Montana (Modern Mail Order Bride Book 2) (8 page)

For the first time in her life, the word minuscule popped into her head. In the vastness of the land, a speck of hum life stood in the middle of 10 square miles of Western beauty.

“This is amazing,” she said aloud.  So amazing words to describe it needed to be cast upon paper, or in her case, a screen.  She set her coffee on the porch railing while she ran inside the house to fetch her tablet. Pecola returned to the porch, leaned back in the rocker, and propped up her feet to begin a new story. Nimble fingers flew across the keys as the words filled the page.

Time slipped away from her as she lost herself inside of the wagon of Luella Parsimony on her western trip to the great state of Oregon to meet her new husband.  A smile formed on Pecola’s lips as the idea of Luella’s wagon breaking down on the outskirts of Randolph Johnson’s land in Montana territory.
What if
...

Her thoughts were interrupted by an adorable foal running across the front yard followed closely by its mother. The older gentleman who was in the barn also came around the side of the house.

“Hey there, Mrs. Johnson,” Pap said with a wry twist of his lips.

“Hiya,” she said back.  She checked her dress tail to make sure it was down. “Is that a boy or a girl foal there?”

Pap looked at her hard, getting a solid look at her face minus vomit. He tried desperately to clean up his language.  He used some of the fancy talk Billy Joe used when he talked to the bankers. “That thar is a boy.  I
garunbetcha
that one’s gonna to make a nice stallion when he gets on up there a bit, but first, that little man needs a name.”

She watched the gangly-legged animal trot across the grass.  His movements were nearly as lyrical as the four knobby legs.  “His name is Amadeus,” she said to Pap.

“I thought you were going to go for something more literary,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“No, Amadeus is perfect,” she said to him.

“Good enough,” Pap said and he led the horses around the side of the house out of sight.

“Where was I?” she mumbled, trying to get back into her story.  Another interruption came in the form of her husband.

“I swear, Honey if I don’t kiss your right now, I just might die next to your feet,” he said to her.

Pecola looked over her shoulder to see him standing there watching her.

B
illy Joe’s thoughts ran to his wife all morning, pretty much hindering him from doing anything other than almost getting himself killed three times.  It was Pap’s idea to bring the foal around the house after he noticed her sitting on the front porch typing.  Writing.  Putting together sexy words that he would ask her to read to him later.  In her letters, she told him she was a romance writer, but he never bothered to ask what her pen name was.  He had searched under her actual name and found nothing.

“Hi there.  Is it lunch time already?  I completely lost track of time,” she said, gathering her things.  “This land is amazing. It is so inspiring.  I think I cranked out 3,000 words from just walking out on the front porch.  I can see authors paying a pretty penny to come out here to have a month or so in residence to write,” she told him.

Grinning at him, she added, “We could hire a cook, roll in a couple of prefab cabins by the lake, throw in a few generators, and charge like five grand a month!”

The expression on his face was blank.  He was frozen in his spot and had not moved. His eyes searched her face.

“William?” she asked, touching his chest with her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend or insult you or your family’s legacy.”

That wasn’t the issue. 

It was the furthest thing from a problem.

“Come here,” he said in a husky voice.

Since she was standing so close to him, she had to ask, “Come where?  I am already here.”  She stood on her toes to kiss him on the nose.  At least she tried.  He yanked her into his arms, his lips covering hers, kissing her until her knees felt weak.  The powerful thighs rubbing against hers and the feel of his heat against her body made her light headed. Her knees buckled.

“Honey, have you eaten anything today?” he wanted to know as he stopped kissing her long enough to get out the question.

“I had a biscuit with a piece of ham,” she said, clinging to him.

“You need more than that to sustain all of this sexy little body of yours,” he told her with a mild grin.

“I’m planning to have something more with you during lunch and I was going to make a hearty dinner,” she told him.  “I don’t want any more chicken or pork chops.  I marinated a couple of steaks for the evening meal.”

“Come here, I want to show you something,” he told her.  Billy Joe gently tugged at her hand, bringing her into the kitchen toward the room with the locked door.  The key ring which jangled from his pocket, he pulled out to open the door.  When he flicked on the light, she broke into laughter.

“Is this your writing room?” she asked him.  The room had bookshelves from ceiling to floor on three walls and one bare wall with the exception of a corkboard for planning.  On it were several drawings of cabins and a conference room center.

“Is that a lodge?”  she asked him.

“Yep.  My vision for this place is to sell off all the cattle with the exception of maybe two dozen or so and turn this into a writer’s haven,” he said to her.  His cheeks had pinked up when he started to speak. Pecola took a seat in the writer’s chair as he spoke.

“These books mostly belonged to my Ma.  In the long winters, she would read to my brother Chad and me every night before bed.  I loved the stories and dreamed of being a writer myself, but I ended up teaching and never getting that novel finished,” he confessed.

“How far along are you with your story?”

“I am only 40,000 words in and man, it is a snoozer.  I am heavy in all of this pretty prose that says nothing.  I need to scrap it and start over,” he told her.

“Maybe a fresh set of eyes can help you flush it out,” she told him.  “Tell me about this writer’s retreat.”

Thick calloused fingers ran through the thick black hair. “You actually tapped the nail on the head with the cabins, the generators and all, but I never thought about charging $5,000 a pop!”

“For a whole month?  And to have meals delivered to your door twice a day while you write? No television, no internet, just a butt in a chair and writing.  The cabins can be simple like a nun’s cell, nothing fancy.  A desk, a chair, and corkboard or chalkboard wall for plotting. I would pay it to get away and get my novel complete,” she told him.

“I was thinking something different.  Maybe morning yoga in the lodge for any who are interested...” he started to say.

“You do yoga?”

He crinkled his brows, “Do I look like I do yoga?  But those writer types would love it.  Maybe a smoothie bar in the lodge or a continental breakfast.  Group dinners and afternoon games or roleplaying for character development.”

“I love it.  Instead of having dinner delivered to the cabins, each cabin has a golf cart and they must come to the lodge for evening meals to close out the writing day with wine and socializing if they want it,” she told him.  Suddenly excited, she had moved closer to him.

“We have to have the internet in the lodge and reference books, like a small library or something,” he told her.

“But no Wi-Fi access on the ranch.  They have to come to the lodge to use the internet.  The cabins are for writing only,” she said.  “William, I think this could work. Lots of details and planning to do, but I think it will work.”

He touched a lock of her hair. Rolling it in his fingers, he asked, “You know what else works, Honey?”

She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek.  “You calling me William.  Ma named me after Shakespeare.  I always hated the name, but the way you say it makes me feel...I don’t know...bigger.”

Something else was getting bigger as he talked to her.  She changed the subject. “Hey, are those books by Montana Hart?”

The entire collection of her library was on his shelf.  “Actually, those belong to me,” he said blushing.  “When I signed up with the mail order bride agency, I ordered all of her books you know...to get an idea what women were reading about mail order brides.”

Her curiosity was piqued, “What did you think of her books?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly.”

“I think that woman has never been out west a day in her life and she doesn’t know a damned thing about men, but the writing is good.”

It was her turn to stand in the middle of the floor and look dumbfounded.  She picked up a copy of
Westerly Ho!
She also held up one finger as she went into the bedroom to retrieve her purse.  She returned with a set of fake eyelashes, a tube of lip gloss and her cell phone.  Using her phone she applied the fake lashes and lip gloss.  Billy Joe watched her, saying nothing.  Next, she pulled the French braids from her hair, mussing it with her fingertips, and then added a headband.  He said nothing as she snapped a selfie with and without a smile. 

Pecola handed him the phone with the now black and white photos.  She also passed over a copy of the book with the back flap opened.  In it, she showed him the author photo.

It didn’t register immediately what he was seeing. He stared at the cell phone photo for a while, then at the book photo for a minute before looking at up her. She smiled like she had in the photo.  Now, she pulled a copy of her book,
The Oregon Trail Master
, handing it to him with the back page opened to an unsmiling photo of Montana Hart.

“Hell, Pecola, this here is you!”  He said in disbelief.

“Yes hell, it is William,” she responded.

His lips were pressed tightly together as he paused to chew on the bottom one.  “As I said, you write really well, but you don’t know a damned thing about men!”

“As proven by my vomiting, I don’t know anything about Western living either,” she told him.

Loud laughter filled the room as they shared stories about her books even when they entered the kitchen to have lunch.  Over lunch, they spoke of plots, themes, and writing for a living.  The awkwardness she had felt about him before had all but left her and was replaced with a new feeling of comfort.

“William,” she asked, “How soon would you like to open this lodge writing retreat thingy?”

He sipped at the lemonade he’d made for them.  “As I said this morning, it depends on you.  I can’t see trying to make sure cabins are delivered when I am worried about being too far from the house when our son needs to be delivered.”

The expression on her face was priceless. “Are you talking about delivering our child yourself?”

His head was cocked. “Delivering an eight pound, the two-legged human is a helluva lot easier than a 100 pound four-legged anything!”

“How many children have you delivered?”

“About twenty-five, I reckon,” he said calmly.

“Twenty-five!  What, are you an obstetrician as well?”

“No, Honey, but we’re pretty remote.  Doctors are hard to get out to these parts. I am the backup midwife or doula for the county.”

“Aren’t you full of surprises? What else have you not told me?” she asked him.

“Saturday is a barn raising over at the Gibbons place.  Then there’s a dance that evening.  We usually pack up everything for the day, a picnic, change of clothing, and a small tent, to head over and spend the day. If it gets too late, we stay the night in the tent.  I have cots and everything,” he told her.

“A tent.  In what a field?” she questioned.

“Yup.  Pretty much.  There are inside facilities that can be used for the call of nature, but mostly, we wash off in a tub in the tent and get changed before the dance,” he told her.

“All the men are helping with the barn raising while the women folk exchange recipes,” she said sarcastically.

“Yup.  Hopefully, you make a few friends. On some weekends, we can meet up and play cards or have them over for dinner or something,” he said to her.

This is where her hands began to sweat. Delicate questions always bothered her especially when race was involved. “How many new friends in the county will look like me?”

“No one in the county looks anything like you, all cute as a button and smart as a whip,” he said.

“That is not what I am asking.”

“Then what are you asking me, Honey?”

A loud gust of air bellowed out her nostrils.  He knew what she was asking.  He knew what she wanted to know.
Fine
.

“How many people in the county are black?”

“Just you, Honey.  As I said this morning, you and I are about to turn this part of Montana on its ear.  Our children, and our children’s children are going to be the new face of what this region will stand for...what the Rocking J will stand for...what our brand will mean.”

“What will it mean to you, William?”

“It means that diversity is a way of life and we are a part of the new America.  Our children are the new America and the new generation of storytellers,” he said to his wife.

That was a vision that worked for her and it worked well. Building a new life and future with him would definitely give a new richness to her writing. She was anxious to also read some of his words.

What variety of storyteller are you, William?

H
is warm leg touched her thigh, pressing closer against her in the bed. Pecola pretended to be asleep as if that was going to help her situation.  It wasn’t as if she wasn’t attracted to him; she was more attracted to his brain. The body was awesome as well, but sexually, he had not awakened the woman in her. He was ready for some jostling, but she was only ready for some form of rest.  Truthfully, she wanted to get back up and write, but that would probably hurt his feelings more than the upcoming rejection was going to do.

“Pecola,” he whispered.  Feathery light kisses were planted along her arm in the darkened room as her husband moved closer, his excitement pressing into her back.  “Will you have me tonight?”

When he said it like that, she felt guilty. 
I am his wife.  I am supposed to take care of him.  He has worked hard all day and all I did was write a chapter then made some pasta for dinner. I don’t want him inside of me again until
... She didn’t know what she would need to push the lovemaking forward.