Mail-Order Marriage Promise. Regina Scott
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“Well,” she said, “I suppose that’s good.”
She didn’t sound convinced.
“It’s no Cincinnati,” John acknowledged. “But you must have known that much when you agreed to come.”
“Beth’s letters were quite detailed, but I suppose it wouldn’t have taken much for me to want to be elsewhere. I didn’t like living in Cincinnati. I’m sure Wallin Landing will be fine.”
He’d always thought so. “My brothers have done their best by the place. Ma and Pa brought us out before the Indian War here in ’55. They each filed a claim, then each of us siblings, except my brother Levi, who went north, filed a claim when we reached our majority. Pa always wanted his own town.”
John had grown up with the dream, but saying it aloud to Dottie felt odd. After living in a big city like Cincinnati, she could only see their goal of building a community as provincial. Why, Wallin Landing was small compared to Seattle!
She busied herself with her son, tucking the blanket around him, pulling a corner over his head and murmuring assurances. Not for the first time, he felt a stab of loss. Ma had been gone just two years, having met and loved each of her grandchildren, and he still missed her. He thought she’d like Mrs. Tyrrell. Ma had appreciated women who stood up for themselves.
The skies above the firs were heavy with rain, and John could hear it pattering down above them. Under the trees, however, it was drier. The cool air that brushed his cheeks carried the scent of Puget Sound. It might have been a pleasant ride, but he was all too concerned about the lady beside him. She’d come this far and the end of her journey wasn’t in sight. Surely he could find some way to reassure her.
“It’s nearly time to plant,” he remarked. “We’ll have corn and beans aplenty, and each claim has its own garden and orchard for fruit. Our neighbors are good about trading whatever’s extra. You’ll see the farms soon.”
“How many people, all told?” she asked, sitting taller, as if she longed to spot any sign of civilization.
John frowned, considering. “With our claims and the neighbors to the north and south, perhaps sixty people.”
“Sixty.”
She said the word breathlessly, but he was fairly sure the number was far too small for her. He was just glad when they came out of the forest onto farmland, the fields dark as farmers turned the soil for new planting. He spotted neighbors out working as they passed. All raised a hand in greeting, and John waved back. Mrs. Tyrrell regarded him, brows tight over her nose, and he couldn’t tell what was troubling her.
Peter had no such concerns. He closed his eyes and drowsed in her arms.
There had to be something that would please her. Through the trees ahead, he spotted a steeple rising. He pointed toward it. “That’s our church.”
“Beth said you designed it,” Dottie replied, angling her head as if to try to glimpse more of the structure.
He couldn’t quite prevent the pride from leaking into his voice. “I did. But Drew and his men felled the timber, James paid for it to be cut into board at Yesler’s mill and my brothers and I all worked together to construct the building. It still needs paint, inside and out, and there are benches, steps and a pulpit to install.”
“By summer, then,” she said with a nod.
He grimaced. “Realistically, with planting coming, it might be a while before we finish. I’m hoping we’ll start holding services there around harvest time, provided we can find a preacher willing to relocate out this way.”
He spied an opening in the trees and turned the horses west, up the track that led to his house. The forest was thinner here. Drew and his crew had taken out most of the big firs years ago, but John had left a few vine maples and madrone to shield the house from the main road. His home and barn sat on a bench, with fields running down to the road and spreading out on either side, the forest rising at the back. The arrangement had proved both practical and pleasing.
Yet the closer they came, the more he tensed. Why? It was a good, solid house with a sturdy barn, just as he’d told her. He had no reason to feel as if its worth was tied to her approval.
He pulled the wagon up before the wide front porch he’d insisted on having when Simon had sketched out plans for the place.
“I want to be able to sit under the eaves and watch the sun come up,” he’d told his brother.
Simon had frowned at him. “You get up before sunrise and head for work. When do you have time to sit?”
A literal man, his brother. But John had been firm. It was his house. He could do what he liked with it. Especially as it appeared he would never be sharing it with a wife.
“Here we are,” he announced, setting the brake. He jumped down, tied the horses to the porch rail to make sure they didn’t head for the barn and came around to help Dottie.
Her gaze was on the house. Did she wonder why a bachelor needed a second story or three chairs along the porch? Did she approve of the glass windows brought up from San Francisco? Or the blue paint he’d used to show off the door against the white of the house? Why did he care?
“It’s lovely,” she said, and he thought he might stand as tall as Drew for once.
He offered to help her down, but she merely handed him Peter. Now that the wagon had stopped moving, the baby cracked open his eyes. They widened as if Peter was surprised to see John holding him instead of his mother. John readied himself for the wail of protest. Instead, Peter’s face brightened in a grin.
He kept the baby in his arms as he led Dottie into the house.
“Parlor’s to the right,” he explained, nodding through the open door. “Main bedroom’s to the left. Kitchen runs across the back. Stairs lead up to a sleeping loft. Right now it’s full of furs curing from the winter.”
She wandered into the parlor, touched the bench Drew had carved for him, exclaimed over the woven rug his mother had made. John followed her, rocking Peter in his arms. The baby gazed about him, as if everything he saw was wonderful.
Not everyone was so entranced. A hiss told John he was in trouble. Glancing about, he sighted the ginger bullet on the windowsill a moment before it launched itself at him. John stepped back from the malevolent green glare.
“Oh,” Dottie exclaimed, “you have a cat.”
John managed a smile. “Mrs. Tyrrell, may I present Brian de Bois-Guilbert. He patrols for vermin.”
That sounded a lot more manly than the cat’s typical role—stalking John around the house with demands for attention.
Dottie’s face brightened. “Brian de Bois-Guilbert, like in Ivanhoe?”
At the moment, the cat did indeed resemble the villain of the tale. His tail twitched as his eyes narrowed on Peter.
“No,” John told him. “Down, boy.”
Dottie looked at him in obvious amazement. “Does he obey you like a dog?”
He shrugged. “I thought it was worth a try.”
She shook her head, then crouched on the rug and held out a hand to the cat. Brian refused to so much as glance in her direction. He busied himself licking his white mitten paws.
“Where did you get a cat out here?” she asked. “I’d think they’d get eaten by foxes.”
“I found him in my barn,” John told her, edging back from the cat in case Brian did have designs on Peter. “Pitiful thing, more bones than muscle. Some of our neighbors had cats, so Beth and I thought he might have escaped from a litter nearby. She named him after the knight in Ivanhoe, the one who couldn’t decide whether he was a hero or a villain. I think she was hoping to keep him, but he seems to have attached himself to me.”
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