No Match for Love: A Match Made in Texas Novella 3

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DRY GULCH, TEXAS

FALL 1893

Lucy Benson cleared her throat. Walter proposed to me this morning.

Not one of the members of the Dry Gulch Ladies’ Sewing and Prayer Circle gathered in Prudence Whitfield’s parlor missed a stitch.

One corner of Dottie Jackson’s lips quirked up. Again?

Lucy jabbed her needle into the dresser scarf she was embroidering. Again. And to tell you the truth, it scared me a little.

Emilie’s good-natured laugh echoed throughout the room. This makes the sixth time Walter has asked for your hand. Or is it the seventh? I’ve lost track by now. It’s about as surprising as the sun coming up every morning. Predictable, but hardly frightening.

It wasn’t the proposal that scared me, Lucy shot back. It was the fact that I was tempted to say yes.

Dottie and Emilie gasped.

Mrs. Whitfield’s finely arched eyebrows soared toward the white hair coiled atop her head.

Hannah Taylor, who had stopped by for a moment just to say hello, plopped into a chair and stared.

Dottie found her voice first. "You can’t be serious! Marry Walter? How could you even consider such a thing?"

Lucy pressed her lips together. It isn’t like I have much choice, Dottie. It was wonderful of your family to take me in and give me a home after Papa died and left me penniless. But your wedding is only a month away. Once you’re married, I can hardly expect your parents to let me continue staying with them.

That’s where you’re wrong. You’re my oldest and dearest friend, and Mother and Father love you like a daughter. I know they would be happy to have you stay on. It would keep the house from seeming empty after I’m gone.

Lucy knew from long experience there was no point crossing Dottie once she’d made up her mind—even when she was wrong. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to lighten the mood. You’ll be in charge of your own household soon. Maybe you should consider taking me on as your maid once you’re Mrs. Richard Brighton.

A ripple of laughter ran around the room, and Lucy flinched. She hadn’t intended her remark to be quite so humorous.

Gertie Claasen laid her needlework down and wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. What an idea! I can just see you trying to iron linens or clean a floor. Face it, Lucy, apart from embroidery, you’re utterly unsuited for doing anything along domestic lines.

Lucy ducked her head and focused on the dresser scarf, hoping her irritation didn’t show. Still, she had to admit the truth of Mrs. Claasen’s statement. You’re right. I have no domestic skills . . . or any other prospects. Which is why I may have to take Walter up on his offer.

Oh, my dear. Mrs. Whitfield laid her knitting on her lap and reached over to press her hand on Lucy’s arm. It takes more than money and land to give you happiness and a true home.

I know, and believe me, that isn’t my first choice. Or my second. Or my tenth. Walter Harris’s tightly controlled approach to life meant everything had to be done the right way—his way. If she gave in to his demands and agreed to marry him, her every action would have to fit that narrow mold, as well. Just the thought made her feel as though her chest were being squeezed in a vise.

But I don’t have any other place to turn. I simply can’t impose on Dottie’s family indefinitely. I’ve prayed about this ever since I learned about the bad investments Papa made, but God hasn’t opened up any other doors. Lucy drew a deep breath. Maybe marrying Walter is His will for me.

Dottie clicked her tongue. Pastor Eldridge keeps reminding us that God is a loving Father. I can’t imagine marrying Walter Harris being His will for anybody.

Hannah leaned forward, concern shimmering in her light blue eyes. You truly have no other prospects?

Lucy shook her head. Hearing her predicament put into words made the situation seem even more disheartening. I’m afraid not.

Mrs. Whitfield drew herself up and folded her hands. Ladies, we need to take Lucy’s problem to the Lord.

After a round of heartfelt prayers, Hannah excused herself to go tend to her three little brothers, and the rest resumed their needlework.

While the group chattered about a new shipment of fabric that had just arrived at the general store run by Mrs. Claasen and her husband, Lucy’s attention remained focused on her dilemma. And on trying to choke back the lump in her throat.

It wasn’t her fault she’d never learned to be useful about the house. Being raised by a doting father who catered to her every need, she never had to acquire such knowledge. It wasn’t that she was unwilling to work hard. She just didn’t know how to run a home. But surely she could learn, if only someone would give her the chance.

Dottie’s wedding was only a few short weeks away. The Jacksons could hardly be expected to extend their hospitality after their only daughter left the nest. Which meant Lucy needed to find another place to stay . . . and soon.

She wrapped the navy embroidery floss around the tip of her needle to form another French knot. Was marriage to Walter the answer God had for her? A vision of her insistent suitor swam into her mind. Walter, with his watery blue eyes and the jutting Adam’s apple that made him look like a tom turkey. Walter, with the controlling nature that made her feel unable to breathe freely in his presence. True, his family had plenty of money. He could offer her a fine home and servants, every comfort her heart desired.

But would that be enough?

Over the next week, it seemed as if Lucy stumbled across Walter every time she turned around.

On Sunday, he sat across the aisle from her at church and sent meaningful glances her way during the sermon.

On Monday, she spotted him coming out of Claasen’s General Store just in time for her to beat a hasty retreat down a nearby alleyway.

On Tuesday, she spied him loitering across the street when she and Dottie emerged from the dressmaker’s shop.

Was God trying to tell her something?

When Dottie’s mother tapped on Lucy’s bedroom door on Wednesday afternoon and said she had a visitor, Lucy felt almost resigned to her fate. She checked her appearance in the oval mirror and descended the staircase, feeling a bit like a French aristocrat walking to the tumbrel.

To her surprise, Pastor Eldridge awaited her in the parlor.

I’m here on a mission of mercy. He smiled. Shall we sit down?

Mystified by his cryptic statement, Lucy gestured to a wingback chair and settled herself on the settee opposite.

Pastor Eldridge folded his hands and peered at her over his pince-nez. It has come to my attention that you are in a rather desperate situation. I want you to know you’re in my prayers. . . . Although, I must say I’m a bit saddened that you didn’t confide in me about your plight.

Lucy’s eyes widened. Pastor Eldridge knew all about her dire financial straits. What else could he mean, unless . . .

Walter came to see me yesterday and asked me to talk to you. He wanted me to help plead his case.

He didn’t! Lucy gasped and half rose from the settee.

The pastor waved her back to her seat. Don’t worry. As your pastor—and friend—I don’t believe it would be in your best interests to be joined to Walter in matrimony. Unless, of course, that is where your inclination lies?

Heavens, no! The words blurted from Lucy’s lips before she could stop them, and she felt her face flame. That is . . .

Pastor Eldridge shook his head. Say no more. I’ve known Walter since he was barely out of knee breeches. I understand your feelings completely.

Oh. So maybe God wasn’t trying to coerce her into an unwanted match?

That being the case . . . Pastor Eldridge reached into his coat pocket and drew out an envelope. Walter wasn’t my only visitor this week. I was asked to deliver this to you. He tapped the envelope on his knee, then handed it to Lucy. This just might be the answer to your prayers.

Thoroughly baffled, she took the sealed envelope. Without pausing to find a letter opener, she wedged her finger under the flap and tore it open. A single sheet of paper lay inside. When she drew it out and unfolded it, a slip of cardboard fluttered into her lap. Lucy picked up the small rectangle and gave it a quick glance. A train ticket?

Her pastor nodded. Read the note.

Lucy smoothed the paper and began to read:

Andrew Simms of North Fork, Texas, is looking for a companion for his widowed aunt, Martha, whose dearest wish is to remain on the ranch she owned with her late husband. Andrew is concerned for her welfare, but he can’t be at the ranch all the time. Finding someone trustworthy to stay at the Diamond S with his aunt would relieve Mr. Simms’s concerns for her welfare. If you choose to accept this position, you would be helping not only yourself, but this dear saint who would love to finish out her years in the place that holds so many happy memories for her.

Lucy took her time folding the paper, pressing the creases into sharp lines while thoughts tumbled through her mind. She looked back at Pastor Eldridge. Where did this come from?

I’m afraid I can’t tell you. He answered Lucy’s incredulous look with a rueful smile. I realize that sounds odd. I do know where the note came from, but I promised not to reveal the identity of the person who wrote it.

Lucy pressed her hand to her throat and tried to slow her racing heart. A ticket. The promise of a job—one far away from Walter’s unrelenting pursuit. It sounds like an answer to prayer.

Then common sense asserted itself. It also sounds too good to be true. How could I accept this offer without knowing anything about it? It would be like buying a pig in a poke.

Pastor Eldridge tented his fingers. "I understand this puts you in an unusual position. While I’m bound to keep the writer’s name a secret, I can tell you I have the utmost confidence in this