Four Brothers Each Ordered Mail-Order Brides — The Women Arrived Were All Sisters Seeking for Love

Chapter 5

The arrival of Randall Voss was not the thunderous storm they had braced for. It was a slow, creeping fog.

He did not ride up to the ranch with a posse of hired guns. Instead, he arrived in Promise Creek in a rented buckboard, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that seemed to repel the dust of the street. He was a handsome man in his late forties, with silvering temples and a smile that was both charming and predatory. He took a room at the town’s only hotel and began his assault not with violence, but with influence.

His first move was the bank. The Dalton Ranch, like most, ran on credit, secured by a mortgage note held by that very institution. Voss, with his eastern money and polished manners, spent an hour with the bank president. By the time he left, he had purchased the Daltons’ note. He now held their financial fate in his hands.

His next stop was Mr. Guthrie’s general store, where he paid off the Daltons’ outstanding account with a casual flick of his wrist — a gesture that was part generosity, part power play. He spoke to the townsfolk, introducing himself as the Vance sisters’ benevolent guardian, expressing his deep concern for their welfare after they had been “lured away to this harsh and unforgiving land.” He painted a picture of himself as a savior and the Daltons as opportunistic kidnappers.

Word of Voss’s campaign reached the ranch via a shaken Mr. Guthrie.

“He’s smooth, Dalton,” the store owner warned. “Got the ear of half the town already. Says he’s here to rescue those girls.”

The tension at the ranch became a palpable thing. The sisters were pale and withdrawn, starting at every sound. The easy laughter of the previous weeks had vanished.

“He’s trying to isolate us,” Asher said grimly, pacing the main room. “Turn the town against us, cut off our supplies, then foreclose on the ranch. He wants to leave us with nothing, so you have no choice but to go with him.”

“There is always a choice,” Bridget declared, her eyes flashing with fire. But her voice held a tremor she could not conceal.

The confrontation they had all dreaded came three days later.

Voss rode out to the ranch, not alone, but with the town sheriff — a portly, officious man named Boone. Detective Rowan, the Pinkerton, followed at a discreet distance, his face impassive.

The eight members of the household stood united on the porch as Voss dismounted.

“Margaret, my dear girl.” Voss began, his voice oozing concern as he approached the steps. “Thank heavens I found you. I have been worried to death.”

“We are not your dear girls, Mr. Voss.” Margaret’s reply was cold and steady. “And we are not in need of your concern.”

Voss’s smile tightened. “I am your legal guardian, appointed by the courts after your father’s unfortunate business. These men have taken advantage of you.” He turned to the sheriff. “Sheriff, I want these women returned to my custody.”

“Now hold on, Mr. Voss.” Asher stepped forward, placing himself beside Margaret. “These ladies are here of their own free will. They are our betrothed.”

A collective sharp intake of breath came from the brothers and sisters behind him. It was a lie — a desperate, monumental one — but it was the only shield they had.

Voss laughed, a condescending, unpleasant sound. “Betrothed. You expect me to believe that four lonely men and four penniless women… This is a transaction, not a romance, and it is one I will not permit.”

He pulled a sheaf of papers from his coat. “This is a court order from Boston affirming my guardianship. And this,” he added, producing another document with a flourish, “is the deed to this ranch’s mortgage. You are on my property, Dalton. I could have you evicted by morning.”

The sheriff shifted uncomfortably. “Dalton, the man has papers.”

It felt like checkmate. They were trapped, legally and financially.

It was Silas, the quiet scholarly brother, who spoke up.

“Your guardianship order, Mr. Voss — it is from a Massachusetts court. Does it hold jurisdiction here in the Montana Territory?”

Voss’s eyes narrowed. “It is a legal document.”

“Perhaps.” Silas’s confidence grew. “But territorial law is a complex thing. I imagine Sheriff Boone would need to consult with a territorial judge before enforcing an out-of-state order — especially one concerning adult women who claim to be here by choice. It could become a very lengthy and complicated legal matter.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Voss’s face. He had not counted on a backwoods farmer knowing anything about jurisprudence.

The legal argument bought them time, but it did not solve the immediate threat. The proof they needed — the ledger that could exonerate their father and incriminate Voss — was the key. But it was lost, likely destroyed years ago.

That evening, the mood in the house was grim. Hope was dwindling.