Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Novella (Montana Sky Series) Read online

  MAIL-ORDER BRIDES OF THE WEST:

  BERTHA

  by

  Debra Holland

  Copyright © 2015 by Debra Holland

  ISBN: 978-1-939813-35-0

  Digital Edition

  All rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the law.

  MAIL-ORDER BRIDES OF THE WEST: BERTHA

  Three days after Mail-Order Brides of the West: Prudence takes place

  and

  Six years before Wild Montana Sky

  CHAPTER ONE

  Morgan’s Crossing, Montana

  September 1886

  In the boardinghouse dining room, in his customary corner, Howie Brungar sat hidden in the shadows, waiting for his breakfast. As was his custom, he’d arrived before the miners who lived upstairs, because the dawn rays filtering through the window of his little room at the back of the stables usually woke him early. As Mr. Morgan’s man-of-all-work, he’d see to the boss’s two horses before washing up and ambling over for a meal.

  In front of him on the long plank table, Howie had placed his blue splatterware plate and mug, as well as a fork, spoon, and knife. He always brought his own dishes and utensils, not trusting the cleanliness of those “washed” by Cookie Gabellini. Bad enough he had to endure the crumb-strewn, sticky table and crusty floors.

  Murky light shone through the dirty windows, but not enough to discern the quality of the meals—at least by sight. Just as well, given how awful the food usually tasted.

  Howie watched the crew of miners enter the room and take their usual places at the benches of one of the two long tables. He could easily discern those who’d stayed too late at the saloon, imbibing more alcohol than was good for working men.

  Obadiah Kettering stumbled into the room on his spidery-long legs. He moved as if his joints ached, squinted at the dirty windows, and winced if anyone raised his voice. Taking a seat at the end of the table, he dropped his head in his hands.

  The men around him paid the skinny miner no mind. Over the last few days, they’d shunned the fiddler, ever since he’d shown up, drunk as a skunk, to provide music for the party Mr. Morgan had thrown for his mail-order bride. Obadiah had played a few dance rounds, and then unceremoniously vomited all over the new Mrs. Morgan, instantly ruining what had been a hoppin’ good time. Parties didn’t come often to Morgan’s Crossing, and Obadiah had a while to go before the townsfolk would forgive him.

  Two half-grown China boys hurried from the kitchen to the tables, carrying platters of food and pots of coffee. Unlike most of their elders, the boys wore their hair short—in an American style—probably having tired of the miners yanking on their braided queues. Regardless of Michael Morgan’s ban against teasing the Orientals, plenty still occurred when the mine owner or anyone else of authority and peaceable disposition wasn’t around.

  One of the youngsters set a steaming coffee pot on Howie’s table, followed by plates of ham, scrambled eggs, and the usual rock-hard biscuits. The smell of coffee and fried ham made his stomach growl. He lifted the rusting tin coffeepot, poured the bitter brew into his mug, and forked a slice of meat onto his plate. While waiting for a platter of eggs to come in his direction down the table, he took a sip of the foul liquid.

  The men ate in silence, shoveling in the food to give themselves fuel for a grueling day at the mine.

  Most tended to avoid the lumpy porridge, but Howie, from a long habit instilled in him by his Scots grandmother, reached out and snagged the tureen close. He ladled oatmeal into his tin bowl, spooned some butter from a crock and dropped the pat on top, and then added in some milk from a plain glass pitcher.

  Unless he happened to bring along berries he picked the day before, Howie ate the cereal plain. On the rare occasion Cookie set out honey, the jar was emptied long before it reached Howie’s corner.

  When the serving dish of scrambled eggs arrived, he heaped plenty on his plate but avoided the hard, brown biscuits that weren’t worth eating unless either broth or gravy soaked them to softness. No sense risking a broken tooth.

  The front door opened. Howie glanced over in time to see the new wife of the boss walk in. Prudence Morgan with her plain, narrow face and pale eyes that changed hue depending on the color of her dress, seemed an unexpected match for their boss, but she carried herself with an air of elegance that probably appealed to the mine owner. Although she wore a simple blue dress, the garment was a bright contrast to the faded work clothes of the few other women in town.

  Some men jabbed elbows into the sides of those next to them to point out Mrs. Morgan’s arrival. The clink of forks stilled, and mugs clunked atop the tables.

  Prudence Morgan had only arrived in town five days ago. Already she’d turned Morgan’s Crossing upside down, confronting a bully, delivering a baby, ordering the store cleaned, arguing with her husband and ending up in the pig pen, although witnesses swore he hadn’t pushed her in, and finally, secretly hightailing out of town only to have Mr. Morgan chase off after her.

  The couple returned the next day looking like newlyweds in love. But instead of enjoying a quiet honeymoon of wedded bliss, the Morgans had descended on the company store accompanied by a mine guard. Apparently, Mrs. Morgan had gone over the store accounts and found Mr. Hugely was embezzling from her husband, not a surprise to most.

  The guard had escorted the shopkeeper out of town, driving him to the sheriff in Sweetwater Springs with his hands tied in front of him and his possessions tossed into the back of the wagon. Luckily, the Morgans had discovered some of their missing funds hidden in the man’s room.

  Later that day, Mrs. Morgan paid a visit to the parents of the school-aged children residing in the town. She informed them of her plan to start teaching the students in the mornings at her house.

  Then she’d put half a dozen men to work erecting a small bathhouse. A tub was already ordered and would soon arrive in Morgan’s Crossing, with several more to follow.

  She certainly was a colorful character, with a no-nonsense air about her. So far, he’d steered clear whenever he could just to be on the safe side.

  The town was abuzz with speculation over what the woman would do next.

  Howie looked at the determined set of Mrs. Morgan’s shoulders. Guess we’re about to find out.

  Mrs. Morgan cast a steely gaze around. Her expression pinched in disapproval.

  Cookie emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on the stained apron wrapped around his potbelly. His face sported stubble instead of his usual bristly beard, for the man had shaved on the day of the party. Seeing the boss’s wife, he beamed in blatantly false good cheer. “Ma’am, have you come for breakfast?”

  Mrs. Morgan glanced at the few remaining biscuits, their bottoms blackened. One imperious eyebrow lifted. “I think not.”

  Howie suppressed a smile, suspecting what might be coming next. He leaned back as much as possible on the hard bench and took a sip of the coffee, dregs swirling in the bottom of the mug, and prepared to enjoy the show. In a small town like this, a man took his entertainment where he could find it.

  Cookie’s jaw clenched. Then he tried to smile. “I can make you up something fresh.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.” With a narrowed gaze, the lady took in the dirty windows, sticky surfaces of the tables and floor, and the rust on the edges of the coffee pots, before returning to Cookie. “This place is a sty. My husband’s miners deserve
better.”

  “It’s good enough for Mr. Morgan,” the cook muttered.

  “Really?” Her tone sounded cold, and, with an arched eyebrow, she scanned the room. “I don’t see my husband eating here.”

  The seated men exchanged furtive glances.

  The cook jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Several times in the last few days, the boss has come in the back door to grab a bite in the morning. Guess he didn’t find any breakfast waiting in his own kitchen.”

  Howie clenched his fists, prepared to push away from the table and stand to Mrs. Morgan’s defense. He wasn’t about to let a lady be disrespected.

  She looked down her nose at the pudgy cook. “Don’t be insolent, Mr. Gabellini. I’ll return tomorrow morning and expect to see a clean room, including the windows, tables, and dishes scrubbed. The fare will consist of food that’s not under or overcooked.”

  Seeing Mrs. Morgan had the situation well in hand, Howie relaxed but stayed watchful.

  “I have twenty-five hungry men to feed and only two boys to help—China boys at that,” the cook whined. “I don’t have time for wimmen’s work.”

  “Then you’ll have to make time. Forego your afternoon nap, perhaps?”

  The man set his jaw and crossed his arms over his belly.

  “Let me be clear, Mr. Gabellini. If you do not meet my standards, I will search for someone to replace you.”

  This time when Mrs. Morgan surveyed the room, she made eye contact with several of the men, frowning when she saw Obadiah. She didn’t notice Howie. “Until tomorrow.” She spun and walked out, her back stiff.

  Howie stared at the door, a faint smile on his face. With the arrival of the new Mrs. Morgan, his world had changed. He wasn’t sure what that meant or whether or not he liked it. She was obviously good for Morgan’s Crossing, but he wasn’t comfortable around women, especially ones he didn’t know. What with him working for her husband, seeing to the horses and anything else the boss or his wife needed doing, he’d undoubtedly find himself around Mrs. Morgan whether he liked her or not.

  He looked over at Cookie in time to see the venomous look the man directed at Mrs. Morgan’s departing figure. That man won’t to lift a finger to make a change. Bet he thinks Mr. Morgan will protect him.

  Howie shook his head. Gabellini’s a fool. He couldn’t see why the man thought their newly wedded boss would take his side. Not that the cook was known for his smarts, or his meals. He eyed the last of the blackened biscuits, which would end up feeding the pigs, and had a feeling Cookie soon might find himself keeping company with those very same pigs.

  A shiver ran down his spine. An omen of change, his old granny would have said. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad sign.

  CHAPTER TWO

  St. Louis, Missouri

  September 1886

  Under the guise of preparing tea trays, Bertha Bucholtz hid in the kitchen of her family’s home rather than join her sisters in the parlor with their courting swains. Even with the door closed, she could hear the chatter of voices in English and German, along with intermittent bursts of laughter. She wondered how much longer she could safely hide.

  Gatherings at the Bucholtz home were always a jolly time for everyone, except Bertha, who found the social activities excruciating. Whether the guests talked or played games or sang songs accompanied by whoever plopped down at the piano, the noise level bothered her. She hated raising her voice to be heard if anyone asked her a question, which luckily didn’t happen more than once or twice an evening. Reticent and shy by nature, she was relieved to avoid most conversation, and to the polite inquiry, “How are you, Miss Bertha,” her one-word answers usually sufficed.

  Rose Sullivan, the middle-aged Irish cook, set a pot of tea in the center of a stack of cups and saucers on a serving tray. She glanced over at Bertha’s tray holding the three platters of cookies, and tsk-tsked with the familiarity of one who’d worked for the Bucholtz family for over twenty years. “Ye may as well be traipsin’ through a bog, so slow yer movin’.”

  Rose claimed to be “Black Irish,” descended from the sailors who’d washed up on the shores of Ireland after the doomed invasion of the Spanish Armada. Her graying dark hair and sharp brown eyes, even her angular body, were as different from the blonde, curvaceous Bucholtz women as could be, but she was part of the family, nevertheless, and Bertha was fond of her.

  “Just another minute, Rose.” Bertha slid her gaze away, knowing she should have already finished setting out the platters of cookies—the efforts of her afternoon spent baking. However, she’d taken as much time as possible in arranging her creations in precise rows on each plate.

  “Get along with ye, Miss Bertha. How many times can you straighten those cookies? Now, ye’ve dilly-dallied enough. The crowd out there will be waitin’ for their tea.” The woman’s tone was not unkind, for she understood Bertha’s shyness. “If we don’t git these trays out, that horde will be swarmin’ me kitchen, and I’ll be a chasin’ them out with me broom.”

  The image made Bertha smile, as she was sure the cook intended, although she wished she could be so bold as to threaten someone. For the truth of the matter was, if the horde breached the bastion of her kitchen, she’d retreat to her bedroom.

  She tweaked the last cookie into place and gazed with pride at the platters of baked goods, springerle, lebkuchen, and pfeffernusse. Her favorite were the springerle—simple, anise-flavored cookies with designs stamped on their tops. Usually the springerle were considered Christmas cookies, but she liked to bake them all year. The Bucholtz girls usually received a carved wooden mold of different shapes from their parents for Christmas, and she treasured the dozen she owned.

  Rose leaned over to examine Bertha’s tray and tapped the air above a cookie formed from the pig mold. “Ye tryin’ to send a message to some of them suitors of yer sisters?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “You know I don’t mind if they gobble up dozens.” Bertha loved nothing better than to feed men with hearty appetites. I just don’t want to talk to them.

  “I mind,” Rose muttered. “Fewer cookies, less work for me.”

  “I did the baking,” Bertha teased.

  Rose fisted her hands on her hips. “And who does the washin’ up, eh?” She flapped her apron. “Get on with yer, now.”

  Bertha shifted one more of the square springerle into position and, with no more excuses to delay an appearance in the parlor, she picked up the tray and moved to the doorway to the dining room, pushing open the door with her hip. Once through, she set the tray on the huge rectangular table, covered with a stiff white cloth made from flax.

  Rose was right behind her with the second tray.

  She moved the platters from the tray to the table.

  Before Bertha took a step to return the tray to the kitchen, Rose stuck out her hand. “Oh, no ye don’t. Ye stay here and pour the tea. I’ll be takin’ the trays into the kitchen.”

  With great restraint, Bertha refrained from rolling her eyes.

  Rose lifted her pointed chin toward the parlor. “Get along with ye, then. Don’t want the tea getting cold.”

  Giving a sigh of reluctance, Bertha walked toward the door leading to the parlor. She slid inside and paused to look around.

  The big room, filled with afternoon light from the large windows, overflowed with people, grouped in circles—swains paying court to her four unmarried sisters. They sat on several comfortable sofas, in wingchairs, on tufted and fringed ottomans, or in wooden chairs with cushioned seats.

  Her older brother Heinrich stood next to one of their sister Elise’s friends—someone new to town. He leaned attentively to hear her every word.

  Smitten. Bertha hoped the young woman was worthy of her elder brother’s interest.

  Her mother perched on a high-backed chair like a queen on her throne chaperoning her daughters. A thick plait of graying blonde hair circled her head like a crown. While her benign gaze roamed the room, she kept her hands busy knitting
a blanket, one of many Mutti had made for the church to distribute to the poor.

  Face warm with embarrassment, Bertha announced, “Tea is served.”

  No one heard her.

  She inhaled and tried again, raising her voice slightly. “Tea!”

  A reedy young man, a wealthy importer’s son who hovered on the outskirts of her sister Katya’s entourage, glanced her way—the only one who’d heard her. His brown eyes lit up, and he unfolded himself from the chair to get to his feet. “Tea,” he called in a bullfrog voice at odds with his appearance. “Miss Bertha wants our attention.”

  All heads turned toward Bertha.

  Her knees shook. She opened her mouth to invite them into the dining room, but nothing came out. Unable to force out the words, she waved for everyone to come.

  With pleased expressions, the company rose and hurried forward.

  Bertha retreated. Using the table as a barricade, she picked up the teapot and a cup and saucer and began to pour. This task, at least, was easy enough, for she had an excuse to keep her eyes lowered. Blindly, she held out the cup and saucer to one person after another, answering a soft, “You’re welcome” to their thanks.

  From time to time, Rose swapped out the drained teapot for a full one.

  Finally the wave receded and only Mutti waited to be served. Bertha handed her mother a full cup and saucer.

  Mutti sipped. “Serving the tea is so much easier when you’re here with us, hetzaline. But your time at the bride agency has been worthwhile. Your baking and organizational ability have improved from your time at Mrs. Seymour’s. She’s from a distinguished St. Louis family, and your skills reflect that.”

  Pleased with the praise, Bertha nodded. She knew her parents loved her, but with thirteen children, her mother seldom singled her out for individual attention. “I learned a great deal.”