ROMANCE: MAIL ORDER BRIDE: The Other Man’s Baby (A Clean Christian Historical Western) (New Adult Inspirational Pregnancy Romance)

by Joyce Wright

  “Thank you,” he said solemnly, with only his twinkling eyes to reveal his appreciation of her efforts. “Miss Violet and I are grateful to you.”

  Beside him, Violet made a sound. He looked at her, but she was avoiding his eyes and knowing the reason why stirred the desire in him. He knew that if they shared a glance now, they’d both recall that kiss by the creekside as her hair fell in surrender.

  Chapter Five

  Lily had helped ready Violet for bed, and she was, just as he’d expected, waiting in a long white nightgown, her hair falling over her shoulders in thick bronze waves. He undressed in front of her in the dusk that clothed him in soft shadows until he approached the bed where she waited.

  He pulled the sheets away. The night was pleasant; he was glad he had married in the autumn and not in the high summer.

  “Miss Violet,” he began. “I’m honored that you’re my wife. Do you think . . . would I be offending you if I asked you to take off that nightgown so that I can enjoy the rest of the sight of you?”

  She drew in her breath. “Mr. ---Lucas. I’m not a . . . “

  He looked at her sharply. “Have you been with another man, Miss Violet?”

  “No!” she looked at him in disbelief. “Whatever makes you think such a think?”

  “You said, ‘Lucas, I’m not a ---‘ and any man would finish the sentence same as I did,” he replied, leaning his head on his raised elbow. His fingers played with the buttons of her nightgown. There were a lot of buttons. One by one, he opened each of them. Violet didn’t seem to be breathing as he did so, her lungs holding in the air as if she couldn’t release any of it.

  Finally, the last button was freed, and gently he pushed the nightgown away from her shoulders. “What were you going to say, Miss—what were you going to tell me, Violet?”

  “I was going to say that I’m not little and beautiful like my sister Rose was.”

  Desire gripped him at the sight of her body and its lush curves. “I didn’t marry your sister Rose,” he answered, his words muffled as he buried his face into the bared flesh that was exposed by her unbuttoned nightgown. “I reckon I’m a lucky man.”

  The night was too short for all that he’d longed to do with her, and for her rapturous response to the tutelage of his hands. By the time morning came, they knew each other in an intimacy that spurred each to more seeking of the other. But they had a train to catch.

  Lily was at the buckboard to drive them to the station. Her sharp eyes noticed that familiarity had replaced reserve and that the secret glances they shared when they thought no one was looking were wise with the ways of a man and a woman. She refrained from any salty comments because there was something precious about the newness of physical love. That purity of passion would deepen into something that wasn’t quite so delicate, but it would be better. Children came from it, but also perception. Women knew men in ways that their menfolk couldn’t even imagine, she thought as Josie lifted Rosie into Violet’s lap, and then Rendell into Lucas’ waiting arms.

  “Pray to God they stay tired until you’re back home,” Lily advised.

  The twins didn’t, of course, stay asleep for the train ride. They were awake before boarding got underway, but Lucas entertained them for a while with his pocket watch. When the interest in that ebbed, Violet played pat-a-cake with them. Violet had packed food and the twins ate cornbread and drank from Lucas’ canteen. After eating, they napped; Lucas and Violet conversed in low voices while the children slept.

  “Cattle and hogs,” he answered when Violet asked for more information about the ranch. “And pecan trees. The round-up is done, the cattle are delivered to market, the butchering is done, and the nuts are gathered. The boys and I will fix up the fences, tend to the stock, and make repairs where we need to. I like winter,” he told her. “It’s mild in West Texas. There’s still lots of work to be done, but it seems more restful.”

  “Pecans . . . do you like pecan pie?”

  “I like what they make at Miss Luna’s Restaurant,” he said.

  “And who’s Miss Luna?” she asked.

  Lucas leaned back, moving slowly so that Rendell didn’t waken. “Only the best cook in West Texas,” he said, watching her to see if Violet would rise to the bait. “Her flapjacks are so light that you’ve eaten ten of them before you realize that you can’t get up from the table unless you unbutton your britches first. Her johnnycake, well, it’s about the finest around. And then there’s her—“

  Violet put her hand over his mouth. “I’ll make you my kiss pudding tomorrow and you’ll forget everything that Miss Luna ever put on your plate,” she promised.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is,” she said determinedly. He noticed that she had quite a confident chin. He liked that. It showed that although she was gentle, she was strong and she knew her own mind.

  “You’re on. Kiss pudding tomorrow and come Saturday, I’ll take you into town to sample Miss Luna’s cooking.”

  Violet leaned closer so that she could whisper in his ear. “I’ll be doing the cooking on Saturday night.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. And since we’re wedded, you won’t have to leave your six bits for the meal.”

  Lucas’ grin spread slow and easy across his face. “Amazing what a man gets for free once he’s married that he used to have to pay for,” he said, just to tease her.

  Violet turned scarlet. Lucas burst into laughter, catching the attention of the other travelers, but also waking up Rendell, and then Rosie. That signaled an end to flirtatious conversation because the twins had eaten and slept and they had energy to spare that couldn’t be distracted by games or a bright, shiny gold watch chain. Lucas was relieved when the train pulled into town and Violet, her hair coming undone and her hat off center on her head, looked as if she were just as ready for the traveling to end.

  Lyle was there to meet them with the wagon. He tipped his hat to Violet. “Mrs. Jackson,” he said. “The boys’ll be glad to meet you.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting you all as well,” she told him.

  Lyle and Lucas loaded the baggage into the wagon. Lyle manned the reins while the married couple kept the twins under control. The twins wanted out of the wagon; they wanted to touch the horses. Lyle came under their unblinking scrutiny but Lyle was impervious to their stares as he maintained the contest the longest and then Rosie gave up. They were hungry, but they didn’t want the food that Violet had prepared. They wanted bread.

  “I’ll bake bread tomorrow,” Violet said. She turned to Lucas. “Do you have flour?”

  Lucas had carefully stocked the pantry with everything at the general store that Beckie Trellis, the Colonel’s wife, had told him a woman would need in order to keep a good kitchen. There was flour, sugar, salt, molasses, spices, corn meal, raisins, butter, salt and pepper. The eggs could be gotten from his chickens and milk from his dairy cows, in addition to pork and beef from his livestock. He’d bought preserves from Janice Wiltshire, the sheriff’s widow, who made a little pin money with her strawberry and peach jam. From some of the other ladies in town, he’d purchased the vegetables that they’d canned so that Violet wouldn’t have to worry about a garden. She might want to try one in the spring, but over the winter, they would have enough food. The pans were new. He’d even bought two new aprons, an extravagance since she could sew and probably had her own, but they were bright and new.

  “There’s flour,” he said.

  Violet, hearing the anticipation in his voice, studied him intently. He didn’t intend to revela how much it meant to be able to have a wife who asked him if there was flour in the pantry; how he could explain to her that the simple things that came with marriage were what he wanted more than anything.

  “Good,” she said finally, unable to discern the reason for his contented tone of voice. “I want to do a lot of baking.”

  “Best take it slow,” he said. “The twins aren’t going to be patient for too long.”


  “I’ll bake while they go down for a nap,” she said confidently.

  Lucas doubted if they’d stay down long enough for Violet to accomplish everything that she intended to do, but he wasn’t going to be the one to dash her hopes. For him, it would be enough if there was fresh bread baking when he came in for supper, and three people waiting for him at the table.

  Chapter Six

  “Boss,” Lyle said after he and Lucas had brought Violet’s trunks into the house and she was tending to the twins, “the boys wanted to do a little serenadin’ tonight. I’m thinking I’d better tell them no?”

  A shivaree. He wasn’t surprised that the boys had something in mind, but Lyle was right. If the twins were successfully gotten to sleep, he’d probably take his Winchester to anyone who woke them up.

  “Good idea, Lyle. These two are raring to go. Tell them that I’d appreciate it if they hold back on the celebrating. When Violet gets her bearings, she’ll be baking and cooking and I think they’ll find that’s the better part of the trade.”

  It was dark by the time the twins were in their bed; there was a small bedroom next to his that he’d realized was ideal for the children, close enough but with privacy for a married couple in the room next door. After they were in bed, he and Violet went out onto the porch where the air was cool. Violet put on a shawl.

  “Cold?”

  She shook her head and laid her head on his shoulder. He’d built the porch swing shortly after finishing the house; it was a dream finally answered to having someone else sitting next to him.

  He put his arm around her anyway, even if she wasn’t cold. She seemed to like it; he felt her cuddle closer to him.

  “Boys wanted to give us a shivaree,” he told her. “Lyle is telling them no.”

  Violet shuddered. “I’m glad of that. After getting the twins down for the night, I don’t think I’d think very kindly of anyone waking them. Will I meet them tomorrow?”

  “Yep. And then on Sunday, you’ll meet the folks at church. They’ll be looking forward to meeting you.”

  “The twins . . . aren’t always well behaved during worship,” she said tentatively.

  “Really?”

  She heard the laughter in his voice and turned to look up at him, relieved. “You’re not angry?”

  “At the shenanigans of a pair of two year olds? Why would I be angry?”

  “Do you ever get angry?”

  “Sometimes. Everyone gets angry. Jesus got angry. I don’t have the cause he had, but I reckon he forgives me, and he’ll forgive the little hellions for acting up in church.”

  “It’s not Jesus’ forgiveness I fear for, it’s the others.”

  “They’ll learn. It would be worse if we didn’t bring them to church.”

  By the time Saturday night came, Lucas had conceded that his wife’s flapjacks were better than Miss Luna’s, and that she could serve her kiss pudding every day of the week and he’d never tire of it. She hadn’t done as much baking as she’d intended, just as he’d expected, due to the twins activities, but she’d triumphantly brought two apple pies, fresh from the oven, down to the cabin where the hands lived and the results had been better than she’d hoped. The men agreed that apple pies as a thank you for denying themselves the pleasure of a shivaree for the wedding couple was ample repayment. The hands had followed her back to the porch where Lucas was sitting, the twins at his feet playing with a mound of unshelled pecan nuts.

  “Hey, Boss,” said Rock, scooping up all of the filling that had oozed out of the sides of his pie, “reckon this will be the year that the Baptist ladies win the pie-baking contest?”

  The hands were clustered around the porch, on the steps and leaning against the fence eating their pie. Lucas was on the porch and Violet filling the cups with fresh coffee.

  Lucas patted his stomach. “Could be.”

  “What’s this about a pie-baking contest?” Violet asked after the last cup had been filled.

  “Every year, the church ladies have a pie-baking contest to raise the money for a tent revival with a traveling preacher the following year,” Lucas explained.

  “And every year,” Rock continued, “the Methodists win.”

  “Who does the judging?” Violet asked.

  “Judging is fair,” Lucas said, sipping his coffee. She made good coffee; that was certain. “There’s a Chinaman, Li Quan; he’s a judge, along with Harvey Cohen, who runs the dry goods store, and the padre, Father Benedict. They’ve got no dog in this fight.”

  “But every year, the Methodists win.”

  “They make the best pies,” Lyle said logically.

  Lucas leaned against the back of the porch swing, making it move in a slow, easy motion. “They used to,” he said.

  The men set up a roar. Violet was smiling, her blue-green-gold eyes gazing at him as if he’d just said something so wise and wonderful that she’d remember it forever.

  She was nervous the next morning, he could tell. The twins were washed to within an inch of their lives, their cheeks ruddy with her efforts. She had fed them before she dressed them in clean dresses that she’d sewed for them before her marriage. They sat quietly enough in the wagon; Lucas had sat each child in turn on the horses and the experience had both daunted and thrilled them enough to silence them along the ride.

  “Don’t fret,” Lucas told her as they arrived at church just as the bell was tolling and the last of the arrivals were straggling in. “We’ll sit in the back. If they get too rambunctious, I’ll take them outside.”

  “People will think I can’t manage children,” she worried as they went inside.

  The Baptist church was the oldest church in town and its pews were filled with the Sunday faithful. The worshippers turned as they heard latecomers enter, their frowns replaced by smiles when they saw Lucas Jackson and his wife and the twins entering. There seemed to be children in every pew, Violet noticed with relief. They couldn’t possibly all be little angels.

  The enthusiastic singing of the hymns was loud enough to drown out Rosie’s querulous demand for Lucas’ watch chain. By the time the sermon got underway, the twins, one on Violet’s lap, the other on Lucas’ knee, were diverting themselves with ribbons that Violet had taken from her hat; it was better to ruin the hat, she decided, than risk the twins at full volume in church.

  The preacher was energetically detailing the terrors of hell to his congregation, warning them of the trials that awaited them if they followed the paths of sin. Rosie and Rendell, their attention captured by his vivid presence, leaned forward so that they could see and hear him as he moved, exhorted, raised his arms to the heavens and cried out to God for mercy. Lucas and Violet smiled at each other, their relief apparent.

  When the service ended, the congregation clustered around to meet the Violet and the children. She noticed that the other children were just as lively as the twins and on the way home, she commented on this to Lucas.

  “Did you think they’d be otherwise?” he asked, amused at the thought of children behaving in church. “When I was a boy, my Pa used to slap my hands when I started wriggling where I sat. I couldn’t wait for church to be over. To tell the truth, I still feel that way, but Preacher Logan was fired up today.”

  “I don’t care if he preaches on the end of the world every week until the twins are old enough to sit still,” Violet declared. “I’ll sit through fire and brimstone; it’s preferable to them crawling under the pews.”

  “Under the pews?” Lucas repeated, entertained at the thought. “Wish I’d seen that.”

  “I hope to never see it again!” Violet said fervently. “I don’t know how they got away from me. One minute I was looking up for the next line of the hymn, the next minute I saw Rendell’s bottom disappearing under the pew in front of me.”

  There was going to be a church supper on Wednesday after the service ended. Lucas casually suggested that she bring a pie to the dinner. That night in bed, they plotted like conspirators, Lucas joining in with alacri
ty as they considered which of her recipes would be the most likely to take away the pie-baking crown from the Methodists.

  Chapter Seven

  The preacher was not warning his flock about the horrors of a life in eternal torment when he preached on Wednesday night. But the Jackson pew was shared by another couple with a young child, easing Violet’s foreboding about the hour of worship. She noticed that the young mother surreptitiously fed her little boy raisins when he became restless, which had the effect of diverting his attention from his own boredom to the appeal of the treats his mother doled out, one by one. Violet resolved to do the same for the following Sunday with the twins.