An Unforeseen Match: A Match Made in Texas Novella 2

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DRY GULCH, TEXAS

LATE SUMMER 1893

Grace O’Malley heaved her last box of belongings onto the table and peered inside, forgetting it did her little good. With her failing vision she could see the curves of the book spines, but the gold lettering was lost to her.

A shadow passed through her light. Her friend Emilie stepped near. Your books? Where do you want us to put them?

Grace trailed her fingers over the leather covers. I no longer have any use for them, do I? Give them to your children. In a few years they may enjoy reading them.

Oh, I hate for you to— Emilie snuffled, then spoke with determined brightness. Thank you. They’ll cherish them.

Grace turned to where she thought the three other women stood. What is left to do before this place is suitable? Should I scrub the basin?

I’ve already done that, Hannah answered, hesitation corking her voice.

Then I’ll make the bed. Grace inched forward, hands outstretched. Her shoe bounced against the chair leg. She grasped the back, reoriented herself, and set forth again to the lone bedroom.

Honestly, Grace. Why don’t you scoot on out? The broom whisks paused for Mrs. Stevenson’s scolding. You’ll only be in the way.

Grace’s neck tensed. A year ago she could’ve been considered the most capable woman in Dry Gulch. Now she was less help than a child. Well, she had to rectify that situation.

She clasped the metal footboard of the bed and swept her hand over the cool feather tick until she found the stack of folded linens. She fingered the pile. A sheet on top. No, two cotton sheets, then a well-worn quilt. Leaving a sheet on the bed, she moved the pile of blankets to set them on the dressing table, but when she released them, they dropped to the floor.

My dust pile! Mrs. Stevenson erupted in coughing. And those blankets were just laundered.

Grace rubbed her own itchy nose. You moved the dressing table. How was I supposed to know?

Well, I had to sweep beneath it.

Quick steps neared. A muffled pounding and more dust. Don’t worry. We’ll air them out and they’ll be as good as new. Hannah spoke in the same patient tones she used for the students at the school where she and Grace taught together—had taught together before the darkness stole Grace’s profession. Let me help you make the bed.

Or even better, Emilie said, I’ll help and Grace can rest.

Rest? Grace crossed her arms. I’m not tired. I’m not sick. I canna sit in a rocker for the next fifty years, waiting for me life to end.

Silence. She cast about, trying to catch a glimpse of a face but couldn’t land on anything recognizable. Were they watching her? More likely they were exchanging significant glances, shaking their heads, and communicating pity right in front of her because she couldn’t see it.

If that’s how it’s to be. She felt her way past the bed and grasped the rocking chair. Benny, her new puppy, yipped as she stomped past. I’m going outside. She shoved the rocker before her, enjoying the bustle as the ladies jumped out of her way. Wrestling it past them, she picked up speed until it crashed into the doorframe. The gasps behind her only encouraged her recklessness. She might not be able to see, but she could still make decisions for herself. Even blind, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Finally the chair cleared the threshold, and the punishing heat of late August assaulted her. From the angle of the sun, she assumed the house faced south. Were there any trees on the plot? Doubtful, knowing the ruggedness of the canyon lands. She spun the rocker to face away from the house and sat, prepared to bake in the dry shade of the porch. Prepared to pretend she liked it.

And the pretending had only begun.

Grace hadn’t needed the school board to tell her she couldn’t teach anymore. She’d known before they had. And since Dry Gulch hadn’t grown as predicted, they could do without two teachers. Grace wouldn’t be replaced. Merely removed.

What stung was their practical solution to her upkeep. Unlike Hannah Taylor, Grace didn’t have any family in town, and boarding her in the homes of her students inconvenienced the parents, especially with the additional burden of her blindness. They needed a place to stash her—like a dilapidated homestead somewhere out of the way, but close enough they could administer charity. Naturally they expected her to sell it, take the money, and move somewhere more convenient, if only she knew where. The young schoolteacher with her whole life ahead had been set aside, but she wouldn’t go quietly.

I think you’ll want to keep this book. Emilie laid a heavy block on her lap.

Her Bible. Grace wiped the dust from it. She hadn’t picked it up since the encroaching darkness had obscured its words, and although she would never again be able to read it, she had to admit the weight of it in her hands comforted her.

She had her faith, her intelligence, and her health. Surely her life still counted for something.

Grace rocked furiously, her mind searching for any small pocket of hope that had been left to her. Did you say there’s a barn?

Emilie’s skirt swished as she turned. Yes, and a ramshackle mess it is. I don’t know how Clara Danvers kept any cattle in it.

If I set out straight from here will I find it?

Don’t you dare! You could wander away and never be found.

Grace stopped rocking. Sooner or later I have to take care of myself.

Then what excuse would I have to visit my friend?

From inside the cabin Mrs. Stevenson called out, While I’m thinking of it, don’t fire up your stove. This cabin could go up like a tin of paraffin and you might not be able to find your way out.

Grace jutted her jaw forward. I’m not to cook. I’m not to leave the cabin. Next thing I know you’ll be telling me to stay in me chair unless I have someone aholding me hand.

Another silence. Grace fidgeted, full of energy and no place to expend it. Don’t fash yourself over me. I won’t be on your charity long. I’m mulling over a plan.

A plan? Emilie’s voice held a smile as big as the canyon. Do share.

Grace expelled the breath she’d held. Well, it’s a mite personal, but since you asked, I’d like a husband, and I’d like to find one while I still have enough sight left to see his face.

A shadow moved between her and the light, too tall to be Mrs. Stevenson. Your sight could return at any time, Grace. God could work a miracle. Don’t despair.

I’m not despairing, Hannah. I’m planning ahead. While I’m grateful that the school board bequeathed me this homestead, I don’t relish the idea of living alone here for the rest of my life. A husband would be useful.

Possibly, but no guarantee. Emilie’s wry smile flashed but a moment before Grace lost sight of it again. With a house filled to the brim with children and a doting husband, Emilie couldn’t complain over much.

Don’t you have a brother? Hannah came nearer. He’d want to know about your ailment.

Grace searched until a portion of Hannah’s concerned face appeared in the fuzzy circle. Before I’d apply to my brother for help, I’d take a husband on the luck o’ the draw.

I don’t know that anyone is raffling off men. Emilie straightened Grace’s collar.

Grace slapped her hand away. Not a contest. I was thinking about an advertisement. I’ve heard that men do such things. They have land, but want a bride. Why couldn’t I do the same? I already have the homestead.

This homestead brought luck to Clara Danvers. No reason it couldn’t happen again, Hannah murmured.

And with the Cherokee Strip land run next month, there’ll be a plethora of land-hungry men passing through, Emilie added. Dry Gulch will be crammed with potential husbands who lost out in the race.

What will they think of her condition? Mrs. Stevenson asked. And how could she marry a perfect stranger?

The three figures had converged before her, their forms creating a dark block. If the stranger is perfect, he won’t be too disappointed that my eyesight is failing. I still have much to offer.

But no one spoke up to affirm her statement. Grace’s grip on her Bible tightened.

Emilie recovered first. If you place an advertisement, be sure to mention your charming Irish lilt.

And your stunning beauty, Hannah said.

And the homestead. After all, that’s what those men are really after, Mrs. Stevenson said.

Grace turned her face to the east. The golden light blurred what lay beyond, but she’d chosen to believe her land overlooked a beautiful canyon, with multicolored layers as far as healthy eyes could see. If the farm is what they’re after, then it’d better be in tip-top shape. But if her guardians were correct, it wasn’t, and she could never repair it on her own. She needed help.

In all the world there was no sorrier sight than a cowboy carrying his saddle. Clayton Weber surged forward, sheer determination propelling him through the early September evening toward the dusty town. He had to find a shovel, had to bury Sal before the coyotes got to her. You didn’t leave your best friend to be picked apart by scavengers, no matter how many miles you’d carried your gear.

Except for the schoolhouse, the town appeared deserted. Tightening his grip on the pommel, Clayton trudged the last quarter of a mile toward the lit building, thankful for the darkness. He’d stay in the shadows as much as possible if there were ladies present, so his face wouldn’t elicit the usual questions.

He rubbed his marred brow. Of all the luck. He’d planned his journey for a year—ever since he’d heard about the Cherokee Strip land run. Already, most all of Oklahoma Territory had been parceled up and given away to those swift enough to outrace their peers. If he wanted a ranch of his own, this could be his last shot. But then Sal had stepped in that jackrabbit hole. The second he heard the horse’s leg snap, Clayton knew. He’d have to find work fast if he wanted to replace Sal in time for the race.

He dropped his saddle at the hitching post. Startled by the noise, a skittish horse tugged against the reins that secured her. Poor Sal. No one should have to put their own horse out of her misery. He started to rub the mare’s muzzle to calm her, but an old memory stopped him. With a last rueful glance at the horse, he stepped into the open doorway of the schoolhouse.

Plenipotentiary. The young lady at the front of the classroom chewed her lip with a nervous glance to the boy at her side. P-l-e . . .

Behind the two youngsters sat what amounted to local dignitaries and a schoolmarm. Clayton slung his saddlebag off his shoulder and leaned against the frame. Spelling bees had the potential to drag on longer than a leap year.

. . . n-i-p-o-t-e-n-t-i-a-r-y. Plenipotentiary.

There was silence as the moderator bent her thin frame over a hefty book. At her nod applause erupted. The girl broke into a smile and turned to her opponent, who awaited the next word.

Tergiversation. The teacher’s voice sounded uncertain—almost as uncertain as the young man looked.

Tergiversation. He clasped his hands behind his back. T-e-r . . .

Clayton scanned the room. Who would most likely have a shovel at hand? Who would be most likely to rustle him up a supper before he returned to his tragic duty? Who wouldn’t ask questions about Clayton’s rough appearance?

In one giant breath, the room gasped. The boy’s head drooped. The girl bounced on her toes before she remembered to act like a lady. Applause erupted as the slender teacher handed the winner a blue ribbon.

Clayton retreated out of the lamplight. The gathering was sure to break up soon, and people would