Mercy: Bride of Idaho (American Mail-Order Bride 43) (2 page)

The sooner he delivered Miss Mercy Eaton and his great-uncle to the Circle ID, the sooner he could get on with his roundup planning.

Chapter 2

The portly drummer and both mothers with children had left the coach at the Huston stop.  That gave Mercy enough room to get a little more comfortable for the last hour before they stopped to ride the ferry.

“Look out the window and you can see the Snake River.  Henderson Flats is just the other side,” the thin fellow who called himself Ike said. 

“Thank goodness!”  She’d worried whether Mr. Fairchild would be a suitable husband, and she still had some concern, but at this point, she wanted to stay in one spot for a day.  Or a week.  “I wonder how far Mr. Fairchild’s ranch is from Henderson Flats.”

“It’s been a spell since I was out there, but I’d say not more than ten miles.”

The river was wide—the widest she’d seen since the Mississippi.  The strip of green along the river contrasted starkly with the surrounding desert.  On the far side of the river, she saw a small settlement but the distance was too great for her to discern much.

The driver helped her off the coach.  “You might as well walk around a bit.  It’ll take the ferry a good ten minutes to dock and then we’ll load up.”  He headed straight for the cabin beside the river right next to the loading dock, and entered through the door with a crude, weathered saloon sign nailed over the top.

Mercy had no interest in going inside anywhere at the moment—she just wanted to stroll around and enjoy the spring sun.  A few other passengers had the same idea.  She wanted to ask if any of them knew Mr. Fairchild but for some reason she felt a bit embarrassed about being a mail-order bride. 

If she knew more about him, she could pretend they had been acquainted for a while, but her father had conducted all of the correspondence.  The only thing she knew was that Mr. Fairchild owned a profitable ranch, and that the marriage broker had said his character had passed muster.

When the ferry docked and she got a good look, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to board the thing.  It was nothing more than a raft with a rail on one side and a rope with a hook at the end, which rode on a cable that spanned the river. 

“Don’t worry,” Ike said.  “It’s quite reliable.”

“I hope so.”  She moseyed a little closer, not wanting anyone to think she was a chicken, even if she was.  “Do you know any of the families there?”

“I’m acquainted with Jake O’Keefe—Jake Lawrence now, since she married Ben Lawrence.”

“She?  Jake’s a woman?”

“Yep, and the best rancher in all of Idaho Territory.  If you’re here long, you’ll meet her.  Let me tell you, Jake’s quite a gal.”

A woman rancher?  “Does she own her ranch, or does she run it for someone else?”

“She owns a horse ranch, the Circle J, and she runs her husband’s ranch, the Bar EL.”

The West certainly gave women more opportunity.  In Lawrence, she had few alternatives even with a good education.  Most women worked in the factories.  If not, they worked as maids, laundresses, or cooks.  But she didn’t know a single lady who owned her own land or business.

“Is she a suffragist?”

Ike laughed.  “No, she’s a Jake-ist.  She does what she thinks she ought to do, when she thinks she ought to do it.  And she’s usually right.  Most folks around these parts hold her in high regard.”

What a strange place—no trees, a river broader than most lakes she’d seen, and a woman who ran her own ranch.  Strange, but exciting, too.  If she survived the ferry ride.

When the ferry docked and emptied, the ferry master boarded the team and coach first, and then her turn came to board.  Mercy took a deep breath and marched onto the bobbing raft as if she’d done it every day, although she was grateful to hold Ike’s arm, and then the ferry master’s, along the way.  Once she boarded, she plastered her backside against the coach.

“It’ll only take twenty minutes or so to cross,” Ike said.  “We’ll be in Henderson Flats soon.  I’m sure that Isaac Fairchild will be more than delighted to see you.”

“I’ll be happy for the chance to freshen up and have a decent meal.”

Ike nodded.  “Same here.  These old bones ain’t much made for traveling anymore.”

Once the ferry docked at Henderson Flats, she felt a little nervous about meeting Mr. Fairchild, but anxious to see her new home.  Unfortunately, the town consisted of only half a dozen buildings and they weren’t all in good repair.  But when she looked back across the river, she gasped. 

The mountain looked as if a giant lizard was sunning itself.

“That’s called Lizard Butte, for obvious reasons,” Ike said.  He pointed to a wagon, then waved at its driver.  “There’s your ride.”

“I’ll ask the stagecoach driver to load my trunk on the wagon.”

“Won’t be necessary—we’ll get it done.”

The wagon wasn’t fancy, merely utilitarian, but she did see pillows next to the driver.  The back was stacked with big bags, but she didn’t pay much attention to the load.  The driver was what caught her eye.  “Oh, my!”

He was broad-shouldered with a Stetson pulled down low as he expertly maneuvered the wagon between her and the stagecoach.  She couldn’t see his face but the rest of him certainly made her heart race.  He hopped down, and when the shotgun messenger opened the boot of the stagecoach, the man hauled her heavy trunk into the back of the farm wagon.

Then he walked around it, picked her up by the waist, and plopped her onto the pillow in the middle of the seat. 

“Let’s go,” he growled to Ike.  “I got things to do.”

Ike chuckled as he climbed up and sat beside her.  He was pretty nimble for an old man.  She gathered her skirts so he could have some leg room. 

Then the handsome driver got on and picked up the lines.  His upper arm pressed against her shoulder and his leg pressed against her leg.  He quite unnerved her and she didn’t know what to do with herself.  Besides, she was beyond confused.  Was he Mr. Fairchild?  If so, she could hardly wait to tell Patience about this handsome man.  Quiet, though.  He hadn’t said a word to her.

Once the wagon was moving, Mercy wondered if the two men were even acquainted since they hadn’t talked to one another, not even a greeting.  To Ike, she said, “Are you going out to Mr. Fairchild’s ranch, too?”

“Yep.  I live there.  Didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to put you off.”

“I’m not easily put off.  My sister says that’s both a gift and a curse.”

The man cast Ike a sidelong glance and frowned, then refocused on the team.  But in that moment, Mercy couldn’t help but notice his dark chocolate eyes and strong jaw.  Truly, she’d never seen a man so well-formed, and her arm and thigh jammed against him drank in his warmth. 

Since they hadn’t been introduced, she said, “My name is Mercy Eaton.  It’s nice to meet you.”

For all the reaction he gave, she wasn’t sure he’d even heard her.  Finally, he nodded.  “Name’s Quill.”

He didn’t say anything more, so after a bit, she offered, “It’s pretty out here—so nice and green.”

“Won’t be after a few months,” Ike said.  “This is desert.  But green isn’t the only pretty color.  This is a beautiful land.  Hard, but beautiful.”

She didn’t know how to reply.  Should she continue with small talk?  What she really wanted to know was why Mr. Fairchild hadn’t met her at the stagecoach, and who was Quill, and what kind of name was that?  After further thought, she reckoned Ike knew Mr. Fairchild a whole lot better than he’d let on.

Squished between the old man and Quill, Mercy had a hard time reconciling whether she wished to get comfortable, or would be sad when she was no longer in close proximity with Quill’s hard muscles.  She’d never met anyone like him.  And by the strange feelings coursing through her, that had probably been a good thing.

Being a chatty soul, she found it hard to keep her mouth shut, but she didn’t want to antagonize Mr. Quill.  And then it occurred to her—Ike was a nickname for Isaac.  Oh, but she hoped not!

“Sir, are you Isaac Fairchild?”

“That I am, and Quill’s my great-nephew.”  He patted her arm.  “We’ll talk once we get to the ranch house.” 

Quill sort of grunted but didn’t take his gaze from the road.  A big brown scary-looking dog wagged his tail as he trotted beside the wagon, not at all concerned about Mercy’s plight, and a cat perched on a bag of flour in the back.  The dog wiggled his nose and took off, apparently finding something more interesting off the road.

Heavens above!  She’d agreed to marry a man three times her age.  Yes, he’d been very nice, but her hopes of a husband—handsome as Quill, but maybe a bit more talkative—were dashed.  She didn’t want to show her disappointment, though.  Things would work out.  They just had to.  “In that case, you actually can tell me how far the ranch is from here.”

“About two miles—we’re almost there.”

“And when’s the ceremony?”

Quill coughed.

Ike grinned.  “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about that later.  First, we’ll get you home and I’ve already told Ray—that’s our cook—to have water heated in case you’d like to clean up.”

“I certainly would.”  Nine days of soot hadn’t helped her appearance, for sure, and the grime shaded both her comfort and her bright outlook.  The dog returned, barking sharply and dancing about, then he jumped on the wagon bed and balanced on a pickle barrel.  At least he was happy.

“We’ll be having a party next Saturday night so you can meet everyone.”

“I’m sure I’ll have a good time.”  She surmised that this event would be their engagement party.  She admitted to herself that she’d looked forward to a groom who looked more like Quill than Mr. Fairchild, so the party would be a reprieve for a week, because she certainly didn’t look forward to the wedding night.

But she wouldn’t worry—lots could happen in a week and she was sure to have a bright and happy future.  Somehow.

“You’ll have your own room, so don’t you go fretting about that.”

Mercy was relieved to hear it, and hoped she’d be allowed to stay in that room after the marriage.  First, she planned to settle in and refurbish one of her old dresses to wear to the party.  That would keep her busy for a while.  Busy enough that Isaac Fairchild wouldn’t have time to talk to her about wedded life.

Chapter 3

Quill wished his great-uncle all the best, but to order a bride barely out of short skirts when the man was on the other side of seventy stretched the boundaries of propriety even in the West.  Uncle Ike had made his decision, though, and Quill always rode for the brand.

“The house,” he said.  “End of this lane.”

“I’m quite excited to see it!”

Mercy Eaton was a stunner, all right, even covered in soot.  After her long train ride, she looked like a chimney sweep.  But no matter how dirty, her bright smile would captivate any man.  The ride home had been a trial, sitting so close to the woman who’d soon be his great-aunt.

“I expect it’ll take you clear up until the party to rest up and get your things in order,” Uncle Ike said.  “I’ll be helping Quill plan the spring roundup, so you’ll have the run of the place.”

Quill didn’t say anything, but his uncle had had very little to do with the roundup for the last few years, being mostly retired.  Instead, he whittled during the week and played checkers with his friends in Henderson Flats on Saturdays.

“Thank you.”

He liked the sound of her voice—not giggly or twittery, but lilting and happy.  Quill hoped she always stayed that way, but he didn’t see where she could lead a full life being married to a man old enough to be her grandfather.  Great-grandfather, even.

“Whoa,” Quill said as he pulled the lines and set the brake.  He hopped off, grabbed Mercy by her waist again, and stood her on the ground.  He knew it would be more proper to offer his hand, but he liked the feel of her small waist.  Besides, what he’d done was faster. 

Ray came out of the house, wiping his hands on his apron.  “Thanks for fetching the supplies.  Got time to help me unload?”

“Yep.”  Quill didn’t mind at all—Miss Mercy would be there.  Then again, that was the best reason he could think of to ride out to the Circle ID’s farthest ranch.  And stay there. 

The cook turned to Uncle Ike.  “There’s coffee on the stove and ten gallons of water that’s nice and hot.  I put the tub in her sitting room.  You can get her set down in the kitchen while I’m busy here, then I’ll come in and haul the water.”

Uncle Ike huffed up.  “Hell, I can haul water.  I ain’t that old.”

“Suit yourself.”

Quill would’ve laughed if Miss Mercy hadn’t been standing there.  His uncle had hired Ray Fletcher not too long after Aunt Dora had died.  And Ray took his job seriously.  Meals were on time and the place was spick and span.  Not one thing in the entire ranchstead escaped Ray’s notice.  But he refused to do laundry.  A neighbor girl came in once a week for that.

As soon as his uncle and the woman went into the house, Quill commenced to unloading.  “I’ll unload everything onto the porch.  You’ll have to put it away yourself.”

“Can’t wait to get away from the woman?”

“She’s Uncle Ike’s business, not mine.”

A woman like that was nothing but temptation and trouble.  Quill planned to stay away from both.

*   *   *

The ranch house wasn’t exactly grand in the Eastern sense, but Mercy had grown up with parents of meager means and three siblings in a house half the size of the bottom floor.  Isaac Fairchild’s well-equipped kitchen had a dining room table large enough for a dozen men. 

He offered to take her on a brief tour of the downstairs.  First, he led her to the doorway of the parlor but didn’t go in.  “We don’t use this room much.” 

Much?  The parlor, which had faded décor, looked as if it had been untouched for years. Adjacent to it was the smoking room, which looked well-used and was filled with furniture built for comfort and durability. 

What really impressed her was the next room—the office.  “Oh my, an entire wall of books!”

“You can read them anytime you want.”  He opened a door off the kitchen.  “Here’s the pantry.  Don’t let Ray see you taking anything without telling him first.  He’s liable to chop your hand off.”  Ike winked.

She laughed, thinking Ray wasn’t quite that ferocious.  “I’ll remember.”

“Follow me to your room.  It’s upstairs.  All the bedrooms are.”  Then he showed her to her rooms—and that was plural because she had both a bedroom and a sitting room.  “Dora wanted this, so I built it for her.  It used to be ours, but after she was gone, I couldn’t sleep in here, so I moved to the spare room.  This is yours now.”

“Thank you.  It’s beautiful!”  She ran her hand along the pink duvet covering a feather mattress, then stepped to the oak armoire and opened the doors.  “This is a heavenly room.”

He chuckled.  “I thought you’d think so.  Needs a woman to appreciate it.”  He cleared his throat and backed out, holding the doorknob.  “I’ll have Ray and Quill bring up your trunk.  You can stay here for now and explore while I fetch your valise.  Supper’s at six.”

“I’ll be there.”  After a bath and a good meal, she could make some decisions.  If she didn’t want to stay here, she was positive the kindly Isaac Fairchild would purchase train fare so she could go stay with Patience in Washington.  Surely her sister’s groom wasn’t a septuagenarian.

She moseyed into the sitting room—her very own sitting room.  A mahogany secretary first caught her attention, then the overstuffed chair and matching sofa with two end tables on either side.  The tub in the middle looked out of place, but as filthy as she felt, she didn’t mind at all.  This room alone was larger than her parents’ kitchen and living room.  She could get used to living here.

But could she get used to being married to an elderly man?  Would he insist on his husbandly rights?  She shuddered.

Someone knocked on the door.  “It’s Ike with your valise.  Quill has your trunk and Ray’s here with hot water.”

Mercy hurried to open the door.  She could hardly wait to get into the tub.  “Please put the valise on the bed, and the trunk by the armoire.” 

As Ike and Quill left, Ray poured two bucketfuls of steaming water into the tub.  “I’ll be bringing two more buckets up.  Be back in two shakes of a calf’s tail.”

“We say ‘lamb’s tail’ in Massachusetts.”

“This is cattle country.”  He left and Mercy wondered why he worked in the house instead of the ranch.  His tall muscular build would certainly be suited for outdoor work, although she didn’t know exactly what that would be.  All she knew about the West, she’d learned in dime novels and of course that was fiction. 

In fact, her valise held the entire series of
Honey Beaulieu: Man Hunter
.  Patience had read them all on the train and given them to Mercy, saying some of the stories took place right near the Circle ID ranch.  She could hardly wait to read them!

But her first priority was to get out of her grimy clothes and take a nice long soak, then wash her hair.  Twice, or maybe even three times.  While waiting for Ray, she opened her trunk and began shaking out her clothes and hanging them in the armoire.  She still had one clean dress because the sisters had only been able to change clothes twice since leaving home.  Disgusting, but not to be helped.

Ray returned with more hot water and on the way out, handed her a canvas bag.  She shut the door behind him and looked inside the bag to see what he’d brought.  Soap! And lanolin.  At the bottom of the bag, she found a handful of dried rose petals.  Ike had probably sent them up.  She’d be sure to thank him at supper.  No, that would be too personal to be proper.

She soaked in her rose-scented bath and emerged with clean hair and a clean body, and feeling much more herself.  Her father’s timepiece said four-thirty so she put on a clean chemise—even though she could still smell the soot from the train—and tested the feather bed.

Knock, knock, knock.
  “Are you all right, Mercy?”

Mercy sat up on the bed and blinked her eyes, then checked the timepiece.  Five minutes past six.  “I’m so sorry!  I must have fallen asleep.  I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

She grabbed a brush and did her best to corral her hair into an appropriate bun, then hooked her corset and slipped on her loosest dress since she didn’t have time to lace tightly.  They’d just have to understand about the wrinkles.  At ten minutes after six, she dashed out of her room.

Ike greeted her at the base of the stairs.  She took his proffered arm and he escorted her to the table in the kitchen.  Quill was the first man she saw, and her heart fluttered just a teeny bit, which she ignored, for it was completely inappropriate.  At least, she tried to ignore it, but the only way she could make it stop was to not look at him.

Another man, younger, stood nearly as tall as Quill.  Both were extraordinarily handsome and had some of the same features, but Quill’s darker hair, almost black... well, she needn’t think about that.

“Good evening,” she said.  “I’m sorry I’m late for dinner.”

“Very late,” the other man said.  “We have dinner at noon.  This is supper.”  He grinned.  “I’m Harper Sutherland.  Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“And you’ve met Quill, of course.”

“Yes, he picked us up from the stagecoach.”  All four men—Ray ate with the family, apparently—waited for her cue, so she said, “Shall we be seated?”

Harper held the chair and seated her, then the men sat.  She couldn’t believe the mountains of biscuits and steaks piled on platters, along with a big bowl of potatoes and a gallon crock of gravy.

“Praise the Lord and dig in,” Ike said, stabbing a steak.  He grinned at Mercy.  “Around here, you learn to be quick, or you’ll go hungry.”

The other men took steaks—Quill and Harper each stabbed two—so Mercy decided she’d better get one while the getting was good.  “I think I can only eat half of this.”

“Not to worry.”  Ray slapped a pile of potatoes on his plate.  “Not a morsel goes to waste around here.  One of these hogs will eat it.”

“Pass the biscuits,” Harper said.  Ray threw a couple and Harper caught them. 

Mercy laughed.  “You have different table manners in the West, I see.”

Harper, the most jovial of the group, conceded, “We’re a mite rough around here.”

“That’s for sure.”  Ike smirked then turned to Mercy. “We’re gearing up for our annual shindig that we always throw before spring roundup.  The fall roundup doin’s will be at the Lawrences’ place.  You’ll be able to meet the neighbor ladies and maybe strike up some friendships.”

“What does one wear to such an event?”  She didn’t have much in the way of wardrobe.  “Is it a formal affair?”

“I reckon if chaps and spurs are formal, then it is.  We’ll set up in the barn—there’ll be dancing, food, and spirits.  All the ladies bring desserts and Ray cooks everything else.”

Ray pointed his fork to the window.  “I already got the pit dug and I’ll lay the fire Wednesday night.  Be ready to start the beef in early on Friday morning.  I’ll feed the sourdough starter then, too.”

“I ordered a case of whiskey from Wilson last week,” Harper said.  “He’ll bring that out, and maybe some...”  His cheeks flushed.  “Well, never mind.”

Food and dancing were good—Mercy loved to dance—but none of her three dresses would do for a party. 

She and her sister as well as several of the ladies from the factory had taken wedding dresses with them, but the Eatons hadn’t had the funds for anything fancy, and Mercy certainly didn’t have anything nice enough to wear to a party.  Then she remembered the money she had left over from the trip out.  She could use that for material and thread. 

“Is there a clothing store near?”

Ike shook his head.  “No, but Old Lady Hiatt has lots of dry goods, if that helps.”

“I’ll take you to Henderson Flats on Monday morning, if you want to go,” Harper offered.

“Thank you.  I’d like that.”  She could make a plain dress in a day—she could easily sew a nice dress between Monday afternoon and Friday.  “Could we go first thing?”

“Bright and early.”  Harper grinned at her.  She wondered if Quill ever grinned.  She’d make sure he did.

Sunday, she dressed for church, but didn’t see that anyone else intended to go.

“The land is our church,” Ike said.  “Once you’ve ridden the range, you don’t need to be stuck in a building to be with the Lord.”

After breakfast, she spent an hour reading scripture, then went outside, where Dog greeted her with a stick. 

“I’m going to name you Lobo.  ‘Dog’ is too plain for you—you look half-wolf.”  She dutifully tossed the stick and the dog raced after it.  At that moment, Ray stepped out of the chicken house with a bucket of eggs.  In his enthusiasm to fetch, Lobo bashed into Ray’s side and the cook dropped the bucket. 

“Dang,” Ray said as he stood and patted the dirt from his clothes.  “Every egg in the bucket is busted.”

Inky, Mercy’s new name for the cat, didn’t seem to mind as he happily lapped at the raw eggs.

“I’m so sorry.  Lobo wanted to play—”

“Lobo?”

“He needed a name.  It seemed to fit.”