A Promise for Christmas Read online

  “I thank you for the offer. What supplies were you looking for?” For the better part of the next hour, Anson waited on the initial rush of customers until only a single one remained. He glanced to where his cousin leaned a shoulder against the end of the shelf holding animal traps. “How have you been, Renke?”

  “Not so good, cousin.” The shaggy-haired man strode forward. “Gold is a cold mistress.”

  “The exact reason I sold you my half of our claim.” His cousin probably expected sympathy, but Renke’d made the decision to stick with gold mining when Anson saw the placer was fast playing out. Anson wanted to sell their Lake City claim and go into business together. But Renke stayed, insisting the lode was only a few feet deeper. In the last four years, Renke flitted from mining camp to mining camp. He was always convinced the panning paid better in a new location. “You still set up along the Taylor River?” Anson flipped to the back of his ledger where he kept a running list of needed supplies and jotted a couple notes. As he slid the book under the counter, he looked up. No need to give Renke ideas about putting his order on account.

  “Naw.” Renke dragged a dirt-encrusted hand over his wiry brown beard. “Me and my latest partner, Janus, moved up to the Tincup. We’re seeing some promising color.”

  “Good to hear.” If his cousin’s claim was showing a profit, then he wouldn’t pressure for charity. Anson gave in to that family obligation only once. Renke’s promise to repay him had vanished into thin air. He straightened. “What can I get you today? A new mining pan or a new pick?”

  “Two of each.” Nodding, Renke moved to stand in front of the row of candy jars. “Don’t forget tobacco.”

  “Right.” Although he normally didn’t stock food items, Anson discovered that miners had a sweet tooth. Often, he sold out before the next shipment arrived. He gathered the items and set them on the counter. “What about a measure of oats for your animals?” Another item he stocked so miners didn’t have to make a separate stop at the feed and grain store.

  “Nah. They’re mustangs and are used to range grass.”

  Not much grass left this time of year. “Will you bring in your saddlebags for carrying the purchases?”

  “They’re already full. Just use a burlap bag.”

  So, he’d visited the saloon before coming here.

  “Hey, I saw that white-faced donkey at the farm. He’s grown into a good-looking animal.” He lifted down a jar of licorice pinwheels and unscrewed the lid. “When you gonna sell him? My pack mule’s getting old.”

  Renke went inside my barn? Did I remember to lock the house? Anson tightened his grip on two bean cans then eased them to the counter and scooted to where Renke stood. “I’m not selling. Answer’s the same as the two other times you asked.” He grabbed the jar out of his cousin’s grasp. “Hey. I’m the person who serves from the jars. How many?” He lifted a small paper sack from the stack.

  “Half dozen.”

  After shaking out the candy into the sack, he returned the jar to the shelf and added the bag to the gathered items. He compared the items with the mental list, then reached under the counter for the wooden box. “Do you want loose or plug tobacco?” Lifting the lid released a pungent fragrance.

  “Half pound of loose and two plugs.” Thumbs tucked under his suspenders, Renke turned toward the store. “You know, half of all this place could have been mine.” He waved an arm to encompass the room.

  A stench of unwashed body wafted past Anson. “Might have been, but you wanted the claim more.” After setting the requested items on the counter, he took a heady sniff of tobacco before again stowing the box. Anson bent over a pad of paper to tally the purchases. “Total comes to two dollars and fourteen cents.”

  “Including the family discount?”

  An oft-stated inference Anson ignored and shot his cousin a level stare. Because their mothers were sisters didn’t mean Anson was obligated to cut into his profits. Renke had plenty of time to offer any kind of support when Anson was building his barn and house. That effort might have earned him a discount now, but his cousin had been too busy on his claim. “Cash, Renke.”

  “Oh, all right.” Scowling, Renke dug into his trouser pockets for a handful of coins and slapped them onto the counter. “I heard what that rancher said about getting yourself a wife.” He sneered, exposing a missing tooth on the left side. “Why get hitched then have to share what’s rightfully yours?”

  Anson slid Renke’s payment in front of him until he counted eight quarters, a dime, and four pennies. “If you heard what Chad said, then you also heard I didn’t agree.” He scooped the coins into his left hand and dropped them into his trouser pocket. No need to bring out the till where Renke could see where he kept it and what was inside. He’d learned his lesson about trusting Renke with money the first time Renke returned from the assay office. After that trip, Anson insisted on being the one to turn in their gold, and he got a receipt to verify the paid value to his partner.

  A few more minutes of exchanging family news passed before Renke slung the bag over a shoulder then sauntered outside.

  Anson stood in the doorway and watched Renke ride west on a bay whose ribs showed through his hide. Bottles clinked together from inside the closest saddlebag.

  As he turned to reenter the store, Anson caught sight of Missus Hastings, the watchmaker’s wife, as she shook out a dust rag at the end of the block. Her action reminded him he should probably get to that same chore. Having someone else to share the workload in the store might be helpful. Then he spotted a heavy freight wagon rolling up the street. His supplies. The dusting could wait.

  Hours later, he pressed a hand to his lower back and blew out a breath. He smiled at the shelves full of goods. A stocked inventory always gave him a sense of prosperity. As he’d unloaded the supplies, he couldn’t keep his friend’s comments from running through his mind. Today was not the first time Chad suggested a mail-order bride. Every other time, Anson gave a quick refusal, thinking he would find a woman here in Gunnison City who suited his quiet life. But he’d met the few eligible women, through their visits to his store or at church, and found none he fancied. By the time he was ready to give the ladies a second consideration, they were already married. Was he lonely enough to take his chances with a complete stranger?

  Chapter Two

  The following Friday afternoon, a hired cart stopped in front of a two-story brick building on Chicago’s west side. The driver jerked a thumb to the right. “Here’s da place, lady. Corner of Logan and Hickory.”

  Fiona pressed a handkerchief to her nose against a foul odor she couldn’t identify. She doubted she’d ever been this close to the South Chicago River. Nor had she driven through the areas of town rebuilt after The Great Fire of a dozen years ago. A glance around revealed gas lamps only at the street intersections, but none marked individual houses, like in her previous neighborhood.

  The double-wide doors on the building’s lower level were shut against the blustery winds. The business name, Mandeville Furniture Works, spanned the wooden doors in three rows of red-painted, block letters. Tightening her scarf around her neck, she lifted her gaze to the second-floor window marking her friend Lainie Mandeville’s apartment. “Yer correct, sir.”

  “That’ll be fifty-five cents.”

  “As soon as me trunk is on the porch, I’ll be happy to pay ye.” She grabbed the side of the bench seat, shifted her weight to stretch for the iron peg on the frame, and climbed down to the street level. Reaching into the footwell, she grabbed her reticule and a carpetbag and lifted them. She followed him up the half dozen stairs to a porch at the side of the structure and paid the fare. “Thank ye, sir.”

  Pinching the brim of his hat, the driver nodded and departed.

  The door swung open. “Fiona, you’re finally here.”

  At the excited tone, she turned to the young woman balancing a curly-haired toddler on her hip. Tendrils of bright red hair hung along the side of her face. Gratitude for this friend s
he’d met six months earlier stretched her smile. “So good to see ye, Lainie.” Frowning, she waved toward the trunk the driver left standing on end. “Is yer husband available to carry me trunk inside?”

  “Tommy’s still down in the shop, but he’ll be upstairs in a bit. He’s putting the final touches on a chair before he stops for the day.” She waved a beckoning hand. “Come inside.”

  “Again, thank ye so much for taking me in. And Thomas, too, of course.” The steps she took into the warm kitchen that smelled of bread and stew moved her into a different stage of her life. The next two hours were a whirlwind of activity. Thomas came upstairs, the meal was served at the small table, and one-year-old Yves’ complaints about his dislike of the stew mixed with his parents’ cajoling encouragement. For someone who normally read while eating her supper in her room, Fiona didn’t know where to put her attention. Finally, she sat in a rocker in front of the fire and settled her knitting in her lap. The contrast to the quiet evenings that made up her previous life would take some getting used to.

  Lainie sat on the nearby settee and set Yves to her breast. “Fiona, your situation is somewhat like my cousin Vika’s was.”

  Recognizing the need for quiet, Fiona leaned over the chair arm and kept her tone low. “In what way?”

  “Two years ago, her older brother, Birk, was killed when robbers held up the bank where he worked.”

  Fiona dropped her needles to her lap. “How awful.”

  “His death was tragic. Vika maintained a modest household for the two of them in Lincoln, Nebraska, for years. But after Birk’s death, she couldn’t find a job before her savings ran out, so she became a mail-order bride and moved to Colorado.”

  Fiona’s modest income from writing for the greeting card company might support her if she lived on the largesse of friends like the Mandevilles. But the income wasn’t steady, and she didn’t want to rely on this short-duration friendship or feel like a charity case. “I’ve heard about such arrangements.” However, she never thought she’d consider one for herself.

  Lainie brushed a hand over the baby’s temple and turned to her husband who sat reading at her side. “Tommy, where’s that special newspaper I asked you to buy?”

  Tommy shifted a stack of papers on the shelf under the end table. “Here.” He lifted a folded newspaper from the pile. “Mister Leroy at the newsstand lifted a skeptical eyebrow about my purchase.” Grinning, he kissed Lainie’s cheek. “I just raised a hand and swore that I’m still a happily married man.”

  “Yes, you are.” Smiling, Lainie rubbed her cheek against his arm and sighed.

  A lump settled in Fiona’s throat. That type of easy affection was what she desired. After accepting the newspaper, she averted her gaze from their private moment and focused on the masthead. Matrimonial News.

  “In her last letter…” Lainie leaned forward and shifted the baby. “Vika wrote that a man in her town has an ad in this issue. I circled it, but don’t feel pressured.” She lifted a limp Yves to her shoulder and patted his back. “But she vouched for his solid character, which is more assurance than she had when she traveled to meet an unknown prospect, a widower rancher, and his two children.”

  Nodding, Fiona scanned the advertisements from more lonely souls than she could imagine existed. Overwhelmed, she gathered her knitting and stood. “I’ll read this paper in me room. Good night.” At the doorway, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “Thank ye both again for allowing me to stay.”

  Thomas nodded and mouthed, You’re welcome. Then he reached over to move the sleeping baby onto his chest.

  Upstairs in her assigned room, Fiona lit the oil lamp and settled into the chair set in front of the sewing machine. The narrow, iron-framed bed shared a wall with a weaving loom, and a small chest of drawers completed the furnishings. After the way her employment ended, she was glad to have a friend from the hospital auxiliary volunteers committee to reach out to. She read more ads but couldn’t keep her gaze from returning to the circled one.

  “Thirty YO owner of Colorado hardware store seeks helpmate. Security & steadfastness offered. My small house on 5 ac. needs woman’s touch, as do I. Only women 20-30 YO wishing for honored place in town and my life need apply. Number 4721.”

  So much tumult occurred in her life today that she couldn’t face making such an important decision. This room was much less comfortable than the one she’d enjoyed for a decade. No expensive wallpaper or fancy lighting adorned the space. But the slender mattress in the modest frame would serve its purpose. She set aside the newspaper and prepared for much-needed sleep.

  Early the next morning, she sat with a book balanced in her lap topped by a sheet of stationery. Uncertain what to write, she stared at the blank page and traced a finger over the embossed trailing ivy along the bottom edge. Through the window, clouds hung close to the neighborhood’s rooftops of craftsmen and shop owners. Chimneys added smoke to the air already heavy with moisture. Fiona thanked her lucky stars for having a warm place to contemplate what to do. Leaving her sister, Majella, behind would be hard, but the sisters had always known a separation would eventually happen. Majella didn’t want to leave her job as a maid. At twenty-eight years old, she had a right to her choices. A year older, Fiona had guided her sister as best she could after their parents’ deaths.

  What to write? The advertiser’s message sounded so perfunctory. No, that word wasn’t the right one…pragmatic, that was it. Nothing in her expectation of how to find a husband prepared Fiona to read through so many similar notes. How could she determine who might represent her future? Right now, she wished for Ma’s wise counsel on what she should do. Ma always had a way of putting situations into the proper perspective.

  She always imagined she’d meet a man through one of the Huntingdons’ many social events. Often, she had been encouraged to attend if the numbers needed to be balanced for the meal or card games. A proper introduction would be logical and easily handled because her impeccable character was well known to her employers. The man would come courting on Sundays for a while, then he would invite her to soirées and events that furthered his career.

  Outside, on a bare tree limb, a bird squawked and huddled, its head tucked tight to its body.

  The poor thing looked chilled and miserable. Fiona leaned close and rested a hand against the cold window. “Where’s yer flock, wee one? Fly and find yer friends.” Her words meant to offer comfort struck something inside herself. With her secure life gone, she needed to find her own place in the world. Her association with the generous couple who housed her could not go on for long. After dipping the pen’s nib into the inkwell, she wrote:

  “To Number 4721 (how strange not to write to yer ad number and not yer name): My decade-long post as a governess to four children recently ended, and I am looking for the next adventure in me life. I possess the skills needed to run a household and have a desire for a home that I can call me own. Yer promise of security warms the cockles of me heart. Me age falls within yer constraints, I enjoy reading and knitting, and I can only hope yer acres contain animals on which I might dote. Please share more information about yerself. Respectfully, Miss Fiona Carthage, c/o Mandeville Furniture Works, 255 Logan St, Chicago, Illinois.”

  A week later, she sat in the bedroom chair and unfolded a single piece of paper.

  “Dear Miss Carthage, Gunnison City has approximately 4,000 residents, and my hardware store is the most successful one in town. I also raise donkeys and mules to sell to miners, but they are not “doted upon” like pets. Neither are the chickens or the cow that supply food. All animals have a purpose to aid my life here. The house is on the outskirts of town but not farther than a healthy ten-minute walk to my store. I find nothing objectionable to anything you shared and hope you consider us to be a good match. Anson Lorentz”

  She stared at the short paragraph on the lined paper, scanning the squarish handwriting for a smidgen of personal detail she might cleave to her bosom. Was she a good match to someone wh
o sounded so…dispassionate? For years and only in the privacy of her bedroom, she’d given rein to her romantic soul by writing little poems and sayings. Many she developed into messages and sold them to the greeting card company. Anyone who knew her while she lived with the Huntingdons thought of her as a restrained, modest spinster. But Fiona knew she possessed so much love and laughter to share with the right man.

  The question remained, Was Anson the right one? Fiona stood and paced the tiny aisle between furnishings. He was the only one. After two Sundays of attending church services with Lainie and Thomas, she’d not encountered a single man who paid her special attention. Lainie was surprised as she was over the lack of bachelors asking Thomas for an introduction.

  An atlas revealed the distance to Anson’s home was more than a thousand miles. Bad memories surfaced of the arduous ship passage across the Atlantic Ocean and the hopscotch path from New York to Chicago. The family had to stop three times to get jobs and earn the train fare to take them farther west. What would happen if she traveled all the way to Colorado and disliked him on sight? Should she ask that he provide her with a photograph? Although, a man who wrote like he did might not wish to spare the time. He would have the right to ask the same of her, but did she want to chance the expense?

  She leaned close to a small mirror hanging by a ribbon from a nail in the wall. What would he think of her appearance? She lifted a hand to the auburn waves that tumbled over her shoulders. Around the house now, she left her hair free of pins and combs—a rebellion to the years of restrained hairdos that often caused headaches. Angling her head, she examined her rosy cheeks and the fine lines around her eyes. What if he didn’t like her looks?

  In her time away from the Huntingdons, she’d done what she could to enliven her plain, dark governess attire with the addition of crocheted collars and cuffs. What she wished for was the money to purchase fabric in a vivid tint—maybe a sapphire or emerald—to highlight her coloring. Once, early in her time as governess, she dared to purchase a bright yellow petticoat. Wearing it made her feel young and reckless. But the first time Missus Huntingdon saw it on the clothesline, she confiscated it, saying such frivolity was not appropriate for the person who guided her children.