Adela's Prairie Suitor (The Annex Mail-Order Brides Book 1) (12 page)

Please forgive me if this isn’t your understanding as well. You will make a wonderful wife for the right man, and I pray you shall.

Since I will be away for a little while, I suggest you take this time to return home. Enclosed are your tickets. This will save us from any uncomfortable feelings we might have in saying good-bye.

Most Sincerely, Byron Calhoun

Numbed to the core, Adela held the paper for several minutes. Finally she looked into the envelope and found the tickets.

But the man who wrote those words was not the Byron she’d come to know—to love. Yet she recognized his penmanship. Hadn’t she read and reread three long letters from him? She would know his hand anywhere.

It made no sense, unless she’d simply read him wrong. Their dance the night of the taffy pull meant nothing to him. But what of his kiss? His words? Was he just being nice to her? Apparently the kiss came up short in his expectations. Everything about her must have been lacking.

She went over every minute of their last days together, searching for a clue. He’d seemed distracted on the day he’d left, but she’d put that to his distress over the unpaid wheat shipment. Maybe that was it. She’d exposed his lack of business sense. Finding the glaring bookkeeping error must have shamed him, and what man wanted a wife smarter than he?

He didn’t love her. If he did, he’d appreciate any help she gave. He wouldn’t care what his mother thought. Yes, he’d have to honor his mother, but he wouldn’t let her stand in the way of marriage to the woman he wanted to marry. Leaving this note and insisting she leave in his absence not only showed his cruelty, but his cowardice. Two things she’d never have believed him capable of.

It began with a letter, and now it would end with a letter.

Feeling sick to her stomach, she buried her head in the pillow, letting the tears come. When she couldn’t squeeze another tear, she prayed for strength. She’d never felt so alone and forsaken. The women in the parlor would offer no comfort. She had no friends here.

With resolve, Adela pushed herself up. She wanted her friends. Ramee, Carianne, and Prudie. They would be filled with compassion. They loved her. Instead of telling her they’d told her so, they’d gather her into a warm hug and let her have her cry and comfort her. How she needed their comfort.

She got up to pace the floor aimlessly, stopping at the window long enough to see the rain had stopped and sunlight tried to break through. Maybe that was a sign. No matter how dark the circumstances, light would always return. She dragged her trunk to the middle of the floor and opened it, then began gathering her things and stuffing them in a haphazard heap.

Mrs. Calhoun would agree to let Dick accompany her to the depot. She just prayed another train would be leaving today.

Byron’s train didn’t pull out of St. Louis until the next day, very early, as the dawn stretched lacy fingers of pink and gold over the horizon.

Escalating anticipation rode with him all the way to Crabapple. He should have sent a telegram so she would be waiting at the depot. Inpatient with himself, he rented a horse from the livery and threw his bags over the nag’s shoulders, then hoisted himself into the saddle. The horse was old but fresh, and covered the distance home in good time.

He looked a sight and smelled worse, but that wouldn’t keep him from seeing Adela first thing. He’d wait until he freshened up to give her the ring. Take her for a walk down to the apple orchard. The trees were bare of all fruit and leaves this time of year, but the path was usually clear of puddles, even after a hard rain.

Inside the house, Ma greeted him. He dropped his bags and went into her hug. “Where’s Adela?”

She stiffened, telling him something was wrong. He knew Ma about as well as anyone, knew when she tried to hold something back. “What happened?”

“Adela’s gone.” She turned and walked away as if that was the only explanation necessary.

He caught up with her. “Gone where? To the barn? The field? The—”

“She went back to Massachusetts, Byron. Said she didn’t think marriage would work out and wanted to spare you a confrontation.”

“A confrontation?” Byron looked at her stupidly. Adela had left, gone home, without having the decency of saying good-bye. That wasn’t something his Adela would do.

Except she wasn’t his Adela, never had been apparently. He’d been a fool. No. “I don’t believe it.”

“She got a letter. I didn’t read it, but she packed right away, and said she had to get back to her friends.”

One of them might have gotten sick. There had to be an explanation.

“She made it clear to me she didn’t intend to come back.” Ma’s words shattered his hopes. She grasped his arm. “Take time to think this out. You don’t want to cause a scene for yourself or her.”

Byron raced to Adela’s room and found it empty, except for his bed and chest of drawers. He entered the room quietly, as he might enter a crypt. A hint of lavender, the scent Adela used, was the only thing left to prove she’d ever been here.

He backed out of the room. Suddenly, the house didn’t have enough oxygen for him to breath. Outside, he dragged in a deep lungful of rain-washed air and trudged to the barn.

Regret followed him, pecking at his neck like an angry bird whose nest he’d disturbed. Memories of all the things he should have done but didn’t, and all the things he didn’t do but should have hovered like red-hot coals. He pulled them down over his head, one by one.

He hadn’t brought her flowers or taken her for rides as he’d intended. The work of harvest had eaten up his time. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Worst of all, he’d sat back and allowed Ma and Hilda Jane to belittle Adela. He hadn’t even thanked her for finding that mistake in the books and saving the ranch land.

Ma was right about one thing. He needed time. Time to think and pray.

Somehow, he dragged through the next two days. Catching up on the work he’d left behind occupied some of his mind. When the pain got too bad, he jumped on Nellie and rode like a mad man until he and horse were in a lather.

Byron left Nellie with Dick and went into the house, intending to work on the books. He’d avoided this task because Adela had set them up. She’d touched those papers, the pen.

There was another job he had to do, and now was the time. Write her and demand an explanation. If she thought she could just waltz out of his life, she had another think coming.

He opened the bureau drawer where the writing supplies were kept and drew out the stack of clean paper. Shuffling through the papers, he noticed sheets that had been used and put back in with the clean stationery. Scribbling that made no sense. Letters repeated over and over, and whole rows of words like a schoolchild’s writing exercise. Sandwiched between those pages was an old letter he’d sent Ma when he went to Chicago with Pa two years ago. Something told him the pages and the letter were connected in some way.

Pans clattered in the kitchen, and Byron made his way in that direction, the scribbled pages in hand. “Do you know what these are?” He held them up for Ma to see.

Color drained from her face. He was afraid she was having a spell and helped her to the table. “What’s this all about? Did Adela do this?”

Ma just shook her down-cast head. When she raised her eyes, they were filled with tears. “Please forgive me. I didn’t know you’d take it so hard.”

“Forgive you—for what?”

She rose from the chair. “Just stay here. I need to get something.”

Before he could say a word, she hustled away. When she came back, she was unfolding a crumple piece of paper. She laid it on the table in front of him, smoothing it with the heel of her palm.

At first the words swam before his eyes. Then he looked from the crumpled paper to the one with the lines of letter and words. “Somebody forged this to appear to be my writing. Who?” Anger overcame him as he realized Adela must have read this, thinking he’d left it for her—like a coward. He shook the paper under Ma’s nose. “Did you do this? Or Hilda Jane?”

“No, not Hilda Jane. She was threatening to run off with the stage master if you married Adela…and Clint…well…he was frantic to stop that.”

Byron drew in a breath. So that was it. Clint was influencing Ma to stop Byron from marrying Adela, and of course, Ma was smitten with Clint. “So you wanted to help Clint, but why are you confessing now? You accomplished what you set out to do.”

“I didn’t realize you were so fond of Adela, you must believe me, Son. I guess I was so engrossed in my own feelings for Clint, I failed to consider yours…didn’t pay attention. Didn’t notice you’d fallen in love with her. Anyway, it didn’t work out for Clint. Hilda Jane eloped with that man day before yesterday.”

Byron wasn’t exactly surprised by that. The stage manager had money, and though he was twice as old as Hilda Jane, the money would have attracted her. Hilda Jane had never cared for Byron. She’d just used him to make the station master jealous.

“So where does that leave you and Clint?”

Ma blushed. “He proposed and I accepted right before you went to St. Louis. I was so happy, I failed to notice how much you cared for Adela.” Sobs shook her shoulders. “I swear I wouldn’t have deliberately done anything to hurt you. I didn’t realize you loved her until you came back.” She pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. “I’ve written to Adela to explain everything. I’ll get it in the mail today, so she’ll know the truth.”

Byron took the envelope. “You told her how you forged my handwriting and made up that note?”

Ma swiped a tear off the tip of her nose. “I asked her forgiveness too, though I don’t deserve it, seeing as how I treated her.”

He looked over Ma’s head to the ceiling where a cobweb escaped the last cleaning. “No, but she’ll forgive you because that’s the type of woman she is.”

“But can you forgive me?”

He stared at her, astonished she could ask the question. Forgive her? She was his mother—that was reason enough. Besides, God had again taken something meant for evil and turned it to good. And wasn’t love best when tested? Refined. As his and Adela’s was.

Then the full import of what happened hit him. All the anger and tension built up over the last two days drained away like the cow pond that time the dam broke. The dam broke in him too. Despondency evaporated, leaving an elation that had to spew out or he’d bust.

“Of course I forgive you, Ma.” He grabbed her in a bear hug and danced her around the room until she managed to stop him, eying him with alarm.

“Byron, what’s got into you?”

“Don’t you see, Ma?” He shook the crumpled note in her face. “Adela didn’t leave because she wanted to.” She’d left because she thought he’d sent her away. He cringed to think of the hurt that had caused her, but there was a chance she still cared for him, and he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

This just made Ma cry harder, and he hugged her again. “It’s all right. I know how addled love can make you. Clint’s a good man, and Pa would want you to be happy.”

His mother’s watery eyes thanked him, and she pointed to the envelope lying on the table. “I put tickets for her to come back in with the letter. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m sure she loves you. She’ll come back.”

Byron stooped to kiss her forehead, then took the envelope. “I’ll make sure she gets the letter and the tickets.”

Ma held on to him, reaching for the envelope. “I can get Dick to take it to the post office.”

“No need. I’ll take it. I’ve got to go pack.” He made for the door.

“Pack? Where’re you going?”

Why did she even have to ask? “To Cambridge.”

Another rejection. Adela strode over the cobbled walk toward Carianne’s red brick townhouse. She’d been out all day inquiring into positions for keeping books, what she really wanted to do. She was well qualified, but no one wanted to hire a young woman. They never said so outright, but she knew they feared she’d marry and leave employment.

The sad reality was, she’d never marry. How was it possible to ever love another after Byron? Even if such a man would pursue her, which wasn’t likely.

She entered the house and put her cloak and bonnet in the closet. Carianne stuck her head out the door that led to the kitchen. “Milly has the night off, and I’m preparing dinner. Want to join me?”

Adela released a deep sigh. She followed Carianne through the butler’s pantry to the spacious kitchen. “Of course. I’m beginning to think I should give up hope of finding a position as a book-keeper and hire on as a cook.” She’d snagged an apron from the pantry and tied it on. “Where are Ramee and Prudie?”

“In the back garden, preparing baskets to take to the old soldiers’ home. They decorate them with leaves and vines since most of the flowers are gone. Ramee is so creative. She can make anything look good.” Carianne stretched to reach a jar of pickles in the high cabinet. “Would you get the roast out of the icebox?”

“She certainly can. I should have been working on that. It’s time I stopped feeling sorry for myself and did some good works.” Adela set the roast on the sideboard and looked for the carving knife, coming up empty.

“You’ve had reason to feel sorrow. Losing your first love must be the worst kind of grief, or so I’ve heard.” Carianne offered her the carving knife, handle out. “Everything happens for a reason, even hangnails, according to Prudie.”

Carianne’s grin prompted Adela to laugh. “I’ll certainly take that to thought, and I promise to take my woe-be-gone self to task and accept that I’ll never marry.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Carianne, I’m almost twenty-five years old. Not many gentlemen are looking for an old maid. What are we having with the roast beef sandwiches?”

“Pickles and peaches with whipped cream.”

An interesting combination, but cooking wasn’t Carianne’s talent.

“I’ll whip the cream for you.” Adela dove back into the ice box for the cream.

Carianne began slicing the bread. “You aren’t too old, but if you’re determined to get a bookkeeping job, my grandmother’s solicitors have a position, and if she recommends you, which she will if I ask, they will employ you.”