Aside from the aging part, the description did fit her. Oh, she wasn’t exactly ugly. But her limp from a carriage accident as a child drew an observer’s attention from her nice form and pleasant face. It was the first thing a person saw, and made the biggest impact.
And she was certainly desperate. After losing her employment when the factory where she worked burned to the ground, she and many of the women who worked there decided to sign up with the bride agency. Survival, they’d called it.
The hissing of the steam soothed her as it had the entire ride from Boston. If only she could ride the train forever and not get off. Not face a new life she wasn’t all that sure about.
Her coworkers had pooled their money once the factory was lost and helped each other prepare for their new lives. Groups of women had parted on several days over the past week, hugs and tears at each leaving. As far as she knew, the women were headed to just about every state and territory in the country.
“Wickerton, New York.” The conductor walked the passageway from one car to the next, announcing their destination.
Julia took a deep breath and stood, smoothing her dress as best she could. It was quite wrinkled from the long ride, but nothing could be done for it now. She grabbed her satchel from the shelf above her seat, the jerking of the train’s brakes making for a clumsy walk to the door.
The station bustled with activity. Passengers getting off, passengers getting on. Shrieks of happiness as family members were reunited. She stood at the top step and looked around. Mr. Johnson was supposed to meet her at the station. He’d written that from there they would go directly to the parson’s house and get married. Her stomach roiled.
Tears stung her eyes, either from the steam or building anxiety, as her eyes darted back and forth, looking for Mr. Johnson. Owner of the Wickerton Mercantile, he had described himself as in his thirties, a bit rotund, and with a full mustache. She was not fond of facial hair, but when a woman was desperate for a roof over her head and food in her stomach, she couldn’t afford to be fussy. Almost as an afterthought, he’d written that he had two sons.
Please God. Just make him be kind.
Sheriff Fletcher Adams stood alongside Marvin Johnson as the man waited for his bride. Fletcher didn’t exactly call Johnson a friend, but the man had grabbed him a short time ago and asked him to go to the station with him, and then stand up as witness to his wedding at the parson’s house. Fletcher had oftentimes found the man to be mean, and he sure wasn’t doing too good of a job raising his two boys. Hopefully, his new wife would take the rascals in hand.
A mail order bride. Fletcher shook his head. Why would a man take on a woman he didn’t know as his wife? Marriage was forever. Or until one of them died, like his wife, Laura. Even though having a wife would allow him to bring his daughter home from his sister-in-law’s house where she’d been for the past several months, he couldn’t imagine marrying up with a woman with God knows what type of past.
“Do you see her, Sheriff?” Johnson wiped the sweat from his forehead as he scanned the women in the crowd, taking quick glances at a tintype he held in his hand.
“That might be her, there.” Fletcher gestured with his chin at a very pretty young woman standing at the top of the train steps. She had a tight grip on her satchel and looked nervous enough to be a mail order bride. But certainly a heck of a lot younger and prettier than one would expect.
Johnson glanced at the tintype. “Yep, that’s her all right.” He nudged Fletcher in his ribs. “Nice looking, eh? I’ll bet she’ll be a good one between the sheets.”
A flash of irritation tightened Fletcher’s lips. That wasn’t a seemly thing to say about one’s prospective wife. He almost felt sorry for the girl.
As they both watched, the woman grasped the railing and stepped down. She seemed to stumble and then righted herself. Fletcher found himself taking a step forward to assist her, but realized she was no concern of his. Johnson just stared at her and never moved.
Once she reached the ground and took a step forward, it became apparent that she had a limp. She struggled with the satchel and continued to scan the crowd, chewing her lip as she looked around.
“Johnson, I think you should go help the girl.”
“What the hell! She never told me she was a cripple.” Johnson remained in his place, staring at his bride, his face a mirror of distaste.
Shocked at the man’s comments, Fletcher said, “She’s not a cripple. She merely has a limp.”
“Well, I ain’t marrying up with no woman who limps. How the hell is she gonna help me in the store? And do her chores? And what about taking care of my two boys? They need a mother, not someone who they would have to nurse.” He shook his head, crumpling the tintype in his fist. “Nah. I don’t want her.”
Fletcher’s mouth dropped. “You can’t just leave her here. She came all this way expecting to get married.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna be to me.” He tossed the tintype to the ground. “You marry her. I’m going back to the store. And you can bet I’ll be writin’ that bride agency and tellin’ them I want a refund.” He stormed off, leaving Fletcher staring after him.
What the hell am I going to do now?
The crowd dispersed and still the bride stood on the platform, her satchel at her feet, her face frozen in a smile. Fletcher ran his fingers through his hair so many times it was a wonder his hat even fit on his head.
Damn that Johnson. To just leave her here with no care in the world as to what she would do. The train slowly pulled out behind her, and soon the only people on the platform were her and him. She looked at him expectantly, and he knew there was no way he could walk away.
Taking a deep breath, he walked up to her. She smiled brightly and extended her hand. “You are Mr. Johnson?”
Fletcher shook his head and wished himself back in his office, feet up on the desk, drinking another cup of bitter coffee “No. I’m not Mr. Johnson.”
“Oh.” She withdrew her hand and stared at him.
He cleared his throat. “Mr. Johnson…”