Mail Order Cowboy (Love Inspired Historical) (2 page)

N
icholas Brookfield, late of Her Majesty's Bombay Light Cavalry, reined in the handsome bay he had purchased after leaving the stagecoach and studied Simpson Creek. A small town, more like a village really, consisting of one main street, with a sprinkling of buildings on both sides of the dusty thoroughfare. Signs proclaimed the presence of a saloon, a boardinghouse, a general store, a livery, a combination barbershop-bathhouse, and at the far end of the street, a church. Branching off from the middle of the main street was another road with several houses of various sizes, some sturdy-looking fieldstone or brick two-stories, others smaller and of more humble construction, wood and even adobe cottages.

He wondered if Miss Millicent Matthews lived in any of these, or if her home was out on one of the ranches he'd passed on the road into Simpson Creek. And for the twentieth time, he wondered if he was on a fool's errand. Had the intermittent fever he was prone to, and which had laid him low once again when he arrived in Texas a week ago, finally seared his brain, rendering
him mad? What else explained why he'd let curiosity take control and come here in search of the writer of that intriguing advertisement, instead of going straight to Austin to the job that awaited him?

He glanced at his clothing, deeming it too dusty from his travels to make a good impression on a lady. Pulling out his pocket watch, a gift from his brother when Nicholas achieved the rank of captain, he discovered it was only eleven. He would do well, he decided, to bespeak a room at the boardinghouse and visit the barbershop-bathhouse before paying a call on Miss Matthews, assuming someone in this dusty little hamlet would tell him where he could find her.

 

“Have there been any inquiries about our advertisement?” Prissy Gilmore asked, after all the ladies of the Simpson Creek Society for the Promotion of Marriage had settled themselves in a circle in the church social hall.

“Not yet,” Milly admitted, as cheerfully as she could manage. “But it
has
been only two weeks. It would take time for a man to read the advertisement, compose a letter, perhaps have a tintype taken if he doesn't have one ready, and for that letter to reach the Simpson Creek post office.” Afraid of discouraging her friends, she wasn't about to admit she had made a pilgrimage to the post office every other day this week, and her only reward had been the letter she now brought out from her reticule.

“However,” she said, smiling as she drew it out of the envelope and unfolded it, “I do have this note from our
Uncle William, who you will remember is the editor of the
Houston Telegraph.
”

“Dear Millicent and Sarah,”
she read,
“I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted you to know I am in receipt of your rather interesting advertisement copy and have published it (though I must confess with some trepidation as to what your late father would have thought of your scheme) in accordance with your request. I have to say this advertisement caused no small amount of talk in the
Telegraph
office and around the town. Word of it and of your group has spread to those cities with whose newspapers we share articles, so it may be possible that you will receive inquiries from as far away as Charleston, South Carolina, and even New York City.”

Milly folded up the letter and stuck it triumphantly back in her pocket without reading the paragraph that followed, in which her Uncle William implored her to be very cautious in meeting the gentlemen who would write in response.

“So you see, ladies,” she said, infusing every word with confidence, “our advertisement has made a stir. I'm sure we will begin receiving inquiries any time now—perhaps even in today's post!”

A pleased hum of excitement rose from the ladies sitting around her.

Maude Harkey raised her hand. “Milly, assuming these letters start arriving, we've never discussed how it will be decided who gets matched with whom. How will that take place?”

“That's a good question, and one I think the Society should decide as a group,” Milly responded, settling
her hands in her lap. “What do you think, ladies?” She watched as they all looked at one another before Jane Jeffries raised a timid hand.

“I think we should let the gentlemen decide,” she announced, then ducked her head as if astonished at her own audaciousness.

“Yes, but how?” Milly prodded.

Jane shrugged.

“We could have a party,” said Prissy Gilmore, who'd managed to avoid bringing her mother. “With chaperones, of course, so Mama won't have a fit—and the gentlemen could be presented to all of us. They could decide whom they preferred.” She smoothed a wayward curl that had escaped her artful coiffure.

“Yes, but what if only one of them comes at a time?” Sarah asked. “Won't he feel awfully uncomfortable, as if he's on display like a prize bull at a county fair?”

“Well, he would be, wouldn't he?” Emily Thompson tittered. “Poor man. But perhaps it won't have to be that way. From the sound of that letter, it seems as if they might well come in
herds!
”

“Wouldn't that be wonderful? Then each of us could have our pick!” Ada Spencer said with a sigh, and everyone laughed at her blissful expression.

“Maybe the gentleman will express a preference as to the type of woman he's seeking,” Maude Harkey said. “He might have a decided interest in short redheads, such as myself.”

There was more laughter.

“Don't forget, ladies,” Milly reminded them, “as more and more matches are made, the number of ladies looking over the applicants will be fewer and fewer.
Eventually there will be no more need for the Society, God willing, for all of us will be married.”

“Amen,” Ada Spencer said. “But the fact remains, we have yet to receive the first response to our advertisement. I hope we don't end up as the laughingstocks of Texas.”

Her words hung in the air, and once more the ladies were glancing uneasily around at each other.

“I think we ought to pray about it now,” Milly said. “And you've all been praying about it at home, haven't you?”

There were solemn nods around the circle.

“Very well, then,” Milly said. “Who would like to—”

Sarah raised her hand. “I think when we pray, we ought to include something about God's will being done. I mean, it might not be God's will for all of us to be married, you know.”

Milly opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. The idea that the Lord might
intend
for her to go through life as an unmarried lady for whatever reason He had was startling, but it could be true.

“You're right, Sarah,” she said, humbled. “Would you lead us in pr—”

Before she could finish her sentence, there was a knock at the door of the social hall. Then, without waiting to be invited in, a tousle-headed boy flung open the door.

Milly recognized Dan Wallace, Caroline's brother, and son of the town postmaster.

Caroline called out, “Dan, is anything wrong? We're having a meeting here—”

“I know, Caroline,” Dan said. “But Papa said to show this gent where to go.”

Caroline's brow furrowed, and Milly saw her look past her brother. “What gent?”

“He's waitin' outside. He came t' the post office. Says he's come in response to the advertisement y'all placed in that Houston newspaper. He's lookin' for Miss Milly, an' I knew she'd be here with you 'cause a' the meetin'.”

Milly felt the blood drain from her face. It shouldn't be happening this way. A man couldn't have just
shown up.

She looked uncertainly at the others. “But…but he was to have written a letter first,” she protested, “so we could evaluate his application, then send him an invitation if we agreed he was a good candidate.”

“Perhaps his letter got lost in the mail or delayed,” Sarah pointed out, reasonable as always.

She supposed what Sarah had said
was
possible, Milly had to admit. Stagecoaches carrying the mail got robbed, or his letter could have fallen out of the mail sack and blown away, or gotten stuck to another going elsewhere…. But the man should have waited for a reply from them.

“I say an applicant is an applicant,” Maude Harkey said. “He must have come a long way. Least we can do is see him and hear what he has to say.”

Milly couldn't argue with that, she decided. They had prayed fervently that their advertisement would be answered, and it had been, though not in the way she had planned.

Now that the moment had come, though, she felt a
little faint. Her corset suddenly felt too tightly laced. It was hard to get a breath. She rose, wishing she had worn her Sunday best instead of this green-and-yellow-sprigged everyday dress, wished that she had time to pinch her cheeks…. Darting a glance at the others, she saw that all of them appeared to be wishing much the same.

“Well, by all means, invite him in, Dan,” Milly said with a calmness she was far from feeling.

The boy looked over his shoulder at whoever stood beyond their sight and said, “You kin come in.”

He was tall, taller by a head than Milly, which must put him at six feet or so, she thought absently, and so darkly tanned that at first Milly thought he was a Mexican. But then he doffed his wide-brimmed hat, and she saw that his hair gleamed tawny-gold in the light shed by the high window just behind him. His eyes were the blue of a cloudless spring sky, his nose straight and patrician. He wore a black frock coat with a matching waistcoat over an immaculate white shirt. He looked to be in his early thirties.

He was easily the most compelling man Milly had ever set eyes on.

He bowed deeply from the waist, and when he straightened, he smiled as his gaze roved around the circle of thunderstruck ladies.

“Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Nicholas Brookfield. I am looking for Miss Millicent Matthews.” His eyes stopped at Sarah. “Are you Miss Matthews, by chance?”

“I—uh, that is, I'm S-Sarah Matthews, her s-sis
ter…” Sarah stammered, going pale, then crimson. She gestured toward Milly. “That's Millicent.”

 

The woman she pointed to was nothing like the image Nick had formed in his mind of Miss Millicent Matthews, being neither blonde nor short. She was tall and willowy, her figure hinting at strength rather than feminine frailty. Her hair gleamed like polished mahogany, so dark brown that it was nearly black, her eyes a changeable hazel under sweeping lashes, her lips temptingly curving rather than the pouting rosebud he had always thought the epitome of female loveliness.

In that instant, Nicholas Brookfield's ideal image of beauty was transformed. Millicent Matthews was the most striking woman he had ever encountered. He couldn't imagine why he had thought, even for a second, that she was blonde. Why on earth had
this
woman needed to place such an advertisement? Were the men of Texas blind as well as fools?

“Mr. Brookfield, I'm sorry, we weren't expecting you. In the advertisement we placed, we indicated that an interested gentleman was to send a letter. Is it possible your letter got lost in the mail?”

Nick had wondered if the woman would confront him for not following directions, but she had given him a way to save face, if he wanted to use it. Nick wouldn't take refuge in a lie, however, even a small one.

He gave her what he hoped was a dazzling smile. “I'm afraid I didn't want to wait upon an answer to a letter, Miss Matthews, the post being so slow, you understand. I'm here in Texas to take up a post in Austin, but I happened upon your advertisement and found it so
intriguing that I rode on to Simpson Creek, purely out of curiosity.”

“‘Purely out of curiosity?'” she echoed, narrowing her eyes. “Does that mean you're
not
interested in marriage, sir? That you just came to see what sort of a desperate female would place such an advertisement?”

“Milly,” her sister murmured, her tone mildly reproachful. “We shouldn't make Mr. Brookfield feel unwelcome. We haven't even given him a chance.”

So Miss Matthews could be prickly. This rose had thorns. Then he heard his words as she must have heard them, and he realized how offensive his half-formed idea of meeting the lady and her associates merely as a lark before settling down to a dreary job was.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean it to sound that I was merely looking to amuse myself at your expense, ladies. I…I truly was impressed with your initiative, and decided I wanted to meet you.”

His reply seemed to mollify her somewhat. “I see,” she said, studying him. Her eyes seemed to look deep into his soul. “You're British, Mr. Brookfield?”

Nick nodded. “From Sussex, in southeastern England. But I've been in India the past decade.”

“I—I see,” she said again, seemingly uncertain what to do now.

Nick was increasingly aware of their audience hanging on to every word. “I—that is, I wonder if we might speak privately?” He couldn't think properly with all of them staring at him, let alone produce the right words to keep her from dismissing him out of hand.

Suspicion flashed in those changeable brown-gold
eyes. For a moment Millicent Matthews looked as if she might refuse.

Nick added the one word he could think of to change her mind, and infused it with all the appeal he could muster. “Please.”

She glanced at the others, but they were apparently all waiting for her to decide, for no one said a word or twitched a muscle.

“Very well,” she said at last. “We can step outside for a moment, I suppose. Sarah, will you take over the meeting? If you'll follow me, Mr. Brookfield…” She led him down the hall past the sanctuary.

Pushing open the pecan wood door, he walked outside with her, around the side of the church past a small cemetery and into a grove of venerable live oak and pecan trees behind the church. Fragments of old pecan shells crunched under their feet.