Her Silent Burden (Seeing Ranch series) (A Western Historical Romance Book) Read online

  “Plus,” Thea added, “mine and Jeb’s marriage might as well have been arranged. I had only met him three times before our wedding. Mother and Father wanted me to marry him. I went along with it and pretended I wanted it as well because it was the best thing for my family.”

  “I wish it hadn’t been that way for you,” Emily said quietly.

  “Well, it is over now. Jeb’s soul is in God’s hands. As for me… I still have life on Earth to contend with. I have to go, Emily. What would become of me here?”

  Thea leaned against the door frame, wrapping her arms around herself even though it was a dreadfully sticky and hot April. She felt small. Cold inside. Alone.

  She was unnervingly used to that last feeling.

  Emily opened her mouth, but she had no answer.

  “Exactly,” Thea said. “I am a widow at twenty-eight. I have no money. My parents cannot take me back in. There’s not an eligible bachelor within a day’s ride from here. I would have to go to Charleston in order to find a man, and I could not bear to live there. I hate the city. It would crush me, Emily. Absolutely.”

  “You will have money from selling the piano.”

  “I could sell everything in this home, and then what? What skill of mine could support me in such a rural area?”

  Emily sighed. “You are right then.”

  Thea stared at her in surprise. “You think so?”

  “Yes.” Emily stood and came to join Thea in the doorway. “I apologize for taking the last wonderful man in this township,” she said with amusement.

  Thea laughed. “I have accepted that you and Edward were made for each other since the first day of school when he put jam in your hair, and you said he was still dashingly handsome anyway.”

  Emily didn’t smile. “You could stay with us for a while. Until you find someone here to marry.”

  “No.” Thea shook her head. “I appreciate that so much, Emily, but I cannot. You and Edward have such little room as it is.”

  “I know he would not mind.”

  “But I would.” Thea clasped Emily’s hands. “I worry about losing my nerve. If I do not say yes to the first marriage offer that comes in, I am more likely to say no to the next one as well.”

  “What if the first marriage offer is awful?”

  “Will I be able to tell from the man’s letter?” Thea countered.

  “He’ll tell you his age, will he not?” Emily’s nose wrinkled. “What if he is sixty?”

  Thea sighed. “I cannot think of that now. I sent the letter to the mail-order bride agency in New York, and it might be weeks before I have a response… if any come at all.”

  “Any man would be a fool to not want to marry you.”

  Thea smiled ruefully. “Believe me, Emily, if I really thought staying in South Carolina was a possibility, I would do it.”

  “I know,” Emily said sadly.

  They fell silent as they stood in the doorway, watching dusk settle in around them. The peeper frogs and cicadas began singing, and an ax rung out in the woods for a while longer before halting all together.

  South Carolina. It was the only land Thea had ever known.

  Did she have the grit that was necessary to leave everything behind and start over in an unknown place with a strange man?

  She did not know. She also knew it did not matter. Life had brought her to the place she stood at now—penniless and widowed. A door had closed. Whatever window opened next was up to God.

  Chapter 2

  a good letter

  2. Wakefield

  Chapter two

  Wyoming Territory

  Wakefield watched the two miners out of the corner of his eye as he polished one glass than another. If they asked for one more shot of bourbon, he’d cut them off. Not standard practice, sure. And also not an action that would go over too well. But he couldn’t have them stumbling around Whiteridge at noon, causing who knows what kind of trouble.

  After talking some in low voices, they put their hats on and headed out, the door swinging shut behind them. Wakefield finished polishing the last glass and put it on the shelf. Six months in business and only four glasses had been broken so far. It had to be some kind of record.

  The back door opened with a bang, and Noah entered. His sleeves were rolled up, and he must have lost his hat somewhere—something he was always doing—because his blond crown was on full display.

  “Mail,” he nearly shouted, plopping down on one of the bar stools.

  Wakefield tossed his dishrag onto the bar. “Is it your break time?”

  Noah made a big scene looking around the empty saloon. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t notice all the waiting customers.”

  Wakefield guffawed. Try as he might he never could get a rise out of Noah. It just never happened. The man’s temperament was butter smooth.

  “Did the paper come?” Wakefield asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  Wakefield huffed. “It’s what I figured. The rest of civilization has ground to a halt. We’re the last men on Earth.”

  “It feels that way sometimes, doesn’t it?” Noah asked. “Up here in the mountains, away from everyone else.”

  They weren’t completely in the middle of the wild. Not with Shallow Springs and Pathways about ten miles away. Still, a man needed a whole day to make the journey to Shallow Springs and back. Maybe longer, depending on if it had rained and whether or not the road was impassable. With running the Outpost saloon day in and out for the last six months, Wakefield had only made it to Shallow Springs once and Pathways not at all. Whenever a mail run was necessary, Noah did it. Leaving the saloon for more than half a day didn’t sit right with Wakefield.

  Seventy-five people. That’s what Whiteridge’s population amounted to. And two-thirds of those people were coal miners. The rest were wives and a few scattered children. Some of the miners might as well have been ghosts, drifting out of the mine’s mouth at nightfall and disappearing into their lean-tos until dawn rose to do it all over again. Many of them only came out for a good stiff drink, and that’s what Wakefield was there to provide.

  “This came.” Noah waved what looked like a small, shortened newspaper.

  “What’s that?” Wakefield took the paper and gave it a once over, finding pictures of women and printed letters.

  “Mail-order brides. They had it at the post office.” Noah grinned gleefully. “What do you think of that?”

  Wakefield scanned a few of the letters. It was all women looking for husbands.

  “Why would anyone do this?” he asked.

  “Who wouldn’t want to do that?” Noah asked. “The West is the place to be. God’s land. If I were a woman, I’d be putting my name in there.”

  Wakefield found a short entry at the bottom of the front page. “Twenty-eight-year-old widow from South Carolina,” he read out loud. “The daughter of a miller. My skills cover every aspect required of a good housewife. No children.”

  “Is there a picture?”

  Wakefield didn’t answer. There was a picture—and he was too busy staring at it. The ink was smudged some, but he could make out the delicate, round face, big eyes, and dark hair. Widowed at twenty-eight… Wakefield didn’t know the woman at all, but he suddenly felt sorry for her.

  “Let me see.” Noah plucked the paper from Wakefield’s hand.

  “Hey now,” Wakefield grumbled, grabbing it right back out of his friend’s grasp. “I was looking at that.”

  “See anything you like?”

  “It’s not a catalog.”

  Noah shrugged. “Strange as it might feel, it kind of is.”

  Wakefield was busy looking at the twenty-eight-year-old widow again. “Theodora Sykes. From South Carolina.”

  Noah leaned across the bar so he could get a good look. “A southern belle.”

  “Not if she’s in this. My guess is she doesn’t have much in the way of a dowry or a home, else she’d be staying where she was.” Wakefield’s voice softened. “Why would no man in S
outh Carolina want to marry her, though?” he asked no one in particular.

  “You should write her,” Noah said, matter-of-fact.

  “Naw.” Wakefield dropped the paper on the bar like it had burned his hand.

  “Why not?”

  He gave Noah a hard stare. “You’re joking right now, aren’t you?”

  “What, you were looking to court some of the fine single ladies up in these mountains?”

  Wakefield felt his lips draw tight against his teeth. They both knew every woman in Whiteridge—all ten or so of them—were married. The number of eligible women wasn’t that much greater in Shallow Springs or Pathways. Over the last ten years, scores of men had come west looking to make their fortunes. Most of them had opted not to bring women with them or couldn’t find gals crazy enough to make the trek.

  Or at least that’s what Wakefield had heard. It wasn’t like he wasn’t going out looking for women to court, just… keeping his ears open.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a wife to care for your house?” Noah asked. “To keep you company?”

  “Sounds to me like you’re the one who wants a mail-order bride,” Wakefield said. He picked up a glass and started polishing it, even though it didn’t it. Each and every glass in the place had done been polished.

  “Maybe I do,” Noah answered lackadaisically. “But I know you sure could use one.”

  Wakefield tried to glower, but it didn’t last long. “All right. Say I do write in and, what? Order a bride?” He grimaced at the strange usage of the words. “What then? Suppose we don’t get along?”

  “Send her back.” Noah shrugged. “Or let her go off and do whatever it is she wants to, now that she’ll have found her way out West. From perusing these, my friend, I get the distinct impression that all these women are looking to get away from something. Why else would anyone pack up and leave their whole life behind? You could be doing a girl a favor, giving her the best opportunity she’s ever had.”

  Wakefield’s gaze drifted down to where the paper lay on the bar. It had landed so the dark-haired woman’s photograph looked up at him. He didn’t care about doing someone a ‘favor,’ or saving them, or whatever sort of spin Noah wanted to put on it all.

  But he did care about that dark-haired girl. For some reason he couldn’t pinpoint, but the draw was there nonetheless.

  He’d thought about marriage. And he’d thought about what being in Whiteridge, a mining town barely getting its legs, meant for courting. Especially since he ran a saloon that took up nearly all his time and energy.

  Annoying as Noah’s needling could be, he also had a point. If Wakefield were planning on staying in Whiteridge—which he was, since he’d dumped every cent he owned into the Outpost saloon—he’d need to look into unconventional ways of obtaining a wife. He was thirty-five, but lord, some days he felt twice that age.

  Settling down would be nice. Having a gal to come home to… That was something he could look forward to, and the thought made him smile.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Noah said with a grin. “And I’m getting the paper now.”

  With a flourish, he fetched paper and pen from the back office and settled back down onto his stool. “What should the letter say?”

  “No.” Wakefield waggled his fingers. “Give me that. I’ll write the letter.”

  “Oh, come now, Wakefield. Your handwriting looks like chicken scratch. Mine’s all fancy.”

  Wakefield snorted. “Fine. Say… Dear Miss Sykes… My name is Wakefield Briggs, and I run a saloon in the Rocky Mountains in Wyoming Territory.” He paused, giving his next words some thought. He felt silly dictating a letter and hoped no one suddenly came into the saloon.

  “That’s a good start,” Noah encouraged.

  Wakefield ran his hand across his jaw. The beard he’d neglected to shave that morning prickled his palm. He didn’t much want to go into the details of his history in a letter—and not in front of Noah. He’d known the younger man for years, ever since their days working on the railroad, but not even Noah knew all of Wakefield’s secrets.

  “She said no children, right?” Wakefield asked.

  Noah glanced at the paper. “Right. No children.”

  Wakefield nodded. That was good. He didn’t want children. Not because he didn’t like them. In fact, he loved having them around. He just didn’t want to have his own.

  “Keep writing,” he instructed. “Say, I read that you have no children. I myself am looking for a wife and am not interested in any young ones. I have to be honest and tell you, life up here in the mountains isn’t a picnic. There are some hard days. I do have a nice, new house, though. It has two bedrooms, one for you to stay in...” He paused. “For as long as you like.”

  Hopefully not too long, he thought but didn’t add that part.

  “I’m sorry I have no photograph to send of myself. I can tell you, however, that I am thirty-five years old, healthy, and strong. Please write me back and let me know if the life of a saloon owner’s wife sounds palatable to you. If not, I understand… and I wish you well. Sincerely, Wakefield Briggs.”

  Noah nodded in satisfaction. “It’s a good letter. I can ride into town and send it next week.”

  “That’ll give me time to think about this. You know, in case I change my mind.” Wakefield’s gaze drifted to the window.

  “You might change your mind?”

  Wakefield shrugged, but he already knew the answer to that.

  Chapter 3

  only time would tell

  3. Thea

  Chapter three

  Thea bit her thumbnail, a horrible sensation rising in her like a dark tornado. She stood outside of her cabin—the one that in the last few months had been so quiet, and watched as three men loaded her piano onto a wagon.

  Her eyes burned, and she blinked the tears back. Crying over a musical instrument would be silly. Then again, was it really that wrong to feel that the piano had been her greatest comfort?

  In the days of her marriage, which had been a dismal one by any degree, it had been there for her. In the days after Jeb’s death, when she was overwhelmed by feelings she did not understand—a strange mixture of grief and relief—the piano had been there for her. And now, in the last few weeks, as she waited to find out if her placement in the mail-order bride paper had gotten any bites, the piano had been there for her.

  Morning, afternoon, or night, she always knew she could go to it and find peace.

  And now she could not. That May morning she had played it for the last time while tears had cascaded down her cheeks.

  Perhaps it was not only the piano that caused her grief. Perhaps it was also the uncertainty of her future. Thea didn’t know which, but she didn’t want to think too hard about such things.

  “Well, that’s it,” the purveyor, a chubby little man who kept wiping sweat from his brow, said. He’d brought with him three stronger and younger men, and it had taken all of their muscle to lift the upright piano and settle it into the wagon bed.

  As Thea stood there, one of the men tossed the last bit of tarp over the corner of the piano, hiding it completely from view. Like that, it was gone.

  Overcome with emotion, Thea bit her lip so hard she drew blood.

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” the purveyor said. Thea didn’t even remember his name anymore. She looked away from the wagon as he counted out two hundred dollars and laid the crisp bills in her hand.

  The piano had probably been worth much more when it was shiny and new, when its notes had been clearer and brighter than the healthiest of birds. Thea closed her fingers around the money, which was more than she’d ever had in her whole life, and nodded a polite goodbye to the purveyor.

  As the group left, the wagon bumping awkwardly down the road, she couldn’t help but watch over it. She hoped it would find a new home with someone who loved it just as much as she had.

  “Thea!”

  She turned at the sound of Bobby’s voice.
Her twelve-year-old brother was coming down the road from the other direction, his hat pushed down low to shade his eyes. He strode as fast as he could, given the limitations of his bum leg, and as he got closer, he waved a letter above his head.

  “Ma told me to bring this on over,” Bobby said breathlessly as he came to a stop in front of her.