Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
VIOLET
The ancient floorboard creaks under my sock-covered foot as I tiptoe toward the front door.
My childhood home has character, as Mom always said.
I call it stubborn. The hundred-year-old Victorian has weathered more storms than most marriages, and I've loved every imperfection since I was a little girl.
I peel open the rusted mailbox, wincing at the high-pitched whine as familiar as my father's snoring after a whiskey binge. Bills, bills, more bills. I sort through them with practiced fingers, anxiety creeping up my spine with each official envelope.
That's when I see it. Bold red letters stamped across the mortgage statement.
FINAL NOTICE.
My stomach drops as I slide my finger under the seal and unfold the paper. The amount past due makes my head spin.
"Son of a bitch," I whisper.
Four months behind and counting. I knew Dad was struggling since the old sheriff, Jones, kept punishing him when he’d ask too many questions, but I’ve been giving him money to help with the payments for months from my freelance assignments.
How the hell did we fall behind so badly?
This is catastrophic. The foreclosure warning at the bottom of the page might as well be written in neon lights.
I march back inside, tossing the other mail onto the kitchen table while clutching the mortgage notice. The house is quiet this morning, Dad likely still sleeping off whatever he drank last night at The Crossroads Bar. The silence amplifies the hammering of my heart against my ribs.
This house is all we have left of Mom. Every faded wallpaper pattern, every scuffed banister, every creaky step holds her memory.
I run my hand along the chipped kitchen counter she used to bake on, feeling the smooth spots worn down by years of kneading dough.
I can still hear her humming while making cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings.
My laptop sits on the dining table where I left it last night.
I plop down, pushing aside a stack of my handwritten notes for various newspaper articles.
Being a freelance writer for the Eden Ridge Newspaper doesn't pay much, but it's steady work that lets me maintain this house while Dad.
.. well, while Dad tries to drink himself to death.
Ivy’s dad’s death really did a number on the whole Sheriff’s department, with most of the original staff either suspended or fired.
I had expected the news when Dad came home that day and was grateful he’d only been suspended, but knowing my father knew of the sheriff’s corruption and continued to keep silent really hit me hard.
Even then, I’d have at least expected him to man up and help me maintain the house for mom’s sake, instead, he sought refuge at the bottom of several whiskey bottles and continues searching every night.
Sighing, I open my email, needing the distraction of work to calm my racing thoughts. A new message from my editor sits at the top of my inbox.
Violet,
New series on unconventional relationships in Eden Ridge. See attached assignment sheet. You get first pick of the articles since you pitched the series. Let me know which one you want by tomorrow.
I click on the attachment, scanning the list, each with attached starter resources. Mail-order brides in modern America. Speed dating for seniors. Polyamorous mountain communities. Arranged marriages among immigrant families.
The piece on mail-order brides catches my eye.
I’ve read about this happening in historical romance novels, but in modern America?
That’s the one. The resources themselves reveal a list of existing agencies in and around Oregon, some with newsletter alert options for possible opportunities. I may as well get started.
I’m looking through the third website when a new email notification pops up from the first agency I subscribed to. The subject line reads, MOUNTAIN MAN SEEKING MAIL-ORDER brIDE - $50,000 COMPENSATION.
"What the hell?" I mutter, clicking it open.
URGENT: Mountain man seeking respectable bride by Christmas. $50,000 compensation upon marriage. Full background check required. Discreet arrangement through Ever After Mountain Match agency. Contact immediately if interested.
I blink at the screen, sure I'm hallucinating. Fifty thousand dollars? That would cover the mortgage and then some, buying us time until Dad gets back on his feet.
I shake my head. No one actually does this anymore, right? This has to be some elaborate scam. But what if it isn't? I click reply before I can think better of it, then close the email without sending anything. I'm not that desperate.
Not yet, anyway.
I go back to the assignment sheet, selecting the mail-order bride piece, figuring I can at least research if this is a legitimate thing in Eden Ridge. My phone buzzes beside me, Ivy's name lighting up the screen.
"Hey, tree hugger," I answer, smiling despite my sour mood.
"Hey, city slicker," she fires back, our long-standing joke since we both know I'm about as "city" as a pine cone. "What's up? You sound like someone stole your coffee."
I sigh, glancing at the mortgage notice. "Just discovered Dad's been hiding how bad things are. We're four months behind on the mortgage."
"Shit, Vi." The concern in her voice makes my eyes sting. "How much?"
I tell her the number, hearing her sharp intake of breath.
"Nash and I could help—"
"No," I cut her off. "You guys just moved into that cabin. Besides, this is our mess."
"It's not your mess. It's your dad's."
I run my fingers through my hair, tugging the short blonde strands slightly at the ends. "Same difference."
"It's really not," Ivy says softly. "You can't keep bailing him out."
"It's not about him, though. It's about Mom's house." I swallow the lump forming in my throat. "I can't lose it, Ivy. I just can't."
"I get it. I do." She pauses. "What's the plan, then?"
I chew on my bottom lip, eyes darting back to my laptop screen where the mail-order bride email still sits open. "I'm not sure yet. I just picked up an assignment about unconventional marriages, though. Did you know mail-order brides are still a thing?"
"No way." Ivy sounds genuinely surprised. "Like, actual strangers agreeing to marry each other?"
"Apparently. Get this—I just got a random email about some mountain man looking for a mail-order bride. Offering fifty thousand dollars."
Ivy whistles. "That would solve your mortgage problem."
"I'm not that desperate," I say, though the words lack conviction even to my own ears.
"Of course not," Ivy says quickly. "But as research for your article? Might be worth looking into."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest. "Right. 'Research.'"
We chat for another twenty minutes about Nash, her boyfriend, and one of the elusive Hunter brothers. Their romance still gives me hope that decent men exist in Eden Ridge. When we hang up, I find myself staring at the email again.
I open another browser tab and search "Ever After Mountain Match." To my surprise, a professional website pops up, complete with testimonials and success stories. Their tagline is "Finding forever in the mountains."
"This cannot be real," I mutter, scrolling through the site.
But it is. The agency specializes in connecting mountain-dwelling men with women seeking a simpler life away from urban centers. They boast a rigorous vetting process and personalized matchmaking. It looks legitimate—scarily so.
The front door slams, startling me. Heavy footsteps stumble through the entryway.
"Violet?" My father's voice is rough from a night of drinking. "You home?"
I close my laptop and turn toward the kitchen doorway as he appears. His eyes are bloodshot, his clothes rumpled. He needs a shave and probably a shower.
"Morning, Dad." I cross my arms over my chest, the mortgage notice burning a hole in my back pocket. "Or should I say afternoon?"
He grunts, heading straight for the coffee pot. "Don't start."
"When were you going to tell me about the mortgage?" I pull the notice out and slap it on the counter. "Four months, Dad. Four."
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to the pot. "Been meaning to handle that."
"Handle it how? By ignoring it until they kick us out?" My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. "This is Mom's house. Our home."
"You think I don't know that?" He slams the mug down, coffee sloshing over the rim. "You think I need you reminding me what this place meant to her? To us?"
"Then act like it! Get your shit together and stop drowning yourself at the bottom of a bottle!"
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Not because they aren't true, but because I know they won't change anything. We've had this fight a dozen times since Mom died five years ago.
His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. "I'm trying, Violet. I got an interview next week at the sawmill."
"That's good." I soften my tone. "But we need money now. For the mortgage."
"I know." He rubs his hand across his face. "I'll figure something out."
But we both know he won't. Not in time, anyway.
He shuffles to his room without another word, leaving me alone with my swirling thoughts. I return to the table and open my laptop again, staring at the mail-order bride email.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I could do it. I could pretend to be interested, gather information for my article, maybe even negotiate an advance payment. It wouldn't be a real marriage—just research with benefits. Financial benefits.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit reply and start typing.
To whom it may concern,
I'm interested in learning more about your mountain man seeking a bride. I'm 22, single, local to Eden Ridge, and available to meet immediately. Please provide more details about the arrangement and compensation structure.
Sincerely,
Violet Huxley
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then grab my phone and text Ivy.
Me: I think I have a plan.
The reply comes immediately.
Ivy: Should I be worried?
I stare at the email confirmation blinking on my screen.
Probably.
My phone buzzes again almost instantly.
Ivy: I'm coming over. Don't do anything crazy until I get there.
Too late, I think, watching as a new email notification appears in my inbox. The subject line reads, RE: MOUNTAIN MAN SEEKING MAIL-ORDER brIDE - Information Request.
My heart pounds as I open it, scanning the details of my potential husband. According to the email, his name is Hudson Wilder, and he’s from right here in Eden Ridge.
I google him immediately, finding nothing but a few mentions in the Eden Ridge local paper about his work at Hunter & Co. Lumber. No social media presence, no digital footprint beyond the basics. Either he's intensely private or hiding something.
Or both.
The more I think about it, the more questions arise. Why would a man pay fifty thousand dollars for a wife? What's his angle? Is he a convicted felon? A psychopath? A serial…
A memory hits me like a boulder of a piece I did for the paper three years ago. A man, ex-MC if I recall, was new in town, and Sheriff Jones was sure he was going to be trouble. But all I could find about the reclusive newcomer was that he wanted to be alone and moved far up into the mountains.
What was his name? My fingers fly across the keyboard searching for my notes. It couldn’t possibly be him, could it? Here it is… Holy fuck on a cracker. It’s him. I know where he lives. I could go there tomorrow. Show him he doesn’t need an agency because I could make the perfect wife.
Am I really considering this?
The practical side of my brain screams that this is insane. The desperate part whispers that it might be my only option to save Mom's house. And the curious journalist in me wants to know what kind of man resorts to buying a wife in the twenty-first century.
I glance at the mortgage notice again, calculating how long until the bank forecloses. Not long enough to save it through conventional means.
Unconventional times call for unconventional measures.
I hold off on typing a response, then close my laptop with finality. Whatever happens tomorrow, nothing will be the same afterward. I'm either about to write the most immersive piece of journalism in Eden Ridge history or make the biggest mistake of my life.
Or both.
I take a deep breath, my gaze landing on the framed photo of Mom on the wall. Her smile encourages me, just as it always has.
"I'm going to save our home," I whisper to her. "Whatever it takes."
Outside, snow begins to fall, dusting the windowpanes with delicate crystals. Christmas lights twinkle on neighboring houses, a reminder that the holiday season is upon us. A season of miracles, they say.
I'm counting on one.