Mail Order Bride: Winter (Bride For All Seasons 4)

“It’s the happiest day in my life too. I’ve never felt joy like this.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Epilogue

NO STORY WOULD BE COMPLETE without taking time to tie up all the loose ends.

And the Burton gals, all four of them, had, like so many other pioneer

women, quite a story. In their trek to Turnabout, Texas, they brought with them a sense of their great undertaking: clear-eyed courage, and confidence, and determination. The circumstances of their lives needed to be changed, therefore, they would make changes.

Dr. Gabriel Havers and his pink-cheeked sweetheart, Hannah, were married in the sanctuary of the Church of Placid Waters on February 28th. Even given so little notice, attendees packed the pews full; no one could really tell which individual wore the broadest grin or the brightest beam: the groom, the bride, or the Rev. Martin Beecham. It didn’t matter that the new husband sported a sling for the ceremony, or moved carefully and rather stiffly; he was still able to frankly, lustfully, kiss his new wife, in front of God and everybody.

For the time being, it was determined (a mutual decision) that Hannah would stay on at the newspaper. She really did enjoy her job; also, so she claimed, Mr. Crane and Corny would miss her terribly if she weren’t there.

They had barely settled into Gabriel’s home / office—cats and all—when the date for Paul and Molly’s housewarming arrived. Half the town showed up (at least, the respectable half) per invitation, and the remaining half (not so respectable) took turns wandering in and out. By March 18th, the weather was finally corresponding to its calendar, and a sunny week prior to the event had allowed plenty of cleaning and preparation. Windows could be open, and doors left wide.

Fortunately, not enough insects had spawned yet to demand the same entrance for fun and frolic.

In the middle of her party, Paul called out for silence so that Molly could make an announcement. In conjunction with the Rev. Beecham, Molly said, pulling him forward to share the credit, she was forming a charitable organization called “The Least of These,” which would serve to give aid to children, whether orphaned or not, for clothing, food, shelter, and education.

She had kept remarkably quiet about these plans, this Burton gal who gave the impression of wanting nothing but pleasure and amusement for the rest of her married life. Her sisters were not surprised, only calmly accepting. Molly had always found a new cause to take up; this one was her idea, entirely, and it was to be hoped that a goodly number of her guests would join in as members.

It was a shining moment for Molly Winslow, who had drawn upon her own background to understand the needs of this particular situation, and she was proud that so many residents volunteered to get this not-for-profit off the ground.

The recovered doctor himself had, amazingly, surreptitiously offered a sizable donation for this worthy cause.

At 7:00 a.m., on Palm Sunday, April 2nd, an eight pound baby named Cole Benjamin Forrester made his appearance after twenty-three hours of labor. The last eight were such an ordeal for the agonized mother that, toward the end, when her husband was allowing his hand to be nearly broken in half by her grip, she had screamed at him to go away.

“Far away, and don’t ever return, because I never want to see your horrible ghastly face—or any other piece of you—again!”

Of course, as soon as everything was finished and cleaned up, and she was rested and comfortable once more, and her blanketed son had been placed in her arms, she changed her mind. Gabe had had to reassure the crestfallen new father that such a reaction was not uncommon.

“Don’t worry your head about it, my friend. She had a tough delivery, it’s true, but everything is normal and in its place. I have no doubt that, in another year or so, I’ll be back here, doin’ the same thing, with Cam doin’ the same thing, and we’ll listen to her shriekin’ again that she’s gonna chop off your male parts.”

Such was life.

Over the past few months, Letitia had cut her teeth on a number of more complicated medical cases, one being that of her grateful employer. Her medical studies would continue, and she would work with Gabe as needed. Reese was perfectly content with this arrangement. He was busy enough himself at the Mercantile, since Jimmy Dunlap had happily transferred to the newer store in Manifest, and Reese was now assistant manager.

It must be reported that, with a great deal of nudging from Ben Forrester, as mayor, and another great deal of arm-twisting by Linus Drinkwater, as one of the town’s most influential citizens, Abigail Fitzsimmons did assume the vacant seat on Turnabout’s town council. Plenty of naysayers (mostly narrow-minded males) made their opinions known, loudly and vociferously, but somehow the votes came in her way.

The celebrations for this first in the history of the little metropolis began at The Rouge (most cultured), continued at The Ruby Slipper (middle-of-the-road acceptable), and went on from there to The Calico Belle (least respectable). Linus, so proud of the lady in his life to pop every button, funded the first two of these affairs. He didn’t really want his name associated with the third.

It was sometime toward the end of April, when Hannah was deciding whether she wanted to be involved full- or part-time in her horticultural business, that she discovered her husband was quite well-to-do. No, not just well-to-do. Wealthy enough to buy this town, and several others just like it. Insanely, obscenely rich.

“Don’t yawp, darlin’,” Gabe advised her, upon this startling announcement. “You look like a freshwater bass, about to snap up some bait.”

“Lovely comparison. I do believe the bloom is off the honeymoon.”

With his bullet wound completely healed by now, he had done significant credit to his staying powers in the marital bed. Immediately he had swooped down upon her to prove himself once more. “Don’tcha believe it, Hannah, love,” he told her huskily. “That ain’t never gonna happen.”

Gabriel had, apparently, inherited a substantial estate, built on cotton and bourbon, from his maternal grandfather; and another, smaller, amount when his father had passed on, shortly before the War’s end. The knowledge that a fat bank account provided solid foundation for whatever the newlyweds did, or wanted to do, was immensely reassuring to Hannah, who still occasionally felt a shiver when the memory of her last few years of privations returned to strike her.

The money didn’t change their lifestyle, however. It was merely a safeguard. It could buy nice things, if necessary; or ease the way for someone similarly afflicted.

But Hannah’s first order of business was a personal one.