Lazy Days (22 page)

Abby

Mail Order Bride
Unconventional Series

By

Verna Clay

This book is dedicated to
those who do not always follow the dictates of convention.

Abby: Mail Order Bride
Unconventional Series

Copyright © 2012 by Verna Clay

All
rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form whatsoever.

For information contact:

[email protected]

Website: www.VernaClay.com

Published by:

M.O.I.
Publishing

"Mirrors of Imagination"

Cover Design: Verna Clay

Pictures: Dreamstime

This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

The year I chose for beginning the love story between
Brant Samson and Abigail Mary Vaughn is 1886, and the setting is
Central/Eastern Texas, a place of rolling hills, many trees, and lush
vegetation. In my research, I discovered that the winter of 1886-1887 was
severe and didn't bode well for the cattle industry. That fact worked well with
my story.

Except for the obvious cities of Philadelphia,
Abilene, Dallas, and Ft. Worth, the towns and geographical places I describe
are figments of my imagination.

This story is first and foremost a romance, the
body of which revolves around the sorrows, dreams, and emotional healings of
its characters.

Enjoy
the Romance,

Verna
Clay

Order
of books in the
Unconventional Series:

Abby:
Mail Order Bride

Broken
Angel

Ryder's
Salvation

Abigail picked up the newspaper advertisement
for the hundredth time, read it again, reread it, and tossed it back on the
desk in her library. Smoothing her hand over the sides of her auburn hair and
the bun at the nape of her neck, she pushed her chair back and walked from the
library to the parlor. Pacing the length of the lovely room, she stopped
occasionally to straighten a vase or lift a family photo, all the while
contemplating something so crazy it made her heart pound.

After an hour, she squared her shoulders,
returned to the library, sat at her desk, slipped a piece of stationary from
the drawer, reached for her ink and quill, and wrote:

March
18, 1886

Dear
Mr. Samson,

I
am writing to introduce myself. My name is Abigail Mary Vaughn and I read your classified
advertisement in the Philadelphia Inquirer seeking a wife to help raise your
three children. I would like to recommend myself. By trade, I am a teacher and
that would benefit your children.

I
have never been married and I am thirty-eight years old. I have lived in
Philadelphia all my life and taught school for the past eighteen years. I am an
only child and my parents died last year so there are no responsibilities
keeping me here. I have always desired my own family, but circumstances of
caring for my elderly parents prevented that.

I
do not believe in withholding information, so I have been candid in my response
to you. I hope to hear from you.

—Miss
Abigail Mary Vaughn

Before she could react and change her mind,
Abigail enclosed the letter in an envelope and asked Harry Puffins, her old
servant, to walk it to the post office not far from her home near the city's
center.

* * *

Brant removed his cowboy hat and ran a hand
through hair as black as coal. Standing in front of the blacksmith's where he'd
just had his horse shod, he heard his daughter calling from the entrance to
Clyde Jenkins General Store across the street. Clyde, being the most likely
candidate, was also the postmaster for the central eastern Texas town of Two
Rivers. Jenny held her baby brother in one arm and waved letters in the other.
"Hey Pa, you got more mail. Maybe you'll find us a Ma in this bunch."

Brant paused while a buckboard pulled by a
swayback horse ambled past. He waved at old Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and then
crossed to the warped boardwalk that ran in front of a dozen businesses.
"Jenny, did you give Mr. Jenkins that list of staples so we can pick them
up next trip to town?"

"Yes sir." She shifted two year old Ty
to her other hip. "One of the letters came all the way from
Philadelphia."

"I'll read them tonight. Where's
Luke?"

"He's still talking to Mr. Jenkins about
ordering some more dime novels."

Brant bent and kissed his baby's forehead.
"Well, run in and tell him it's time to go while I hitch Sugar back to the
buckboard and bring it around. We've got chores to finish up."

"Sure, Pa."

Several minutes after Brant had pulled the wagon
in front of the store, his fourteen year old son sauntered out. Inhaling a
calming breath, he said, "It's nice you could join us, Luke. I'd sure like
to get home before nightfall. If not, you'll be mucking the barn in the
dark."

With a sullen look, Luke hopped onto the back of
the wagon and sat on a sack of grain. Jenny snickered and Ty scrambled to sit
on his big brother's lap. Brant flicked the reins. "Giddup."

After a long evening of chores, Brant finally
collapsed into his favorite chair and propped his feet on the hearth. He could
hear Jenny telling Ty a bedtime story in the room she shared with her baby
brother. No doubt Luke was in the loft devouring another cheap novel.

Leaning his head back, he surveyed his cabin.
Besides his bedroom and Jenny's room, there was an additional bedroom that his
mail order bride would stay in until they got to know each other. His plan to remarry
scared the bejesus out of him, but he was dead set to find a ma for his
children. He closed his eyes and saw Molly's laughing face. God, he missed her.
How he'd loved her. His eyes stung and he blinked rapidly, glancing again
around the combined living, dining, and cooking area that still held her touches
in the curtains and knickknacks. Although modest, the cabin was sturdily built
from the labor of his own hands.

Unable to put it off any longer, he unfolded his
lanky frame and reached for the letters he'd tossed on the mantel. Sighing, he
read more responses to his advertisement, none of which he felt any inkling to
respond to. Damn, but the thought of marrying someone he'd come to know through
a newspaper ad irked him. However, his children needed a mother. Jenny did the
best she could caring for Ty, but she was only ten years old. Guilt plagued him
at the responsibility that had been forced on her. As for Luke, Brant hadn't
been able to bond with his son since Molly's death, and now the boy lost
himself in dime novels. And Ty, his baby, God help him, needed a mother's care.

He fingered the letter from Philadelphia. He'd
placed ads in newspapers, local and cross country, and wondered if the call of
the West would provoke responses from city girls. He'd received a few, but from
the tone of their letters, they'd seemed too high and mighty to live in a humble
cabin on a small ranch. He slipped a thumb under the envelope flap and ripped
it open. The letter was short and written on quality stationary in neat
printing. He read it a couple of times.

Going to his room, he retrieved a paper and his
quill and ink and brought the kerosene lamp to the dining table. Tapping his
jaw, he thought about his response.

May
1, 1886

Dear
Miss Vaughn,

Thank
you for your letter and also your forthrightness. Please tell me more about
yourself and why you would want to marry someone you have never met and mother
children that are not your own.

As
for myself, I will also be forthcoming. I am solely seeking a mother for my
children. If you have romantic notions, I am not the husband for you. My wife
died over a year ago from lung fever. I have two sons, a fourteen year old and
a two year old, and a ten year old daughter. My ranch is small, as is my cabin,
so if you are looking for anything else, I suggest you not respond to this
letter.

As
for your qualifications, they are excellent. My eldest son loves reading. I can
hardly get him to complete his chores without a book in hand. My daughter is
very smart and an avid learner. Both children attended school until their
mother died. My eldest son now helps me on the ranch and my daughter cares for
her baby brother. My desire is for them to return to school after I marry. I am
the son of a teacher so I know the importance of education.

As
for Two Rivers, it is a small town that does not have much in the way of
diversion to keep folks interested.

So,
as you can see, I have not painted a pretty picture. I have written the truth
so as not to waste your time or mine.

—Brant
Samson

The stagecoach bumped and jostled and jarred
Abigail until she wanted to scream. Most of her trip had been by rail, which,
although tiring, was easy compared to carriage travel. Across from her, fellow
travelers, Mr. and Mrs. Willowood, spoke in hushed tones. When Abigail opened
her eyes, Mrs. Willowood said, "Oh, good, you're awake. We're almost to
Two Rivers. My husband and I have traveled this route many times. Our town is
Bingham, the county center, three hours past Two Rivers."

Mr. Willowood patted his wife's knee. "She
knows, dear. Being our lovely companion for two days, you've already told
her."

"Oh, yes, of course. I guess old age is
catching up with me." Mrs. Willowood turned her attention back to Abigail.
"How does our countryside compare with Philadelphia's?"

Abigail gazed out the window at rolling hills
covered with tall grasses, juniper trees, thickets of cottonwood, maple, and
oak trees dressed with autumn leaves, and a scattering of pines occasionally
punctuated by granite boulders. She smiled, "In some ways it's quite
similar with its abundant trees and foliage."

Mr. Willowood said proudly, "We've lived
here for nigh on forty years and raised six sons. Four of our boys stayed in
Texas and another one moved to Kansas, which is why we travel there
occasionally. We lost our youngest a few years back to scarlet fever. Anyway, I
can tell you one thing, coming home is a breath of fresh air. Of course, I'm
probably repeating myself, too."

Abigail smiled at the friendly couple and
glanced out the window at the dust stirred by the horses.
I'd love a breath
of fresh air.

For the remaining hour of her trip, she tried to
calm the butterflies in her stomach. She was a sensible woman, but her stomach
was behaving like that of a young girl. Smoothing a hand over that wayward part
of her body, she willed it to settle down, but her thoughts just stirred the
butterflies again. Perhaps she would regret her hasty decision to become a mail
order bride when she met Mr. Samson. Maybe he'd be as homely as a toad and his
children impossible. If so, she could catch the next stagecoach and return
home.
Home? What do you have waiting there except endless days of
loneliness? You've always dreamed of having a family of your own. So what if
he's ugly? He certainly sounds intelligent. And children can be taught manners.

Mrs. Willowood spoke, "Abigail, dear, you
shouldn't chew your nails. You'll have them down to the quick."

Abigail jerked her hand back into her lap like
an errant schoolgirl.

"So, you said you're visiting family?"
Mr. Willowood prodded.

"Ah, yes."

Mrs. Willowood interjected, "My husband can
sometimes be nosy. It goes with the territory of being an attorney. You don't
have to answer his questions, if you don't want to."

Abigail wasn't sure how to respond and thankfully
didn't have to. The driver yelled, "Two Rivers!" and guided the team
of horses to the front of a rundown hotel with hand-painted lettering
proclaiming,
Mayflower Hotel.
The lead driver jumped down and swiftly
opened the stagecoach door to help the occupants out. Abigail waited for Mrs.
Willowood to exit and then Mr. Willowood waited for Abigail to step down.

She swayed as she got her land legs and glanced
around the dozen or so buildings.
Pitiful looking town.
Scanning the
hotel porch, she saw a middle-aged man sitting on the railing. His smile
showcased missing teeth.
Remember, he's intelligent.
Hesitantly, she
smiled back. Another man exited the hotel with a gun holstered to his hip. He
tipped his hat and reached to adjust his gun belt around his expanding
waistline.

Abigail retied the ribbons of her straw hat and
opened her parasol against the early afternoon sun. The second driver handed
her trunk down to the first driver and it thudded on the ground. Next, he
dropped her small valise and the grizzled man below caught it and set it on her
trunk. "There ya go, ma'am."

"Thank you," Abigail said politely.

The driver was already climbing back atop the
stagecoach. With a flick of his wrists and a shout, the horses pulled the coach
across the street to a stable. Abigail glanced at the blacksmith's shop next to
the stable and noticed a long-legged man leaning against the siding. He held
his cowboy hat in one hand and lazily watched the stagecoach occupants. Even
from a distance, she could see he was lean and broad shouldered, with black
hair that brushed the collar of his denim shirt.
Too young, too handsome.

She turned her attention to another man exiting
the general store next door to the hotel.
Maybe that's him.
He wore a
suit a decade out of style, but looked distinguished in a countrified way. He
was very short, but carried himself proudly and had a pleasant, boyish
countenance for a man probably in his forties.
Please God, let that be him
and not the one with the missing teeth or the one with the gun.

A voice spoke from behind her, "Miz
Vaughn?"

Abigail turned and stumbled backwards. The lean
cowboy from across the street—with eyes that she could now see were the same
color as the cloudless sky above them—reached out and caught her by the
shoulders before she fell on her backside.

"Y-yes?"

"Ma'am, I'm Brant Samson."

The butterflies in Abigail's stomach fluttered
into her throat and she couldn't squeeze a word out.

* * *

Brant held the woman's shoulders until she was
steady on her feet again. Hell, he hadn't meant to scare her. Her eyes had
widened like she was looking at a monster.
Criminy, what have I gotten myself
into?

The woman recovered quickly and stepped
backwards. "Yes, I'm Abigail Vaughn. I'm pleased to meet you Mr.
Samson."

For a second they stood in awkward silence
appraising one another, but that was broken when a full-figured older woman
approached. "Well, Abigail, I see your man's here for you. My, my, but
aren't you a fine looking young gent. My name is Mrs. Willowood, and Mr.
Willowood–" she pointed to a portly gentleman stepping onto the hotel
portico, "–and I, boarded the stagecoach on Friday in Ft. Worth with Miss
Vaughn. We've had a delightful journey. Abigail is so refined and proper."
Mrs. Willowood glanced back at her husband. "Looks like Mr. Willowood is
motioning me over." She turned and embraced Abigail. "Well, you know
we live in Bingham. All you have to do is mention our name to any of the locals
and they'll direct you to our home. If you and your man are ever in our part of
the country, please look us up. Goodbye, dear."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Willowood. Thank you for
your kindness and company throughout the trip."

Brant nodded politely to the woman as she turned
to leave. He glanced at the large trunk beside Miz Vaughn. "Ah, my
buckboard is next door. I'll be right back to load your belongings."

"Thank you, Mr. Samson."

Brant walked to his wagon, berating himself for
his stupid idea of advertising for a bride. He should have just waited until
someone suitable settled in Two Rivers.
Yeah, right. Like eligible women ever
come to Two Rivers.

Untying his horses, he jumped into the driver's
seat and urged them forward. He groaned; Abigail Mary Vaughn looked like what
she was—an old maid schoolmarm. Her hair, pulled back under a narrow brimmed
straw hat whose crown was encircled with ribbons and bird feathers, had a
severe bun peeking out the back that emphasized her strong features of a long
nose, long face, and high cheekbones. When she'd compressed her lips, she'd
looked like a teacher about to scold a wayward child. He pulled the buckboard
next to the trunk and wished he'd never responded to her letter.

"Hey, Brant," Toothless Charlie called
from his usual place on the hotel railing.

"Yeah, Charlie?"

"You want me to help you lift that
trunk?"

"Naw, I think I got it." He set the
valise in the back of his wagon and then reached to load the trunk.
What'd
she pack—bricks?
He hoisted the damn thing next to the valise and then
turned to help her onto the plank seat. She gave him her schoolmarm look as he
reached to encircle her waist. She wasn't petite like Molly. The top of her
head reached his chin and he could feel curves in spite of the jacket and
blouse and corset and skirt and petticoats and whatever else she was wearing.
Glancing at Miz Vaughn's blushing profile, he circled the wagon and scolded
himself.
Great, a middle-aged, virginal school teacher. What were you
thinking?