by Aria Ford
Neal smiled and rubbed Stephen’s shoulder. “Yes, I’m glad you think so. I’d like to get back to Delamar, so I can see my wife.”
Stephen tittered as they left the school and Neal eyed him suspiciously. “What is it? Did you book me at another high school without telling me? I think that we’ve covered most of Nevada by now.”
“No, it’s Cecilia. She’s not in Delamar. She’s in Georgia.”
Neal’s face carried a confused expression. “What’s she doing there? She didn’t mention wanting to visit to me.”
“It was a spur of the moment thing, really. But she’s in Georgia with Lacey, and she’s in labor.”
Neal stopped in his tracks. “What?! She’s only 7 months pregnant!”
Stephen shrugged. “It can happen. I got news of it about two hours ago before you went on- I’m sorry, would you like to got to Georgia?”
“Of course I would like to go to Georgia you idiot- I can’t believe that you kept that from me so I could speak to bunch of children!” Neal roared. “You’re fired!”
They had moved all of the furniture to the edges of the room and Cecilia had been on the floor, in the center of the den for almost fifteen hours.
The midwife, Diane, was between Cecilia’s legs. “Okay, Cecilia. I can see your baby’s head. Just push.”
Cecilia moaned, “I don’t want to!”
Lacey yelled, “You can do it, Cecilia!”
“Just push, Cecilia. One big one to meet your baby.”
Cecilia screamed as she pushed her baby out and Diane yelled, “Yes! Wonderful! Your baby is halfway through. One more, Cecilia!”
Cecilia’s ragged breathing continued as she gripped her knees and pushed as hard as she could.
Lacey said, “Oh my God, he’s gorgeous!” Cecilia looked around and tried to look over her belly in disbelief. “A boy? I have a son now?”
“Shit.” Diane muttered.
Lacey said, “Excuse me?! My nephew has just been brought into the world in my home and you’re swearing?”
Diane shot her a glance. “That’s not why.” She smacked the behind of the baby boy and he came to life, shrieking and crying. Diane made quick work of cutting his chord and wrapped him up. She handed him to Lacey.
“What’s wrong?!” Cecilia demanded.
“There’s another one in there.”
“No, no, I’m not pushing any more out.”
“Cecilia, I need you to push. One more time for this baby.”
“How many more are there?!’
“Come on, now. Push for me.”
Cecilia cried out as she pushed again, wanting to faint from the pain.
“Shit.” Diane whispered again.
“The baby is breech. I really need Cecilia to push.”
Cecilia screamed and the house seemed to tremble as Neal burst into the room.
“I caught the soonest train I could. Where’s my baby?!”
Lacey handed him his son and Neal stroked his face. His eyes darted nervously around the room.
“What’s going on?”
Lacey laid a hand on his arm. “There are two babies, and the second on is coming out feet first.”
“Neal, what are you doing here?” Cecilia asked in between pants.
“Focus, Cecilia!” Diane said.
“Just get our baby out, dear. It’s fine, everything is fine.”
“You won’t win governor if you’re not in Nevada!”
“Cecilia, push!”
In one big, long push, the baby came into Diane’s arms. Neal kissed Cecilia on the forehead as Diane cut the cord and cleaned her up as best she could. She handed him the baby. “There’s your baby, Neal.”
“Oh, my. Oh, my you’re gorgeous.” The girl was much quiet than her brother, she only cooed to let you know she was a healthy baby.
Cecilia squeaked, “Neal, we have twins. A boy and a girl.”
The days flew by and Cecilia’s recovery seemed to crawl to the finish line. At this rate, it would be weeks before they could return to Nevada, but Neal couldn’t have cared less. He was at her bedside from the moment she woke up, to when she collapsed on her pillow every night. He sang to his daughter and cradled his son.
Lacey and Evan had been wonderful hosts and in laws to Neal. The couple had made sure that both he and Cecilia were comfortable and offered them the guest room for as long as they needed to stay. He had a chance to bond with the other Vaughn girl, Alice had come by and sobbed all over her niece and nephew.
Neal was holding both of the twins while Cecilia slept. Evan strolled in and smiled. “How are you holding up?”
Neal shrugged as best he could with the twins in his arms. “Fine. I worry about Cecilia, but she’ll be fine. I didn’t know I needed children this badly.”
“Yeah. When Lacey delivers, I won’t know what to do with myself.”
Neal smiled and gazed at his children.
“I’m done with the paper.” Evan said. “You can enjoy a read of it. New fathers still have to keep up with the world.”
Evan sat the paper down and left their room, shutting the door behind him.
Neal glanced at the paper and sneered, snuggling his children closer to him. ‘I don’t want to return to reality for a very long time.’
‘The news is never anything good any way. Just a bunch of rumors about the bank failing. Good thing I keep all of my money underneath our mattress at home.’
“What the hell is it today, anyway?” Neal said, as his eyes rolled over the headline.
“Neal Powell elected governor in Nevada.”
His eyes darted to both of his babies and with the most calm he could muster he walked over to their bassinet and carefully put them in.
He strolled over to the paper and read the headline again, double checking.
“Neal Powell stole the governor seat in Nevada last night, with a devastating win. His opponent, Isaiah Jenkins won by over 2,000 votes.”
‘Not only am I the governor of Nevada, I stole it. I demolished Isaiah’s campaign.’ Neal thought.
He looked at Cecilia. ‘What do I do? What do I do?’
Cecilia slept like a rock, she was wrapped up in a dark red blanket, her hair offered the perfect camouflage for the bedding. Some color had returned to her cheeks, but she hadn’t walked on her own yet. She only stayed awake for a few minutes at a time, just like the twins.
He crept over to the bed and eased into the other side with her. He stroked her neck, her cheeks. He willed her eyes to open so he didn’t have to feel poorly for waking her up out what appeared to be a restful sleep.
She shifted and moaned as her eyes fluttered open. It took a few seconds, but they finally focused on him. “Neal, sweetheart?”
“Cecilia.” He kissed her on the lips, and then again.
“Careful, that’s how we got twins.”
His face erupted into a smile. “Cecilia, look at the paper.”
She took it out of his hands and kept her eyes on him. She slowly turned to face the paper, muscles tense.
NEAL POWELL HAS BEEN ELECTED GOVERNOR IN NEVADA.
Cecilia put a hand over her lips as tears of relief wracked her body. He held her close, kissing her temple.
“We did it, Cecilia. I didn’t think we could for a while, but we did it.”
Cecilia planted her hands on both sides of his face, and forced herself wide awake.
“Come here. I want to know what it’s like to be kissed by the governor.”
THE END
Mail Order Bride Book 10
The wonders of the ever evolving world amazed and comforted Damiano Abana, at that moment. They showed him that, although people were still waging war on one another, and there were loss and suffering all around, the dawn would always come. The sun never stopped rising and setting and rising again. And so, neither could he just lie down and die, just because he was trapped in a dark night. After every night, there came a bright new day. Always.
He hadn’t felt too opti
mistic in the past year, but, at that moment, he felt like he was holding the promise of his bright new day in his hands, in the form of a so-called photograph, a miracle of the modern world. It had arrived at him through another barely evolving miracle, called post. Another proof that human spirit longed for togetherness, even at great distances. War was simply an outward manifestation of frustration. He had seen it up close and there was no other explanation for it, it had no other logic: there were no real frontiers, no real differences between people; black, brown, red or white skinned, they all shed the same crimson blood and had the same fear in their eyes when face to face with Lady Death.
War had nothing noble or sacred in it. Just a tall tale from the leaders, to trick people into fighting each other for someone else’s ideals. He had certainly been tricked: with how wealthy his family had been, he could’ve steered clear out of the army. But he wanted the fame and glory. No fame and no glory had come to him. However, in the most ironic way possible, he did owe his life to the war front: if he had been back at the estate, he could’ve died in the fire and carnage, too.
Damiano rubbed his right leg. His scar was particularly sore when the clouds gathered up in the sky like that, with the promise of rain. It had been a year since he had gotten that wound and it was still giving him a hard time, both with riding and doing chores around the ranch. He was a vaquero now.
“With no cows…” he mused aloud, staring blankly in the direction of the few scattered cattle, goats and horses that were left to him.
The American-Mexican War had been devastating for San Antonio, Texas. By the end of it, in the fall of 1847, the population had been reduced to 800 inhabitants. What used to be a joyful and busy town, was a site for desperation and mourning. Ranches had also been plundered. To make things worse, that didn’t stop with the end of the war: it was May 1848 and rustlers still took advantage of the fact that many of the paternal, protective figures of the ranches had been killed, and were not afraid, nor ashamed to steal cattle, rob the households and even murder the ones that stood in their way.
Damiano’s family had been prosperous. It was one of the oldest in San Antonio and was of noble Spanish descent. They used to have servants, hired vaqueros and horse handlers, even slaves. During the war, all had been either killed or had seized the chance of running away.
And now he was the sole master; but also a cowboy, goatherder, horse handler, servant, and slave, at his own ranch. The big mansion was deserted and desolate, partially burned down. Damiano made no repairs to it. He had simply moved into a smaller dwelling house, what used to be a large kitchen with a couple of rooms for the servants. He lived there in one chamber, all alone, morose and moping around, with a guitar in his hand, when he wasn’t toiling. With the exception of a few men that came to help him from time to time, there was no one there anyway. The members of his family had been also killed.
The uninspired accusation of the priest still resounded in his years from time to time: “It is a punishment from God because man was not meant to enslave others.” Damiano had stopped going to church when he heard the priest making up an excuse for God killing his entire family and ruining his estate. However he still needed the comfort of faith, and he often read the Bible when he felt like breaking down in crying fits… He hadn’t shed one tear since the tragedy had happened! Just held everything inside. And in that comfort zone of darkness and loneliness, he had dwelled. Till the latter came.
Until the war broke, they had kept in touch with their root family. Every three years or so they would make a very long journey to Spain, to his cousin, Simon’s mansion. Simon’s family did the same, visiting them from time to time. But what with the war going on, they had interrupted their habit.
She had always been there. Every time he visited his cousin, or his cousin visited him, there she was, in a new painting, each time older and more beautiful. And the letters were there, too. He gave his cousin his and collected hers. He didn’t even remember who started the correspondence during late childhood, or who’s idea it had been, but they were amazingly alike. They even had this strange name coincidence going on –and that had become their motto “There are no coincidences”: her family name was Damiano, the same as his first name. Her given name was Margareta1. And she was indeed as beautiful as a flower.
So, what started as a single letter, developed into dozens at a time, entire novellas, that meant to cover all of the distance and the time between them. As they grew up, the novellas developed into extended love poems and, in no time, they had promised each other their hearts and hands, when the time would be right. She hadn’t even seen him, as he wasn’t very fond of standing still for a portrait and had none to show for. But he was sure his cousin had described him to her. She didn’t seem to care what he looked like, anyway, as long as he wrote to her in that lovely, poetic manner he did. She simply understood him and he understood her. Even at that great distance, they had connected.
Her family was friends with Simon’s family. Strangely enough, she was always away to some other country, when he came to visit: her father often traveled with business all over Europe and Asia and he took her with him. But she always left him letters and some new portrait. So they had never met face to face. And they were about to… only at the worst of times possible.
He had just received a letter from his cousin -which was another miracle, given the circumstances and the robberies going on, on the traveling roads and the fact that a very small number of outsiders came to San Antonio- dated about one month before, saying they were both in Norfolk, Virginia and about to head his way. In few details, he was explaining how Margareta’s father had died and how the French Revolution had affected and infected the entire continent. Families like theirs had been persecuted, literally driven out of their homes. So, if he was still planning to marry her, as promised in the letters, now was as good a time as ever.
He had included a photograph of her, the one he was now holding in his hand. At first, he didn’t even know what it was, but he had gasped on seeing the realness of it, especially the intensity of her Spanish, dark eyes, looking right back at him. He had passed his thumb over it, in amazement, recalling how he would tell her he would take a vacation into her pitch black hair. The thought of actually being able to run his fingers through it gave him a warm feeling in his heart, and for the first time in years, he smiled.
The horrors of the war had erased her and all the promises they had made from his memory. Although, during the few quiet nights he had at the fort, she had been on his mind and in his heart. Upon returning to his ranch, however, or what was left of it, he forgot her completely, totally engrossed in and overwhelmed by the tragedy which had struck him, physically wounded and broken-hearted at the prospect of having to survive, rather than actually live.
He didn’t even have her letters anymore. Now, seeing her face with that daring, slightly proud smile she wore in all her paintings, in such real detail, he could hear parts of them in his mind.
The corners of his mouth moved downwards and he frowned. He wasn’t the man in those letters anymore: life had hardened his heart. Suddenly he felt sick to the stomach: she was expecting to find a prince, a savior, with a mansion full of servants and the lush, carefree and adventurous life he had described in his letters. Not… that! And he looked towards the desolate site of the houses, the dirty stables, and rickety roundups.
Suddenly, the setting sun came out of the clouds. He turned his head towards it, watching how its warm colors made the clear waters of the river and the green grass glisten, like a promise. He remembered that, one year before, the same site was just burnt ground and the waters poured muddy and sometimes creepily red. Nature had a way of being reborn every year, even after a catastrophe. It was exactly like this Bible verse that had caught his eye one evening: Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and future.” He decided to stop worrying and just go with the flow.
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“There are no coincidences,” he said to himself, then gave a whistle to his dog and spurred his horse, proceeding to gather up his livestock.
*Margareta Damiano had never been more baffled in her life, embarrassed, angry and worried, bordering on scared, all at the same time. The carriage ride had been bad enough. It had gone on forever. The wagon ride had been even worse: it got her sore, numb and bored. The inns and taverns they spent the nights in had been ever scarcer and poorer. As they closed in on their destination, she even had to sleep in the wagon, all dirty and slightly hungry. Good thing it was summer. Being compelled to wear man’s clothing, had seemed too much for her. But she decided quickly that Simon running away with the carriage and his part of the gold and just leaving her there was the sour icing on this mud cake.
Although long and exhausting, she had enjoyed the trip with the ship; she was used to traveling with them and loved the ocean. To her luck, the trip had been uneventful: no pirates and only a mild storm. And Norfolk had been nothing short of delightful, colorful and instructive, like every harbor. She had even visited a beautiful replica of the temple of Theseus, she had seen in Athens, in the form of the prestigious Norfolk Academy. All in all, she was impressed with the new world and content with her decision. Until they had started to move southwest by carriage. She had discovered that the more they moved towards the southern borders, the more serious and sadder the people were, with their skins burnt by the sun and wind and the eyes sunken in their heads. Life seemed to have been rough on them.
Halfway through their journey, they had joined a wagon ensemble of itinerant merchants. They had asked them where they were headed and they told them it was San Antonio. And that’s when she first heard the word “war” and it sent chills down her spine. The people didn’t know much, only that it had ended the year before and that there had been Mexicans involved. Merchants still rarely ventured over there, though. Margareta felt desperate at the thought she had fled from a Revolution and was headed towards a war site. She would clench her Bible tight and wished that San Antonio hadn’t been too affected and that her dear Damiano hadn’t been killed.