The Reluctant Bridegroom by Gilbert Morris Page A

by the man’s expression that she was not going to win.
    “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to give him up,” Simmons said. “You can take him in to the orphanage yourself—or we can send somebody by for him.”
    The shock was too much for Rebekah, and she leaned against the wall for support. “When do I have to take him?”
    “As soon as possible. By the end of the week at the latest.”
    There was no use arguing. “All right.” When he was gone, she knelt beside her bed. There was nothing to do, no one to turn to, and a bleak fear gripped her heart. She stayed there for a long time, praying for wisdom. At last she rose, fed Timmy, played with him for a time, then began to gather Mary’s few things together. The rent was paid for a month, but that was no comfort. All she could think of was some means of keeping the baby.
    She took all Mary’s clothes and put them in a bag, but put Mary’s Bible and a few tracts with her own things. She found a stack of papers and magazines on Mary’s table and began to sort them out, throwing most of them in a waste box. Near the bottom of the pile, her hand fell on a sheet of newsprint, and her eyes fell on the message, capturing her attention.
    Attention—ladies of the East! If you are seeking a new life, Oregon is your answer . . . men outnumber ladies fifteen to one. . . . Any woman interested in this venture can apply on March 15 at the State Hotel. . . . Ask for Mr. Winslow. . . .
    For a long time she sat and read the words over and over—and then she closed her eyes and remained still. The silence ran on unbroken, so she opened her eyes and rose.
    She walked across the room and looked at a calendar with a picture of a farmhouse on it. Putting her finger on the date, she gave a determined smile and said aloud, “March,the thirteenth.” Then she turned and her face was pale, but her lips were set.
    “Mr. Winslow,” she announced to the air, “you have a new volunteer for your association!” Then she ran and picked up the baby. Throwing him high in the air and listening to his delighted squeal, she cried out, “Timmy—how’d you like to go to Oregon?”



CHAPTER SEVEN
    PICK OF THE LITTER
    A violent southwest wind rolled ragged black clouds over Oregon City as a wagon pulled up in front of Moore’s Livery on Walnut Street. Swollen drops of cold rain formed a silver screen in front of the man and boy as they sat inside the protecting cover of the wagon, waiting. A short fat man appeared from behind the double doors of the livery. “Howdy, Sky. You want me to grain these horses?”
    “Hello, Harvey.” Sky drove the wagon inside and handed over the reins to the stableman. “Birdwell will want the furs moved to his warehouse tomorrow, I expect,” he called over his shoulder as he and his companion left the stable.
    The plank walkways across the street intersections were half afloat and sank beneath the weight of the two as they crossed over, turning right at the sidewalk. At two o’clock in the afternoon the kerosene lights were sparkling through the drenched windowpanes, and the saloons they passed exuded a rich blend of tobacco, whiskey, and men’s soaked woolen clothes.
    Five sailing ships lay at the levee, their bare spars showing above the row of frame buildings on Front. Beyond Seventh, in the other direction, the great fir forest was a black semicircle that crowded Oregon City’s thousand people hard against the river. The raw, wild odor of massive timbered hills and valleys turned sweet in the rain and lay over the town like a blanket.
    “Be good to get out of this rain, Joe,” the man said. “Soon as we see Sam, let’s eat.”
    “All right.” The boy was bundled in a thick coat, and a fur cap was pulled low over his eyes. He looked across the street and said, “The pie is best at Holland’s. Can we go there?”
    “Your choice, Joey. I could eat my saddle!”
    They hurried across another street as the rain dimpled the watery mud. Reaching a