Mail-Order Brides For Christmas - Frankie Love Page 0,1
few weeks.”
“What?” I laugh, trying to register this concept. I’ve read hundreds of western romances over the years, set in the Wild West when mail-order brides were necessary… but I figured it was outdated.
Maybe not.
“Hey, Louise, do you think you could get me a contact number for that service?”
“Really?” She laughs. “Oh Joy, you really do have a bee in your bonnet today.”
I smile, thinking of six winter weddings… and realizing maybe Jasper retiring is the very thing this town has needed all along.
My boys love me. And while some may have harder exterior shells than others, they all have soft centers when it comes to me. And somehow, none of them seem opposed to the idea of purchasing Snow Valley. Maybe it’s the fact I’ve warmed them up with brown sugar bourbon and my famous fruitcake. But having all my sons come over after dinner to hear me out means so much. I know not every mother is so lucky.
“Granddad would love seeing us use his money for good,” Mason says after my pitch. Well, part of my pitch. I haven’t mentioned the “marriage” stipulation. Or the fact I had a lengthy call with Holly Huckleberry, a feisty woman in her sixties who owns the mail-order bride service. Holly agreed that me ordering all my sons brides was the perfect early Christmas gift.
“And since we’re all planning on staying in Snow Valley for the long haul, I don’t see why not,” Nate says. Hearing him say that warms my heart considering his last few years.
Matt runs a hand over his jaw. “I think the figures work. It would mean more work for all of us, but I might get a partner at the firm soon, and I’d have more time.” As the lawyer of the family, and the oldest son, I appreciate his pragmatic approach.
Spencer, my youngest, says he’s on board. “Though as a carpenter, not sure I can add much to the business end of things. But I can help spruce up the town. Have you seen how old all the signage is around this place? I don’t think Jasper has put a nickel of his money into Snow Valley in years.”
Christopher, the quietest one of my boys, leans back in his chair, extending his long legs out in front of him. His expression is pensive “You won’t get an argument from me. I don’t need some corporation coming in and trying to tell me how to run my brewery and pub.”
“We sure we don’t want the Titan Corp coming in?” Hartley asks. “Tourist towns attract visitors. And this place could use some more women.”
Mason laughs. “Says the guy who has dated every available one already.”
Hartley shrugs. “Not like there are many options.”
I look over at Hank, who smirks as he adds more bourbon to his glass. He knows the part I’ve left out and thinks I’m crazy for taking this idea as far as I have.
“Speaking of women…” I grab the bottle of bourbon from Hank’s hands, and then tell the boys to top off their glasses. I’m not trying to get them tipsy, but I do want them to be open-minded when I mention this next part. “There is one thing I need to mention.” I explain the archaic law about the town owners being married — I even went to City Hall this afternoon to see the law with my own two eyes.
“Well then why are we having this conversation?” Mason asks. “None us are even dating.”
“Yet,” I say, lifting a finger.
“What do you mean, yet?” Nate asks, sitting back in his chair.
“I might have done something… something… a bit rash.” I press a hand to my heart, suddenly realizing the enormous weight of what I’ve done.
“Rash?” Matt groans. “Mom, what did you do?”
I look at Hank, biting my lip.
“Go on, Joy,” he says with a shake of his head. “Tell your sons what you’ve done.”
I give them an exaggerated smile. “I ordered you each a bride.”
“A bride?” Spencer laughs. “Mom, I’m twenty-two.”
“Your father was twenty-one when he married me,” I push back.
“Absolutely not,” Christopher growls. “I don’t need a woman interfering in my business either.”
“When you say ordered… what does that mean, exactly?” Matt asks. All of the boys pause and stare at me, waiting for my answer.
I smile brightly. “You’re each getting a mail-order bride in a few weeks.” My sons look at me with a mix of horror, confusion, and amusement. They know me well enough to understand this is no joke.