by Tia Siren
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 for her niece’s inspection, “Surely you will not wish 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 daily paper, Auntie?” she asked Grace, tone snide and disbelieving. “Especially if these words are written in the context of a purchased 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, though, 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 gent 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 departed Ma and Pa raised me to be a proper lady—and an 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 blasted 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 here 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 babe, which is exactly what you need at this moment.”
Amy thought a moment, then sighed.
“It is true, I must think of the youngin 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 the ranch that I began 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 protectively over her near bursting stomach as the carriage beneath her jarred and rocked down the surface of a hard road.
She came dressed this day in her finest day dress, a striking foot length calico work 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 that day across the wilds of the Texas frontier.
All too soon for her liking, Amy’s stagecoach came to a resounding halt at 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 take leave of the field 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 sweetly by the sun above them.
Suddenly her worries and anxieties melted away, leaving in their place a girlish fervor that added a definite spring to her step.
In a moment she was ten 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 gent that 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 before 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 c
uriosity.
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 officious.
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 harshly to the reality of her life; 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.
“Well good day to you, Thomas Wyatt,” she said finally, walking forward to offer him her hand as she introduced herself, “I am Amy Phillips, the lady who recently sent you a letter of interest in regards to your advertisement for a helper at the ranch.”
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 seeking 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.
The relief was momentary, however, as she considered how to respond to her host’s confused words.
“Well the truth is, Mr. Wyatt, that I am another man’s bride,” she revealed, adding as she cast her own gaze downward, in the direction of her host’s signature crop, “When I see these beautiful roses that you grow, I’m reminded of my wedding bouquet; the flowers that I carried down the aisle to marry Vance Phillips, the man of my dreams and heart.” She paused here, adding as she stared him straight in the eyes, “The only man, I must tell you, that I will ever love.”
Thomas stood up straight at this news, his sculpted cleft chin flying upward as he met her gaze in full.
“Then why are you not at home with him?” he asked, his deep tone now reflecting the abject coolness he heard in his visitor’s voice. “As opposed to standing here with me, telling me that—although you have answered my ad for a mail order bride—you have no earthly intention of ever loving me?”
Amy sighed.
“You are correct, Mr. Wyatt,” she relented finally, adding as she folded her arms before her, “I should not have come to this place—only I have to tell you, no one awaits me at home.” She paused here, adding as she struggled to keep an even tone in the face of flooding emotions, “My husband passed away more than a month ago. One moment we worked side by side in our fields, enjoying our life together and joyfully anticipating the birth of our first child.” She paused here, adding as she shut her eyes tight, “Then within moments it all fell apart. My husband had a bad heart, and he collapsed in the field; leaving me all alone.”
With these words, her eyes flew open, and her chin again raised; once again she drew that all important second wind, staring her host straight in the eyes as she told him, “In my heart, Mr. Wyatt, I remain the wife of Vance Phillips. I shall not under any circumstances love or even lay with another man.” She paused here, adding as her tone softened and became more tentative, “Only I don’t see how I can work my land on my own, or for that matter manage our bills. I thought that I could come to your ranch and cook for you, maybe clean your house and do a little field work—more after my baby is birthed. I could have been a big help to you….”
She trailed off here, adding as she turned away, “I can see that I’ve made a mistake, Mr. Wyatt. I am dreadfully sorry that I wasted your time—I’ll let you alone and go back to my ranch, where I belong.”
Amy froze as she felt her shoulder grazed by a soft, gentle hand; one that turned her slow but sure in the direction of its bearer.
She relaxed as she beheld the crystal blue eyes that had captivated her from the moment they’d met; and now, she noted, these eyes came filled with a welcome mix of tender and sublime emotions.
Understanding. Empathy. Tenderness. The very things that she needed at this time, that few others seemed willing to show her.
“What kind of a gentleman would I be if I turned away a young woman in your condition, at this time in her life?” he asked, adding with a defined nod, “Furthermore, what kind of a gentleman would I be if I coerced a woman into being my wife?”
With these words, he clasped her hands between his and stared with a smile into her eyes.
“I would like to invite you to stay on with me here at the ranch.,” he told her, tone kind and abiding. “I’ll give you a room of your own with a comfortable bed, and all the food you can eat. When and if you feel up to it, you can help out with the cooking and housekeeping, perhaps do a bit of field work when you need exercise—but I won’t see you overexert yourself. I ain’t no millionaire Ma’am, but I do pretty well for myself. And I’d like to share this ranch, this new life that I’m building, with you.”
Amy smiled, squeezing his fingers between hers as she exhaled in spite of herself; her shoulders sagging as she finally took a moment to relax—to cease for an instant with her worry and concern and bask in the rays of her beloved Texas sun.
The respite was brief.
“What precisely do you want in return for all this luxury treatment?” she demanded, fixing her host with a suspicious look as she broke suddenly away from him. “I will know this now, Mr. Wyatt before we take another step forward in this mad plan.”
Her host sighed.
“Please call me Thomas,” he bid her, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “I suspect now that it was a mistake to place a mail order bride ad, in particular. People seem to assume certain things about a man who orders a mail order bride—that he’s not a true gentleman at all.” He paused here, adding as he shifted the brim of the tall ivory hat that sat atop his regal head, “I�
��m not that kind of man, Ma’am. I love this here land so much that I want to share it with someone; a woman who shares my love for Texas, for the land.” He paused here, adding as he once again took her hand in his, “I just want to share my life. Would you give me that opportunity, Amy?”
Amy thought a moment, then nodded.
“Well Mr.—Thomas—I guess that I’m willing to give it a try,” she conceded, adding with a shy smile, “And you may call me Amy.”
*****
Amy awoke the next morning to find herself in paradise.
Even before she opened her eyes she experienced the sensation of divine luxury, a feeling supplied by the presence of a lace trimmed floral print comforter as it cradled and coddled her body; a form further comforted by the shine of luminous sunbeams as they flew inward through a nearby window, and by the scent of roses that seemed to grow just outside the same window, intermingled with the more distant but uncomfortable scent of fresh cooked buttermilk pancakes.
Finally opening her eyes, a still sleepy Amy basked in the vision of a bedroom that seemed custom made for a princess; a luxurious refuge adorned by café style floral print curtains, plush ivory carpeting and ivory, bronze bordered bureaus.
“How on earth did I end up here?” she mused, thoughts thick and groggy. “Oh, I don’t care—as long as I am not required to move anytime within the next year or so.”
A loud knock on her bedroom door stirred her awake moments later; reminding her with a jolt as to her current location—and also of the man who owned this home.
Gathering her crisp cotton sheets tight around her chin in a protective move, Amy called out in a tentative voice, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Thomas. I’ve come with your breakfast,” her host answered, his tone tentative and reverent.
Amy nodded—then pondered just how ineffectual such a move was with a closed door between them.
“Come in,” she said finally, sitting upward in bed as her door swung open to reveal a most unusual sight.
