Stephen, a handsome young blond man with clear blue eyes and a muscular build, nodded in hearty agreement with his brother’s words.
“Say no more my brother,” he told Cal, “I’ve already placed a help wanted ad in The Daily Post. I promised all helpers a decent wage plus room and board.”
Cal grinned.
“Good work,” he praised his brother, adding as he graced Stephen with a slight slap on the back, “And since I’m going to be busy in town just about every day this week, I’ll leave it to you to pick two or three of the very best ranch hands ridin’ the range.”
The smile died on Stephen’s lips as he considered these words.
“Well now there are just a few problems with that idea, dear brother,” he told Cal, adding with a hefty sigh, “I only advertised for one helper around this place, and I didn’t exactly request the services of a ranch hand. And, all things considered, I do believe it best that you interview our prospects yourself. Personally.”
Cal froze.
“I can’t say that I quite like the way you just said the word personally,” he admitted, adding as he folded his arms strong and firm before him, “And if you didn’t advertise for a ranch hand, what specific job title do you want to fill?”
Stephen shrugged.
“Well, if you really want to know the nitty gritty of things,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet beneath him. “I advertised in particular for a mail order bride.”
He cringed as his chagrined brother met these words with an unearthly, near inhuman growl; ducking just in time to avoid Cal’s lethal left hook.
“A Mail. Order. Bride?” he repeated, spitting and grinding out these last words as though they were poisonous. “What kind of madness has seeped into that already dense noggin of yers? How dare you place one of those tasteless ads in my name?” he paused here, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “What are folks in this area going to think when they find out that the deputy sheriff of this here town is seeking out a…a….”
“A mail order bride,” Stephen supplied, remaining clear of his brother’s striking range as he added, “Remember just a few minutes ago, brother when you were thanking me profusely for pulling you through a rough time? Could we maybe go back to that point, before you decide to use me as target practice for your shiny new six-shooter?”
Cal shook his head.
“Well why is it that you think this time has been so very rough for me?” he countered, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “Elsa was my life, my whole world. I’ll never find a woman as sweet, as beautiful, as hardworking, as supportive, as smart,” he paused here, adding as he raised his sculpted chin to prideful effect, “My wife was nothing short of the perfect woman. And once you have experienced perfection, you don’t lower yourself to connectin’ up with some woman who would sell herself off as a mail order bride.”
With these words he whipped off his wide brimmed ivory hat of silver belly felt, tossing it reckless to the ground beneath him.
“Hell Stephen, no man who respects a woman would buy her into servitude,” he insisted, adding as he seared his brother with a fierce sideways glance, “What kind of a human being do you think I am?”
Stephen sighed.
“I’m not talkin’ about buyin’ slaves Brother—that’s against the law, just as it should be,” he asserted with a sharp nod, “I’m talkin’ about getting the help that you need to run this place—along with some much needed female company. Mail order brides are mature and very willing women looking for adventure.” He paused here, adding as he made a broad gesture down the length of his brother’s tall, muscled form, “And seeing as to how you’ve always been popular with the ladies, I think that just about any lady would grab the opportunity to get adventurous with you.”
All things considered, Abigail Tompkins figured that she’d prefer any fate to that of a mail order bride.
A teacher. A nurse. A ranch hand. A stable girl—even the type that hacks out the stalls on hot summer days. A dancing girl at any given saloon. A nun at any given convent.
“OK then, I’m veerin’ dangerously close to the ridiculous with those last two options,” she sighed, adding as she cast a self-conscious look down the length of her fully made form, “Nobody is going to put these hips on a saloon stage—especially given the fact that their bearer would be tempted to deliver her high kicks straight to the face of the first man who leered at her or made an inappropriate comment. And she’d give the same treatment to any given Mother Superior, who tried to tell her what to do—or, in that particular environment, what not to do.”