Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) (90 page)

“I love you too, Cowboy—dang me, but I do,” she told him, adding as she reached forward to sear his carved cheek with an affirming kiss, “And yes, I will marry you.”

*****

Abigail felt as though she was floating in a dream, most literally.

Never had she imagined herself ensconced in a frock of such regal ivory finery; but indeed, the wedding gown that she now wore was a study in elegance. This white lace ball gown was culled from pure organza trimmed at the top with a fitted boned bodice and engraved lines of vertical ivory lace. A flowing train and an antique veil completed the look, as well as delicate satin slippers that took her through the door of the Dovecrest Chapel, a small but elaborate place of worship that would serve as the site of a wedding that day.

Staring with quiet admiration at the ebullient stained glass windows that lined all sides of the chapel, the bride stepped
onto
a plush scarlet carpeted aisle that took her slowly in the direction of the man she loved.

Cal himself shone resplendent in a sleek, brown, wool, davenport coat with a black, velvet collar and matching trousers, an ensemble accented by a silver, brocade vest and an ebony cravat with a gleaming diamond pin.

Another diamond glittered on Abigail’s finger moments later, as she and Cal faced a brass bordered altar lined with a wreath of resplendent yellow roses.

Inspecting this lush floral display with an analyzing eye, Abigail cocked her head as she whispered to her groom, “These flowers were taken from our ranch, yes? Well they are lovely, but I’ve been thinking that we might try a new brand of seed….”

She broke off as her impatient groom silenced her with a binding kiss.

“Hush up and marry me already, sweet Abigail.”

Abigail thought a moment, then nodded.

“All right then. Have it your own dag gum way,” she relented, adding as she took her husband’s hand and turned with him in the direction of the altar, “Ring first, seed later. One thing I know for sure, for you and me Cal, there will always be roses.”

       All things seemed possible with love.

     This was the admittedly sentimental but nonetheless overpowering notion that struck the mind of Amy Phillips as she strode gracefully and free between two rows of golden corn; walking with the same light and joyful steps that had guided her movements a year before, when she’d strode down a flower strewn aisle to meet and mate with the man who now awaited her at the border of their field.

     Although now dressed in practical denim as opposed to lavish wedding finery, she and husband Vance still looked at one another with the greatest love and tender passion.

     These intense, all-consuming emotions had parlayed themselves into a beautiful shared life; a blessed existence that had seen the purchase of an expansive plot of land in the heart of Austin, Texas, as well as a pregnancy that promised to spread their love and prosperity to a second generation.

     Joining hands now with the tall slender blond man she called her wedded husband, Amy used her free hand to stroke the belly that seemed to grow larger with every passing day—and, somehow, she didn’t mind one bit.

     “Are you ready to cease for just a few moments, love, so we can head back to the ranch house and have our lunch?” she asked, eyebrows arched as her husband leaned forward to grace her fair cheek with an affirming kiss.

     Vance nodded.

     “We have just a few more rows of corn to harvest,” he reminded her, adding as he cocked his handsome head in a show of keen concern, “Why don’t you let me shuck them while you go back to the house? You look as though you could use some rest.”

     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, 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 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.