Mail Order Bride: Fall (Bride For All Seasons 3)

Without another word of dissent, she obeyed. Perhaps it was the slight sternness of the male figure that had overpowered her inhibitions; perhaps it was the love she had come to feel for the man. Which ought to hold out hope for any other girl contemplating a similar style of marriage.

Letitia, feeling slightly less antagonistic, began to describe her actions of the past few months. Of course, she had already proven to be a free spirit, a maverick for her times, by her determination upon a medical career. It followed that placing an ad as Mail Order Bride would come next.

“You don’t seem to know much about him,” Ben pointed out.

“Not yet. He ought to be arriving here any day now, and I’d planned on a more thorough—um—investigation then.”

“Has Molly’s misadventure slipped your mind?”

Letty’s lovely rose-colored lips tightened. “Of course not. I will be careful, I promise you. And doesn’t every mail order bride necessarily have to take a leap of faith? I’m just more fortunate than most, because I have a home—of sorts—and I’m settled. Besides, if we’re talking examples, there is the experience of you and Ben to consider.”

“What experience?” demanded Camellia. “We had months of correspondence to provide a solid foundation for our marriage, and both Mr. Llewellyn King—remember our St. Louis family lawyer?—and Mr. Farraday of the Peerless Matrimonial Services could assure me of the safety and sanctity for both sides.”

“And what happened just after you and Ben repeated your vows? I believe the two of you had some silly misunderstanding, and you nearly called it quits, then and there.”

Camellia had no response to that accurate accusation. Stymied, clearly disgruntled, she subsided in her chair, shifting her heavy earthenware cup from hand to hand.

It was left f

or Ben to take the high road. With an appeasing smile, he placed a light hold on her forearm, and its green-sprigged dimity sleeve, as a reminder that he was still here. “As long as you don’t rush into anything. There’s no need to rush. All right?”

“I thought,” said Letty coolly and crisply, “I had already made my position clear on that point.”

“Just don’t want you goin’ back on your word, girl. Once bitten, twice shy, y’ know. So—uh—you kinda liked the cut of his jib, huh?”

At that, she had to smile. “I’m not sure what that means, Ben. But if you’re asking whether I took his letters at face value enough to invite him here, with a possible union—well, yes. I did.”

“Okay. Reckon we’ll just wait to see what happens, then.” Pushing back his chair, he rose and snapped his suspenders back in place. “Now I really gotta get back to work. Elvira is gonna be all over me like a duck on June bugs, wonderin’ why I’m late.”

“But, I thought you said—”

As he plopped a rather weather-beaten hat upon his head, Ben gave a grin that was not exactly Mona Lisa in style, but close. “A man’s gotta have some secrets. Ladies.”

After the door had closed upon his exit, Camellia surveyed her sister for a lengthy, silent minute. Finally, she said, “Letitia. Scars? Really?”

The girl managed to resist making a childish face in retort. “Camellia. Scars. Really.”

Chapter Five

A TOWN THE SIZE OF Turnabout, with its two thousand residents (give or take a few here and there), might be considered the perfect size. Small enough for a visitor to make himself right at home with those strolling about, big enough for a newcomer to get lost in until he had sized up any situation.

Walking one’s horse down Main Street, or driving one’s wagon either loaded or unloaded, presented the traveler with quite a favorable impression (and a consideration as to whether to move on, or stay): plenty of mature oaks and sycamores, lending plenty of shade, and plenty of water troughs for thirsty mounts; several blocks of thriving businesses, side by side, with customers partaking; half-barrels parked here and there with actual flowers spilling out their blooms (courtesy, no doubt, of green-thumbed ladies, and any masculine help they could enlist).

It was a pretty place, whose outward appearance alone might draw in new citizens.

Such a one might be, opined several of the porch-sitters outside Forrester’s Mercantile, the rather dusty fellow climbing down from his chestnut filly over near the Drinkwater. Come a far piece, thought one, cutting off a chaw of tobacco. Likely had himself some rough times, decided another, reaching for the cup of coffee their amiable shopkeeper always provided for the gang, indoors or out. Musta been on the road a right smart while, the third spoke up.

Whatever his background, the rider could be heard murmuring to his horse as he got her settled to drink. Then, hauling down a carpetbag from behind the saddle, he slowly made his way along the boardwalk and inside the hotel. The spectators, all watching avidly from across the street, also noticed that he was limping, just a little. That could have been due to the normal stiffness of traveling in one position for too long a time, or to some injury.

Well, time would tell. Once the man had checked in, the nosiest of the sitters—probably old Pete—would hike himself on over and have a little chat with Lancelot Tucker, desk clerk in the lobby. When you’re bored, with nothing to do on a mild and mellow autumn day, you take whatever excitement you can get.

“Yes, sir,” Lancelot, offering his usual smile, greeted the visitor. Lance, a tall, thin, balding man with the perpetual hunch of a stork, seemed to wear good humor like a mask. “What’ll it be for you today?”

A wide, shadowing hat brim allowed no fine distinction of facial features, but the voice was quiet and faintly amused. “I assume you’re in the business of rentin’ rooms?”

“Oh, indeed we are. Several kinds, some more opulent than others. What would you like?”

“Second floor. Don’t need nothin’ opulent—just a bed and the basics, is all.”