Louisiana: Late Spring 1874
Determined to ignore the pain in her ribs every time she took a breath or stumbled over a root or rock in the darkness, Willa carefully navigated the path made even more dangerous by the pounding rain. The humidity in the air felt heavier but chillier than usual as black clouds drifted over the sliver of moon hanging over the forested wetlands of Hasting Swamp. Fighting a growing panic, Willa made her way toward the small house situated near the sprawling bayou that bordered the swamp, making its eastern section impassable. Better for her. She skirted along the edge of the swamp bordering the western shore of Lake Pontchartrain on one side and the banks of the Mississippi River on the other. She caught the musky smell of the slow-moving greenish-black river water as it wound its way like a snake eastward, then past New Orleans and down into Black Bay and beyond.
She had avoided the main road and taken to the woods and marshy ground, reducing the chances of anyone seeing her escape from New Orleans on this blackest of nights. The charcoal-gray two-layered skirt that she wore most days was now saturated with rain and splashed with mud, the hem dragging in the soil as she dashed along the ancient deer path she followed, constantly slapping away branches and veils of Spanish moss hanging from them.
Her breath erupted from her chest in sharp, painful gasps by the time she neared the small, dark house tucked into the shadows on the edge of the swamp. There, she paused but hesitated for only a brief second before knocking. Nothing. It was the middle of the night, but she knocked louder, knowing that the sound of the rain battering the wooded shingles of the roof would disguise it. Still nothing. Heart pounding, ears ringing, resisting the urge to take deep, gasping breaths that only made the pain worse, she made a fist and pounded on the door. Several moments later, lantern light glowed in one curtained window, and then she heard the metal latch on the door lifting. The door cracked open a couple of inches.
Wide, confused eyes took in her appearance. The older woman staring at her in fear covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a startled cry.
“Willa! What’s happened?” She opened the door and gestured Willa inside, but not before casting a worried glance over Willa’s shoulder. “How did you get here? You’re nearly fifteen miles from home! What are you doing out in the middle of the night?”
“Thank you, Aunt Rachel,” she replied, relief flooding through her, making her knees wobble precariously. Her eyes cast about the small room, spied the small, worn high-backed sofa on one wall, an upholstered chair in a corner, and the single rocking chair beside the fireplace. On the mantle of the stone fireplace, she saw the two daguerreotypes, one of her mother and herself soon after their arrival in New Orleans when she was a child, the other of Aunt Rachel and her husband just after the war.
“Willa, what’s happened?” Willa looked up at her. The woman’s eyes widened when she took in the bruises and the cut on her lip. Her concerned expression hardened into anger. “Your stepfather’s done it again, hasn’t he?”
She turned to her aunt, a woman of sixty years, her gray hair mostly tucked into a thin cotton night bonnet, a knitted black shawl draped over her shoulders over a long-sleeved white linen nightgown. “I…I didn’t know where else to go…” She gazed at her aunt, refusing to cry. Her voice barely a whisper, she continued. “I…I need help.”
“Come in, child, sit down,” Rachel implored, guiding Willa to the rocking chair near the stone fireplace, banked embers still glowing. Despite the warmth of the evening, she reached for kindling and placed it on the embers. Soon, a small fire warmed the room.
Willa extended her chilled hands toward the fire, relishing its warmth. She shivered uncontrollably, mostly from fear, then startled as her aunt placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Let me get you some dry clothes,” Rachel said, rising and quickly stepping from the main room to a short hallway, off which Willa knew was a small bedroom. She leaned closer to the fire as she warmed up and the chill left her bones, fear took its place. What had she done? What was she going to do? How could she—
“Come, dear, let’s get you into some dry clothing and we can talk.”
Soon enough, Willa had divested herself of her wet clothing and donned a simple skirt and blouse offered by her aunt. The skirt was a bit loose around her waist, but she accepted gratefully. She took the dry towel from her aunt’s hands and placed it on her lap, then with shaking fingers released her waist-length hair from her single braid and began to dry it with the towel. Where to start? How was she to explain what had happened and what she had done?
A brush appeared in front of her, and she took it, glancing upward at her aunt with gratitude. She truly loved this woman, one who had always treated her with fondness and showed her what love meant. “Thank you.” Rachel took a seat on the chair and steadfastly gazed at her.
“Tell me. He’s been at it again, hasn’t he?”
“Worse,” Willa said, her voice shaky despite her attempts to remain calm. Now that she was safe, at least for the moment, a trembling threatened to take control of her. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring into the small flames of the fire. “He…he tried come into my bed…”
Rachel’s lips thinned and she muttered under her breath, shaking her head in disgust. Warm tears brimmed in Willa’s eyes but again she refused to let them fall. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remain calm. “Aunt Rachel, I need shelter, at least until I can figure out where to go.”
“Of course, dear,” Rachel replied, reaching over the small space and placing one hand on Willa’s knee, the other reaching for her cold hands. “He won’t look for you here. At least not too carefully. He doesn’t know about the small shack on the back of the property.”
Willa tore her gaze from the flickering flames and gazed at her aunt. Her heart warmed and she smiled as much as her split lip would allow. “Thank you, Aunt Rachel. I don’t know what I would do without you.” It was true. Rachel Thibodeaux wasn’t really her aunt but had been a very dear friend of her mother’s, one who had gently insisted that Willa call her aunt the first time they met. She’d been a small child then, and her mother, who had been born and raised in Texas, had come east and settled in the low flatlands and marshes of southern Louisiana.
She had come a long way from the Metairie home that had belonged to her step-father, Richard Buchanan, and her mother, Marie, at least until she had died six months ago.
Since her childhood, Willa had known the back way to Rachel’s house, along the barely discernable footpath along the edge of Lake Pontchartrain and into the wild country and marshy bayous populated primarily by Cajun settlements and towns away from the more populated cities of New Orleans, Biloxi, and Metairie.
An hour later, the wet clothes draped on a drying rack near the fire, her skin cleaned of mud, the bruising even more apparent, Willa sat still in the rocking chair by the fire.
“Dear, we have to plan.”
Willa turned from staring at the small fire, weary and worried.
“Willa, we have to make a plan. I can’t keep you here long, as my husband will be back soon from his travels to Texas, some dealings with an investment in oil. You need to be gone before he returns.”
“Texas?” Willa asked, straightening until the movement produced a twinge of pain and following wince. She stilled. Should she tell her aunt everything? The whole story? She decided not to. All she related to her aunt was her stepfather’s attempted attack on her. She left out the part about what she had done. Better that her aunt didn’t know what she had done or why she needed to run away.
At first, her hopes rose. Her mother had come from someplace in Texas, but she’d never heard her speak of family there. She sighed. “I don’t know anyone in Texas. I don’t have any money, and I need to get away from here, but I don’t know how.”
She and her aunt sat silently, side-by-side, staring into the flames until suddenly her aunt stood, excitement in her voice. “I know!” She looked around the room and then stepped toward the small sofa, from which she lifted a folded newspaper and returned to sit beside Willa at the fire.
Willa frowned as she glanced at the paper and then at her aunt. “A newspaper?”
“Not just any newspaper, Willa. “I have an idea.” With that, she opened the paper and then flipped the pages to the back, mostly filled with advertisements. “Look,” she said, one long fingernail pointed to a column along the edge of the paper, filled with small squares of print.
“What are they?” Willa asked, unable to see the tiny newsprint in the dim light of the fire.
“Advertisements,” Rachel said, her smile broadening as she turned to Willa. “This is exactly what you need.”
“What?” Willa asked, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“These are ads for wives.”
At first, Willa was sure she’d missed understood. “What? Wives? How will that help me?”
“You don’t understand, Willa,” Rachel replied with a gentle smile. “These are ads for brides. Men put ads in the newspaper looking for wives. Mail-order of sorts.”
Willa stared at her aunt as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. “What are you talking about? You think…” No, this couldn’t be right. Her aunt wasn’t suggesting that she marry a perfect stranger, was she? She frowned. “Wait a minute, Aunt Rachel. Are you telling me that men put ads in the paper looking for women to marry? Why?”
Her aunt smiled again. “Because in some places it can be hard for them to find a wife. You do know that men vastly outnumber women in the West.”
The West? She had begun to feel some relief after arriving at her aunt’s isolated home, far away from her stepfather, but now her heart began to pound anew. The idea was preposterous. Answer an ad in a newspaper for a wife? Leave the only place she had ever known to marry a stranger? She shook her head.
“Aunt Rachel, I don’t think this is a good idea. What if…what if the man I, and let’s just say I’m going along with this, supposedly marry ends up even worse than Richard?”
Rachel heaved a sigh. “Well, I guess that could be true of any marriage. You really don’t know any person very well until you’ve lived with them for a while, do you?”
Rachel was right. No one would expect Richard Buchanan, a rich and well-respected businessman who sometimes dabbled in politics in Metairie, to be the type of person who would abuse his wife and sometimes his stepchild, but who was supposed to know what went on behind closed doors? Besides, according to Richard, he had every right to beat his wife when she was disobedient, and the same applied to his stubborn, outspoken stepdaughter as well.
But this was taking a big chance. What if she managed to escape from Richard Buchanan and her horrible deed, only to end up in a worse situation, one she couldn’t escape from? She turned to her aunt, her heart thudding with worry. She knew she couldn’t stay here very long, not with her aunt’s husband, George, due to return soon. She didn’t need to involve her aunt and uncle in her misdeeds. But marrying a stranger?
This was something that required some thought. Then again, she didn’t have many options. What if she—
“Willa, you’re twenty years old now, well past marriageable age. Why, in another year or two, you’ll be considered an old maid. Maybe it would be good for you to find a husband and settle down, somewhere far away from here. Make a new life for yourself.” She tapped the newspaper, eyes narrowed in thought. “This paper is from New Orleans, but I can get one from a western city, maybe Houston or Abilene, maybe even further westward, even Santa Fe or California, from the train station. My goodness, I can pick up every paper that travelers have left! You can go anywhere you want!”
Willa still didn’t like the idea, but it might be her only chance to get away from here. “How does it work?”
“Well, from what I’ve read, a man places an ad in a newspaper near where he lives. The ad can go to a number of different newspapers, mostly those in the East from what I’ve gathered, and depending on what he’s paid for that ad and how far it reaches. Then, if a woman finds an ad that attracts her attention, she starts a correspondence with the gentleman.”
Gentleman. How could someone placing an ad for a bride be a gentleman? It sounded very underhanded and questionable to Willa. What if he lied? What if the woman lied when responding to the ad? What if these two perfect strangers met and found that they had nothing in common as they assumed, and then they would be stuck in a loveless marriage?
“But what if the man lies about himself in the ad? And how does the woman, the bride, get there? How does she get home if it doesn’t work out? Does she have to marry the man right away?”
“In just about every ad I’ve seen, the man pays for train or coach fare for the woman to come west. Of course, propriety demands that they be married almost immediately unless they end up staying in different places as they get to know one another, but who can afford that?”
Willa thought about it for several moments. “I don’t like the idea very much. It makes me nervous. But I suppose I don’t have much choice, do I?”
Aunt Rachel smiled and placed her hand on Willa’s arm. “Believe me, child, I don’t want to see you leave, but you can’t stay here without risking…Besides, it’s time for you to leave home anyway, find your way in the world. You do know that your mother and her family come from Texas. Maybe it would be good for you to return home.”
Home. Was it really? Could she find the strength to leave Louisiana and move west to Texas or even further? She glanced at her aunt, busily perusing the ads in the paper. “Have you ever heard…have you ever heard of anything like this going bad?”
Her aunt lowered the paper. “I’ll be honest with you, Willa, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “But again, courting a man is one thing. Marrying him and living under his roof is something quite different. We both know that many men put their best foot forward when courting a woman, and then, after the marriage, things can change. Not always, but sometimes.”
Willa knew that was true. You didn’t really know anybody until you lived with them for quite some time. Richard Buchanan was a perfect example of that. All smiles and manners on the outside, and dirty, rotten evil on the inside.
She straightened, once more hiding a wince of pain in her ribs as she did so. She couldn’t stay here. She did not doubt that Richard Buchanan would do his utmost to find her and punish her for what she had done. She had to leave Metairie and Louisiana for good. She took a deep breath, steeled her nerve, and then turned her aunt.
“All right, Aunt Rachel, I’ll do it.”
Chapter 1: Clinton
Reprobate, Texas, Spring 1874
Clinton Warren leaned back in his squeaky desk chair in the roughly constructed adobe jailhouse on the outskirts of town on the outskirts of Harris County, nearly a day’s ride north of Houston. The temperature soared, the heat already oppressive in the spring. While the town was quiet now, in another month, the cattle drives north would begin, bringing cowboys from all around. More people meant more trouble. At least things around here would liven up a little.
He swept his fingers through his hair. He needed to get a haircut one of these days. He gazed idly at the small courthouse in the main square while he and Billy Greene, his friend and fellow deputy, chatted about the goings-on around town like a couple of old church ladies. He and Billy had been best friends since they were little and lived on neighboring ranches. The Warren family owned a ranch just outside of town called the Rocking W. Billy’s family ranch was dubbed the Big G. Billy Green was a fine rancher but he’d decided, after Clinton had been elected a deputy sheriff for Harris County, to follow him, claiming that someone had to keep him in line.
As a county sheriff’s deputy, Clinton was responsible for patrolling and dealing with problems just about anywhere in Harris County, which encompassed not only Houston and its environs, but numerous outlying towns scattered across the landscape. He sometimes crossed county lines when chasing someone or tracking outlaws who wandered into the territory, not only for the cattle drives, but those moving from east to west. Clinton loved this land, its harsh summers and temperate winters, the vast plains, and the rolling hills. His family had been among the first settlers in this part of Texas and had been given over two thousand acres of prime cattle land as a reward for his father’s service in the military.
As he listened to Billy telling yet another story about his bronc-busting expertise back on the family ranch, he gazed out the open door, a gust of hot air making its way inside. He held back a sigh, often thinking there had to be more to life than this. His family had come to Texas years ago, hoping for a quiet ranching life, but it wasn’t to be. First came the War Between the States, and the loss of two of Clinton’s uncles fighting for the Confederates.
Then had come the constant skirmishes with the Comanche. As more people headed from east to west, many of them hoping to start over someplace new after the war ended, criminals and outlaws came with them. Conflicts between the Comanche, Spaniards, and the Mexicans had been going on for over a century in Comancheria, the massive stretch of land that ranged from the southern Great Plains of Colorado and Kansas into Oklahoma territory, New Mexico, Texas territory, and south into Mexico.
Clinton himself had had several run-ins with the Comanche over the years. After the War Between the States, government officials and the military pretty much pushed the Indians onto reservations, but a few hostile bands of warriors from the Comanche and Apache tribes still gave citizens in the territory plenty of grief. They fought for their land and their freedom and refused to move. They would continue their raids until the U.S. military drove them deep into the western mountains or until they were all killed.
It was about that time that Clinton became a deputy, and part of his duties was to help maintain peace on the frontier. His younger brothers, twins Andrew and Harvey, had wanted to join in the fighting but he had encouraged them to stay on the family ranch and continue their father’s legacy, which might not have been able to compete with some of the larger ranches in the area, but it was what the Warren family laid claim to. Every year, they added their own small cattle herd, usually three hundred head, to the huge drives heading north up to Kansas City along the Chisholm Trail. The money they gained selling their beef cattle got them through the winter, as did portions of Clinton’s paychecks as deputy.
He and his family had managed to defend their land and scrabble out a living in the harsh Texas landscape. Then disaster struck. Five years ago, his father had been murdered on his way back to the ranch from Houston. The murder had gone unsolved for months, then a year. It was then that Clinton decided that he needed to take action himself and got himself hired by the County sheriff in the hopes of not only finding his father’s murderer but to help establish some sense of order in the area. To this day, his father’s murder remained unsolved, and that fact ate at him.
No one could say that Clinton Warren, now twenty-eight years of age, wasn’t a more than sensible and capable lawman. Sure, he had the reputation of being rather gruff at times, but he was a fair man, one who always tried to listen to both sides of a dispute before he took action. But when action was needed, he took it, and it was often bloody.
Billy was always looking for new adventures and new experiences as well, and though Clinton had cautioned him about being too exuberant about the job, things had worked out very well. For the past year or so, the two had worked together. Mostly, the job was tiresome and settling a lot of squabbles between business owners in town, but sometimes, they went after cattle rustlers, especially during the massive trail drives that left clouds of dust rising in the air for more than ten miles around—
“Are you listening to me?”
Clinton jolted out of his ruminations and glanced at Billy. “No,” he said, leaning forward at his desk and eying the stack of wanted sheets that he’d received yesterday. “I’ve got work to do.”
Billy grinned and opened his mouth to retort when a man suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Deputy, Abraham is at it again.”
Clinton sighed. Abraham Blake, the town drunk and pariah, constantly got into trouble for public drunkenness, property damage at the saloon, getting too familiar with the working girls, and for stealing food and other petty crimes. Abraham was a pain in the neck, the older man knew where to draw the line on stealing. In these parts, men got hung for stealing horses or shot over stolen saddles, so Abraham pretty much kept his thievery to food, an occasional pair of dungarees hanging on a clothesline, and once, he’d recently walked into the local saloon and stolen a bottle of whiskey right off the bar before attempting to run away with it. Of course, he’d been caught and beaten nearly to a pulp, but Clinton hadn’t interfered in that one. You stole from someone, you got what you got.
“I’ll take care of it,” Billy said, quickly leaving the sheriff’s office with Maxwell Williams, the owner of the local feed store. In less than fifteen minutes, Billy was back again, dragging Abraham behind him, his fist clenching the drunk man’s collar. The man stood several inches shorter than Billy, his eyes bloodshot, his nose and cheeks thickly mottled with burst blood vessels due to his drinking, his teeth half rotted as he muttered epitaphs at Billy. Abraham Blake was a constant thorn in Clinton’s side and he glared at the man with disgust as Billy manhandled him into a jail cell. Even from his desk on the other side of the room, he could smell Abraham, stinking of sour body odor, whiskey, and horse manure. Billy threw him into a cell and then slammed the door that separated the three jail cells from the main office.
Clinton had just begun to finger the stack of papers on his desk when Harry Bascom entered the office with a handful of envelopes. Harry worked at the local post office.
“Who have you been writing to, Clinton?” Harry asked, stepping forward as he prepared to drop a stack of letters on the desk in front of him.
Billy quickly stepped forward and snatched the letters from Harry’s hand. “I’ve got it, Harry, thanks.”
Harry gave Billy a glance, then turned to Clinton, rolled his eyes, and left the sheriff’s office.
“What was that all about, Billy?” Clinton asked, wiggling his fingers. “Give me my mail.”
“Before I do, I just need to explain something.”
Clinton frowned and he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “What did you do now, Billy?”
“Nothing!” Billy protested. “I mean, nothing bad. It’s just that…”
“It’s just what?” Clinton prompted.
“Well, all these letters will be addressed to you.”
“Well of course they will, I’m the deputy sheriff. Who else would they be addressed to?”
“No,” Billy said, holding the letters close. “What I mean is, they’ll be personally addressed to you.”
“And why would that be?” Clinton asked, torn between curiosity and annoyance. Over the years, Billy had pulled a number of stunts, some legal, some not so much. “Billy, give me those letters and tell me what you did.”
“Well, I placed an ad in a bunch of newspapers,” he said.
“So, you put ads in newspapers. What for? And why would they be addressed to me?”
“Well,” Billy said, swallowing so slowly that Clinton saw his Adam’s apple move. “I should mention that the ads were placed in your name.”
Clinton’s frown deepened. “What? No. Why?”
Harry pointed. “Because those are all for you.”
Billy pulled his hat from his head and scratched at his scalp. Slowly, as if Clinton were a snake that might strike any second, he placed the letters on the desk in front of him and then took a step back. Clinton glanced down at the envelopes, surprised to find his name written on the top one, and the next, and the next after that.
“What’s this? There are five letters here, all addressed to me.” He glanced at the return addresses, didn’t recognize any of the names, although they were all female. He snorted. “They’re all from women.”
Billy didn’t say anything and Clinton glanced at him again. “What’s this about, Billy?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Billy merely shrugged and Clinton repeated the question and stared hard at Billy until he answered.
“Well, I put you in the paper,” Billy announced with a grin.
Clinton stared at his best friend for a moment. “What? You put me in the paper? What paper?”
Again, Billy shrugged. “A bunch of them.”
“Why?” He shook his head. Why in the world would Billy put him in the paper?
“To find you a wife,” he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
Clinton thought he had misunderstood. “What are you talking about?” Clinton asked, eyeing the envelopes, then his friend. “What have you gotten me involved in this time?”
Billy hooked his fingers in his gun belt and shook his head. “Clinton, you’ve gotten grumpier and grumpier as the years have passed. You need to be happy. Since your pa was murdered, you’ve just gotten harder and harder.” He paused, stepping toward the desk. “You’re my friend. And as your friend, I want to help you find yourself a wife.”
Clinton sat forward, stunned. “You’ve gone crazy, Billy. What do you mean, I need to find myself a wife? I don’t need a wife!” He shook his head, prepared to sweep the letters into the trash can beside the desk. Billy had done a lot of crazy things before, but this one…he felt a combination of anger and dismay at his friend. If he wanted a wife, he could find one all by himself! He didn’t need Billy finding him—
“Clinton—”
“Billy, of all the numbskull stunts you’ve pulled in the past, this one is the craziest!” He gestured at the letters. “Get rid of these.”
“Clinton, wait,” Billy urged, prepared to defend himself. “We both know that you haven’t taken a shine to any of the women around here, so I figured I’d put an ad in the paper…you know, for a mail-order bride.”
Clinton bit back a curse as his cheeks flushed with anger, his eyes wide as he stared at his friend in disbelief. “A…a mail-order bride? Are you crazy?”
“Sure.” Billy shrugged. “I saw one of those ads in the newspaper from Abilene. So I wrote one for you and had it posted.”
Clinton frowned, his heart pounding in frustration and anger. He spoke slowly, his eyes not leaving Billy’s. “You wrote a letter, pretending to be me, and put it in the newspaper?”
“Sure.” Billy shrugged again.
Clinton scowled. “What did it say?” Leave it to Billy to think of something like this. He wasn’t particularly surprised when Billy grinned, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He began to read.
‘To whom it may concern,
My name is Deputy Sheriff Clinton Warren. I live in Reprobate, Texas. Looking for a wife. Must be between 18 and 30 years old, prepared to live the life of a lawman’s wife, take care of a home, and someday, a family. If interested, contact me at Reprobate post office, Harris County, care of Clinton Warren.’
Clinton stared at him, dumbfounded into silence for several seconds. Then he exploded. “Between eighteen and thirty years old? Billy, I’m twenty-eight years old! I don’t want to marry some kid, or some woman older than me!”
Billy seemed unconcerned about his friend’s anger. “Think about it, Clinton. You need yourself a wife. You need something in your life besides being a lawman.” He gestured toward the envelopes. “Just look through them, see what you think.”
His temper roiling, Clinton glanced down at the envelopes on his desk. Each one with feminine handwriting, all addressed to him. Five of them? One of them from the Arizona territory, another from the Dakotas, two from New York, and one from Louisiana. That one was from a woman named Willa LeBlanc. It was a pretty name. Muttering beneath his breath, he opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper, and began to read.
Dear Deputy Clinton Warren,
I am responding to your brief ad in the Houston Chronicle dated April 1874. I would like to introduce myself. My name is Willa LeBlanc. I’m 20 years old, currently living in southern Louisiana. My mother moved here from Texas after my father was killed during a dispute, unable to care for the land herself. Unfortunately, my mother passed away a few months ago and I’m currently living with my aunt, but the situation is not long-term.
I admit that I have looked through several newspapers from numerous cities and towns out West, and was surprised to come across the ads for mail-order brides listed in the Houston Chronicle. I was born in Texas, but further west. Your ad stood out to me, primarily because you’re a lawman, and as such, I know that you are honest.
It has been explained to me that men out West vastly outnumber women and that sometimes, this strategy is their only means of attracting a bride, and while I don’t believe I’m the only woman that might respond to your ad, you being a deputy sheriff and all, if you find that I might be interesting enough, and I meet your requirements, we might eventually arrange to meet in person, properly chaperoned, of course.
Looking forward to your reply,
Miss Willa LeBlanc
She had beautiful handwriting. He couldn’t deny that his interest was piqued. At the same time, he was more than a little annoyed with Billy. How could he do this to him? He looked at his longtime friend. “And how exactly am I supposed to respond to these? Do I have to write them back or do I just ignore them?”
Billy looked at him as if he’d gone off his rocker. “What do you mean, ignore them?” He gestured to the letters on Clinton’s desk. “Are you telling me there’s not one response in there that tickles your fancy?”
“My fancy?” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Billy, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I’m telling you, if I wanted to court a lady, I can manage to do that all by myself, without any help from you.”
“Really? So why haven’t you? There’s at least four eligible women here in town that are available. I think one of them has even set her cap for you, and you know it.”
Clinton sighed. He knew who Billy was talking about. His sister, Annabelle. Annabelle had been in love with him since they were kids. But even as he had moved through his teen years and into his twenties, he couldn’t see Annabelle as more than a little sister, and an annoying one at that.
“I’m not interested in your sister,” he muttered.
“I know that Clinton, but I’m just saying, there’s a few who have batted their eyelashes at you a time or two. And yet you look right past them as if they’re not even there.”
“When and if I’m ready for a relationship, I’ll let you know, okay?” Clinton said, standing. He glared down at the letters sprawled across the desk. He paused and picked up the letter from the woman named Willa. It was such a pretty name and an unusual one at that. And they did share something in common. Her father had been killed as well. That prompted Clinton to recall his own pain, his own sense of loss, his sense of being adrift on a dark and stormy plain all alone. Willa probably understood those feelings, and—
“All right, I’m sorry,” Billy said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But let’s be honest. It’s about time you settled down. You’re not getting any younger, you know, and for another thing, you’re turning into an old curmudgeon.”
Curmudgeon? Was that how people perceived him lately here? He might not be the friendliest person around, but he was no curmudgeon.
“Fine,” he said, tucking the letter from Willa into his shirt pocket. “Maybe I’ll respond to this one, just to keep you off my back.” He looked up at his friend. “Satisfied?”
Billy’s grin broadened, not at all worried that Clinton was upset with him. “And you’ll let me know how she responds?”
Clinton frowned, exasperated with his friend. “First, any reply I receive will be none of your business. And second, no more placing ads in newspapers! Will there be any more?”
Billy shrugged, this time with a broad, toothy smile. “Maybe. I can’t remember how many newspapers I placed ads in.”
“Perfect,” Clinton grumbled, walked to the door of the sheriff’s office, grabbed his hat from the hook by the door, and slapped his hat on his head. He stood in the doorway for several moments, shaking his head. Even so, he lifted his hand and patted his shirt pocket, feeling the paper crinkle beneath his fingertips. It couldn’t hurt to respond, could it?
Maybe Billy was right. Life out here was hard, and his upbringing had been hard as well. Maybe it was time for him to enjoy a little gentleness, a little softness in life. Maybe Miss Willa LeBlanc was a woman he might find interesting, one who might be a kindred spirit of sorts. It was an awful thing to have in common with someone else.
He glanced back over his shoulder at Billy, watching him warily. “Fine. I’ll respond to Miss LeBlanc’s letter. You can deal with the rest, tell them thank you or something, and get rid of them.” He saw the hopeful look on Billy’s face, the smile beginning to emerge on his lips. He pointed a finger at his friend. “But if you do some numbskull stunt like this again, I’m not going to be happy. You understand?”
Billy grinned. “Sure, Clinton, sure.”
Chapter 2: Willa
Louisiana
Willa absentmindedly swiped the feather duster over furniture in the small front room of Rachel’s home, anxiety twisted her stomach into tight knots. She’d been hiding at her aunt’s house for the past two weeks, worried that at any moment, her stepfather would discover where she was and come for her. Rachel had assured her that Richard Buchanan had no idea where she was, and as Willa had not stepped far from the main house or the shack where her aunt was letting her stay, the chances of him finding her were slim to none. Still, she worried. Richard Buchanan was not a man who liked to be crossed. If he found her, she would pay and pay dearly.
She also wondered how long it would take for her to receive a reply to the ads she’d responded to, in addition to her brief letter to Deputy Clinton Warren, if she did. Maybe he wouldn’t be interested. She could enjoy a little reprieve now, as Rachel’s husband had sent a telegram from St. Louis, letting her know that he would be gone on business through Missouri and Pennsylvania for at least a month. While Rachel had frowned with disappointment, Willa couldn’t help but be relieved. Still, she worried about his imminent return. She couldn’t hide out here in the woods indefinitely, imposing on her aunt, or putting her in danger.
Finished with the dusting, Willa turned to laundry, stepping to the small room at the back of the house that held the washing supplies and tubs. She had to stay busy, had to help her aunt with anything and everything, in that small way repaying her generosity and the roof over her head. While laundry was her least favorite chore, she would deal with sore, red, and raw knuckles from the stringent lye soap and the blisters she would get from wringing out the wet sheets and clothing before hanging them on a line behind the house to dry. She would do everything that Rachel asked her to do, without complaint, and with a smile on her face.
Still, in her private moments, in the shack behind the house at night, sitting in the dark, too frightened to turn on the kerosene lamp, she couldn’t help but wonder why this had happened to her. Why such bad luck seemed to follow her and her mother, and what the future might hold. Her mother had entered into a marriage with Richard Buchanan with the best of hopes, only to find him a hard, cruel man.
Willa’s mother often held her close, rocking her in her room, apologizing for bringing this shame down on both of them. Willa, even though young, had always understood that none of this was her mother’s fault. It was her stepfather. He was a mean, cantankerous, and demanding man. Why had he gotten married if he had disliked his wife, her child, and other women so much? It was something she didn’t understand when she was younger, but as she grew into her a young woman, her beauty blossoming as the years passed, she began to understand.
For men like Richard Buchanan, women were there for their own entertainment, to cook, and clean for them, to wait on them hand and foot, and little else. To be seen and not heard. To do as they were told or risk a slap or a fist.
Her mother had done her best to show Willa she was loved and cherished, but even so, she had not had a happy life and didn’t expect much different in her future. Of the ads she’d responded to, she hoped that it would be Deputy Warren who wrote back to her, but if not, she would try again. She couldn’t continue to rely on her aunt’s generosity much longer.
“Willa!”
“Back here!” she called over her shoulder, filling a bucket with water from the water pump just behind the house. “I’m getting ready to do some laundry!”
“Come in here!”
With a frown of concern, Willa placed the bucket on the wood plank housing for the pump and returned to the house, her heart pounding with worry. Had something happened? Had Richard Buchanan found her here?
“Look!” Rachel exclaimed, holding out two envelopes toward Willa. “These are for you! One is from your grandmother, the other from Deputy Warren!”
Willa did her best to hide her surprise and excitement. Her heart leaped at the thought that the deputy sheriff had responded to her letter. He might’ve written to tell her thank you, but I’m not interested. On the other hand…
And as a special treat, a letter from her grandmother. She smiled, and though she was anxious to read Deputy Warren’s letter first, she instead opened the envelope that contained the letter from her grandmother. It was a short missive and after she read it, Willa frowned in confusion, staring up at Rachel, who stared back at her, eyebrows lifted in anticipation.
“What does your grandmother have to say, dear?”
“She just wrote that she’s doing fine and that she thinks about me often. And then she writes that she loves me, hopes to see me soon, and then she ends with an odd comment.”
“And what would that be?” Rachel asked.
“To follow my heart, and that my mother would be very proud of me.” Willa looked at her and, then back at the letter. “What does that mean?” The missive was signed simply KK, for Kimberly Kain.
Aunt Rachel nodded. “Yes, it’s always good to follow your heart even though sometimes the results can be disappointing. But it also takes a great deal of courage, and we can’t know what the future will bring, can we? Still, once in a while, we get lucky, like I have with my George.” She reached out a hand and squeezed Willa’s. “I wish the same for you, dear, that you find a husband that will love, honor, and cherish you.”
Willa didn’t say anything but simply nodded. Was there such a thing? A man who could treat a woman that way? From what she’d experienced, at least with her own mother’s marriage, she wasn’t so sure.
“Now what does Deputy Warren have to say?”
Willa pushed thoughts of Richard Buchanan from her mind, tucked the short note from her grandmother into her apron pocket, and smiled as she opened the envelope from Deputy Warren and withdrew the letter admiring the neat, small printing. She read it aloud for Rachel:
Dear Miss LeBlanc,
Thank you for your letter. I read it with great interest, and find that we have something in common. You see, my father was also murdered, and the crime has never been solved. It is primarily for this reason that I became a deputy sheriff. Over the years, I have tried to solve the murder, to no avail, but at the same time, I have managed to help solve some others.
I would very much enjoy learning more about you and your life in Louisiana, as I have never been outside of Texas. I grew up here in the town of Reprobate and, while I have ridden over vast territory in this part of Texas, have never crossed outside its borders.
I realize that it is still early in our correspondence, but would like to ask if you would even consider making a move from Louisiana to Texas. If such is the case, I would welcome a reply. If not, thank you for writing to me and I wish you all the best.
Sincerely, Deputy Clinton Warren
Willa looked at Rachel, smiling at her. “That was a nice letter, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
With their heart fluttering, Willa carefully folded the letter and tucked it inside her apron pocket alongside that from her grandmother. It was some kind of coincidence, that her grandmother would tell her to follow her heart and that she would receive that letter on the same day that she received the letter from Deputy Warren.
She looked up at her aunt. “Dare I consider it?” It wasn’t exactly acceptable to enter a courtship under such circumstances, and without even knowing the man, but what choice did she have? She was no society girl, had no contacts, no prospects. “I might be a fool for even considering it, but I don’t have many options.”
Rachel wrapped her arms around Willa’s shoulders and held her close for several moments before gently releasing her grasp. “Sometimes, dear, we have to make some hard choices. This might not be the most standard way to find a husband, and hopefully some security in your life, but you don’t—and take this kindly, dear—have many skills that would enable you to support yourself on your own, even if you did have the money to travel far from here.”
Aunt Rachel was right. She was not employable. She had very little school education, although she could read, write, and do basic arithmetic. She wasn’t a schoolteacher, nor a governess, nor could she make a living as a dressmaker, although she could mend tears and darn socks. She was a fairly good cook, but other than that had few skills that would make her attractive to an employer and enable her to earn her keep. At least not yet. At that moment, she determined that she would do her best to continue learning new things, taking on new challenges, and improving herself.
“Why don’t you go sit down and write a reply to Deputy Clinton’s letter,” Rachel said softly. “I’ll deal with the laundry.”
“No, Aunt Rachel, I’ll do the laundry. Besides, I want to think about how I want to reply.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “So you’re thinking of going to Texas?”
Willa shrugged. “If he can send me a train ticket, I can make it as far as Houston from New Orleans. The hard part will be going into town and not letting Richard Buchanan or any of his people recognize or find me.”
Rachel nodded, frowning in thought. “We’ll think of a way to hide you from him, at least until you get on a westbound train.” She smiled at Willa, tears shining in her eyes. “I wish you could stay with me, child, I really do.”
Willa smiled and nodded. “I know, Aunt Rachel, and I will be forever grateful that you have sheltered me. But you and I both know that I can’t stay here. Sooner or later, Richard Buchanan will find me. I think this is the only choice I have, and this evening, I’ll write my letter to Deputy Warren and tell him that indeed, I would be willing to travel to Texas to meet him.”
***
Several days passed since Willa had written her response to Deputy Warren’s first letter. She could recite it from memory.
Dear Deputy Warren,
Thank you for your letter, and I’m sorry to hear about the circumstances surrounding your father’s demise. I too understand the feelings associated with such a loss. My mother passed away a short while ago, so I am for all intents and purposes now an orphan. In response to your query, I would like to say that yes, I would consider the journey to Texas, but alas, and much to my embarrassment, I have no funds with which to purchase a train ticket.
I apologize for being so blunt, but I am a woman who likes to always speak her mind. Until then, I would very much enjoy another letter from you, so as we could get to know one another at least a little bit better. The mail comes and goes between here in Texas faster than I had expected, so, if you continue to be interested, I anxiously await your next missive.
Sincere regards,
Miss Willa LeBlanc
Willa couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement over the fact that she was exchanging letters with a man, a perfect stranger. She knew that doing so would be frowned upon. In the East, chaperoned courtships were still the norm. In the eyes of polite society, replying to an ad for a mail-order bride would still be considered crass and scandalous. Out West, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe finding a wife this way was more common out there in those desolate parts than she expected. Maybe nobody would care.
She had little choice. She’d never been particularly concerned about what others thought of her anyway. Of course, she also felt some anxiety over the possibility that Deputy Warren was not a deputy at all, that he might be a mean, old man, or an abusive one like her stepfather. How could she not?
But if he was telling the truth, she knew that there was a possibility that Deputy Warren could protect her from the awful deed she had done to her stepfather the night he had tried to accost her in her bed. She hadn’t had the derringer for long, had only gotten it from a friend of hers after her mother passed away under mysterious circumstances. She didn’t trust Richard Buchanan farther than she could throw him, and since her mother had passed, he had been showing an inordinate amount of interest in her.
And then had come the night when half asleep, she had heard the footsteps in the hallway, pausing in front of her bedroom door. She kept it locked, but of course, Richard, owning the house, had a key to every room. Her heart had pounded with dread and disbelief as she heard the skeleton key slide into the lock on her door. Her mouth had gone dry as, in the wan moonlight sifting in through the curtains, she watched the doorknob turn. Her heart pounded with terror as she slid her hand under her pillow, her palm wrapped around the smooth, curved handle of the derringer. He wouldn’t.
But he did. He approached her bed, stepping softly. She heard his harsh breath as he came closer. He leaned down over her, perhaps to view her sleeping, and at that moment she saw his startled gaze when he realized she wasn’t.
“Get out of my room,” she hissed.
He had simply chuckled and reached for her, fingering her hair, splayed out on the pillow.
“What are you going to do about it? You are my property, living under my roof. You will do as I say, you understand?”
Her grip on the derringer tightened as he reached for her. She slapped his hand away and he growled, low in his throat, and slapped her face, her cheek stung by the force of it. She held in a scream of rage and fear. He had placed a hand on her throat, the other on her shoulder, and it was in that moment, her heart pounding and her body tense that she pulled her hand from beneath the pillow, the short muzzle of the derringer pointed at him.
“Leave,” she managed to choke out. “Leave, now.”
He had glanced from her face to the derringer and then laughed. But then the laughing turned into a snarl, his hand raised again, this time into a fist, and it was then that she’d fired. His eyes widened in startled amazement as he stumbled back, his hand going to his side. The derringer was such a small gun, with a small ball, but it was enough to encourage Richard Buchanan to stop. She had two bullets in the derringer and she would use the other one if she had to.
She didn’t. With a muttered oath, he snarled at her again and then left the room, slightly hunched over, stumbling down the stairs. Willa had wasted no time scrambling from the bed in her nightclothes, pausing only to wrap a shawl around her shoulders before climbing out her bedroom window and racing barefoot onto the large expanse of lawn behind the house and disappearing into the woods.
From that moment on, Willa knew that she would be sought, if not directly by Richard Buchanan, by one of the men he employed. And so she had gone to her aunt’s house at the edge of the swamp, but she knew she couldn’t stay here much longer. Every day that passed gave Richard Buchanan yet another day to find her. Eventually, he would. Of that, she had no doubt.
No, she had to leave, and the sooner the better.
“The Precious Secret of Her Heart” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
After losing her parents, Willa has fallen on hard times, hardened by a turbulent life. Ever since, she’s been living with her aunt who convinces her to escape her past misery and answer a mail-order-bride ad. When Willa meets Clinton, her husband-to-be, she is not only smitten by him but also determined to bury her secrets deep inside her heart and marry him. However, she will soon find herself in the middle of a web of scandal and confusion after a foe posing as a friend fills her head with lies about Clinton. As if this wasn’t enough, her life will be threatened and she will be forced to postpone the wedding. Caught between her history and her heart, she only has one person she can rely on; her fiancé, a total stranger. She must decide whether she’s willing to let go of the life she knew for a love she never thought she’d find. In the end, will she manage to lay aside her doubts for the sake of their love?
Deputy Clinton, a man wracked with grief over the loss of his father, has been down on his luck for many years. His best friend, who wants to see him finally happy, places an ad for a bride on his behalf. Clinton reluctantly agrees to look through the letters with the intention to throw them all away but one stands out to him… When he meets Willa in person, he immediately finds himself amazed by her unique beauty. However, her arrival in town coincides with an attempted murder and the threatening appearance of a bounty hunter. Personal conflicts will force Clinton to face a dilemma that will question his very values. In order to get to the bottom of the terrible crime, Clinton will have to choose between his duty to the law and to his new bride. Can he overcome the past that still haunts him and be the man she needs?
Willa and Clinton know that their life has no meaning without each other and are determined to break down the walls that keep them apart. While Willa is tormented by her memories, Clinton happens upon a secret that will put their relationship at risk… Will the challenges they both face compel them to join forces and confront the evil at their doorstep, or will they doom their relationship from the start?
“The Precious Secret of Her Heart” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.
Hello there, dear readers! I hope you enjoyed the preview. Let me know what you think on your comments below. I’ll be waiting! Thank you 🙂