Libbie: Bride of Arizona (American Mail-Order Bride 48) (4 page)

“I placed an ad in a newsletter called the
Grooms’ Gazette
. Months ago on a business trip, I saw a similar publication in Phoenix.” Plus he’d overheard a recent conversation at the Cabinet Saloon about a rancher out in Chino Valley who was quite happy with the wife he’d acquired this way.

Maida’s sigh lasted a couple of seconds. “So, she’s a mail-order bride.”

Just like his sister to go all dewy-eyed. He guessed mail-order was the appropriate term, but he didn’t like it much. Dell unfolded the telegraph office stationery that by now had well-worn creases. Hoping to make her words flow better, he omitted the ‘stops’ at the end of each sentence.

“Dear Mr. Stirling, Your ad in the Grooms’ Gazette caught my eye above all the others.”

He paused and glanced up to see if anyone would comment on that statement. This first line was his very favorite.

“I, too, have an affinity for animals. In fact, I’ve spent a good portion of my life on my family’s Australian cattle stations.”

“Australia? I thought you said she’s from Boston.” Skip pointed an accusing finger.

“I’m reading what the lady in question wrote.” Dell shook the paper. “Let me finish.” Then he glanced down to find his place.

“I’ve helped with branding, herding, and calving. I sling a mean loop, and my boomerang-throwing skill is proficient.”

He rested a finger on the foreign word and looked up. “I’m not sure what she means here.”

“At twenty-one years old, I’m not a stranger to hard work. I enjoy all types of music and feel most at home in natural settings, especially warmer climates. My circumstances have become unsettled, and I will relocate immediately. Miss Libbie Van Eycken.”

Aware of tightness invading his shoulders, Dell flexed them before lowering the paper to the table and waited.

“Now, I’ll get the pie and coffee.” Hazel reached for Skip’s plate and stacked it on top of hers as she stood. Her lips pinched tight, and she studied Dell for a long moment before turning away.

“Mama, I’ll help.” Maida shot to her feet, cleared Dell’s plate, and reached for the bowl of carrots. “No one says another word until we return.” Then she scurried toward the kitchen.

Good. Dell needed time to think. He knew while the women were absent, none of the men would exchange a single word. As he’d read Libbie’s words aloud, he suddenly realized how very few details she’d included. In his ad, he’d requested an experienced cook and housekeeper, but Libbie mentioned neither of those skills. Nor had she described what about her circumstances had changed. Why hadn’t he noticed these omissions before? Since hers was the only response he’d received, he’d counted himself lucky that she understood a rancher’s life. Maybe he’d been too hasty.

A buzz of whispered discussion filtering from the kitchen abruptly stopped. Then Hazel walked into the room carrying a tray holding plates, cups, a golden-crusted pie, and a crystal sugar and creamer set.

Following her, Maida carried the speckled coffeepot, her hands protected with cloth pads. The cups were set on saucers and then arranged in a line at the edge of the table. She filled the cups, set down the pot within reach, and distributed the coffee.

Dell spotted his sister’s sideways glances and knew she was dying to start in on the questions. As the youngest, she’d have to let the others go first. He waited until everyone had been served. “Ask what you will.” Before the barrage came, he closed his lips around a bite of pie. His mother’s apple pie tasted as good as ever, the sweet-tangy taste laced with spices lingering on his tongue.

“The telegram is your only correspondence?” William looked over the rim of his steaming coffee cup.

“Not only, but the first one. My response was to send money through Western Union for transportation and traveling incidentals.”

Skip’s gaze narrowed. “What’s your recourse if she takes the money and runs?”

“When did you get so cynical?” Dell glared at his brother, irritation tightening his muscles. “Do her words sound like she’s a young woman only interested in money?”

Skip dropped his gaze, but his frown didn’t relax. “No, they don’t.”

The need to defend her rose in Dell. During the evenings since receiving the telegram, he re-read the message several times and had created an image of them working side-by-side to develop the ranch. Of course, he’d never actually pictured her face, because he didn’t know which physical details to ascribe to his future bride. But he had a sense of a congenial bond forming between them for the betterment of his holdings. “The second communication was another telegram, this time from Chicago.”

“Dell…” Hazel spoke then waited.

With reluctance, he angled his head and met his mother’s serious gaze. “Yes?”

“What is your plan here?”

“My plan?” His gut clenched. Why did he feel like he’d walked into a standoff without his sidearm? “Meet Libbie at the train, then we’ll go to the church, get married, and head out to the ranch.”

Maida gasped, covering her mouth.

“Did you think your family would like to be invited so they could be present at this momentous event in your life? That your mother and sister might have needed a bit more notice in case they wanted to stitch new dresses?” She sat back, her right hand clenched on the tabletop. “Did you even consider providing a meal that would serve to introduce this young woman to your loved ones and celebrate your wedding?”

To be frank, he hadn’t. Not a single one of those ideas had crossed his mind. He’d looked at the arrangement more like a business deal to be completed. If, upon better acquaintance, they developed feelings for one another, that condition would be an added benefit. eemed he had more to learn about women than he’d thought.

Libbie hurried as she walked beside the tracks of the Boston to Albany Railroad, moving forward from the freight cars. She brushed away several pin feathers from the front of her black skirt. On the platform, she paused and pulled the ticket from her reticule, glancing at the stamped destination: Albany, New York.
The first step toward my future
.

Stepping into the passenger coach, Libbie tugged on the ends of her newly shorn hair and hitched her carpet bag close to her waist. A quick scan of the passenger benches showed several seats available but she was hesitant to claim a place beside a man. When she spotted a pretty young blonde-haired woman close to her age, she thought the person was probably Grace Dickinson, the factory worker Dora had told her would be on this train. She stepped down the aisle and waved a hand at the seat. “May I sit?”

Grace nodded. “Yes, join me please.”

“Oh, thank you.” She lifted her bag to the overhead rack and sat. “Dora Johnson described you well, Miss Dickinson. I’m Libbie Van Eycken.”

“Dora from the Brown Textile Mill? Wears spectacles, right? Yes, I remember her.” She ran her gaze over her seat mate’s dress. “But I’m surprised she knew about my destination. I know I sent a note to several of the other women, and they filled me in on details of those they knew were leaving and where and when they were going. I suppose word must have gotten around.” Tilting her head and squinting, Grace studied Libby’s dress.

Self conscious about her poor apparel, Libbie smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt.
“Recent deaths in the family forced me into mourning clothes.”

“Condolences on your losses. Abrupt changes in life are always difficult to endure.”

When would hearing the word “loss” no longer cause tears to form?
She slipped a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “My parents were killed ten days ago. I learned the devastating news by telegram then my aunt died the following morning.”

“That’s horrible.” Grace’s blue-eyed gaze softened. “I’m sorry.”

The compassion she saw in the blonde’s eyes was almost her undoing. Libbie swallowed hard against a tight throat. “I appreciate your kindness.” She tugged a folded paper from her reticule and opened the page containing Dell’s ad from the
Grooms’ Gazette,
tapping a finger on his words. “I feel we are in a similar situation.”

Grace leaned closer to peer at the ad. “Where are you going?”

Hopefully to a place that suits me better than Boston
. “To a cattle ranch in Prescott, Arizona Territory.”

“Why, that’s farther than I’m traveling. I’m heading to Sweetwater Springs, Montana.”

“I studied a United States map before I responded to this gentleman’s letter. Montana is supposed to be very cold.”

“So I’m told. I bought a new coat in preparation.”

“I needed warmer temperatures for my, um—” Libbie remembered the astounded expressions on her cousin’s faces and didn’t want to start off this acquaintance on the wrong foot. “I’m traveling with a few birds. We all need a climate more like my home country of South Africa.”

“Oh, I wondered at your accent. So charming.”

For the next few hours, the women chatted, shared their backgrounds, and ate from their sack lunches. Afterwards, they fell into quiet but companionable reflection for a few moments. Then one would start a new topic and the other would respond, eager to share information with each other.

The conductor walked through the coaches at regular intervals, answering questions and updating passengers on the train’s location. Outside the window were rolling fields and wooded areas. So many trees and different kinds, most with leaves changing to yellow and amber colors. Nowhere did she see the big capped shape of the acacia tree. She bit back a sigh, not willing to let on how lost she felt. Is this what Arizona would look like? A place where she’d not know the name of a single flower, bush, or tree. After leaving Springfield, the terrain changed and the train chugged into what Libbie learned were the Berkshire Mountains. She kept a grip on the edge of the train seat, for surely she’d never been this high above the plains before.

Toward sunset, the train had rolled down the west side of the Taconic Range, crossed the Hudson River, and pulled into the station in Albany. Letting out a sigh at being on relatively flat ground again, Libbie turned to Grace. “I must make sure the car holding my birds is transferred to the new railroad line and purchase my ticket. May I find you again when we board the train to Chicago?”

A smile crossed the blonde’s face. “That would be enjoyable. I plan to buy food here in the station.”

“I appreciate the reminder.” She stood, reclaimed her carpet bag, and inched along the aisle behind the departing passengers. Once on the platform, she hurried to the ticket counter to purchase tickets, spoke with the stationmaster about arranging for her rented freight car to be moved, and then she dashed down to the freight car to give Jomo his ticket and his food. As she approached, she watched him in conversation with a uniformed railroad worker, forever grateful Mama had taught their most trusted employees to speak English, and a few knew several words in Dutch, as well.

An hour later, Libbie joined Grace in the passenger car, glad to see a blanket draped over the back of the seat. “Thank you for selecting a spot closer to the stove. The air outside is already cold.” She tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“I noticed your dress is of lightweight fabric. May I ask if your garment was ready-made mourning wear or one you owned that was dyed?”

Inside, Libbie cringed because she disliked feeling inadequate in yet another way. Especially beside Grace whose blue-gray dress, although made of inexpensive material was expertly cut, and whose plain black hat looked stylish. Fashionable hats were not part of Libbie’s wardrobe. Instead, she owned practical, wide-brimmed ones to block the sun. “The servants dyed it. So you could tell?”

“Ribbons don’t take the dye well, nor do the seams. As a seamstress, these are the details I notice.”

Libbie stretched out her arm and saw what Grace mentioned—lighter-colored fabric showed at the cuff stitching—then dropped her hand in her lap with a sigh. “Aunt Betje had a trip planned for my cousins and me. We were to take a week-long excursion to New York to buy winter fashions. But…” She swallowed hard.

“I understand.” Grace briefly squeezed her hand. “If you plan to continue wearing mourning clothes, you should go to a seamstress and have a proper dress made.”

“If? You mean I have a choice?”

“Well, first off, black is not your color. In fact, it washes out your skin tone.” She glanced away then back and leaned forward. “And I can’t help but ask about your short hair.”

Self-conscious of her chin-length bob, she touched the ends. Libbie heard the avid curiosity in Grace’s hushed tone. “I needed money for my train fare so I sold my locks to a wigmaker. Fourteen inches worth.” A hard decision but somehow she knew it wouldn’t rank with what was yet to come.

Grace’s eyes rounded. “Your prospective groom didn’t send enough for your ticket?”

“Not for me, for my birds.” Libbie hurried to answer, not wanting Grace to get the wrong impression of Dell. His bank draft had more than covered the price of her fare, food, and incidentals along the way. By being frugal, she’d stretched that amount to provide meals for both her and Jomo.

“Well, that’s good to hear. We’ve known each other less than a day, but may I offer a bit of advice?”

“Please do. You are more familiar with American ways and I dare say, with men, than I.”

“Don’t meet your groom wearing this dress.” Grace glanced over the length of Libbie’s black clothes and then re-focused on her face. “Before your arrival, change into a garment that is more becoming. Establishing this relationship based on an ad and minimal correspondence will be difficult enough. You want to make a good first impression. That way, too, you can tell him when you are ready about the deaths in your family, rather than in those awkward first moments.”

Relief flooded through Libbie. She had dreaded the need for explanations of these sad and emotional events and then having to respond to people who acted like she was fragile. “I do have other clothes in my trunk the servants hadn’t yet dyed. Of course, I’ll tell him my parents are deceased.”

“But maybe not how recent the circumstance is. I know I set out on this trek looking for a fresh start.”

“I did, too. I appreciate you being forthright. I’m afraid I have so much to learn, and I don’t know what friend will be found in my new location.” She angled her body and clasped one of Grace’s hands. “In Australia, my brothers’ cattle stations are half a day’s ride from the closest town. Dell’s ranch isn’t that far outside Prescott, but I don’t know if the ride is one hour or two. May I have your permission to write you after I’m settled?”

Smiling, Grace dipped her chin. “I’d like that, Libbie.”

The conductor walked down the center aisle, dousing the oil lights except for the ones at each end of the car. The women settled in as best they could for a night’s sleep. By the time the train came to a stop in Chicago, the women had become fast friends, Libbie unabashedly asking Grace for her advice on so many topics. And her friend had an answer or opinion on every single one. She inched toward the end of the train car, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Oh, Grace, I hate goodbyes.” Just outside the depot office, she set down her carpetbag and turned. “This train trip would have been so lonely without your company. Thank you for your advice about my clothing.” Leaning forward, she hugged this dear, generous woman whom she might never see again. She sniffled, losing the battle with the tears that rolled down her cheeks. “I wish you and Frey all the best.”

Grace teared up as well. “The same for you and Dell. I’m so glad we shared this trip.” She stepped back and brushed at her cheeks. Grace hefted her hatbox and walked toward the platform for her designated railroad line, giving a little wave before she disappeared from sight.

Taking a deep breath, Libbie grabbed her carpetbag and headed in the opposite direction toward the office for the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe line. But first, she had to find a telegraph office to let Dell know she’d arrived. A spark lit in her chest at the idea of him waiting for her at the end of this long journey.

Three days later, Libbie thought the trip would never end. By now, she barely flinched when she spotted tree-covered mountains on the horizon. After the steep climb from Flagstaff to Williams, winding about the rocks so close she could almost touch them with only a deep gorge viewed out the opposite window, she told herself she could face anything.  At their stop in Seligman, she’d left Jomo to oversee the transfer of the bird crates to another railroad car because the spur line ran on a narrower gauge track.

She’d begged use of the clerk’s office to change clothes because the outhouse he’d first pointed to would just not suffice. Wishing for a mirror, she smoothed and tugged the snug, lacy, lightweight dress into place. The previous summer, she worn this white garment to a dress ball at the British Consulate in Perth, Australia—the last time the entire family had been together. She couldn’t remember the specific occasion, but she’d made the proper gestures and responses when introduced to her father’s business associates. The stuffy event was made bearable because her three older brothers had been there, joking and laughing and keeping her busy on the dance floor.

Loneliness washed through her. Hot tears built behind her eyes, but she blinked them away. As much as she’d like to return to those more carefree days, she couldn’t—and that fact would never change. Her reality now involved a future husband and learning to be a wife. A sigh escaped, and her shoulders slumped. These tasks would be definitely harder than learning how to glide across a room with a book on her head. Although she suspected a marriage did involve a fair amount of balancing.

A knock on the door reminded her she couldn’t dawdle. “Yes, coming right away.” Stuffing the mourning clothes into her portmanteau, she hurried to close the suitcase and lugged it across the room.

The young clerk wearing a pin-striped jacket waited on the other side of the door and reached for her luggage. “Train’s about ready to leave, miss.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Pennleah.” She switched her folded white parasol to her right hand and headed across the train depot, her footsteps snapping out a rhythm. A breeze ruffled her hair when she paused on the platform. The final leg of her cross-country journey would deliver her into the arms of her waiting husband. A shiver ran over her skin, raising gooseflesh, and she wasn’t sure if the reaction was to the cooler temperatures at this elevation or the prospect of a husband.

****

Rustlers. Of all the blasted bad luck.

Dell wheeled Sparky to the right, urging him into a canter, to head off a wayward calf and guide it back to the herd. Rustlers struck again in the night, making off with two dozen cattle. One of the cowhands, Floyd Sproule, had been awake and nursing a toothache in the bunkhouse when he’d caught sight of lights in the far corral where none should have been. A little after three a.m., Floyd raised the alarm, getting everyone out of bed and on their horses in lightning speed.

With the help of his Navajo horse trainer, Nascha, Dell and the hands located the herd in a small valley only five miles away. The scraping of hooves over the rocky ground as the group descended the mountainside must have alerted the rustlers, giving them enough time to escape. Unfortunately, they’d made off with one of his best stud bulls.