Montana Brides Collection: Mail Order Brides of Montana, #4

By Emma West

Read all three sister's stories in this collection.
Book 1
Jake placed an ad for a mail-order bride when he lost a bet, now he wants it removed. There's no room in his life or heart for a wife. 

In Boston, Marianne finds Jake's ad and desperate to get out of poverty along with her two sisters has her hoping a train to Montana to meet Jake. Somehow she must convince him she's the perfect wife and find suitable husbands for them all.

Book 2
Emily doesn't want to settle for just a husband and a home, she wants love. And she won't fall for a drunken gambler like her sister. Problem is when she first meets Nathan, he's been drinking and brings her sister's fiancé home drunk. 

Nathan's never wanted a woman until Emily crashes into his life. Now he can't imagine life without her. But the Montana winter is unpredictable and soon he's fighting for his and Emily's lives in the mountains. 

Book 3
Sarah is happy for her sisters and their upcoming marriages, but she can't tell them that being alone with a man frightens her. Despite being drawn to the local minister, she's determined to stay away. If only her heart would agree. 

Reverend Jones has given up on love since twice he fell for the wrong woman. Now he wants to focus on his work and aid Sarah who is determined to go her own way and not accept help. He can't stop thinking about her, but does she feel the same for him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma West
• Release date: Jan 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386997238

Emma West

Sign-up for Emma´s newsletter by copying the link into your browser - http://eepurl.com/bye8C1.  Emma lives in Colorado with her family. When she is not writing about the wild west and researching about past times. Then, she is travelling thinking of new story ideas.  Emma loves to hear from her readers, so post a message or connect with her on Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Emma-West/753559004754665.

Book preview

Book 1

JAKE & MARIANNE

BY EMMA WEST

Chapter 1

Montana, 1882

JAKE

Jake had never drunk so much alcohol in his life. Damn Nathan and Brian and their poker game. His friends had convinced him to put an ad in the paper for a mail-order bride.

Of course, it helped that his brain was muddled with alcohol at the time. Now, his head pounded with every step as he strode against the bright rising sun to the post office.

Yesterday, he’d been conned into placing the ad for a wife, and it sounded sane after four glasses of whiskey…or was it five?

Trinity River City was nestled in the Montana Territory, complete with a bustling post office that doubled as a newspaper, a modest church, a cozy inn, a well-stocked general store, a tireless mill, and a lively bar.

And the only women in the town were Mrs. Nancy who ran the inn and was married to George who owned the bar, and Mrs. Jefferson, a widow, who ran the post office/telegraph station as if she was a school Meister who got the most money for her scowls.

The coarse grittiness coating the inside of Jake's mouth was a welcome distraction from the relentless pounding in his skull.

With every resounding clang of his blacksmith’s hammer against the stubborn metal, a jarring throb pulsed through his temples.

How would he get anything done today? He needed to fill his orders for horseshoes, and a pair of stirrups for Brian.

First, he just wanted to get the ad taken out of the paper and get on with his life. Many men on the frontier ordered their wives through the mail: but Jake never wanted to or thought any good would come of it.

When he pushed open the door, a bell chimed, and he forced back a wince.

Morning Jake. Mrs. Jefferson nodded. What can I do for you today?

Morning. Jake rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. I made a mistake. I need to remove the ad I placed before closing yesterday.

Instead of answering, Mrs. Jefferson placed her hands on her hips and looked down her thin nose at Jake. You’ve been without a woman’s company for far too long, Jake, Mrs. Jefferson scolded, her thin lips pursed in disapproval. Don't think your late-night solitudes go unnoticed. You need a wife, not more nights spent nursing a bottle.

Look, it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have run the ad. Nathan and Brian bet me and I lost. He leaned forward on the counter since the room started spinning. Pull the ad and forget about it.

It’s not that simple. She shook her head.

Sure it is; just remove it.

All the ads for the week go in on Friday through the telegraph. It’s Saturday, so your ad made it to the paper. And since you were so boastful last night, if you don’t remember, you had me send it to all the major newspapers back east.

He smacked his hand on the counter and she jumped. Damn. How do I stop it?

You don’t. She smoothed her gray hair. You let it run its course and it’ll be done in a week.

He shut his eyes tight, a haunting parade of faceless women flickering in his mind's eye, all poring over his hastily written ad, desperation etched on their faces.

At least, he wouldn’t answer any letters if they came. That’s what Jesse had done in the next town and landed a wife who refused to let him drink on Sundays.

Jake didn’t need anyone telling him what he could and couldn’t do. He came here to be on his own. Not cater to a woman. He’d tried that once and the memory still burned him whenever he thought of what he lost with her death.

Give it some time. Mrs. Jefferson winked. I’m sure you’ll meet the right girl and settle down, not be drinking all night.

I don’t want any woman. If I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t write an ad for her.

Mrs. Jefferson bristled. It’s a perfectly fine way to get a wife. Exchange some letters so you learn about each other’s character. She shook her finger at him. If you write letters, you better be sober and not lie or exaggerate. Maybe I should read them over before you send them, give you some tips.

No. I don’t want any wife or letters or any of this nonsense. He cursed and stomped toward the door.

Jake Thorn!

With a glance over his shoulder, she smacked a piece of paper down on the counter. You’d better take care of this before you leave.

Reluctantly, Jake marched back. Mrs. Jefferson tossed a scrap paper with black ink scrawled across it toward him. However, with his headache, it was hard for him to comprehend what the words said. What is this?

It’s your bill for the ad.

My bill? You placed my ad without payment?

She shrugged. You know if you don’t pay me, then I’ll tell Mrs. Nancy, who will tell her husband not to take your money for whiskey.

Double damn, she was right. Grumbling, Jake dug into his pockets and slapped the coins down on the counter. Is this enough?

That’ll do.

Good day. He dipped his hat and strode to the door.

One more thing, Jake.

Instead of growling, he forced words out through his gritted teeth. Yes, Mrs. Jefferson?

Don't let the ad trouble you, Jake, she called out, a sly smile curling her lips. After all, it's just a week. How much can possibly happen in such a short span?

Chapter

Two

MARIANNE

Marianne stared at the ad, her hands smoothing over the crinkled paper she’d found at the bottom of the trash to keep her warm during the night’s chill. Despite having sifted through dozens of mail-order bride ads over the past months, none had struck her quite like this.

Wanted: Wife. Someone to warm on harsh Montana nights and help tickle our children. Must be pretty, cook good, farm, be full-figured and play cards. Love, Jake.

She met all his criteria save one; unlike her two sisters, who were generously endowed, she only had apple-sized bosoms. But it was the heart that mattered. Surely, this Jake could overlook one forthcoming and give her a chance.

Besides, she was the eldest, and if this marriage worked out, she might find suitable husbands for her two sisters. Lord knows they needed to get out of the city and quit begging on the streets or doing odd jobs for a few coins.

Even with their curvy figures, she refused to let them become whores. So every morning, Marianne walked the town, asking for money or offering her services as a cook, cleaner, and sewer. Some felt sorry for her and her sisters, but charity only went so far.

They'd lost their mother to fever, and barely two years later, their father succumbed to a relentless cough that left his handkerchiefs stained with blood.

Pa had been a gambler and a drunk after Momma died.

She clung to the hopeful whisper in her heart that Montana would be different. Crisp mountain air and men. Lots of men. Even if this Jake didn’t work out, she was sure to find husbands for herself and her sisters. She just needed a way to get there.

There wasn’t enough savings for travel for all three of them to the new territory. But maybe there was enough to get her there. She tossed the paper in her basket, careful to line the bottom of it so the ad didn’t fall out the hole, and gathered dandelions to make a salad for dinner tonight.

After the sun dipped low in the horizon, she treaded through the forest to the patch of land her sister Emily had crafted them a makeshift shelter.

Still, on winter nights, the snow and freezing air sent her bones to aching, and she wasn’t yet twenty-two. The thought of Jake holding her body to his, both of them under a thick blanket, made her nearly trip over a tree branch.

Marianne? Sarah called out. That you?

Yes. Didn’t watch where I stepped. She rounded a fallen log and tossed down her basket at her sister’s small fire. To avoid detection and questions, they never burned a fire during the daylight.

Smoke in the forest made people investigate. The fire snapped and crackled as she fed it a few more pine twigs.

Let me wash our food in the creek and we can eat. Marianne knuckled her back.

I’ll do it. Emily, the youngest and most eager of the trio, scrambled for the basket.

Just be sure not to lose it like you did the hare this morning. Sarah shot her a glare.

Maybe in a few months, before winter, we won’t have to worry about catching our supper or staying warm. Marianne teetered between hope and worry, her feet unconsciously rocking back and forth.

And maybe gold will rain down from heaven. Sarah shook her head. Ever since Momma died, she’d been harsh.

Her toes screamed in protest, cramped and aching from the unforgiving confines of her boots. Marianne plopped down on the fallen log and took off her too-tight boots. The dirt and grass squished between her toes.

Damn it! She’d left the newspaper in the basket.

Not waiting to don her boots, she scrambled through the forest to the creek. Thick foliage scraped her ankles as she hiked up her skirts.

Knowing her sister, she’d be lucky if Emily didn’t fall into the water with their food. Yet, they had always let Emily help, even if her clumsy efforts sometimes resulted in empty stomachs. Their little sister's eager spirit was too precious to dampen

This mail-order bride was a chance for her and all of them for a better life.

Wait, Emily! A rock cut her foot, but she kept running. When she reached the bank, her breathing turned to panting. Don’t…don’t throw away the paper.

I’m not a fool. It’ll be winter before we know it, and we need all we can find to keep warm. The last paper blanket Sarah sewed us fell apart in February. She wiped her hands on her tattered yellow dress. It’s folded up with the dandelions in our basket. They’re washed and ready now.

Thank you. She hugged her sister.

What was that for?

Her hands shook with excitement as she gathered up the basket with one hand and led her sister back to camp with the other. Come on and I’ll show you while we eat.

Sarah's brow furrowed in doubt. So, your grand plan is to convince this Jake to take us in? And after that, you'll play matchmaker for us with some other Montana men?

Exactly.

If anyone can convince a stranger, it’s our Marianne. Sitting on a log, Emily’s legs bounced as she chewed on their salad. What do you think this Jake looks like?

And what if he’s old with a belly out to here? Sarah wobbled around holding her arms out in front of her.

While looks weren’t important to her, Marianne did want her husband to be someone who worked hard and she could depend on. Other than a warm bed, food, and a roof over her head, everything else was secondary.

A determined glint appeared in her eyes as she brandished the crinkled paper. Even if he demands I rub his hairy feet and bald head, I'd do it... as long as it means food, clothing, and a roof over our heads.

As the oldest, she’d make certain her two sisters found suitable matches in Montana too. Her happiness was a distant thought, a luxury she couldn't afford; survival was the priority.

But she wanted more for her sisters. Joy and love…or at least the possibility of the latter.

Crickets chirruped as their fire gnawed on twigs and fallen limbs they’d gathered.

Sarah's hand fluttered anxiously through the air. But Montana… it's so far away. How will you even get there?

I can sneak aboard a train and hop the rails to the Dakota Territory.

And then what? No train goes past Dakota that far north, Sarah said. Besides, you’ll have to ride three different railroads just to get to the Mississippi River. Besides, you’ve no idea what town in Montana to go to.

She’ll figure something out. Emily’s chin lifted. Always has.

Chapter

Three

JAKE

Fourteen and a half weeks later, Jake stamped his empty whisky glass on the saloon’s age-worn counter, the echo briefly silencing the normal din of rowdy patrons and the low hum of an out-of-tune piano.

Even though his ad ran for only a week, he’d gotten dozens of replies the first few weeks, after that, he stopped counting and just chucked them all in his fireplace. He didn’t want or need a wife. Somehow he’d pay back Nathan and Brian for their bet and drunken night.

At least the women would stop writing him as soon as they realized he wasn’t returning their letters. How long would that be?

And Mrs. Jefferson had obviously told the only other woman in town. Yesterday, Mrs. Nancy asked him if he’d narrowed down any of his dozen letters and a few telegraphs arriving daily now.

Give me another one. Jake slid his empty glass to George.

Don’t want a repeat of your mail-order ad, do we? Luke the widower winked at George. Getting drunk to find a wife, that's a new one. Most men drink to forget.

Mind your own, will ya. Jake scowled and grabbed the bottle from George.

Everywhere he turned, from the saloon to the blacksmith shop, townfolk had their noses stuck in his affairs. Each pair of prying eyes was like a physical invasion of his privacy, their whispers echoing in his ears even in the solitude of his own home. There was no peace for Jake in this damn town.

Even Reverend Jones offered to help him pray over the women’s letters for God to send the right one.

There was no right woman. Not for Jake. Not after Ruth died of the fever with their unborn child. Then again, perhaps the reverend wanted to read the letters to scope out his own wife? Whatever.

Jake, you're needed! Simon, a lanky, freckled face lad with a spirit as vast as the Montana plains, burst into the saloon. He was Luke's eldest and had an inexplicable admiration for Jake, often following him around like a keen shadow.

The whisky sloshed over the side of the bottle. Hold on there, you’re making me spill good whiskey.

And you’ll pay for each drop whether your drink it or not. George’s voice was a gravelly rumble as he methodically wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better days.

You gotta come now. Simon wouldn’t stop yanking on his arm.

Carefully, Jake set the bottle down. Don’t give that to anyone else. All right, Simon. What is it?

Not answering, Simon kept tugging until Jake rose and followed after him. Where are we going? If someone was hurt, Simon would know to get Doc, not him. What could a blacksmith and part farmer do to help someone who needed medical aid?

Your mail’s here.

Jake stopped in the middle of the town street. A horse neighed and music sounded in the distance luring him back to the saloon. What? I don’t have time for this. Tell Mrs. Jefferson to burn the letters or trash them. I don’t care.

Can’t burn this one.

Why not? He crossed his arms. Why was he letting an eleven-year-old get to him?

Just ‘cause. You’ve got to see this for yourself. You ain’t gonna believe it. The boy raced off to the post office, not even glancing behind him.

Horse crap! With a swift, aggravated kick at the dirt, Jake fell into a determined march after the boy. Mrs. Jefferson would do as he'd commanded and leave him alone– he'd make sure of that.

If he had to endure one more knowing smirk or pointed comment about his bride-to-be, he might lose his mind.

He could already envision Reverend Jones leafing through the letters with a sanctimonious grin, his voice ringing out in Sunday sermon about the virtues of marriage. The thought of surrendering his personal matters to such a spectacle set his teeth on edge.

When he entered, the bell over the door jangled and he gritted his teeth.

"Mrs. Jefferson,

Reviews for Montana Brides Collection

[vickie lovelady · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It would have been nice to hear about the other sisters wedding also but all in all they were cute romance story's