MAIL ORDER MOUNTIES

Bride for Bryce

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CHAPTER 1

 

Tromping up the steps to her family home, Nettie Smith couldn’t remember her feet ever feeling so heavy before. It had been a long week, and it didn’t seem to be getting any shorter. Tugging off her gloves before she even opened the heavy, ornately carved door, Nettie was ready for the day to be over. Too bad she’d have to quite literally burn the midnight oil to appease her editor.

 

“Cornelia, are you here?” she called, putting all of her meager weight into shouldering the door shut. 

 

“Miss Nettie, you’re home early.” 

 

Cornelia Watts trundled into the room, dressed in a very large, grey maid’s uniform, complete with a little white maid’s hat perched on her white hair. Her cheeks pinked up as she beamed at Nettie and gave her a rib-crushing hug. She’d been the Smith family’s maid since before Nettie’s birth. Not a day had gone by in the previous twenty-one years that Cornelia hadn’t pulled Nettie into her comforting bosom — whether it was to comfort a young girl who’d been cruelly teased by classmates or to celebrate a young woman’s graduation from university or to greet her when she came home from a hard day at work.

 

Nettie sank into the embrace of the woman who was almost a second mother to her, then pulled away and smiled. “You know just how to make me feel better, Cornelia.”

 

“‘Course! Been doing it all your life. Now what’s troubling you, dearie?”

 

Together they walked back to the kitchen, where Cornelia continued with her dinner preparations. Nettie loved watching Cornelia work, though everything she did looked like magic. Her hands were a blur as they chopped carrots for whatever delicacy the woman was making for them that night.

 

“I need to know how to clean blood out of a white cotton blouse,” Nettie said, dropping into the chair by the door and pulling a small notepad from her waistband.

 

“Oh my, what happened?” Cornelia’s eyes grew round with worry.

 

Nettie waved it away. “No, it’s for my column. A reader wrote in asking for the best way to remove blood.”

 

Cornelia blew a sigh of relief and resumed chopping. “Well, that can be tricky. It’s always wise to start with the most simple treatment, then move on to the stronger stuff.”

 

Nettie scribbled notes as Cornelia suggested first scrubbing vigorously with Ivory and cold water. Nettie made a mental note to substitute Pear Soap for Ivory in her column, because they were a big advertiser with her newspaper. Her editor would love that. Then Cornelia moved on to using lemon juice and the sun — if either were available, depending on the time of year. After that she suggested vinegar or ammonia, but only as a last resort because either could damage the fabric.

 

“And what if none of that works?” Nettie asked, pencil poised to jot down more of Cornelia’s wisdom.

 

“Then it’s time to pull out the whiskey.”

 

Nettie frowned. “Whiskey’s good for removing stains?”

 

Cornelia glanced up, a mischievous glint in her warm brown eyes. “Child, the whiskey’s for you, not the stain.”

 

Nettie blinked, then burst out laughing. Cornelia always had a way of surprising her. But she gave great advice.

 

“I can’t thank you enough for helping me with this, Cornelia,” Nettie said when the giggles finally died away. “If it weren’t for you, Ask Mrs. Nettie would be Ask Mrs. Maggie or something.”

 

“You know I’d do anything for you, dearie. I’m just surprised they haven’t made you a reporter yet.”

 

Nettie sighed heavily and slumped in her seat. “You and me both. Mr. Peterson assured me that if I delivered Mrs. Nettie columns for six months, I’d be a shoe-in for the next open reporter position. That was a year ago.”

 

“Have you asked the man?”

 

“All the time! I pitch him a new story idea every day, but he says they’re all too soft and fluffy, and that Mrs. Nettie is the best he can offer me at the moment.”

 

“What’s wrong with soft and fluffy?” Cornelia dumped the chopped carrots in a big soup pot and moved to the icebox to pull out a big hunk of meat. “The world’s so full of bad news already that it’s nice to read happy stories from time to time.”

 

“That’s what I told him, but he disagrees. So until I can come up with something appropriately tawdry, I’m stuck writing a silly home economics column that I don’t even understand. The paper should be paying you, not me.”

 

Cornelia snorted. “Dearie, no one wants to read anything I would write. You’re the one with the gift for words. Every woman over forty knows all the tips I tell you, but you’re the one who makes them want to read about it.”

 

“Still…” Nettie scowled and stuffed her notebook back into her waistband, frustrated at her lot in life.

 

Cornelia set her knife down and waited until Nettie met her gaze. “You listen here, Miss Nettie. There’s no shame in doing a job well, even if it isn’t the exact job you want. Do you know how many young ladies would step on your head to have a chance to write that column? You should be proud.”

 

Nettie shifted her gaze away. Cornelia really had a way of cutting to the meat of the matter, often before Nettie was ready to see the wisdom in her words. “My parents certainly aren’t proud. They sent me to university to become a respected journalist, not a columnist. They have a reputation to think of.”

 

The maid said nothing, just returned to her work, which spoke volumes. She cared deeply for the entire Smith family, but Nettie had always sensed the woman sometimes disapproved of how Jacob and Electra Smith treated their only child. That only made Nettie love her even more.

 

“Speaking of, are they home?” Nettie asked, already knowing the answer, but desperate to change the subject of her failure to please her parents.

 

“No, they’re both teaching classes right now. They said they’d be home by dinnertime though.”

 

“What about Grandfather?”

 

Cornelia’s cheeks pinked up a touch. “Mr. Jackson stopped by earlier and brought some beautiful flowers for the table. Said he’d be honored to join you all.”

 

Nettie narrowed her eyes. “Oh? Are you sure the flowers weren’t meant for you?”

 

“Miss Nettie!” Cornelia gasped, her fingers fluttering against her reddening chest. 

 

“What? Everyone knows he’s sweet on you, Corny.”

 

Nettie jumped at the sound of Cornelia stabbing her knife into the butcher block, but she grinned at the woman’s furious expression. It was just too much fun to tease her about Jebediah Jackson’s infatuation with her. And vice versa.

 

“I’ve asked you a hundred times to not call me that, young lady!”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender. “I forgot only Grandfather is allowed that honor.”

 

“Nettie!”

 

“Okay, I’ll stop. But seriously, why don’t you two just admit your feelings for each other and get on with it?”

 

Cornelia’s lips pursed into a thin, hard line, and it was her turn to avoid Nettie’s inquisitive gaze. “You know why,” was her terse reply.

 

Though Cornelia would never have admitted it, Nettie knew why she thought it was a bad idea — Jebediah was a prominent member of Ottawa’s high society, while Cornelia was just a lowly maid to his daughter and son-in-law. Of course, Grandfather had never cared about such things and he never would. 

 

He’d once been a slave on a plantation in Georgia, but after running away to Canada, he’d become a sought-after lecturer on the topic of slavery’s impact on the human race, as well as a country’s economy. More than almost anyone alive, he knew what it felt like to be at the bottom, and he also knew what it felt like to rise above it all. Class distinctions meant nothing to him, especially where Cornelia was concerned. 

 

Yet as much as Cornelia clearly admired Jebediah, she resisted. Nettie doubted the fact Cornelia was white and her grandfather was black had anything to do with it. Her insecurities about class were holding her back from true happiness, and Nettie was about to tell her so when the telephone in the hallway jangled loudly.

 

“I’ll get it,” Nettie said eagerly, rushing to beat Cornelia to it. 

 

It was a bit of a novelty that everyone in the house loved to play with. Her father had recently had the wooden contraption installed and Nettie couldn’t get enough of it. Pulling the earpiece from the lever, she held it to her ear and stooped to speak into the mouthpiece jutting out from the front of the beautiful oak box. 

 

“Hello, Smith residence.”

 

Static crackled in her ear, then a familiar male voice echoed down the line. “Nettie, is that you?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Peterson.” Her boss from the paper. After she’d submitted her column that afternoon and suggested yet another ‘real’ story he’d hated, Nettie had left early. Maybe he was calling to terminate her. “Is something wrong?”

 

“No, except that I went looking for you and you weren’t in the office. Not a good day to duck out before quitting time, Nettie.”

 

Nettie chewed on her lip. She’d been complaining about her job, but she had no desire to leave it. Or get fired. “I’m sorry, Mr. Peterson, I just—“

 

“Never mind that,” he said impatiently. “I think I found the perfect story for you to cover. It’s fresh, it’s edgy, and best of all, you get to go undercover for it.”

 

The hallway tilted sideways and Nettie slapped a hand against the wall to steady herself. The day had finally come! She was about to fulfill her lifelong dream of being a hard-hitting journalist. Well, her parents’ dream for her anyway. If she was honest with herself, she rather enjoyed writing her little column, but her parents expected more. So did all of their friends and colleagues at her alma mater, where they taught. And she was determined to prove their faith in her abilities hadn’t been for naught. 

 

“Really?” she squeaked, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear herself think. “Just tell me what I have to do, Mr. Peterson.”

 

“Oh, nothing much. You just have to marry a Mountie.”

 

* * *

 

Bryce Muir reached across his childhood sweetheart to grab the gravy boat. Normally, he wouldn’t have behaved so coarsely, but this dinner was already far from normal.

 

“Bryce, sweetie, I would have passed it to you,” Daphne chided in a sickly sweet voice, reminding him once again why he’d broken off their courtship years earlier.

 

“Yes, Bryce,” his mother added, “have some manners. You’re much too large to be elbowing your way past young ladies like that.”

 

“Sorry, Mum,” he mumbled as he poured an obscene amount of gravy on his mashed potatoes. 

 

It had been two years since he’d had the chance to enjoy his mother’s fine cooking. Two years since he’d visited his family home. And he couldn’t believe how much everything had changed — or how many things had stayed the same. 

 

Such as Daphne.

 

“Hey, save some for the rest of us, little brother,” said Finn, the oldest of the Muir siblings.

 

“Oh Bryce.” Daphne’s tone was full of disappointment and recrimination as she shook her head at his plate.

 

Bryce ground his teeth to keep himself from asking his mother again why she’d invited the girl. He’d tried to drag the answer out of her earlier, but she’d brushed him off, saying something about wanting to have a house full of people to welcome him home. 

 

He knew better, though. She’d always been fond of Daphne — probably because the girl could scold him just as well as his mother — and no doubt thought one look would set his heart aflame. Little did she know — or care, apparently — that simply hearing Daphne’s voice made his skin crawl. He couldn’t fault his mother for trying, he just wished she would have asked him first.

 

To her credit, the house was full, but it was a small house. Besides his parents Finn had brought along his wife and two sons, while the middle Muir son, Donel, also had a wife and two sons. The oldest boys had barely been able to stand on their own when Bryce had joined the Royal North West Mounted police, and he’d never met his younger nephews at all. All four boys were typical Scottish nippers — utterly charming lunatics.

 

“Uncle Bryce!” shouted Errol, Finn’s oldest. His mother told him to lower his voice at the table, then he continued. “How many bad guys have you caught?”

 

Bryce chewed thoughtfully before asking a question of his own. “How do you define ‘bad guy’, Errol? Are you talking about drunken miners who get a little too rambunctious on a Saturday night in town, or do you mean murderers?”

 

“Murderers!” It seemed the boy only operated in two natural states — sleep or shouting.

 

“Errol!”

 

“Sorry, Mum.” 

 

He didn’t look the least bit sorry, which made Bryce chuckle, earning him a glare from the boy’s mother too. Welcome home, Bryce!

 

“Actually, I haven’t caught any murderers. Most of the time I help keep the peace between disgruntled locals or occasionally lock up unruly drunks until they sober up.”

 

Errol frowned. “Sounds boring.”

 

“Not at all. The rest of the time I get to be outside to enjoy nature. I ride horses far and wide, exploring all the nooks and crannies and hills and valleys of wherever I’m stationed. I’ve seen baby foxes hunting for the first time, bisons grazing in open fields, cougars prowling rocky ridges and reindeer locked in fierce battle. Once, I even saw a moose with ladies’ underthings hanging off its antlers!”

 

Daphne gasped and tried to look suitably shocked, while everyone else laughed. He cast an annoyed glance at his mother, who at least had the grace to blush. 

 

“That sounds pretty exciting,” Errol conceded with a healthy dose of skepticism. 

 

“Oh, Errol, nature is full of wonder and drama. Just remember what ol’ Uncle John wrote, ‘Nature is ever at work building and pulling down, creating and destroying, keeping everything whirling and flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another.’”

 

“Wow,” the boy whispered, suddenly enthralled.

 

His father balked. “Bryce, you know good and well John Muir isn’t your uncle.”

 

“I know nothing of the sort. He’s Scottish, we’re Scottish. His name’s Muir, our name’s Muir. He loves nature, I love nature. We can’t not be related!”

 

“What I want to know,” said Donel, “is when you’re going to give up your wandering ways and come join the family business. Isn’t it about time for you to settle down?” 

 

Bryce caught his brother sliding his eyes over toward their mother, who was suddenly very interested in the food on her plate. This was all a set-up, a trap. They were in on it together. Probably figured if they all nagged him to join his father’s accounting house, he couldn’t say no. 

 

Which was, of course, why Daphne was there. They would show him how good life was with a wife and children, and — what do you know? — the perfect girl would be sitting right next to him. Convenient. He had no desire to hurt Daphne. She wasn’t a bad sort, just not the sort for him. And if hurting her feelings meant his family would finally allow him to live life on his own terms, so be it. She should have known better anyway — they’d parted ways almost five years earlier. What had she really expected from the evening?

 

“What you’re really asking is when I’m going to become more like you, isn’t that right?”

 

Donel frowned and glanced at Finn for support. “What’s wrong with us?”

 

“That’s the point, Donel. There’s nothing wrong with you or Finn. You both chose your lives and are, I assume, happy in them. You have beautiful, loving families, and I’m thrilled for you. But that’s not what I want.” His mother gasped, so he quickly added, “Not right now.”

 

He tried not to look at Daphne, but he caught her wide eyes and ashen complexion. Then she whispered, “Don’t you ever want to get married?”

 

Bryce sighed deeply and turned to her. “I don’t see that happening any time soon, Daphne. And as much as it pains me to say it, not to you.”

 

Tears welled in her eyes “But…I was waiting for you.”

 

“I never asked you to. We parted ways years before I left to join the Mounties. Whatever made you think…?”

 

The poor girl glanced at his mother, who once again became entranced by her food. Bryce grimaced and shook his head.

 

“I’m sorry my mother gave you the wrong impression, Daphne. You’re a very nice young lady, and I know you’ll make someone a wonderful wife. But that person isn’t me.”

 

The tears finally spilled. Her chest hitched once, then she pushed back her chair and bolted from the table without a word. She threw the door open and hurried through without bothering to close it behind her. No one moved. No one spoke. Turning back to his family, Bryce fixed each one with a hard gaze.

 

“You’re probably all going to blame me for hurting Daphne’s feelings, but that is on your heads. I ended things with her cleanly a long time ago. How dare any of you give her false hope like that?”

 

Mum dipped her head and sniffled. As much as he loved his mother, she should feel ashamed.

 

“What you don’t seem to understand, even though I’ve tried explaining it before, is that I have no desire to join Dad’s firm. I don’t have a head for numbers, you all know that. I love being outside. I love caring for my mounts. But more than any of that, I love serving my country and protecting its citizens. It’s my calling, it’s who I am. It makes me feel alive in a way working in a stuffy office balancing accounts never could.”

 

Finn opened his mouth to argue, but Bryce cut him off. 

 

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with your chosen professions. But the least you could do is grant me the courtesy of allowing me to choose my own path in life. Being a Mountie is what I’m meant to do. In fact, even though my leave just started, I can’t wait for it to be over and to get my new posting.”

 

“You don’t like being here?” his mother asked, her voice small and pitiful. 

 

Bryce’s heart cracked a little and he reached across the table to take her cool hand. “Of course I do, Mum. Ottawa is and will always be my hometown. I love coming home to visit.”

 

She gave him a weak smile. To ease the tension, his father cleared his throat and changed the subject. 

 

“You don’t think they’ll send you back to Saskatchewan?”

 

“I doubt it. They usually move us around.”

 

A knock sounded on the door jamb and a voice called, “Hello? Anyone home?”

 

A boy of about twelve poked his head through the open door and looked around. He wore a telegram messenger’s uniform, his hat perched precariously on his head. 

 

“Come in, lad,” Dad called, waving him inside.

 

“Looking for Constable Bryce Muir,” the boy said. 

 

“Over here,” Bryce said, waving a hand. The boy handed over a telegram and scooted out just as quickly as he’d come. 

 

“A real telegram!” Errol shouted. “Neat! What’s it about, Uncle Bryce?”

 

Bryce scanned the short message and smiled broadly. He’d enjoyed his time in Saskatchewan, as much as he could. Winters were particularly harsh, and he’d hoped his next orders would take him somewhere a little more temperate. He needed a break from all the blizzards.

 

“I have my new posting. I’m to leave on the next train for Prince Edward Island.”