Wild At Heart

Chicago, 1893

“Of all the nerve!” Mariah Lansing crumpled the letter in her fist.

Her grandmother scrunched her white brows together as she glanced up from the new Montgomery Ward catalog resting in her lap. “What is it, dear?”

“A letter from a reader.” Mariah crossed the parlor and dropped onto the couch beside her grandmother. “A rancher—Mr. McFarland—from North Dakota. He says I don’t have my ranching facts correct.”

“I would imagine the man knows what he’s talking about.” Grandma crossed her wrinkled hands over the catalog. “You knew when you decided to write dime novels that you would have an uphill climb in a man’s world. It doesn’t help that you’ve been raised in Chicago all your life. Perhaps it is time for you to take a trip out west.”

Mariah shrugged. If only she could travel out west. But her grandma was too old to make such a journey, and Mariah wasn’t about to leave her alone. “I’ll just have to do more thorough research.”

Grandma peered at her over the top of her round spectacles. “Did the man state anything specific that you got wrong?”

Smoothing out the letter, Mariah scanned the rest of the missive then gasped. “He’s invited me to visit his ranch in the Badlands.”

“What an opportunity. Perhaps you should consider it.”

Mariah’s gaze traveled around the parlor they had recently redecorated in pastels. Her grandmother loved to read, and Mariah had wanted to make her a cozy room for entertaining her closest friends and for relaxing. The soft blue wallpaper, hand painted with a myriad of butter- and peach- and rose-colored flowers with sea green leaves brightened up the walls that had once been a faded gold shade. Could she really leave home again and leave the only family she had left, even for a short adventure?

Such a journey would enhance her ability to write about the West and make her stories more authentic. But no, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave her grandmother. She owed her too much to go running off the first chance she got.

Grandma chuckled as she held Mariah’s letter up so that the light from the nearby window illuminated it. “I fear, dear, you may have met your match with this gentleman. He says that men are the true heroes in the West, not women, and if you want men to keep reading your novels, you need to change your way of thinking.”

A very unladylike snort erupted before Mariah could contain it. “That’s just one man’s opinion. I see nothing wrong with a woman being the hero of a story.”

Grandma gave her a patronizing look. “Surely you realize that more men than women read those paperbacks. Perhaps you should take Mr. McFarland’s advice and let a man save the day sometimes. Men do have delicate egos, you know, especially cowboys and ranchers who live such a rough life. I imagine they see themselves as the ones who do all the rescuing.”

Mariah would consider her grandmother’s advice, but not some faceless stranger’s. It had been a woman—her grandmother—who’d come to her rescue when her parents died.
Her
hero was a woman, so why not in her stories?

“I think you should at least pray about this man’s invitation. He says here that he lives on a ranch of over four thousand acres with his mother and two siblings.” Grandma peered over the top of her spectacles at Mariah. “I would never suggest your going if not for his mother being there, too. Of course, you’d need to see if she’s willing to serve as a chaperone.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Pishposh. I’m perfectly fine. I was alone while you were away at college.”

“That’s different.” She couldn’t explain her nagging need to stay close to home. Was it a premonition of something to come? Grandma hadn’t been sick, but she had seemed frailer of late.

Mariah shrugged off her concern. Her grandma was of sturdy Dutch stock and would probably outlive her. “What with the World’s Columbian Exposition just opening here, I’d probably be the only person leaving Chicago.”

A soft smile touched her grandmother’s lips. “That may be true. I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to visiting it this weekend.”

“I’m excited to see all those grand buildings and exhibits.” Mariah picked up a pamphlet about the huge Exposition from the coffee table in front of her and studied the photographs. They had been making plans to attend for two weeks. Just another reason she couldn’t head west now.

“I know we’ll enjoy sampling concessions instead of having to take our own food along. I may even try some of that Oriental food, if I get my nerve up.”

Mariah giggled. “I can just see you trying to eat noodles with those chopsticks the Chinese use.”

“I would make a fine mess, I’m sure.” Grandmother shook her head. “I still can’t believe the authorities are allowing concessions to be sold on Sunday. Whoever heard of such a sacrilege?”

Mariah stood and crossed the room to look out the window. From her bedroom upstairs, she could see the top of a steeple on one of the Exposition’s taller buildings. “Times are changing.”

“Don’t I know. Who would have thought a woman would be writing dime novels?”

Though Grandma shook her head, Mariah knew she was proud of her.

“I think you should reconsider and pray about this gentleman’s offer. Perhaps God has provided this opportunity for you.”

“You can’t be serious about sending me off to the Wild West alone?”

Grandma shrugged one thin shoulder. “We could most likely find an escort for you to travel with. I think you should write the man, get more information, and ask if his mother would be willing to act as chaperone.”

Mariah gasped. “I can’t ask that of a total stranger. Besides, even if I wanted to go, Silas would never allow it.”

Grandma smacked the catalog on the coffee table, sending a soft whiff of her floral perfume Mariah’s way. She slanted a glance at her grandmother, noticing her pursed lips.

“This isn’t the Dark Ages. We’re almost in the twentieth century.” She lifted her chin, her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean that Silas won’t allow you to go? You are not married to that man yet.”

Mariah didn’t want to argue with her grandmother again about Silas. “I don’t mean he wouldn’t allow me to go, just that he wouldn’t want me to. You know how he doesn’t like to let me out of his sight.”

“That’s because he’s a controlling—” Grandma slammed her mouth shut.

Heleen Vanderveer was sweet but opinionated. Though Mariah’s grandma had lost her Dutch accent after being in America most of her life, she was still a stubborn Dutchwoman at times. They had knocked heads more than once over the eleven years that Mariah had lived with her. She just didn’t understand Silas.

Sighing, Grandma laid her hand on Mariah’s arm. “I don’t want you to marry him because you think that will advance your writing career. He may have a prestigious position at Goodwell Publications, but you’re very talented, dear. Chances are you won’t write dime novels for the rest of your life, but you
will
be stuck with the man you wed. It’s important that you marry a kind, God-fearing man you dearly love.”

“I know. I do have feelings for Silas, as he does for me.” She just wasn’t sure exactly what they were, even though she had decided to marry him. His constant querying had worn her down, and when he promised to allow her grandmother to live with them, she finally agreed to marry. That he was concerned for Heleen endeared him to her, even if he was overly bossy at times.

She glanced at the mantel clock. “You need to take your nap, Grandma, and I must prepare for the Chicago Writers Banquet tonight. Silas will pick me up in a few hours.”

Grandma rose without further comment, picked up her cane, and shuffled into the hallway. Her disapproval of Silas was evident in the upturned tilt of her chin. Mariah’s shoulders sagged.

She’d tried all her life to please Heleen and hated disappointing her. Silas seemed to be about the only bone of contention between them. Her grandmother, after an initial hesitation, had even supported and encouraged her in her writing career, although she had suggested Mariah use a pseudonym, which she’d agreed to. Most readers thought Drew Dixon was a male and started their fan letters with a “Dear sir,” something that always tickled Mariah’s funny bone. If she fooled so many men into thinking she was one of their cohorts, she couldn’t be that far off the mark with her details.

She folded up Mr. McFarland’s letter. Even though she disagreed with him, she longed to accept his offer and travel to his ranch. She’d never realized before that there were ranches in North Dakota. She had read in the paper about the many foreigners from Scandinavia and Russia who traveled there in hopes of owning farmland, but nothing about ranching. Visiting Mr. McFarland’s Rocking M Ranch would help her to add realism to her stories, not to mention it would be an exciting journey.

She walked upstairs toward her bedroom, wondering what the Badlands looked like. She’d never set a story there before nor had ever even read one set in North Dakota. The spark of an idea flickered in her mind.
Belle of the Badlands.

What if a Southern belle got lost in the Badlands and found a treasure from a Northern Pacific train robbery? Her mind swirled with ideas, and she hurried down the dim hallway to her room to grab pen and paper.

“Your Silas is looking well tonight.” Amelia Winfield followed Silas’s tall, lithe form as he wove through the crowded room to talk to the
Chicago Times
editor.

Mariah wasn’t quite sure how to respond to Amelia’s blatant admiration of her fiancé. She cleared her throat. “Yes, he’s quite well.”

“Gray is a good color for him. It matches his eyes.”

Mariah swung her gaze toward Amelia. There was no mistaking her infatuation with Silas Wellington. Mariah’s fiancé stood taller than many men in the room, but he was thin as a lamppost. And his nose was a bit too pointed for Mariah’s taste, reminding her of a fox. She hoped their children would get her nose. Suddenly, a cold shiver zigzagged down her back at the thought of being intimate with Silas. Why hadn’t she ever considered that before?

“Well, I must be off to chat with Margaret Sprague. I simply must get her to introduce me to that handsome cousin of hers. He’s a captain in the army, you know.”

Mariah watched her sashay off, relieved to be rid of the talkative woman. She studied the room filled with high-society people and newspapermen. The giant ballroom buzzed with conversation, and the mouthwatering scents of a smorgasbord of food battled that of women’s perfume and men’s cologne. She noticed her editor, Marc Taylor, across the room and made her way toward him. He was talking with a large man she didn’t recognize, but then she was fairly new to writing and didn’t know all the names and faces yet.