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

“Well—don’t you worry about your father and mother? I mean, they are most likely of an advancing age, and might need help. And if you’re the only child left, and you’re so—distant...?”

Ben was leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on thighs in a comfortable position to handle the reins. Whistling soundlessly for a minute, he pushed back his hat and stared at the horizon as if he were planning to memorize the angle of every flimsy cloud.

She waited. She was learning to be patient while the words for a complicated response tumbled through his brain before arranging themselves into coherence. His tongue might not offer a lightning-swift back-and-forth, but she had no doubt his thought process did.

“We parted in anger,” he finally told her, quietly. “Things were said that couldn’t be unsaid, and I cleared out. Haven’t spoken to ’em since.”

Everyone thinks the craziness involved in their own family tree is completely abnormal, that they are the only ones suffering from what seems to be insanity. Once out in the world, however, and in contact with multiple other human beings, it’s easy to learn that all family trees are cock-a-loop, and it’s not abnormal but entirely normal.

Camellia, coming from her own twisted background that had left her and her sisters practically on the doorstep of the poor house, could well comprehend a situation that might have driven a giant, possibly permanent, wedge in between the son and what was left of his lineage. She wondered if she might be able to pry the details from him, in order to better understand this occasionally difficult man.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said quietly, laying a gentle gloved hand on his corded forearm. She spoke with a wisdom and maturity beyond her years. “It must be hard for you to deal with. Do you miss them?”

“Not partic’larly. They have their way of doin’ things, and I have mine.”

How sad. How sad that family dynamics could be so confusing, and so troubling, all wrenched up by hurt feelings. Unfortunately, holding grudges could prevent kith and kin from reconciling for years, all the way to one’s deathbed. And how much time and energy was then lost, and how many questions went unanswered!

“That’s really too bad, Ben, and I mean that sincerely. Was there some one thing that drove you apart?”

“You might say. My brother Jackson wore a gray uniform. I wore blue.”

Her throat closed up, almost in protest. With the terrible, bloody Civil War (or, as many in her native city had named it, The War Between the States), ended just a few years ago, emotions still ran high and deep on both sides. It might take generations before some sort of cooling-off period was achieved, and an honest truce between the participants could be enjoyed.

Missouri, inhabited by both Confederate and Union sympathizers, became a fiercely contested border state. Not only did it maintain dual governments, but it held a star on the flags of both North and South. Each side in the War also received supplies, armies, and generals from this place that was fighting neighbor against neighbor within its own borders, besides fighting in every battle of every front on all sides.

Camellia was old enough to remember some of the history, and what had gone on around her in a frenzy of excitement, fear, and hatred.

The War. That insane, horrific, gory, life-shattering War.

“And that’s the brother who fell at Gettysburg?”

“Yeah.” His jaw, seen in profile, had set hard, and a muscle was clenching and unclenching so that the words seemed as clipped as the bullets that had brought him down. “The oldest son. The favorite. Hard on everybody, especially with me bein’ on the other side. The enemy.”

“Ah.” She wondered what memories must be hovering always in the back of his mind, and how many nightmares from that hellish ordeal pursued him. Or had he served far removed from the hue and cry of battle, safely behind the lines? Perhaps someday she would be able to pry loose more details from his reluctant lips. “And your other brother—Cole, I believe?”

A cloud lifted from his face. “Youngest. Thankfully, he escaped the war. But then he was considered a coward for not joinin’ up.”

Aghast, Camellia sucked in a hurtful breath. “A coward? You mean—by your parents?”

“Indeed. Another bone of contention. It ain’t no wonder he got away as fast and as far as he could. California, last I heard.”

“I at least have my sisters with me,” she murmured, thinking that he could be considered as much a war victim as his older brother.

He moved his shoulders restlessly, as if batting away some insect on a rampage. Or recollections that did not—would never—rest easily in his consciousness. “Well, I reckon we all got our cross to bear in life. There, see that track jogging off to the right? Takes you right next to the river, and a tiny settlement of just a few people, downstream a ways.”

Nodding, she acknowledged his comment. And his adroit change of subject. He seemed to be quite adept at skittering away from any topic he didn’t want to discuss, especially if it honed too closely to the bare bone.

“Do you often take drives like this?” she finally asked curiously, as their horse had slowed from a trot to a walk.

“No. No point, y’ know.”

“No young ladies you wanted to squire about the countryside?” she teased.

He snorted, a typical male response. “Hardly. Toldja, not a one in or around town I been interested in. Either too young, or too silly, or too fulla themselves, or already taken.”

“So what do you do with your leisure on Sundays off?”

“Hmmm.” He considered a minute or two, then suddenly jerked to attention and flapped the reins. “Hey, Balaam, we may be out for a morning stroll, but you don’t gotta take the word literally. Move along there, fellah. Leisure. Free time, you mean. Well, to tell you the truth, I ain’t got much leisure.”