All Is Bright: Bridget’s Christmas Miracle (Mail-Order Brides of Laramie County 1) Read online

  “How do you do, Miss Mary. I’m...” He wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. What should Bridget’s brother and sister call him? He wasn’t their father, and he didn’t want them to feel like he was replacing the father they already had.

  But Mary wasn’t particularly interested in his dilemma. She squinted up at him, “You’re Mr. Williams. You already said. Where are the sheep? Are they inside with Pearl?”

  “Mary!” Bridget gasped. “Manners!”

  “What? I haven’t never seen sheeps before!”

  “Haven’t ever. And it’s sheep, not sheeps,” Bridget corrected.

  “Well, where are they?” Mary looked at Chase again, clearly expecting him to produce a sheep immediately.

  He couldn’t help it. He grinned.

  “Pearl is waiting for us at the parson’s house, and the sheep are back at the ranch, waiting to meet you and your brother.” Come to think of it… “Where is your brother, by the way?”

  Chase scanned the platform, looking for a broad-shouldered, burly boy. None in sight, only a scrawny, dark-haired lad lugging an old trunk down the same stairs Bridget and Mary had descended.

  Oh no, Chase thought, realizing his mistake. He rummaged mentally through the letters Bridget had sent—she’d never said her brother was a strong boy, but she hadn’t said he wasn’t either. He’d just assumed. He doubted he wisp of a boy coming toward them even had the strength to ride a pony, let alone be a ranch hand.

  The boy doubled over, wracked by a coughing fit. He dropped the trunk with a bang. Bridget turned and rushed toward him. She slapped his back several times as he braced himself on the trunk lid.

  “There he is. That’s Tom!” Mary cried.

  “Is he sick?” Chase tried not to let his horror show on his face. What if the boy had something like consumption or diphtheria? Chase had read about epidemics ripping through Chicago’s crowded tenements. He couldn’t allow Pearl to be exposed. He had to resist the urge to take a step backward.

  “Nah, Tom’s always like that,” Mary informed him solemnly. “He was borned too early.”

  Chase felt a strange sense of relief. While a chronic condition wasn’t good for the boy, it wouldn’t hurt Pearl, either. Chase suddenly understood why Bridget was so eager to get her brother out of the dirty city. She hadn’t exactly lied to him, and heck, he might have done the same thing himself, if he had a sickly little brother. Who knew, the prairie air might be a tonic to him. Or maybe the harsh Wyoming winter would kill him, like it had Ada.

  He sighed and walked over to the pair. Tom’s coughing had eased, but Bridget still looked worried. Worried he would send them back? Or worried that he wouldn’t? He hadn’t exactly given her the warmest welcome.

  He would fix that. Soon as he got her and her siblings settled in.

  “You must be Tom,” Chase said, extending his hand to the boy.

  “Yessir, Mr. Williams.” Tom’s grip was surprisingly firm, and his wide eyes gave the impression of intelligence.

  Chase nodded in acknowledgement. “Well, no use standing around jabbering in the cold. Let’s get the trunk in the wagon. I’d like to be home by sundown.” He hefted the trunk to his shoulder, almost overshooting because he’d expected it to weigh more. It seemed too light to contain all the belongings of three people.

  Bridget opened her mouth as if to protest. Maybe she was used to a higher class of transportation? Chase frowned. He had been pretty clear about his circumstances in his letters.

  “You were expecting a buggy maybe? Or a barouche? I’m just a rancher, ma’am. Wagon’ll have to do.”

  He regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth.

  Bridget blushed, pink suffusing her pale skin. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean...a wagon will be wonderful. Perfect.”

  Way to make her feel welcome, Chase.

  Chapter Three

  Bridget tugged at the lapel of her threadbare coat and tried not to shiver. The wind had picked up by the time Chase rolled his wagon to a stop in front of the pretty little parson’s house next to a small, white church on a hill overlooking the town.

  “Pastor Jorgensen and his wife are fine people,” Chase explained to Bridget as he climbed off the wagon. “I try to visit whenever I’m in town.”

  Bridget looked down, but the wagon seat seemed impossibly high off the ground. There’d been a little step when she’d climbed up, but she couldn’t see it now. Annoyingly, Tom and Mary had scrambled down without difficulty, and now waited impatiently near the parson’s front door. Bridget wavered. Should she just jump down like the children had? What would a real ranch wife do?

  “Here you go,” Chase said, reaching both arms up, placing his hands around her waist, and sweeping her to the ground in one smooth motion.

  “Oh!” The movement, gentle as it was, had startled her, and she stumbled against his chest as she landed. For a brief moment, they were locked in an embrace as she struggled to regain her footing. Chase’s arms felt warm around her, and he smelled of grass and sky and wet wool.

  He let go of her abruptly, taking a step back.

  “Wagons, uh, they can be a little, uh, tricky the first time.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw with one hand, and seemed not to know which way to look. Why was he embarrassed when she was the helpless one?

  I can’t even get out of a wagon! He must think I’m so stupid, she thought as she followed him to the front door, hoping the cold had sufficiently reddened her cheeks so the shame spreading over her face wouldn’t be as apparent.

  The door opened almost immediately at Chase’s knock, revealing a balding, portly man dressed in his shirtsleeves. He ushered them all inside.

  “So here are our new Irish neighbors.” Pastor Jorgensen beamed at them, hooking his thumbs through his suspenders and rocking back on his heels. “Welcome!”

  Mary pushed her way past Tom to stand in front of the parson. “I’m Mary Margaret Doyle! You’re fat. You’re lucky. Someday I’m gonna have lots to eat, and get fat too, and then Bridget will have to let my dresses out ‘stead of taking ‘em in, and I’m gonna marry a fat man just like you and we’re gonna have a heap of fat babies, but not too many, ‘cause then I’ll be tired all the time.”

  “Mary!” Bridget cried, horrified, dragging her little sister back by her collar. She dared not look at Chase. What must he think of them? She opened her mouth to apologize for Mary’s impertinence when Pastor Jorgensen let out a great belly laugh.

  “Well, Miss Mary Margaret Doyle, that’s about the grandest compliment I’ve ever received. I am a lucky man, indeed!” He turned to the smiling, white-haired Mrs. Jorgensen, who had come out of the kitchen to greet them. “Anna, what do you think of that testament to your fine cooking?”

  “When I married Mr. Jorgensen, he was as skinny as a rail, and so bony, it hurt to hold him.” The pastor’s wife smiled. Her voice held the echo of an old world accent that Bridget couldn’t place. “This one reminds me of our Ginny when she was a bitty thing. A little firecracker, she was. But, oh, Mr. Williams, if she’s anything like Ginny, heaven help you both!”

  Chase nodded his head congenially, but was his smile a little forced? Maybe he was dreading being a father to two city-bred children. Maybe he was having second thoughts about marrying her.

  Bridget wished she could have had a chance to speak with him alone before this.

  “I’ve set some hot tea and gingerbread in the parlor. Why don’t you all take off your wraps and rest a spell, while I take Bridget to freshen up before the ceremony?” Mrs. Jorgensen continued.

  But before they could move, a tiny whirlwind burst out of the swinging kitchen door and wrapped itself around Chase’s legs.

  His face immediately lit up. “There’s my Pearl!”

  He picked the golden-haired girl up in his arms, and she buried her face in his shoulder. For the first time, Bridget saw her husband-to-be smile, crinkling what indeed were laugh lines around his deep brown eyes.

  “Pearl, meet Bridget, Tom,
and Mary.”

  My new daughter. The thought made Bridget’s heart clench. With joy. And fear. And some other emotion she couldn’t name.

  Before Bridget could formulate a proper greeting, Mary wiggled out of her grip and bounced around Chase, trying to get a look at her new sister.

  “Howdy, Pearl! Tom told me that’s how you say hello out West. I’m Mary Margaret Doyle. I was on a train, and it went ever so fast. You have pretty hair. Mine’s red, but I always wanted yellow, like yours. That’s Tom over there. He’s sick, so he can’t play kick-the-can or tag or nothing. I have freckles. You’re lucky you don’t have freckles. Bridget says that’s where the angels kissed me ‘fore I was borned.”

  Pearl lifted up her head and smiled shyly. As soon as Chase set her down, she moved closer to Mary and reached out a hand to stroke one of Mary’s red braids. She lifted it and brushed the end against her cheek.

  “Where are the sheeps? Are there any baby sheeps?” Mary continued.

  Pearl shook her head, turned down her mouth, and made a motion with her hand just below Mary’s chin.

  Mary frowned and looked up at Chase. “How come she don’t talk? Is she sick too?”

  Chase tensed, cleared his throat, and met Bridget’s eyes briefly. But Bridget was pleased to see him turn his gaze back to Mary instead of talking over her head.

  “No, at least, not any more. Pearl was sick...before. When her mother died.”

  He paused, and Bridget saw his throat convulse before he spoke again. “The doctor said her vocal chords stopped working. That was three years ago.”

  Bridget held her breath. I’m so sorry, she should have said. But the air seemed to freeze in her lungs. Was she up to the challenge of raising a mute girl? How would she know what Pearl needed if Bridget couldn’t ask her?

  “Huh.” Mary put her hands on her hips and frowned thoughtfully at the little girl standing in front of her. Pearl’s eyes were downcast.

  “Well, that’s okay then.” Mary abruptly wrapped her arms around Pearl. “My Ma died, too. But I don’t miss her, ‘cause Bridget’s a pretty good Ma, ‘cept when she tells me what to do. An’ don’t you worry none, Pearl. I like to talk! I can talk for both of us.”

  Pastor Jorgensen’s laugh boomed out again.

  Chase’s shoulders relaxed, and once again, he met Bridget’s eyes for a second. But her smile of reassurance to him was too late—he’d already turned to speak to Pastor Jorgensen.

  “Well, dear, let’s get you ready!” cried Mrs. Jorgensen, taking Bridget’s arm. “It’s not every day a girl gets married!”

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Jorgensen led Bridget down the hall to a bedroom with green sprigged wallpaper and a bright patchwork quilt tucked tightly on a four-poster bed.

  “Now, dear, shall I have one of the men bring in your trousseau?”

  Bridget frowned, unfamiliar with the word. “Trousseau?”

  “Yes, dear, your bride’s dress and underthings, and...” She stopped short as Bridget’s face fell.

  “This is all I have. It’s my best dress,” Bridget whispered, looking down at the floor. “It was my mother’s, before she married my Da.”

  Bridget knew the shirt and sleeves were far too wide and the waistline too short for current fashion. But she’d always loved the deep brown brocade with its velvet trimming.

  She remembered how, as a little girl, she had begged her mother endlessly to recount the stories of the balls she had attended as a girl to “see the boys off to war.” By the time the war was over, most of those boys lay in far away, unmarked graves, and Bridget’s Ma had three children and another on the way. When Da had burned Ma’s things on one of his bad days, this dress was the only remnant of her mother that Bridget had managed to save from his rage.

  Mrs. Jorgensen rushed over and put her arms around Bridget. “It’s a lovely dress, dear. Of course you’d want to wear your best for traveling! That was silly of me.”

  It was so kind of the pastor’s wife to try to save her pride. Bridget couldn’t help liking the woman even more.

  Mrs. Jorgensen frowned in thought, then her eyes opened as if an idea had occurred to her. “Wait here! I’ll be right back.”

  Bridget sat on the bed miserably, sure Mrs. Jorgensen had retreated to tell Chase he couldn’t marry a woman who owned only one dreadfully-out-of-style dress. But moments later, the pastor’s wife burst through the door, holding a hat box.

  “Mr. Jorgensen scolded me, but I knew I bought it for a reason.” She opened the box and held it out for Bridget’s inspection.

  Bridget drew out a lovely brown velvet hat, nearly the same color as her dress, trimmed with a magnificent ostrich feather that had been dyed cobalt and gold.

  “I bought it on a whim,” Mrs. Jorgensen explained. “But I just never looked right in it. Try it on, dear.”

  It was more beautiful than anything Bridget had ever worn. More beautiful even than Ma’s dress. She knew it was vain to care, but she hoped it looked good on her.

  “There, perfect.” Mrs. Jorgensen retrieved something from her apron pocket. Bridget almost gasped when the woman held out a sparkling diamond brooch.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t...” Bridget began. It was by far the most expensive thing she had ever seen.

  “Of course you can. It’s just paste—it’s the ‘borrowed’ part.” She pinned the brooch on Bridget’s collar. “Something old, that’s your mother’s lovely dress. Something new, that’s the hat. Something borrowed, this brooch. And something blue, the ostrich feather.”

  Bridget glanced at the mirror in the corner of the room, thinking she must look ridiculous. What she saw shocked her. The hat lent Ma’s old dress a sort of genteel sophistication. And the brooch, paste though it was, sparkled as brightly as she’d ever imagined a diamond might shine.

  In this outfit, she didn’t even look like herself. She could almost be Ma’s twin.

  She wondered what Ma would think. If Ma could see her now from heaven, would she be proud? Or would she be horrified that Bridget was about to join her soul with a man she knew almost nothing about? A man who might not even like her?

  “Now, let me re-do your hair, and you’ll be ready to go down. Won’t Mr. Williams be happy when he sees his beautiful bride?”

  Bridget sat dutifully on the edge of the bed, but tears swam in her eyes as Mrs. Jorgensen unpinned her hair.

  “What’s wrong dear? Did I pull?”

  “No, no. I’m so terribly sorry. It’s just nerves. And...” Bridget swallowed, not wanting to continue, but the tears threatened to spill over, and Mrs. Jorgensen seemed so kind. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry,” Mrs. Jorgensen murmured, patting Bridget’s shoulder. “I think he likes you fine. At least, he looks at you like he likes you, when he doesn’t know he’s looking.”

  “What do you mean?” When he doesn’t know he’s looking?

  Mrs. Jorgensen sighed and began to brush Bridget’s thick hair.

  “Mr. Jorgensen and I had barely accepted the post to Laramie before Ada Williams died. We only got to call on them once, and then Mr. Williams went back East to pick up his sheep. Early storms blocked the tracks, kept him away longer than he intended. A month later, word came she had died, all alone with little Pearl on that big ranch of theirs.” Mrs. Jorgensen shook her head sadly. “I meant to call on her while he was gone, but there was always something else to do first.”

  “What was she like? Is that proper for me to ask?”

  “She was quiet, and held herself up very straight. Polite. Restrained. I thought she seemed unhappy, somehow, even though she seemed right glad to have callers. It might have just been that Mr. Williams was about to leave. She thought the world of him, I could tell, and he doted on her.”

  Bridget’s heart sank a little at that, but then she reprimanded herself. Of course he had loved his first wife. How awful of her to be jealous of a dead woman. She bent her concentration to Mrs. Jorgensen’s wo
rds.

  “Ada was from Texas, and she missed it, although she’d never complain. You could hear it in her voice when she talked about the orange trees her folks kept, and the yellow roses in her mother’s garden. She complained about being cold, even though it was only September. Chase kept the fire stoked for her. She had big blue eyes and dark blond hair, like Pearl... that’s all I remember. I wish I could tell you more.”

  That told Bridget nothing that shed light on why Chase had loved the woman from Texas. Or what she might do to make him love her.

  “How did she die?”

  “The hand Chase hired to stay behind ran off shortly after he left, and I guess trying to keep up with the ranch chores just wore her out. She got sick, pneumonia, the doctor thought. She had been dead for a while when a tin peddler found them. Pearl was almost dead as well, from hunger and cold. It was a terrible thing. We had to bury Ada before Mr. Williams came home. Mr. Jorgensen didn’t even know how to reach him.”

  Mrs. Jorgensen began to pin Bridget’s hair in what felt like a complicated arrangement.

  “Mr. Williams was crazy with grief when he came home. Blamed himself for being gone, blamed Mr. Jorgensen for not writing, blamed even poor Pearl for a spell. Blamed the Lord for taking his wife too soon. The only blame that stuck though, was on himself. He closed his heart right up, leaving only a little room for Pearl. So when he looks at you, and his eyes start shining, he can’t let himself know he’s looking, because opening a closed heart hurts like the dickens.”

  Chapter Five

  Chase tried to steal a sideways glance at Bridget as he pulled the wagon up to the sidewalk in front of Degnan’s trading post. She’d been quiet through the quick wedding ceremony, so quiet that he’d wondered if she might be having second thoughts. Not that he’d expected romance, not when they were both marrying for the sake of giving the children a family. But in her letters, she’d seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the prospect of coming to Wyoming.