Mail Order Bride: Springtime (Bride For All Seasons 1)

There sat Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Nolan, proprietors of the furniture store; the family Ledbetter, and their troop of six little Ledbetters; Charlotte Harwood, who managed the public library; Sheriff Paul Winslow, evidently at loose ends right now, with the town occupied and quiet; the Widow Lavinia Semple, owner of a tailor and seamstress shop established some ten years ago; Dr. Gabriel Havers, clearly in between patients, chatting easily with those around him; and many others.

At the pulpit stood their solemn pastor. Beside the pastor stood Ben Forrester, looking equally solemn. And, possibly, just a trifle nervous, given the unaccustomed set of his cleanly razored jaw and a slight narrowing of his hazel eyes. He was composed enough to hold his staunch position, but he did, at one point, insert a forefinger between neck and collar, as if the silk cravat had been tied too tightly.

She was, at least, marrying a man whose appearance could not be faulted: shoulders in the blue cloth coat, with its velvet collar and trim of fine silk cord, wider than they had any right to be; tall, strong body contained by soft gray angola trousers and a dove-colored waistcoat, the backbone ramrod-straight and stiff with starch.

His two groomsmen, as yet unidentified, were dressed similarly in blue diagonal frock coats and appeared completely at their ease. As if either they were already married and off the market, or still casting about and fancy-free.

Nearby, her sister attendants, in their lovely blue and rose-pink, were silently fluttering about, waiting for just the right moment to advance. Now that the time was actually upon them, they were less apprehensive than thrilled about the outcome, thus far, of this venture.

The church music had paused, with Molly’s busy fingers shifting from ballads and hymns to a more appropriate stately march. Jesse, who had been pacing from one side of the vestibule to the other, chewing on an unlit cigar, glanced up and winked at the girl for whom he was standing in as paterfamilias.

“You ready, Miss Burton?”

Holding her fragrant bouquet in one hand, Camellia tucked her other into the crook of the driver’s elbow. No backing out now.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Let’s go do this.”

Chapter Eight

CAMELLIA, FEELING A trifle dazed by all the noise and confusion going on around her, stared down at the shiny gold band on one finger that now tied her, irrevocably, to Benjamin Forrester and his fortunes.

After the ceremony, she had been hugged and kissed and embraced and thumped by too many well-wishers to keep count of. Soon she had simply pasted a brave smile upon her lips, lifted her chin, and accepted whatever came her way.

Guests at the outdoor celebration seemed to having a fabulous time, she noted, glancing around at those adults mingling and lingering, those seniors already seated at tables and being served, those children involved in games such as jumping rope, playing marbles, or rolling a hoop and stick along a dusty side street. She herself had had little to do with arrangements from here on.

Ever since she had accepted Ben’s proposal, thus setting foot on a train that led into the distant unknown, she had been caught up in a whirlwind not of her own making. She was merely along for the ride. Almost a spectator.

“Happy the bride the sun shines on,” said a cheerful voice behind her.

She turned slightly, squinting against the brightness overhead. Even the shade of the full-leafed maple above her couldn’t quite provide complete protection from the burning rays. Quite warm for this time of year, and probably bound to get warmer.

“Dr. Havers,” she acknowledged with a smile. “How nice to see you again.”

“And I, you. After that first time we met, when I so rudely bumped into you, I’ve had a rash of people bein’ sick, haven’t been able to call my time my own. Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for permission, he drew out a chair and plunked down.

“Of course. Although Ben—” she cast about for her new husband, wondering where he had disappeared to, after he had settled her in a place of honor, “Ben should be along any minute.”

“Wouldn’t count on it.” The doctor removed his hat, ruffled his curly red hair with a sigh of relief, and gloried in the slight breeze that skittered their way. “He’s been buttonholed by the Putnam Brothers. I don’t look for him to break free from those two for another good hour.”

Camellia’s lovely long veil and her sumptuous gloves had been removed immediately preceding the exodus to the church lawn and packed carefully away, thanks to her over-zealous sisters. Shifting position to push her cosseted silk skirt out of the way, she gave him another smile. “And are the Putnam Brothers some people I might have already met?”

He shrugged. “Doubt it. They own the Prairie Lot.”

“The Prairie Lot. And that is what—a granary? A pasture? A feed store?”

“Nope.” His white teeth flashed in a grin. “A saloon and brothel.”

Camellia, catching her breath, moved the handful of skirts once again, as if concerned that mere propinquity might soil the garment. “I’m surprised you would say such a thing to me.”

Another shrug, done well with wide shoulders in a neat cream-colored broadcloth. “You asked. Think I oughta spin some yarn, just b’

cause you’re not used to hearin’ the truth? So. You’re a mail order bride, huh?”

“I am,” she responded tartly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Nope. Just wishin’ I’d sent off my own request to this agency Ben used. I’d say he got lucky to beat the band.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t know that—”