Surprising Charity

By Marsha Ward

August 1867: Civil War widow Charity Bingham has turned her back on the past in Virginia, and now she bakes and oversees the meals in the Albuquerque House Hotel in the town she has adopted. Her daughters are married, and she looks forward to a quiet life of doing her job and playing with her growing brood of grandchildren.

Pedro Chaves drowns in grief due to his wife’s death. The only solace he finds is in prayer. Then the ghost of an Anglo soldier repeatedly interrupts his prayers with an outrageous demand. Pedro's priest says God must want him to make a sacrifice, and sends him, against his will, to beg la señora Bingham to marry him. If God and the ghost of the widow’s husband want Pedro to give the woman his name and his protection, perhaps he can learn to live with the situation.

Charity's heart reacts when Pedro rides into town. She knows he’s a married man; she should have no interest in him. They only met because his family gave her family shelter from a blizzard. Then he proposes a marriage of convenience, telling her about his loss and the pesky ghost. Not thinking too much about the risks, Charity agrees to marry him.

Trouble begins on the journey to Pedro's rancho when Charity yearns for him to honor his vows. All of them. Soon, he desires to do so, but they aren't alone. Charity's teenage son travels with them.

A sensual story of two mature people whose wedding takes place in a hurry, but whose romancing will take a bit longer.

Can be read anytime, or after Trail of Storms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marsha Ward
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781947306189

Marsha Ward

Marsha Ward was born in the sleepy little town of Phoenix, Arizona, and grew up with chickens, citrus trees, and lots of room to roam. She began telling stories at a very early age, regaling neighborhood chums with her tales over homemade sugar cookies and milk. Her love of 19th Century Western history was reinforced by visits to her cousins on their ranch and listening to her father's stories of homesteading in Old Mexico and in the Tucson area.Over the years, Marsha became an award-winning poet, writer and editor, with over 900 pieces of published work. She is the founder of American Night Writers Association and a member of Western Writers of America, Indie Author Hub, and Arizona Professional Writers. She makes her home in a tiny forest hamlet in Arizona. When she is not writing, she loves to give talks, meet readers, and sign books.

Book preview

From the Back Cover

August 1867: When Don Pedro Chaves arrives in Albuquerque begging Charity Bingham to marry him at the behest of her late husband's ghost, she is stunned. She had thought her life would be lived out baking pies and bread and cakes for hotel guests and loving on her increasing brood of grandchildren. Now, this man she barely knows wants a marriage of convenience.

A moderately spicy story of two mature people whose wedding takes place in a hurry, but whose romancing will take a bit longer.

Best read after the Owen Family Saga novel, Trail of Storms.

Surprising Charity

Shenandoah Neighbors

Marsha Ward

Surprising Charity

Copyright © 2020 Marsha Ward

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Chapter 1

Tuesday, August 13, 1867 – Charity Bingham

Charity Bingham sat on the wooden veranda of the Albuquerque House in a brand-new rocking chair, taking in the late afternoon sun as it slanted under the porch roof to bathe her in light. The day’s heat increased by the hour, but she welcomed this respite in the outdoor air.

She wore her workaday outfit of a light-colored muslin bodice and skirt, patterned with sprigs of moss roses, and a gathered white cap of softer fabric that covered both the crown of her head and the knot by which she had captured her blonde hair that morning. Two nights before, she thought she had spied a gray hair as she brushed her locks, but before she could pluck it out, it had disappeared into the still abundant tresses. Although she usually wore her flour-covered apron from morning until night, she had abandoned it before she left the kitchen.

Charity oversaw the meals and baked bread and pastries for the guests of this, the only hotel in the town. She didn’t mind the familiar work, but the air in the stifling kitchen was too heavy and close for her taste.

When her elder son, Maxwell, had written home after the end of the terrible war with the Yankees and urged the family to join him in the West, she didn’t have time to inform Max that his father had died of his dire war injuries before an unexpected violence forced her and the family to flee Virginia in the dark of night. Their long, taxing journey had taken the better part of a year. Shortly after she and the family arrived in Albuquerque, Charity had begun her duties in the kitchen and had remained in charge there for the past four months.

She had no prior notion that Maxwell wanted kitchen staff for a hotel he managed, but he was a practical man, and she understood his thinking. He was so like his late father in that respect. It would have been useful, though, if Max had made his intentions clear. With the help from Charity, he saw nothing but prosperity ahead. She did not begrudge her son his success. She only wondered if being in the kitchen was all that her future held.

Max had surprised her today. By way of thanking her for her uncomplaining labors, he had ordered for her this gleaming, handmade oak rocker. A man from the carpenter shop down the street delivered it just about noon. Now she took delight in the precious experience of leisure time.

Other than the existence of the wood-framed hotel, Charity didn’t see much to recommend the town beyond having her family reunited at last. Although she had learned it was over one hundred fifty years old, the place appeared, at most, to be a haphazardly built village of mud buildings surrounding a square, or plaza, as they called it here, of two or three acres. She supposed she would live out her life in this desert community, surrounded by Spanish-speaking inhabitants, tending to meals for travelers, and enjoying an expanding number of grandchildren.

She stroked the smooth arms of the new chair and used her foot to keep it rocking. Her youngest daughter, Jessie, had married her beloved James Owen in early April, shortly after their arrival. Charity wondered if she was increasing yet. Her eldest daughter, Hannah, and her husband, Robert Fletcher, had a child, little Robert. Hannah’s twin, Heppie, whose right name was Hepzibah, had presented her husband, George Heizer, with a daughter two weeks ago. A third grandchild would be an additional blessing in their family.

As Charity rocked, storm clouds built in the sky, huge black monstrosities that took on the appearance of creatures from the infernal pit. A slight breeze brought with it the scent of moisture. Although rain would bring benefits to the dry country around Albuquerque, its torrential fall would disrupt her new idyll. She wondered how soon the storm would hit.

Several other people— mostly men, mostly travelers— also sat on the porch, rocking, reading the local newspaper, or smoking a pipe as they too observed the looming clouds. The man sitting closest to her looked in her direction and said, Excuse me, madam. Those are ominous-looking clouds. Are your storms fierce?

Gully washers, she replied, echoing a term Max had used the day before, and the man, satisfied at her answer, returned to digesting the news of the week.

In truth, Charity previously had no idea what those words meant. Max hadn’t explained, so she was left to figure out on her own that by gully, he meant the large gashes in the earth that she would have called runs, had they carried water. Usually dry, the gullies had indeed briefly run like a normal stream during and after yesterday afternoon’s violent rainstorm. However, the parched earth greedily soaked up the moisture, so that by this morning, the gullies seemed as dry as they had been before the rain had come.

A lone horseman appeared out of the mouth of a street leading to the plaza, skirted the side of the square, then turned onto the road that passed in front of the hotel. He sat upright in the saddle, wearing a long tan duster and a felt hat of the same color. As he came closer, Charity felt a slight flutter in her chest. She recognized the gentleman on horseback from the previous winter. He was the gracious host who had given her and her traveling family shelter from a blizzard.

What business brought Don Pedro Chaves so far south?

The don was a married man with a charming wife, so Charity couldn’t explain the fluttering sensation. She had no reason to have any girlish notions about him, and indeed, she never had done so up to this moment. However, to her great chagrin, the flutter continued. In fact, she also felt her cheeks heating up, causing her a fair bit of consternation at her reactions to the man’s sudden appearance in her town. What a bother!

As she watched in increasing discomfort, Don Pedro rode nearer and nearer to the hotel. His hair, visible below the bottom edge of his hat, glistened silver in the sunlight as he approached.

Charity snatched the white cap off her head and patted her hair into order, chiding herself for her foolishness as she did so, and at the same time, wondering why his hair was not as she remembered it: a dark brown that gleamed in the light.

He drew his horse to a stop before a hitch rail pounded securely into the earth. His face appeared thinner than last winter, more drawn than she had seen it before. Lines that had not been in evidence when last she saw him creased his cheeks, and she caught her breath at his worn appearance. Has the man been ill?

Don Pedro dismounted with a fluid grace and paused beside the horse for a moment, slapping his hat against the linen garment that hung below his knees. Dust billowed momentarily in the breeze, then settled on the street. He wrapped his bridle reins around the hitch rail and strode toward the steps. At a closer view, the hair on his head appeared to have changed color from when she had first met him. Mere months ago, as she had just recalled, it had been a rich, dark brown with a slight amount of silver mixed in. Now his head was capped with a preponderance of silver hair, with only a scattering of brown. He must surely have been profoundly ill.

She saw him paste on a smile. It seemed to cost him effort, and she again wondered why he had come. Her hands trembled in her lap. She stuffed the cap under her skirt.

By now his dark eyes were fixed upon hers, and as he reached the top step, his hat twitched in his hand, then he approached where she sat motionless and upright in the rocker.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Why hadn’t she brought a piece of hand work with her to the veranda? She curled her fingers into balls, watching him come, then rose to her feet as he stopped before her.

"Señora Bingham."

He said no more, standing like a statue, upright, holding his hat in two hands before him, like a shield.

"Señ- Don Pedro, she stammered. What a surprise to see you."

He gazed about the porch. Is there a place where we converse in the private?

As she mentally chastised herself for harboring a foolishly fluttering heart, his accented and slightly unconventional English fell on her ears as though the words were musical notes.

Yes. There are seats in the lobby inside. Come with me.

He took one step back and waited until she had passed in front of him, then followed, his boot heels clicking on the planks as the rowels on his spurs tinkled in accompaniment to his stride.

He leaned around her to open the door and she entered the lobby, unsettled by how closely he followed her. After a few steps, she gestured to a nook before a window that overlooked an alley that ran along the side of the building. A pair of green upholstered chairs stood in the nook, pointed toward the alley view. Small side tables braced the chairs.

She walked in front of one of the chairs and remained standing as he set his hat on the table beside him and took a seat.

You have come far. She pointed toward the back of the hotel. May I bring you a refreshment from the kitchen?

"Sí. That is to say, ‘yes’. If you have the glass of water? He made it a question with the rising inflection in his voice, then added, I do not require more than that."

Water we do have. Freshly drawn and cool from the well. She cast off the uncertain maiden in favor of the gracious hostess and left him for a few moments to retrieve a tumbler of water as well as her equilibrium.

She brought back two tumblers on a tray, along with a half-filled pitcher. She’d brought along the second tumbler in case she decided to join him. Her throat certainly had become parched since his arrival.

She set the tray on the nearest table, poured water into the first tumbler, and handed it to him, relieved that his fingers did not touch hers. She cleared her throat. "You are far from home, señor."

He drank of the water and swallowed. I am, he agreed.

Having decided she needed a drink of water, too, she filled the second tumbler, and then sat.

Have you come to Albuquerque on business? She sipped her water.

In a way, he said, avoiding her eyes as he again drank. Not, you will please understand, in the usual way of business.

You have my entire attention.

Don Pedro drained his glass, took in a large quantity of air afterward, then seemed to hesitate.

Yes? she prompted.

He pursed his lips and exhaled most of the air.

She waited, getting a sense that he struggled with dire distress. Sir, have you trouble?

"Oh, my dear señora, you cannot know of the trouble I have. He paused, and his dark eyes became luminous, as though they had a film of tears. I have come to pedir, to ask you a very great favor. He rose from the chair, took a step, then fell to his knees before her. Dear señora, you will do me the honor to become my wife?"

~*~*~

Charity half rose, then fell back onto her seat. What was he saying? But, but, you have a wife, she stammered.

"I am distress to say to you, very sadly, it is no longer the case. To our great dismay, she die. Soon after you leave us, all in la hacienda take ill, but only she die. He found a handkerchief in a pocket and, ducking his head, wiped his eyes. He muttered something inaudible, then raised his head and tried again. I have the loneliness in abundance, señora. I fear it cannot be cure without the companionship of a good woman."

Charity’s hand had flown to her mouth. Oh, my lands, she whispered around it when he had finished his extraordinary statement. I had no idea your wife died. She let her hand drop into her lap. Your proposal is very sudden, sir. I don’t know what to say.

"Sí. It take you by the surprise. We all become much sick, but only mi Luz leave us. For this, we have suffer much at mi hacienda. The months have pass in sorrow. There is no remedy but to come to you and beg for this favor."

Charity was on her feet now, not sure how to handle this tragedy in the life of one she had met only in passing, a tragedy that threatened to sweep her up in its aftermath.

How might I answer you, sir? I have my life here with my sons. My daughters are married, so they need me less, but this petition is quite out of the ordinary, quite remarkable, indeed. She stood stock still with Don Pedro at her feet, a desperate look of pleading on his haggard features. Again, she marked how much he had changed from when she had seen him last.

I cannot marry him. Our lives are so different. She tried another tack in order to understand the situation. Why have you come to me? Are there not suitable ladies to marry in your vicinity?

He bowed his head for a long time. When he looked up at her again, he seemed harrowed by doubt. "You will not believe me, señora."

You must try to make me understand. She wondered how long he could bear to kneel on the hard, uncomfortable plank flooring. At his advanced age— This is awkward, sir. Please rise and sit.

He hesitated, then slowly regained his feet and retreated to sink into his chair. She sat in turn. He put one hand to his brow, as though to hide his face from her gaze, but he said nothing.

When she could stand the silence no longer, Charity said, You must speak plainly, sir. What will I not believe?

He lowered his obstructing hand and looked at her, his eyes full of agony. "I was at prayer, señora, pleading with Our Lord for solace. I had a— He stopped momentarily, then continued in a faint voice. A vision, señora. He crossed himself and muttered something she did not understand. You must believe me. I see as in a mist a man without legs. He tell me I must go to you, must offer my protection, the safety of my name to you, my— His head sank forward, but he continued, his voice shaky. My affection to you."

Your affection to me? Oh, my goodness! Your affection? A wave of weakness started at the crown of her head and swept through her body to her toes. She had to steady herself by clutching the arms of the chair.

He nodded, his face reflecting a strong discomfort.

He had no legs, you say? How— Can you tell me how he was dressed? Her halting voice sounded to her as weak as a frightened child’s.

"He dress in a uniform, señora. Gray, with yellow color stripes along the empty legs. He impress me with his much insistence. I scarcely believe what he tell me to do, señora. I am sure he is your husband. He speak his name. He speak of you."

Joe? She felt the weakness burning through to her bones. Her husband, Joseph Bingham, told a stranger to care for her? Not only a stranger, but a bereaved one of a different race, of a different religious belief?

She had good reason to believe Don Pedro was a Catholic, like so many others of his community, because he and his family had made that gesture of the cross upon themselves during the few days when she had sheltered with them. She, on the other hand, subscribed to the Methodist faith. How could Joe do—? How could she entertain such a suit for marriage? Joe, what on earth were you thinking?

She got up and began to pace. One of the travelers from the veranda came through the hotel entrance and, narrowly avoiding plowing into Charity, went upstairs, leaving the outside door ajar. She heard a clatter of pots from the kitchen. The girl who washed up probably had dropped a few. She forgot her concern for dented pots when a gust of wind rushed through the open door and brushed across her skin, raising gooseflesh. Rain began to pelt the roof. The rest of the travelers rushed through the doorway and pushed through a side door that led to the barroom. The doors banged shut behind them. Except for her and her distraught suitor, the lobby was deserted.

"Please, señora. Don Pedro was also on his feet, treading alongside her. He come to me the next night and the next and the next, until I promise I will travel here and do as he desire. He stopped talking as he matched her stride for several paces before he went on. I have the much grief, sí, but I must beg your indulgence to come to the sanctuary of my home as my bride. You must honor the wishes of your husband."

"Surely you are not serious, sir. I cannot leave my home and my children to vamos with you because you saw a ghost."

"He is a serious, a very determine ghost, señora. He is concern that you are a woman alone, without a man to take the care of you. He compel me to do his bidding. I no longer can abide his much insistence to me. He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands. It is true what he say, señora. A woman must have a man to, eh, safeguard her."

Charity came to a halt in the alcove. She shivered, still focused on the point that most disturbed her. Joe wants me to forget him and go to the arms of another man? To live with a stranger and to warm his bed? I cannot see— A small tickle reminded her of certain benefits of the marriage bed. No. That is in the past. I will have no more excitements of that sort.

Oddly saddened at the prospect, she straightened her shoulders, preparing herself to refuse Don Pedro’s plea. She mentally couched the words: I cannot. I must not. I will not. Which phrase would better serve to let him down in the kindest manner?

She picked one, moistened her lips to make her reply, and said, Joe was a persistent man. I will do as he wishes.

Immediately, she whirled away from Don Pedro, covered her mouth with both hands, and let out a sound that was not a scream, but an anguished cry, nonetheless.

"Dear señora, my great thanks, he said, coming around Charity to take her hands down from her mouth and hold them. Your husband, he cannot haunt me now."

But your wife? You are grief-stricken. I cannot be sure I have finished my own grieving. Haven’t I?

"I hear your words to accept, señora. You give your consent. Ojalá— It is to be hope that when you come under my protection, you honor the wishes of your departed husband."

Charity thought back on what had just happened. Oh, my lands! I did give my consent. What will Maxwell say?

Outside, the rain continued to pelt the parched earth.

~*~*~

It seemed to Charity that Maxwell had a great deal to say, as he called the entire family to gather in the empty dining room after the supper guests had cleared out and the room had been set to rights. He tried to dissuade her from taking such a hasty and ill-considered step.

You don’t know anything about the man. He could be intent upon causing you harm. How do you know he will marry you?

You hush your mouth, Maxwell! I am certain he is a man of honor. He didn’t turn us away, strangers to him, when we sought his aid in a blizzard. Why, Heppie’s hands were near to freezing off. She turned to catch the eye of her daughter’s husband. Isn’t that right, Mister Heizer?

George Heizer seemed unnerved by her question, folding his arms and tapping his foot. Well, he ventured to say. Well, at least he ain’t a Mormon. I wish Ned hadn’t gone off after that Mormon gal, he said, wrinkling his nose in obvious distaste at his older brother’s choice. "But that don fellow is a papist. No good will come of it, ma’am. Tell him you’ve changed your mind."

I haven’t done so, Mister Heizer. I must keep my word. It grated her sensibilities that she had to accord him the honor of addressing him as mister instead of George, solely because she was a single woman, albeit a widow.

Be that as it may, her honor was as important to her as that of Don Pedro was to the males of her family. It annoyed her that she couldn’t explain that Joe wanted this marriage for her. He desired that she be safeguarded. Whatever had caused his ghost to rise and come to torment the don would remain a mystery, but the thought that she would marry the man tomorrow, as he had told her must happen, had taken root in her mind sufficiently deep that it was becoming a pleasant notion.

The flutter in her heart when she contemplated making vows to the don and leaving immediately thereafter to travel with him to his ranch became a trip-hammer of anticipation. She hoped the increased rate of her heart was not noticeable to the family.

Max paced from the table where Charity sat, to the next table, and then back again. He stopped. Ma, you only met the man once. He resumed his movement.

She watched his progress across the wooden floor, then gestured toward her daughters and her younger son, Lucas. "We all stayed at his home for several days until the blizzard passed. I don’t know the man well, but I have broken bread in his house. Aside from that, Mister Owen told us he’d been helpful to him once before. It seems to be a pattern for him to be kind." She bit off her words sharply. She’d never had to defend her intended actions to her children before.

Max stopped pacing and stood in front of her chair. He leaned slightly forward. I don’t care what James Owen said, Ma. Think what Pa would say. Your own husband. Are you of a mind to dishonor him by casting in your lot with a stranger? A Mexican, at that?

Mind your tongue, son. When did you become disrespectful to your elders?

Max curled his fingers into fists and held them tightly together. Mexicans are lazy, Ma. They never do a mite more work than you ask of them.

Charity gasped. Max’s words pointed to a strong prejudice in her son. She wouldn’t have thought it possible that he had changed so much. Laziness was not what she had observed at the don’s home. Was Max trying to taint her impressions of her prospective husband, and turn her thoughts against him with his words about dishonor? He would never understand what Joe had done to Mister Chaves, how he had put a tremendous amount of pressure to seek her hand on the heartbroken man. She recalled how firmly the don had coaxed her to honor her dead husband by agreeing to his astonishing plan for the two of them.

Hannah, the first-born of her twin daughters, looked at her husband Robert, who stood behind her holding their small son in his arms. A secret tugged at one corner of Hannah’s lips. Charity suspected that she was carrying a second child now. But then Hannah turned to Max and said, You’re being almighty unfair to Ma, Max. You expect her to work in your hot kitchen, never thinking she might be pining to have her own home instead of living in a room of this hotel of yours.

Before Max could reply, she turned to look at Charity, and her tone softened. Ma, you’ve been alone for a while now—

Heppie interrupted with some heat. She’ll go off with him, Hannah, at least a hundred miles away from us. You can’t want her to do that. She looked at her husband. George, you tell Ma she can’t do that. She looked back at Hannah, her voice rising. I don’t know why he wants to make Ma marry him. He’s clearly so miserable that he won’t pay her any mind. Then she curled her shoulders forward over the newborn babe nursing at her breast.

Hannah threw up her hands and said, She should do as suits her best, as George Heizer knelt alongside Heppie, possibly in an attempt to make himself invisible.

A deep voice from the other side of the table spoke. I reckon Mother Bingham should decide for herself if she wants to remarry. I assure you again, ma’am, Don Pedro Chaves is a man of great honor. He will treat you well. He narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Heppie. I understand he’s grieving, but he must have a good reason for seeking your ma’s hand. There’s no denying she has enviable skills and plenty of character. Besides that, she’s still a mighty comely woman. Don’t you forget that, ma’am. All your girls get their looks from you.

Charity turned to gaze into James Owen’s dark eyes, slightly unsettled at his frank compliment, but he had a way about him that inspired confidence. He had won Jessie from another man, and they still carried the glow of a newly married couple, despite his sadness at losing his first wife, a girl of Mexican heritage named Amparo. Of all those assembled here tonight, he knew firsthand what living with someone of a different upbringing entailed. At least Mister Chaves speaks reasonably good English. I will be spared the sort of burden Mister Owen and his first wife carried.

Max returned from another round of pacing. I don’t suppose I can forbid you, Ma, he said, but I have given you my opinion. If you marry him, it’s under my strongest protest. He huffed out a breath of air and stared at Charity’s youngest child. Luke, you haven’t said anything.

The sixteen-year-old squirmed on his seat. Am I a part of the bargain, Ma? Am I to go, too?

Aghast that her emotional upheaval had caused her a complete lack of thought concerning her half-grown child, Charity said, I don’t know, Lucas. Mister Chaves said nothing about it. Perhaps that’s up to you. She wondered why her voice quivered so alarmingly.

Max scowled. You see? The man didn’t even think about what turmoil he’s causing. He’s up to no good.

She looked at Max. Despite his bluster, he thought he had her best interests at heart. He was mistaken. He didn’t know the full situation, and she wasn’t going to reveal his ignorance.

She spoke quietly. I understand that you are worried on my behalf, she said, then motioned toward her most recent son-in-law. Mister Owen has given assurances. Surely Don Pedro doesn’t have any ill intent toward me.

Her heart fluttered at her imaginings of what intent he might have toward her person. Truly, she didn’t know the man beyond what she had observed in his home. He had been attentive to his wife, his glances at her warm and affectionate. Could she expect the same consideration? Joe had forced the don into pleading for this marriage. No, she couldn’t expect a miracle from a disconsolate man.

Charity turned again to her younger son, trying to beat back a sense of despair. Lucas, give us your thoughts on the matter. Do you reckon I’m making a mistake?

He blinked, then leaned forward in his seat. "Ma, Mister Chaves seems