Mail Order Bride: Summer (Bride For All Seasons 2)

Little mention had been made, in that correspondence, of anyone’s suffering. But, reading between the lines, guessing more accurately than might be realized, one could see hints of hardship:

clothing for the beleaguered Burtons being acquired via missionary donations from their main church; toys and books for the child being always in short supply and often homemade; even being subjected to an occasional lack of food.

“They were poor, desperately poor. My father, suspecting that might be the case, sent funds to them, to help out. My uncle would always accept anything as a donation to the cause, to help out those who, he said, were far worse off.”

Aquaintances were made; friendships were formed, several linked by the common problem of poverty and need.

Nearly five years passed by, with the Burtons having satisfactorily converted a few heathen to their own brand of religion, and increased membership by a dozen more regular attendees. Prospects for the future looked rosy, indeed, with the promise of a visit home within the next few months.

And then they were attacked. Right there, in the church where they had so faithfully and diligently served. Attacked suddenly, by an Apache war party as savage as fired-up hornets, with no warning from anyone, for no reason that made sense, and been viciously, cruelly slain.

“And Molly saw everything,” said Camellia quietly. Her fingers were clasped tightly together, to control unsteadiness; her hands were anchored by Ben’s strong supporting grip.

The little girl had, at her mother’s first scream of horror, flung herself inside the large chest containing altar provisions: vestments and apparel, statues, candles and chalices, and the like; all hidden beneath a serape woven of wool. There she had remained, terrified and trembling, peeking through a knothole near the lid, until at last all was silent, and even past that. No more chilling, petrifying howls of revenge, no more shrieks of pain or fear, no more tumult of overturned pews or crash of broken windows.

Much later, she had crept out to a scene of carnage.

Just as a family friend, Marta Espinoza, one fortunate survivor of the raid, had raced to the church, sobbing and nearly hysterical, to find her.

The pastor and his wife were only two among the fallen, which, at the final count, added up to eighteen dead and twenty-seven wounded. The attack, a culmination of simmering rage built up over years, caused by unfair treaties written and fair treaties broken, had hit both the small town and outlying ranches. The U.S. cavalry had been called in from Ft. Defiance, located some forty miles to the east. By the time they arrived, the invaders were, of course, long gone.

The soldiers were not too late to salvage what was left of the town and the area, however, and those left devastated by the attack. Including one five-year-old child, who had yet to speak a word since witnessing the brutal, bloody murder of her parents.

Kindly Marta, who had served as the Burtons’ housekeeper, had taken immediate charge; from there, General Roger Nighthall had assumed responsibility for conveying Molly Burton back with him to the Fort, when the troops returned. A representative from their church had been notified and summoned, and would be waiting. Thence would come a lengthy journey to St. Louis, and what remained of her family.

Too much awfulness to take in; too much fear to absorb; too many people to deal with; too many miles to traverse; too many ordeals to get through.

“She was so—so shocked, so traumatized,” recalled Camellia in shaken tones. “And no wonder, seeing what she’d seen. For months, she slept in a wardrobe, hidden under her blanket. For months after that, she would wake up screaming from nightmares. They had warned her, those well-meaning people, what happens to children who are kidnapped by those roving tribes. I’m—I’m not sure she’s ever completely gotten over the frightfulness of—of everything.”

“That poor kid,” muttered Ben, beside her.

“And during all that,” she paused to swallow, and grab another deep breath, “there was the adjustment. Molly was used to only the—the rudest, the most crude living arrangements. Dirt floors, and—and insects all over inside the house, and just—well, just the bare rudiments of anything. It was so difficult for her, not really knowing any of us, and then finding herself suddenly in a civilized society. Linens on the dining room table, and curtains at the windows, and—and having to wear shoes—!” Camellia broke off with a little teary laugh.

“I had no idea,” the sheriff said slowly. “Somethin’ like that stays with you a long time, that’s for sure.”

“And so your parents adopted her as one of their own children?” asked Ben. He had moved enough to slip one arm around her shoulders, as support, as succor.

“Well, she had no one else, you see. So we just accepted Molly, the three of us, as another sister. And we’ve laughed and cried and argued together, like birth sisters do.”

“I understand more now of why you’ve been so protective of her. She did have a rough beginnin’, didn’t she?”

Camellia sighed. “More than any of us will ever know, Ben.”

“And,” his grasp tightened just a little, “when your mama died, you just stepped right in and took over runnin’ the whole brood.”

Setting aside his empty glass, stubbing out the stogie, Paul arranged the Stetson neatly atop his well-shaped head and gracefully rose.

“I thank you for lettin’ me be part of your tellin’, ma’am. I will certainly keep it in mind for any future dealin’s with Mr. Hennessey.” His gaze shifted to encounter Ben’s, and he nodded. Both knew that any future dealings would not be sympathetic. “Reckon I’d better be headin’ back to the jail, check in with Austin and make sure he hasn’t put anybody b’hind bars outa sheer boredom. I appreciate the supper and the confab, and I’ll now say good evenin’ to both of you.”

“Good night, Paul.” Camellia, ever the well-mannered hostess, rose as well. “Thank you for joining us, and for listening.”

He touched his hat. “Anytime, Mrs. Forrester.” And shambled away, a tall, loose-limbed shadow against the light of distant lanterns hung here and there on the street.

“Ben.”

“Ahuh.”

“When do you think he might start calling me by my first name?”