Amy snorted.
“I am pregnant my darling, not infirmed,” she reminded him, adding as she ran a confident hand through the windswept ringlets of her luxurious reddish blonde hair. “I am more than capable of completing my daily duties on the ranch I helped plant.” She paused here, adding as she raised a slender finger for emphasis, “Remember this, dear husband!”
Restraining a round of unbidden laughter, a chastened Vance met his wife’s words with a hale and hearty salute.
“Yes, Ma’am!” he affirmed.
Grinning bright as her husband returned to his work, Amy turned in the field to observe the sheer brilliance of a sun-soaked Texas morning; a day blessed with clear azure skies and meadows and fields that glowed a lovely emerald gold in the light of the beacon that shone resplendent above them.
For just a moment she basked in the beauty of the day; musing with a happy sigh that her dreams of a loving marriage and a thriving family were coming to fruition, nearing their flawless completion with every passing day.
All peaceable feelings fled her psyche moments later, when a loud, distressing thump resounded just behind her; forcing her to turn and bear witness to a nightmarish scene.
Her beloved husband, alive and animated only moments earlier, now lay still and unconscious on the ground; his hands clutching his heart as his eyelashes fluttered shut—his breath escaping him in a sharp violent gust as she ran to his side.
“Vance!”
Racing through the field with feverish steps, Amy gaped outright as her troubled mind brimmed with all manner of unspeakable possibilities.
She recalled with horror that Vance’s father and uncle both died young of heart-related illnesses; also the fact that her husband had seemed weary and lethargic in recent days.
“Please, God no,” she muttered, now kneeling at her husband’s side as she lowered her head to his chest. “It can’t be….”
Yet the silence of his heart and the stillness of his breathing told the truth of the tale; and as she threw her arms around his muscular shoulders, she somehow knew that this would be the last time she ever held him in her arms.
*****
A month passed beneath the Texas sky; its unforgiving sun roasting the woman who toiled beneath its harsh rays.
A telltale line of sweat beaded Amy’s fair skinny forehead as she struggled to pick just one more ear of corn; her feet heavy and her shoulders heaving as she made her way across the field.
It seemed beyond her comprehension that, just one month before, she had regarded this very field as a place of hope and happiness; joyfully toiling at her husband’s side as they harvested a hopeful future.
Now she worked alone on long, hot days; her only assistant a frail older aunt who resided alone on the neighborhood farm.
Herself a widow, Aunt Grace was a short, petite brunette who worked her own land in addition to serving as an able aide to her beleaguered niece.
Able — if weary and more than a bit cranky.
“Enough, Amy!” she declared one day, straightening herself between two rows of corn as she fixed her tired niece with a cold hard stare. “You must be sensible about this matter, before you exhaust the both of us!”
Amy sighed.
“My deepest apologies, Auntie,” she murmured, standing gingerly above a tassel of corn as she clutched her weary back with a wan, tired hand. “I simply cannot manage this ranch all by myself, and I know do not know where else to turn.”
Grace thought a moment, and then nodded.
“I know Girl, and I am more than pleased to help you as much as I’m able,” she told her niece, voice softening as she leaned forward to grace her slender shoulder with a reassuring pat. “It’s just that I cannot tend both your ranch and my own for the duration of the growing season. And you yourself should be resting in bed, awaitin’ the birth of your little one.”
Amy had heard enough.
“I am well and weary of everyone telling me that I am not strong enough to work my own land,” she insisted, adding as she raised a firm finger for emphasis, “This is my ranch, and I plan to farm it. I just need a bit of help; that’s all.”
At that moment she felt a slash of pain rip unbidden through her rounded stomach; nearly bringing her to her knees as she gritted her teeth against the agony.
“I only wish that my child would be a bit more cooperative,” she managed through ground teeth, straining to stand upright as her aunt rushed to her side.
“Your child needs a mother who is rested and relaxed,” Grace insisted, adding as she wrapped a supportive arm around her niece’s shoulders. “And as much as I would love to send you to bed and toil in your fields by my lonesome, I simply cannot do so; particularly not when so much of my own work awaits me.”
Amy shrugged.
“Well sadly Auntie, I cannot afford to hire a ranch hand at this point,” she revealed, adding as she cocked her head in her aunt’s direction, “Have you any other ideas?”
Grace looked at her for a long moment and nodded.
“I do indeed have an idea,” she admitted, adding as she dug deep into the pocket of her soft embroidered denim dress. “You will not like it, but it may indeed be our only hope.”
With these words she produced a weathered newspaper page for Amy to look at; unfolding the page to reveal a classified advertisement with an intriguing headline marked Mail Order Bride.
“Ladies,” the ad read, its message conveyed in bold dark letters that was prominent on the page. “Do you need a prince?”
Turning from her aunt in a single bold flourish, a snorting Amy braced her arms before her as she shook her head from side to side in response to these cryptic words.
“I will not read one more word of that addled fairy tale nonsense,” she declared, adding as she held up a slender hand in the direction of her frowning aunt. “I had my own fairy tale—my own enchanted prince.” She paused here, adding as her voice cracked, “Both were fallen and destroyed before my very eyes. Now I have no more need for dreams, Aunt Grace. Dreams die. And so do princes.”
Nodding in tender empathy with these harsh spoken words, Grace placed a gentle hand on her niece’s arm and turned her body towards her; once again holding the newspaper between them as she told her: “As much as Vance was a very special gentleman, my dear, one that never will be replaced, you must remember that he has left us—never to return, girl.”
With these words she squeezed her niece’s shoulder and looked her straight in the eyes.
“You, on the other hand, remain a young woman of great strength and vigor—and, as many have told you, striking beauty,” she praised Amy, adding as she held up the newspaper. “Surely you don’t want to spend the remainder of your days here by your lonesome, with no husband, no lover, no friend or companion. And if you would take only a moment to peruse this gentleman’s advertisement, then you would read of his intellect, his kindness, and his stellar good looks.”
She jumped as her niece met these words with a loud, sharp guffaw.
“And do you truly believe every single word that you read in the pages of the newspaper, Auntie?” she asked Grace, tone snide and disbelieving. “Especially if these words are written in the context of a paid advertisement?” she paused here, adding as she waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the defenseless newspaper: “If a man posts an advertisement to secure himself a bride, how on earth is he going to word the ad? ‘Howdy Ladies, I am an ignorant, dog ugly, and proudly unkind man in search of a wife. Come one, come all, the line forms to the right’!”
Grace doubled over, guffawing in spite of herself as she considered these comical words.
“All right then Girlie, you are a clever one,” she acknowledged, adding as she arched her eyebrows in what seemed a show of keen curiosity, “What, tho
ugh, if the gentleman happens to speak the truth in his ad? What if he is indeed as kind and handsome as he claims, and what if he would prove a stellar and highly knowledgeable partner in your own ranching endeavor? Why not at least bite the bullet and give the guy a chance?”
Amy shook her head.
“I shall not for one moment entertain the horrid notion of becoming some man’s mail order bride,” she spat out these last words as though they were venom, adding as she planted her hands on her hips, “You well know, Aunt Grace, that my dear late parents raised me to be a proper lady—and honest, hardworking at that; not a glorified lady of the evening who will exchange her body for room and board.”
Grace bit her lip.
“I well know this Girl. I thought long and hard before bringing that stupid ad to your kind attention,” she allowed, tone soft and sad, adding in a louder, more determined voice, “Even so, I must say that this man sounds like a gentleman—someone in search of a princess, not a fancy lady. And I do believe he will treat you as such.” She paused here, adding as she made a broad gesture in the direction of her niece’s expanding stomach, “He also might make a good father for your baby, which is exactly what you need at this moment.”
Amy thought a moment, and then sighed.
“It is true, I must think of the young one first,” she conceded, stroking her rounded stomach with protective hands as she added in a reflective tone, “As much as I wish to toil in my fields, working my own land and building up the ranch that I started with my beloved husband, I fear that the same daily regime of hard labor that claimed my Vance’s life might come to claim my child as well—and perhaps me, right along with her.”
Grace arched her eyebrows.
“How are you so certain, my girl, that your child is a girl?”
Amy shrugged.
“I simply know,” she affirmed, adding as she lifted her chin to proud effect, “And I would not have my daughter believe that a woman can be bought and sold like chattel, hired to warm a man’s bed and make his meals like a glorified fancy woman.”
Grace nodded.
“So the matter is settled, then?” she asked, adding as she inclined her head in Amy’s direction, “You will not be answering the gentleman’s ad?”
Amy shook her head.
“Now, I did not say that,” she corrected her aunt, adding with a mysterious smile, “I do believe that the gentleman and I may be able to reach a certain compromise.”
*****
The dawn of a new week found a tense Amy in the back of a hired stagecoach, hands clenched protective over her near bursting stomach as the carriage beneath her jarred and rocked down the rocky road.
She was wearing her finest day dress, a striking long calico dress graced with a shade of robin’s egg blue and a delicate floral print of peerless ivory; a gown that glowed not only in its overall look but in its delicate accents, which included a fitted calico top with a scoop neckline and a matching skirt trimmed in pure ruffled lace, wide flounced sleeves, delicate buttons lining the front, a bustled back, as well as a soft white cotton underskirt and prim ivory gloves to complete the look.
Yet, although she had dressed in the role of a proper Western lady, Amy felt far more like an Amazon warrior; one of those fierce, strong muscled women she’d read about in books, reading by candlelight after Vance went to bed.
Much like these brave warrior women that she learned about and secretly idolized, Amy felt strong and unbending in her resolve; and more than clear about the specific, very pointed mission that whisked her across the wilds of the Texas frontier that day.
All too soon for her liking, Amy’s stagecoach came to a resounding halt in the center of a field; one that marked the address specified in the newspaper advertisement that had launched this whole disastrous catastrophe in the first place.
“Why on earth am I doing this?” she mused with a sigh, rising to her slippered feet as her stagecoach driver—a silver haired gentleman with a kind smile—opened her door and offered her his hand.
“Careful, Miss,” he urged her, his eyes flitting downward to her burgeoning stomach as he helped her out of her carriage.
Dropping some coins into his palm and thanking him for his services, Amy watched the stagecoach drive off as she looked after it with longing eyes.
“Perhaps I should call him back,” she mused in silence, adding as she clutched her small floral suitcase with tense, near frantic fingers, “I truly have no business being here.”
Her troubled mediation was disrupted by a lush, very pleasant floral scent; a scent that flew forth to her on the wings of the wind, teasing and soothing her addled senses as she felt her shoulders relax.
“Roses,” she immediately identified the fragrance, her gaze following its ethereal tendrils as she beheld a scent that defined beauty.
Before her spanned a sprawling field that brimmed with golden roses; a signature Texas crop that she’d always longed to grow on her own ranch, that bloomed forth with large velvety blossoms kissed sweet by the sun above them.
Her worries and anxieties melted away, leaving in their place a girlish fervor that added a definite spring to her step.
Suddenly she was 10 years old again, twirling carefree with her eyes shut in the midst of roses whose very presence brought succor to her soul.
“Um, Ma’am?”
Coming to an abrupt halt at the center of the field, Amy felt her smile dissolve as she realized she’d been caught; that her momentary escape from her troubled life had come to a resounding halt.
“Of course,” she thought, adding as she opened her eyes, “now it is time for me to meet the no doubt hideous man I am soon bound to marry.”
Yet when she finally garnered the courage to face the man who addressed her from the edge of the field, she beheld a vision even more beautiful than the roses before them.
Standing tall and statuesque above the land he tended, the man in front of her boasted a muscular bronzed form that reflected long days spent out on the range. Yet, while his toned masculine physique betrayed him as a rancher of the frontier, his face and hair rendered the likeness of a virtual angel on earth.
His flowing mane of golden hair indeed seemed kissed by the sun itself, framing as it did a chiseled face that boasted aquiline eyes, carved cheekbones and full moist lips.
Lips that now spread in an amused smile as their gazes collided above the field.
“Can I help you?” he asked her, arching his feathered eyebrows in a show of keen curiosity.
Clearing her throat loudly, a stone faced Amy squared her slender shoulders and lifted her pert chin firm in his direction.
“Mr. Thomas Wyatt?” she asked; tone cool and official.
The rancher nodded.
“Guilty as charged, Ma’am,” he declared, charming her with a soft, smooth Southern accent as he struck a courtly bow in her direction.
Amy pursed her pearl pink lips, observing that the image and demeanor of Thomas Wyatt more than matched the vision he’d cultivated of himself in the context of his advertisement. The charming, kind, impossibly handsome man portrayed on paper seemed to materialize magically before her; and she mused that if she could somehow transport herself back in time, back before the time of marriage and babies, ranching and responsibilities, she might well be tempted to dance with this gentleman at a cotillion, or flirt with him at a tea.
Yet, within an instant the passing of a hard brisk wind awakened her back to reality; reminding her that her prince was dead—along with any and all semblance of frivolous romantic dreams. Her future held within it no promise of balls, teas or cotillions; and, as far as she was concerned, no romances or heartfelt marriages either. She had come here on this hot Texas morning to strike a merger—not make a match. At least not a match that came from the heart.
She rather enjoyed the effect moments later, as the man before her gaped outright; dropping the hoe he held tight in his hand as he processed what was apparently most unexpected news.
In lieu of a verbal reply, his wide azure eyes took a long walk down the length of her (mostly) slender frame; seeming to warm in appreciation as he regarded her fair skinned, rosy cheeked face—one that came complete with wide dark eyes, sculpted cheekbones and pearl pink lips—and her lustrous mane of waist length reddish gold hair, then again fly wide as they seemed to peruse the bulge that protruded from her slender frame.
“Yes, that’s right,” Amy finally spoke up, bringing his attention back to her face. “I did not come alone.” She paused here, adding as she inclined her head sharp in his direction, “My baby, in fact, is the entire reason that I’m here today. I need work, and badly. I need a good amount of income that I can send home to my aunt, so she can hire me a couple of ranch hands, to help me work my own land.”
Thomas nodded.
“I see,” he mumbled, although his shockingly wide eyes and gaping—if full and appealingly soft—lips betrayed the fact that he did not see—at all. “Well, Miss, I am sorry to say that I may have misrepresented myself in my advertisement; this probably owing to the fact that I am a right shoddy writer, at best. The fact remains, though, that I advertised in particular for a mail order bride.”
With these words he ducked his head, shuffling his booted feet beneath him as he mumbled embarrassed, “I was looking for a wife, not a ranch hand. And, no offense intended Ma’am, but you already seem to be somebody else’s bride—or so it would appear.”
Amy couldn’t help herself. For what seemed like the first time since her husband’s death, she guffawed outright; doubling over to let loose with a robust laugh that did much to relieve her tightly held tension.
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 74
