Mollie: Bride of Georgia (American Mail-Order Brides 4) Read online

  No one, she thought, other than the very odd family – well, except for sweet little Marie, of course – of a disagreeable man she hoped never to lay eyes on again.

  Why could she not put him from her mind? He was quite the rudest, most infuriating man she’d ever met, and yet, there was something about him that tugged relentlessly at her thoughts.

  Well, she was exhausted, that was all. She’d only been able to manage eating a bit of supper, even though Mrs. Wheeler had proven to be an exemplary cook and not a bit stingy with the provisions. Mollie had made her excuses to the kindly landlady and to the three other current lodgers – a spinster schoolteacher and two older gentlemen, one an apothecary and one a retired professor of music, none of whose names she could recollect – and retired early.

  But tired as she was, sleep stubbornly would not come. Mollie worried her lower lip, looked about the small room for some means of diversion from her anxiety. Finally, giving in to a familiar need, she reached into her valise and lifted out a small, leather-bound Bible. She ran her fingers lightly over the cover for a moment, knowing full well she should seek comfort from the words contained inside. And she would – she did – but perhaps the Good Lord would forgive her if she set the book aside for just a little while longer. Silently, she promised Him she’d memorize three verses before she went to sleep that night if He – or Mama, who was almost certainly looking down upon her with far more disapproval than the Almighty – would overlook the small transgression she was about to commit.

  Carefully, Mollie laid the Bible aside on the bed and reached once more into her carpetbag. From it she took her most secret, most personal and prized possession, the manuscript of her novel.

  Setting the manuscript in her lap, Mollie fished again in the valise until she found the stub of a pencil. Untying the string that bound the manuscript’s pages, she lifted the title page and felt the secret thrill of pleasure it always brought her to see the words written there in her fine, meticulous hand: Hearts of the Windswept Range, A Romantic Adventure of the Western Wilderness, by M. B. Winters. Taking her pencil in hand, Mollie bent to her work, fine-tuning her story for at least the fifteenth time, marking small changes here and there.

  I had never seen such a storm as the howling gale that bore down upon our tiny cabin from the wild peaks of the Absaroka Mountains. Surely Zeus himself could not have sent hurled down a wilder or more piercing, windswept rain from the heights of Olympus than the bitter, raging squall that battered and shook our little home. Never had that small simple shelter seemed so vulnerable to the elements as it did at that terrible moment.

  My sister, Sadie, and I huddled together beneath the two thick bear pelts Papa had shot, cleaned, and tanned. We dared not light the fire for fear the wind roaring down the stone chimney would scatter embers about the room, setting our only refuge ablaze. Sadie, three years younger than my own sixteen years, shuddered and cried out with each assault of wind and rain against the cabin walls.

  “Allie! Allie! Make it stop!” she sobbed, burying her face against my neck and pulling the bearskin over her head. “We’re surely going to die!”

  I pulled her close, gave her a shake. “Hush, Sadie! Now you hush!” I shouted over the wail of the wind. “It’s just a little storm! Don’t be such a….”

  My words ended in a scream of shock as the cabin door burst open, sending a bitter blast of icy wind and rain swirling around Sadie and me us. Hideously silhouetted by a flash of white lightning, an enormous savage, surely as large and ferocious as any creature papa had ever hunted, filled the doorway. He was dressed head to toe in buckskin and pelts, his long hair tangled and twined with eagle feathers. Feathers and hair blew wildly about his head as he bent to duck under the top beam of the doorway. Suddenly, he raised his hand, and in it he brandished a deadly tomahawk.

  “Stay away! Stay away!” I shrieked, shoving Sadie behind my back and reaching desperately for the only weapon close at hand: the fireplace poker. Barely was it in my grasp when the brute savage rushed forward, wrenched it from my fist, and fastened his long, steely, icy fingers about my throat. He pressed me back against the log wall of the cabin, trapping Sadie behind me. Shouting words I could not understand, he choked the air from my lungs. The room began to spin, and I could feel the blackness of oblivion closing in about me in a terrible vise of pain and fear. Slowly, the storm receded, and I could hear nothing but a distorted buzzing in my ears. I thought knew it must be the sound of Death.

  Please, God, I begged silently. Please, please, let Sadie live!

  The savage bent closer, his face mere inches from mine. With the last of my strength, I stared into his wild eyes.

  Impossibly, they were blue.

  They were blue. Unbidden, Nicholas Avinger’s features suddenly superimposed themselves in Mollie’s mind on the face of her fictional “savage” – her rugged and heroic mountain man, Nathaniel Jessup. She groaned in frustration. Hadn’t that doggone Dr. Avinger caused her enough trouble today? Mercy! Was she going to see his face from now on every time she thought of her wild, noble Nathaniel?

  “Hector’s pup!” Frustration and despair burst from her lips before she could stop them. Mollie threw the pencil down on the bed, let the pages drop in her lap. Doctor Avinger was rapidly driving her to distraction. Next, God knew, it would probably be drink. What, what, what was she going to do?

  Sighing, she closed her eyes, then opened them and resignedly reached for the Bible. There was no hope for it. She was in a fix, and she had no idea what to do about it. Too bad Nathaniel wasn’t real; whacking Nicholas Avinger with a tomahawk seemed like an excellent idea at the moment.

  Heaving an even heavier sigh, Mollie plopped the Bible in her lap on top of the manuscript and opened it. The way things had gone today, she reckoned she needed a few extra angels on her side. Better memorize five verses, just in case.

  CHAPTER 4

  “So, little lady, y’all write about life in this here Glorious Dixie Land durin’ the Late Unpleasantness?”

  Mollie swallowed, tried not to gag as the paunchy man behind the huge mahogany desk blew an enormous puff of cigar smoke into the gray haze that already filled the office, making her head swim.

  “No, I … ahem.” Mollie coughed, clearing her throat. “No, suh. I’m afraid not. You see, I write romantic adventure and melodrama.…”

  “Nope. Got no use for that sort of balderdash. Sorry, Miss.”

  “Oh, but if you’d just take a quick look, Mr. Davies, I’m sure you’d find that Hearts of the Windswept Range is the very thing your customers are eager to read! It’s a tale of fearless mountain men and wild savages, brave settlers and courageous frontier maidens, and melodrama that….”

  “Does it elucidate the campaigns of the Army in which our heroic Boys in Gray reigned victorious?”

  “Well, no, suh, not exactly. You see, it’s set in the Rocky Mountains of the Wild West, and.…”

  “Well, I’m sure it is, but like I said, Miss, if it’s not about the Glorious South and our tragic Lost Cause, I can’t use it. Good day to y’all, now.”

  Sumter Davies gestured at the office door with the stub of his cigar, then stuck the stump of soggy tobacco back between his teeth. He looked down at the pile of papers on his desk and, by way of dismissal, began to rifle through them.

  Gathering herself, hugging her manuscript to her breast as though it were a shield, Mollie reluctantly stood. She nodded slightly, said glumly, “Good day, Mr. Davies. Thank you for your time,” and turned to leave.

  Without looking up, Davies grunted, “Try Willis Porter. His publishing house is only a year old, and he might be willing to take a look at what y’all got. He’s down on Alabama Street, west of the railroad depot.”

  Mollie turned back, stared at the gruff man in surprise. Scarcely believing she’d heard him correctly, she repeated uncertainly, “Mr. Porter, you say?”

  “Hnnh.”

  Hope bloomed in Mollie’s smile. “Thank you, Mr. Davies! I will
indeed speak with him. Thank you, suh!”

  As she turned away and hurried from his office, Davies raised his head to watch her go. He grunted again, but this time with a small, considering smile. Courageous frontier maidens, he thought. Huh. Well, might’ve given the Boys in Gray a run for their money, at that.

  • • • • •

  Mollie fidgeted nervously as she sat on a plain wooden chair in Willis Porter’s tiny office in a loft above his print workshop. The air was heavy with the pungent odors of fresh paper, leather, and ink, but thankfully, no cigar smoke. Porter’s balding head was bent over the first chapter of Hearts of the Windswept Range, and he moved his lips silently as he read. Mollie watched his every change of expression – frowns of concentration, raised eyebrows of surprise – and tried to still the pounding of her heart.

  Crossing her gloved fingers in her lap, she willed him to like her work with every ounce of determination she possessed. Please, please, please thrummed in her brain like a fervent prayer – or an incantation.

  “Well. Hmm.”

  Mollie started at the sound of Porter’s voice, her hand flying to her bodice as though to keep her heart from pounding from her chest. She sucked in a breath, waited in agony for his verdict.

  “Well,” he said again, shaking his head. Mollie’s heart sank at his words, and she was about to rise to go when he added, “This is some whopper of a tale y’all have got here, Miss Winters, ma’am.”

  She sat back heavily, her hand trembling as she adjusted her spectacles, trying to regain her composure. What? A whopper? Oh dear, was that good or bad?

  “I, well, thank you, Mr. Porter,” she began a little desperately, trying not to stumble over her tongue. “But perhaps if you would like to read just a bit further, suh, you’d find that the characters….”

  “No need, ma’am,” Porter said, slapping his palms on the desk as though to say, And that’s that.

  Mollie swallowed, blinked back hot tears that suddenly burned behind her eyes. She was mortified to find herself in danger of crying like a ninny of a schoolgirl. She’d overtaxed her eyes the night before, that was all. She should have known better than to do so much reading when she’d already had such a long and exhausting day.

  Clutching her hands together in her lap, she nodded, pulled herself together. Best just go, before she made a complete fool of herself.

  “Yes, well, I understand,” she began. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Porter, and….”

  “I like it.”

  Blinking, Mollie looked at Porter in confusion. “You … you like it?” she repeated, so stunned that she scarcely noticed she must sound dimwitted.

  “I like it very much, Miss Winters, and I do believe it will sell like hotcakes. Better than hotcakes!” He gave her a broad smile, and if Mollie had not previously believed Santa Claus was real, she certainly did so now.

  “Oh, Mr. Porter!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! Thank you so much! I don’t know what to say!”

  “All you need to say, my dear lady, is that you will allow me to publish your wonderful adventure.”

  “Yes! Yes, of course I will! Oh, suh, I don’t know how to thank you!”

  Mollie leapt to her feet, reached out her hand to him across the desk. He stood as well, took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, then nearly laughed aloud as she pumped his hand enthusiastically in return. As he motioned for her to sit back down, he said, “I will have a contract sent to you tomorrow via courier.” He looked down a moment at her cover sheet. “You reside at Mrs. Wheeler’s establishment near Grant Park?”

  “Yes, on Sydney Street, suh.” Mollie’s head was spinning once again, but this time with giddy happiness.

  “Very well, then. Oh, and Miss Winters, I would like to suggest that y’all have a trusted advisor look over the contract, just for your own peace of mind, before you sign. Have you someone you can retain in that capacity?”

  Once again, Nicholas Avinger popped unbidden into her mind. Hector’s pup! Would she never get him out of her head? Still, he was a doctor and obviously an educated man … and the Good Lord knew he owed her a favor. A very big favor.

  With a determined nod, Mollie said, “Yes, Mr. Porter, I do. In fact, I have the very person in mind.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Clutching the large envelope that held her precious publishing contract, Mollie adjusted her hat more firmly atop her coiled hair, then stepped out onto Mrs. Wheeler’s front stoop, firmly closing the door behind her. Taking a deep breath, she headed down the stairs to the tree-shaded avenue. It was shortly after noon, and the day was crisp and bright. Traffic along the street was light but constant.

  Mrs. Wheeler had not approved of Mollie walking alone to Grant Park, even though it was but three blocks away. “It’s not proper, Miss Winters,” she’d scolded gently, “for a single lady to walk so far unescorted. Perhaps y’all would be willing to wait until Professor Bruner has arisen from his siesta. I’m sure he would be most happy to accompany y’all on your promenade.”

  The older lady looked so hopeful that Mollie hated to defy her, but her nerves were already jangling at the prospect of facing Nicholas Avinger once more. Under no circumstances would she sit alone in her room, wringing her hands in anxiety and impatience as she waited for the elderly music professor to rise from his after-dinner nap.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler, for your kind concern, but I traveled from Savannah quite all on my own, and I have an urgent errand that cannot wait. Walking a few blocks on this lovely day will surely cause me no harm.”

  “But Miss Winters….”

  “Should I not return by suppertime, Mrs. Wheeler, then by all means, send out the cavalry with Professor Bruner leading the charge.”

  As Mollie was already halfway out the door, Mrs. Wheeler reluctantly conceded. “Very well, my dear. Enjoy your walk, but do not think I will hesitate to send Professor Bruner brandishing sword and Dragoon revolver if you are even one minute late!”

  Now, as she walked toward the park, Mollie’s nerves began to settle a bit. She had overcome the greatest hurdle; her book was to be published! She had no illusions of wealth, but perhaps she finally had a marketable skill that would allow her to keep body and soul together. And writing was such a pleasure for her. It was as though her dreams came to life at the tip of her pen.

  Well, pencil, she thought, at least for the time being. With her first earnings, she’d need to buy a proper writing desk and implements.

  So caught up in her musings was she that Mollie was quite surprised how quickly she found herself at the entrance to Grant Park. A stone bridge crossed over a tumbling stream and led to a wide carriageway. Farther along, a carved wooden signpost identified the curving trail as Savannah Avenue. Mollie turned and walked purposefully along the peaceful, wooded way.

  Fall had turned leaves of all but the pines into bright flames of color: red, orange, and gold. Large expanses of lawn over a gracefully rolling terrain still made a carpet of green, although the first frosts would come soon. Beds of pink, blue, purple, and white Michaelmas daisies blended in a bright harmony of color with yellow goldenrod bushes and orange chrysanthemums. As Mollie came to one of the mineral springs that flowed through the park, she saw exotic clumps of toad lilies, their orchid-like white flowers covered in brilliant purple spots.

  As it was still early afternoon on a workday, the park was not crowded. Although she nodded in pleasant greeting to several groups of ladies resting and chatting on trailside benches, as well as a number of governesses pushing baby carriages and reining in scampering small children, for much of her walk Mollie had only the occasional pony cart rattling by to disturb her solitude.

  When at last she came to a wooden footbridge, she realized she had reached the banks of Lake Abana. Across the lake she could see a large boathouse with its canoes docked and covered, awaiting a warmer day. Rising on a hill above the lake was her destination: the expansive buildings of the Grant Park Zoo.

  Following the lane guidi
ng visitors to the zoo, Mollie set out around the curve of the lake, past Swan Island, and up the rise to the zoo buildings.

  She knew she would not have been turned away had she sought Dr. Avinger at his sister’s home, and truthfully, she’d have loved to see little Marie again, but she had no wish to cause his family any further disturbance. In her head, she could see very clearly the words stenciled on the sides of the crates the doctor’d been loading at the train depot: Grant Park Zoo, Atlanta, Georgia. This certainly seemed to be Mollie’s season for taking leaps of faith, and betting she would find him here was yet another.

  Passing the paddocks where camels, deer, and elk crowded about mangers of oats and corn or grazed on flakes of alfalfa, she approached the long rows of large, roofed cages. Mollie slowed in fascination, ignoring the few other visitors, lingering as she peered into each enclosure. “Ooohh!” Her breath blew out in a long sigh of awe, for in one cage after another were exotic creatures she’d never expected to see other than in the pages of books.

  Two tawny lionesses slept on their backs, huge paws curled in the air in almost comical relaxation. They were beautiful animals, far larger than Mollie had imagined. Goodness, she thought with a small shiver, look at the size of those cats, and they are females! The males must be utterly enormous! Moving to the next enclosure, she found a strange, multi-colored, doglike animal with a sloping spine pacing back and forth, as though relentlessly seeking a way out. The plaque on the cage read, Striped Hyena, Asia Minor.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Mollie crooned to the agitated creature. “You’d love to be out and have a run, wouldn’t you?”

  The hyena paused, stared for a long moment at her with yellow eyes, then resumed its pacing. Mollie moved along the row of cages, working her way to the end of the row, where monkeys chattered and scrambled like tiny acrobats in a large cage fitted with tree branches, bars, and ledges. “Well, at least all y’all look like you’re enjoying yourselves,” she said, then laughed when one stuck his cunning little paw through the bars, cajoling a snack.