Stagecoach driver Emerson Clark isn’t looking for love. But he knows life is better with a partner by your side- like a good team of horses supporting one another around the ruts in the road and along the narrow paths. As long as she’s practical, he’ll be happy.
Excerpt:
Carrie Town, Texas – September 1891
“Two things I hate: interruptions to my
schedule and losing.”
Emerson Clark -- Stagecoach Driver
“Over the years working
as a stagecoach driver, you become more akin to the wheels on the stagecoach
with each passing day. You’re always on the move. Will you be happy settling
down in one place?”
Emerson Clark leaned
on the railing of the front porch, removed his pocket watch to check the time,
then met the eyes of his best friend, Moses Montgomery. “It’s a good question.”
The
sounds of laughter and good-natured jesting flowed back and forth among his
friends, the Montgomery family. Although not related by blood, they were the
closest thing to relatives he could imagine. It felt good to spend a Sunday
afternoon in their company.
The rhythmic click of the chain from the porch swing roused him
from his thoughts. Em returned his attention to Moses and his wife Bethany,
swaying back and forth with their six-year-old niece who was staring at a
picture in her fairy-tale book. His mouth lifted at the sight of the
heart-shaped design of the wrought iron swing. Moe’s sister had created the
pattern and their father had hammered out the perfect symbol of a family
working together and displaying their commitment toward one another.
“Is that the watch the stagecoach company awarded you, Em?” Michael
Montgomery, the patriarch of the family and town blacksmith, asked.
“Yes
sir, in appreciation of what you might call a poor attempt at a robbery. It
didn’t take but a crack of my whip and a few shots to send those bandits
packing.” Emerson unfastened the clasp, removing his gold chain
and pendant from his vest, then placed it in the massive hands of the man so
instrumental in honing his skills in the trade of blacksmithery.
“Solid
gold, too.” Moses whistled. “Been a long time since anyone attempted robbing
your stage.”
“Used
to be a regular thing, seeing a masked man pointing his gun somewhere along the
roadside. But most bandits find trains a more lucrative field these days.” Em
shrugged. “Stagecoach travel is becoming less lucrative in a lot of ways.”
“Is
that why you're thinking of giving it up?” Moses’ dark eyebrows drew together.
Em
straightened and turned his attention toward the laughter coming from the side
yard. The sun was bright in the autumn
sky and Moses’ mother and sister fanned themselves while meandering along the
lawn. The years Moses’ brothers spent working alongside their father in the
forge was evident as they easily hammered posts into the ground in preparation
for a game of horseshoes. Squeals and laughter from the children playing kick the
can sent a feeling of pleasure as welcome as the slight breeze.
“There are still remote
areas without rail service that need packages and people delivered. Plenty of common
folk will still rely on the stage.”
A
burst of wind sent a tumbleweed bouncing across the L-shaped porch rolling over
his pointy-toed boots. The invasive weed’s appearance was as unwelcome as the
memory it brought. Despite the warmth of the autumn day, he shivered. The trembling body of a young boy hiding behind a
mound of the troublesome weed vivid, his stomach so empty it ached as he cried
out to God for sleep to relieve him from his pain.
Em circled his head around
his shoulders and rubbed his chest. “The
truth is, I want a place to call home.”
Moses’ eyebrows narrowed. “You often refer to
yourself as a tumbleweed and say how much you enjoy driving the stage and
traveling places. Don’t you think you would miss the excitement?”
“Maybe,
on occasion.” Em rubbed the back of his neck. “But the stage company has
offered me a promotion that is causing me to reconsider. The job is mine provided
I agree to an additional requirement. They prefer a married man to manage their
home station.”
Moses
whistled. “Stationmaster would be a perfect fit since you have all the skills
of a blacksmith and farrier as well as a driver.”
“If
I accept, I will manage the stage stop about an hour’s ride from here. The
catch is, the contract runs out in three years or sooner if the railroad merger
goes through as planned. In the meantime, I take over running the Home Station,
which requires I fill in as driver, as necessary.”
Moses
reached for the watch and opened the pendant. “I can see you standing there
scowling at the drivers for being a minute late.”
“Not
with that watch, I won’t.” Em grimaced. “There are still a lot of nefarious
characters traveling by coach. No point in tempting one of them to do something
stupid. No sir, this is my Sunday go-to-meeting pendant.”
“What
happens when they close the station?”
“That’s
the intriguing and most persuasive part. If I accept the position, Wooten’s
Lodge and the adjacent farm are mine. Or shall I say the bank is giving me the
first right of refusal.”
“Old
Man Wooten’s place?”
“Yep,
since the railroad came through, the inn has lost most of its business. The land
is mortgaged, and the owner is looking to cash in while he still can. There are
120 acres divided into pasture, with about a quarter for planting. In time, it
could become a self-sustaining farm even without the income from the boarders.”
“You will make a fine husband and father.” Moses’
father puffed his cigar, sending an alluring stream of small circles wrapped
with the rich scent of cinnamon. “Now, it is simply a matter of you finding the
right woman to settle down with.”
“Which brings us back to where we started.” His eyes
darted to the Gothic Revival-style house with its pointed arches and window
shapes. He took in a deep breath, knowing the structure symbolized his desire to
recreate the comfort of family for himself. “Men must outnumber women thirty to
one in this part of Texas.”
“As well
we know, which is why I sent your application to the matrimonial agency run by
our childhood friend last year. Mrs. Shelby’s advice is a godsend for this
family. Otherwise, we would not have the lovely new daughter-in-law joining us
here this afternoon.” Mr. Montgomery motioned with his Sunday cigar. “Your
delay in completing the questionnaire is the reason you don’t have a bride of
your own.”
Em placed
his hand over the weight of the envelope in his vest pocket. “I'm praying this
opportunity and this desire to put down roots are God’s prompting to move
forward.”
“Tennessee
has the opposite problem from Texas. The lure of land and gold fever send most
of the eligible young men in the area west.” Moses’ wife tapped her finger
along her cheek. “Several of my friends who grew up in the children’s home
adjacent to my grandparents’ farm are participating with the agency. What type
of woman do you see yourself married to in the coming years?”
“Be
careful how you answer, my friend. If the women are friends of my wife’s, her
grandfather probably taught them to be beekeepers and goat herders.”
“What is
wrong with that?” Bethany elbowed her husband good-naturedly.
“Ouch!” Moses
rubbed his side, then placed a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Make sure you specify
her personality should be docile and not saucy like this one.”
Em
chuckled. “Other than the fact she’s a beekeeper and you hate bees; you seem
well suited.”
“There is
also the little matter of my allergy to alfalfa.” Bethany gave her husband a
sideways glance. Em’s mouth opened then closed as he watched his friend’s
shoulder shake with mirth. “You raise horses and run the livery stable, and
your wife is allergic to hay? You two aren’t making me feel better about this
matrimonial agency.”
“Imagine
how boring life would be if your wife’s temperament and interests were the same
as yours. No, a bit of variety is good.” Mr. Montgomery grinned as he leaned
forward. “I’ve heard you often complain about the society misses who travel on
your stage. Trust your instincts and remember Rebekah was chosen by God; not
for looks, wealth, or skills but because of her kind heart.”
“Yes, a kind woman and not someone only worried about themselves
and their appearance. Someone practical and focused.” Em cleared his throat. “I
have few memories before I came west on the orphan train. But somewhere in the
back of my mind, there was a family farm I called home. Sometimes I can almost
hear the clanging of a dinner bell and my mother’s voice telling me to wash up
for supper. Her mouth is turned up in a smile while she scans the horizon,
searching for my father. I can see an outline of a man making his way towards
the house from a field of wheat. There’s an aroma coming from the kitchen
hinting at a savory stew, and I’m filled with a feeling of a family who love
and support one another.”
He let out a ragged breath. “Maybe it’s only a dream. But I want
to experience the feeling again. Not sure what that looks like when it comes to
describing the personality of an ideal wife.”
“Loyal, loving, giving, and generous.” Bethany’s blue-gray eyes
met his. “Emerson, I'd like to tell you about a special friend of mine.”
“Uh oh, is she a beekeeper or a goatherder?” Em forced a smile.
“No to the goat-herding skills. But Selah certainly knows her
way around a beehive, and she can garden and tend to farm animals. The
orphanage trained the children to raise their own food and to handle the job
from start to finish. She is smart, plays the piano, sings, and is currently
working as a baker’s apprentice.”
“Sounds resourceful, and
she must be a good cook. I like to eat.” Em rubbed his stomach. “If your friend
agrees to come, I’ll make sure she has plenty of help and can spend time on her
music. I’ve worked hard these past years and can afford to support my wife and
any children that might come along, and then some.”
“Hold on a minute now. From what you tell me about Selah, she
sounds kind of sassy.” Moses winked, “fair warning, friend.”
“Sassy? I believe a better description is tenacious and
spontaneous.” Bethany twisted her hands in her lap. “Even though the children’s
home was a good one, the slightest tendency to be docile could leave someone
wanting at the dinner table.”
Drumming his fingers absently on the
Peacemaker resting on his hip, Em nodded. “An orphan has to grow up quick, that’s for sure. A
certain amount of grit is necessary for survival.”
“My friend is far more likely to speak up about the needs of
others before she would voice a desire of her own.” Bethany stared into the
distance. “Her father was a doctor. Both her parents lost their lives tending
to the sick during the yellow fever epidemic. My grandmother often says that
Selah inherited her intelligence from her father and her loving nature and
talent for music from her mother.”
“I knew a gal by the name of Selena once. But I can’t recall
hearing the name Selah before. Is it a nickname or short for something?”
“It's a reference mentioned often in the Bible in the book of
Psalms. Most of the time, it’s at the end of the verse.” Mr. Montgomery reached
for his Bible and flipped through the pages. “Here’s one, Psalms 32:7. ‘Thou
art my hiding place; thou
shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of
deliverance. Selah.’”
Em felt the blood run from his face. “Was there a reason why you
turned to that section in particular?”
“It’s one of my favorite verses.” Mr. Montgomery’s eyes crinkled
at the corners as he extended the worn Bible and pointed at the underlined
scripture. “Perhaps the word ‘Selah’ is adding value to the verse, like a good Hallelujah or Amen.”
Moses’ dark eyes twinkled. “Remember that girl we went to school
with named Hallie? I wonder if her name was short for Hallelujah?”
“Hallie
Simmons.” Em shuddered. “If she wasn’t the epitome of ‘don't judge a book by
its cover,’ I don’t know what is. Pretty on the outside, she smiles and coos,
intent on getting her own way no matter the cost. Let’s hope your friend is
nothing like her.”
The
slamming of the screen door interrupted the conversation, and Moses’ youngest
brother, Malachi, appeared carrying plates filled with cookies. “Don’t go agreeing to nothing before you see a
picture, Em. My brothers have both been fortunate to marry women who are as
sweet as they are pretty. The odds are the next mail-order bride is bound to be
as ugly as a mud fence and probably cranky to boot.”
About Kimberly Grist:
Kim has enjoyed writing since she was a young girl. However, she began writing her first novel in 2017, "Despite my best efforts, sometimes life just stinks. Bad things happen. I need and want an outlet, an opportunity to relax and escape to a place where obstacles are met and overcome." Fans of historical romance set in the late 19th -century will enjoy stories combining, History, Humor, and Romance, emphasizing Faith, Friends, and Good, Clean Fun.
Connect with Kimberly:
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/kimberly-grist
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/FaithFunandFriends/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/GristKimberly
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Kimberly-Grist/e/B07H2NTJ71
