Three under the Mistletoe: A Christmas Menage Romance (Christmas Billionaire Menage Series Book 1)

by Tia Siren

  Joyce licked her lips and moved closer to him. She put one hand up on his chest, and he put his hand over hers. “I will not leave you, Tom, if I can help it. You can’t stay in mourning forever. You must pursue happiness. You can’t expect it to just come to you.”

  He nodded. “In this case, I think it did. You have come. You will help me feel better. I am blessed to have you. So is Ellie.”

  “God has blessed us both, Tom. He gave us both what we didn’t know we needed.”

  *****

  THE END

  The Expectation of Love – A Clean Western Historical Romance

  All things seemed possible with love.

  This was the admittedly sentimental but nonetheless overpowering notion that struck the mind of Amy Phillips. She strode gracefully and freely 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 tenderest 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 expectant, 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 all of my daily duties on the ranch I helped plant.” She paused here, adding as she raised a slender finger for emphasis, “Remember this, 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 brightly as her husband returned to his work, Amy turned into 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, as a loud, distressing thump resounded just behind her; forcing her to turn and bear witness to a nightmarish scene.

  Her beloved husband, lively and animated moments earlier, now lay still and unconscious on the ground below him; 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 the fact that Vance’s father and uncle both had 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 full to 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 muscled 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 skinned 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 through long, hot days; her only assistant a frail older aunt who resided alone on a 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 ginger above a tassel of corn as she clutched her weary back with a wan, tired hand. “I simply cannot manage this ranch all by my lonesome, and I know not where else to turn.”

  Grace thought a moment, 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 tend it. I just need a bit of help, that is 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 wish only 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 in my own.”

  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, then 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’s inspection; unfolding the page to reveal a classified advertisement with an intriguing headline marked mail order bride.

  “Ladies,” the ad read, its message conveyed in dark bold letters that shone prominently on the page. “Need you 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 shall 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 myself 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 up 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 for her niece’s inspection, “Surely you will not wish 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 daily paper, Auntie?” she asked Grace, tone snide and disbelieving. “Especially if these words are written in the context of a purchased 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 gent 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 departed Ma and Pa raised me to be a proper lady—and an 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 blasted 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 here 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 babe, which is exactly what you need at this moment.”

  Amy thought a moment, then sighed.

  “It is true, I must think of the youngin 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 the ranch that I began 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 protectively over her near bursting stomach as the carriage beneath her jarred and rocked down the surface of a hard road.

  She came dressed this day in her finest day dress, a striking foot length calico work 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 that day across the wilds of the Texas frontier.

  All too soon for her liking, Amy’s stagecoach came to a resounding halt at the center of a field; one that marked the address specified in the newspaper advertisement that had launched this whole disastrous catastrophe in the first place.

  “Why on earth am I doing this?” she mused with a sigh, rising to her slippered feet as her stagecoach driver—a silver-haired gentleman with a kind smile—opened her door and offered her his hand.

  “Careful, Miss,” he urged her, his eyes flitting downward to her burgeoning stomach as he helped her out of her carriage.

  Dropping some coins into his palm and thanking him for his services, Amy watched the stagecoach take leave of the field as she looked after it with longing eyes.

  “Perhaps I should call him back,” she mused in silence, adding as she clutched her small floral suitcase with tense, near frantic fingers, “I truly have no business being here.”

  Her troubled mediation was disrupted by a lush, very pleasant floral scent; a scent that flew forth to her on the wings of the wind, teasing and soothing her addled senses as she felt her shoulders relax.

  “Roses,” she immediately identified the fragrance, her gaze following its ethereal tendrils as she beheld a scent that defined beauty.

  Before her, spanned a sprawling field that brimmed with golden roses; a signature Texas crop that she’d always longed to grow on her own ranch, that bloomed forth with large velvety blossoms kissed sweetly by the sun above them.

  Suddenly her worries and anxieties melted away, leaving in their place a girlish fervor that added a definite spring to her step.

  In a moment she was ten years old again, twirling carefree with her eyes shut in the midst of roses whose very presence brought succor to her soul.

  “Um, Ma’am?”

  Coming to an abrupt halt at the center of the field, Amy felt her smile dissolve as she realized she’d been caught; that her momentary escape from her troubled life had come to a resounding halt.

  “Of course,” she thought, adding as she opened her eyes, “Now it is time for me to meet the no doubt hideous gent that I am soon bound to marry.”

  Yet when she finally garnered the courage to face the man who addressed her from the edge of the field, she beheld a vision even more beautiful than the roses before them.

  Standing tall
and statuesque above the land he tended, the man before her boasted a muscular bronzed form that reflected long days spent out on the range. Yet while his toned masculine physique betrayed him as a rancher of the frontier, his face and hair rendered the likeness of a virtual angel on earth.

  His flowing mane of golden hair indeed seemed kissed by the sun itself, framing as it did a chiseled face that boasted aquiline eyes, carved cheekbones and full moist lips.

  Lips that now spread in an amused smile as their gazes collided above the field.

  “Can I help you?” he asked her, arching his feathered eyebrows in a show of keen curiosity.

  Clearing her throat loudly, a stone-faced Amy squared her slender shoulders and lifted her pert chin firm in his direction.

  “Mr. Thomas Wyatt?” she asked, tone cool and officious.

  The rancher nodded.

  “Guilty as charged, Ma’am,” he declared, charming her with a soft, smooth Southern accent as he struck a courtly bow in her direction.

  Amy pursed her pearl pink lips, observing that the image and demeanor of Thomas Wyatt more than matched the vision he’d cultivated of himself in the context of his advertisement. The charming, kind, impossibly handsome man portrayed on paper seemed to materialize magically before her; and she mused that if she could somehow transport herself back in time, back before the time of marriage and babies, ranching and responsibilities, she might well be tempted to dance with this gentleman at a cotillion, or flirt with him at a tea.

  Yet within an instant the passing of a hard brisk wind awakened her harshly to the reality of her life; reminding her that her prince was dead—along with any and all semblance of frivolous romantic dreams. Her future held within it no promise of balls, teas or cotillions; and, as far as she was concerned, no romances or heartfelt marriages either. She had come here on this hot Texas morning to strike a merger—not make a match. At least not a match that came from the heart.

  “Well good day to you, Thomas Wyatt,” she said finally, walking forward to offer him her hand as she introduced herself, “I am Amy Phillips, the lady who recently sent you a letter of interest in regards to your advertisement for a helper at the ranch.”