A Mail Order Bride for the Undertaker (Love by Mail #1)(3)

“Mercy, what are you doing here at this time of night?” She sat in the pew nearest the altar.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Mercy joined the woman. “And I thought I would talk to Him.” She looked up to the crucifix at the center of the dais.

The Mother Superior nodded, sighed and muttered more to herself than Mercy, “Maybe we should consider the mayor’s offer.”

“Sell the orphanage?” Mercy almost raised her voice, but restrained herself at the last minute.

“Things are not going well, my child. The donations have been small and we get more hungry mouths than we have helping hands.” She sighed again. “Pastor Grayson, his wife, and I have to consider the good of the children. My congregation can only supply so much food and money. We’re running out, as it is. Maybe it’s His will that the mayor handle things.”

Mercy gasped. “But, Mother Superior, he’ll just sell the building and the land.”

The older woman sighed. “He’ll take them anyway if we can’t provide for the orphans.” She looked up at the crucifix. “It’s been a very trying past few weeks.”

Mother Superior, usually a calm and soothing presence amid the hectic energy of the orphanage, that night, looked ancient and weak. In Father Hector’s absence, everything had suddenly fallen on her tired shoulders. The looming winter wasn’t helping either. They could barely feed the children they had now, and with the new additions…

Mercy crossed herself. “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”

“Matthew chapter seven, verse seven.” Mother Superior smiled. “Many of our children forget the Scriptures as soon as their lessons stop.”

Mercy looked at the Mother Superior. “Let us trust in the Lord. He will always provide, even when we think all hope is lost.”

“Just like Abraham and Isaac,” Mother Superior muttered. She smiled at Mercy and patted her shoulder, before leaving.

Mercy shivered. The place had never seemed dimmer and colder now that she was left alone. She lifted her skirt and knelt, clasping her hands in front of her. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I know that there’s a reason behind everything You do, but it’s so hard. We have new mouths to feed and yet so little food to offer. Winter is coming and even our hearths are empty. We ask for Your help, Your guidance, and Your grace.”

She opened her eyes and began the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be -”

A strong gust of wind delivered a set of papers to her lap.

Mercy blinked and lifted the papers up. It was today’s newspaper, opened right on the Matrimonial section. She pressed the paper flat before her. “Mail Order Brides.” She looked up at the crucified Christ. “Is this –? Is this the answer?”

Mercy looked back down and read the ads. They weren’t unfamiliar to her, but her eyes had rarely strayed from the ad her client wanted her to answer. She had never given this a thought before. But now that the idea had been planted it sort of made more and more sense to her with every hurried heartbeat. Many of the men she corresponded with had been nice and devoted to the Lord. Many of them claimed - and proved - that they were wealthy, true, and willing to support their brides.



Cole Beckett - A man of God, 25 years of age, serving as a wood-carver and undertaker, is seeking the acquaintance of a young, caring, and supportive lady, with a view to matrimonial engagement.



Mercy gulped. Was this truly a sign from the Lord? Was she meant to be a mail order bride? She folded the paper on her lap. The women who came to her for help with their letters, Diana, Deborah, Ruth, Judith, and Naomi. All of them had went to the West after corresponding (with Mercy’s help, of course) with the men from the ads. And all of them had written Mercy back afterwards, thanking her and telling her how they were faring in their new homes. They were all happy.

“Seek and you will find,” Mercy crossed herself and stood up, but not before saying a soft, “Thank you.”





Chapter 2


Angel Creek, Montana Territory, November 1870

Cole Beckett whistled while whittling a piece of wood into a toy horse the size of his palm.

“Howdy, Beckett!”

Cole looked up from his work.

A man with a long peppered beard and a top hat entered the workshop. “Harold, you there?”

Cole shook his head and grinned. “It’s me, Mr. Dubson. It’s Cole.”

“Oh.” The man took off his hat and shook Cole’s hand. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, I forgot. Still keep thinking it’s good ol’ Harold at work here. You look a lot like your father.”

“Well, how can I help you?” Cole smiled at him, and presented his workshop. “Wooden toys? Rocking horse?”

“Actually, my granddaughter, Sofia, she…” He cleared his throat.

“Would she like a rocking horse?” Cole prided himself on making rocking horses. He picked up blocks of wood and hummed an old church song.

“Actually, she’s dead.”

The chuckle got stuck in Cole’s throat. Sometimes he forgets he wasn’t making just toys and furniture in his workshop. “Oh. I’m sorry.” He immediately wiped away the smile off his face. “I’m sorry for your loss.”