The Teacher's Mail Order Bride (4 page)

R
ose pulled the heavy
, wooden door closed behind her and suppressed the urge to jump up and down. She did twirl on the stoop and hug herself, dust flying from her skirts. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be dusty for much longer.

She practically skipped back toward the wagon, dodging people on the boardwalk of the now busy main street. She shook her head as she walked down the steps to the horses and stopped for a moment, watching the passersby.

Tombstone and the surrounding area had changed quickly with the silver strike at the mine. In a few short years, their quiet little town had seen an influx of people from all over the country—and not just miners, although there were many of them streaming in by the day.

She watched a lady across the street on the arm of a man in a very fancy suit, the feather in her hat swaying, her head tilted back as she laughed. Further down the boardwalk, another couple—she knew the man was one of the several doctors they now had in town—peer into the window of the bowling alley that had sprung up recently.

Rose untied the horses, patting their noses and promising them an apple once she got home, and slowly turned the buggy around in the middle of the wide road. A woman in a beautiful blue velvet dress with what looked like a peacock feather on her hat came out of the laundry—one of several that had also sprung up to serve the new residents.

As Rose lifted her dusty skirts and lifted her black—well, sort of brown with dust—boots onto the sideboard, she looked around again, wondering how many of these people had been to places like San Francisco, New York, or even Paris! She sighed at the thought of what that must be like. She’d never been out of Arizona Territory and longed to see some of the wonders of the world that she’d read about. Just the thought that she could be involved with the books again—even just to see these places on the pages—made her heart sing.

Sunk deep in her imagination, she was startled when the horses stopped in front of the ranch house. The trip seemed like it had taken only a few minutes and she shook her head, wondering what she might say to her father—how she could make him understand how important this was to her.

She looked up as Ben, the ranch hand she thought of almost a brother, reached for the reins of the horses. “Hello, Ben,” she said, patting the horses’ noses and heading toward the front door. “Would you make sure they each get an apple? They did a fine job for me today.

Ben tipped his hat. “Sure thing, Miss Rose,” he said and led the horses down toward the stables.

As she watched him walk down the drive, she thought again of her father. She did take into account that he hadn’t had an easy time of it since his wife—her mother—had died a few years before. He’d grieved hard and long, and hadn’t wanted anything to change with his family.

But things were changing. They’d all grown to love Clara, her brother Hank’s mail order bride and even her older sister Meg had gotten married against his wishes—but he’d come around. He’d have to let her grow up, too, wouldn’t he?

She untied her blue bonnet and shook it out as she stepped onto the porch of the Archer family ranch house. Her eyes traveled over the white adobe, the lovely blue window frames and settled on the engraved wooden door that she not too long before had struggled to open as a young girl.

She hung her bonnet on the rack, shook out her blue skirts and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t a young girl any longer. It was time she had her own adventure.

As she reached the door of her father’s office and library, she paused for a moment. She reached her hand out, the cool glass of the photograph calming her nerves a bit. Her mother had been a beauty, and her smile in the photograph comforted Rose as she cleared her throat and knocked on the door.

It was a few seconds before she heard, “Come in,” and she hoped that her father was in good spirits. He seemed to have changed since Clara had arrived and Meg got married, but was still a little unpredictable.

Beau Archer looked up from the ledger he was studying, his spectacles slipping down his nose as he looked over them at Rose and smiled.

“Hello, Rosemary.” He pushed the spectacles back up his nose and ran his hand through his dark hair that had recently become flecked with gray. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Rose’s heart tugged with love for her father. Even when he was gruff, his kind heart and good intentions outweighed most other things, and she sighed with relief that today didn’t seem to be one of his gruff days.

“Hello, Papa.” Rose smiled and the leather chair she dropped into squeaked. “I hope you’re having a good day.”

“Ah, I see,” he said as he sat back in his leather chair, crossing his hands over his waist, his lips turning up in a grin. “You want something, don’t you?”

Rose lowered her eyes to her hands that were tightly clasped together in her lap. Her face heated and she took a deep breath, happy at least that he was smiling, and hoping that would continue to be the case.

She looked up at him, noticing the crinkles around his eyes grow deeper as he smiled. “Papa, I know that it’s been challenging for you to have Clara arrive and Hank change jobs, and now for Meg to leave, married. I was hoping that I could—”

His eyes clouded and he leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “No.”

Rose stopped mid-sentence, her mouth open and her eyebrows raised. “No?”

“Rosemary, you’re too young. And I can’t take another one of you marrying and leaving. Not yet.” He pushed back from the desk and stood, pacing in front of the window to the garden, his hands clasped behind his back.

Rose covered her mouth and stifled a laugh, grateful to Meg for having done something so outrageous that her request would appear simple—she hoped.

She stood and walked over to her father, her hand on his arm as she stopped him and turned him around to face her. “Papa, it’s nothing like that. I promise.”

Visibly relieved, he swiped both hands through his hair and let out a sigh. “Well, then?”

She sat on the brocade settee under the window, the one her mother had rested on for much of her last months. “You know that the school has a new headmaster. We met him at the school fundraiser.”

“Yes, and I heard he needs a wife right away—and the answer is still no.”

She didn’t stifle her laugh this time and her father rested his elbows on his knees and turned to her. “Papa, please. I barely know the man and have no interest in marrying. He does, however, need something else.”

Mr. Archer sat up and turned to his daughter. “Yes? What?”

Rose cleared her throat again. “With so many new people coming to town with the silver strike, there are many more children to be schooled than there have been. Widow Samson and the school board refused him a paid assistant, but she did agree to his getting some volunteer assistance.”

He leaned back a bit and looked at Rose, appearing, in a way, to be seeing her for the first time. “And you want to do that? Volunteer?”

She reached for his hand. “Oh, yes, Papa, I want nothing more. I miss being in school, and Saffron agreed to take over the milking and egg gathering chores and I would feel as if I was helping.”

“I do remember that you loved school. Even cried when it ended for you. And smart as a whip. Nothing left for you to learn,” he said, squeezing her hand. He stood and laughed, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed over his chest.

Time stood still for Rose as she held her breath, waiting for him to speak again.

“I’ll tell you what. I’m willing to consider it—if it’s what you really want—if I can meet him.”

“Papa, you’ve met him—”

He held up his palms to her and shook his head. “I know, Rosemary. I met him, but I didn’t expect I’d need to pay attention. If you’re going to be spending much time with this man, even if he is the headmaster, I’d like to get a better feel for him.”

She tried to contain her exasperated sigh but couldn’t. “Papa, I didn’t ask to marry the man. I don’t even know him.”

“All the more reason for me to meet him, then, and get to know him better. That’s the best I’m willing to offer, Rosemary. Take it or leave it.”

Rose stood, her eyes not leaving her father’s. After twenty years of living with this man, she knew when she’d gotten as far as she was going to get.

“All right, Papa. I’m sure he won’t understand. I will be embarrassed, but I will invite him and let him know the reasoning, as foolish as it is.”

It was a few moments before Mr. Archer sat back down behind his desk. He took his spectacles off and laid them on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. “You may think it’s foolish, my dear, but it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of my daughters, especially now that I am alone in that responsibility.” He looked up at her and smiled as she opened the door, nodding slightly as she closed the door behind her.

“And I love you, too, Papa,” she said under her breath with a smile.

M
ichael worked
a few more hours after the ladies left and he finally sat down for a break. He shook his head and wiped back a stray lock of his wavy, dark hair as he turned around to look at the schoolhouse he’d agreed to manage and teach in, way out here in Arizona Territory. It almost couldn’t be further away from Boston, both geographically and culturally, and he smiled wistfully at the thought of his parents back in the North End, working hard at their restaurant.

He crossed the room to his new desk, picking up his two favorite books and turning them over in his hands. One he’d had for many, many years—as long as he could remember—since his Uncle Sal had slipped it to him one day on the way to the cheese market. He ran his fingers over the worn leather and dog-eared pages, the small book fitting neatly in his palm, its size the only reason he’d been able to conceal it from his parents for so long.

He peered out the window and down the main street once more as horses passed quickly, sending up plumes of dust. From his vantage point he could see the mercantile, an ice cream parlor, a restaurant, the Occidental, and a laundry. He let out a sigh, realizing that what he missed most about home and the North End, he would not be able to find here. Nor did he hold out much hope that anyone would make his dreams come true and open an Italian restaurant for him to spend his time in, reveling in the sights and smells that were so familiar to him.

In the short time he’d been here, though, he had persuaded Tripp, the owner of the Occidental restaurant, to include some Italian cuisine in his weekly cosmopolitan menu where he routinely experimented with new cuisine, and he was looking forward to the time when Tripp would include an Italian dish of his choosing. He only hoped it wouldn’t be lasagna, because no lasagna in the world could be better than his mother’s.

His mother. He reached into his pocket and removed a leather billfold, opening it and pulling out a faded photograph of a smiling couple, she in white and he in a black suit, his mustache waxed and his dark, wavy hair combed back. He smiled and rubbed his thumb over the picture of his parents, his most ardent supporters who enabled him to attend school as soon as he was able and never stop until he was qualified to be a teacher on his own. Education was paramount to them and he nodded in gratitude, even if it was just a photograph, for their commitment to him.

The schoolhouse door slammed with a thud and he started, looking up toward the sound. He smiled at the cheerful face of Suzanne as she strode toward him, waving a newspaper in the air.

“It’s time, Mr. Tate,” she said, smiling as she set the newspaper down on the desk.

He looked at it, shoving both of his hands in his pockets as if it might leap up and bite him. “It is?”

Suzanne sighed, picking the newspaper back up and flipping through the pages. “If you want to find a bride in the time allotted by that ridiculous school committee—”

“My employers, you mean?” he cut in.

She snapped the newspaper shut and looked up at him. “Yes, your employers. I understand. I just think it’s an unfair expectation to give you after you’d already signed the contract. I imagine you could object under that fact alone.”

He nodded slightly in her direction. “I think we would both agree that it would be futile, and just wasting time. It appears to be the quickest thing to do, although I’d hoped I’d be able to choose a bride on my own—for the right reasons.”

“Love, you mean?” Suzanne said as she raised her eyebrows.

Michael picked up the picture of his parents and held it out to Suzanne. “These are my parents. They’ve been married for almost thirty years and are very much in love. That’s what I had hoped to have in my life, as well.”

Suzanne took the picture and was silent for a few moments. She looked back up at Michael and softly said, “It’s what we all want, isn’t it, Michael? That’s why this is especially unwelcome in such a hurry.” She handed the photograph back to him and her eyes brightened. “Remember, though, you know three couples who met that way—the wives being mail order brides—and to my mind, they look as happy to me as your parents do in that photograph.”

He had to admit, she had a point. The couples he’d met seemed as equally devoted to each other as he assumed his parents were in the beginning. They were kind to each other and seemed to greatly enjoy each other’s company. And what choice did he have, really? None, with this time frame he’d been given by the school board.

“I do appreciate your enthusiasm, Suzanne.” He tried to force a smile but wasn’t sure if it had worked. He had had a very nice life so far and was a generally happy person, and this felt very foreign.

She gave him a sympathetic smile and sat in the student desk opposite him. “We should get letters off quickly as you don’t have much time.”

“Do you have any suggestions? I don’t really know where to begin.” He dropped his head in his hands as his elbows rested on his desk.

“I was thinking with the short time, closer would be better. There are many advertisements back east, but it would take much longer for her to arrive.” She bent over the newspaper, her finger running down each column. “And maybe even write to two. Just to make sure.”

“Two?” he said, his eyebrows shooting up. “Are you certain that’s wise?”

“It increases your chances if one says no. Actually, you could write to several, but might run the risk of having an unintended harem.”

“Goodness, that wouldn’t do,” he said, tugging at his collar. Was it warm in here? His cheeks certainly were getting warmer.

Suzanne looked up and cocked her head. “Honestly, Michael, let’s just get it over with. Now, what is most important to you in a wife?”

He stood and turned toward the window. He’d never really thought about it before. Beauty? Intelligence? Sense of humor? “Even if I knew, how do you identify those things from an ad that ran only a few lines?”

“Ordinarily you would correspond for a bit, see if you were compatible, but you don’t have that luxury, I’m afraid.” She stood and walked to the window, her hand resting on his arm.

“I apologize. I don’t mean to be difficult, and I do appreciate your help. This is all just—I don’t even now the words to describe it. My parents would be horrified, and at some point I will need to take this stranger home to meet my family.”

“Let’s just presume that you will be as fortunate as the rest of the recent matches, and see how we do, all right? Just close your eyes and tell me the perfect woman for you, and I’ll see if I can find one.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but I’d rather just choose from those available. That would be easier.”

Suzanne nodded and began to read from the newspaper. They’d spent some time going over the advertisements from willing mail order brides and ultimately chose two—one from St. Louis, Margery, and Sally from Kansas City. Suzanne helped him write identical letters to both of them, stating his interest and asking a few more questions. Both ladies had indicated that they wanted to start over, had no family attachments and were willing to relocate just about anywhere. Their only criteria—both of them—were that their future husband be under thirty and employed. He was both of those things.

“That should do it,” Suzanne said as she folded the letters and placed them in envelopes, addressing each of them. “The post office collects outgoing mail from the mercantile, so I’ll take these with me and send them off.”

Michael sighed, not able to take his eyes off the letters she held in her hand—ones that would seal his fate. “Michael, this is for the best,” Suzanne said as she headed for the door.

Michael reached for her coat, helping her on with it and opening the door for her.

“I promise, everything will work out just fine,” she said as she smiled and turned toward the mercantile.

Michael closed the door slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he shook his head and walked back toward his desk. Before she left, Suzanne had asked him to describe his perfect woman—perfect for him. He’d instantly known what he would have chosen, had he truly had a choice.

He sat back down at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced, hands over his stomach, eyes closed. In his mind’s eye, he could see her—dark, curly hair, smooth, white skin and long eyelashes. He could hear her laugh—soft, but with gusto. He could see her eyes, wide open and searching for adventure. He could hear her voice—kind, yet firm. No, it was impossible to get that sort of sense about his new wife from some black and white letters in a newspaper. He’d just have to take his chances and hope for the best.