Return to Sender

By Juliet Rosetti

  'A feisty heroine faces off against outlaws, bullying relatives, and a Minnesota winter'- ARC review

  'Humorously highlights a forgotten chapter of American history--a time when babies came in the mail. ' -ARC review 

'Hermione Granger meets True Grit—an engaging heroine battles the worst relatives since the Dursleys of Harry Potter.' -ARC review 

 

   The year is 1913, and 2-year-old Matty Cooper is being sent on a train journey from Minnesota to Wisconsin via a new post office program called Baby Mail. His sister, 12-year-old Owl, is along as watchdog and babysitter. The trip is  fraught with perils: outlaws, storms, rockslides, train derailments. But a far worse danger awaits the children at journey's end—their child-hating Aunt Edna.

     Forbidden to go to school, Owl is forced to drudge from morning to night, while Matty is threatened with being sent to an orphanage. Only the quirky, mysterious lady next door, Chicken Annie, reaches out to help the desperate children. But when Annie breaks her leg and winds up in the hospital, Owl's aunt seizes her chance to cheat Annie out of her property and have her sent to a mental asylum.    

   Owl's the only one who can help Annie—but if she does, her aunt threatens, Matty will be sold to an adoptive family. Somehow Owl must find a way to not only save Annie, but to escape from the house that's become a prison--and find a way back home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moonbow Books
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201513535

Juliet Rosetti

Juliet Rosetti is the author of several books for middle grade readers as well as a romantic suspense series called The Escape Diaries. She lives in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ididn’t set out to be kidnapped by desperados.

I sort of invited myself along.

The day it happened my little brother and I were on a train chuffing across the Minnesota prairie, both of us tired, sticky, and so hot I decided to open up a window, hoping for a breeze.

Opening windows was against the rules.

But sometimes you have to break the rules if you want to catch the wind.

I wrestled open the window and a breeze bullied in, whipping my hair like tree branches in a storm and peppering my nose with the spice box fragrances of the prairie. I breathed in deep, wanting to store the scents away in my memory, because I didn’t know if they even had prairies where we were being sent.

When I turned around, I saw that Matty had gotten into the postage stamp drawer and was plastering stamps all over himself. I yanked a two-cent stamp off his tongue. "You don’t need stamps, Matty! You’re Pre-paid Parcel Post!"

Yes, my two-year-old brother, Matthew John Cooper, was being sent in the U.S. mail, along with the Sears Roebuck roller skates, the Montgomery Ward corsets, the L.L. Bean jackknives, and the crates of chickens—which was why we were riding in the mail car instead of with the paying customers.  

Scrreeee!

The train braked sharply, throwing us off our feet.

Water stop! the conductor bellowed. Last Chance, Minnesota.

I hauled myself to my feet, straightened my glasses, and poked my head out the window. The engine had stopped beneath an oversized wooden tub on stilts with a tin roof like a hat and a metal spout like a long, prying nose. The coal stoker climbed onto the engine’s roof and yanked on a rope dangling from the tub. Water gushed out of the spout, into the locomotive’s boiler.

I swiveled my gaze to the town. They sure had hit the nail on the head when they called it Last Chance. It was a straggle of tumbledown houses in the middle of the prairie with a livery stable you could smell even over the train smoke. Despite it being September, it was still summer on the southern Minnesota plains—the red-hot core of the day when sensible folks take shelter indoors, dogs slink under porches, and snakes squeeze under rocks. Not a person was stirring. 

Except for the man lurking behind a shed, eyeballing the train in what I considered to be a suspicious manner. He waved his hand as though signaling to someone, then stepped out from behind the shed, pulling a bandana over his face, and yanking a pistol out of a holster. He strode toward the engine.

Get down off there! he yelled at the stoker, waving his gun.

Taken by surprise, the stoker lost his balance and toppled to the ground. The masked man aimed his gun at the engineer, who was leaning out the window, jaw slack with disbelief.

You, too, Casey Jones, ordered the gunman.

Suddenly four more men materialized, all masked, all slinging guns.

"Outlaws!" I gasped, heart thundering. This was 1913; the Wild West days and the era of the daring train robbery were gone, but I guess these fellows hadn’t gotten the message.

While one bandit guarded the train crew, the others stormed aboard the train, holding the terrified passengers at gunpoint while the first man marched the conductor toward the last car, the one that contained a dozen sacks of U.S. mail, a big black safe—and two scared kids.

The bandana and the hat brim hid the outlaw’s face, leaving just his bloodshot eyes visible. His boots were worn, his clothes were ragged, he needed a haircut, and he smelled like horse. But his pistol was new, shiny, and dangerous looking. He shoved the conductor toward the safe. Open it, he barked.

I can’t, dad-gummit! The conductor, a small man with a toothbrush mustache, folded his arms across his chest. The top brass don’t tell us the combination.

Well, that’s just plain stupid, growled the outlaw.

It’s so if we get held up, polecats like you can’t snag the cash.

The outlaw’s eyes narrowed. You’re lying.

I ain’t, neither!

The gunman whipped around, as though looking for a solution to his safe-cracking problem. His eyes lit on Matty and me, hunched between two bulging sacks of mail. My knees knocked from sheer fright, but Matty bounced with excitement. The outlaw stepped toward us, squinting at Matty.

"What the Jiminy is this?" He yanked a small green square off Matty’s face. Why’s this kid got stamps stuck all over him?

Because he’s being mailed via the U.S. Post Office Parcel Post, said the conductor.

You can’t mail kids! The bandit scowled. This one’s just a baby.

Well, sir, that’s where you’re wrong, the conductor said. They started this new program where you can ship any animals that don’t bite or need water, including humans, through the parcel post. You touch that kid and you’re tampering with the U.S. mail. Federal offense.

Haw. Mailing kids! What’ll they come up with next? The outlaw grubbed around in his back pocket. Gonna have to use that dynamite after all.

Hey, Ernie, called one of the men guarding the passengers in the adjacent car.

Told you not to use my name! the outlaw yelled at him. "You’re supposed to say Boss."

Dust cloud on the road, Ern—I mean Boss. Might be lawmen.

Uttering a bad word, the outlaw ran toward the door.

Then he halted, as though something had occurred to him. Turning on his heel, he stalked back toward us.

I’m taking the kid, he said, snatching up Matty.

I bolted upright. Oh no, you’re not!

The bandit pushed me back down. Stick to your knitting, Missy.

You put that gun away! Matty could get hurt!

His scowl got even meaner. I been train-robbing for ten years and you’re telling me how to do my business?

If you’re so good at robbing trains, why are you dressed like a bum?

He shook his finger at me. Anybody ever tell you you got a smart mouth?

As a matter of fact, a lot of people had told me that, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

"I’m taking this baby as a service to humanity. What kind of folks stick a kid in a mailbox like he’s a box of saltwater taffy? I’m giving him to someone who’ll—dagnabbit!"

Matty had pulled the man’s mask down, revealing a soup strainer mustache that looked like muskrat fur. Yanking the bandana back up, still clutching Matty, the bandit ran out of the mail car.

I was on his tail. Stop! Give him back! I yelled.

He turned, and from the way his eyes crinkled I could tell he was grinning under the mask. Sure thing, sis. First mailbox I see, I’ll drop him in.

Chapter 2

Keeping a tight grip on Matty, the outlaw stepped onto the narrow platform between train cars and jumped off. He landed off-kilter, twisting his foot but keeping his balance. Still holding Matty, he hobbled off. The other outlaws abandoned ship too, hightailing it toward town. They reappeared a moment later, jammed into a Model T automobile, and roared away.

I expected to see a posse of deputies emerge from the dust cloud, but what materialized was a herd of sheep, kicking up a tornado of dust. The train robbers had been scared off by a flock of woolies—they ought to be laughed out of every robber’s roost between here and Deadwood!

Then I spotted the outlaw who had Matty, running toward a horse tied beneath a tree. With Matty in his arms, he mounted up and galloped off. Well, not exactly galloped—more like plodded. That horse would have lost a race with a lame tortoise.

Out of the way! The conductor shoved past me.

Wait! I caught hold of his arm and pointed at the outlaw. You’ve got to do something—that man’s riding off with my brother.

"I’m on my way to telegraph the sheriff. You stay here now—don’t you go gallivanting off." He hurried into the next car, where he was immediately mobbed by frightened passengers.

Don’t go gallivanting off! What was I supposed to do, stand here like a ninny while my brother was whisked off into possibly deadly danger?

Sometimes you had to ignore what adults told you.

Sometimes you had to leap before you looked.

I jumped off the train, landed clumsily, picked the gravel out of my knees, and shot off running full tilt. In the time it takes to whistle Pop Goes the Weasel I caught up to the outlaw and grabbed onto his left boot.

Get lost, he growled. You’re interfering with the committal of this here kidnapping.

If you take him, you got to take me, too! I panted.

"Well, you ain’t wanted."

Owl! cried Matty, reaching toward me.

"What’d he call you—Owl? sneered the outlaw. Is that your nickname or something?"

"It’s what I’m called. Owl Marie Cooper."

"Owl. He gobbed a wad of spit. That’s just plain stupid! What’s the boy called, then, Piggy? He smells like a dad-bummed pig."

Matty’s diaper was overdue changing. "Well, you smell like a skunk! I said. I’m calling you Skunky!"

"Know what—on second thought, Owl is perfect. Them big old glasses of yours make you look like a goldarned owl."

I’ll take that as a compliment.

Girl, you are so contrary if you got throwed in a river you’d float upstream.

Owls are the most glorious birds you’ll ever see! They have wingspans up to six feet, and they can see in the dark, and turn their heads in a near total circle—

That is the heebie-jeebiest thing since walking past a graveyard, Skunky said. He clucked to his horse, who swiveled his ears to show he’d heard but would giddy-up when he darned well felt like it.

I hurried to keep pace. Owls eat tons of mice and pests. And their colors help them blend in with trees—

"I wish you’d go blend in with some trees." Digging his heels into the horse’s sides, Skunky trotted ahead at a faster clip, leaving me behind.

My mind had a wrestling match with itself. Should I run back to the train to ask for help or should I stay here with Matty? If I ran back, the bandit and Matty might disappear in the meantime. My natural stubbornness kicking in, I chased after the man who had my brother.

My legs pistoned, my arms pumped, and my heart pounded like the paint-mixer at my dad’s hardware store.

I leaped over rocks, I soared over tree trunks—

I slipped in horse poop.

And went down hard.

Chapter 3

"Eww, ick , ick, ick!"

By the time I hauled myself to my feet, brushing off the nasty stuff, the outlaw, Matty, and the pooping horse were out of sight.

Although the road in Last Chance had been dry and dusty, the ground here was muddy from recent rain and overgrown with scraggly trees that blocked my view. It was impossible to see more than a few yards into the distance. How was I going to find the outlaw in this terrain? Maybe I could follow a trail of horse apples, the way Hansel and Gretel had followed bread crumbs.

I picked my way in the direction I thought Skunky had taken, keeping my eyes peeled for horse whoopsy. I was hot and tired and so thirsty that even rain puddles swimming with scum looked good enough to drink. After I’d walked about to the moon and back, I felt a vibration along the ground, a sound like horse hooves. A sheriff’s posse?

Help! I yelled, waving my arms. Over here!

The hoofbeats came closer. A rider came into sight. 

But it wasn’t a posse. It was Skunky, with Matty still perched in front, only now he was wearing the outlaw’s hat. Skunky was holding the reins of a black pony who trotted along behind at a sprightly pace.

Owl! Matty cried happily as they cantered up alongside me.

Skunky reined in and dismounted, keeping one hand on Matty to hold him steady. He grinned when he saw the stains on my clothes. Fell in horse doodie, huh?

"It wouldn’t have happened if your horse hadn’t been dropping the disgusting stuff!"

"Did I tell the horse to make a doodie you’d be dumb enough to step in?

"I wouldn’t be stepping in it in the first place if you hadn’t stolen Matty."

Girl, I swear you could start a fight in an empty room! Look—I found you a horse.  He jerked a thumb at the pony.

"Stole it, you mean."

No, I didn’t steal it, Miss Prissy Two-shoes.

I don’t believe you. I studied the pony, a filly with a smudge of white between large brown eyes and a lush sweep of eyelashes. A kid-sized saddle with shortened stirrups sat on her back. I bet you stole this horse from some kid.

Just get on it. We ain’t got all day. Can you ride?

Of course, I can ride.

I bet you never rid anything but a hobbyhorse.  

I can ride a bicycle without even using handlebars. I also happen to be an ace roller skater.

Well, golly gee whiz! If I’d of known that, I’d of brung my own skates. We could have raced each other across the prairie.

And I can drive my pa’s Palmer Roadster.

All that braggin’ is to cover up the fact you’re too scared to ride a horse.

Am not!

"Chicken, chicken—buk buk buh-gawk!" Flapping his arms, he waddled in a circle with his butt sticking out, clucking. Matty thought this was hilarious—then he started clucking too, the little traitor! 

To prove I was not a chicken. I marched up to the pony. She nuzzled my pockets, maybe hoping to find a treat. Sorry, left my lunch on the train, I said. I poked a foot into the stirrup, heaved myself up, and flopped across the saddle with all the grace of a trout falling onto a hot griddle. The pony swung its head around and shot me a mistrustful look.

Oh, shut up, I told her.

Clutching the saddle horn, I managed to corkscrew my backside into the saddle. As I stretched my legs down the round sides of the pony—who needed to go on a diet—my skirt flapped, making her shy.

Why the heck are you wearing that darn dress? Skunky asked.

"It wasn’t my idea. If you’re a girl, they make you wear one."

"Whoever they is, they don’t got any brains. If I was a girl—"

I laughed so loud the pony whickered nervously. You’d be the ugliest girl ever!

His face got red. I happen to think I’d make a real nice-looking gal. They couldn’t lasso me into any dumb dress, though. 

Well, if I knew I was getting kidnapped today, I’d have worn my rodeo outfit.

The outlaw picked up the pony’s reins and handed them to me. Don’t drop them, because we ain’t stopping for you to—

A rabbit burst out of the brush, startling Skunky’s horse, who reared. Matty lost his seat and toppled off.

Chapter 4

Skunky’s reflexes were top-notch; he dashed over and caught Matty before he hit the ground. Hey, little fella. you okay?

Matty chortled, as though falling off a horse was great fun. Skunky got back on the horse, settled Matty in his lap, and let him take the reins. Here, buckaroo—you can help steer. He chirruped and the horse began to mosey along at its slowpoke pace. My pony followed.

What’s the pony’s name? I called to Skunky.

He turned around, scowling. "Now how would I know that?"

You’d know her name if you hadn’t stolen her.

"I borrowed it, all right? So’s you wouldn’t have to walk. Guess it’d be too much to expect gratitude."

The only horse I’d ever ridden was a merry-go-round horse at the county fair—which was not great practice for riding a real horse. Real horses, I discovered, jostled and bumped and bounced you up and down until it felt like the saddle was giving you a paddling.   

You are the worst dang rider I ever seen, said Skunky, waiting for me to catch up. He smirked. Your bottom hurts, don’t it?

None of your business.

You’re bouncing like a greenhorn. Put your weight on your thighs.

Oh, go soak your head.

My, somebody’s touchy!

This pony is ornery because I can’t call her by her rightful name.

"Well, you name the nag, then."

All right, I will! It can’t be any old name, though—it has to go with her personality.

What’s her personality?

Well, she’s sweet-tempered ....

The opposite of you, then, Skunky said.

"And high-spirited and smart. Sadie—that’s it!"

"Now that is a particularly dumb name!"

"It’s for Sagebrush Sadie—you know—the heroine in the serials?"

Never heard of her.

You probably live in a dark, smelly cave. If you lived in a city with movie parlors, you’d know about Sagebrush Sadie. A new Sadie episode comes out every week and I’ve seen every one.

Moving pitchers. Bunch of poppycock.

"A lot you know. Sadie is the most fabulous heroine ever! One time she got tied to a railroad track when a train was coming, and another time she got dangled from a twenty-story building, and this other time, she was trapped in a prairie fire—"

"That gal sounds so