by Sarah Thorn
“This is the same place where you repeatedly insisted that you never would love me,” he reminded her.
Amy rolled her eyes.
“Go on and rub it in Cowboy,” she chided him, even as she reached forward to kiss him senseless for what had to be the tenth time. That day.
On the morning of their wedding, Amy wore a lush ivory calico concoction that consisted of a polonaise—one boasting a yoke front and back trimmed with ruffled lace—and a frothy bustled full-length skirt with a flounced trim and a lengthy cascading train; one that also came lined with the finest lace. She carried a dew glistened bouquet of radiant golden roses, picked from her own garden; additional florals adorned the strands of her free-flowing reddish gold hair, in the form of fresh grown baby’s breath that completed her ethereal look.
The beams of a brilliant Texas sun guided her tender footfall as she made her way between fresh blooming rows of golden roses; the most splendorous of which stood tall and proud at the center of the garden.
It seemed odd, she figured, to compare her very masculine figure of a future husband to a rose; yet as she beheld the manner in which his flowing blond hair and bronzed face both shone in the light above them and the way that his crystalline eyes came aglow the moment that he saw her, she knew full well that the comparison fit.
Briefly dragging her gaze away from the subject of her keen attention, she beamed at the assembly of family and friends gathered to witness their nuptials that day.
Her smile shone especially bright the moment she saw Amelia, herself adorned in a charming lilac print calico dress with a lace collar, puffed sleeves and full skirt. A matching floral headband atop her still bald head completed the adorable look.
Holding Amelia was a glowing Aunt Grace, herself wearing a puffed sleeved, high-collared dress of lavender calico as well as a snide smile; one that just seemed to scream, “I told you so.”
Finally, Amy’s gaze returned to the man of her heart; one dressed resplendent and much in the fashion of a frontier groom.
Wearing a sleek cotton yoked shirt with a banded collar and stamped metal buttons, along with a black paisley vest with matching jacket and trousers as well as a smart bolo tie, Thomas looked every inch the handsome dashing bridegroom; one who held out his hands to her as she joined him at the altar.
The couple stared deep into one another’s eyes as their attending pastor—a short, balding gentleman who appeared just a bit out of place at the center of a field but smiled gamely all the same—began to state the classic and conventional vows of matrimony.
Then, as there was nothing remotely conventional about the two of them and their most peculiar romance, they said vows all their own—because they could.
“My darling Amy,” Thomas addressed his new wife, tone warm and sincere. “When I ordered myself a mail order bride, I well imagined a woman that reflects your beauty and grace. I never imagined someone of your incredible spirit and amazing intelligence. You are an exquisite human being, Amy, and I look forward to spending the rest of my life with you and Amelia.”
Amy smiled.
“My dear Thomas,” she returned, clasping his hands tight between hers. “When I answered your ad for a mail order bride, I was darned and determined not to fall in love with you—and the sole reason I use the word darned, mind you, is because my aunt and daughter are present. Yep, my convictions ran pretty strong. Darned strong, as a matter of fact,” she paused here to acknowledge the laughter of the crowd, adding in a softer, more serious tone, “I never imagined that I could fall in love again; but when a woman meets the perfect man—one who is kind, handsome, intelligent, hardworking, and endlessly loving—then what else can she do?”
“Well I know what you do,” he told her, adding as he swept his new wife up in his strong arms and pulled her closer than close, “You marry him.”
Amy thought a moment, then nodded.
“Well if you insist Cowboy. I’ll do just that,” she assented, adding as she waggled her eyes in something of a playful tease, “As long as you agree to give me one of those humdinger kisses for which you really should be famous. Then another. Then another. And if you fancy, you can keep on kissing me, for the rest of our natural lives.”
So the deal was made.
****
THE END
The Yellow Rose – A Clean Western Historical Romance
The singular act of shucking an ear of corn might not be considered the most glamorous or intellectually challenging activity; but, for some odd and inexplicable reason, Abigail Tompkins loved every moment of it.
Standing side by side with her parents, Ray and Sandra Tompkins, the owners and proprietors of the Diamond T Ranch in the heart of Austin, Texas, she basked with a smile in the sumptuous rays of the golden Texas sun; also reveling in the vision of endless emerald green fields that signified their life and industry.
Every morning she joined her parents in the tending of their 50-acre farm; a modest but fertile plot that also had served as the site of her childhood home.
Even as a child her tiny hands had picked and shucked these precious ears of corn; also garnering many precious memories in the company of the two dear friends who—as an added bonus—had brought her into the world. Mighty nice of them, she thought.
“I do believe, dear daughter, that you may have set some sort of record this morning for most ears of corn consecutively shucked,” her mother, a petite brunette with wide brown eyes, graced a grinning Abigail with a playful nudge as she added, “Congratulations!”
Standing upright at the center of the field, the tall, sturdy Abigail straightened her straw hat atop her dark haired head as she considered this curious praise.
“Well I must say it, Mother,” she said finally, “If that is the most exalted accomplishment that I can achieve throughout the course of my young life, then—well—that makes me feel pretty darned sad and pathetic, to be truthful. Thanks for that, Mum.”
Chuckling as they exchanged looks that reflected their keen amusement, Ray and Sandra turned as one to fix their 21-year-old daughter with a warm, affectionate smile.
“Make no mistake, Daughter. You accomplish every bit as much as we do on this ranch—more so, on some days,” Ray Tompkins assured her, adding as he reached forward to grace her sturdy shoulder with a loving pat, “And especially since both of your younger sisters abandoned us this year to marry their ever adoring beaux, we can’t tell you how much we appreciate you staying on with us—helping us build the Diamond T into something special.”
Abigail nodded.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she acknowledged his compliment, adding as she made a broad gesture across the heather strewn fields around them, “The Diamond T is my home—not to mention my business. I’d far rather shuck corn than birth babies or clean up after some man, any day of the week.” She paused here, adding as she thrust a sturdy finger square at the center of her own denim clad chest, “This is my job, and I do it well. And I never have even the slightest desire to be anywhere else.”
Ray nodded.
“Well your Ma and I can’t be any prouder,” he affirmed, adding as he graced his daughter with a warm, loving smile, “As you well know, Girl, your grandparents were the settlers who claimed this land. And now that they’ve passed, your ma and I have every intention of doing them proud. But we can’t do it without our dear lady farmer.”
Striking a deep bow in response to his words, Abigail tipped her straw hat in her parents’ direction before stepping sidewalks down their row of planted corn; soon leaning forward to continue her work as she whistled absently to herself. It would only be an hour or two; she mused, until she and her folks would retire to their ranch house to enjoy a hearty noon meal made from home grown—and handpicked--ingredients.
“And before we come back to the fields, I do believe I’ll encourage Pa to take a good long nap,” she thought, adding with a slight frown, “He has been looking a bit weary as of late. He perhaps needs to take a bit of rest—that is, if M
a and I can hog tie him into staying out of the fields for five darned minutes.”
The joyful peace of a quiet Texas morning was shattered seconds later, as she heard a harsh, ragged cry rent the air around her; drawing her gaze toward the source of the sound.
She gasped outright as she saw her father’s wiry body collapse outright on the ground beneath him; clutching his heart as he let loose with a single pained moan and his eyes snapped shut.
Kneeling immediately beside her husband, a distraught Sandra grabbed her husband’s hands and screamed, “Ray!”
Running to join her parents at the center of the field, a stone-faced Abigail struggled to stay composed as she too knelt beside the motionless body of the man who lay still and silent between his own corn rows.
“Pa,” she breathed, shaking her head from side to side as she leaned forward to put her ear to his chest.
Her eyes flew wide as she heard no sign of a heart beat; and as she saw an aura of eerie stillness overtake her father’s body. His eyes remained closed, his lips relaxed, his tanned, robust face drained of all color, and his chest felt as hard and hollow as a jagged edge rock in the Texas desert.
“Pa,” she repeated, this time with a rough sob as she wrapped her arms tight around his limp shoulders. “No!”
Sandra said nothing, only wrapped her husband and her daughter in two loving arms as—true to her nature—she tried to love the hurt away.
“This time, though,” she said aloud, adding as she strove to wipe the tears that flew free down her daughter’s face, “I simply can’t do it.”
*****
“I cannot believe that this has happened. Why?”
Since the death late last year of his beloved wife Elsa, Cal Hopkins had asked this question countless times; only to hear the empty echo of his own voice as—once again—he heard no answer.
How fast and far could a heart fall, he pondered; and how far and fast could a life fall apart? It was only a year ago that he and his beautiful Elsa, the love of his heart since their early school days, had been expecting their first child; receiving their good news in the wake of the most joyful and productive year of their lives.
Married at age 21, the couple was perceived by family and friends as the ideal representation of the perfect pair; a tall, muscular groom with thick ebony hair and eyes of crystal blue, paired with a petite golden haired woman who seemed the picture of femininity. Their wedding gift had come in the form of a large plot of land along the northern border of their native Texas; a lush green parcel that they knew would form the cornerstone of their lives together.
Soon they set to work side by side to turn a workable plot of land into a home and business; building a basic two-story wood plank house with a sloping roof and a homey front porch, and planting a field of Elsa’s chosen crop, the kind of sublime, sun-kissed golden roses that grew only in the heart of Texas.
“Elsa embodied the wild Texas rose,” Cal remembered, smiling slightly as he recalled his wife’s golden blonde, almond-eyed beauty. “It was no wonder that she loved those dang flowers so much. And when I saw how much money said dang flowers brought in, I grew to love them too.”
Yet he loved nothing more than the lovely, vibrant woman who worked every day beside him in the fields; showing the strength and fortitude of a seasoned rancher and the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a little girl.
Yet in his arms she remained a woman, making love with him long into the night as they fulfilled each and every fantasy that had carried them through their courtship. And when their passion finally culminated in the conception of a child, the couple celebrated both the success of their ranching venture and the expansion of their family.
“Everything was so perfect,” Cal remembered now, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “How did it go wrong?”
He’d near begged his wife to stay home and rest for the duration of her pregnancy; allowing him and his older brother Stephen to do the bulk of their farm work until well after the arrival of their child.
“Yet she knew that we couldn’t yet afford to hire farm hands. She also knew, furthermore, that my brother had his own ranch to run,” he recalled, adding as he ventured to take a deep sustaining breath, “So she insisted every day on comin’ to the fields with me, workin’ by my side in the heat of the Texas sun….”
He paused here, dark memories filling his psyche as he remembered their last day together; a 24-hour period that surely would haunt him until his dying day.
Elsa had appeared the picture of health in the early hours of the morning; her delicate face shining radiant with a warm maternal glow, her lustrous mane of heather blonde hair flying like a pennant in the Texas wind.
He’d never forget the vision of his lady walking toward him that day, clutching as she did a lush, fresh picked arrangement of golden Texas roses.
“I can’t believe the irony,” he released with a sigh, adding as his heart clung to her memory, “She looked just as she did on the day of our wedding, so young and beautiful, carrying her bouquet as she came to me.”
And then without warning their romantic dream morphed into a nightmare; his bride staggering before him as her breath escaped her and her eyes fluttered shut.
Although he’d carried her immediately back to their home and summoned the town doctor, Cal found that his desperate efforts to save his bride amounted to nothing. At the end of the day, all he could do was comfort his wife in his arms as she and their child passed from this life without so much as a word of goodbye.
Now he lived alone in the house that they built, just barely sleeping in their bed and working every day in the fields they had planted; coming to curse the roses she loved, as they only served to remind him of a joyful life destroyed.
His brother Stephen worked with him some days, and even stayed with him throughout just a few of his long, lonely nights; trying to distract him with poker games, horseshoe throws and other trivialities that he hoped would bring a smile to the face of his grief-stricken brother.
Finally, a frustrated Stephen suggested that his brother venture out of the house and try a new career; perhaps even pursuing his lifelong dream of a career in law enforcement.
“Before you met Elsa and decided to become a gentleman farmer, you had a dream to put on a silver badge and saddle up as the sheriff of this town,” he reminded his brother, adding as he punched his broad shoulder with a hard and hearty fist, “Elsa would want you to be happy, Cal. And she’d love the sight of you riding tall and proud through the city, keeping the peace and making a name for yourself.”
Reluctantly taking his brother’s advice, Cal rode into town one day and signed up to be a deputy at the local sheriff’s office; leaving Stephen to tend his ranch while he learned the particulars of law enforcement.
Although he did find some small measure of happiness and comfort in the day to day duties of his new job—a calling that allowed him to fulfill his boyhood dreams of keeping the peace and flashing a shiny badge—he also found that his newly honed law enforcement duties took him all too frequently away from his home and ranch. And while Stephen paid frequent visits to his fields, trying to maintain his brother’s rose gardens and other crops while also tending his own land, it soon became apparent that some extra hands were needed at Elsa’s Rose; the newly named ranch that Cal swore to make a success—if nothing else as a thriving and beautiful tribute to the rose of his life.
“Please don’t take offense Steve, you have really been my savior during some mighty rough days,” he told his brother one day. “I don’t think I could have survived the nightmare of Elsa’s death without you by my side, lifting me up and dang near cattle prodding me into going on with my life and work.” He paused here, adding with a frustrated sigh, “I just think that this ranch is getting too big for two people who have limited time to work the land. I do believe it’s high time that I hired, at least, one farm hand.”
Stephen, a handsome young blond man with clear blue eyes and a muscular build, nodded in
hearty agreement with his brother’s words.
“Say no more my brother,” he told Cal, “I’ve already placed a help wanted ad in The Daily Post. I promised all helpers a decent wage plus room and board.”
Cal grinned.
“Good work,” he praised his brother, adding as he graced Stephen with a slight slap on the back, “And since I’m going to be busy in town just about every day this week, I’ll leave it to you to pick two or three of the very best ranch hands ridin’ the range.”
The smile died on Stephen’s lips as he considered these words.
“Well now there are just a few problems with that idea, dear brother,” he told Cal, adding with a hefty sigh, “I only advertised for one helper around this place, and I didn’t exactly request the services of a ranch hand. And, all things considered, I do believe it best that you interview our prospects yourself. Personally.”
Cal froze.
“I can’t say that I quite like the way you just said the word personally,” he admitted, adding as he folded his arms strong and firm before him, “And if you didn’t advertise for a ranch hand, what specific job title do you want to fill?”
Stephen shrugged.
“Well, if you really want to know the nitty gritty of things,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet beneath him. “I advertised in particular for a mail order bride.”
He cringed as his chagrined brother met these words with an unearthly, near inhuman growl; ducking just in time to avoid Cal’s lethal left hook.
“A Mail. Order. Bride?” he repeated, spitting and grinding out these last words as though they were poisonous. “What kind of madness has seeped into that already dense noggin of yers? How dare you place one of those tasteless ads in my name?” he paused here, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “What are folks in this area going to think when they find out that the deputy sheriff of this here town is seeking out a…a….”
“A mail order bride,” Stephen supplied, remaining clear of his brother’s striking range as he added, “Remember just a few minutes ago, brother when you were thanking me profusely for pulling you through a rough time? Could we maybe go back to that point, before you decide to use me as target practice for your shiny new six-shooter?”
