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Mail-Order Misfire

By Davalynn Spencer

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PROLOGUE
Lockton, Colorado - 1879

Gracie slid a thin sheet of paper from the top drawer of her papa’s desk and held her breath, listening for his steps on the porch. It would take him only a little while to finish chores, but she had already memorized what she wanted to say.
Perching on the edge of his desk chair, she unstopped the ink well, and dipped his pen, taking pains not to drip on the leather-cornered blotter. Carefully she penned her plea.
What did the hymn say? The one they’d sung yesterday at church—“Blest be the tie that binds … each other’s burdens bear.” That was it.
Since Mama died, Papa didn’t have anyone to help bear his burden other than Gracie herself, and if she understood the words to the song as she believed she did, then God wanted her papa to have a helper.
She signed his name and addressed an envelope to the pastor in Independence who had married her parents. Then she ran to her room and hid the letter beneath her pillow. When Papa went to work tomorrow and she went to school, she’d stop by the mercantile and slip the letter into the storekeeper’s mail pouch.
Peeking through her lacy curtains, she let loose a whisper. “Oh Lord, I pray this ain’t lying I’m about to do, but my papa needs a tie that binds his heart up. It’s been hurting for such a long time.”
She smoothed her pillow and quilt, then took all her nine years of knowledge to the kitchen and made biscuits for supper, confident that the Lord heard her prayer. She’d been taught to believe such things since before she could remember. Why, just yesterday the preacher’s words had stirred through her heart, telling her to have faith, to trust God. And she believed those words.
Especially since the preacher was her papa.
 
CHAPTER 1
Independence, Missouri – 1880

Etta Collier flinched at the first shovelful of dirt to hit William’s coffin. It scratched against the rough pine as it did her soul, dry and devoid of hope.
A wintry gust whipped the hilltop cemetery and snatched at the woolen cloak she clutched so tightly her fingers ached. Hunching her shoulders, she attempted to cover her exposed ears. The black lace scarf that held her hat to her head was no barrier to the cutting cold.
A smooth voice muttered behind her—Clark Penneholder, the banker so appropriately named. She felt his lecherous eyes on her, his intentions unhindered by her mourning dress. The man had been closing in on her for days, just as he’d closed in on William’s note, one slithering step at a time. God help her, she’d run if she could. Turn her back on this town, let the bank foreclose on the house, and go … where?
Poor William had not been wise in money matters, and in his efforts to wipe out his debts, he had foolishly lost what little they had at the gambling tables. The note on their modest home not far from his blacksmith shop grew heavier and heavier until a bar-brawler’s bullet dropped William like a hammer on his anvil.
Then the note fell squarely on Etta’s shoulders.
She flinched again as dirt flew against the coffin, filling the hole in the ground but not the hole in her heart.
“Mrs. Collier.”
Her hackles rose at the sound of her name on Penneholder’s lips.
Uninvited, he moved in close beside her—too close—watching William’s grave grow shallower. “If I may, during your time of such great need, please allow me to be of service.”
The reek of old cigar smoke pinched her nose, and she made no effort to mask her disgust. The man held her future in his tight grip and she resented it. Revulsion weighted her words. “That will not be necessary.”
He tugged at his flapping sack coat, unable to button it over his indulgences. “We shall see. Another more feasible time, perhaps.”
We shall do nothing of the sort.
He nodded once and lifted his bowler as he left, holding it tightly against the wind.
She gripped her embroidered hankie like William had gripped his forging tongs. Her skills as a seamstress would have to suffice for the time being. And perhaps she could take in a border for the upstairs room, one with sterling recommendations, preferably another woman alone. A widow like herself.
The word felt misplaced. Not yet thirty, she was too young to be widowed. Mentally, she assessed the few unmarried men of appropriate age in town, feeling almost adulterous at such thoughts. Was there no one who could take William’s place?
Clark Penneholder’s face rose like an apparition and she shuddered. She’d go to the poor house before she’d let him one step further into her life.
Biting back tears, she ducked her head against the dirt blown from each shovelful, waiting until it mounded above William and everyone had gone. Then she knelt at the edge of the grave, one gloved hand upon it, and bid William farewell. In spite of his carelessness, he had loved her in his own way. He had tried to provide for her.
At last, tears overtook her will, drying as quickly as they fell, robbed by the blustery wind of the chance to warm her cold cheeks. She and William had talked of children, but none came. They’d talked of better days, but none came. They’d talked of getting out from under Penneholder’s thumb, but the banker remained and William had gone on without her.
Her fingers dug into the loose soil, searching for a stronghold. “Lord, give me direction. Show me what to do, where to go, for I loathe staying here to be stalked like prey.”
She squeezed her eyes shut against winter’s harsh breath, pushing more tears through her lashes and into oblivion.
~
Three months later, a bright spring day poured through the parlor window onto Etta’s tiny stitches that bound the bodice of Lessie May McClintock’s wedding dress. At the prick of her needle, Etta jerked her hand, and a red bead formed on her finger. Heaven forbid she stain the pale blue satin. How careless to let her mind wander while she worked on her last order. If Lessie May was pleased with her work, perhaps others would seek out Etta’s talents and she could scrape together enough for the next month’s note payment.
A knock at the door brought her upright and tense, a common condition since William’s funeral. If she didn’t find calm in her circumstances, she would be taking the same tiny stitches in her mourning dress, for already the black bombazine hung more loosely on her frame than before.
Carefully laying the wedding dress over her chair, she sucked the last bit of blood from her finger and smoothed her skirt. Who would call so soon after breakfast?
The back of Pastor Fillmore’s balding head appeared through the door glass as he stood facing the street in front of her house. At Etta’s turn of the doorknob, he turned as well.
“Good morning, Mrs. Collier. I do hope I’m not disturbing you too early on this fine day.”
She stepped back, opening the door wider for the cheerful man who, she had heard, enjoyed his share and more of cakes and pastries. She had neither.
“Not at all, Pastor. Please, come in. Would you like a cup of tea? Perhaps coffee?”
In the parlor, he took the chair diagonal to hers at the small occasional table in the corner.
“Coffee, if you’ve already a pot. But no trouble, please.”
When she returned with tea for herself and coffee for her guest, he was studying the blue gown.
“Lessie May’s wedding dress,” she said.
“Indeed.” He accepted the cup she offered and glanced at the saucer as if looking for a cookie. “You do fine work.” He checked again. “And I have that on good authority from my wife, I might add.”
Etta nodded her thanks and sat down, curiosity chewing through her middle over why the pastor was calling. No doubt it had nothing to do with Mrs. Fillmore’s modest wardrobe or Lessie May’s pending nuptials.
After a sip, he set his cup and saucer on the table and drew a letter from inside his frock coat. “Please forgive my forwardness in light of William’s recent home-going, but this enquiry came to me early last fall, and ever since William’s service, you have come to mind each time I’ve run across it in my desk.”
He held out the folded paper.
Etta stared at it as if it were a snake coiled to strike. Another debt of William’s?
He inched it closer. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to read it while I wait so we can discuss it.”
More money lenders or creditors? She could not bear another burden, regardless how small or insignificant. Mindful of the slight tremor in her hand, she took the letter and quickly pressed it against her lap. “If this is another of William’s financial indiscretions, I simply—”
“Please, Mrs. Collier.” The parson leaned forward in his chair, compassion softening his features. “Just read it.”
She set her teacup and saucer aside and unfolded the thin paper. Uneven script, almost juvenile in its lack of refinement, covered the sheet. At her glance, Pastor Fillmore nodded, then rested against the chair back with his coffee in hand, prepared to wait for her perusal.
Lockton, Colorado, October 1879
Dere Pastor Fillmore,
I hope this letter finds you and your wife well since me and Gracie and Ruth left. Ruth went to heaven some three years past. Gracie fares well as does the small congrugation I serve temporary being the sherif and all but my heart grows weary to bear my burdens alone. Would there be a kind and helpful mother-type woman in your church willing to come to Colorado and help me? Like the mail order brides who join other men here at the Rocky Mountains.
God bless you for your help. Please write back to Gracie and send to the general store.
Sherif Bern Stidham
The pastor’s eyes clearly danced in anticipation of Etta’s opinion.
She accommodated him. “This does not read like a letter penned by any man, whether educated clergyman or desperate sheriff.”
The pastor chuckled and ran a hand over his smooth crown. “Bern Stidham is indeed a different sort, but my guess is his daughter wrote the letter. She was about five when the family moved west. Should be nine or so by now.”
Etta looked again at the careful words, several misspelled, and sentences bereft of proper punctuation. Her mind raced. “Why did this request bring me to your mind?”
Pastor Fillmore sat up and peered into her soul as only a man of the cloth could. “You are newly widowed, and I understand that my mention of such things to you is improper, to say the least. So forgive me, Mrs. Collier, but you need a husband, for I see the way Clark Penneholder watches you.” He paused for effect, as he did in his sermons before driving home a point. “Like a hawk watches a sparrow.”
A tremor ran through her at the bold statement, whether from the truth of the good man’s words or the fact that her situation was so obvious to others.
“May I speak plainly, Harriet?”
As if he had not done so already. Though she disliked her given name, Etta folded her hands to keep them still and nodded her consent.
“I know Bern Stidham to be a fine, upstanding man, one who is willing to serve the Lockton residents as sheriff and, evidently, as interim pastor until a fulltime minister can be found.” He pointed to the letter beneath Etta’s hand. “He and his wife, Ruth, were members of my congregation, as the letter alludes. I married them more than a decade ago, before you and William—rest his soul—moved here. Their daughter, Grace, appears to be sensitive to the burdens her father carries, and by my guess, she’s longing for a mother’s love herself. I can think of no one better suited for the two of them than you.”
His eyes smiled first, then the rest of his face. “And they for you.” Pastor Fillmore leaned back, clearing the space between them for Etta to fill it with her own words.
She had none. 

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