Give Me The FAT One!_ Mountain Man SAID After Being Offered 10 Mail-Order Brides

Give Me The FAT One!_ Mountain Man SAID After Being Offered 10 Mail-Order Brides

Ten mail-order brides stood trembling inside a Colorado saloon while the most feared mountain man in the territory inspected them one by one.

He ignored the delicate blondes.

He rejected the blushing brunettes.

Then his scarred finger pointed directly at the heaviest woman in the room.

“I’ll take her,” Gideon Hayes rumbled. “Give me the fat one.”

The saloon erupted in gasps.

Henrietta Miller felt every eye turn toward her.

At twenty-four, Hattie had spent her life being mocked for her broad shoulders, heavy waist, thick legs, and round face. The other brides wore bone-crushing corsets and looked like porcelain dolls.

Hattie had abandoned hers somewhere in Kansas after it bruised her ribs.

She had only joined the mail-order arrangement because her father was dead, her uncle had stolen the family business, and starvation was waiting back East.

Now this scarred giant had humiliated her in front of an entire mining town.

Loretta, the prettiest bride, stared at Gideon in disbelief.

“Look at her,” she hissed. “She’s a monster.”

Gideon silenced her with one murderous glance, threw three hundred dollars in gold onto the table, and ordered Hattie to collect her trunk.

Hours later, after a joyless wedding, he took her high into the mountains.

His cabin stood alone beneath Dead Man’s Peak, where snow could bury the windows and freeze a person before morning.

Hattie finally confronted him.

“You could have chosen any woman there. Why did you choose me?”

Gideon stared into the fire.

Then he told her about Mary, his first mail-order bride.

She had been beautiful, fragile, and painfully thin.

During her first winter on the mountain, fever took hold. Gideon watched helplessly as she weakened, starved, and died in the bed beside him.

“I buried her in frozen ground,” he said.

Then he looked directly at Hattie.

“You are heavy. Good. It means you might survive. You can carry water, chop wood, and stand when the wind hits. I didn’t choose you to be pretty.”

His voice lowered.

“I chose you to live.”

It wasn’t romantic.

But for the first time in Hattie’s life, a man looked at her body and saw strength instead of shame.

Through the winter, she transformed his filthy cabin into a home. As a butcher’s daughter, she could preserve meat, render fat, lift heavy iron pots, and wield a knife better than most men.

Slowly, Gideon’s respect became something warmer.

Then the worst blizzard of the season struck.

Gideon rushed outside to save the mules.

While he was gone, the cabin door exploded inward.

A desperate prospector named Red Lawson stepped through the snow with a Winchester aimed at Hattie’s chest.

“Where’s the gold?” he demanded.

When she refused to answer, he grabbed her dress and tried to throw her down.

Hattie barely moved.

Red’s smile vanished.

She planted her feet, reached for the cast-iron skillet—and charged.

The rifle fired.

The bullet tore through her upper arm.

But instead of falling, Hattie slammed all her weight into him and sent him crashing through the dining table.

Red reached for his knife.

Hattie dropped onto his chest, pinned his wrist beneath both hands, and pressed an iron poker against his throat.

“I’m a butcher’s daughter,” she growled. “I’ve gutted hogs meaner than you.”

Then the door flew open behind her.

Gideon stood there with his revolver drawn, staring at the scene in stunned silence.

He had expected to find his wife dead.

Instead, he found the outlaw trapped beneath her—and Hattie bleeding badly enough to stain the floorboards beneath them.
Gideon lowered the revolver.

Not because Red Lawson had stopped being dangerous.

Because Hattie was still bleeding.

“Hattie.”

She looked over her shoulder.

Her face was white.

“I have him.”

“I can see that.”

Red wheezed beneath her.

“Get her off me.”

Gideon ignored him.

His eyes locked on the dark stain spreading down Hattie’s sleeve.

“How bad?”

“Hurts.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

Hattie looked down.

The bullet had torn through the fleshy part of her upper arm.

Entry.

Exit.

Blood, but not the pumping kind.

“Missed bone.”

Gideon crossed the room.

Red tried to move.

Hattie pressed the poker harder against his throat.

“Don’t.”

Red froze.

Gideon stopped beside her.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“Hattie.”

Something in his voice changed.

She looked at him.

Fear.

Real fear.

Not for himself.

For her.

Hattie slowly climbed off Red.

The room tilted.

Gideon caught her before she fell.

She hated that.

Not being caught.

Needing it.

“I’m fine.”

“No.”

“I’m—”

“You got shot.”

“Only once.”

His jaw clenched.

“That supposed to help?”

A laugh escaped her.

Wrong decision.

Pain tore through her arm.

She hissed.

Gideon lifted her.

Hattie stiffened.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“I can walk.”

“Later.”

“Gideon.”

“You threw a grown man through my table.”

“He fell poorly.”

“Be quiet.”

She stared at him.

Then smiled despite herself.

“You asked the agency for a quiet wife, didn’t you?”

His expression became suspicious.

“How’d you know?”

“You have the face of a man being punished by God.”

Even while carrying her toward the bed, Gideon almost laughed.

Almost.

He laid her down.

Then went back for Red.

The outlaw was trying to crawl toward the fallen Winchester.

Gideon stepped on his wrist.

Red cursed.

“You break that, I’ll—”

Gideon looked down.

“You’ll what?”

Red stopped talking.

Within minutes, he was tied to the stove with enough rope to anchor a riverboat.

Then Gideon came back to Hattie with hot water, whiskey, clean cloth, and the expression of a man facing something more frightening than armed criminals.

“Take off the dress.”

Hattie raised an eyebrow.

His face darkened.

“The sleeve.”

“Thought I should clarify.”

He cut the fabric away.

The wound was ugly.

Gideon’s hands shook.

Hattie noticed.

“You’ve stitched yourself before.”

“Yeah.”

“So why are you shaking?”

“I wasn’t married to myself.”

The words landed quietly.

Hattie stopped smiling.

Gideon poured whiskey over the wound.

She screamed something that would have gotten her thrown out of church.

Red laughed from the stove.

Hattie reached for the poker.

Gideon caught her wrist.

“Later.”

He cleaned the wound.

Packed it.

Wrapped her arm tight.

Not once did he say she had been foolish.

Not once did he tell her she should have hidden.

That mattered more than Hattie expected.

When he finished, he sat on the edge of the bed.

“You saved yourself.”

She looked at him.

“Mostly.”

“I should’ve been here.”

“You were saving the mules.”

“I left you alone.”

“You didn’t know an armed idiot would kick in the door.”

“I should’ve known.”

Hattie frowned.

There it was again.

Mary.

The dead wife buried beneath everything Gideon said.

“You think every bad thing that happens while you’re gone is your fault?”

His face closed.

“Hattie.”

“No.”

She pushed herself upright.

Pain flashed through her shoulder.

Gideon reached for her.

She waved him off.

“You told me Mary died while you watched.”

“I did.”

“You also talk like somehow you failed to stop winter.”

His eyes hardened.

“You don’t know what happened.”

“Then tell me.”

Silence.

Red shifted against the stove.

Gideon looked toward him.

“Not with him here.”

Hattie nodded.

“Fair.”

Red glared.

“I hope you both freeze.”

Hattie smiled sweetly.

“You first.”

By morning, the storm had passed.

Red Lawson gave them more than they expected.

Not willingly.

But eventually.

He had not come for Gideon’s trapping gold.

Not really.

He had been sent.

By Everett Bell.

Owner of the freight company in Silver Creek.

Gideon knew the name.

Bell had been trying to buy the lower half of Dead Man’s Pass for years.

Hattie did not understand.

“Why?”

Gideon spread an old survey map across the table.

“This ridge.”

He pointed.

“Only wagon-safe route through before spring thaw.”

“So?”

“If the mining camp expands, every freight wagon heading north crosses here.”

Hattie looked toward the window.

At the snow-covered slope.

Then back at the map.

“How much land do you own?”

“Hundred and sixty acres.”

“How much touches the pass?”

“Most.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And you trap for money?”

Gideon frowned.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He stared.

“Because that’s my work.”

“No.”

Hattie pushed the map toward him.

“Your work is sitting on the only usable freight route between Silver Creek and three mining camps.”

Gideon looked unimpressed.

“I don’t run wagons.”

“You don’t have to.”

He leaned back.

“What are you saying?”

Hattie looked around the cabin.

At the broken table.

The food stores.

The barn.

The mule shed.

Then she smiled.

Gideon had learned to fear that smile too.

“You need a stable.”

“I have one.”

“A proper stable.”

“For what?”

“Other people’s horses.”

He frowned.

“A bunkhouse.”

“No.”

“A cookhouse.”

“Hattie.”

“Feed storage.”

“We already—”

“And a toll gate.”

Gideon stopped.

Red Lawson, still tied near the stove, began laughing.

“She’s going to ruin you.”

Hattie turned.

“You were defeated by furniture.”

Red stopped laughing.

Gideon stared at the map.

“You think men will pay?”

“They’ll pay if the alternative is another thirty miles through snow.”

“How much?”

Hattie started calculating.

Feed.

Shelter.

Hot meals.

Horse care.

Trail toll.

Storage.

Repair work.

She wrote figures on the back of an old trapping receipt.

Gideon watched.

His expression changed.

“You know numbers.”

“My father ran a butcher shop.”

“That don’t make you a banker.”

“My father drank.”

Gideon went still.

Hattie kept writing.

“So I kept the books.”

She tapped the paper.

“If freight traffic doubles by spring, this land makes more in one season than trapping makes in three.”

Gideon looked at her.

“You sure?”

“No.”

His eyebrow rose.

“I’m almost sure.”

“That’s worse.”

“It is more honest.”

He looked at the numbers again.

Then toward Red.

“That why Bell wants the land?”

Red said nothing.

Hattie answered.

“Obviously.”

Gideon looked back at her.

Something new had entered his eyes.

He had chosen Hattie because she looked strong enough to survive winter.

Now he was realizing strength was the least interesting thing about her.

By spring, Dead Man’s Pass looked different.

A stable stood beside the main trail.

Then a bunkhouse.

Then a cookhouse with a chimney large enough to smoke meat.

Gideon built.

Hattie organized.

She set prices.

Kept ledgers.

Bought feed in bulk.

Contracted with freight men.

And cooked enough stew to make every teamster between Silver Creek and Bannock learn her name.

Within two months, they were turning wagons away because every bunk was full.

Gideon hated that.

“More people.”

Hattie looked up from the ledger.

“That is how businesses work.”

“I liked the mountain quiet.”

“You married poorly.”

He looked at her.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it remains true.”

By July, Bell made his move.

He rode up with lawyers.

Papers.

Three hired men.

And a smile.

“This trail crosses disputed land.”

Hattie stepped onto the porch.

Gideon came behind her.

Bell looked her up and down.

“You’re the bride.”

“Hattie Hayes.”

“I heard about you.”

“I hope the version included the skillet.”

Bell’s smile tightened.

He held out a document.

“My company owns right-of-way through this pass.”

Gideon reached for it.

Hattie took it first.

She read.

Then read again.

Bell smiled.

“Complicated?”

“No.”

His expression changed.

“It’s wrong.”

“What?”

She pointed.

“This survey starts from Miller’s stone.”

“Yes.”

“Miller’s stone moved.”

Bell stared.

Hattie looked at Gideon.

“You told me the avalanche shifted half the east slope eight years ago.”

He nodded.

“The original marker is forty yards north.”

Bell’s face hardened.

Hattie continued.

“That means your right-of-way runs through the ravine.”

She smiled.

“Which is currently under twelve feet of snowmelt.”

One of Bell’s lawyers grabbed the paper.

He read quickly.

Then slower.

Bell looked at him.

“Well?”

The lawyer said nothing.

That was answer enough.

Hattie folded the document.

“Would you like stew before you ride back?”

Bell’s jaw tightened.

“You think this is over?”

Gideon stepped forward.

Hattie lifted one hand.

He stopped.

She loved that he stopped.

Bell glared.

Hattie smiled.

“No.”

She nodded toward the toll board.

“Because you still owe us twenty-five cents for bringing four horses through.”

Gideon turned away.

His shoulders shook.

Bell noticed.

“You laughing at me?”

Gideon faced him.

“Trying not to.”

Bell rode out furious.

Hattie collected the toll anyway.

That evening, she sat on the porch with her injured arm resting across her lap.

The scar had healed thick and pink.

Gideon came out with two cups of coffee.

He handed her one.

“Remember the saloon?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I said give me the fat one.”

Hattie looked at him.

“You did.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

He sat.

“I said it wrong.”

Hattie waited.

Gideon looked uncomfortable.

“I saw ten women.”

“Lucky you.”

“Hattie.”

She smiled.

“Continue.”

He looked toward the pass.

“I saw nine women who looked scared of the mountain.”

Then at her.

“You looked angry.”

Her smile softened.

“You were glaring at the agency man because he called you oversized.”

“He deserved worse.”

“I know.”

Gideon took her hand.

“I didn’t choose you because you were the biggest.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You explicitly did.”

“I chose you because you looked like you’d fight winter if it insulted you.”

Hattie laughed.

“That is slightly better.”

“I thought I needed somebody strong.”

His thumb moved over her scarred knuckles.

“Turns out I needed somebody smarter than me.”

“Much better.”

He frowned.

“Don’t enjoy it.”

“Too late.”

Then his expression changed.

Serious now.

“And I didn’t choose you because I thought you would survive.”

Hattie stopped.

Gideon looked directly at her.

“I chose you because I wanted somebody who would.”

Her throat tightened.

He continued.

“But somewhere along the way…”

His voice dropped.

“I started needing more than that.”

“What?”

“You.”

No explanation.

No speech.

Just the word.

Hattie stared at him.

Then leaned over and kissed him.

Behind them, a freight driver shouted from the yard.

“Mrs. Hayes! You got more pie?”

Hattie pulled away.

Gideon closed his eyes.

“I hate people.”

“You hate customers.”

“Same thing.”

Hattie stood.

“You’d miss them if they stopped coming.”

“No.”

“You’d miss the money.”

“Yes.”

She laughed and headed inside.

Years later, men still told the story of the day Gideon Hayes pointed at ten mail-order brides and demanded “the fat one.”

Hattie always hated the way they told it.

Made it sound like luck.

Like a joke.

Like Gideon had accidentally chosen well.

So whenever she heard it, she corrected them.

“He didn’t get the fat one.”

The room would go quiet.

Hattie would point toward the thriving Dead Man’s Pass station outside—the stables, bunkhouses, freight yard, cookhouse, and wagons lined along the road.

“He got the one who knew what to do with his mountain.”

Then Gideon, somewhere nearby, would usually add—

“And the one who broke my table.”

Hattie would smile.

“No.”

She would lift the same old cast-iron skillet from its hook by the stove.

“That was Red.”