“N–no.” Belinda shook her head but quickly explained. “Her name is Corabelle Watkins. She’s from New York. I...well, I paid for her train ticket. I’m sure George will reimburse me later, when he realizes that she’s the perfect woman for him.”
“He will?” Greta did not look convinced. “But how do you know she’s the one for George? How would you even begin to guess his taste in females? He’s so reserved and closemouthed about such things. Always has been. Remember when we would tease him about girls in school? He would never play along. In fact, the only girl he ever spent time with was you, and even you couldn’t crack that hard shell.”
“I know. But don’t you see? That’s what makes this so perfect. He would never do for himself what I can do for him. So I must do it. I have no choice, really.”
“Hmm. Well, I do think you’re right in saying that he would never pursue a woman on his own. He’s far too shy. But what you’re doing for him isn’t exactly yours to do, at least from my vantage point.”
Belinda groaned. “So you think I’ve overstepped my bounds? I prayed about this, Greta. I really did. And I felt like Corabelle was supposed to come to Poetry. She’s just what we need—a woman from the big city to share a sense of refinement and culture with those of us who, well, with those of us who need it.”
“A refined city woman?” Greta shook her head. “Marrying a small-town barber? This, I must see to believe.”
Belinda bit her tongue to keep from adding fuel to the ever-growing fire. Instead, she lifted up a silent prayer, asking the Almighty to move mightily on her behalf.
They arrived at the train station in short order, and Belinda waited alongside Greta for the two-fifteen from Dallas. After a cursory glance at her reflection in the station window, she turned back to her cousin. “How is my hair? Do I look a fright?”
“You look fine, but why does it matter?”
“Well, Corabelle is from New York, as I said, and I want her to think that we Texans are civilized. I don’t want her to bolt simply because she’s put off by the external.”
Greta snorted again.
Minutes later, a long blow of the whistle from the approaching train pierced the air. Belinda took a few steps closer to the track, her nerves more jumbled than ever. The grinding of the brakes tightened them even further. Plumes of dark gray smoke now filled the air, along with the familiar taste of ash and soot. Belinda put her handkerchief over her mouth to keep from coughing as the train came to a halt just yards from where they stood. Off in the distance another train unloaded cattle cars. A light afternoon breeze picked up the heady scent of the animals and blew it their way. Belinda coughed, all the while thinking what a poor first impression this might make on their guest.
She watched as passengers stepped down from the cars. One by one they came, but none looked like the Corabelle Watkins she’d pictured in her head. Surely this woman would rival the debutantes from Dallas or Houston.
Finally, just about the time Belinda was ready to give up, she heard a female voice rise above the noise of the other passengers. “This unbearable heat will be the death of me yet!”
Belinda looked up, taking in the young woman exiting the train. Her honey-colored hair was twisted up in the latest fashion and fastened with silver combs. The hairstyle showed off a slender face with delicate features, right down to the perfectly placed cheekbones and flashing green eyes. And that dress! Belinda had never seen such finery. Well, not since her last trip to Dallas, anyway.
The porter, a weary-looking fellow, followed along on the woman’s heels, muttering several “Yes, ma’ams” and “No, ma’ams” as she ordered him about.
“Do you suppose that’s her?” Greta asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I wish I knew,” Belinda whispered in response. “Only one way to know for sure.” She took a few steps in the woman’s direction, doing her best to appear both professional and courteous. “Corabelle Watkins?”
“Indeed.” The wrinkles in the woman’s brow faded, and those green eyes suddenly sparkled with anticipation. “Are you Belinda Bauer, then?”
“I am.” She extended her hand but the woman seemed not to notice. Instead, she began to fan herself.
“Is it always this hot in Texas?
“Only in midsummer,” Belinda explained. “Our winters are quite cool, and the in-between seasons are lovely. Not too hot, not too cold. The springtime, as I told you in my letter, is absolutely beautiful.”
“Folks come from all over the country to see the wildflowers,” Greta said.
“Oh yes, the vetch is quite exquisite,” Belinda explained. “The grounds around this part are covered with tiny purple blossoms in the springtime. And, rest assured, the other seasons—barring summer—are mild in comparison to the North.”
“I see.” Corabelle seemed to relax a bit. “So, no snow, then?”
“Rarely.”
The lovely young woman laughed. “Perfect! Perhaps I have moved to the right place after all.”
Belinda quickly made introductions. “Miss Watkins, I’m happy to introduce my cousin, Greta Klein.”
“Happy to make your acquaintanace.” The woman extended a gloved hand, and Greta took it with a welcoming smile.
Minutes later, Corabelle’s many possessions filled the back of the wagon, and the women were on their way. As they made the ride to Poetry, the newcomer complained without pausing for breath—about the train ride, the food she’d eaten and, of course, the heat. She finally turned her attention to their surroundings. “My, Texas is rather...flat. You do have some lovely plains, but nothing in the way of mountains.”
“Not in this part of the state,” Belinda explained. “But out west—”
“I always love a nice trip to the mountains,” Corabelle said. She followed this statement with another sigh. “But I suppose I will get used to the terrain, over time. The cotton fields are nice. And you do have some pretty trees. We don’t have many of those in the city.”
“Oh, but the things you do have!” Greta said, the tone of her voice escalating to one of sheer delight. “Tall buildings. And opera houses. And museums. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about New York City!” On and on she went, singing the praises of city life. Belinda wanted to pinch her. How could she ever persuade Corabelle to stay if Greta continued to carry on so?
“So, tell me about this wonderful man I’m to wed.” Corabelle’s eyes now sparkled with excitement. “I’ve come so far to meet him, and yet all I know is that he’s a godly man who shaves other men’s faces.”
Greta giggled.
“George is really nice,” Belinda said, trying to redeem the conversation. “Quite handsome.”
Greta wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
“What?” Corabelle looked at her with a worried expression on her face. “You don’t find him handsome?”
After a shrug, Greta said, “To be quite honest, I never thought about it before. He’s all right, I suppose. But he’s like a brother to me, so I never paid much attention.”
Again, Belinda wanted to pinch her. She would have to remember to give her cousin a speech on matchmaking etiquette.
Corabelle pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed. “So I’m to marry a plain man.” After a pause, she said, “Well, no bother. Looks aren’t everything. At least he owns his own business. A barbershop. That’s nice.”
“Owns his own business?” Greta slapped her knee. “That’s a good one. His pa owns the barbershop. Always has. George just works there. And I don’t think he particularly likes it.”
“Oh, I see.” Corabelle sighed again, this time more dramatically. “So, I’m to marry a plain, discontented man who works for his family but isn’t terribly happy about it. Anything else I should know?”
“Yes.” Belinda was determined to get in a few words before Greta ruined this whole thing. “You will find that George Kaufman is one of the kindest, noblest men you will ever meet. He is friendly to everyone and actively participates in communit
y and church events. Unlike my friend here, I do not find him one bit plain. Why, he’s the handsomest man in all of Poetry.” How could anyone doubt it?
“And he does have all of his teeth,” Corabelle added with a smile. “That’s a plus.” She turned to Belinda, the creases between her eyes deepening. “You weren’t exaggerating about that part, were you?”
“No, I assure you, he has a mouthful of teeth.”
At this, Greta almost fell off the wagon laughing. After coming up for air, she turned to Belinda and whispered, “Since when do you find George handsome?”
Belinda shushed her and continued to look at the road ahead. Greta glanced at her with a hint of suspicion in her eyes.
Corabelle seemed oblivious to their quiet conversation. She continued to comment about the weather, the surroundings, and the fact that she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days. Eventually, she got around to talking about George once again. “So when do I meet him?” she asked. “And why didn’t he come to fetch me at the station? If I’m to be his bride...”
“We need to talk about that, to be sure,” Belinda said. “There is one other little detail I’ve left out.” She paused for a moment then rushed her next words. “George doesn’t exactly know I’ve sent for you.”
“W–what?” Corabelle paled.
“He doesn’t even know you exist.” Greta doubled over with laughter. “Isn’t this fun!”
Corabelle began to fan herself once more, her eyes narrowing into slits. “How am I supposed to wed someone who does not know I exist, pray tell?”
“Oh, don’t fret.” Belinda nodded, hoping to offer some assurance. “You just leave the details to me. I’ll manage just fine, I assure you.”
Funny, even as the words were spoken, she felt a knot in her stomach. How in the world could she manage to convince George to fall in love with—and marry—Corabelle Watkins? The way things were going, she’d be the laughingstock of Poetry.
Belinda guided the horses around the bend to the outskirts of town, preparing herself for the inevitable questions from their guest.
“Gracious, the town is small,” Corabelle observed, looking this way and that. “Quite different from the city, no doubt about that.”
“Yes, but we have a lovely mercantile,” Greta explained. “We call it Poetic Notions.”
“And look over there.” Belinda pointed to the hotel. “That’s Stanzas. The owners have a fine reputation in these parts. Folks come from all over to visit our area. The restaurant is one of the best in the state.”
Corabelle pointed at a sign reading Rhyme and Reason. “What is that, pray tell?”
“A bookstore,” Belinda explained. She pointed across the street. “Peter Conrad runs it. He carries the best poetry ever written and is a wonderful storyteller.” She smiled as she thought of the older man with his long, flowing beard and unusual wardrobe. “If you ever need a poem, he’s your man. He keeps the finest books in the state—all of the classics and more. And over here we have Limerick’s Livery.”
“I see.” Corabelle nodded. “But these business names are so...”
“Unusual?” Greta giggled.
“Yes. Quite different.”
“Oh, but it’s wonderful,” Belinda said. “Everyone does such a fine job of contributing to the poetic feel of the town.”
“I see.” But what about the barbershop?” Corabelle nodded in the direction of the sign above George’s shop, which simply read Kaufman’s Barbershop. “Am I to marry a plain, discontented man with no imagination?”
Belinda released a groan.
Just then, George stepped out of the front door of the barbershop onto the boardwalk. He slapped one of his customers on the back, a broad smile on his face. Then he looked up as the ladies rode by, his eyes widening as he took in Corabelle Watkins. A smile wider than the Sabine River lit his face.
Belinda looked his way and grinned. Well, praise the Lord! Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
***
George looked up as a passing wagon blew dust all over him. He groaned and brushed himself off. The sound of a couple of cackling females caught his attention, and he gave the wagon another look. Belinda Bauer and Greta Klein waved, and he smiled in response. He’d just lifted his hand to wave when he caught sight of the woman seated on Belinda’s left. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment he stood frozen in place.
The blond beauty looked his way with a girlish smile. He managed a nervous wave, but, in doing so, knocked over the broom he had leaned against the side of the building moments before. Scrambling, he picked it up and clutched it in his hand.
Above the clomping of the horses’ hooves, he distinctly heard the sound of the women laughing.
Well, never mind that. He could laugh at himself, all things considered. If only he could get another look at that beautiful stranger.
CHAPTER FOUR
After thoroughly introducing Corabelle to the town of Poetry, Belinda stopped at Poetic Notions to drop off Greta. Afterward, she made the drive to her house, with Corabelle chattering a hundred miles an hour beside her.
“If I’m not to marry the plain, discontented barber right away, then where will I stay?” she asked with a perplexed look on her face. “I will need a place. And time to woo him.” Her expression shifted to one of concern. “Though I hadn’t counted on having to win his heart, so I do feel a bit deceived, in that respect.”
“I’m so sorry.” Belinda blinked away the tears that threatened to come. She hadn’t been completely honest...with anyone. How could she redeem this situation? There was only one way. George had to meet Corabelle and fall in love with her. Right away. Belinda would see to it, no matter how difficult the task.
“Do you think it will take long to win him over?” The lovely New Yorker’s eyelashes fluttered, and Belinda managed a smile.
“No time at all, I assure you. You are quite beautiful and kind. George will fall head over heels in short order.”
As she spoke the words, a strange twisting feeling grabbed hold of Belinda’s heart. George had to go along with this. She remembered the expression she’d seen on his face in town and relaxed a bit. Surely that was a hopeful sign.
They arrived at Belinda’s home minutes later. As she pulled the wagon up to the front of the house, her three brothers ran out to meet them, the expressions on their faces quite a sight to behold. In fact, she’d rarely seen them so boisterous. At once, Belinda sensed a potential problem.
“Let me help you down, miss,” James said, extending his hand with gentlemanly flair.
Belinda gave her oldest brother a look of warning, though he didn’t seem to notice. No, his eyes were firmly fixed on their new guest, whose cheeks were now crimson.
As Corabelle extended a gloved hand in his direction, her eyes twinkled. “Why, thank you, kind sir. You Southerners are ever-so-polite.”
His eyebrows elevated mischievously and he cleared his throat. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Corabelle giggled. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to all of this ma’am business,” she proclaimed, as James slipped an arm around her slender waist and lifted her from the wagon. “But I do have to say it’s quite flattering.” Her feet landed solidly on the ground, but James never released his grip from her waist. Instead, the two continued to stare into each other’s eyes, their faces only inches apart.
Belinda took the opportunity to interrupt. “You will find that the men in Poetry are, for the most part, gentlemanly.” Not that she spent much time thinking of her brother as a full-grown man. He might be twenty-three, but his boyish actions put her in mind of someone much younger at times. Still, she could not deny the look of interest in his eyes as he gazed at Corabelle.
At this, her twin brothers, Elijah and Elisha, took to squabbling, one punching the other. Belinda groaned and gestured for them to fetch Corabelle’s trunk. They climbed aboard the wagon and flexed their muscles to show off for their guest. She responded with a ripple of la
ughter.
Minutes later the boys finally settled down, and Belinda led Corabelle inside.
Her mother appeared wearing her plainest calico dress and a faded apron. Her hair, usually pulled up in tidy fashion, looked a bit limp—likely from the heat. “Belinda, I’ve been worried about you. I went into town, and you weren’t at the store. Wherever did you run off to?”
“Oh, well, I...”
Thankfully, Mama turned her attention to Corabelle, giving her a thorough once-over. “Well, who have we here?” her mother said, giving Corabelle a brisk once-over. “A guest?”
“Yes.” Belinda had been dreading this part. She knew her mother would have a hundred questions but hoped she’d put them off till after dinner. Bringing a visitor to the home unannounced had never been done before, especially not a visitor like this one. “Mama...everyone...this is Corabelle Watkins, from New York City. I went to the train station to fetch her.”
“Well, forevermore! You should tell a person.” Belinda’s mama swept the young woman into her arms. “Welcome to Texas, Corabelle. We’re happy to have you, of course. To what do we owe the pleasure? Are you here visiting friends or relatives?”
“Oh, no. Neither of those. I’ve come in want of a husband.” Corabelle puffed her shoulders back and made direct eye contact with James, whose cheeks lit up redder than a rooster’s comb.
Mama laughed. “Well, I daresay you’ve come to the right place. We’ve men aplenty in Poetry. And more than a few handsome ones in this very household, if one happened to take a second glance.” She gave James a look, and he winced.
“Mama, can I speak with you? Privately?” Belinda gave her a look, but her mother seemed too distracted to notice.
“You must be exhausted, Corabelle,” Mama added, taking their guest by the hand and smiling with her usual tenderness. “Why don’t you let the boys take your trunk to your room and you can rest awhile before dinner. We’re having pot roast and potatoes with biscuits. Folks all over Kaufman County rave about my biscuits.”