at the church—if they’d ever been welcomed—Fiona had gone home that night and penned a letter to Josiah himself. Mrs. Ward had conveniently given her the name and address. Fiona had included her picture, not wanting anyone to be disappointed, for she’d never claimed to be a beautiful woman. She was too tall for that and her hair too dull and lifeless. She’d also been completely honest in explaining she was a widow with two young sons, and that although she didn’t live in Bridgeport, had never been there, she had heard about Oak Grove’s need for brides and hoped she qualified.
The hold Rhett had on her hand tightened as they stepped off the platform. She looked down and smiled at him, wishing there was another way to ease the apprehension on his young face.
“The week I’m offering is not for you or the children,” Josiah said as gravel crunched beneath their feet. “It is for me to see if you will make a suitable wife. Besides being the mayor of this community, I’m an attorney. A man as prominent as myself needs to have a wife who can be looked upon just as prominently. One who understands the importance of such a position.”
Fiona bit her lips together and breathed through her nose. She’d never been looked upon prominently. However, she had her pride, and honor, and could hold her head up despite the worst of situations. She’d been doing that for the past six months in ways she’d never had to before. And would continue to, if for no other reason than the sake of her sons. “I explained the untimely and unfortunate death of my husband in my letter, Mr. Melbourne, and—”
“Yes, you did, Fiona, and let me assure you, if I deem you worthy of being my wife, neither your husband’s death, nor his infractions, will ever concern you again.”
She bit her lips together again and willed her anger to ease. He wasn’t a tall man. The top of his head was about level with her chin, and his shoulders twisted back and forth as he strutted along beside her. He was rather rude and pompous, but those were all things she could and would overlook in order to see her children clothed, fed and living under a roof that didn’t leak. She’d had to overlook worse things.
In fact, she’d been overlooking things her entire life. Having been taken in as a small child by family members who’d already had enough mouths to feed had instilled a certain amount of accepting things as they were.
Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Melbourne. Perhaps once you’ve shown me the house, you can enlighten me with a list of your expectations.” As long as she knew what had to be done, she could do it.
The smile he bestowed upon her made her insides gurgle, as did the way his chest seemed to puff outward.
“I knew you’d be trainable from the moment I read your letter, Fiona. I’m so glad I wasn’t wrong.”
Knowing full well it wasn’t what he was referring to, Fiona couldn’t stop herself from replying, “I’ve been housebroken for some time, Mr. Melbourne. All three of us have been.”
Content that his afternoon of fishing had been just what he’d needed to put things back in perspective, Brett hauled his catch home to clean and fry up. He took the same route back, skirting the boundaries of town. Even though his melancholy had lifted, he still had no desire to attend the reception continuing to take place. Actually, all his alone time had put him in a considerably good mood. The Olsens who lived several miles from his family’s mill had as many girls in their family as his had boys. Two of his seven brothers had married Olsen girls, and he was mulling over the idea that his mother might investigate if another one of the Olsen girls would be interested in moving to Kansas. That might be easier. Already knowing the gal she sent him. Ma knew most every family in northern Wisconsin, so it could be someone other than one of the Olsen girls. That would be fine too.
It wasn’t like him to ask for assistance. He’d rather give it than accept it, but writing home wasn’t that much different than donating to the Betterment Committee had been. At least that was what he was telling himself. Most of the single men in town had anteed up the money the mayor had deemed necessary in order to have a chance for one of the mail-order brides to consider them a viable husband.
The idea he’d sent that telegram to his mother took on more solid roots as Brett cleaned the six catfish. Matter of fact, he’d bet she’d be right pleased to help out. That was how she was, always willing to help whoever needed a bit of assistance.
Once he had the fillets soaking in a dish of water on the kitchen table, he went to collect a shovel in order to bury the heads and entrails. Although his mother had raised only boys, she hadn’t shied away from making them understand that keeping a clean house was just as easy as keeping a dirty one.
Stepping out his back door, Brett paused at the sight of two young boys examining the fishing pole he’d left leaning against the porch railing. He glanced left and right before looking at the boys again.
Not recognizing the two boys as any he knew in town, Brett asked, “Where did you fellas come from?”
The taller of the two, and presumably the older, pulled the smaller boy away from the fishing pole. “Over there,” he said while pointing toward the field that held the one house the city had erected so far.
The smaller of the two dark-haired boys cast a wary gaze at Brett as he scooted behind the taller one.
“We didn’t touch your pole,” the older one said. “Just looked at it.”
Brett understood his deep voice and heavy northern accent took some getting used to, so he tried to speak more softly. “You can touch it. It’s a sturdy pole. I’ve had it a long time and have caught a good amount of fish with it.”
The younger boy peeked around the older one, glancing from the pole to his brother, who shook his head.
“That’s all right,” the older one said. “I can tell it’s a good pole from here.”
“A fisherman, are you?”
The boy shrugged.
Brett would guess him to be about seven or eight. “You must be. Only a fisherman knows a good pole by just looking at it.”
“I like to go fishing,” the younger boy said. He might have said more if the older one hadn’t frowned at him.
“Me too.” Brett then glanced across the field again. “Are your parents thinking of buying the house from the city?”
“No,” the older one said. “The mayor’s letting us stay there for a week.”
“He is?” That didn’t sound like Melbourne, unless there was a cutback in it for him, but that wasn’t something Brett would discuss with a child.
“Yes, he is,” the boy replied before asking, “Why do you talk like that?”
Brett wasn’t insulted. There had been a time when he’d tried to alter his accent, but that was more work than it was worth. This was the way he’d talked his entire life, and he figured he’d go right on doing so. He patted the boy on the head while walking down the steps. “Because I’m not from around here. I lived up north, by Canada, until a couple of years ago when I moved here.”
“We saw you carrying the fishing pole,” the younger boy said as
