An Angel in the Mail Page 3

  She leaned against the building, hoping it would take her weight, and removed the black straw hat. She waved it in front of her face, creating a slight breeze. As bad as this trip was, she certainly didn’t look forward to facing Mr. Hale with her total lack of ability to fulfill the promises Sylvia had made on her behalf.

  What a muddle she created for me!

  “Matt, run over to Mrs. Darby’s house and find out where the heck she is.” Nate jiggled the crying baby on his hip while he worked a comb through Luke’s tangled hair. “Boy, you need a haircut,” he grumbled as Luke yelped again. “Or better yet, a bath to wash some of this mess out of your hair.”

  “Mark says he ain’t goin’ to school today.” John hopped into the room on one foot, and reached for a piece of bread from the center of the table.

  “Mark!” Nate bellowed from where he stood. “Get up and get ready for school.”

  “No!” came the muffled defiant voice. “I’m sick. My head hurts.”

  “Here, walk her around a bit.” Nate shoved Julia-Rose at Luke. He took the stairs two at a time, and pushed open the door to the boys’ bedroom.

  “What’s the matter? Are you really sick?”

  “I’m sick of school.” His son glowered. “I told you before. I’m the dumbest one in the room. Everyone else can read, but every time I look at the page, nothing makes sense. I hate it.”

  Nate sat at the edge of the boy’s bed. “I know you have a hard time, and I promise I’ll speak to your teacher. But you’ll never be a better reader if you don’t go.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Now come on, it’s almost time to leave.”

  “You’re always saying you’ll talk to my teacher, but you never do.” Mark shot him a disgusted look, tossed the covers off and mumbled to himself.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I will definitely make time next week to do that.” His stomach clenched as the guilt engulfed him. Sighing, Nate returned to the chaos in the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Darby said she can’t come ‘til this afternoon on account of her breathing ain’t good, and she needs time for her medicine to work.” Matt greeted him.

  “Great, the start of another perfect day in the Hale household.” Nate took the still-crying baby from Luke.

  “Matt, go upstairs and hurry your brother along and then get going. I’m gonna have to bring these three with me to the shop. I have a lot of work today.”

  Nate unlocked the door of the shop with Nathan Hale, GUNSMITH, painted in scripted gold letters on the door. Its location, between the barbershop and mercantile on the main street of town, drew a lot of business.

  Racks of guns lined the area. Pieces of a rifle were strewn over a worktable shoved against the back wall. Boxes of various sizes of ammunition were stacked neatly on shelves next to the cash register.

  Nate spread a blanket on the floor and set Julia-Rose there. Then he tied her to a table leg with a strap to keep her from wandering around. “I’m sorry, sweetie, seems I’m always tying you to something.”

  Luke and John settled near the baby on another blanket, already busy with their wooden soldiers.

  He settled down to work, cleaning and re-assembling the Winchester. He glanced at his three children on the floor and shook his head. The last six months had been hell. Kids, shuffled from place to place. Burnt meals, missing laundry. Most nights he collapsed into bed, convinced he was the worst father on earth. It was during one of these tirades with himself that he’d decided to send for a bride.

  With no time or desire for courting, using an agency to find a suitable wife seemed to be the best solution. Then there would be no expectations. He needed a helpmate, someone to take over the household chores so he could get to work every day. On the application, he was adamant about what he wanted. Not interested in how she looked, he didn’t even request a picture. He hoped for a nice, sturdy partner. No fuss, no nothing.

  The bell over the front door rang. Mrs. Watson, one of his steady customers, entered the shop. A tall, thin woman, she wore a permanent frown that belied her sweet disposition and generous heart.

  “Mornin’, Mrs. Watson.” He wiped his hands on a nearby cloth and walked to the counter.

  “Mornin’, Nate. I came to pick up Grandpa’s rifle. Is it ready yet?”

  “Just finished it up yesterday.” He turned and reached to the top shelf for a flintlock musket the old gentleman’s father had used in the Revolutionary War. “Here ya go.”

  “Oh, my.” Mrs. Watson glanced down and gasped. “Do you have that baby tied to the table?”

  Julia-Rose reached both hands up, her little face smeared with dust from the floor. “Mama.”

  Heat rose in his face as he looked at the baby. “Yes, I’m afraid I had no choice. Mrs. Darby couldn’t come in this morning—breathing problems again—and I had to bring them with me. The last thing I need is for Julia-Rose to be crawling around guns.”

  “Well, you just untie that precious little one, and I’ll take her and your boys home with me for the morning. This is no place for children.”

  “I really appreciate that.” Nate hurriedly untied the baby. “Come on, boys, pick up your things. Mrs. Watson is taking you to her house.”

  “Do you have cookies, Mrs. Watson?” Luke’s round saucer eyes looked at her with longing.

  “I certainly do. And I have some nice chicken for your lunch.” She smiled at the boys as she gathered them up.

  “I like chicken, Mrs. Watson.” John said, hopping up and down on one foot. “Is it all black like when Papa makes it?”

  The woman glanced at Nate and winked. “No, my chicken is not all black.”

  “Good. I like chicken that’s not all black.”

  “I’ll stop and tell Mrs. Darby she can pick them up when she’s feeling better.” The woman took the baby from Nate’s arms. “I think it’s best if I leave the rifle for now. I’ll get it later. I can’t manage that and the children, too.”

  “Thank you so much. This is very nice of you.” Nate breathed a sigh of relief as he watched them all head for the door.

  “By the way, Mr. Hale.” Mrs. Watson turned slightly as she opened the door for the boys to go through. “You need a wife.”

  “I agree.” He returned to his work and grinned. “I have one in the mail.”

  Angel had loosened the top buttons of her dress, then patted her throat with the handkerchief already soaked with sweat. She’d long ago shoved her sleeves to her elbows and removed her hat. If she could just get this darn corset off. It chafed her skin, adding to her misery. She rocked back and forth on the uncomfortable bench, trying her best to ease her aches and pains. Would this trip ever end?

  Her gaze shot to the coach window when the air reverberated with the sound of rapid hoof beats and gunshots.

  “Stop.” A loud voice shouted. Two more gunshots.

  “Oh my God,” the older woman with the knitting screeched, “we’re being held up!”

  The fat man turned around and looked out the back window. He squealed like a pig, then attempted to slide to the floor by squeezing his large body between the seats. His movements knocked Angel into the side of the coach, and since he had been sitting on her dress, when he went down, the dress tore from the waist.

  The inebriated doctor had passed out a while ago, and with the pregnant woman and traveling salesman departing at the last station, that left Angel and the knitter to stare wide-eyed at each other.

  The stagecoach swayed violently as the driver shouted, “Whoa,” and pulled on the horses’ reins. At least he didn’t try to outrun the horsemen closing in on them. Visions of the coach careening wildly, until it overturned, flashed through her mind.

  Angel’s mouth dried up and her heart pounded. Everyone in New York had heard horror stories of bandit hold-ups out West. Her group would be robbed and p
ossibly killed, left as food for wild animals. She shuddered and offered a silent prayer.

  The coach came to a stop, the passengers sat perfectly still. “Everybody out.” A blast of heat hit her in the face as one of the outlaws opened the door. Tall, with long, stringy dark hair, he had a filthy red bandana pulled over his mouth. The man’s coal black eyes studied them. He waved a gun, which encouraged the fat man, Angel, and the knitter to hurry out.

  The driver lay on the ground, blood seeping from a head wound.

  “What’s wrong with him?” The outlaw gestured with his chin in the direction of the doctor.

  “I think he’s asleep,” the knitter whispered.

  “No.” Angel stared the outlaw in the eyes and lifted her chin. “He’s drunk.” She’d pushed the fear into anger. If she were going to deal with this new life, in the wilds of the West, she’d have to rely on the inner strength she’d always had. The inner strength Sylvia spoke of when she’d left her in New York City with a ticket to the ends of the earth and promises made to a stranger she could never fulfill.

  The outlaw chuckled. “All right, sweetheart, you and your friends take out your money and jewelry, and we’ll be on our way, without anyone getting hurt.”

  She jerked open her reticule and took out what little money remained from the small allowance Mr. Hale had sent with the tickets. Steeling herself against the terror, she snorted as she slapped the few bills on the outlaw’s palm. The other two men climbed to the top of the stagecoach and tossed down the trunks strapped there.

  “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” The outlaw with the stringy hair pinched Angel’s cheek. He fingered her earrings. “Take ‘em off.”

  Angel removed the pearl bobs, a gift from her father, tears filling her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t show weakness in front of these savages. With a shrug, and a heavy heart, she dropped them into his hand, and swallowed the tears at the loss of another memory of her father.

  “Be careful, or we just might decide to take you with us. I like ‘em feisty, and we could use a beauty like you to keep us warm at night.”

  Angel turned away, her body stiff.

  The outlaw poked the fat man in his stomach. “Come on, tubby, hand over your money. And I’ll take that pocket watch, too.”

  One of his cohorts entered the coach and relieved the sleeping doctor of his belongings. Angel jerked and squeezed her eyes shut when the tall stringy-haired one shot off the locks on two trunks. Dirty hands pawed through her belongings.

  All the blood left her face when a short outlaw, with a scar from the corner of his eye to his chin, pulled out a pair of her drawers and sniffed. He wiped his drooling mouth with the undergarment and smiled at her, shoving it into the waistband of his filthy pants.

  She fought the black dots dancing before her eyes. I will not faint. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

  After gathering what they wanted from the trunk, leaving clothing and possessions scattered all around, the men remounted their horses. The fat man cried into his handkerchief.

  “A pleasure doing business with y’all,” the leader said. Then he glanced in Angel’s direction. “If you want to come along, honey, hop on up.”

  She stepped back, crossed her arms and stared him in the eye. He laughed uproariously, tugged on the brim of his hat, and took off. Clouds of dry dirt billowed behind them as they made their escape.

  “Are you crazy?” The fat man said to Angel, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “You could have gotten us all killed.”

  “You certainly weren’t any help.” The knitter eyed him as she began picking up pieces of clothing.

  “They had guns!” His voice trembled.

  Angel shook her head in disgust and knelt next to the driver, who moaned. She helped him to sit.

  “And what good were you?” The large man shouted at the driver. “You’re supposed to protect us from these things. I’m going to write to the company, and file a complaint.”

  “Oh, hush.” Angel glared at him. “Help me stand him up.”

  Between the two of them, they got the driver to his feet. He’d been bashed on the head, but assured them he was fit enough to continue the trip. He ordered the passengers to pack up their stuff.

  As each trunk was closed as best as it could, the driver tossed it on the top of the coach and strapped it down. About an hour after the outlaw’s departure, with the driver pale and shaking, they continued on their journey. The doctor remained unconscious, not realizing his pocket watch, money clip, and a ring were gone.

  Chapter 3

  “Papa, I don’t understand why we have to wash and put on fancy clothes to meet our new mama.” Luke wiggled as the wet cloth in Nate’s hand swirled over his face.

  “Do you want your new mama to think we’re all a bunch of hooligans?”

  “What’s a hooligan?”

  “Someone who’s dirty and smelly, and a no-account.”

  “What’s a no-account?”

  “Someone who looks ragged and grubby.” He quickly dried the boy’s face. “Now stop all the questions, and get dressed.” As the boy took off, he added, “Send John down here so I can wash him up.”

  Nate glanced for the tenth time at the gingerbread shelf clock near the cook stove. What was he thinking to send for a mail order bride? As the time grew near for his new wife to arrive, doubts assailed him. He took a calming breath. His life was chaos, he needed−heck, the whole family needed−a woman who could take over. The only women in town willing to take on five kids had expectations. He’d seen the way they looked at him, what they wanted from him. They would expect courting, love, things he had no time or inclination for.

  Through their letters, Nate had learned Angel was twenty-two years old, and had lived in New York City all her life. She wanted change, and longed for the adventure of the west. She never once mentioned expectations of love, or tender feelings of any kind.

  According to her letters, she could cook, clean, and run an efficient house. She adored children, and would love to be a mother to his. Sounded like a true spinster, but right now he would take old Mrs. Darby to wife if she would straighten up his life. In fact, the more unattractive she was, the better. The last thing he wanted was the temptation of a pretty bride. His brood was large enough, thank you.

  Nate conducted a final inspection. All the boys lined up at the door with clean faces and hair slicked down. Julia-Rose wore a new dress and bonnet Mrs. Darby had made for the occasion. He took a deep breath.

  Time to go.

  As the boys solemnly walked out the door, Nate frowned. “John, go put on shoes.”

  “Next stop, Oregon City.”

  This was it. A jolt of panic hit Angel smack in her middle, and raced through her veins. Her heart sped up, threatened to jump out of her throat. Her stomach rolled over and played dead, and all the moisture in her mouth evaporated. With shaky hands, she tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her torn dress. Her hat had been smashed under the fat man’s bottom when they returned to the coach after the hold up. She tried her best to set the once-fashionable bonnet to right, but without a mirror there was no way to tell.

  A hole in her stocking near her ankle gaped at her as she shook out her dress. She’d fallen getting out of the coach at the last station. Her face and neck were coated with sweaty dirt. If she tried to clean up with a handkerchief, she’d do nothing more than create mud to smear around.

  The coach slowed as it took a turn onto a main street. Her nausea got stronger. She looked out the window. Muddy streets, crowded, weather-beaten buildings. No elegant stores or restaurants. Nothing similar to what she’d left behind. Well, certainly better than the miles of prairie she’d crossed. But surely Oregon City would be more of a city?

  Was this even part of the United States? Had she left the States complete
ly behind? Of course she had. Hadn’t she? Maybe she should stop the coach and hurry into the sheriff’s office they just passed and peruse a map.

  I’m becoming hysterical.

  She inhaled a deep breath to calm herself. However, with the restriction of her corset, all she managed to do was make herself dizzy.

  Why, oh why did Sylvia do this to her? She should’ve refused, fled to one of her friends’ houses. Anything but face a strange man who expected to be her husband in a very short while.

  Angel allowed the knitter and the large man to precede her out of the coach. The doctor had departed a while back, never noticing his missing possessions. No one felt the need to enlighten him. She reached for the driver’s hand to step out of the coach.

  Good heavens—I smell!

  No blinding sun here, the cloud cover gave everything a dull, lifeless appearance. She looked around, and aside from a crowd standing in front of the post office, she didn’t see a man who should have been here to meet her. Maybe Mr. Hale had changed his mind, and she was stuck here with no money, job, or a place to stay.

  Should I be relieved if he had?

  Movement caught her eye as she watched a group in front of the post office walk toward the stagecoach. Her eyes grew round, and sweat trickled down between her breasts. With horror, she realized this most likely was her new family. Mr. Hale had brought all his children to meet the stagecoach.

  Tall, blond, and broad shouldered under a brown suit, the handsome man carried a little girl with blond curls and a pretty pink dress and bonnet. Four boys, with varying shades of blond and brown, slicked back hair, followed behind him. With clean faces, and wearing church clothes, they resembled chicks trailing a mother hen.

  Angel tried to smile, fought the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Her stomach clenched, and her hand rose slowly to her throat. She fisted the cloth reticule in her other hand until the whole thing was a wrinkled mess, much like the rest of her.