Chapter One
Hanks, Kansas
June 1884
As Loreli Winters stood listening to the farmer bending
her ear, she wondered how much longer she would have to
endure before she could politely excuse herself and slip
away. The farmer's name was Henry Judson and he was a
handsome brute: all brown eyes and muscles, but she,
unlike the other women gathered in the grove behind the
small church, had not come here to find a husband. Loreli
had traveled to this small Black Kansas colony as a member
of a wagon train transporting mailorder brides, but she'd
signed on strictly for the adventure, not to be the wife
of a Kansas homesteader. Her plans were to stay in town
long enough to make sure everything worked out for the
friends she'd made on the trip, then strike out West --
California maybe. In the meantime, she had this gathering
to get through.
In preparation for this Friday afternoon event, Loreli had
gotten all gussied up, put on her powders and paints, and
hoped her flashy blue dress would keep the farmers away.
Here, for the first time in a long time, the golden
quadroon beauty she'd inherited from her mixed ancestry
would not be an advantage. In the billiard dens and
smoking cars where she plied her gambling trade, Loreli's
looks had won her more hands than she could count,
especially when the pigeon spent more time ogling her
bosom than his cards. In the past, she'd never hesitated
using her face or figure to its best advantage, but not
tonight; tonight there'd be no flirting. Loreli's future
lay elsewhere. She just hoped the farmers would understand.
Judson, still talking, had three little girls. Although
Loreli found the daughters pleasant enough, she had no
intentions of taking over the job of raising them. She
sensed from their father's conversation that all he was
looking for was a replacement for his recently deceased
wife.
When Judson began expressing hopes that his new bride
would be able to can vegetables as well as his late wife
did, Loreli interrupted him with a winning smile. "Mr.
Judson, I see someone over there I need to speak with.
It's been nice meeting you and your girls."
He opened his mouth to protest, but Loreli had already
walked away.
Loreli made her way through the gathering of sixty or so
men and women and saw that everywhere she looked folks
were mingling and smiling. The celebratory sounds of
fiddling and happy voices drifted on the late afternoon
air. The brides had picked out their prospective mates
before making the trip by using the photographs and
portraits provided by the men to the wagon train's
organizer, Grace Atwood. The couples were meeting each
other for the first time, and many were already lined up
outside the small church waiting to be married.
Loreli threaded her way through the trestle tables set
around the church grounds and nodded greetings in response
to the familiar smiles beamed her way. The many trials and
tribulations that had beset the women on the trek from
Chicago seemed to have been forgotten. All the ladies had
taken special pains to look their best; their hair was
done, their dresses starched and pressed. The men were
also decked out, in everything from fancy suspenders and
fresh-pressed trousers to shiny new suits.
As Loreli shared congratulatory hugs and small-talk with
the women, she asked after Belle, the young woman who
shared her wagon, but Belle had already journeyed on with
the man she would be marrying. That saddened Loreli
because she'd dearly wanted to tell Belle good-bye. Loreli
had taken the young woman under her wing during the
journey from Chicago, and they'd become very close.
Loreli moved on to congratulate a few of her other friends
and noted the interested eyes of some of the men standing
nearby. She knew she was hard to miss in the low-cut blue
satin dress that left the crowns of her shoulders bare,
but because these men were here to marry women who'd
become her friends, she didn't give any of the farmers
more than a friendly nod in return. Loreli didn't want any
misunderstandings.
In reality, though, she secretly wished to be one of the
brides. She'd be thirty-five years of age come November,
and on her own in life since the age of fourteen. She was
tired. Tired of gambling dens, traveling, and having a
life that discouraged roots, family, and peace of mind.
Deep down inside, parts of herself yearned for the
security of a farmhouse, a steady man, and a few kids, but
her past life made fulfillment of that yearning
impossible. What man wanted a wife whose occupation was
gambling? None she'd ever met. Men wanted their women
docile and of good character, and in society's eyes, she
was neither. She decided she should just go back to her
boardinghouse room, lest she be overwhelmed by her mood.
Loreli paused for a few moments to say farewell to Grace
Atwood, the woman who'd organized the wagon train, then
she headed back to claim the rented buggy she'd driven
over in.
Beneath the tree by her buggy stood two little
brownskinned girls. They looked to be seven or eight years
of age. Both copper faces were framed by long black plaits
that shot out from their heads at a cockeyed angle, as if
the person who'd braided them hadn't much experience with
the task of doing hair. There were red ribbons tied on the
ends, however, and Loreli wondered if the little ones had
done the braids themselves. She also noticed that unlike
all the other little girls she'd seen at the gathering
this evening, these two were not gussied up in starched
pinafores and Sunday slippers; they were attired like boys
in denim trousers, flannel shirts, and sturdy boots.
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