Sixteen Brides (6 page)

Ruth stood inside the station alone, trembling with emotion. She’d ducked inside to get a drink of water. And to avoid Lucas Gray’s little performance. Now—now she didn’t know whether to cry or scream. For the moment, she did neither. Instead, she filled another dipper with lukewarm water from the stoneware crock in the corner. When that didn’t help her calm down, she crossed to the window opposite the tracks. The men were obeying Mr. Drake, making their way off the platform and heading back toward town. As she watched, more than one unhitched a horse, mounted up, and galloped off toward the west. Toward Cayote. She took another drink and wondered what to do. Part of her wished she hadn’t overheard. Part of her was glad she had. And all of her longed for the calendar to turn back and make everything since George’s sudden death a bad dream from which she could awaken.

I’m telling you, this trainload of brides is already promised to Cayote,
the man had said.
But I’m headed back to St. Louis next week. You have my word I’ll bring the next load right here to Plum Grove. But only if you disperse immediately. I can’t have you ruining things for the boys over at Cayote who paid to have first chance at a bride.

She’d wanted to scream. If he’d said the word “bride” again, she might have. As it was, the best Ruth could do was sit down on the bench and try to gather her wits. Had the other ladies signed on with the notion of marriage? She hadn’t exactly gotten to know them on the ride out. Maybe she was the only one—but no, she could not believe that. Mrs. Barton had spoken of nothing but land and a homestead. Sitting across from her all this way, Ruth had overheard enough to feel certain of Mrs. Barton’s plans.

She needed to think. Taking a deep breath, she exited the train station—sadly, just as Lucas Gray rode around the back side of the sod corral and up to the platform. At least most of the other ladies were already on their way to the Immigrant House. Maybe without them looking on she could keep her wits about her and keep from blushing like a fool.

Removing his hat, he smiled up at her. “I wanted to say that I’ve enjoyed meeting you and repeat the invitation for you—” Just then Jackson and Mrs. Jamison came along, and Gray included them, “—
all of you
to visit my ranch.”

When Ruth said nothing, Gray nodded at Jackson. “I have to get Hannibal back to the ranch and introduce him to his own ladies yet today, so I can’t be part of the crowd over in Cayote. But I’ll be at the dance on Friday, and we can make plans to turn you into a proper cowboy then.” He glanced at Ruth. “With your approval, of course.”

He put his hat back on and tugged on the brim, then grinned as he said to both Ruth and Mrs. Jamison, “I sincerely hope you will both decline any and all proposals of marriage at least until Friday.” And with a little salute, he rode away.

Ruth’s hand went to the frill of lace at her throat even as Mrs. Jamison muttered, “I never saw a man who thought so highly of himself. And what in tarnation was he talkin’ about—proposals of marriage? And a dance? I don’t remember anything about a dance on Friday night. And what did he mean by there bein’ a crowd in Cayote?”

Out of the corner of her eye Ruth saw Hamilton Drake duck into the telegraph office. He was probably sending a telegram right now.
Promised brides arriving soon.
She cleared her throat, then spoke to Jackson. “I . . . I want to telegraph your aunt Margaret and let her know we’re . . . here . . . almost. And . . .” She rummaged in her bag for a nickel. “Perhaps you’d want to check at the mercantile for some more lemon drops for Mrs. Grant? And something for yourself.”

Mrs. Jamison produced a nickel of her own. “I’d be obliged if you’d get some peppermints for me, too.” She thrust a coin into Jackson’s palm, then glanced at Ruth.

“Tell Aunt Margaret I’m getting a horse!” Jackson said, and bounded down the stairs and toward the mercantile.

The moment he was out of earshot, Mrs. Jamison spoke up. “Are you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on—besides Lucas Gray’s bein’ rude— ’cause you are not the kind of woman who gets the vapors just because a man’s mouth wanders along the edges of propriety.”

Ruth shook her head. “It’s—” she broke off—“so embarrassing. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. Not to see it for myself.” Taking a deep breath, she told Mrs. Jamison what she’d heard Mr. Drake say to the group of men. She then repeated everything Lucas Gray had said during the lunch stop the day before, ending with, “ . . . and I thought he was
teasing
me. Putting me through some silly western initiation.” She gestured toward the station. “Drake is probably in there sending a telegram to Cayote right now so his ‘welcoming committee’ can be on hand to—” She shuddered, and then every emotion in her congealed into rage. Rage overcame every rule of etiquette she’d ever been taught, and while what she meant was that she was going to give Hamilton Drake a dressing down he’d never forget, what she said had a distinctly “military” vocabulary. The look on Mrs. Jamison’s face when Ruth finally ran out of steam made her blush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. If you came west to find a husband, that’s fine. But I didn’t. And I . . . I just . . .”

Mrs. Jamison chuckled. “It’s all right, honey. I heard much worse when I was nursin’ poor Basil at Jefferson Barracks, and no—I didn’t come west on a huntin’ party.”

“Jefferson . . . Barracks?” Ruth couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

Mrs. Jamison nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I may sound like molasses and corn bread, but my husband’s uniform was every bit as blue as your general’s.” She nodded toward the telegraph office. “The thing is, if you walk in there and scorch his sideburns, I’ve a feelin’ we’ll never see Mr. Hamilton Drake again. He’ll hightail it with his little bundle of cash and leave us all stranded right here in Plum Grove. He promised a return ticket to anyone who changed their minds. He should at least have to keep
that
promise.”

“How do we get him to do that?”

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Jamison said, “you just leave that to li’l ole Caroline.” And she fluttered her eyelashes.

CHAPTER
FIVE

These six things doth the Lord hate . . .

PROVERBS 6:16

I
s everything all right?”

Caroline started as Drake’s voice sounded from the direction of the combination train station and telegraph office. When he strode toward her and Mrs. Dow with a suspicious look on his face, Caroline twirled her parasol. “Left my sunshade here on the train. Just because a lady moves west doesn’t mean she has to turn brown as a sharecropper.”
Please don’t let him have noticed I’ve had it all along. Please . . .

Drake offered his arm. “May I escort you over to the Immigrant House?”

“I’d be delighted,” Caroline said, “but I don’t want to delay you. I need to send a telegram. My dear aunt Tillie insisted I do so once I’d arrived safely.” She patted Drake’s arm. “And I’m as safe as safe can be, so I thought—” Her heart began to hammer as she blathered nonsense.
How am I going to rescue myself out of this?

Thankfully, Mrs. Dow did the rescuing as she took Drake’s free arm and said, “Mrs. Jamison may not require an escort just now, but I’d welcome one.” She made a show of looking around. “Jackson seems to have deserted me for the charms of Plum Grove.”

“I’ll be over directly,” Caroline said. When Drake insisted they would wait, she sighed. “I surely do appreciate your kindness, but . . .” She dabbed at an imaginary tear. “The fact is, I’m feelin’ rather . . . emotional . . . and . . . homesick . . . and . . .” She feigned a great attempt to keep from bursting into tears. “I’d just like a little privacy, if y’all don’t mind.”

“We understand.” Mrs. Dow patted her arm. “Even the bravest of us has had moments of undesired emotion on this journey. You’ll be fine, Mrs. Jamison. You tell your family we’ve a champion we trust.” She smiled at Drake.

Caroline looked toward the station so that Drake couldn’t see her rolling her eyes. Mrs. Dow was laying it on a little thick. But then, like a bottom-feeding catfish taking bait off a wicked hook, Drake added his reassurances and proceeded to help her descend the stairs leading down off the platform. Caroline sailed toward the station, pausing just inside to peer through the far windows and make certain Drake didn’t sneak back to eavesdrop.

When Drake and Mrs. Dow reached the Immigrant House, Caroline stepped into the telegraph office, where the balding operator— James McDonald, according to the engraved nameplate on his desk— sat hunkered over a piece of paper tapping out what had to be Drake’s message to the men in Cayote. When Caroline cleared her throat, he jumped, then stammered, “C-can I help you, miss?”

She smiled. “You go right ahead and finish with that.” She pointed to the message. “I’ll just wait right here.” The minute McDonald finished dot-dot-dashing his way through the note and set it aside, she shrieked, “A mouse!” Jumping back, she pressed herself against the wall, staring at the floor with what she hoped was a convincing level of feminine terror.

As a good gentleman should, McDonald jumped up and hurried to her rescue, muttering about mice and traps and nothing-to-fear and needing a good cat or two. When Caroline slumped against him in a near faint, he half carried her behind the counter to his own chair, then hurried to the waiting room and the water crock to retrieve “a bit of refreshment.” In the seconds he was out of sight, Caroline read Mr. Drake’s telegram.
Sixteen brides arrive 8 p.m. Southern belle. General’s wife. Farm women. All lovely. Sixteen dance cards confirmed. First dance guaranteed. Cash due by noon Friday.

There was no subterfuge involved in Caroline’s subsequent need to fan herself to cool off. When McDonald returned and set a tin mug of water before her, she continued the fanning as she exclaimed with wonder that “all these wires and such can send a missive to loved ones far away. How
does
it all work?” Visibly relieved that her moment of hysteria had passed, McDonald set about explaining the finer points of telegraph wire.

Her bogus recovery complete, Caroline stood up. “Well, sir, I thank you very kindly for bein’ such a gentleman. However, I believe I’ll have to compose myself further before writin’ dear Aunt Tillie. Perhaps I’ll wait until I’ve reached Cayote.” She hoped aloud the Cayote telegraph office wasn’t overrun with vile rodents and such.

When Mr. McDonald offered to walk her to the Immigrant House, Caroline thanked him in her most syrupy voice. “But I wouldn’t dream of takin’ a man away from his duty.” She took her leave, Drake’s printed telegram crumpled in the palm of one gloved hand.

“Jeb Cooper?” Matthew called out. The stranger was leaning his
one arm
atop the sod enclosure behind the station while he looked over the milling livestock. “I’m Ransom.” When the man straightened up, he was head and shoulders above Matthew—and Matthew was not a small man. The stranger said nothing, only nodded as his good hand swallowed Matthew’s in a firm grasp. Between the scraggly beard and the hat pulled down on his forehead, about the only thing Jeb Cooper seemed to be willing to reveal to the world was intelligent blue eyes that looked right through Matthew in a clear, honest gaze.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I—” Matthew glanced toward the dining hall, where Linney was hard at work sweeping the front stoop. “My daughter—”

“You haven’t told her yet.” It was a statement, not a question.

Matthew shook his head, grateful for the distraction when the owner of the golden parasol he’d seen from the livery emerged from the other side of the sod corral and began to hurry across the prairie toward the Immigrant House. He couldn’t imagine an elegant thing like her would have signed on with Hamilton Drake if she truly understood what was in store for her.

A gust of wind ripped the parasol out of the woman’s hands and flung it out of reach. It tumbled across the prairie in spite of its owner’s scampering attempts to catch up with it. Matthew went after it without thinking, moving in an easy lope that quickly retrieved the ridiculous thing, although by the time he did, the shimmering gold silk was much the worse for its encounter with various grasses and, Matthew saw as he bent to retrieve the parasol, a rusted can likely left by the encampment of soldiers who’d spent a few weeks here this spring.

He couldn’t quite decipher the look on her face as he carried the parasol toward her. Was she afraid of him? He supposed he did look rather . . . beastly. Something emptied his brain of words, and he stood, parasol in hand, as dumb as the oxen Jeb Cooper was yoking up over by the corral.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, in a lilting voice that spoke of gentility and privilege.

What on
earth
was she doing out here? Still at a loss for words, Matthew reacted as habit dictated—or as it had for the past few years of his life. With a nod, he handed over the parasol and strode away.

Jubal A. Cooper—Plum Grove, Nebraska—1871.
Together Matthew and Jeb lowered the massive inscribed trunk into the wagon bed Cooper had parked alongside the train. Next came the smaller crates, nearly a dozen of them, stamped
Arbuckle Coffee
,
Lion Coffee
,
Paxton Coffee,
and other brands Matthew had never encountered before. Finally, he joked, “You planning to open a dining hall?”

Cooper looked confused for a minute, but when Matthew pointed to the lettering stamped on one box, a chuckle rumbled from his thick chest. “It’s not coffee,” he said. He didn’t explain, although he did continue to chuckle as he shouldered the last box and settled it on the wagon seat. This one he wrapped in a rubber sheet before tying it down and pointing to the pile of lumber in the corner of the freight car. “That’s mine, too,” he said. Together the men piled board after board atop the wagon load until Matthew began to wonder if the oxen would be able to manage it. Finally, Cooper said, “That’s it,” and tossed the end of a rope across the load.

Matthew helped him tie it in place. Seeing that Linney had finished sweeping and gone inside, he walked alongside as Cooper drove the oxen past the dry goods store in the direction of the homestead north of town. The aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the front door of the dining hall made Cooper “whoa” the oxen to a halt. “Don’t mind if I have a cup,” he said. “How about you?”

Matthew hesitated. He’d already been in Plum Grove longer than he wanted to be, and he didn’t care to take a chance on having to explain to Linney— “Pa!”

—and here she was, broom in hand. “I thought you were headed back to the—” She stopped short, instantly shy at the sight of Jeb Cooper standing next to the wagon.

Matthew introduced Cooper even as he cast a desperate expression the man’s way.
Please don’t let on.
“Mr. Cooper was unloading by himself. It seemed he could use a hand.” He winced inwardly at the reference to hands, but Cooper didn’t seem to take offense.

“Then you’ve seen the ladies,” Linney said.

“Some of them.”

“Your pa here rescued a parasol for one of ’em,” Cooper offered.

“A gold one?” When Matthew nodded, she enthused, “Isn’t it the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Mrs. Jamison’s already come into the mercantile to see if Martha had anything suitable to mend the rip.” Linney frowned. “Of course we don’t carry silks and such. But Mrs. Jamison was so nice. Martha offered to special order for her and send the package over to Cayote. Martha said she wished they were staying here in Plum Grove. She doesn’t like Mr. Drake very much, and—”

Just then a stream of customers started heading their way. “Believe I’ll get that coffee now,” Cooper said. He ducked inside.

“I gotta get inside,” Linney said. “You won’t leave without saying good-bye again, will you?”

“Of course not.” With a quick peck on her cheek, Matthew made his escape around to the back door of the dining hall. Smelling Martha Haywood’s roast beef dinner almost overcame his unease about being around a bunch of ladies. Almost. But not quite.

Caroline paused just inside the Immigrant House’s double doors to collect herself. Laughter emanated from the other side of the doors on the right labeled
Women’s Dormitory
. On the left, a door stood open. Jackson Dow had apparently been waiting on a cot just inside the men’s dormitory, for when he saw Caroline, he jumped up and came to the door with a small white bag in hand.

“Your peppermints,” he said, then blushed bright red as he relayed the message that his mother was “indisposed.” “She wanted me to ask you to meet her in the kitchen.” He frowned. “Something about meeting before a meeting?” He motioned toward the far end of the building. “It’s back there. Through the dining room.”

Caroline gave a little curtsey. “Why, thank you, Master George Washington Jackson Dow the Second.”

He rolled his eyes. “I hate it when Mother does that . . . thing . . . like she did at lunch yesterday. It’s like she’s reading a proclamation . . . like she expects everyone to be so impressed.”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Caroline said, “I am impressed. Your father was a great man.”