Cowgirl Under The Mistletoe. Louise M. Gouge
was an important asset to this town and the surrounding community. Both she and everyone else needed to recognize that.
Welcoming them both to the mercantile, Mrs. Winsted first turned her attention to Micah. “What can I do for you today, Reverend Thomas?”
Micah thought she should assist Grace first, but if he said something to that effect, both ladies might end up being embarrassed. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll need some flour, cornmeal, beans, rice, bacon—”
“A bit early for your usual monthly order, isn’t it?”
Micah gave her a bland smile. “I’m honored that you remember my schedule.”
“We aim to please.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Homer!” Her clerk emerged from the back room. “Reverend Thomas’s regular monthly order.”
Micah gave her a slight bow and approached the counter where Homer Bean had begun to assemble his purchases. Behind him, he could hear Grace ask Mrs. Winsted about the thefts.
“Why, I’ve already told Sheriff Lawson everything I know. Such odd things to be stolen and odd that I didn’t notice them being carried out. A coffeepot, a bag of coffee, some tins of food, a box of expensive linen stationery.” The sensible shopkeeper’s voice held an uncharacteristic note of worry. “I gave the sheriff a complete list, and he said he’d look into the matter.”
“Yes, ma’am, he and I both will.” Grace’s soft response held a calming quality, almost like a mother soothing her frightened child. “You can count on us to make sure your shop is protected.”
Micah’s heart warmed. Grace certainly had a comforting way about her. He couldn’t imagine why some cowboy hadn’t come along and married her. Maybe while he was searching for his bride, he could search for a husband for his good friend. She deserved a fine Christian husband to show her how remarkable she was. Of course, it would take an equally remarkable man to be her partner in marriage.
“Can I help you carry these groceries, Rev?” Grace came to the counter and started to lift the wooden box Homer had filled.
“Thanks, but I can manage.” Micah took the box from her. No Southern lady he’d known would ever offer to carry such a load or even be able to, but these cowgirls were a different breed.
“I almost forgot your mail.” Mrs. Winsted, also the town’s postmistress, retrieved some letters from her little cage at the back of the store and tucked them into Micah’s box.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Two letters. More than he usually received in a month. An odd little kick smote him in his chest. Would he already have an answer from New York? No time now to check the fronts of the envelopes. With his hands too full to doff his hat to Mrs. Winsted, he gave her a friendly nod. “I’ll settle my bill soon.” And if that letter was the one he’d been looking for, maybe he wouldn’t always have to keep a tab. Though he mustn’t get his hopes up too high in that regard.
She shook her head. “I’m not worried about you paying your bill, Reverend. Not like I worry about some in this town.”
Micah paused briefly. This wasn’t the moment to inquire about her concern, so he’d save it for another day. “Thank you.”
“Well,” Grace said as they left the store, “I’d best head over to the office and see what Sheriff Lawson has to say about those thefts.” She touched the brim of her hat, a manly gesture he wished she wouldn’t do. “Thanks for the ice cream.”
“You’re more than welcome.” With the heavy box in his hands, Micah couldn’t return the courtesy of doffing his hat, but she was already headed down the street anyway. He lifted a silent prayer that someday a fine man would come along and treat Grace like the lady she was, the way she deserved to be treated.
Micah sighed. Dear Grace. If the Lord wanted him to help her, He’d have to show him how. One thing he’d learned in his seven years of ministering to this congregation was that a wise pastor never tried to change a person. His job was to love and accept his flock as they were and let the Lord make the changes. One thing did occur to him. Finding the thief might take her mind off of her sister’s departure. Maybe he could even help her investigation. He would enjoy having more time in her company.
By the time he’d walked the two blocks to the parsonage, his heavy load was wearing on his arms. He managed to balance the box against one hip as he opened the door, which he never locked. Other than storekeepers, no one in these parts locked up, but if thieves were at work, he might have to reconsider that practice and warn others to do the same.
After putting away his groceries, he took the letters from the box. The first was from Joel Sutton. Micah had been thinking of Joel not an hour ago. Maybe the Lord was nudging him to write that letter to his friend and ask for help finding a mail-order bride. It all depended on what the second letter said.
Sure enough, it was from New York. His pulse racing, Micah tore it open. A bank note fell to the floor. He snatched it up. Two hundred dollars! Gulping so loudly he could hear himself, he slumped into a chair to read the missive.
Dear Mr. Thomas,
We are delighted to inform you that your novel has been accepted for publication by Wyatt, Leader, and Davis Enterprises. Please find enclosed an advance on the sales we fully expect your exciting story to garner. In addition, we hope you will consider Wyatt, Leader, and Davis Enterprises when seeking to publish your next story. Our readers eagerly await every such book about the Wild West. With the added element of Christian morality infusing your story, we expect to greatly broaden our readership. Although our authors generally prefer to use their own names in an effort to find fame, your chosen nom de plume, A Cowboy Storyteller, seems most fitting in this case.
Unless we hear from you to the contrary, we will rush the publication of this delightful novel so it will be in the hands of numerous booksellers by early December, just in time for Christmas. With its seasonal theme, we can expect sales to set records, thereby generating significant royalties for you.
Please sign and return the enclosed contract. We urge you to send another story as soon as possible. Yours sincerely...
Micah laughed out loud. If this wasn’t the Lord’s leading, he didn’t know what was. Now he could get married. Whatever Joel said in his letter, Micah would answer right away. To his shock, Joel’s letter announced that he and his sister would arrive in Esperanza the first week in December. Displeased with the failure of Reconstruction, they were leaving the South in hopes of finding a more peaceful life in Colorado. Joel also said his sister, Miss Electra Sutton, had recently graduated from finishing school, and she hoped to find an upstanding Christian husband who held on to none of the bitterness many felt over the war.
Micah laughed again. “Lord, You never cease to amaze me. You put the thoughts in my mind even as You were laying out Your plan. Are You bringing a bride right to my doorstep?”
As a finishing school graduate, Miss Sutton would be a great asset to his ministry. Further, with the sale of his book, he would be able to support her without asking the church for a raise in salary, something he knew they couldn’t afford to give him. Micah recalled that the newly married Rosamond Northam Wakefield, also a finishing school graduate, always wore the latest fashions. Miss Sutton would no doubt be fashionable, as well, and he would have to support her wardrobe choices.
What would she think of him? Of his far from fashionable and somewhat threadbare clothes? Only one solution came to mind. He would take some of his earnings from the sale of the book and change his entire wardrobe, beginning with his old broad-brimmed Stetson. One of those handsome new bowler hats would be more fitting for a minister.
He’d go over to the haberdasher’s right now and make that purchase. After that, he would visit the tailor next door. Joel and Miss Sutton would be here in December. That should give him enough time to have new clothes made.
He laughed aloud again. In a few short hours, the Lord had certainly shaken the very foundations of his simple bachelor life. And Micah couldn’t be happier about it.
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