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The Mail-Order Brides Collection
The Mail-Order Brides Collection Read online
Perfect for the Preacher ©2018 by Megan Besing
The Outlaw’s Inconvenient Bride ©2018 by Noelle Marchand
Train Ride to Heartbreak ©2018 by Donna Schlachter
Mail-Order Proxy ©2018 by Sherri Shackelford
To Heal Thy Heart ©2018 by Michelle Shocklee
Miss-Delivered Mail ©2018 by Ann Shorey
A Fairy-Tale Bride ©2018 by Liz Tolsma
The Brigand and the Bride ©2018 by Jennifer Uhlarik
The Mail-Order Mistake ©2018 by Kathleen Y’Barbo
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-444-0
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-446-4
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-445-7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in Canada.
Table of Contents
Perfect for the Preacher
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
The Outlaw’s Inconvenient Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Train Ride to Heartbreak
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Mail-Order Proxy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
To Heal Thy Heart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Miss-Delivered Mail
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
A Fairy-Tale Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
The Brigand and Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Mail-Order Mistake
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Perfect for the Preacher
by Megan Besing
Dedication
To my husband: my love, my best friend, my happily-ever-after.
Acknowledgments
Abigail Wilson, God knew I needed you as my critique partner and friend. #Iheartyou. Wouldn’t want to do this without you. Thanks for who you are and all you do. Peggy Trotter, so many hats you wear, including author, but I treasure you most as my mom. Thanks to you and Dad for your Christ-like examples. Kerry Johnson, you are lovely indeed. Thanks for stretching me to write better. Karen Collier, Amanda Stevens, and Serena Chase you’ve all had a major impact on my writing journey. Jessica Kirkland, thanks for being my agent and believing in me, especially when I don’t. To my husband, thanks for dragging me to all those bookstores. You were right, reading is fabulous. My kiddos who love me just for being their mom. Barbour Publishing, you make dreams come true. To my Savior, THANK YOU. May my words, stories, life bring you honor, glory, and praise.
Chapter 1
Southern Indiana
1897
Sophie Ross worried the edges of the secondhand Bible on her lap. If only she’d been the one to have worn out its leather binding, she might not have the baggage that she did—literally—the carpetbag tucked beneath the pew served as a reminder of how important today was.
It shamed her to admit she wasn’t hearing much of the sermon. Her focus remained on the preacher himself. His description was exactly as he’d written.
Brown hair on the verge of blond. Medium build, a bump on the bridge of my nose from when my brother swung a stick that bruised my face for weeks.
Not that the bump appeared visible from her seat in the back. She peered over an array of bonnets and hats with flowers and feathers and, quite possibly, one topped by a bird’s nest with speckled eggs. Sophie smoothed her faded calico dress. Her shined boots didn’t compare to the silk dresses and lace gloves across the aisle.
After the closing song, those in attendance flocked to the exit with more gusto than was sung during any of the hymns. No one noticed her in the corner. Neither had anyone greeted her upon arrival. Of course she’d snuck in as services began. Nerves had twisted her stomach early in the morning, even though she knew God had this whole situation under control. He’d lined everything up when she needed it most. But who wouldn’t be a little anxious about meeting the man she was about to spend the rest of her life with?
Sunshine flooded in the opened doors, swirling around the vaulted ceiling and highlighting the ornate stained-glass windows, much fancier than Pastor T’s sanctuary. She shook her head. A sanctuary—a church—didn’t belong to one preacher or another. They were all God’s. Only God’s.
At last Sophie’s fiancé stood before her. This was it. The start of a new forever. He extended his hand in greeting. “Glad to have you join us for service today. I’m Pastor Amos Lowry.” His grip was strong and sure, and to her surprise, she didn’t hesitate or even flinch. God was indeed answering her prayers. Every last one.
He released her hand and cleared his throat. “Are you in town visiting family?”
Right. She hadn’t sent a photograph of herself. He couldn’t recognize someone he’d never seen before. “I’m Miss Ross.”
No recognition registered on his face. She leaned against
the pew back in front of her. They’d only exchanged five letters after she’d answered his ad. It was fine that he didn’t recognize her name, even when she couldn’t imagine forgetting his. Those two words had been floating around her mind for weeks.
Sophie tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “I’m…” She licked her lips. Why was this so difficult to say? “I’m Sophie Ross, your mail-order bride.”
“My mail-order bride? You’re…” He squinted as if trying to make her into someone else. Was her description inaccurate? She’d written exactly what Mrs. T suggested, even though Sophie never would have called her eyes—lovely, of all things. They were too large. Too dark brown to be considered pleasant. But Mrs. T had insisted.
Doubt, or something close to worry, flashed in his eyes that held a thin green ring around their acorn center. His eyes, on the other hand, were quite lovely indeed. He glanced toward the front of the sanctuary where people mingled and the pianist organized her music.
“I’m sorry.” She dipped her chin. “I thought you were agreeable to…us.” The last part barely audible with her lips trembling. She resisted the urge to tug his latest letter out and show him the words she’d memorized. What had given her hope for a normal future.
As long as you know what will be expected of a preacher’s wife, and you’re still willing, I’d very much appreciate you arriving once you’ve had time to put your affairs in order.
Hours were spent probing Mrs. T on all things preacher-wife-like, and after much prayer, Sophie decided she could, with the Lord’s help, become such a spouse. One who prayed and cooked for those in need. Be considerate of the extra time the church would take from her and her husband’s moments together. She understood that money probably would remain tight for their family. Marrying a preacher may not be agreeable to every woman, but for Sophie, it was the safest route.
But no proof of his promise on paper matched the message expressed on his face. In person, willingness or not, she wasn’t what he hoped for. How could she have thought she, of all people, would make a suitable preacher’s wife?
“I’ll go.” She reached for her carpetbag, the one she should have kept at the boardinghouse. When she’d arrived yesterday, Amos was away visiting a family. She’d had enough for room and board for two nights. However, Momma had trained her to never allow her valuables out of sight. Considering this was all she had left, Sophie couldn’t afford to go against her upbringing at least on this one particular matter.
The handle slipped from her grip and fell with a thump. Where would she go? Anywhere but near that obscene building she was raised in, and she couldn’t go back and stay with Pastor T and his wife. Not with the sudden death of their son-in-law, and their daughter and grandchildren returning to live with them.
“No. No.” He grabbed her carpetbag off the polished wooden floor and placed it on the pew separating them. His hands found hers, surrounding them in warmth. “Please stay. I held every intention of making a grander impression on you…m–my bride.” He pressed his lips together as if the words tasted funny.
“I’m the one who must apologize. I was only caught off guard. I believed you’d write again to tell me of your date of arrival. I had planned on sending funds for your travels….” His fingers shifted, almost linking in between a few of hers. His touch didn’t bring fear, but rather a gentle promise of safety. A hope of a true home waiting where she could put everything behind her. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”
“Then…we’re still to wed?”
“Indeed. If you’ll have me?”
“Pastor Amos?” A tiny speck of a woman stood at the end of the pew. The feather on the side of her hat very well may have been taller than the woman herself. White gloves concealed everything up to her wrists. A patchwork of wrinkles outlined her eyes, the only clue hinting at an older age.
Amos released Sophie and backpedaled as far as the pew behind him would allow.
“Will you still be joining us for the midday meal?”
If Sophie had known Amos any better, or at all, she’d believe she’d caught him grimacing. But with the feather woman’s wide grin, apparently, she hadn’t noticed the way he’d crinkled his nose.
“Ah, yes. Your generous invitation. Would it be possible…” Amos rubbed the bump on his nose. “What I mean to say—”
“I think he’s worried about your cooking, Margaret.” A bearded man stepped beside the feather lady, patting his thick stomach. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Pastor Amos. My wife can’t mess up beef stew and cornbread. Her persimmon pudding on the other hand…” He let out a low whistle.
“William, please. That was one time. Surely, I’ve made up for that awful moment. Even your mother forgave me for serving such a burnt dish.”
William chuckled, his stomach jiggling, proving he was doing more than fine on his wife’s cooking. “Tell that to Dusty. That dog still cowers when we bring a bucket of persimmons into the house.”
“I’m sure you’re a fine cook, Mrs. Olmstead. However, something’s come up. Arrived, really.” Amos stole a peek at Sophie, his face unreadable, but at least there was no scowl. “A personal—”
Margaret’s eyes grew large, her gaze darting back and forth between Sophie and Amos. She thumped her knuckles against William’s chest. “Is this who I think it is?”
William’s beard pulled upward as he chewed in his bottom lip. He stilled Margaret’s knocking fingers. “I don’t know why you’re asking me?”
She rose on tiptoes and tugged on William’s ear. “When will you learn to use these? The good Lord knows He’s gone near blessed ya with an acre of them. You were at the pastor interviews. Hmm? This must be her. The pastor’s future wife.”
“Depends on the vote.” A gruff male voice carried across the sanctuary. From the corner, a man marched toward their group, the spurs on his boots echoing with each rattled step. Graying whiskers covered his chin and a mole rode on top of his left eyebrow. He took in all of Sophie the way men had assessed Momma in her work attire.
Sophie shivered and crossed her arms over her chest.
William grunted. “Majority will rule, Hanson. You’ve already swayed the preacher into ordering a wife. So you see, even you can’t say he’s not the perfect man for the job.”
A vote? Wasn’t Amos already their pastor? The church wasn’t going to vote on their upcoming marriage, were they? Mrs. T never discussed anything on that church matter. Amos’ first letter explained why he desired to obtain a wife quickly, but he failed to mention she’d have to be approved of—by more than just him.
Margaret clapped, the feather on her hat wavering like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. “That’s it.” She pointed at Amos, as if Hanson hadn’t added a layer of tension. “That’s why you were trying to get out of your invitation to lunch. Not because of my cooking, William. You thought you’d be rude asking to bring your intended along with you.” She clucked her tongue. “Have no fear. Ha! See what I did there? Your sermon being on the fear of the Lord. Which was intriguing and profound. Anyhow, I’ve got plenty of stew.”
She clapped her hands twice more as if she might break into a jig. Did church people do that sort of thing? Sophie wasn’t certain of all the rules yet. Pastor T had assured her she knew all the important ones. She hoped so.
“I’m the luckiest lady in the church.” Margaret continued on, without kicking up her heels. “What an opportunity to be the first to get to know our soon-to-be pastor’s wife. What a fit the quilting circle will make when they discover I got to feed you first.”
“Humph,” Hanson grumbled.
William arched his shoulders. “Would you like to join us for some stew, Hanson? Oliver and Ruby, too. As my wife said, we’ve got plenty.” The few other families circulating the sanctuary stopped their conversations. The whole room seemed to be leaning in, waiting for Hanson’s answer.
“Hardly.” He gave Sophie one more glance-over before stomping away and slamming the church doors behind him.
&
nbsp; William shifted closer to Amos. “Don’t worry about Hanson. And I believe if you give everyone a quick introduction, the crowd will get what they stayed for, and we can be on our way to eat that stew.”
Amos smiled, but his jaw was clenched. “Welcome to Hilltop Chapel, Sophie. These are the elders and their families. Well, most of them.” He introduced them, their names bouncing around Sophie’s mind. She’d met so many new people, learned so many things since Pastor T found her kneeling near Momma’s grave and offered her a life outside the saloon. How would she ever remember it all? “And this is Sophie Ross, my fiancée.”
Margaret sighed. “Ahh, I remember the good ol’ days of courting. Pastor Amos, don’t forget women like flowers and gifts and walks and compliments.” She shot William a heated look before beaming at Sophie. “But you won’t have any trouble coming up with compliments like William. Sophie here’s a beauty. Truly.” The other wives nodded, murmuring their agreement. After a moment, Margaret’s brows narrowed, and she put her fists on her hips. “Pastor Amos, isn’t she a beauty?”
Amos blinked twice before loosening his tie. “Yes. Of course. Sophie, you look…” The tiniest bead of sweat etched on his brow as his lips worked silently.
Sympathy clutched at her uneasy middle. The poor man. Nothing like putting him on the spot. She shook her head. He didn’t have to give her a compliment. Didn’t have to do any of those things Margaret listed off. He’d pledged to marry her. Nothing else was required, especially in front of all these strangers.
“You’re more than I dared to pray for,” he whispered.
How wrong she’d been. She did need to hear those words. His approval settled in her heart, much richer praise than hearing anything concerning her appearance, because she’d seen firsthand how quickly outward beauty faded.
“All right.” William rubbed his palms together. “Dinnertime.”
The knot that had awoken Sophie this morning tightened at the thought of food. Lord, please let these nerves go away soon.
Amos gave her a crooked grin as if he, too, had been praying the same thing. Maybe it wasn’t doubt she’d seen earlier in his eyes, but a mirror of her own nerves. What a gift God had given her, a man who could overlook her upbringing. Now, if only the congregation would agree.