Montana Sky: Anson's Mail-Order Bride (Kindle Worlds) (The Jones's of Morgan's Crossing Book 1) Read online

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Debra Holland. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Montana Sky remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Debra Holland, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Anson’s

  Mail-Order Bride

  (A Montana Sky World Novel)

  By

  Kit Morgan

  Dear Reader,

  Anson’s Mail-Order Bride is written by Kit Morgan. I first met Kit at a writer’s conference in San Antonio, Texas in 2014. Conferences are a great place for authors to meet, network, and get to know one another. It’s one thing to interact on social media, quite another to do it in person. Not to mention a lot more fun. Right after meeting Kit, we got our picture taken together with some handsome cowboys, two other authors, and a chicken—a toy chicken, and Kit’s idea, but that’s Kit for you. She writes with a lot of humor, and her books are known for being fun and whimsical. She’s also a very prolific writer, something her readers enjoy and I’m in awe of. Like me, Kit likes to dabble in the fantasy romance genre.

  Have fun reading Kit’s contribution to my world.

  Debra Holland

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  One

  Clear Creek, Oregon, April 1888

  “You want to do what?”

  Anson Jones took in the horrified look on his father’s face and sighed. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve been working on this for too long to just let it go.”

  “Let me get this straight,” his father, Seth, said. “You want to take some of our stock to Montana and set up a small ranch just so you can keep an eye out for that crazy Mortimer Penworthy? Have you gone plumb loco?”

  “I have reason to believe that’s where the embezzled money is hidden. He’s bound to show up sometime – and when he does, I’ll be waiting.”

  Seth paced around the ranch house’s study. “Ryder will never go for it.”

  “Uncle Ryder has talked of selling more stock out of state. It would give him the chance to try. I could head things up in Montana, see what sort of sales we get. Even if Penworthy doesn’t show up, we at least make some profit from the venture.”

  “Sound reasoning, son, but it doesn’t ease the warning in my gut.”

  Anson’s steely blue eyes met his father’s softer ones. “You know our sources have rung true so far. Mortimer Penworthy was just one of Reginald Van Cleet’s crooked bookkeepers. If Cyrus Van Cleet hadn’t checked on his shipping company when he did, his swindling brother Reggie would have run it completely into the ground.”

  His father sighed. “I know.”

  “Our family has been blessed to be a part of such a legacy. Cyrus didn’t have to involve any of us when he took control back. But he did, and look at us now.”

  Seth Jones smiled. “Yes, indeed.” The Van Cleets had owned one of the biggest shipping companies in Boston. But Cyrus sought adventure out West, and left Reginald in charge while he explored the frontier, finally landing in a speck of a town called Clear Creek. He built a grand hotel there – Anson’s parents had run it for almost ten years before going into ranching full-time with his uncle Ryder – and eventually the community caught up to its splendor.

  Now too old to run the shipping business himself, Cyrus had let the Cooke family (the biggest ranchers in the area) and some of their relations like the Joneses buy into his business. Anson, while working there with a few of his cousins after college, had discovered the huge discrepancy in the books, and traced it back to Reggie and his cadre.

  “It’s been a couple of years, son. What makes you think Penworthy will show up in Montana now? Why didn’t he go get the money sooner?”

  “Reginald probably told him to stay out of sight for awhile.” Anson pointed out. “At least until after his trial.”

  “A lot of good it did him, if that’s the case. With any luck, Reggie will be in prison a long time. Anyone could have gone and dug up that stolen money by now.”

  “I don’t know about that …”

  “Yes, and that’s the problem. I know you, son. You won’t rest until you find out if this hunch of yours is right.”

  Anson smiled. “You do know me. And if Uncle Ryder says yes?”

  His father shook his head in resignation. “Fine. I’ll treat it as a business venture, and we’ll see how we do up there. I know he’s had inquiries from other breeders as far away as Bozeman. But you go as part of this ranch. Take care of our business, then leave.”

  “Even our business might take a while.”

  Seth put his hands on his hips. “Son, in case you’ve forgotten, you don’t have a while.”

  Anson stared at him for a moment before comprehension dawned. “Blast it, you’re right!”

  “Aha! Now what are you going to do? Best not bother asking your uncle for anything.”

  “No!” Anson said and paced as his father had. “I know I’m right!”

  “Son, you sent away for a mail-order bride! You can’t leave for Montana now.”

  Anson stopped, spun to face him and snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! I’ll telegraph the bridal agency and simply have them send her to Montana!”

  “What? You can’t do that!” Seth paused. “Can you?”

  “I don’t see why not. I can get married there as well as I could here.”

  “Except that your mother will kill us both. And your future bride is expecting to come to Clear Creek. Sure we’re still a small town, but we’re nothing like we used to be. You can’t have her show up in Montana and live in …” he snapped his mouth shut. “Just where are you going?”

  Anson grinned. “A little place called Morgan’s Crossing. Just the sort of out-of-the-way place Reginald Van Cleet would have stashed that stolen money.”

  “And what’s your new bride going to think about this? You might be putting her in danger, you know.”

  Anson sobered. “Hmmm … perhaps you’re right.”

  “She could always come here anyway,” his father suggested. “Your mother and I can look after her until you get back.”

  “As I said before, I might be there a while. Months, possibly.”

  “Well, son, then you probably should send a telegraph telling the young lady the wedding is off.”

  “I can’t do that. I gave my word.”

  “You haven’t signed anything yet.” Seth watched Anson grimace. “Wait … did you?” he pressed.

  “I sent the contract and train fare to the agency yesterday.”

  His father blew out a breath and looked at him over the tops of his spectacles. “Well, that would complicate things, wouldn’t it?”

  Anson nodded. “You’re right. If I want to pursue this, then I’ll have to contact the agency and let them know not to do anything yet.
My poor bride will have to wait.”

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this, son?”

  “You know what Reginald and his partners did was wrong. He may be in prison, but that judge must be a friend of his, because the sentence he got isn’t worth a thing. He’ll be out soon, and he’s going to want that money.”

  His father nodded. “And you think you’re the one to put him back in prison, is that it?”

  “He tried to ruin Cyrus and everyone else he’s been in business with. He’s a vile, evil man and I don’t want him running around free. It’s not right and you know it.”

  He nodded. “No, it isn’t. Very well – speak to your uncle. I just hope your bride isn’t too disappointed. And I hope you realize that by your doing this, she might choose another husband.”

  “Yeah,” Anson said as a pang of regret stabbed his heart. “I know. But it’s a risk I have to take.”

  Denver, Colorado, one week later …

  Zadie Barrett sat across a beautifully carved cherry wood desk and watched her new benefactor fumble with a stack of papers. Mrs. Adelia Pettigrew, owner of the Pettigrew Bridal Agency in Denver, might not have been the most organized lady, but she had a heart of gold.

  In general, Mrs. Pettigrew could hardly be considered normal. She was not only very scatter-brained, and the possessor of a somewhat … sketchy past, she also did her best to act as French as possible. Given her thick Southern accent, the effect was memorable. “Voila! Here it is!” she said, holding up a tattered half of a telegraph message. “But … qu’est-ce que c’est?” She studied it, then the top of her desk. “Where is the rest?”

  Zadie tried not to fidget in her chair. “Oh dear. Are you telling me that was sent from my betrothed?”

  “I am afraid so, ma cherie. But wait – I will read what it says.” She pulled a silver monocle that dangled from a matching silver chain out of her pocket and placed it over her right eye. “Dear Mrs. Pettigrew …,” she read, then mumbled the next few words. “Ah, here we are – new instructions! You are not to go to Clear Creek!”

  Zadie’s heart sank. “I’m not? But why? Has Mr. Jones changed his mind?”

  “No, no. It says here … yes, he’s sending you someplace else if I read this correctly. You’ll still arrive on the same date, but in a different town.”

  Zadie wanted to scream. So far, dear Mrs. Pettigrew had misplaced her letters to Mr. Jones more than once – and when she did find them, she almost sent them to another man instead! “Are you sure? And why is there only half a telegram?”

  Mrs. Pettigrew looked at her in surprise. “I’m sure I have no idea, ma petit. It is a mystery.”

  Zadie sighed. “Go on.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew returned her attention to the message. “You are to go to a place called …” She squinted and leaned closer to the paper. “… Sweetwater Springs. Oh, that sounds lovely!”

  “Sweetwater Springs? Where on earth is that?”

  Mrs. Pettigrew held the paper toward the nearest window. “From what I can tell, my guess is the Territoire Montana.”

  “Your guess?!”

  Mrs. Pettigrew shrugged and removed her monocle. “That is what it says, I believe. How many other places start with the letters M-O-N-T? Unless there is a Sweetwater Springs in the middle of Montréal …?”

  Zadie closed her eyes for a moment to think. Yes, that made sense – where else could it be? But why was Mr. Jones instructing her to go to Sweetwater Springs, Montana Territory instead of Clear Creek, Oregon?

  Could nothing go right for her? Was she to be forever cursed with bad luck? She and her father had seen too much of that already. Now he was dead and buried, and she had to leave – he’d told her to get out of Denver as fast as she could once he was gone. It seemed the fates were against her even in this. “May I see that?” she asked, holding out her hand.

  Mrs. Pettigrew handed her the torn piece of paper, and Zadie studied it. Part of the top half was missing, along with another piece, as if … “Mrs. Pettigrew, where is your dog?”

  “Monsieur Pickles? Why, he is taking a little nap, the darling.”

  Zadie cast a quick glance at the small white mop of fur curled up in a basket in the corner of the room. Several pieces of paper were on the floor next to it, along with shreds of several others. “Oh dear …”

  Mrs. Pettigrew slowly turned to the corner, then looked to the sky as if in prayer. “I am so sorry, Mlle. Barrett. Monsieur Pickles, he does like to chew on things.”

  “Perhaps if you didn’t let him on the desk so often,” she suggested, then returned her attention to the message. “You’re right. This has to be Montana. But what is Mr. Jones doing there?”

  “He is a rancher, no? Perhaps his business takes him there and he wants you at his side. Romantic, don’t you think?”

  “Not if I end up in Sweetwater Springs and Mr. Jones doesn’t. That would not be romantic at all.”

  “He sent train fare. It arrived yesterday. We need only purchase your tickets. It is a good thing he sent word by telegraph, or you might have had to wait for him a long time in Clear Creek. Who knows how long this business of his will keep him in Sweetwater Springs?”

  Zadie turned the tattered paper over in her hands. “Sweetwater Springs,” she echoed and stared at half of a word – immedi-. That could only be immediate or immediately. There was another word – crossing – but M. Pickles had chewed the words around it. Who knew what that meant? “Immediate crossing,” perhaps? “Maybe he’s already left for Montana …”

  “From what we can discern, I would tend to agree. Of course, I can telegraph him in Clear Creek or this Sweetwater Springs. But if he has already gone, he will not receive it – and who knows if this town in Territoire Montana has a telegraph office? Why else would he request the date of your arrival be the same?”

  Zadie drummed her gloved fingers on the desktop. What to do? She had to leave Denver, for her sake and her father’s – it was his dying wish. She sighed. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Pettigrew. Mr. Jones’ instructions, such as they are, are clear enough. I agreed to marry him, and I’ll honor that agreement even if it means getting married and living in some place other than originally planned.”

  “Do not worry, ma douce,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. She gave her hair a pat – a habit, Zadie had observed, when the woman wanted to wrap things up. “It does not matter where you marry. He will love you anywhere – you are young and beautiful, and he will be smitten with you the moment he sees you! Your blonde curls, your lovely green eyes, your happy smile …”

  Zadie couldn’t help but give her one of the latter. Mrs. Pettigrew might be eccentric and disorganized, but her enthusiasm and generous heart made up for it. “Mrs. Pettigrew?”

  “Oui, Mlle. Zadie?”

  “Perhaps it’s none of my business, but do you ever think you’ll get married again?”

  Mrs. Pettigrew patted her hair again, and her dark eyes flashed with delight. Her hair was still mostly raven-black, with only a few streaks of grey at the temples. “Perhaps … one day. But for now, I am having too much fun seeing young ladies such as yourself happily married. You will write me when you arrive in this Sweetwater Springs? That name – it does sound delightful!”

  “Yes, I will, I promise. If there’s a telegraph office, I’ll send you a wire instead.”

  “That would be lovely. Very well, I shall see this done. In a matter of weeks you will be the new Mrs. Anson Jones of Montana!” She finished with her hands in the air, as if announcing a political candidate.

  Zadie smiled as a knot in her stomach formed. So many changes had occurred in her life over the last several weeks that she barely knew what to do anymore. This was one more change to contend with, but at least this one wasn’t going to kill her. She hoped. “Mrs. Anson Jones it is, then. Thank you, Mrs. Pettigrew, for all you’ve done for me.”

  “It is nothing, ma chére. I love to help young ladies find husbands! I was married once, and perhaps, as
you say, I will marry again one day. But in the meantime, you and others like you make me very happy.”

  Zadie smiled. “I’m glad. And I hope that if you ever do marry, you find someone … just like you.”

  “Oh! But of course – I would not wish it any other way!”

  Zadie let loose a small giggle. “Of that I’m sure.”

  * * *

  Sweetwater Springs, Montana Territory, May 1888

  Zadie arrived in Sweetwater Springs tired and hungry. She smoothed her green velvet traveling outfit, adjusted her hat and wondered if she should don her coat. Perhaps so, judging from the people wrapped in winter coats on the platform – it must be chilly outside despite the bright sunshine. Warm spring days must come late this far north.

  She waited for the other people on the train to disembark and watched out the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of her future husband. He’d described himself in his letters as of average height and build with dark hair and blue eyes. But she saw no one meeting that description, and began to panic. “Please let him be here,” she whispered.

  Finally she gathered her things, stepped off the train and shivered at the briskness of the air. Denver could be cold in the spring, but the air here was different. She was sure she’d adjust to it, though, and pushed thoughts of the weather out of her mind. Finding her intended was the more pressing matter. She glanced this way and that, but saw no sign of a man matching Anson Jones’ description of himself. “Oh no …”

  She picked up her satchel and looked for a porter to give instructions to concerning her trunks. She’d brought with her everything she could, selling the rest for extra money in case something like, say, her intended not showing up should occur. She took another look around and swallowed hard. From the look of things so far, that extra money would come in handy.

  A porter – the only one in fact – walked up, and she apprised him of her situation. After a few moments of him looking her up and down in shock and shaking his head, he offered to put her trunks in the tiny ticket office for safekeeping until her intended arrived. Whenever that would be.