She studied the child. Having had no experience at all with children, Angel regarded her with the fascination one might have for a zoo animal. The little girl screeched when her mama set her in the seat. When the frazzled mother handed the child an apple, she threw it across the aisle, barely missing Angel’s head. The mother smiled a tired apology.
The poor woman’s hair hung loose from the bun at the nape of her neck. A definite stain of some sort of food had landed on her blouse. Fatigue was written all over her face.
The girl climbed onto the seat and began jumping up and down, ignoring her mother’s entreaties to settle down. Each time the woman sat the child back down, she would scream “No!” and climb back up again to resume her jumping. Several passengers in the vicinity scowled in the child’s direction, and shaking their heads in annoyance, changed to other seats. Embarrassed for the mother, Angel stayed put.
Sweat beaded her forehead. What in heaven’s name would she do if one of Mr. Hale’s children behaved that way? Her first instinct would be to hang the child out the window, but it didn’t seem likely Mr. Hale would approve.
She sighed and looked out the hazy window as the train jerked in its attempt to gain momentum. After several miles of smooth riding, Angel opened her reticule and withdrew the packet of letters from Mr. Hale to Sylvia. She untied the pink ribbon, and began reading.
Appalled at the lies her stepmother had told, she had a hard time fighting down panic as she read how Mr. Hale wanted a wife who knew her way around the kitchen, could take care of the garden, and put up the produce for the winter.
Put it up? Where?
He was happy to know she adored children, and could help the little ones with homework. The last statement was the only truth in the entire exchange. She’d excelled in school.
How Sylvia could deceive this man was indefensible. Mr. Hale would get a wife whose only knowledge of the kitchen consisted of meeting with Cook to plan the menus. The woman would then turn these ideas into meals prepared by a kitchen staff, ruled by her iron hand. Angel’s idea of a garden was the lovely flowers the gardener took care of for the family’s pleasure that she cut and arranged in vases throughout the house.
My loving stepmother led Nathan Hale to believe I’d be a competent wife.
She shivered.
This man expected a real wife, and instead, he was getting her. He sounded like a good person, very fond of his children. She had no idea what he looked like because he hadn’t sent a picture, but described himself as ‘not hard to look at.’ Whatever that meant. She sighed, then leaned against the seat, and looked out the window. Watching the scenery pass by, she wished, as in the fairy tale, she could sleep forever until Prince Charming—with no children—found her.
The train trip had been tedious enough, but at least the woman with the child got off after only a few stops. But now, traveling for the seventh day on the stagecoach, Angel was sure she had perished in a train crash and had ended up in hell.
Never in her life had she suffered such heat and blinding sun. Sweat poured off her in rivulets. She waved her lemon-scented handkerchief under her nose to avoid the nasty smell emanating from the man next to her. The odorous man—she refused to call him a gentleman—had joined the stagecoach at the last stop.
Besides smelling bad, he took up a lot of room, and kept a large cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth, moving the offensive stump back and forth as he spoke. Even though unlit, the constant shifting of the thing caused dribble to run down his massive chin.
“So, missy, where are you headed?” He turned in her direction, his foul cigar breath wafting over her.
“Oregon City.”
“You don’t say? Got a sweetheart there?” He stared at her breasts and leered. Her stomach churned.
“No.” The last thing she wanted to do was encourage this man. And she truly wasn’t lying. Nathan Hale might be her future husband, but he was
not
her sweetheart.
He then turned to the older woman on his other side who sat knitting. “What about you? Where you headed?”
Luckily, the woman was more than happy to regale him with tales of her daughter who just produced her third baby that she was going to visit.
Across from the three of them were a traveling salesman, a man who claimed to be a doctor, who kept taking sips from a bottle he kept tucked into his jacket pocket, and a young, very pregnant woman. Angel’s heart sped up every time the stagecoach hit a rut and the woman winced.
The stench was bad enough, but the added heat and red dirt that blew in through the window when she attempted to clear her head made for a miserable ride. She fought off nausea, and wished for the relief of a fainting spell to escape her misery for a while.
Angel leaned her head in the corner of the coach and closed her eyes. Not being at all familiar with stagecoach travel, she had no idea there wouldn’t be any overnight stops. The stage stopped at various stations along the way for about twenty or thirty minutes so passengers could get a meal, and stretch their legs.
They were expected to sleep in the coach as best they could. Too nervous to actually sleep with strangers surrounding her, she’d only managed to doze on and off. Her eyes burned with grit, and she could have done with a cloth and water basin.
Never in her life had she worn the same underwear for more than one day. Her dress was soiled, with stains under her arms. She shifted on the seat.
The heavy man gave her a dirty look. “You’re taking up a lot of room for a little slip of a thing.”
“Less room than you’re taking up,” the knitter on the other side commented, never looking up from her work.
Before he could respond, the driver bellowed. “Crooked Bend Station comin’ up, folks.”
The passengers gathered belongings in preparation for a short break.
I hope this is where he gets off.
She peered out the window. The tiny station sat in the middle of nowhere. Weather and time had reduced the pitiful building to not much more than a shanty. Cracks between the boards that formed the structure were large enough for little animals to crawl through. A lean-to rested behind the building where several horses stood, lazily swishing their tails at flies.
Empty prairie stretched for miles in all directions, dry sagebrush dotting the area. The sun beat down mercilessly, and sweat dampened her face.
After the bright sunlight, she was momentarily blinded when she entered the building. It was thankfully cooler by several degrees. The scent of food drifted in the air. Instead of enticing her, the smell made her gag.
Her vision cleared enough to notice a worn counter at the end of the narrow building. A large man, with a stained apron tied around his even larger middle, wiped the counter with a filthy rag.
Her heart thumped as she approached the counter. His immense frame and scowling features rattled her. “May I please have a drink of water?”
“Sure ‘nuf, little lady, and we got a fine rabbit stew.”
Her stomach pitched. “Nothing to eat, thank you. Just the water, if you please.”
The counterman scowled, turned and dipped a dirty cup into a barrel of water and slapped the glass in front of her. Although afraid to drink in the dimness, lest there be unwanted items in the water, thirst won out. Any insects in the barrel would have sunk to the bottom.
She too, had sunk to the bottom. She released a burst of high-pitched laughter. No one paid attention.
A rickety wooden table in the corner drew her. She placed the glass on the table and eased her sore and tired body onto the chair. One leg shorter than the other three, the chair rocked as she settled.
A woman the size of the counterman came through a curtain separating the area from whatever was in the back. With a brisk nod in Angel’s direction, she headed her way.
“Y’all one of them new whores Dolly’s expectin’? She asked me to look out for ya.” She jerked her thumb in the counterman’s direction. “Jedediah’ll git you out there as soon as the stage pulls out. Dolly’s sure needin’ the help. She cain’t never take a break herself.”
Angel sat in silence, her eyes wide and mouth slack as the woman continued. “Ya’ll gonna have to git rid of them black clothes, though. Dolly’ll fix ya up nice and fancy.”
Tears sprang to Angel’s eyes and she gasped, vigorously shaking her head. “No, ma’am, I am not one of the new wh-whores.” She stumbled on the word, and backed the rickety chair against the wall.
“Well, gosh darn. Thadda be a pity.” The woman shifted a wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other, expelling a stream of juice right next to Angel’s shoe. Her gaze roamed over her. “A looker like you’d make a lot of money for yerself. Men around here are dying for new faces.” Then she thought for a minute and grinned. “And new bodies, too.” She threw her head back in laughter, spaces from missing teeth exposed.
“Jedediah, git yoreself back to work.” The woman shouted in the counterman’s direction as she returned to the back area.
Angel rose from the table and quickly headed for the door.
I’d rather sit in the blazing sun. What have I gotten myself into?
She leaned against the building, hoping it would take her weight, and removed the black straw hat. She waved it in front of her face, creating a slight breeze. As bad as this trip was, she certainly didn’t look forward to facing Mr. Hale with her total lack of ability to fulfill the promises Sylvia had made on her behalf.
What a muddle she created for me!
“Matt, run over to Mrs. Darby’s house and find out where the heck she is.” Nate jiggled the crying baby on his hip while he worked a comb through Luke’s tangled hair. “Boy, you need a haircut,” he grumbled as Luke yelped again. “Or better yet, a bath to wash some of this mess out of your hair.”
“Mark says he ain’t goin’ to school today.” John hopped into the room on one foot, and reached for a piece of bread from the center of the table.
“Mark!” Nate bellowed from where he stood. “Get up and get ready for school.”
“No!” came the muffled defiant voice. “I’m sick. My head hurts.”
“Here, walk her around a bit.” Nate shoved Julia-Rose at Luke. He took the stairs two at a time, and pushed open the door to the boys’ bedroom.
“What’s the matter? Are you really sick?”
“I’m sick of school.” His son glowered. “I told you before. I’m the dumbest one in the room. Everyone else can read, but every time I look at the page, nothing makes sense. I hate it.”
Nate sat at the edge of the boy’s bed. “I know you have a hard time, and I promise I’ll speak to your teacher. But you’ll never be a better reader if you don’t go.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Now come on, it’s almost time to leave.”
“You’re always saying you’ll talk to my teacher, but you never do.” Mark shot him a disgusted look, tossed the covers off and mumbled to himself.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I will definitely make time next week to do that.” His stomach clenched as the guilt engulfed him. Sighing, Nate returned to the chaos in the kitchen.
“Mrs. Darby said she can’t come ‘til this afternoon on account of her breathing ain’t good, and she needs time for her medicine to work.” Matt greeted him.
“Great, the start of another perfect day in the Hale household.” Nate took the still-crying baby from Luke.
“Matt, go upstairs and hurry your brother along and then get going. I’m gonna have to bring these three with me to the shop. I have a lot of work today.”
Nate unlocked the door of the shop with Nathan Hale, GUNSMITH, painted in scripted gold letters on the door. Its location, between the barbershop and mercantile on the main street of town, drew a lot of business.
Racks of guns lined the area. Pieces of a rifle were strewn over a worktable shoved against the back wall. Boxes of various sizes of ammunition were stacked neatly on shelves next to the cash register.
Nate spread a blanket on the floor and set Julia-Rose there. Then he tied her to a table leg with a strap to keep her from wandering around. “I’m sorry, sweetie, seems I’m always tying you to something.”
Luke and John settled near the baby on another blanket, already busy with their wooden soldiers.
He settled down to work, cleaning and re-assembling the Winchester. He glanced at his three children on the floor and shook his head. The last six months had been hell. Kids, shuffled from place to place. Burnt meals, missing laundry. Most nights he collapsed into bed, convinced he was the worst father on earth. It was during one of these tirades with himself that he’d decided to send for a bride.
With no time or desire for courting, using an agency to find a suitable wife seemed to be the best solution. Then there would be no expectations. He needed a helpmate, someone to take over the household chores so he could get to work every day. On the application, he was adamant about what he wanted. Not interested in how she looked, he didn’t even request a picture. He hoped for a nice, sturdy partner. No fuss, no nothing.
The bell over the front door rang. Mrs. Watson, one of his steady customers, entered the shop. A tall, thin woman, she wore a permanent frown that belied her sweet disposition and generous heart.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Watson.” He wiped his hands on a nearby cloth and walked to the counter.