Winning The Mail-Order Bride. Lauri Robinson

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 they both started walking beside him. “And some fish.”

      “Ya, I went fishing. Caught a fine batch of cats.” He held out the bucket. “Gotta bury the innards.”

      The younger boy, most likely having figured out there was no need to be scared, pointed toward the bucket. “Ma used to bury those in the garden.”

      “That’s what my ma would do too. Or have me or one of my brothers do it,” Brett answered while stopping at the tool shed door. “But seeing I don’t have a garden, I’ll bury them out by that little tree.”

      “You don’t have many of those around here,” the older boy said.

      Brett entered the shed, grabbed the shovel and stepped back out. “Trees?”

      The boy nodded.

      “No, we don’t,” Brett agreed. “I’d like to see a few more, that’s for sure.”

      Both boys started walking beside him again. “There were lots of trees in Ohio,” the younger one said.

      “Ohio? Is that where you’re from?” Brett asked.

      “Yes.”

      The tone of the older boy said he’d rather be back in Ohio. Brett figured that was how most children felt when it came to moving away from their home and didn’t begrudge the youngster whatsoever. “Never been to Ohio. But we had lots of trees in Wisconsin. Say, what are your names?”

      “I’m Wyatt, and this here is Rhett.”

      “I’m five,” Rhett supplied.

      “Wyatt and Rhett, you say,” Brett said while setting down the bucket near the small and only tree on his property. “Well, my name is Brett. Brett Blackwell.”

      “Hey, your name sounds like my name. Brett. Rhett.”

      “That it does,” Brett answered the younger boy while jabbing the shovel into the ground. “But I’m a lot older than five.”

      “How long you lived around here?” Wyatt asked.

      “More than two years. Oak Grove is a nice town. I’m sure your folks will like it.” The hole was deep enough. Brett set aside the shovel and dumped the bucket’s contents in the hole and then grabbed the shovel to replace the dirt. “You two will too once you get to know others.”

      “We already know others,” Wyatt said.

      There was so much anger in the boy’s voice Brett had to follow the glare Wyatt was casting across the field. Right to the house the city had for sale. “Who?” he asked. “Who do you know?”

      “The mayor.”

      Brett nodded. “Josiah Melbourne likes to hear himself talk, but he’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

      “I don’t want to get to know him any more than I already do,” Wyatt said.

      “Me neither,” Rhett said. “He told us to go outside and not come back in until he leaves and that was a long time ago.”

      Carrying the empty bucket and shovel, Brett started walking back toward his house. “Probably because he has some important business to talk about with your folks.”

      “Like when he’s gonna marry our ma.”

      Brett stumbled slightly. “Marry your ma? Where’s your pa?”

      “Got hisself killed back in Ohio,” Wyatt said. “That’s why we had to move here, and why Ma has to marry the mayor.”

      The mayor prided himself on being from Ohio, and it was an acquaintance of his rounding up brides from there—which made Brett ask, “Did your ma know the mayor when he lived in Ohio?”

      “No. The preacher’s wife told Ma she had to come out here and marry the mayor ’cause folks at the