Authors: Bridget Lang
Wealthy rancher
Tanner
neither wants nor needs a wife. The sexy rancher can have a woman any night of the week. Women flock to him. His adopted daughter Chloe, foreman Josiah, and ranch hands are all the family he needs.
Through a cruel twist of fate, curvy
Heather
is alone and penniless. While sorting through her life, she applies to a mail order bride agency. To her surprise, she receives a touching letter. Still, marrying a man she’s never met is crazy. Then again, maybe it’s the fresh start she needs.
Chloe
loves her dad and their life, but she needs a mom. Her dad doesn’t get it. Being the only girl on a ranch is tough. She knows that if it’s gonna happen, she’ll have to make it happen. With her dad’s credit card, the 10 yr.old finds them perfect wife and mother.
She just prays that the letter she wrote the pretty lady in her dad’s name will persuade her to give them a chance…. and that her dad doesn’t ground her for life when he finds out!
The building was a brownstone affair; it looked perfectly innocuous from the outside, sitting prettily within the tree-lined street, amidst rows of other replica houses. Heather double-checked the GPS on her mobile, not daring to walk up the stairs to its entrance just yet. The destination was confirmed to be correct, and eyeing the building again she could see a small silver plaque by the buzzer, indicating that the building wasn’t residential.
Heather couldn’t quite believe that she was actually here. It felt like she was having an out of body experience, and that surely she was living someone else’s life and not her own; because up until one month ago, she had been engaged to her boyfriend of three years, living in a beautiful apartment on the Upper East Side, hosting dinner parties and attending charity functions. She had never stopped to think that her existence as it was might be transient; that the life she had planned for herself could at any moment veer wildly off-course.
Despite the beautiful New York spring day, Heather felt like she was walking around beneath her own black cloud. The stairs up to the brownstone would lead her into the offices of a mail order bride service – the last place on earth Heather would of have imagined herself being just a short month ago.
Taking a deep breath and summoning what little courage she had left, Heather slowly made her way up to the entrance, ready to meet her future.
Sitting in the well-lit office of an immaculately dressed Mrs. Atkinson, Heather quailed beneath the woman’s searching inspection – no doubt taking in Heather’s expensive attire, but also her haphazard appearance, and the dark shadows that rested beneath her eyes.
“And you are how old, Ms. Ayer?” She enquired, pen and clipboard out as she filled Heather’s details into an exceptionally thick form.
“Call me Heather, please. I’m twenty-nine.” Heather smiled at the woman, and tried to look accommodating and warm. Mrs. Atkinson returned the smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“And what is it that you do, Heather?” The woman looked up from her clipboard expectantly. A silence filled the room. Heather hadn’t been gainfully employed for the last three years. Since becoming Bertram’s girlfriend she had dedicated her waking hours to accommodate his business, his weekend schedules, his country club meetings and events. She had cooked, cleaned and ferried clothes back and forth to the dry cleaners. Under the scrutiny of Atkinson’s glare she felt embarrassed, but at the time she’d found her role fulfilling – happy in the knowledge that she was making his life easier, and contributing in the small way that she could to his success.
“Well,” Heather hesitated, drawing out the silence, “I am starting my own baking company – it’s just in the initial stage, drawing out the business plan…but Bergdorf Goodman and Bloomingdales have so far shown great interest. We’re just finalizing the details.”
Mrs. Atkinson finally looked impressed, but Heather wanted the ground to swallow her whole. It had all been a complete lie – or, worse, a dream. A dream that she had floated past Bertram, who had subsequently told her on no uncertain terms would his wife-to-be work as a baker.
“Well – that sounds lovely. We do like the women on our books to have passions and
joy de vivre
. What is it exactly that you’re looking for?”
The question elicited another long pause. What did she want? She really just wanted someone to love her as she was without constantly putting her under pressure to change, to become someone else – a sleeker, more finessed version of Heather. However, it was highly doubtful that she would find her perfect match through a mail order bride service. She would happily settle for companionship, she decided, and that would be all. If she wanted passion and romance, she’d read a book.
“I’d really just like a kind man. I don’t mind what he does or where he lives. I also -” she paused, and took another breath. This was important. “Well, the truth is, I can’t have children.” Trying to say the words without breaking down was hard. But it was a fact, and one that Heather had lived with for a while now. The heavy crashing waves of grief that had first hit her when she found out were slowly being reduced to small, daily sorrows that were now a part of her.
“So,” Heather continued, “it would be lovely if the man in question could have a child, it doesn’t matter how old, or how many – I love children, and it would be nice to be around them.”
Mrs. Atkinson scribbled rapidly down on the notepad and gave her a faux-smile of sympathy. Heather tried to return it, but she knew from experience that women who had children, or didn’t want children, never understood the pain of not being able to give birth. They would always make bright suggestions about UVF treatments, but Heather had tried them all. Eventually they would run out of things to say, and Heather would end up feeling like a social pariah. Some women that she’d used to circulate with, part of Bertram’s social set, had treated her like she was contagious – that infertility could be caught.
“Well – many of the men on our books are divorcees or widows, so that could be a likelihood.” Mrs. Atkinson paused, and sighed. “But, Heather, I must say – we’re unlikely to find you the caliber of man you may have been used to.” She pointedly eyed Heather’s Hermés bag. “Those type of men,” she cleared her throat and shuffled some pages on her desk, “Well, they tend to prefer women who are…let’s say, less curvy. Less, full, perhaps? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Heather’s cheeks flushed bright crimson. She looked at Mrs. Atkinson’s emaciated figure across the desk, and then looked down at her own full-to-bursting cleavage in her dress. She knew exactly what Mrs. Atkinson was trying to say – for all Heather’s breeding and attractive appearance, the men who ruled Manhattan liked their women looking like polished supermodels. Women that only ate salad leaves, had the regulation honey-blonde highlights, and vampish manicures. It was a world that Heather had tried to fit in, ever since she was a young girl. Yo-yo dieting had been her constant companion through high school, and made worse when she met Bertram – who’d insisted on buying her a gym membership and a set of scales. She had even tried to dye her deep chestnut brown hair platinum, but her beloved hairdresser had point-blank refused and stormed out in a fury at her request.
“I understand,” Heather’s tone was cooler this time, “I’m not looking for a Manhattan businessman – just a good, kind man, as I said. That’s all.”
Back on the street, Heather felt shame wash over her. The experience had been absolutely horrible, and she berated herself for thinking that it was a good idea in the first place. She felt incredibly small, embarrassed at her attempt to find a new start in life at a mail order bride service. The two glasses of Merlot that she’d consumed last night, had, at one am in the morning, been great convincers that this was an exciting, revolutionary plan that was going to be the thing she needed to turn her life around. Instead, and unsurprisingly, she chided herself, it had destroyed what little confidence she had left.
She ducked into a small coffee shop at the end of the road to recuperate her dying spirits. As it was late morning, and not yet subject to the chaos of lunchtime traffic, the atmosphere in the cafe was sleepy and welcoming. She went to order at the counter, admiring the plump and freshly baked pastries that adorned every available surface.
“Can I get you one?” the woman behind the counter beamed at her.
“Oh, no. I’m okay – they look incredible though. Is that a frosted lemon curd?” Heather pointed to one of the more elaborate creations.
“Yes! I spend all last week perfecting that recipe – it took me forever.”
“It’s really fiddly isn’t it?” Heather replied, already feeling calmer and more herself.
“Do you bake?” asked the woman at the counter.
“A little.” Heather blushed, recalling the lie she’d told earlier. “I really love baking, but sadly my fiancé didn’t approve – so I’m a bit out of touch.” Heather eyed the pastries, thinking longingly of the soft pastry dough beneath her hands, the slow and agile process of creating delicious treats from a few, simple ingredients.
“If you love it, you should get back into it.” The answer of the baker was so simple and straightforward. Of course she should do it if she loved it. Bertram leaving her may have crushed her confidence completely, but there were definite benefits to him leaving. Maybe it was time to think about what she really wanted, rather than what was expected of her.
Chloe pressed her finger down on the ‘delete’ button, watching the letters disappear from the page. It was rubbish. Sighing deeply, she changed the font type, and then the font size. She started again.
It was hard trying to sound like a grown-up. She knew exactly what she wanted to say – it was a bit like writing thank you letters, making sure you came across as polite, kind and cheerful. But as a ten-year-old girl, it was difficult to write one while pretending to be a fully-grown man.
She looked out of her window, being mindful to keep an eye on her father. He was standing in the paddock at the back of the ranch, walking one of the horses – a mare they’d recently bought who got spooked easily and was having trouble adjusting to her new stables.
Chloe’s father was so patient with animals, and they loved him for it. All the animals on the ranch flocked to him, from the chickens they kept to the bison in neighboring fields. There was even a ferocious-looking grizzly bear that wandered the outskirts of the ranch at night time, but her dad always told her she was imagining things whenever she bought it up.
He was a great dad, thought Chloe; he always seemed so strong and solid. Whenever she’d hurt her knee or arm, she knew that a few kind words from dad and his first aid kit – complete with Batman Band-Aids – would set her straight. She never needed to worry about anything when he was around.
But even Chloe knew that couldn’t last forever. Lucille, her very best friend at school, had started her period. She had told Chloe all about it in gory detail, and Chloe had almost passed out at the horror of it. Lucille had warned her that she’d be next. But her dad wouldn’t be able to help her with that – Chloe was absolutely positive that those types of emergencies weren’t going to be helped by a First Aid kit.
The only other company that they had on the ranch was Josiah and Wesley -the two ranch hands that made up their small family. Both men were loads of fun, Josiah was like a second dad and her resident sitter - always willing to play a game of Monopoly, and Wesley was a really handsome sixteen-year-old who taught her how to ride horses. But what would happen is she got her period in front of Wesley? She would want to
die
.
It had started to become increasingly apparent to Chloe that what she needed was a mom. One that would braid her hair in the mornings, in the same complicated way that Lucille’s mom did – with French plaits and ballerina buns. She had tried to educate her dad on these things, but he was next to useless – though she never told him that. Every day he tried, and every morning after dropping her off at the school gates, Chloe would run behind the bike shed and untie the lopsided attempts, leaving her hair loose for the rest of the school day.
Chloe, with renewed determination, turned her attention back to the letter. She looked at the picture of the woman the agency had sent through. She looked perfect. She couldn’t have children, so there would never need to be anyone but Chloe, and she could cook. She also had really, really kind eyes, and long, shiny hair. Her name was Heather; it was a nice name, it sounded like a woman who was good at giving hugs, someone that was nice, and kind to animals.
Before re-starting the letter, Chloe checked her list of requirements – the same one she’d given to the agency last week. It was scribbled down on a scrap of paper, kept in her jean pocket at all times. Running through the list, Chloe confirmed that it was likely Heather would check every single one – for some, like being kind to her father, she would have to wait and see.
Going back to the letter, Chloe wondered whether or not to include that fact that she thought her dad was sad without a wife. She was quite sure it was true. Sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t around, he would sit on the sofa in the evenings, staring out of the window and looked so sad – like Chloe would have looked if Lucille wasn’t around. But maybe saying her dad was sad was off putting? She decided it was.
It was an hour later when she finished. Finally, it was perfect. She retrieved her dad’s credit card from his desk drawer, and typed in his information carefully. She noticed it was
very
expensive, but if they were charging lots, Chloe reasoned, then it was more likely that Heather would be the absolute perfect mom.
Chloe pressed ‘send’ on the website, and crossed her fingers tightly. This had to work.
“Chloe – dinner!” Her dad bellowed from downstairs. She hastily shoved the credit card back in the draw and shut down the computer.
“Coming!” She yelled back, giving the room one last glance over to ensure that she hadn’t left anything out. It all looked okay. She turned to leave, not noticing the list of ideal attributes lying just behind the computer screen, gently flapping in the breeze.
“What have you been doing all day, trouble? I haven’t seen or heard a peep from you.” Her dad questioned her from his position at the kitchen counter.
“I’ve been busy dad. I had things to do.” Chloe stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the kitchen activity. “Dad. Are we having pork chops,
again
?”
“Aw, come on Chloe – you know you love it” her dad turned to her with a wink.
“No dad. I do
not
love it. Plus, we had it last night, and I didn’t like it then. And I’m going to like it less today, because it’s
leftovers
.” Chloe pursed her lips. This really wouldn’t do at all. She knew for a fact that Lucille never had leftovers, except on Sundays, and that was okay.
“Well, well, well – I can hear a princess causin’ her old man trouble.” Josiah popped his head around the screen door, and shook his cap at Chloe. “That is no way for a young lady to behave!” He ran in and started chasing her around the table. Chloe squealed in delight and ran behind her father. He laughed and grabbed her, putting Chloe back in the firing line of Josiah, “Dad!” she yelled, “help!”
Just then Wesley walked in, and Chloe abruptly stopped hollering. He towered above her, brown as a nut and shooting Chloe a huge grin. “I heard a lot of yelling coming from in here,” he eyed Chloe, “you causing mischief, Miss Chloe Holt?”
“No. No, I wasn’t. I am annoyed that we’re having pork chops,
again
. This is the fourteenth million time, and I’m sick of it.” Chloe recalled her main gripe of the evening, and stood her ground.
“Hmm” Wesley looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s a shame.” He turned back to Chloe’s father who’d started to plate out the offending chops.
Josiah looked at Wesley and agreed, “It is. It’s a shame.” The old man shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head. Chloe’s father just looked bemusedly at both men.
“What?” asked Chloe, “what’s a shame?” they all just shook their heads at her. Staying silent, Chloe folded her arms and jutted out her chin. “You have to tell me. What’s a shame?”
“Well. I don’t know if you know about Mrs. Maybelle’s fair winning cream pie…” Wesley trailed off, as Chloe gave a small yell and jumped in the air.
“Really? Wes, do you really have Maybelle pie?”
He grinned at her, “Yeah, really I do – because Josiah and I went down into town special for you, and bought it. But,” he paused, “I’m not sure you should have it, on account of you being mean about your dad’s food.”
“I’m sorry!” Chloe grabbed the proffered plate out of her father’s hands and carried it over to the kitchen table.
She ate happily, wolfing down the food. And, truth be told, it really wasn’t that bad. She wouldn’t have to put up with it for very long, she reminded herself. She could have a mom by next week, a mom who would spend all day in the kitchen creating special treats and wonderful dinners for Chloe and her dad.