Sixteen Brides Read online

  Her bogus recovery complete, Caroline stood up. “Well, sir, I thank you very kindly for bein’ such a gentleman. However, I believe I’ll have to compose myself further before writin’ dear Aunt Tillie. Perhaps I’ll wait until I’ve reached Cayote.” She hoped aloud the Cayote telegraph office wasn’t overrun with vile rodents and such.

  When Mr. McDonald offered to walk her to the Immigrant House, Caroline thanked him in her most syrupy voice. “But I wouldn’t dream of takin’ a man away from his duty.” She took her leave, Drake’s printed telegram crumpled in the palm of one gloved hand.

  “Jeb Cooper?” Matthew called out. The stranger was leaning his one arm atop the sod enclosure behind the station while he looked over the milling livestock. “I’m Ransom.” When the man straightened up, he was head and shoulders above Matthew—and Matthew was not a small man. The stranger said nothing, only nodded as his good hand swallowed Matthew’s in a firm grasp. Between the scraggly beard and the hat pulled down on his forehead, about the only thing Jeb Cooper seemed to be willing to reveal to the world was intelligent blue eyes that looked right through Matthew in a clear, honest gaze.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I—” Matthew glanced toward the dining hall, where Linney was hard at work sweeping the front stoop. “My daughter—”

  “You haven’t told her yet.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Matthew shook his head, grateful for the distraction when the owner of the golden parasol he’d seen from the livery emerged from the other side of the sod corral and began to hurry across the prairie toward the Immigrant House. He couldn’t imagine an elegant thing like her would have signed on with Hamilton Drake if she truly understood what was in store for her.

  A gust of wind ripped the parasol out of the woman’s hands and flung it out of reach. It tumbled across the prairie in spite of its owner’s scampering attempts to catch up with it. Matthew went after it without thinking, moving in an easy lope that quickly retrieved the ridiculous thing, although by the time he did, the shimmering gold silk was much the worse for its encounter with various grasses and, Matthew saw as he bent to retrieve the parasol, a rusted can likely left by the encampment of soldiers who’d spent a few weeks here this spring.

  He couldn’t quite decipher the look on her face as he carried the parasol toward her. Was she afraid of him? He supposed he did look rather…beastly. Something emptied his brain of words, and he stood, parasol in hand, as dumb as the oxen Jeb Cooper was yoking up over by the corral.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, in a lilting voice that spoke of gentility and privilege.

  What on earth was she doing out here? Still at a loss for words, Matthew reacted as habit dictated—or as it had for the past few years of his life. With a nod, he handed over the parasol and strode away.

  Jubal A. Cooper—Plum Grove, Nebraska—1871. Together Matthew and Jeb lowered the massive inscribed trunk into the wagon bed Cooper had parked alongside the train. Next came the smaller crates, nearly a dozen of them, stamped Arbuckle Coffee, Lion Coffee, Paxton Coffee, and other brands Matthew had never encountered before. Finally, he joked, “You planning to open a dining hall?”

  Cooper looked confused for a minute, but when Matthew pointed to the lettering stamped on one box, a chuckle rumbled from his thick chest. “It’s not coffee,” he said. He didn’t explain, although he did continue to chuckle as he shouldered the last box and settled it on the wagon seat. This one he wrapped in a rubber sheet before tying it down and pointing to the pile of lumber in the corner of the freight car. “That’s mine, too,” he said. Together the men piled board after board atop the wagon load until Matthew began to wonder if the oxen would be able to manage it. Finally, Cooper said, “That’s it,” and tossed the end of a rope across the load.

  Matthew helped him tie it in place. Seeing that Linney had finished sweeping and gone inside, he walked alongside as Cooper drove the oxen past the dry goods store in the direction of the homestead north of town. The aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the front door of the dining hall made Cooper “whoa” the oxen to a halt. “Don’t mind if I have a cup,” he said. “How about you?”

  Matthew hesitated. He’d already been in Plum Grove longer than he wanted to be, and he didn’t care to take a chance on having to explain to Linney—

  “Pa!”

  —and here she was, broom in hand. “I thought you were headed back to the—” She stopped short, instantly shy at the sight of Jeb Cooper standing next to the wagon.

  Matthew introduced Cooper even as he cast a desperate expression the man’s way. Please don’t let on. “Mr. Cooper was unloading by himself. It seemed he could use a hand.” He winced inwardly at the reference to hands, but Cooper didn’t seem to take offense.

  “Then you’ve seen the ladies,” Linney said.

  “Some of them.”

  “Your pa here rescued a parasol for one of ’em,” Cooper offered.

  “A gold one?” When Matthew nodded, she enthused, “Isn’t it the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Mrs. Jamison’s already come into the mercantile to see if Martha had anything suitable to mend the rip.” Linney frowned. “Of course we don’t carry silks and such. But Mrs. Jamison was so nice. Martha offered to special order for her and send the package over to Cayote. Martha said she wished they were staying here in Plum Grove. She doesn’t like Mr. Drake very much, and—”

  Just then a stream of customers started heading their way. “Believe I’ll get that coffee now,” Cooper said. He ducked inside.

  “I gotta get inside,” Linney said. “You won’t leave without saying good-bye again, will you?”

  “Of course not.” With a quick peck on her cheek, Matthew made his escape around to the back door of the dining hall. Smelling Martha Haywood’s roast beef dinner almost overcame his unease about being around a bunch of ladies. Almost. But not quite.

  Caroline paused just inside the Immigrant House’s double doors to collect herself. Laughter emanated from the other side of the doors on the right labeled Women’s Dormitory. On the left, a door stood open. Jackson Dow had apparently been waiting on a cot just inside the men’s dormitory, for when he saw Caroline, he jumped up and came to the door with a small white bag in hand.

  “Your peppermints,” he said, then blushed bright red as he relayed the message that his mother was “indisposed.” “She wanted me to ask you to meet her in the kitchen.” He frowned. “Something about meeting before a meeting?” He motioned toward the far end of the building. “It’s back there. Through the dining room.”

  Caroline gave a little curtsey. “Why, thank you, Master George Washington Jackson Dow the Second.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I hate it when Mother does that…thing…like she did at lunch yesterday. It’s like she’s reading a proclamation…like she expects everyone to be so impressed.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact,” Caroline said, “I am impressed. Your father was a great man.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “Not personally. But I read about him during the war. He was beloved by his men. I didn’t know he’d passed on until your mother told us at lunch yesterday. I am truly sorry about your father.”

  “I don’t remember much about him.” He sounded wistful. “I wish I did. Mother talks about him all the time, but it’s not the same.”

  The poor child. Caroline had been so wrapped up in herself for all this way she hadn’t given much thought to how it must feel to be the only boy in this bunch of women. The way he’d jumped up to bring her the peppermints took on a new poignancy as she thought about Jackson sitting in that huge dormitory all by himself listening to the women’s voices echo through the building. She nodded toward the kitchen. “When my brothers were about your age, we used to sneak peppermints out of the candy jar and melt them in hot water. We called it Sweet-mint Tea. Want to try it before your mother gets back from the necessary?”

  “There’s something you all need to know before we
go to supper,” Ruth said to the fifteen women crowded into the Immigrant House kitchen. “I was in the train station getting a drink of water when I heard Mr. Drake—” She repeated what Drake had said as he dispersed the group of men who’d gathered to meet their train.

  Caroline stood up to add her part. “So when we realized Mr. Drake was sendin’ a telegram, we…well, I…managed to…borrow…a copy.” She read aloud. “‘Sixteen brides arrive eight P.M. Southern belle. General’s wife. Farm women. All lovely. Sixteen dance cards confirmed. First dance guaranteed. Cash due by noon Friday.’”

  At first the women sat motionless staring at one another, their expressions ranging from disbelief to shock to anger. Sally Grant was the first to speak. “He didn’t say nothin’ about a dance or any of that other at the meetin’ I went to.”

  “Nor at mine,” Ruth said.

  Ella Barton spoke up. “It was all about the land. That’s what I’ve come for.”

  “And I,” Ruth agreed. She glanced around the room. “We can speak freely, by the way. I’ve sent my son on an errand and told him to meet us at the dining hall.”

  One of the sisters spoke up. She didn’t mind the idea so much, she said. “But I most certainly do mind it all being prearranged without our knowing about it.” She glanced at her sisters, who nodded agreement. “And the idea of his collecting money for dances?” She shook her head. “That’s not right.”

  “Well, what are we gonna do about it?” Sally asked.

  “Tar and feathers come to mind,” Mavis Morris said, and nervous laughter circled the table.

  “What are you gonna do?” Sally asked Ruth.

  “I only know what I’m not going to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “My son and I are not getting back on that train. I am not going to allow Mr. Hamilton Drake to earn so much as one cent from my dance card.” She glanced at Caroline. “Mrs. Jamison and I will be staying here in Plum Grove.”

  “You going back east?” Sally asked.

  Ruth shrugged. “I don’t know.” There’s nothing back there for me.

  “What about you?” Sally nodded at Caroline.

  “I’ve got nothin’ to go back to,” the southerner said.

  “Me neither,” Sally said. “But I got no interest in puttin’ myself under a roof owned by a man ever again.” She looked around the room. “You all probably got me figured for a whore ’cause I talk so rough. But I ain’t.” She cleared her throat. “I was married. It weren’t no fun. He beat on me one too many times. When he broke my arm I divorced the b—” She broke off. “Sorry.” She took a deep breath. “So. I’m divorced. But I ain’t no whore. Never was. Never will be. I’d die before I’d have to face my ma on Judgment Day with that on my account.” She smiled. “Guess a body’d think I’d be most worried ’bout facin’ Jesus with such as that on my account. But Jesus was way nicer to whores than my ma’d be if she was to catch me doin’ such.” She sniffed. “I’d-a never married old Ray Gosset if my ma’d stuck to this earth. But she just had to fly away when the angels took a notion to call her up.”

  For a while no one said anything. Then Ella Barton spoke up. “You know anything about chickens, Mrs. Grant?”

  Sally frowned. “What’s there to know? You get some hens and a rooster and keep the varmints out of the coop. Why?”

  “Well,” Ella said, “when I get a homestead I will be busy with plowing and cattle and crops. Mama will be busy with cooking and sewing. We could use someone for chickens—and maybe the garden.”

  A faint smile curled Sally’s mouth up at the corners. “Chickens, huh?” She nodded. “I could tend me some chickens.”

  Ella Barton would always remember the look on Hamilton Drake’s face when, after he’d taken a big bite of Martha Haywood’s succulent roast beef, he was confronted by the reading of the telegram he’d sent. Mama actually giggled as the man’s face flushed. He stopped chewing. Took a sip of water. Chewed some more. And then, when the ladies leaned forward and began to ask questions, he barely managed to get that roast beef down.

  “What’s this ‘bride business’ that rancher mentioned to Mrs. Dow?”

  “Did you really arrange for a circuit rider to come through Cayote on Sunday?”

  “You didn’t tell us about a dance. You sold the first dance?”

  “Is anything you said about Nebraska true?”

  “Can we even get free land?”

  God forgive her, Ella enjoyed watching the beads of sweat collect on Drake’s brow. When he finally jumped to his feet, Ella thought he might be bent on fleeing, but the burly man leaning against the doorframe sipping coffee precluded that. And when she realized that Mrs. Haywood was standing in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed, a butcher knife poised in one hand, Ella decided once and for all that Martha Haywood was a woman whose friendship would be worth earning.

  “Ladies. Please, ladies.” Drake held his hands up, palms out. He cleared his throat. “No matter what you might have heard, there is free homestead land available in—”

  “No. There isn’t. Not near Cayote.” The scrape of Ella’s chair legs across the bare wood floor was the only sound as she stood up to speak. “I paid a visit to the newspaper office just now. They have a copy of a very interesting map. It shows all the land the government gave the railroad. Land they can now sell to recover their costs for laying all that track. Millions of acres. As it happens, all of the acres around the town of Cayote are for sale.” Ella paused. “There is no free land near Cayote, Mr. Drake.”

  Mama stood up beside her. “Shame on you. You must have known that. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Well, now”—Drake reached up to loosen his collar—“‘near to town’ means something different out here than it does in St. Louis. Homesteaders out here think nothing of driving a dozen miles just to go to a dance.” He glanced Mrs. Haywood’s way. “Isn’t that true, Mrs. Haywood?”

  “True or not,” Mrs. Haywood said, “we both know there isn’t any free land around Cayote, and these ladies seem fairly certain you said there was.”

  Ella gestured around the table. “You promised free land near town.

  And you knew very well what we heard when you said that.”

  “Eighteen dollars in filing fees,” Ruth Dow offered. “One hundred and sixty acres free and clear in five years’ time. That’s what I heard.”

  “It’s what the law says,” Ella added.

  Caroline spoke up. “But you never gave the law much thought, did you, Mr. Drake? You never expected the land to be a problem because you’ve assumed we’ll all get married right away. In fact, you’ve all but promised that to the men who received this telegram, haven’t you?” She waved the paper in the air.

  Ruth’s voice wavered as she said, “And you shooed those men off the platform today for fear they’d give away the real meaning behind the Ladies Emigration Society before you had a chance to collect even more money on Friday.”

  Drake’s eyes darted around the table. He swallowed. “You have misunderstood my intentions.”

  Sally sat back and folded her arms. “I’m listening. You gonna explain?”

  When Drake nodded and said he would “gladly” explain, Ella and Mama sat back down.

  Drake cleared his throat. “The telegram was meant to provide a possible—and I emphasize that word ‘possible’—alternative for those of you who might have been somewhat…daunted, shall we say, by the landscape as we came west. I well remember the look on your faces when we crossed the burned prairie. Why, I half expected some of you to have turned back by now. And who would blame you? It seemed only reasonable that having some unmarried gentlemen meet the train in Cayote might provide yet another alternative. One that might be attractive—”

  “To who? To someone with an idea to sell first dances?” Sally’s cheeks flushed red as she said, “I made it real clear at the meetin’ I attended that I don’t want no man, and you was wrong to bring me out here thinkin’ you could change my mind.” She
paused. “And fer yer information, who I do and do not dance with is not up to any two-legged, low-down—”

  Drake interruped. “I assure you, Mrs. Grant, that no one is going to force you to—”

  “Well, at least you got one thing right,” Sally snapped. “I’m not takin’ one more step in any direction you got a thing to do with.”

  Mavis Morris warbled, “I want that return ticket.”

  “So do I.” Mrs. Smith and three others spoke in unison.

  Drake closed his eyes in a pose that made Ella think of the minister at Milton’s church. She never had liked that man.

  Taking a deep breath, he insisted, “You have misjudged both me and the fine citizens of Cayote. Especially considering that you haven’t so much as seen—”

  “I’ve seen,” Mavis said. “Just like you said: burned prairie and flat land. I wouldn’t leave a dog I didn’t like out here.”

  “Even St. Louis had its beginning, Mrs. Morris. A few years from now—”

  But Mavis wasn’t having any of it. “St. Louis also had a navigable river and trees,” she retorted even as she stretched her arms wide and motioned around them. “There’s nothing outside these four walls but grass and sky.”

  “Actually…” The one-armed stranger blocking the doorway spoke up, his voice a gentle rumble. “You may not have seen it yet, but there is plenty besides grass and sky out here.” When Ella looked his way, the stranger set his coffee mug down and took his hat off. He dipped his head in a half bow. “Jeb Cooper’s my name. I just bought a pre-emption. Good house, spring-fed watering hole, rich land. If a man—or a woman—has time and determination, Dawson County has a lot to offer.”

  Mama thanked him “for filling that doorway at just the right time.”

  “Glad to be of help.” Cooper put his hat back on and returned to lounging in the doorway.

  One of the four sisters spoke up to ask Mr. Drake if he’d ever done anything like this before. When he said yes, she glanced at her siblings, who nodded back. “And did those ladies marry right away?”