Read Online Sixteen Brides by Stephanie Grace Whitson - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Grace Whitson
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
