The Drum_The Twelfth Day Read online

  The Drum

  The Twelfth Day

  E.E. Burke

  The Drum, Twelve Days of Christmas Mail-Order Brides (Day 12), is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 E.E. Burke.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Published by E.E. Burke

  978-0-9980712-8-2

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Author’s Note

  Books By E.E. Burke

  About the Author

  Prologue

  October 1876, Noelle, Colorado

  The door to the Hardt & Co. office swung open, and a wiry bow-legged miner in dusty denims stepped inside. He snatched off his cap and tugged a lock of his hair. “Mornin’ Mr. Hardt, sir. Would ye mind writing up a pretty letter? Somethin’ ta woo a bride?”

  Charlie glanced up from the account book spread out in front of him. Silas Powell’s request to have a letter written wasn’t particularly surprising, as many of the mine employees were illiterate and asked for their employer’s help with letters. But a request to woo a bride was a new one. “Am I getting married? That’s mighty odd. Nobody told me.”

  Confusion flashed across Silas’s face an instant before a grin appeared, indicating the miner had caught on to the deliberate misunderstanding. “Too late, sir. There ain’t any women left for you to take. They all got assigned, and I already heard back from mine.”

  So, even a skirt-chaser like Silas had bought into the mail-order bride scheme cooked up by the well-meaning reverend. Chase Hammond had spun a pretty story if he’d convinced hard-bitten miners to give up their fancy whores in exchange for whey-faced wives. Who else would come out to the middle of nowhere and marry strangers?

  “Let’s talk about this bride.” Charlie motioned the miner forward, glad for something to distract from work he hated, especially when the calculations didn’t favor him—at the moment. He pushed aside an unopened envelope, which he knew contained another bid to buy him out. He wasn’t interested, no matter how many times Percy stuck an offer under his nose.

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched to relieve the tightness in his back and arms. “So, Mr. Powell, tell me about how you managed to get hornswoggled into marriage. I heard y’all had to draw straws. Were you one of the unlucky ones?”

  The smile on Powell’s face faltered and his expression clouded with concern. “What d’ye mean by that, sir? How’s it unlucky?”

  Charlie shook his head. Miners were a superstitious lot, and he knew better than to joke about something they took very seriously. “Never mind. I’m sure your bride will turn out to be very lucky for you.”

  Which was more than Charlie could say about his former wife.

  Silas heaved a relieved sigh. “Aye, I need all the luck I can get.”

  “Don’t we all?” Charlie restrained the urge to warn his worker against marrying a stranger. What did it matter? He’d known Olivia for years and hadn’t once guessed the depths of her deception, or else he’d ignored the signs because her beauty had enthralled him. Loveliness on the outside didn’t guarantee the same on the inside—in fact, the opposite seemed to be true. Pretty women were more inclined to be self-centered and faithless. For Silas’s sake, he hoped the miner got one of the ugly ones.

  Charlie pulled a sheet of paper in front of him. Just because he’d sworn off marriage didn’t mean others wouldn’t benefit, and the town had struck a deal with the railroad to have twelve couples married by January sixth. As mayor, he had an obligation to fulfill. The least he could do was help one of his own men land a bride, if that’s what he wanted. “Tell me, does your heart’s desire have a name?”

  “Mrs. Penelope Jackson. She’s a widow lady. She sent a picture with her letter.” Silas pulled a cabinet card from his coat. The glee in his eyes could only mean he’d been dealt a winning hand.

  Unable to resist a peek, Charlie took the card. The widow lady wasn’t anywhere close to ugly, or even all that old. The woman in the picture had the kind of quiet beauty that reminded him of peaceful mountain streams and breezes fluttering through the aspens.

  “I got the prettiest one,” Silas declared, with apt reverence.

  “To be sure.” Charlie’s voice came out rougher than intended. He rubbed his thumb over the image and could almost feel the silkiness of her alabaster cheek and the softness of the dark strands escaping an upsweep of loose curls. Her posture and expression bespoke solemn dignity, but the gifted photographer had captured the hopeful longing in her eyes. What was Penelope Jackson hoping for?

  He turned the card face down on the desk. Beautiful women were experts at making their eyes say things they didn’t really mean. Not to mention, this woman belonged to Silas Powell, or would, as soon as she agreed to marry him.

  Charlie lifted his pen out of the inkwell and began to write.

  “Dear Mrs. Jackson...”

  When Silas didn’t say anything, Charlie glanced up, frowning. “What do you want me to say to her?”

  The miner’s lean cheeks colored. “I don’t know. Thought you could, you know, come up with somethin’ pretty. You got a smooth way with words.”

  Charlie frowned. Smooth words. That’s what had gotten him into trouble the last time, when he had wooed a woman he should’ve avoided. But that was in the past, along with the mistakes he’d made. For the miner’s sake, he’d write a persuasive letter, and then he’d put this behind him too.

  Bending to the task, he read aloud as he wrote, knowing Silas couldn’t read any better than he could write.

  “My employee, Mr. Silas Powell, asked me to pen this letter on his behalf, as he doesn’t believe his own words to be worthy enough to sway a lady of your obvious beauty and charm.”

  “Um, couldn’t you just act like I’m the one doin’ the writing?”

  Charlie lifted the pen. Over the years, he’d besmirched his honor in just about every way possible. In all that time, no matter how broke or desperate he’d become, he had never lied. “That wouldn’t be honest.”

  Silas wrung the cap in his hands and uncertainty twisted his features. “She might not like me if she don’t think I can read or write.”

  “Best you know that sooner versus later. Take my word for it; you want a woman who’ll accept you as you are, not as she thinks you ought to be. She’ll find out your secrets, so it’s best to be truthful up front.”

  The miner looked unconvinced. “If you say so. But you can tell her I’m English, not Irish. I’m only Irish on me mam’s side.”

  “Mr. Powell is of English and Irish descent…” Charlie sized up the miner. “Brown hair, brown eyes, an average height, but uncommonly strong for his slim build.” That should be enough about how Silas looked. Other things mattered more.

  “He is one of my best employees, always the first to show up for work and the last to leave, and he fills in for the other miners when one is sick or injured. The younger men look up to him.”

  The facts were correct. No reason to add that Silas only worked the extra hours if he was guaranteed twice the pay, or that he was prone to bragging. Everyone had flaws.

  “Mr. Powell is a man of in
tegrity.” Charlie made eye contact with his employee after he read the last line. His own integrity was at stake if Silas didn’t live up to the admirable description.

  The prominent Adam’s apple in the miner’s throat moved as he swallowed. “Thank ye, sir. I have been honest in most things. In all my dealings with you,” he added quickly.

  Which was to say, he was as honest a man as one could hope to find in the minefields, which were overrun with cheats and liars.

  Charlie redirected his attention to the letter. What more could he say that would appeal to a woman of quality and assure her she was making the right decision?

  “You may want to know something of our fine town. Noelle, as its name implies, is a town filled with promise and possibilities. Hardworking men like Mr. Powell have made our community what it is today, but what they need are wives who will be loving helpmates and trusted partners. In return, the men will be dependable husbands.”

  “Mr. Powell is the foreman of the largest mine in the area, which has a promising future as more gold is discovered. Thus far, we’ve pulled out enough gold to run a successful mining operation”—which wasn’t a lie. Up until recently, the mine had been quite successful—“and have built homes and a dozen places of business, where ladies can find whatever they need to set up a household.”

  Silas pursed his lips as he counted on his fingers. “Ain’t there more than a dozen?”

  “She doesn’t need a precise count that includes the saloons and cathouses.”

  The miner rubbed at the bristle on his chin, looking thoughtful. “You could include The Golden Nugget. It’s the nicest saloon in town.”

  “She’s a lady, she won’t be impressed by a saloon.”

  “She would be if she could see the bar.”

  Perhaps the widow would be impressed by Jack Peregrine’s carpentry skills, although it wasn’t Jack who needed to impress her. “I’ll mention our plans for a school and church. Mrs. Jackson will appreciate knowing that we have higher aspirations than just digging gold out of the ground.”

  “What’s higher than gold?”

  “Self-restraint, for one…something you need to practice before she gets here.” Charlie reached for the cabinet card, the temptation to look at it again being too great.

  Silas got to it first, however, and took it up to examine it. “Is she rich, do you think?”

  Clearly, he wasn’t overly concerned with higher aspirations.

  “Why would a rich woman come out here to marry a stranger?”

  “She might be lonely,” Silas mused. “Or maybe she wants a change of scenery.”

  Noises from a commotion outside bled through the oilpaper tacked over the window. The glass had been busted out a week ago when one miner threw another one through it. Based on the tenor and volume of the curses and shouts, another fight appeared to have broken out again.

  Charlie knew it would be a waste of time to try to stop the brawl. He considered what more to add. He couldn’t write about the frequent brawls, drinking, gambling or whoring. Not if he wanted to help Silas win his bride. “I’ll put in a few lines about the scenery.”

  The vast wonder of God’s creation is all around. Mountain lakes are as blue as the sky, and at night, the stars so plentiful, you can reach up and take a handful out of the sky. Or so it seems. The streams are clear, the water pure, the air is sweet and scented with spruce. It can get cold up here, so you should pack warm clothing. Though our doctor tells me that cold weather, if one is dressed for it, can be good for strengthening the blood. We have timber for building and plentiful wildlife to hunt for food. Truly, we have almost everything we need. What we lack are ladies who can polish our rough edges and bring a gentle, civilized touch to our beloved town.

  Charlie read back over the final lines he’d written, then, satisfied, looked up at Silas. “That ought to do it. Oh, one more thing. You need to ask for her hand.”

  “Mr. Powell’s fondest hope is that you will accept his proposal and become his wife upon your arrival. He looks forward to your reply. Respectfully, Charles A. Hardt, on behalf of Silas Powell, who offers his fond regards.”

  Silas flashed a pleased grin. “Thank ye, Mr. Hardt. That’s a fine letter.”

  He waited patiently while Charlie blotted the ink, folded the paper and then slipped it into an envelope. The miner tucked both the letter and the cabinet card inside his coat and patted it. “She’s sure to accept me after she reads this.”

  The prospect of helping Silas find happiness should’ve improved Charlie’s mood. Instead, it sent him further into the doldrums. He suddenly thought of something that might help, or at least it would take his mind off the woman Powell would soon marry.

  Charlie pulled out a bottle of whiskey he kept on hand for special occasions. “We’ll drink a toast to your upcoming marriage and your pretty bride. May she bring you luck.”

  Chapter 1

  January 4, 1877, Noelle, Colorado, the 11th Day of Christmas

  Penny tightened her grip on a simple bouquet of evergreen tied with white ribbon. She took a deep breath, which came out as a white cloud before she opened the door to the saloon and stepped inside.

  Barely past dawn and already a few locals had taken their places around the tables to play cards and drink whiskey. A mere two weeks ago, she would never have entered such an establishment. However, in this mining community—her new home—The Golden Nugget was the only building large enough to house public events such as weddings.

  Imagine it’s a grand church.

  She set off across the room with a stately stride, pretending not to notice the images of naked women hanging above the bar, or the monstrous collection of hides and antlers mounted on the log walls. Looking through a sheer, rose-patterned lace, which covered her face, helped with the illusion.

  The wedding party had gathered in the far corner, near a sparsely decorated spruce, leaning slightly off-kilter on its base. Conspicuously absent from the gathering, the most important member besides her—the groom.

  “He’ll be here,” the woman at Penny’s side assured her. Birdie Peregrine, who seven days earlier had wed a devoted family man, wore a bright, hopeful expression. The talented French-Canadian seamstress had made Penny’s veil, which was supposed to bring good luck.

  If only…

  Two bearded men in dirty denims eyed her with suspicion as she passed.

  “That’uns bad luck,” one said under his breath.

  “Aye, Silas fears for his life,” his companion replied in a hushed tone.

  Penny’s breathing hitched. Silas? Her intended?

  Birdie threw the men a scowl before turning back to Penny. “Pay them no mind, they’re drunk.”

  “At this hour?” Penny leaned down to whisper in Birdie’s ear. “What if they’re right? A few days ago when Mr. Powell came into town, we were walking together when a chunk of ice fell off the roof and struck him on the top of his head. Dr. Deane had to stitch up a very ugly gash.”

  Birdie lifted one shoulder in a typically Gallic shrug. “Pieces of ice fall off the eaves all the time. He was in the wrong place.”

  “But three days before that, I slipped on a slick spot and knocked him into a horse trough.”

  “Those streets are treacherous. He should’ve visited you indoors.”

  Penny worried her lower lip. Her groom might still be put out about his broken tooth. The day she’d arrived in Noelle, along with the eleven other mail-order brides, a snowstorm had nearly stranded them on the side of a mountain. Once in town, they’d been shocked by the rough conditions and even rougher greeting they’d received.

  She hadn’t meant to knock that glass of whiskey into Mr. Powell’s front teeth. The mayor, who’d been throttling the preacher at the time, had inadvertently bumped into her. Mr. Hardt had apologized and offered her a handkerchief, which she intended to return today. Not only was her intended absent, but the tall, fair-haired mine owner didn’t appear to be in attendance either. Was it possible he and his f
oreman had both forgotten the wedding?

  Despite the cold, a droplet of perspiration slipped beneath Penny’s corset. Only she and Agatha, an elderly woman who’d hoped to land a spry husband, remained unmarried. Mr. Powell had seemed willing enough, at first, but she had put off the wedding after their awkward first meeting, wanting to have time to get to know him better. A few days ago, he’d sent word he would be too busy to come to town again before their nuptials. He might’ve decided to make her wait now.

  The other ladies greeted her with hugs and strained smiles.

  Genevieve Walters, the intrepid matchmaker, took a brisk step forward and clasped Penny’s hand with exuberance. “Good morning, my dear. You look lovely.”

  “A vision,” added Reverend Hammond.

  If she was such a catch, why hadn’t her groom seen fit to be here to cast the net?

  Penny glanced worriedly over her shoulder. After being twice widowed, she hadn’t intended to marry again, although it hadn’t taken much to be talked into giving marriage another try. Her yearning for love had overcome most of her doubts.

  “The perfect man is out there,” Genevieve had assured her.

  The letter she carried next to her heart had convinced her she’d finally found him. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  A flurry of feathers appeared from the side of her vision. The Thorntons’ pet goose was on the loose again. This had become such a common occurrence it no longer alarmed her, or anyone else for that matter. Flapping and squawking, the bird dashed behind the tree, making the ornaments on the branches sway, including a painted gray and white goose.

  Over each of the past ten days, a new ornament had magically appeared on the tree—gifts from a secretive Santa. Penny searched the branches, wondering what he’d left for her on this day, her wedding day?