The Teacher's Bride: Mail Order Bride (Boulder Brides Book 1) Page 3

  Hopelessness is a luxury that comes at an exorbitant price; the surrendering of your dreams and of your love for the divine. Hope is a laborious journey, but when I understood the importance of the task, I was no longer a child. We may acknowledge hopelessness, Mr. Marston. We must never surrender to it.”

  He didn’t answer her at first. Instead, he appeared quite busy with his dinner plate, so she changed the subject. “Is the roast beef too stringy?” asked Greta. “I’m afraid I’m much better at preparing a stew. Beef was so rare during the war, we would boil it down next to nothing, so we could stretch the flavor.”

  He smiled then, a somewhat sardonic, yet genuine smile. “It’s naught to worry about. I’ve chewed far more gristle in my life than I have fat. I believe it’s the difference between your plains cattle and our mountain climbing cattle. The plains cattle are lazy, while ours are as nimble as goats. Mrs. Haldeman can give you a few tips on how to tenderize the meat.”

  Joseph Marston had proper table manners. He held his knife with his right hand and his fork with the left to cut and dice the food, using only the fork, with the tines tilted up, to carry it to his mouth. They were the table manners of her own German and Swedish heritage, and they attracted her as much as did his careful evaluation of quality and practicality, the gentleness under that straight-stretched mouth and upright posture and his strong moral fiber. Greta matched her rhythm with Joseph’s so that they finished almost simultaneously, at which time she carried the dishes out to the kitchen.

  He helped, covering the left-over roast and placing it in the pantry to stay cool until it was made into stew for the next day’s meal, and adding a few scraps to the plate scrapings to feed the pigs the next morning. He watched her add the last tidying touches, then asked broodingly, “Do you think I have given way to hopelessness?”

  “I believe that is something you must answer on your own, Mr. Marston.”

  She brushed by him, her scent mingling with his own manly aroma for a moment, and felt that warm flush that rose to the surface each time they came in close contact. She was not one to judge, but if she was, she thought to herself, she would believe that Mr. Marston had lost hope in love.

  At the foot of the stairs, she turned. “Good night, Mr. Marston.”

  He had followed rather closely behind her, closer than either of them realized until she turned and their eyes met. He looked startled, as though she had caught him in an unguarded moment, then gave her a short bow with his head. “Good night, Miss Samuelson. May you sleep well.”

  “And you also.” She held out her hand. After a hesitation, he shook it. His grip was one of controlled strength and inspired energy. Perhaps this was the heat she felt. The burning energy of a man consumed with his vision. And too blinded by it to see what was in front of him. She went up the stairs aware that he was still watching her, and shut the door to her loft. The moonlight made a soft, yellow puddle on her bed. She sank into it, wondering how she could ever shake her feelings for Mr. Marston and simply move on with her life.

  Chapter 4

  Women had never been entirely explainable to Joseph Marston. They were mysterious creatures who often defied the boundaries of logic and reason, yet always seemed to come out the better for it. He learned early in life that you never asked a woman why she needed a new dress when her wardrobe was perfectly acceptable. He learned to never contradict her opinions of music and art, even if they were abominable. He also learned that an educated woman in the city might be quite passionate about spreading education west, but felt somebody else should do it.

  It was the Woman’s Society for Child Welfare who introduced the Wyoming speaker at a Teacher’s Symposium. The somewhat small, but sturdily built man with a healthy, sprouting mustache and beard, radiated an intense energy as he spoke at length on the need to safeguard the future of the children by expanding their ministries west. “We have missionaries settling all the way into California, but their missions are often for the Indian populations, bringing them education and a religion that will help them become a part of this great union. What has been left behind are the pioneer settlers. These children have no missions they can go to. They have no schools. They have nobody to prepare them for civilization. We cannot, in all consciousness, leave them behind. If we do, we’ll be weak instead of strong. We will fall by the wayside as barbarians. Here is a list of locations petitioning teachers and assistants. The pay is low, but land is cheap and you will find that your neighbors are always willing to assist you.”

  He had never regretted his decision to move west and he had discovered a new type of woman. This woman worked shoulder to shoulder with her partner, carving out a living, facing down predators, both beast, and man. She was strong. She was practical. She was treated as an equal because she deserved it.

  He had been pleased that a plains woman had answered his query. He had visualized her much as she was, studious, devout and adept at farming skills. He hadn’t visualized her age. He hadn’t visualized how unscathed she would look after witnessing the worst that humanity had to offer. That’s when it occurred to him, she was unscathed because she hadn’t seen it. Her home had been a refuge, her community, a sanctuary. All she saw were the after-effects of horror.

  He wanted to protect her, but he was discovering she had her own independent thoughts. He had tried to forbid her going into the mining camp, warning her that some of what she would be exposed to was not fit for a lady, but she had looked at him with those calm, gray eyes and said, “Yet it’s suitable for raising children?”

  “Of course it’s not suitable! Not at all. That’s why we are trying to raise them above it.”

  “And how can we if we turn a blind eye to their homes? The Haldeman’s have a girl they are sheltering. But what of her six sisters? Do we wait for them to come to us one by one or do we appeal to their mother’s good senses now?”

  “We’ve made our appeal. Some women are very obedient to their husbands.”

  She had furrowed her brows together and that’s when he knew she could not imagine the terrible depths a man would go to in pursuit of his vices. “Do not go into the mining camp alone,” he had urged her again. “If you must go, at least bring along a companion. Mrs. Haldeman or Lizbeth. They know where you can safely go and where you cannot.”

  She had agreed, and in fact, had struck up quite a friendship with Lizbeth. It was another of the things he had noticed about Greta. She liked being around children and young girls. She liked playing. Often, he would see her playing games with the children before the school bell rang or joining them for a little after-school fun.

  He had finally taken his concerns to the Haldeman’s. Instead of sympathy, they seemed to be amused. “I think you are placing far too much emphasis on your age difference,” chided Mrs. Haldeman. “Greta is young, but she’s capable, and it’s better to have a young wife who looks to you for guidance than one that is fully mature but set in her ways.”

  “I don’t wish to raise a child bride.”

  “Oh, she is fully raised, my dear. Instead of worrying about how the neighborhood could contaminate her, you should be conscious of what she can add to the community. She was right about the boy, Jonah.”

  “What about Jonah?”

  “He’s deaf. Not completely deaf, but he can only hear things up close. When we moved him to the front of the classroom, his lessons improved. Now she’s helping him with his speech.”

  Joseph stood in the shade of his back porch, watching Greta as she pulled weeds from the vegetable garden. No matter what she was doing, she seemed to be content, whether it was pulling weeds, feeding the chickens, or grooming Snake Bite, always giving him a treat when she was finished and backing away from him slowly.

  She spoiled the farm animals. They snuffled and snorted, fluffed themselves up and strode around importantly as soon as they spotted her. Even now, a chicken scratched wherever she tossed her weeds, and the pigs pushed their quivering noses under the pen, hoping for a handout. They flo
cked around her the way the children did, and he wondered now if perhaps he had been too hasty in his words. She brought sunshine with her, but was her light strong enough to survive the wilderness?

  Her weeding had also included thinning the carrots for their autumn crop. A number of spindly, twisted, partially grown carrots gathered in a small pile that she scooped up when she was finished and tossed to the grateful pigs. She started to work on another row of vegetables when he called to her and beckoned her over. She came, wiping her hands on her apron, a half smile on her face. It was a wonderfully pleasant face; round, rosy cheeks, a tilted nose with a light feathering of freckles and a Cupid’s bow mouth. It was the kind of face men wrote home about, the kind that inspired loyalty, the kind you wanted to defend.

  “The stagecoach is arriving in Boulder this afternoon with some school books, and especially for you, Miss Samuelson, some drawing paper for the children. Our new curriculum includes nature studies for lower level children to help prepare them for the sciences. The headmaster was very enthusiastic with your demonstration on mixing different colored earth and berries to make paints and feels the drawing paper will stimulate them into greater creativity.”

  “I see, Mr. Marston. What you are saying is the drawing paper will give them a reason to make paints and study nature.”

  “Put in its simplest form. You have a very unorthodox but effective way of teaching, Miss Samuelson.”

  “My uncle and my mother are largely responsible for my education. The plains required a few unorthodox methods. I imagined from the start, the wilderness would too.”

  “You imagined yourself teaching?”

  “Formally? I suppose not. There are many teaching methods, Mr. Marston.”

  “I’ll be drawing up the buggy in half an hour. I was wondering if you’d like to go into Boulder for the afternoon.”

  “I’ll be delighted,” she answered, a broad smile spreading across her face.

  A half hour was all she needed to spruce herself up and put on a clean dress. When he pulled the buggy to the front of the house, she was already bounding down the steps, tucking her runaway curls back into her bonnet. “You should get yourself a couple of real horses and a proper wagon,” she laughed, as he jumped down to assist her into her seat.

  “The cart does well for farm work. It’s not necessary for me to own a number of large, costly animals.”

  “Oh, you just like looking fancy and pretty when you go into town,” she bantered.

  She had an infectious laugh. He chuckled at her remark and answered, “That’s the first time anyone has ever called me pretty.”

  “Because they are dazzled by your buggy first.”

  He knew she was teasing him and it no longer bothered him. Wherever she went, her humor strode along, as bright and bouncing as the sunlight that flitted between the trees. The buggy had been as practical an asset as anything he owned. Even if it was stylish, it shaded against the sun and sheltered from the wind and rain.

  He had forgotten there were girls like her. He barely remembered his academy years, except that they were years of study. Girls like her didn’t exist there, nor did they exist in the social circles of aspiring professionals and ambitious status seekers. They didn’t exist among the harsh women in the mining camps. They were like rare, exotic wildflowers, scattered here and there. Your eyes had to be quick and your mind nimble to find one.

  He regretted his hastiness in judging her, yet still felt he had been right by releasing her from her obligation. The only correct way to marry a girl like Greta was to court her and win her hand.

  “If we are to dazzle the good citizens of Boulder, let’s dazzle them properly. We’ll go shopping, and afterward we’ll dine at the Palace Hotel.”

  “What should we shop for?”

  “If I am to look pretty, I need a new dress and bonnet.”

  She clasped her hands together and bent over them as she laughed.

  Chapter 5

  They arrived late. Greta clicked her tongue as they drove up to an already unloaded stagecoach. In front of the bank, a new group of miners were getting acquainted with two young passengers still covered with travel dust, standing amid an assortment of extremely well-worn luggage. They looked shabby, as though their years of want extended beyond their ability to remember finer things.

  Joseph went to the delivery window and made an inquiry with the teller who pointed at a bound, wooden crate then shoved a record of receipt into his hand to sign.

  “Well, that went rather quickly, wouldn’t you say?” he asked as he offered Greta his arm.

  “That’s because you missed all the excitement. It’s more thrilling to wait for the stagecoach, you know.”

  “This one is run by Jim Snyder. He’s not such a likable fellow as Owen. He swears. He drinks. He becomes disgraceful on his days off work.”

  “There haven’t been complaints about him?”

  “He runs his coach through Indian country. Nobody complains about him.”

  Boulder’s trading goods store was three times larger than the trading post at the mining camp. Joseph held his amusement inside as Greta fingered the different fabrics, peered at lace and china tea sets and wandered over to view other household items.

  “Have you found anything that delights you?” asked Joseph.

  “A bit of cloth I believe, and some yarn. I find my hands idle too often.”

  They had bundled their purchases and were ready to stroll to the hotel when a voice behind them began calling for Greta. They turned around. The woman calling to them appeared to be in her thirties. Her dress was cut noticeably low in front, and her bodice noticeably tight. Her reddish colored hair had been somewhat brutalized by both the natural elements and a few chemical additions.

  Still, she was pretty in a hard, bright way. Under the heavy make-up, were fine, creamy features. Beneath the harsh expression, were liquid brown eyes that glowed with their own life. She ran toward them, and Greta suddenly wriggled in recognition. “Hannah! Hannah! You’re still here? You haven’t married?”

  “Oh, not yet. Beatrice went off with a prospector, but I don’t know if they struck it big or not. I haven’t heard from her since she left. Laura found a cattle rancher. Between you and me though, I found I make more money as a chorus girl than I would hooking up with one of these maybe get rich miners.

  I just started thinking about it a few days after we got here. They never bathe. They brawl all night. What kind of husbands would they make? I’m holding out for a better offer, and if I don’t get one, well, the money’s right here in Boulder.”

  “You intend to become an independent woman?”

  “Not intend, my dear. This is what I have become. I was once a woman of means. I will be so once again, and not by pushing a plow or digging by the side of a river. Enough about me. Is this your betrothed, Greta?”

  “This is Mr. Marston. We have decided to put off marriage.”

  “And why would you do that, Mr. Marston? What tiny flaw did you see in our good Miss Samuelson that you should reject her?”

  “No flaw,” muttered Joseph. “I would not expect you to understand, or perhaps you would. Miss Samuelson also needs to know her independence before she can make choices.”

  “And you, unfortunate soul, are full of poppycock. What would you have her do now in the middle of her quest? Perhaps she would like to come and live in Boulder. I have a perfectly fine room. You can join me, my dear,” said Hannah, drawing Greta close to her.

  “Greta has a teaching position and a place to stay. She is welcome in our settlement for as long as she likes.”

  “I’m quite sure of that, but you, Greta. What are your thoughts?”

  “I haven’t quite made up my mind, but I did send a letter to my brother stating I might continue west. I’m waiting primarily on a reply.”

  “Oh, but if you wish to continue west, you won’t need to wait so long. Haven’t you heard? The drought in Kansas still hasn’t ended, and now people are le
aving in droves for the western trails. A wagon train is supposed to come through here sometime within the next two weeks.”

  Joseph suddenly felt his heart squeeze anxiously in his chest, and he flashed a look sideways at Greta. If she appeared excited, it seemed more for talking with someone she hadn’t seen in a while than for the news that a wagon train of her own kindred would be passing through. At least, that’s what he found himself hoping.

  “Will you join us for dinner?” Joseph finally asked, seeing no recourse beyond common courtesy.

  She gave him a look that was oddly indulgent, as though she was playing with him, and might at any moment, grow tired of him and devour her prey. “I was on my way to work. And I don’t suppose the dancehall at the corner of Main is exactly the type of place you bring your colleagues for entertainment.”

  “I wish you well, Miss Hannah.”

  “I will do well, thank you, Mr. Marston. But if you have doubts, please put your timidity aside for an hour and come watch the show.”

  He felt almost possessive of Greta as they watched Hannah walk away, and covered the hand she had placed on his forearm with his own. “Don’t you think it would be rude not to watch Hannah dance?” Greta asked. She wasn’t being facetious. There was a genuine note of concern in her voice.

  “If we dally too long, it will be late before we return home. It’s a Saturday. Men will be filled with drink, and those who take advantage of the inebriated will be waiting at the side of the road. We could have dinner or see a show, but it will be tough to cover both.”