Montana (Modern Mail Order Bride Book 2) (3 page)

He spent several months seeing a professor from Missoula, but the ranch was too remote for her without internet reception. A sweet contract with a cellular provider who placed a tower on the ranch did little to draw any women out to the remote location. It did, however, pay off the third mortgage. The women who wanted to be that far out he didn’t want to be locked up with while the ones he wanted to be locked up with didn’t want to live that far out, even with a cell tower.

Two years later, the loneliness of the ranch was starting to chip away at him until his ranch foreman Pap Madison pulled him to the side. “Boy, I tell you d’ truth, you ain’t gonna find the type of girl you want anywhere’s round here.  You gonna have to go old school!”

“Old school, Pap?”

“Yessiree, Doodle!  You gonna have to go mail order.  Old Grouchy Palmer over at the Lazy S sent off for one and got hisself a looker from one of them Chezy-Slovakian countries,” he said as he slapped his knee.

An eyebrow arched in amusement, Billy Joe asked the foreman, “And you think that is what I need, Pap?”

“I garunbetcha it will work out perfectly.  You will get one of them lonely heart types that like to sit by the fire, stare at the embers, and discuss who was prideful and who had prejudices,” Pap said with a bob of his head. His mouth was twisted to the side for added accentuation.

Billy Joe didn’t know what the head bob meant, but he had Pap to contact Grouchy, who in turn put him in contact with Ms. Coraline of New York City, who ran the matchmaking outfit. It was simple.  He paid the fee of a few thousand dollars, there was a money back guarantee, and they would work for him for up to two years.  The only thing he needed to do was write his ad and send a picture.

Easier said than done.  For a man who spent much of his life in letters and books, he had no way of writing down what he really wanted.  He tried twice allowing Pap to read both attempts.

“Naw, naw, naw.  Get to the heart of the matter Sonny, you have to
disembowelate
what you want in a wife, and snag one when she ain’t a looking at whatcha left hand is writing and the right hand is fixin’. Let me show you,” Pap told him. 

Billy Joe was frowning at him. “Pap, you do know that
disembowelate
is not a word?” It didn’t seem to matter any to the old man, who had a real talent for making up compound words. Some were too clever for his own good and others were too intentional to ignore while other word combinations were just plain ole funny.

Pap ignored the young man and set about his task. Stiff arthritic fingers massaged the gray beard, as cloudy eyes looked to heavens for the trickling down of words into his muddled brain. He licked the end of the pencil—God only knew why—stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, and commenced to writing.

Billy Joe read the passage.  It was good, but he had a question, “Why a child in the first year?”

“Commitment, Sonny!  If she is carrying your babe, she is not gonna be that likely to want to run back to her old life.  That child will be an heir to this land.  No woman in her right mind is gonna run away from 75 acres,” Pap told him with the familiar punctuating head nod.

It worked like a charm. In less than a month he had more letters than he could sort out.  Each evening, he donned his glasses and sat in front of the fire to read the love letters sent to him. A few had promise, but several took him back to his campus life of grading a freshman essay.

I have to be patient.

It took nearly 18 months, but one evening he received a letter in a pink envelope from one Pecola Peters of Brooklyn New York.  The first line of the letter piqued his interest: “In your eyes, I see a longing...”

Her prose was clear, the lexicons were sound, and the references were of legend as she spoke of classical literature, wrote in humorous allusions, and tied it off with the perfect last line: “
Come to my arms, my beamish boy, and chortle in this joy
.”

By the last line of the letter, he wanted to marry her.  His response letter back stated as much. He wooed her with his words.  His vast knowledge of literature and her letters back to him over the six-month period often sent him to the library to research her anecdotes, quips, and passages.  He felt alive.  Moreover, he’d found his equal. At the twelve month mark, Pecola was on a plane, heading to Montana to be his wife.

Now that he had her here, what was he going to do to get her to stay?

M
arch 2014, Brooklyn, New York

Today was Tuesday. Tuesday was Pecola’s favorite day of the week. Mondays were too hectic and filled with miserable people who didn’t want to face the work week. By the time Tuesday morning rolled in, people were more pleasant and easier to deal with.  In her writing world, Tuesday was a fun day.  On her social media pages, she got to post teasers of her new books, share tidbits of info about the Old West, and get out of her apartment.

It wasn’t a bad apartment for New York.  She lived in a rent controlled building that was managed by a nice man with bushy eyebrows, broken yellow teeth, and hair that seemed to be electrified. It stuck up in every direction like someone had either scared the shit out of him or he’d stuck his finger in a wall socket. Tuesday was also new novel release day and today her latest novel,
The Bride of Buck Buchanan,
was coming out today. This book was the second in her alphabet series of lonely ranchers who sent back east for a bride.

What Pecola loved more than anything about Tuesday was lattes and Linzer cookies.  Kelly’s Koffee on the corner was her favorite place to go and kill a couple of hours. It was the perfect place to lose herself in characterization as she studied and listened to accents, eavesdropped on conversations, and picked up subtle tells in people’s body language. This Tuesday’s trip was going to change her life.

“I know she is writing this stuff based on what she thinks, but it is obvious most of her research is done online,” the one woman said.

The second woman, who had the largest breasts Pecola had ever seen on anything human, spoke up as well.  “I downloaded my copy when it went on sale at midnight, and I can tell you, Montana Hart knows nothing about men,” she told her friend.

“Morning, Pecola,” Kelly called out from behind the counter. “Grab a seat, I will get started on your latte and I have fresh Linzers coming out the oven,” she told her.

“Thanks,” she said as she took her usual seat by the window.  She opened her tablet as she began to listen to the women discuss her and her latest book.

The first one, Pecola learned after listening for her name, was Paige.  Pecola liked her the least. Especially after her next snarky comment.  “I got halfway through Chapter Three and requested a full refund.  The reason the woman wanted to marry Buck didn’t make any sense,” she said flatly.

The busty one was Rosetta and she had a mouthful to say as well, “Don’t even get me started on him. His character was so flat.  I dunno, maybe she has written too many of them and is burning out.”

“That book reads to me...” Rosetta laughed at her own play on words. “...Like somebody hasn’t had any in a while and doesn’t have a clue how to live with a man.”

That did it for her.  She shouldn’t have been listening; they weren’t talking to her. 
I have to say something
.

“You guys talking about the latest Montana Hart book?”

“Yeah, have you read it?”

“I just bought a copy today,” she lied. “I take it you guys don’t like it.”

They were both looking at her full on now and there was no doubting they were two of the most unattractive women she had ever seen in her life.  Scratch that, those ladies were sticking the “y” up the butt crack of ugly
. I bet they are single
.

“Normally, I love her work, but this one is too formulaic. It’s like she cut and pasted from her other stories and just changed the main character’s name.  I mean seriously, the farm house that Buck owns is described the same exact way the ranch house in
Tuesday Morning in Boise
,” Paige said, sticking out her thick, fat tongue.

“That sex scene is lame, even for a mail order bride western,” Rosetta chimed in. “I bet her sex life is dull as that scene!”

“If she has a sex life.  The way she wrote this story and that last one, someone is dry docked in the shipyard if you ask me,” Rosetta chuckled.

No one asked you, you no-necked heifer.
Pecola smiled. “Do you guys know Montana?”

“Naw, I have just bought every one of her books from the beginning.  I feel like I know her,” Paige commented.

“Hell, as many of her books as I have bought, seems like she should at least show-up and buy a bitch a cup of this expensive ass coffee,” Rosetta cackled.

This is the part that got fuzzy for Pecola. She asked what the women thought the author should do. The conversation buzzed back and forth as she joined the ladies at the table. Both shared pictures of their families with decent looking husbands and moderately attractive children.

“It’s not as if there isn’t still a mail order bride service available. I mean you have online services where you do it yourself, but there are agencies that the men pay to find them a good woman,” Rosetta said.

“Really?”

“For real honey.  The best in the business is Coraline Newair over at Perfect Match in Midtown.  The men pay her, and she matches a lot of people up,” Paige added.

“Is that what you two did to get your husbands?” Pecola asked before she realized what she was saying.

Both women took offense. “I got my husband the old fashioned way, in church,” Paige boasted.

“I got mine the old fashioned way, as well.  I stole him from my former best friend.  I put some of this good-good on him and that joker followed me home ten years ago and never left,” Rosetta said with a cock of her head.

“Perfect Match, Coraline Newair,” she repeated as she jotted down the name.

Paige touched her hand, “I suggest that you send Montana Hart a note and tell her to check it out.  It will change her life.”

Rosetta touched her other hand, “I am certain if she makes a move, she won’t regret it.”  She then looked at Paige, “Girl, we have to get moving if we are going to make that matinee.”

They both gave Pecola a smile that big sisters would share with a little sister and gathered their belongings and left. Funny, as many times as she came into Kelly’s she had never seen them.  When she thought back on it later, even after she made her way over to Perfect Match and the subsequent Tuesdays that followed, she never saw them again. It was by chance that they walked into the shop and by chance, it was on a Tuesday since this was the one day she actually wore real clothes and makeup. Other days she lounged about the house in sweats, fuzzy socks, and a teacup full of unshared dreams.

The black slacks were her favorites, along with the crimson twin set and a gold necklace. She looked cute.  She looked cute enough to go to a professional dating agency and become a client. Today was the day her life was going to change. It was also the perfect day to get on the subway, head over to midtown, and walk up the Avenue of the Americas to the front door of Perfect Match.  She made it just in time to physically bump into Coraline Newair, who was about to shut down the shop for lunch.

“Can I help you?” the petite proprietor asked.

“Yes, change my life,” Pecola told her.

“Never on an empty stomach; come, I’ll take you to lunch,” she said. It was the look in Pecola’s eyes that made a mark with Coraline. Intelligence  buzzed behind those eyes.  The simple clothing of good quality and the sincerity on her face all worked for Pecola.

They walked down the sidewalk to a small eatery where it appeared that Coraline had her own table. It was at this table in a corner of the small bistro in MidTown New York that Pecola Peters told a random stranger everything there was to know about her, including her pen name.  In carefully chosen words, she explained to Coraline why those ugly women were right and how she needed to live so that her words could grow.

Over salads lightly dressed in a special vinaigrette, Coraline listened to the woman and didn’t bother to take any notes.  The moment Pecola said she was a writer, Coraline knew the perfect match for the cute black woman.

“Actually, I have the perfect man in mind for you.  Do you have an issue with race?” she asked Pecola.

“Not in particular...I mean, I don’t want to move to Russia or anything,” she told her. “I don’t want some freakishly tall Zulu warrior either!”

Coraline was a very pretty brunette with sparkling green eyes.  Her left hand sported a ring that would get her mugged in Brooklyn, but here in her world, she was safe. “His name is William Joseph Johnson; he is a Montana rancher and has a very specific request, which makes it hard to match him up,” she said.

“Does he have like fetishes or something?”

The veneers on Coraline’s teeth shone like a pirate’s gold tooth when she smiled at Pecola. “No, he’s a literature buff and very well read. He’s a former assistant professor of English, an aspiring writer, and lives in the middle of nowhere.  The request is that the woman has to be willing to give him a child in the first 12 months of marriage,” Coraline said.

Pecola didn’t get it.  Most women wanted to be married to a man who desired kids right away versus being married five years. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch; most women want the option that if the marriage doesn’t work they can leave.  The child is a guarantee that the marriage will have to work because
that man
will never give up his child,” she said as she cut into the endive salad.

It was something to think about, but once Pecola read the ad and saw his picture, she was drawn to his eyes.  Soft gray eyes and a head full of thick black hair which called to her to run her fingers through it.  “He looks alright to me.  Have you met him or talked to him in person?”