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 needed to take a bit of a rest—that is, if Ma 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 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 heartbeat, 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 on a rough sob as she wrapped her arms tight around his limp shoulders. “No!”
Sandra said nothing, only wrapping 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 freely 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 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’s 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?”
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 her 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 square 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 th
at 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 bright 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, sculpted 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.”
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 71
