Page 5 of Mail Order Bride

She's so ugly, she has to keep a pork chop tied around her neck to get the dog to play with her.

Martin looked genuinely disappointed. “That’s too bad.”

“A good day’s work is a good day’s work,” I said, handing him a crisp five-dollar bill. I should have rubbed a little dirt on it, as Mama would have said, but I didn’t want Martin to worry about me too much.See, I’m doing just fine.

“A good day’s work. Amen to that.” He put the money in the till and then counted out my change. I watched his hands as he closed the register. Pa always said you could tell a lot about a man’s hands. “Storm’s a comin’,” Martin announced, stealing my thoughts. “I suppose you’d better get a move on.”

I gathered my haul, ever thankful for the rain. When he moved to help, my stomach flip-flopped. “I can manage.”

“That’s too bad about Sarah,” he said, ignoring me. Martin is oldandstubborn. It was hard to tell which was the bigger problem.

I motioned to him I had it, just in case it was his hearing. I couldn’t let him get near my truck. Not only were there the spare body parts, who knows what else he might find. “Sarah?”

Curtis Martin glared at me with a hopeless expression. “Betsy’s niece.”

“Oh, right.”

“You need a good woman in your life, kid.”

I started to speak, but closed my mouth.It’s a special skill, like speaking several languages, or keeping your mouth shut in one.“I’ve got the bags. The rest I’m just going to toss in the passenger seat, if you don’t mind.”

Martin followed me to the truck and swung the passenger door open. “I heard about Red.”

My throat went dry as a bone. Like it folded up on itself. A weaker man might’ve gotten choked up.

He shook his head. “I’m really sorry.”

I shrugged and thought about what Pa told me to say to people after Mama died, and that’s what I told Martin. “She had a good life.”

He looked confused at first, but then he did what most people do and pretended like he wasn’t. “Speaking of, son,” he said, walking around the truck to where I was standing. He placed his hand on my shoulder in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable. So uncomfortable I hardly heard what he said. His voice sounded far off, like it was coming from a thousand miles under the sea. “Give it some thought, would you? About supper. Perhaps things can be rearranged. Perhaps—”

“Sure,” I said, my word full of empty promise. I slung a bag of feed over my shoulder, considering what I’d do if he found the bags with the hands and the feet, or if he touched me or called mesonagain. “I’ll give it some thought.”

He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, almost like he was relieved. Almost like he believed me. “It’s not good for a man to be alone. It’s not the way God intended it.”

“I’m not alone.”

“You know what I mean.”

Just then, his eyes landed on the cooler. I followed his gaze to the blood smeared on the side. “Been huntin’, eh?”

“Had to cut out early,” I said, pointing at the sky. “On account of the storm.”

“I envy you, kid. It’s been forever since I shot anything good enough to write home about. The missus doesn’t let me stray too far.”

Martin walked around and closed the passenger door. I slid into the driver’s seat. He motioned toward theAlmanac, folded open to the heavily circled ad. “Looks like you might soon learn a thing or two about that.”

I smiled like I might be embarrassed that he’d busted me. “God willing.”

Chapter Three

Joel

The encounter with Martin afforded me just enough of an edge to try to outrun the impending storm, and just enough paranoia to do what should have already been done. I put the pedal to the metal of that old Ford, but I didn’t go home. I decide to pay Layla—not her real name, of course—a visit.

By the time I park the truck outside the Apricot Inn, darkness has fallen like a veil of mourning. The wind had picked up like the whirring of gears as the clouds amassed over the pavement. The storm brought with it a chill, and though I’ve never minded the cold, it looks like the sky is going to open up at any minute. I hate for my bags of feed to get soaked, but this is a visit that can’t wait.

Two raps on the door to room number seven and there stands Layla in a pink nightie and fuzzy slippers like something you see in a seedy film, the kind they show at the theater next to Danny’s Bar, down off Main Street. Not too popular a venue with the townsfolk, but plenty of backroom deals to be had if one fancied himself the adventurous kind.

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