Page 3 of Val (Wild Rose Ridge #1)

Chapter Two

Mrs. Schulte swept into the dining room first, her bustle jutting behind her like the back of a ship. Her lace cuffs fluttered as she gestured grandly toward a long table, already assuming command of the gathering. Micah wondered what Miss O’Malley would think of the room’s décor.

Red velvet roses patterned the walls, rich but not gaudy, and the glow of wall sconces and a few well-placed lanterns flickered like stars.

Pine boughs, threaded with red ribbons, traced the length of the room and crowned the mantel above a crackling fire.

Warmth and welcome lingered in the air, though to Micah’s mind the place owed more to the season’s finery than the hotelier’s hospitality.

He watched as Miss O’Malley followed close behind Mrs. Schulte as he maneuvered his way around the table. Her lips were pressed thin; her gaze fixed squarely on the mountain of fabric in front of her. The frown that pinched her brow deepened with every sway of Mrs. Schulte’s enormous bustle.

Micah hid a smile. The room’s décor didn’t draw her attention like he thought it would. Miss O’Malley hadn’t even sat down yet and already Mrs. Schulte and her friend were setting her teeth on edge.

Mrs. Hanford entered next, gliding into the room with the precision of a woman who knew her gown was worth more than some men made in a month.

Deep plum silk gleamed in the lamplight, with shiny black buttons winking down her bodice.

A velvet-trimmed hat with violets perched on the brim crowned her carefully smoothed hair. Her every step screamed superiority.

He switched his gaze back to Miss O’Malley.

She wore a practical wool jacket, damp from the cold winter air.

Her hat was care-worn, her shoes plain but sturdy, but she wasn’t shabby by any means.

Next to Mrs. Hanford’s finery and Mrs. Schulte’s bustle, she looked every inch the traveler.

Yet it wasn’t silk or feathers that commanded Micah’s attention; it was the snap of green eyes that warned she’d not be led anywhere she didn’t want to go.

Mrs. Schulte sat and folded her hands atop the table with a satisfied air. “Now then, Miss O’Malley. Since you are charged with the care of these dear girls, it falls to us to acquaint you with the standards of Wild Rose Ridge.”

Miss O’Malley’s chin lifted a fraction as she took a seat. Micah caught it for what it was: defiance carefully checked.

Mrs. Hanford smoothed her skirts beneath the table once seated, her voice cool as a January morning. Or in her case, an icy wind. “First, the brides must be properly chaperoned. No solitary strolls about town are permitted. Respectability demands it.”

Miss O’Malley’s lips parted, but Mrs. Schulte raised a hand, cooing. “All for their protection, of course! Gentlemen may call, but only in the hotel parlor, and only under our supervision. Curfews are essential.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Hanford added before poor Miss O’Malley could so much as open her mouth.

“All brides must be in their rooms by nine o’clock sharp.

And church attendance is non-negotiable.

” Her gaze slid to Val, sharp as a hatpin.

“Appearances must be maintained, Miss O’Malley.

Respectability, after all, is the very currency of their futures. ”

Miss O’Malley bristled. Micah saw it in the taut line of her shoulders, the way her fingers clenched her parasol handle even while seated. He half expected her to jab the thing straight into the floorboards.

Mrs. Schulte, oblivious, beamed. “And of course, we expect matches to be settled within the next few weeks. Lingering courtships invite gossip, and we want nothing but happy homes established as quickly as possible.” She leaned forward. “So anything you can do to speed these women up? See to it.”

Miss O’Malley jerked back slightly, eyes wide.

Micah kept his face steady, though inwardly he winced. Necessary, yes. But Mrs. Schulte’s tone could make a hymn sound like a prison sentence. Poor Miss O’Malley looked ready to march the lot of her charges back onto the Merry Jo and sail straight back to Portland.

At last, Mrs. Schulte pushed back her chair, bustle swaying like a pendulum. “There, now that that’s settled, let’s see to your brides’ accommodations. Miss O’Malley you may rest assured we’ll keep everything perfectly respectable.”

Mrs. Hanford rose as well, tugging at her pristine gloves. “We’ll speak again before the tea. There are additional matters to discuss.” Her eyes flicked once more over Miss O’Malley’s travel-worn outfit, the faintest curl of her lip betraying what she thought of it.

With a regal nod, the two swept from the dining room and disappeared into the lobby.

Micah remained seated across from Miss O’Malley. She let out a breath that sounded more like steam from the Merry Jo. She sagged back in her chair, then sat forward again, jaw tight with annoyance as if she’d just remembered he was there.

“Well,” she muttered. “If that’s the measure of this town, then saints preserve us all. Curfews, supervised parlor visits, matches ordered up like boots from a cobbler. What in heaven’s name did those blasted sisters send us into?”

Micah folded his hands, watching her. Was she in the habit of talking to herself? “Sisters? Oh yes,” he said with a snap. “The Sisters’ Mail-Order Bride Company.” He raised his brows. “Well, Miss O’Malley, they sent you into a frontier town. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You make it sound like perdition itself opened a branch office here.”

He kept his tone even. “It’s not perdition.

Just men who work hard, drink harder, and sometimes fight harder still.

Timber crews come to town from the camps.

Miners get done with their work and seek a little fun.

Occasionally, a place like this gets a sheriff with a temper quicker than his draw.

There’s law here, but it sometimes stretches thin. ”

She stared at him, horrified. “And they expect six young women to plant themselves here like roses in a briar patch?” Her voice squeaked on the last word.

Micah inclined his head slightly. “I expect those roses will grow thorns, given time. And not to worry, our last sheriff wasn’t so great. Our current one is a fair man.”

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. Color burned her cheeks. Whether from outrage or something else, Micah couldn’t guess.

“Those blasted sisters,” she muttered. “With their sweet smiles and fine talk of grand causes and adventure…” She broke off, biting down on the words, her green eyes flashing like lightning.

Micah let the silence stretch. He’d learned in Leavenworth that a man needn’t shout to make himself heard; patience often outlasted temper, and in Leavenworth, Kansas, there were plenty of bad tempers.

At last, she shoved back her chair, holding her parasol like a saber. “If this is what Augusta, Margaret, and Josie call opportunity, then they’ve got a queer notion of the word.” She swept past him, skirts snapping with every step, leaving the scent of damp wool and indignation in her wake.

Micah sat a moment longer, gaze on the doorway where she’d vanished into the lobby full of women. His mouth curved, not quite into a full smile. “She’ll either bend this town into order,” he murmured. “Or break herself against it. Lord, grant me the wisdom to know which.”

He rose at last and crossed to the tall dining-room windows. The sky was overcast; he wondered how hard it might rain that night. Beyond the glass, the street blurred with men drifting back to their chores. Then something caught his eye across the way.

Half-hidden beneath the awning of the saloon lounged Sylvester Sneed, the town undertaker.

Hat brim pulled low, hands tucked in his coat, the man watched the hotel with a weasel’s patience.

He hadn’t been near enough to stir the ruckus on the dock, but Micah would’ve wagered his good Bible Sneed had egged it on.

Micah’s jaw tightened. Trouble never vanished; it only slunk to the shadows and waited.

And Sneed was nothing if not practiced at waiting.

He was the only undertaker Micah had ever met who truly loved his work.

If he didn’t have business, he’d talk about trying to drum some up.

It was unnerving. But Micah also knew, Sylvester would never go through with it.

So far, Micah had taken Sylvester’s dark comments in stride, but he couldn’t help wondering whether some of Sneed’s “patrons” hadn’t met their end with a little help from the man. The thought made him shudder. He turned toward the lobby just in time to see several brides heading upstairs.

He should go back to the church and work on tomorrow’s sermon, but as Mrs. Hanford had said, there were still matters to be discussed.

Turning toward the door, he spotted a gaggle of men pressing close, craning for a look. He shook his head.

“Well, what’s going on in there, preacher?” Jed, a miner, called. He gave a toothless grin and nodded at the man beside him.

“Yeah!” Bill said. “Did anyone forfeit?”

Micah’s face screwed up. “Forfeit? Not as far as I know. And even if a few gentlemen didn’t show up to meet their brides, don’t get it in your heads that makes them free for the taking.”

“Aw, shucks,” Jed muttered, snapping his fingers. “I was kind of hoping.”

“Stop right there,” Micah said. “Get back to work. No reason for you to be hanging around here.”

“But Preacher Sutton,” Jed protested. “We just want a peek. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve seen a decent-looking woman?”

Micah tried not to cringe. “Don’t let Mrs. Schulte hear you say that.”

The men laughed. Micah smiled faintly. “Go on now. They’re headed upstairs to rest, and tomorrow, with any luck, I’ll marry some of them off to their betrothed.”

The men groaned but shuffled away. Micah heaved a sigh as he watched them go. At least a riot hadn’t started, and no one had been shot, much to Sylvester’s dismay.

He glanced back across the street. Sure enough, the undertaker was still lurking in the shadows like a spider, waiting for a fly. Sylvester would have to learn that standing around in the dark wasn’t going to conjure corpses.

Leaving the hotel, Micah headed toward the church. He’d check his notes for tomorrow’s sermon, then make sure the decorators hadn’t left supplies scattered about. A few women would likely be there in the morning. With his luck, it’d be Mrs. Schulte and her entire sewing circle.

He groaned at the thought. They’d take over his church and his sermon if given half the chance. Mrs. Schulte already told him what to preach, not that he listened, but occasionally he gave her a nod. The corner of his mouth twitched at the notion as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets.

His mind drifted to Miss O’Malley and the fire in her eyes. It would be interesting to see how she fared at the Welcome Tea in a couple of hours. In the meantime, he hoped she managed to get some rest. She was going to need it.