoroughfare that rocked both Gisela and me back and forth against each other.

Oh, Miss Annabel, ma’am, I’m so sorry for that! Our driver, grizzled old Tobias Wheeler, turned toward us from his high front seat in abject apology. That there hole just cropped up outa nowhere, and I never even saw it. Are you doin’ all right?

Right as rain, Toby. We’re just fine, thank you.

Speak for yourself, Annabel. I’ve broken two ribs and my hat pin.

Chortling, Tobias returned to his post and hi-yawed to the horses. Oh, Miss Gisela, you are a stitch. You are a stitch, for sure.

The town, on this early Saturday morning in late July, hummed with activity: boardwalk-sitters, mercantile customers, young boys bent on squirming through any crowd to reach some promised excitement, several stray dogs following the boys, and wagon or buggy traffic. Tobias, as instructed, drove us straight to the railway station, on the opposite end of town.

Chapter 2

AFTER CHECKING WITH the ticket master, to ensure that our departure schedule was correct and that the approaching South Carolina Railroad engine would be on time, Tobias enlisted help to unload all the trunks, luggage, valises, and hat boxes necessary for two women en route to exile.

I’ll be leavin’ you now, ladies; time to head back to Riverbend, Tobias, tipping his hat, reluctantly informed us. Miss Annabel, I’m gonna miss you somethin’ powerful, and I know Betsy will, too. Awful shame, the way things’ve worked out round here. You send us your address, once you get settled, now, y’ hear?

My heart was being swamped by tears, but I refused to let them fall, or even give any indication of grief or regret. I would, however, embrace the aged stableman, with whom I had spent more of my youth than with my own father, and wish him and his wife well.

I wonder if these first-class accommodations will go all the way to our destination, murmured Gisela with a giggle, more than an hour later.

We’d been swung aboard the passenger car, and all our various traveling pieces had been safely stowed, ready for transport. Now we were settled in a quite unexpectedly luxurious Pullman, whose hand-carved wooden benches had been covered and padded by fabric of plush claret velvet and brocade, whose wooden floor carried carpet from one door to the other, whose ample windows had been dressed up in short golden draperies with an assortment of little bobbles, whose high ornate ceiling boasted pendent lamps to provide plenty of light.

Smoothing the skirt of my rather somber cobalt walking suit, with its overskirt and pleats accentuated by a small bustle, I managed a tight smile in return. He couldn’t get rid of us fast enough, could he?

Oh, I dunno, Anna, protested my friend in the soft drawl which, I supposed, echoed mine. I know your papa is a ferocious man, right enough. But that wife of his could match him for every piece of iron in his soul.

True. Benedict and Filomena are a fit pair, aren’t they?

For a bit we simply hummed along, jostled slightly by the movement of the train over the rails, listening to shreds of conversation here and there between other travelers, shifting now and then to get more comfortable for the long haul. Gisela, beside the window, adjusted her simple straw hat and leaned forward to peer out at the scenery through which we were progressing at a rapid rate. Her choice in dress suited her personality: a three-piece striped silk taffeta in golden yellow and pale green, its bodice and tablier closed by pearl buttons, its cheerful hue and style set to rival the sun.

I envied her optimism.

Perhaps our departure today, forsaking forever all we had known since babyhood, meant more to her as a positive step forward than I had realized.

Gis.

M’h’m?

Thank you.

Her eyes widened as she glanced back at me over her shoulder. Anytime, hon. But for what?

I shrugged. For being my friend. For standing beside me, every step of the way. For coming along with me, to this—this outlandish place— my voice broke a little, that no one has ever heard of, in some dropping-off corner of the world.

Oh, Anna. You’re still worrying, aren’t you? Turning, she clasped both of my mitted hands in hers, reassuringly; hers, warm and supportive, mine, cold as the bottom of the Riverbend well. Honey, lotsa women go into arranged marriages. Yours is bound to be better’n most, because of the person you are.

I wasn’t about to start sniffling again, when I had already cried a lake full of tears. Especially not in public view. I think it was mainly the—the secrecy—that has me the most upset. To carry on correspondence for months, with some—some yokel off in the wilds of Borneo—and only tell me when he decided I had to leave...Gis, I feel like a castoff old rubber boot.

Well, but he’s always treated you that way, hon, countered Gisela with her wonderful practicality. You couldn’t expect him to act different now, could you? A leopard doesn’t change its spots, y’ know.

Oh, as if there were ever any chance of that—!

What does beat all, she went on, settling back against the seat and pulling one of her favorite paper-wrapped bits of horehound candy from her reticule, is how he can still blame you for your mama’s death. Shoot. It’s hardly your fault if she died givin’ you birth. It’s not like you set out to deliberately murder the poor woman. Dang his hide, anyway. If it hadn’t been for Betsy Wheeler, you wouldn’ta had no motherin’ a’tall durin’ your formative years.

All so true. My father, apparently unable to even tolerate the sight of me even as a squalling, red-faced infant only hours old, had banished me to the kitchen or the stable or the farthest reaches of the plantation. I was allowed to take dinner with him and my older brothers only on special occasions, or rarely enough when visitors stayed over. The crumbs of his affection, his approval, his love, which I had so desperately sought, were never to be given. Ultimately, I realized that. I was allowed to run wild, and, in my wildness, I