by Sarah Thorn
Cal shook his head.
“Well why is it that you think this time has been so very rough for me?” he countered, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “Elsa was my life, my whole world. I’ll never find a woman as sweet, as beautiful, as hardworking, as supportive, as smart,” he paused here, adding as he raised his sculpted chin to prideful effect, “My wife was nothing short of the perfect woman. And once you have experienced perfection, you don’t lower yourself to connectin’ up with some woman who would sell herself off as a mail order bride.”
With these words he whipped off his wide brimmed ivory hat of silver belly felt, tossing it reckless to the ground beneath him.
“Hell Stephen, no man who respects a woman would buy her into servitude,” he insisted, adding as he seared his brother with a fierce sideways glance, “What kind of a human being do you think I am?”
Stephen sighed.
“I’m not talkin’ about buyin’ slaves Brother—that’s against the law, just as it should be,” he asserted with a sharp nod, “I’m talkin’ about getting the help that you need to run this place—along with some much needed female company. Mail order brides are mature and very willing women looking for adventure.” He paused here, adding as he made a broad gesture down the length of his brother’s tall, muscled form, “And seeing as to how you’ve always been popular with the ladies, I think that just about any lady would grab the opportunity to get adventurous with you.”
*****
All things considered, Abigail Tompkins figured that she’d prefer any fate to that of a mail order bride.
A teacher. A nurse. A ranch hand. A stable girl—even the type that hacks out the stalls on hot summer days. A dancing girl at any given saloon. A nun at any given convent.
“OK then, I’m veerin’ dangerously close to the ridiculous with those last two options,” she sighed, adding as she cast a self-conscious look down the length of her fully made form, “Nobody is going to put these hips on a saloon stage—especially given the fact that their bearer would be tempted to deliver her high kicks straight to the face of the first man who leered at her or made an inappropriate comment. And she’d give the same treatment to any given Mother Superior, who tried to tell her what to do—or, in that particular environment, what not to do.”
So why had she planted herself square at the center of a rickety old stagecoach, riding with unseemly speed to meet a man in search of a mail order bride? And why, for that matter, had she dressed for this rather miserable occasion in a dag gum calico dress; a fancy and highly impractical effort colored cranberry red and boasting an elegant lace lined collar and a prim empire waist?
“Oh, and let us not forget the puffed sleeves,” she growled aloud, adding as she rolled her eyes heavenward, “Real women do not wear puffed sleeves.”
Indeed, there existed only one living person in Abigail’s life who could inspire such complete and total tomfoolery.
“What mad and utterly ridiculous things I won’t do for my Ma,” she mused, remembering once again the fateful conversation that had delivered her straight into this most unfortunate situation.
In the wake of her father’s death, she and her mother had tried valiantly to do the same amount of work once performed by five people. Yet in the absence of her father and sisters, they quickly found themselves overwhelmed by both work and bills.
By becoming a mail order bride, her mother reasoned, Abigail could still live her dream of working the land; also potentially bringing home the man and the money needed to revive their own ranch.
“So here I am,” she shook her head as her rented ride made a long last turn through the gates of Elsa’s Rose; the spacious ranch where she’d agreed to meet her mysterious future husband. “One question though: Who in the blazes is Elsa, and why in the blazes does she not mind me marryin’ her man?”
Her troubled meditation was disrupted by a vision that soothed her senses; an image perhaps more beautiful than any she’d ever seen.
Before she grew endless fertile rows of ebullient golden hued roses; sun kissed florals that both adorned and glorified their nature made surroundings.
At the center of this horticultural haven stood the most radiant vision of all: a tall, ebony-haired wonder who himself seemed the product of his ethereal surroundings.
The man’s eyes sparkled as wide and azure as the Texas day that oversaw his labors; his skin glowing as bronze as the sun itself as he stood shirtless in the midst of the florals who seemed to command his attentions.
Quickly paying and dismissing the stagecoach driver who’d delivered her into this paradise, she soon found herself standing squarely at the center of this most intriguing scene; getting a better look at the florals that dotted the landscape and the man who apparently tended them.
Her gaze basked in admiration at the singular vision of the Texas yellow rose; a floral wonder that boasted large lush blossoms, velvety petals, and a sublime golden hue.
In exchange for shucking more corn than seemed humanly possible, Abigail had been allowed to tend a small garden of yellow roses at a far corner of her parents’ property.
“Yet it seems that this gent has a whole ranch just brimmin’ with roses,” she thought in silence, adding with arched eyebrows, “I guess that would explain the latter half of its mysterious moniker. I still don’t know who in the blazes Elsa might be—and do I even want to know?”
“So do ya favor yellow roses, Miss?”
Abigail jumped as her thoughts were disrupted by the sound of a deep sonorous voice; a most appealing tone that raised her gaze to behold the face of an angel.
Now she stared straight into the azure blue gems that she’d admired from the stagecoach; finding that they gleamed brightly from a peerless face that also boasted carved cheekbones, full moist lips, and a perfect cleft chin.
Then she allowed her curious eyes to stray the length of his tall, muscular form; a body defined by the presence of hard toned pectorals and abdominals, and long trim legs that today came encased in tight, sculpting blue jeans.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, adding as she squared her substantial shoulders and stood up straight in the field, “That is to say, I find these flowers incredibly beautiful. And, just so you know, I’m Abigail Tompkins. I’m the lady who sent a letter in answer to your advertisement for a mail order bride.”
The man nodded.
“Pleased to meet ya, Ma’am. I’m Cal Hopkins, owner, and proprietor of Elsa’s Rose, which as you may have heard is the largest farming garden in this stretch of Texas. And I’m mighty glad to hear that you favor these flowers,” he told her, adding in a matter of fact tone, “As those are the only roses you’re likely to be receivin’ during your time at this ranch.” He paused here, adding with an empathetic smile, “I’m so sorry to tell you this, Miss, but I am not interested in cultivating a romantic relationship with my thusly called mail order bride. I am interested only in cultivating my crops, and with the help of someone who knows the lay of the land.”
Abigail thought a moment, then pursed her lips.
“Did you come to that conclusion when you placed your advertisement for a mail order bride?” she queried, adding as she inclined her head sharp in his direction, “Or at the moment that you saw me step out of the stagecoach?”
She froze as the man before her whipped his ivory cowboy hat clear off his head, holding it reverent over his heart as he said, “Oh no Ma’am, please don’t take offense at what I said.” He paused here, adding as he returned his hat to its place on his head and let loose with a frustrated sigh, “Truth be told I didn’t even place that blasted ad. My brother placed it, with the intention of finding me a new bride—totally ignoring the fact that all I need is an able assistant here on the ranch. I already had my wife, the love of my life, and was on the verge of fatherin’ the child that completed our family. Then, in a heartbeat, they were both gone.”
With these words, he took the garden hoe clutched in his sturdy grasp and threw it rec
klessly to the ground beneath him.
“For all my brother’s annoyin’ meddlin’, I have assured him that I am in no need of a replacement bride,” he insisted, planting his hands firm on his hips as he added, “I want a professional arrangement here, nothing more.”
His eyes flew wide as his guest met these words with a loud, joyful whoop; one that came accompanied by a spirited Texas two-step that would look right at home at a barn dance.
“Well Ma’am, I’m most pleased that you’re taking this news so well,” he muttered, adding as he pinned her with a sideways glance, “Did you come to that conclusion when you answered my advertisement for a mail order bride? Or at the moment that you saw me here working in the fields?”
Coming to an abrupt halt as her rawhide boots skidded in the dirt below her, Abigail let loose with a hearty chortle as she considered this question.
“Oh don’t be ridiculous Gent,” she admonished her host, adding as she pointed a most accusing finger straight in his direction, “You likely qualify as the most ridiculously handsome gent I’ve ever seen. I reckon that your degree of preposterous male beauty probably should be illegal, in point of fact. And most any woman would be more than eager to hogtie you into submission and drag you headfirst before the nearest justice of the peace.”
Blinking with surprise as he considered these words, Cal let loose with a robust chuckle as he shifted his boots in the grass beneath him.
“Well you sure do have a way with words Miss,” he praised her finally, adding in a reflective tone, “especially to the ears of a man who hasn’t laughed in a mighty long time.”
Abigail nodded.
“Oh, I hear ya. Back at home on the Diamond T Ranch, my folks and I used to laugh the day away. Then when Pa passed, it was all I could do to muster a smile,” she released these words on a tired sigh, adding as she graced her host with a warm, knowing smile, “I have the distinct feeling, Gent, that you and I are two of a kind. One day we’re just moseying through the process of working our own land and living our dreams. Then that pesky ol’ thing called life happened along and threw some big ol’ cow pies in our path.”
Guffawing outright in response to her words, Cal stepped forward to offer the lady his hand.
“At this point Ma’am, I don’t give a lick if you lack one bit of experience in working the land,” he told her, adding as he inclined his head in her direction, “You are hired.”
*****
Two weeks after taking on an additional hired hand at his ranch, Cal Hopkins was pleased to see that she did indeed know how to work the land. This lady Abigail, in fact, proved herself an expert on all things horticultural, standing tall and proud in rows of roses and making them grow and bloom more beautifully than ever; also tending his more conventional crops of corn and cotton, increasing the productivity of his farm while his second career as a law enforcement officer continued to thrive.
Although not a conventional beauty like his Elsa, he loved the way that her bright blue eyes came alight whenever she inspected a radiant rose; and the lovely smile that she displayed whenever she favored him with one of her hilarious jokes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my life,” he mused at one point, looking on with keen amusement as she charmed him with an impression of an untalented chorus girl who gets her high kicking feet caught up in her voluminous petticoats after sipping on what was perhaps one too many tempered sarsaparillas. “Not to mention think—this gal is probably the smartest I’ve met.”
When Cal came home at night, he always looked forward to the home cooked meals that Abigail prepared for him; feasts that featured corn and potatoes grown on his own ranch, along with juicy steaks and buttermilk biscuits coated with layers of fresh churned butter.
After dinner, the pair reclined in the comfy if rustic confines of his sitting room at the ranch house; a room lined with wooden walls and planked floors and filled with samplings of hand carved furnishings. And even as he played chess and poker with his newfound best friend, he saw reminders of the hostess who once reigned as the queen of his modest but well-kept homestead.
A rich sampling of Cal’s home carved furnishings came covered with vibrant rainbow patterned quilts created by Elsa’s delicate hand; and just over his game table stood an ebullient oil painting that portrayed the lady herself—her wholesome blonde beauty shining forth from the canvas as she held one of her signature yellow roses.
“She sure was a beauty,” Abigail noted one night, laying aside a final hand of poker as she looked her handsome host straight in the eyes, “And you loved her very much, didn’t you?”
Cal nodded.
“More than anything,” he acknowledged, adding in a soft, reverent voice, “My wife was an angel on Earth, and our time together—well it was just magical.” He paused here, adding as he arched his feathered eyebrows in Abigail’s direction, “What about you, Miss Abigail? Have you ever been in love?”
Abigail snorted.
“Love,” she scoffed, adding as she pursed her pink lips in a sure sign of cynicism, “True love is what I shared with my folks. It was pure, sweet, unconditional. Romantic love is for people who bear a strikin’ resemblance to your wife, God rest her soul, and yerself—and for that matter to my two younger sisters, both of whom were married off to a pair of handsome twin ranchers who whisked them off to Oklahoma. Now, to their credit, they’ve finally come back home to help Ma for the time that I’m away—at least, until I can send home enough money for her to cover my father’s debts and then hopefully hire some ranch hands.”
Cal nodded.
“So you’ve never been courtin’?” he asked her, tone curious and thoughtful.
Abigail shook her head.
“Never,” she declared, adding as she rolled her eyes heavenward, “Oh rest assured; as a teen-ager I occasionally poured my big body into a calico dress and went to stand motionless and alone at some barn dance, waiting in vain for some gent to ask me to dance. I almost went so far as to offer my services as a human coat rack for the other guests; heck, I might as well be of some use while I’m standin’ there alone in a corner, grinnin’ like a fool.”
Cal laughed, but only briefly.
“Well it’s too bad that those gents at the barn dance never stopped to talk to you,” he told her, adding as he reached across the table and covered her hand with his, “Then they would have realized what a smart, funny gal you are. And at the risk of sounding disrespectful, Ma’am, you do have the prettiest blue eyes I ever have seen.”
He grinned as Abigail ducked her head, her ivory-skinned cheeks flushing somewhat as she considered these words of unexpected praise.
“Why thank you, Cal,” she acknowledged the praise, adding as she cast those eyes upward in his direction, “I would return the compliment, but it’s just a mite hard to know where to start with you.” She paused here, adding as her gaze took a brief but admiring note of his sheer masculine perfection, “You have the prettiest—well—everything.”
She trembled as Cal met these words with a soft sonorous chuckle; entwining her fingers in his as he asked, “Would you like to know, Miss Abigail, just what it’s like to kiss a cowboy?”
*****
Abigail sat still and straight at the head of the poker table; struggling to tear her gaze from the beauty and charm of her handsome ethereal host.
Every day since her arrival at Elsa’s Rose, Abigail had found herself strongly and inexorably drawn to the man who kept and tended this beautiful ranch.
Aside from being the rare man who liked and appreciated a hardworking woman—one who spent far more time in the fields than she did in the kitchen, and was durn proud of it thank ya very much—and who always treated her with the upmost kindness and respect, Cal never failed to dazzle her with his own special brand of masculine good looks.
If it was indeed possible for a man to glow, then Cal Hopkins pulled the trick off to splendorous effect; whether working in the fields in a pair of blue jeans and his trus
ty felt hat, or dressed for his other work in a black brushed cotton sack coat, a gray wool tweed vest and crisp white shirt underneath and tight black canvas trousers—along with appealing accents that included slick black gloves, a shiny silver star adorning his lapel, and a sleek ebony gun belt and holster that carried his signature sheriff’s six shooters.
And now this gorgeous prince of a man wanted to kiss her, and God help her, she could not resist him.
“Kiss me,” she released on a whisper, accepting his soft, intimate offer as she turned her face upward.
She shut her eyes tight as Cal leaned forward to touch her lips with his; his full moist mouth stroking hers in a gentle but quite passionate advance.
Cal swallowed her startled breath as he angled his head over hers; intensifying their kiss as he soon plied her lips with the sweetest kisses.
Even as his soft lips lulled her senses and she relaxed to pass into a dreamy otherworld quite foreign to her practical mind, her eyes opened wide to once again grace her vision with the whole of his masculine beauty.
This move proved a serious mistake, as her wandering gaze soon came to rest on the portrait mounted just above their table.
Soon her eyes collided with those of the radiant Elsa Hopkins, and the usually iron-willed Abigail found herself withering like a flower in the scope of soft almond eyes; eyes that seemed kind if wary and all knowing.
“I’m sorry. We have to cease this nonsense. This is just wrong,” she mumbled suddenly, breaking their kiss as she sprang from the table and grasped her plain denim skirts in two resolute hands; headed for the small corner bedroom that served as her sole refuge in a home that seemed suddenly too familiar—and a man that, in all his infernal beauty, seemed suddenly too tempting to resist.
“Abigail!” Cal bellowed, jumping to his feet as he raced across the room. “Did I do something to offend you?”
