Unconventional Series Collection

by Verna Clay

  Wally barked.

  "Let's go," said Abby.

  Brant lifted their six week old son from her arms. "Okay. Let's do it."

  Together the family left the cabin and followed the short trail to the sturdy oak where Molly and Ty rested in eternal peace. Jenny picked wild flowers during the stroll and when they arrived, laid a bouquet beside each stone.

  Brant nodded at Luke and he lifted his first-place certificate. "Ma and Ty, last year I won a writing contest and now the newspaper wants me to write some serialized stories for them. If it weren't for Abby, I wouldn't have this opportunity. She's a real good ma." Luke looked at his sister. "Your turn."

  Jenny laid her drawing on the space between the graves. "Ma and Ty, I've been drawing a lot and Pa and Mama Abby think I'm pretty good. I drew a picture of all of us here today. I don't feel as sad as I did before because we're all happy and you and Ty are watching from heaven." She glanced at her pa and nodded that it was his turn.

  Brant stretched his arms out with the baby. "Me and Abby have a son." His voice broke, "I loved you both so much. After your deaths, Abby made me want to live again. This life doesn't always go the way we planned, but the one thing that never changes is love. It's eternal. Molly and Ty, you are forever with us." He hugged the baby back against his heart and looked at Abby.

  Abby stepped forward. "Ty, I think of you everyday with a heart full of love. For the rest of my days I will find joy in memories of our short time together and when I leave this life, I will hold you again. Molly, I love Brant and promise to do everything in my power to fulfill my wedding vows. Although we've never met, I know you through the character you instilled in your children and the love you inspired in Brant. Thank you."

  Brant pulled Abby close to his side and Jenny and Luke stood on either side of them. Jenny bent to pick up her drawing. Suddenly, two butterflies flitted above the graves before one landed on Molly's stone and the other on Ty's. Jenny pointed to her picture and said excitedly, "There they are."

  Abby, Brant, and Luke gazed at the drawing. On each headstone a butterfly rested. After their initial shock, the hillside echoed with laughter.

  Author's Note

  When I started this story, I had no intention of it becoming a series (I think I said the same thing with the last two series). However, toward the end of writing Abby and Brant's romance, Luke began sharing how he met and fell in love with Angel. I wasn't ready to let the characters go, so I gave in to Luke's beseeching that I listen to him. When he told me that he became a Mail Order Groom, I was hooked. The fact that a woman would advertise for a husband was just too audacious!

  He even gave me the title for his book, Broken Angel. He also suggested the name of the series, Unconventional.

  In writing Luke and Angel's romance, I was able to revisit the characters from Abby: Mail Order Bride.

  Broken Angel

  Unconventional Series

  By

  Verna Clay

  This book is dedicated to those who have suffered at the hands of others.

  Broken Angel

  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:

  VernaClay@VernaClay.com

  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.

  Dear Readers,

  The character of Angel St. Clair is dear to my heart. She is truly a broken angel having suffered so much. And yet, there is a part of her that continues to dream of finding—if not happiness—at least contentment. She believes she will finally realize it in the business she has saved for years to purchase. Of course, I love the way fate intervenes with a different plan in the form of a young man named Luke Samson. If you've read book one in this series, you know that Luke went through his own suffering after the death of his mother. However, that experience molded him into the man he has become. The unwavering love of his father and stepmother changed him from a sullen, heartbroken boy into the perfect man for a broken angel.

  Verna Clay

  Chapter One: Angel in Need

  Luke Samson followed the waiter in the expensive restaurant to a tiny table for one. After a month's visit with his family in Two Rivers, a small town south of Dallas, he was ready to kick back and enjoy a steak dinner with all the trimmings. Although his stepmother had fed him well, no one prepared steaks like Porter's Steak and Ale. Every time he was in Dallas he ate at the popular restaurant.

  Dimly lit by gas lamps, a certain mysterious charm hovered over the tables and patrons. Making himself comfortable at his corner table, he stretched his long frame, thinking about the next installment of the series he was writing. His stories were in demand and he grinned, remembering how his beloved stepmother had asked him at the age of fourteen to enter a writing contest sponsored by the Philadelphia Inquirer. He had balked at her request but his father had insisted he enter. To his amazement, he had won the contest and shortly thereafter been asked to write serializations. Over the years, popularity for his adventure tales had increased and his stories were widely circulated. Generally, he wrote a twenty-part series that was eventually published in book collections of five stories each. Now, at the youthful age of twenty-five, he had amassed a small fortune.

  His waiter returned with a mug of ale and he placed his order: steak—rare, baked potato and hot bread, both dripping with butter, green beans, salad, and a large slice of his favorite dessert, apple pie.

  Settling back again, he closed his eyes and smiled, reminiscing his visit with his family. His father, as strong and active as ever, still behaved like a lovesick schoolboy around Abby, his stepmother for over ten years now. His brothers, nine year old James and seven year old Rusty, had him chuckling aloud. Had he, himself, been that mischievous?

  The only person he hadn't seen during his visit was his sister, Jenny. Now twenty-one, she had refused to marry any of the suitors who had come courting, instead choosing to travel to New York to study art at a respected academy. When his father had shown him Jenny's latest paintings, he had stood riveted by her portrayals of country scenes that always made him feel as if he could step into them.

  Taking another sip of ale, he switched his thoughts to a classified advertisement he had read that morning in the Dallas Morning News and shook his head. Never had he read anything so blatant.

  Mrs. Angel St. Clair, a widow, is seeking a husband to accompany her to California. Said husband will be paid handsomely for the escort and then released from matrimony after safely depositing Mrs. St. Clair at her destination.

  Luke shook his head. The woman must be desperate to have to advertise for a husband, and the fact that it would end in divorce, simply boggled his mind. The posting made no sense.

  Absentmindedly, he heard chairs scraping and patrons being seated behind him. He paid little attention until he heard a gentleman say, "Now, Mrs. St. Clair, may I call you Angel?"

  A woman with a voice as smooth as aged brandy said, "Mr. Pinkle, I do not seek to offend you, but I would prefer being called Mrs. St. Clair, for the time being, at least."

  The gentleman sounded slightly offended when he responded in his nasally voice. "Of course, as you wish." He continued, "Now as I was saying at our previous dinner engagement, I believe I am the perfect husband to protect you on your journey to California. I have traveled there before and I am aware of the perils that could befall a woman traveling alone. I would protect you with my life."

  Luke listened to the exchange in fascination and finall
y, not caring that it would appear rude, turned to look at the woman who had become infamous in his mind. At the same time a waiter stepped between their tables.

  Damn!

  Rather than turn back around, he waited for the attendant to set water glasses down and leave. For reasons unknown, his heart pounded. Finally, the waiter stepped aside.

  And then he saw her.

  Chapter Two: Observation

  Angel St. Clair appraised Harvey Pinkle and wanted to groan. She should have known better than to dine with him a second time. The offensive little man with lecherous eyes was mentally crossed off her list. There was no way she would allow him to escort her across country. So, now her list consisted of…no one.

  Glancing beyond Mr. Pinkle's big ears, she thanked the waiter for setting waters on their table and then noticed the waiter's own blatant appreciation of her. Sighing, she looked past him. Another patron, sitting alone, had turned to look at her. She watched his gaze slide to Mr. Pinkle and then back to her. His expression, although admiring of a beautiful woman—something she had been garnering since the age of thirteen—also held a look of censor.

  Coolly, she met his eyes. His mouth quirked and he turned back around. Angel returned her attention to Mr. Pinkle, forcing herself to appear engaged in his conversation. She reached for her water glass and sipped, allowing her gaze to travel back to the impolite cowboy with broad shoulders and hair as black as her own. Dressed in a worn suit, he had a scraggly look about him, and rugged features for someone so young. Although not handsome in the classical sense, he had a magnetism that she knew would draw women like flies. He's probably just come off the range and saved enough money to buy one expensive meal.

  Being an observer of people, a necessity forced on Angel after years of abuse, both physically and mentally by men who wanted to possess her because of her beauty, something she neither wanted nor went out of her way to enhance, she considered the cowboy. Wrinkling her forehead, she was surprised by her inability to read him.

  "Have I said something to offend you, Mrs. St. Clair?" Harvey Pinkle reached his hand to cover hers.

  Cringing inwardly, Angel gently removed her hand and placed it in her lap. "Not at all, Mr. Pinkle. Please go on telling me about yourself."

  The odious man grinned widely and continued his dissertation of all of his accomplishments, as if they would protect her on her journey to California. For the next half hour she listened to Mr. Pinkle's boastings while the cowboy remained with his back to her, although she did have the feeling he was listening to their conversation.

  Finally, the dark haired young man pushed back his chair and stood, picked up his tab, laid down a generous tip, and turned around, his eyes engaging hers in a steady stare. Instead of sliding her eyes shyly sideways, as rules of decorum would dictate, she returned his gaze and watched his lips quirk, as if he were holding back laughter. When he passed her table, Angel was struck by the blueness of his eyes and the amusement in them. She took offense and gave him her most censorious look. At the last moment, he smiled widely, and then he was gone.

  A strange sense of loneliness flooded Angel and she tried to shake it off. He was very young, very insolent, and she wouldn't think about him. She turned her attention back to Mr. Pinkle and sighed.

  Chapter Three: Reply

  Luke exited Porter's Steak and Ale with his heart pounding. Mrs. St. Clair was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. At a glance, her name, Angel, befit her appearance. However, upon closer inspection, there was a sadness one would not associate with an angel. Chronologically, he guessed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties; emotionally, her eyes revealed disillusionment for one so young. They also revealed that she often dealt with admirers, but there had been no flirtiness in her emerald gaze.

  Returning to his hotel, Luke stopped by the bar and ordered a brandy before entering his room to write the next installment of his latest adventure. He had a deadline to meet, but he had set writing obligations aside while visiting his family, preferring to enjoy every minute with them.

  After a page, he set his ink quill down because persistent images of Angel St. Clair kept interfering with his thought processes. Why was she seeking a husband for protection? Why was she traveling to San Francisco? How long had she been a widow?

  Luke shuffled papers around on the desk looking for the newspaper and then located the classified section, rereading the ad. Pursing his lips, he made a decision within the span of a heartbeat. His inquisitive nature would not allow him to do otherwise until he discovered the answers to those questions. Reaching for an envelope, he addressed it to the post office box in the advertisement and then selected his best stationary for writing his reply.

  Mrs. St. Clair,

  It is with amusement that I read your advertisement. But, please, do not think my amusement is directed at you. It is directed at a society that has no issue with a man seeking a wife through mail order, but highly critiques a woman who does the same. At first, I felt that same censor, however, upon reflection; I find that I am very curious as to your request.

  As for the qualities required to fulfill your need for a short-term husband, I possess youth, strength, and I certainly hope, intelligence. I look forward to your reply. You may leave correspondence for me at the desk of the Winthrop Hotel.

  Most Sincerely,

  Luke Samson

  Luke enclosed the letter in the envelope and laughed all the way to the concierge desk for delivery to the post office.

  Chapter Four: Response

  Angel sat in front of her vanity brushing midnight black tresses that fell below her waist. If she had one conceit, it was her hair. She knew her looks always drew attention and had often heard herself described as exotically beautiful, but life had hardened her to those kinds of compliments. She did however, enjoy brushing and caring for her hair. Rarely did anyone see its glory because she kept it covered under bonnets or hats and rolled into a bun.

  Laying her brush aside and avoiding a glance into her own eyes in the mirror, something she was wont to do because of the pain always reflected back, she reached for the letter that had arrived that morning. Opening the expensively crisp paper, she read again the strange reply to her advertisement. Written in beautiful script and signed by Luke Samson, she wondered about a man who could write such heartfelt words. Of course, maybe they weren't heartfelt. Maybe he was a master of manipulation like all the other men in her life, except her father, had been.

  Did she want to respond to his letter? Her intelligence told her no, but her curiosity gained a foothold over her actions. Walking to the desk in her inexpensive hotel room, she reached for stationary that in no way came near the quality of the paper used by Mr. Samson. Grazing her fingers over his name, she considered her reply.

  Mr. Samson,

  How to respond to your letter, I am unsure. What you write is true; however, I sense a tone of great jest in your words. Perhaps my advertisement is unconventional, but my need for accompaniment to California is not.

  I must admit, however, that against my better judgment, I will meet with you to discuss the particulars of my classified.

  Tomorrow, at four o'clock, I will wait for you at the entrance to Porter's Steak and Ale. If you are two minutes late, I will leave. You may buy my dinner while we discuss your "amusement" of my request.

  I will be wearing a blue dress with black trim and matching hat.

  —Mrs. Angel St. Clair

  Chapter Five: Wine and Dine

  Angel stood outside Porter's Steak and Ale appearing calm on the exterior, but overwhelming nervousness twisted inside her chest. By nature, she was a reticent and shy woman, but she camouflaged those traits because years of abuse had shown her the disadvantage of having others aware of her gentle disposition. Plagued by second thoughts for having replied to Mr. Samson's unusual letter, she wanted to flee back to her hotel, but she would hold to her word and give him two minutes in which to show himself.

  A man with a famili
ar look approached and it only took her a second to place him—the insolent cowboy from three nights previous. Tonight, however, he was immaculately dressed in a tailored dark gray suit that made him appear even taller and more wide-shouldered. His hair, although still touching his collar, was neatly combed.

  Angel turned her back on him and noticed another gentleman approaching from the opposite direction. This must be Mr. Samson. The gentleman merely gave her an appreciative once over, smiled, and walked past her.

  "Mrs. St. Clair," said a voice from behind her.

  Her gut clenched. No. That can't be him!

  Composing her features, she turned slowly around and stared into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. "M-Mr. Samson?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  For a second, Angel lost herself in the depths of his ocean eyes, but recovered quickly. "Is this some kind of a joke?" she asked haughtily.

  "No, ma'am."

  Angel nervously played with the drawstring of her reticule. Unexpectedly, she asked, "How old are you?"

  "Twenty-five. How old are you, ma'am?"

  Angel's eyes widened at the man's impudence. "I can assure you, I am much older than you. I bid you goodnight, sir." She turned to leave, but a gentle hand on her forearm stopped her.

  "Please, let me assure you I have no hidden motive in replying to your classified. It is as I said, I am merely curious. If you find me to be odious during dinner, you may leave and I will not stop you. Please, dine with me."