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

“You tell him,” Putnam hissed, “that I ain’t waitin’ any longer. He knows what we talked about. He knows what I want. And it better happen soon!”

Cackling, he made as if to move off, only to suddenly lunge back and smack her hard across the cheek. With a muffled cry, and a blaze of shooting stars that cascaded down from somewhere, Camellia crumpled and slowly collapsed to the floor.

“It better happen soon,” the man repeated, between his teeth, “or there’ll be more of that in store for you. And for him, too.”

Swinging on his heel, he swaggered away as bold and arrogant as if he owned the place.

Maybe he did. Or maybe he was just working on it.

Chapter Fourteen

THE RAINS STARTED FALLING sometime after midnight. They swept in with a blustery, ragged wind that rattled and poked at the window panes, seeking entrance. A steady show of lightning, that sent brilliant prongs across the black sky, accompanied the deluge, amid an occasional boom or rumble of thunder. An impressive display all around, were one inside, and well protected from the elements, to observe.

It was almost dawn before the storm wore itself out and meandered on its way east toward the distant Mississippi. Left behind were small branches torn from the trees and flung about with mad abandon, some damage to anything left out in the open, and, here and there, an inch-thick carpet of mud. Animals, both wild and domestic, had hunkered down wherever they could find shelter and shrugged off the worst of it.

Farmers and ranchers alike appreciated the moisture that replenished dry pasture, rye grass, tall fescue, and so on, for the benefit of stock relying upon it. Townsfolk, not so much. Men felt no compunction about clomping around through mucky soil in their heavy boots, scraping where necessary only to clomp along further and add more. Shopkeepers, doing their best to keep the stuff at bay, via shovels and brooms, could merely sigh. The ladies of Turnabout, meanwhile, had no interest in venturing out until sunshine and cloudless blue skies had returned streets to their normal dusty state.

Which, given the East Texas mid-May temperatures, shouldn’t take long.

The medium-tall shrub known as summer-sweet merely shrugged its glossy green leaves free of raindrops and lifted its fragrant pink spires skyward, as did the lovely dogwood and the white gardenias with their heavenly scent. Wildflowers and garden flowers both, all breathed out a sigh of relief that they had survived but one more storm. They straightened their petals, shook loose their petticoats, and went back to doing what they did best: adding beauty and perfume to the picketed yards of Turnabout.

It was late afternoon of a balmy and bright-bouqueted Wednesday when Ben Forrester got back into town.

He and Balaam had been on the road for some eight hours, clopping along at a steady trot through flattened grass and a pebbled mix of sand and grit. They had stopped, several times, for food and drink and a brief rest; and Ben, quite satisfied as to the results of his first business trip, took great pleasure in his surroundings during this triumphant return.

Manifest, nearly forty miles north and west, had fortunately been passed over by the ferocious storm, so travel home had been easy. As simple as holding the reins, occasionally clucking a tongue at the conceited horse, and wandering here and there toward the horizon into his own thoughts.

Rosy plans for the future, with a newly purchased building under his belt; steady ruminations about the present, with a redirection of energy and resources to encompass not one but two stores; troubled musings concerning the recent past, with the acquisition of a wife who was not even attempting to fit into his idea of what a partner should be.

“Hey, Balaam,” he called out suddenly. “Let’s stick to the tried and true, whatddya say? No more wanderin’ off to who knows where.”

With a disdainful switch of his tail, the horse merely looked down his nose at the admonition and carried on as he had been. And Ben, feeling that he had done his own duty by reminding the steed of his, pushed his hat back, settled himself more comfortably upon the padded seat, and began to softly whistle through his teeth.

Whatever was going on with Camellia, it was time to put his foot down. A man ought to be master of the household behind his own doors, hang it all. And she would just have to realize—and accept—that fact.

Except... Except...

He had missed her, these three days of his absence. During the brief hours of their marriage, she had proven to be almost all he had hoped: intelligent, caring, beautiful, charming, generous. But for that one flaw. Opinionated. Just too opinionated. And not at all shy about expressing it.

Could he live with that, when so much else was good about her? Could they build a marriage together, with her determined stance on various issues at opposite ends to his?

Ben’s head began to ache. Not nearly as fiercely and demandingly as the morning after his drinking binge, of course. But enough to make him sit up and take notice. Somehow, every time he reflected upon his marital woes, and the differences between his bride and himself, he was assaulted by some physical ailment.

“Balaam!” he called again, flapping the reins. “You are wreakin’ havoc with my good nature, you worthless hawse. Wouldja mind movin’ it along, there, please? Sure would like to get home before next January.”

With an almost human sigh of resignation, Balaam obligingly picked up the pace.

Leaving Ben to wonder.

He wanted to get home? That alone was surprising, given what might be awaiting his return, after his mishandling of the woman he had promised to love, honor, and cherish. Wouldn’t his parents just be delighted by the way he had behaved! “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he could imagine his mother chortling. “Chip off the old block,” his father would have chimed in.

Two more repellent individuals he had never known in his life. The miracle was that he had, fortunately, grown up entirely in opposition to their views and behavior. And he fought, every day, to remain so, to stay as decent, as kind, as fair, as principled as he possibly could, in every dealing, in every facet.

But had he succeed

ed?

No. In all honesty, he would have to admit he had not, when it came to Camellia.