A Catalog's Perfect Match Read online

  “So how are you settling in?” he asks.

  I bite back the laugh that threatens to burst from my throat. I have only been here an hour or so – it’s far too early to think I’ve settled in. Not in any meaningful way. But I know he is searching for a way to break the ice between us and I suppose I have not done much to facilitate the conversation. It is quite a bit more difficult talking to a stranger than I had anticipated, but something I will need to improve if this man is to be my husband.

  “What I mean is, your room – is it okay?” he stammers. “Is there anything you need to make you more comfortable?”

  “No, everything is fine, thank you.”

  “Good. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will,” I reply. “Thank you, Jackson.”

  I pick at my food, my stomach churning with nerves. I don’t know why I feel so nervous, he’s done nothing to make me feel uncomfortable. In fact, Jackson has been nothing but a perfect gentleman. He seems to be a very kind and considerate man. My first surface impressions of him are that he’s the type of man I might have picked out for myself.

  He takes a long drink of water and sets the glass down, looking at me from the other side of the table.

  “May I ask you something?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  He clears his throat and looks a bit uncomfortable. If there’s one thing I have learned about Jackson in the short time I’ve known him it is that he is a confident man. He doesn’t cross that line into being cocky, but he has a quiet assurance about him. He is a man who knows himself inside and out. And yet, as he looks at me from across the table, I see that confidence slip, if only a little.

  “I guess I was just wondering,” he starts slowly, “how a woman such as yourself ended up in a matrimony catalog.”

  I laugh. “A woman such as myself?”

  Jackson looks a bit flustered but clears his throat, an embarrassed smile touching his lips. “What I mean is, you’re a beautiful woman. You’re intelligent and strong. I’m sure you had to have men lining up to court you back in Tennessee.”

  My stomach clenches at the memories I carried with me from back home. I’m not ashamed to admit that at one time, I did have plenty of suitors. More than my fair share. My family’s name carried some weight and drew plenty of men who wanted to marry in and raise their own stock and trajectory in life.

  I remember wanting to find somebody who didn’t want me simply for my family name or what my father could do for them. I recall my father and I had quite a few heated discussions about that very matter. He believed in marrying me off for political or business capital while I was holding out for love.

  But the war changed everything and turned my entire world upside down. And all the sudden, all those potential marriage prospects dried up. As the clout my family carried waned, so too did the tide of young men interested in having my hand in marriage. And when we finally sunk into total ruin, that tide of suitors vanished, as if they’d been no more substantial than a puff of smoke on the breeze in the first place.

  I look up and see Jackson’s eyes locked onto mine. He is expecting an answer of course, but this part of my life is painful and difficult to speak about. But if we are to be married and raise a family together, we are going to need to learn to trust and be open with one another. And from what I have gathered about Jackson thus far – and my instincts are rarely incorrect – he’s a good and decent man.

  “Well, to be honest, a woman my age doesn’t have many viable options,” I say softly.

  Jackson cocks his head and looks at me. “A woman your age? You’re twenty-three –”

  “Practically a spinster, I fear,” I tell him.

  He laughs softly. “You’re hardly a spinster.”

  “Time is less kind to women than men.”

  He chews his meat thoughtfully for a moment then takes a long drink of water, his eyes never leaving mine. I can see his mind working and know that he knows there is more to the story than I’m sharing. I can see it in the set of his jaw and that steely glint in his eye. Jackson is a far more perceptive man than I have given him credit for. With his slow drawl and the fact that he doesn’t usually say much, it’s easy to underestimate him. I am finding that his unassuming nature is quite a weapon.

  I sigh and let my mind wander back through time, and as it does, I feel the same familiar sadness and pain I always feel when I think about my family.

  “What is it?” Jackson asks gently. “What happened?”

  I push my plate away and fold my hands on the top of the table in front of me. I know I need to learn to open up and trust Jackson but it is difficult for me. Having been as closed off as I have been for so long now, I am finding it hard to change on moment’s notice. But knowing I’m going to marry this man, I know I need to try. I owe him that much.

  “My family use to be very prominent in Tennessee,” I begin slowly. “We owned a large farm – one of the biggest in the state. Tobacco and cotton mostly.”

  He nods. “Your father own slaves?”

  “My grandfather did,” I confirm. “But when he died and my father took over, he freed all of the slaves and hired back anybody willing to work the farm at a fair wage.”

  “I can’t imagine that went over too well with the good people of Tennessee.”

  A rueful laugh passes my lips. “Not really. But they left us alone for the most part,” I tell him. “At least, they did until the war broke out.”

  A shadow passes across Jackson’s face and there’s a tightness in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. That’s when it occurs to me that he fought in the war. And, I’m guessing with that Virginia accent of his, Jackson fought on the losing side.

  He never mentioned it in his letters to me, which I find curious. And judging by the haunted look on his face right now, I imagine he hasn’t shared his experiences with anybody.

  “My father tried to be neutral. He didn’t want to get caught up in the war. He was a farmer, not a fighter,” I continue. “My brothers though, they all marched off to war before the dust at Fort Sumter even settled.”

  “How many brothers did you have?”

  Jackson sops up the last of his plate with one of Maria’s homemade biscuits and chews as he pushes his plate away from him. He leans forward, his gazed fixed on me as he listens to my story.

  “Three. And against my father’s wishes, they all marched off to fight for the Confederacy,” I explain, the bitterness clear in my voice. “We lost them all – Nathaniel, Thomas, and Orson – at Shiloh.”

  Jackson is silent for a moment and gives me an expression filled with compassion. But that shadow returns to his face and he looks down at the table. To me, it’s the look of a man who has seen too much and knows the lingering wounds war can inflict upon a person.

  “I’m so sorry, Addy,” he finally says. “That must have been difficult.”

  “It broke my heart,” I nod, fighting off the bitter sting of tears. “And my father was never the same after my brothers died.”

  Jackson stands silently and collects our plates, carrying them into the kitchen. I use the time he is out of the room to collect myself. He returns and sets a glass down in front of me before returning to his own chair, clutching a glass in his hand and sets the bottle down between us. The light from the fire glints off the amber-colored liquid in the glass as I pick it up, the strong aroma almost making my eyes water.

  “All I have is whiskey,” Jackson says almost apologetically.

  “It’s fine, thank you.”

  I am not usually much of a drinker but I do know my way around a whiskey bottle. It was my father’s drink of choice after my brothers died – he spent more time drowning himself in the stuff than he did running the family business. And truth be told, there were more than a few nights I had myself a few nips just to keep my head about me.

  I take a sip of the whiskey, grimacing at the feel of liquid fire sliding down my throat. It warms the pit of my belly and cuts through the emotional fog that had started to settle into my mind.

  “Anyway, as my father became more interested in his drink than the business, I took up the slack,” I tell him. “I had to learn as I went but I did it. I learned how to handle every aspect of the family business and I like to think it flourished.”

  Jackson drains his glass and quickly refills it but rather than drink it down, as my father would have done, he holds it between his hands and continues to look at me, waiting for me to carry on with my story. I swallow the lump in my throat, chasing it with a healthy dose of the whiskey, doing what I can do stave off the wave of sadness stealing over me.

  “So what happened?” he finally presses. “With your family’s business?”

  “About a year and a half after my brothers were killed, a group of Confederate soldiers – there must have been about fifty of them – marched through,” the glass trembles in my hand as I recount the story. “Some of the men were local and knew my father – men who’d never forgiven him for his neutrality in the war and didn’t agree with his decision to free his slaves.”

  I look down into my glass for a moment before drinking down the last of it, the whiskey igniting a fire inside of me. I reach out and refill my glass as I wait for the burning in my belly to subside.

  “They dragged him outside, labeling him a traitor before they put a bullet in his head,” I say, my voice cold and angry. “They put all of our land – our house, our crops, everything – to the torch. When they finally marched out, there was nothing left.”

  Jackson reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. The sorrow and compassion in his eyes are as thick as it is genuine and it warms my heart. He pulls back after a moment and swallows down half of his whiskey and sits back in
his seat.

  “After that, all of our land was seized and I was forced out,” I go on. “I moved to Nashville and tried to carve out something of a life for myself but never could manage to get over the stigma my name placed on me.”

  “So that’s why you put yourself into a matrimonial catalog,” he says.

  I nod. “I wanted to build a new life for myself,” I confirm. “And I wanted to do it somewhere other than Tennessee. I thought it might be a way to do both.”

  Jackson looks up at me with a small but warm smile tugging the corners of his mouth upward. The expression on his face sends a flutter through my belly – a flutter that has nothing to do with the liquor coursing through my veins.

  “I’m glad you put yourself into that catalog,” Jackson says, his voice earnest. “I’m real glad to have you out here.”

  I give him a smile and feel my heart skip a beat in my chest. Despite all of the letters we exchanged before agreeing to wed, I know next to nothing about Jackson Miller. And the feeling of sitting at the table with the man who will be my husband – a man I’ve known for less than a full day – is surreal. And yet, I cannot deny that I feel comfortable with him. Jackson is a good man with a good heart. I cannot say how I know that, but I still somehow know it down in my bones. I can just see it in him.

  I know it’s going to take time before I allow myself to fully open up to this man, but I am starting to see that it’s a possibility.

  “I am very glad I did too,” I reply with a soft smile.

  4

  Jackson

  Addy leans against the split rail fence, watching as we work with a large Appaloosa in the yard. It’s been three weeks or so since she first came to stay and things between us are going pretty well. I feel a lot closer to her than I did that first day and I think she feels more comfortable with me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re as close as a man and woman who are to be wed should be, but we’re workin’ on it.

  “Why don’t you come on in here?” I call to her.

  Addy smiles and walks through the gate Francisco is holding open for her. She gathers her skirts about her, doing her best to not let them drag in the dirt, and crosses to where Angel is holding onto the mare’s reins. I stroke the horse’s flanks, watching as Addy steps up and runs her hand along the mare’s muzzle, offering her the sugar cubes Angel had given her.

  The horse, who had been whickering, rolling her eyes wildly, and tossing her head about just a few moments ago, seems to respond to Addy’s touch, calming down as she munches on her treat. Angel looks over at me for guidance as Addy tries to take the bit and bridle from him and I give him a small shrug, a grin of amusement on my face.

  He hands them over to Addy to let her give it a shot and we both stand in wide-eyed surprised as the horse lowers its head, allowing Addy to put the bit and bridle on. We’ve been trying to break the mare for the last two weeks and though we’ve made some progress, we haven’t been able to get the bridle on just yet. I look over at Addy who’s got a look of triumph on her face as she smiles at me.

  I chuckle to myself as I push my hat back and mop my brow with a rag. “I guess you’ve got some aptitude for this kinda work.”

  She smiles and turns her attention back to the horse, stroking her muzzle and talking to her in low, reassuring tones. I watch how the horse reacts to Addy for a few moments longer and chuckle to myself again.

  “I guess I’m gonna have to put you to work around here,” I finally say.

  Addy turns her eyes back to me. “I wish you would,” she says. “I’d like to feel useful.”

  “Jefe, look.”

  Hearing the note of caution in Francisco’s words, I look up and sigh as I watch two men on horseback coming down the road and through the front gate. I turn back to Addy, doing my best to keep the tension out of my face.

  “Stay here with Francisco,” I tell her.

  “Who is that?” she asks.

  “Just – stay put for now,” I say. “Francisco, keep your eye –”

  “Si, jefe,” he nods.

  I give the mare a pat on her flanks as I head for the gate in the pen. I doubt anything is gonna happen – I don’t think Zane would be stupid enough to try anything – but I’m not a man who likes to take chances. I pull my gun belt off the fence and quickly buckle it on, feeling the familiar weight of the pistols on my hips – a feeling that’s both comfortable and yet dreadful at the same time.

  I cross the yard and stand at the main gate, blocking the way and keeping the two mounted men from entering my yard. They rein to a stop a few yards away and we stand there staring at each other for a long couple of moments.

  Zane’s horse takes a couple of steps forward and he leans on his saddle horn, staring at me from beneath the deep shade the brim of his black hat casts upon his face. He’s dressed in black britches, black boots, and a black shirt – doing his best to cut an imposing figure, I’m sure. He looks at me with a cruel little smirk on his face, trying to amplify how intimidating he can be, but the effect is more comical than anything.

  “Afternoon Jackson.”

  I nod. “Zane.”

  Zane has a ranch a few miles down the road – though his isn’t a working ranch like mine – and a small river serves as the boundary separating our two properties. I’ve found him and his guys on my side of the river a few times and chased them off before putting up a barbed-wire fence to keep them out. Angel and Francisco, armed with shotguns, also do some routine patrols on the backlands just to be sure. I don’t know what it is they’re looking for out there but I’m not keen on people snooping around my property – especially people I don’t like or trust. And I don’t trust Zane any farther than I can sling a loaded wagon.

  Zane also owns half of the town of Asbury that sits a few miles beyond his ranch. Asbury is a medium-sized town that’s a lot more convenient to get to than going all the way back down to San Francisco for supplies. But going into Asbury also usually means dealing with Zane and his men – which is an unsavory prospect on the best of days.

  The sun beats down on us as we stand there eyeballing each other and I feel the beads of sweat rolling down my back, making my shirt stick to my skin uncomfortably.

  “You got somethin’ to say, Zane?” I say. “Or did you just come out here to stare at me?”

  He chuckles and spits a mouthful of tobacco juice into the dirt then turns his eyes back to me.

  “You know why I’m here,” he says. “Gave you three days to think it over. Time’s up.”

  I shake my head. “My answer ain’t changed.”

  He purses his lips, anger darkening his features. “That’s a bad decision right there, Jackson. A real bad decision.”

  I shrug. “My decision to make though, ain’t it?”

  He sighs. “Look, I made you a fair offer –”

  My bark of laughter is sharp and brittle. “You made an offer on somethin’ that’s not for sale.”

  “Everything’s for sale.”

  “Apparently not,” I fire back.

  “I don’t think you understand the gravity –”

  “I understand just fine,” I cut him off. “And like I’ve told you, I don’t even know how many times before, I ain’t interested. My ranch ain’t for sale.”

  “Listen to me…”

  Zane’s words trail off and I can see that he’s looking at something behind me. Or rather, someone. I turn my head and see Addy walking up to where I stand, a grim but determined look on her face. Zane takes off his hat and gives her a nod.

  “And who might you be?” he asks, favoring her with a wide smile.

  “Mrs. Jackson Miller,” she says, her tone cold. “And you are?”

  “Zane Weathers, ma’am,” he responds. “I own the ranch just down the road a piece.”

  Addy says nothing in return but I watch Zane’s eyes sliding up and down her body, a greasy smile on his face. He turns his gaze back to me, his smile growing wider and greasier.

  “Why Jackson, where have you been hiding this beauty?” he croons.

  “I think our business is concluded. You have my answer,” I snap. “Now get off my land.”

  The smile on his face is replaced by a scowl almost instantly. He leans forward again, his expression dark with rage and eyes focused on me intently. I rest the palms of my hands on the butts of my pistols, careful to keep an eye on Zane while not ignoring the second man on horseback behind him.