“She belongs to no one,” Duncan growled, clenching his fists so hard they shook. “Leave my house. I won’t ask again.”
Sighing with exasperation, Peter reached behind him and pulled out a gun before aiming it at Duncan’s chest. “Neither will I. The woman’s coming with me, with or without your permission.”
For several tensed seconds, Duncan didn’t even breathe, his eyes trained on the gun and his mind racing. He tried to think of a plan, but all he could picture was Elle and the baby getting hurt—or worse. Those thoughts tainted his psyche and left him helpless. Soon, he began to tremble.
When Elle began to move around him, Duncan’s arm snapped out and pushed her back. “Don’t,” he growled, his gaze still on the gun.
“He’s not bluffing,” she choked out. “He will kill you and have me, anyway.”
“Listen to the lady,” Peter said, nodding toward her. “I know you’re trying to be honorable here, but you’re only going to make a huge mistake.”
Dread settled within Duncan’s heart, panic jolting through her numb limbs. He could think of no argument against theirs; he couldn’t think of any way to save Elle and himself from this man. There was no guaranteed promise of success, whatever he did.
But if he did nothing?
Elle moved to the side, and Peter’s eyes followed her while his gun remained aimed at Duncan.
Duncan wasted no more time thinking; he sprinted forward and tackled Peter to the ground before Peter could even process what was happening. His armed hand flailed to the side as they fell, and he fired off a rogue shot at the wall.
Elle screamed.
Duncan made sure to keep pressured on Peter’s armed hand while the two men fought. Peter threw some punches with his free hand into Duncan’s side. Pain throbbed there and worsened, but Duncan chose to ignore to use his free hand to grip Peter’s throat tighter and tighter.
Duncan managed to make Peter let go of the gun, but Peter managed to punch Duncan hard enough to make him recoil violently. Peter used that to his advantage, shoving upward and over and making the two men tumble. They kicked and punched at one another as often as they could. All the while, Duncan’s mind was on Elle—protecting Elle—keeping her safe—keeping her away from this danger.
Peter swung his fist out and smashed it against Duncan’s jaw, making Duncan’s head twist to the side in a jarring motion. He saw darkness and stars bursting in his vision, and before he knew, Peter was on top of him with his hands around his throat. Duncan wheezed and squirmed, sneering at his assailant.
“She’s mine,” Peter breathed, blood coming out of his nose. Duncan didn’t remember hitting him there, but he felt satisfied to see Peter injured, regardless. “It didn’t have to be this way.”
Duncan clawed into the other man’s beefy hands, but the pressure around his throat didn’t lesson. Writhing, Duncan struggled for all it was worth, his body using up the last remnants of oxygen he had within seconds.
Horror iced through him then. His soul seemed to recognize that his demise was imminent, and a darker part of him accepted it as the inevitability that it was. He could only pray that Elle got away—that she was running into town to get help. He could only hope that his failure didn’t result in her pain. Tears stung his eyes as he continued to think about her, and his body started going lax.
An abrupt bang exploded within the home, and Peter jerked before collapsing on top of Duncan.
Duncan gasped, sucking up the sweet air into his neglected lungs. After a few seconds of recovery, Duncan shoved the large man off of him and scooted back to the wall. It took his vision a little more time to return to him in full, and when it did, the sight before him left him in a state of shock and awe.
Elle stood there, aiming a smoking gun at Peter’s body. Her eyes blazed with fury, even as tears poured from them. She was like a vengeful angel of death.
Bewildered, Duncan glanced between her and Peter. It was then that Duncan saw the blood oozing from the assailant’s skull.
Elle’s anguished screams brought Duncan’s attention back to her. Her face was contorted with agony, and she dropped the gun as she snapped her hands to her belly.
“Elle,” Duncan gasped, scrambling over Peter’s body to get to her. His entire body cold and quivering—his heart hot and hammering—Duncan grabbed his wife’s arms and looked into her pain-filled eyes. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
A loud sloshing noise had him glancing down. There was liquid between her feet.
“Baby’s coming,” Elle wheezed, crying heavily. “It’s coming now.”
***
It felt as if someone was stabbing her stomach repeatedly while she was trying not to throw up. Nausea mixed with overwhelming pain—her insides tearing apart. Elle had never experienced anything like it, and in the back of her mind, she wondered if Duncan had known this was going to happen—if she should have been as worried as he had been about the arrival of their child.
“What do I do?” Duncan asked rapidly, holding her arms tightly. He was basically holding her up as she screamed and wobbled. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know!” Another of wave of agony crashed through her, and she fell against his torso. “Let me down!”
“We should get you to—”
“NOW!”
As gently and quickly as he could, he helped Elle lay herself down over the cool floor. She felt as if her blood was sizzling, sweat coating her hot skin. She placed her hands over her stomach and cringed when more pain hit her.
“The baby’s coming,” she said, unable to see Duncan through her tears. “Duncan, the baby’s coming right now.”
She felt his fingers brush over her arms before she felt her dress move up over her waist. A small part of her was surprised how indifferent she was to that—to all of this—but then she spread her legs wide and decided to focus on more important things.
“Duncan, Duncan,” she whimpered, reaching outward.
“I got you,” Duncan said somewhere in front of you. “I got you. I’m here.” She felt him squeeze her leg. “It’ll be okay.”
It was several horrible hours later when the baby was finally out of her. Elle was so sore and relieved she sobbed and let her body fall back onto the floor. Still, as overwhelmed with sensations as she was, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Is the baby alright? Duncan?” For the second she waited for his answer, ice-cold fear gripped her heart.
“He’s perfect,” Duncan said. “He’s healthy and perfect.”
Elle’s head fell back against the floor, a sigh of relief bursting from her mouth. “Thank God.” She closed her eyes and let her mind swim in and out of consciousness. She trusted Duncan completely, and she had no qualms over letting herself fall into a coma of sorts.
She wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when she felt something being placed over her stomach and torso. She heard the little whimpers—felt the little squirming—and she forced herself to open her stinging eyes and look down at her son. She didn’t get the best look at him from the angle she was at, but that didn’t matter. She knew Duncan was right; this little boy was perfect.
“Hold on to him, okay?” Duncan instructed gently, crouching over her. “I’m going to carry the both of you to bed.”
Elle’s arms cradled around her baby boy. Once he was secure, Elle nodded toward Duncan.
Duncan awkwardly scooped his arms beneath her legs and her back. It took him a moment to get to his feet, but once he was standing, he had no problems carrying the two of them. He stepped over Peter’s body, and Elle’s mind reeled at that; she had nearly forgotten about him—about what she had done to him.
She closed her eyes tight and pressed her face against her son’s head. She could not make herself feel guilty over murdering someone like Peter—someone who was going to kill the best man in Elle’s life. All she could feel in that moment was relief and love as she inhaled deeply.
Duncan lowered himself, placing her on top of their bed. S
he was so tired; she was practically limp as her husband situated the pillows behind her head. Her eyes wandered over her son—the warm little bundled that meant everything to her. She cried and smiled. “I love you,” she said to the child. “I love you so much.”
Duncan situated himself beside her and peered down at the baby. “What’s his name?” he asked her.
Elle hadn’t even thought of that—not in that moment, at least. Through all the months she considered various names, none of them sounded ideal to her any longer. She shook her head, her eyes still glued to the infant. “I don’t know. Nothing seems right.”
Duncan placed a kiss against her temple. “What was his father’s name?”
She nearly sobbed. The question itself, and the tender tone it was asked in, was too much. “S-Sam.”
“Samuel. That’s a good name. Strong. Biblical.”
She had considered it earlier, but she hadn’t been sure if Duncan would have appreciated being reminded of her husband. But by the way he was speaking now—by the way he was pressed so closely to her and protecting her—she nodded. Then a surge of determination shot through her. “Samuel Duncan Aster,” she said. “It’s perfect.” Torn between so many emotions, she turned to Duncan.
He backed away a little, revealing his wide and glazed eyes. God, he was perfect, too.
Elle smiled at him. Not caring if it was right or wrong any longer, she said, “I love you, Duncan.”
His breath hitched. He stared at her intently, like he wasn’t sure if she was delusional or not. Before she could repeat it—louder and firmer this time—he whispered, “I love you, too. Both of you.” He shifted his wonder-filled gaze to the baby. To Sam.
Elle laughed, joyous. She also turned back to their son and felt Duncan’s head press against hers a moment later.
Epilogue
Duncan woke to the sound of Sam’s wails in the crib at the end of the bed. The child was over four months old now, and his lungs seemed to be stronger than ever.
Groaning, Duncan turned to encircle his arms around his wife, only to discover she was no longer in bed. Tired as he was, he forced his eyelids apart and allowed his vision to adjust to the darkness. Then he turned toward the crib.
Elle stood over it, her hand no doubt skimming over the baby’s head. She whispered soft nothings, but that wasn’t calming Sam down in the slightest.
Duncan stretched before releasing a long sigh. “Did you feed him?”
“Yes,” Elle said grouchily.
“Clean him?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s he crying then?”
She turned, and though it was too dark to be certain, Duncan could swear that she was glaring at him. “How the hell should I know?”
He smirked. Both of them loved to sleep as often as they could, and little Sam had been forcing them to cut back. It was tough, his fatigue heaviest within his skull. Stretching one more time, Duncan forced himself to get out of bed and assist his wife.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said over Sam’s wails. She leaned against Duncan when he wrapped a languid arm around her. “I’ve tried everything.”
Duncan peered down at his son and thought. “Ma used to give me whiskey when I was fussy.”
Elle reeled in his arms. “Really?”
He had to laugh. “You never heard of doing that?”
“No. That sounds dreadful!”
Duncan hummed at that, and let his mind drift for a bit. The piercing sounds of Sam’s cries were aggravating things he had actually started to get used to. He rubbed his jaw and yawned. “Well, I don’t know. You want to rock him?”
“I did that for hours.”
Duncan reached in the crib and ran his fingers over the baby’s arm. Sam was shaking his fists in the air as if the world had done him a great injustice, but before Duncan knew it, the baby was moving his little arms and grabbing Duncan’s finger. Duncan watched, mesmerized, as Sam slowly tugged his finger until it was inside the infant’s mouth.
Silence fell upon the house.
“Thank the Lord,” Elle breathed. “He just needed something to suck on.”
Duncan smiled down at his quiet boy. The moment was calm, affection warming Duncan’s heart and soothing him.
But then his back started to ache.
“Am I supposed to stay like this all night?” he whispered into Elle’s hair.
She snorted. “I guess so.”
He tightened his grip on her and pulled him to his chest. “You’re staying with me,” he said, grinning with a sense of triumphant.
She chortled softly before a big yawn got the better of her. Smacking her lips together, she rested her head beneath his chin. “Okay,” she said sleepily.
Duncan’s smile softened. The two most important, precious beings to him were within arm’s lengths. Just being near them…it was all that mattered. As uncomfortable and exhausted as he was, there was no other place he would rather be.
*****
THE END.
Widowed and Pregnant
Mail Order Bride
CHRISTIAN MICHAEL
Chapter One: Shameful Debris
Virginia, 1844
Sarah Dickerson straightened her black bonnet, pulled on her black wrist length gloves, and tried desperately not to appear as if she might fall over in a stiff wind. She was trapped between needing to exude quiet confidence and falling apart. She didn’t want anyone to offer her assistance, or condolences. She just wanted everyone to leave her alone, to whisper behind their hands and to forget, for five minutes, that she was now a widow. Twenty-three years old and a widow. Even knowing the truth of it didn’t help. She just couldn’t get the two concepts to mesh, despite how life had forced them to.
A month ago, which now seemed like an eternity, she and her husband, Ben, had been elated to discover they were pregnant. She’d been wanting a baby for a while and to learn that they were finally expecting was a blessing. Now her heart squeezed in her chest, just to remind her that Ben, who would have loved their child something fierce, would never know what it was to hold that new life in his hands, to cuddle their sweet baby.
Turning, Sarah walked away from the spot where Ben Dickerson’s body now lay. She prayed silently that he rested in peace, as everyone was want to say. As for her, she knew rest, the kind that rejuvenates the soul, would likely never be found for her again. As if going through the first trimester of pregnancy wasn’t enough, she somehow had to grieve for her husband, the man who’d been her best friend. Tears welled in her eyes as memories flooded her mind.
Sarah and Ben had met during a summer harvest festival when their families attended the same events together. There’d been an instant chemistry between them and before long, Ben had asked her father’s permission to court Sarah. The next year they’d married, just after her nineteenth birthday. They’d both wanted to start a family, but after the first year together, when no pregnancy occurred, she’d become despondent. Ben had done everything in his power to help her see that they’d have a baby when they were meant to. Tears fell harder when Sarah remembered how bitter she’d been toward him. He’d only wanted her happiness and she’d made it seem as if only a baby would help. She’d had the whole world in that man and she’d taken him for granted.
“Please forgive me,” Sarah whispered as she walked toward the path that would lead her home. She’d walked to the funeral for Ben. It’d done little to clear her head as she’d hoped, but maybe the walk back would help.
For Sarah the next few days dragged as she barely mustered up enough energy to crawl out of bed to feed herself. If the nausea from her pregnancy wasn’t enough, trying to settle her stomach sort of topped off the existence of her days. When Ben’s sister stopped by, Sarah couldn’t even bring herself to apologize for the state of her home, nor for her appearance.
“I brought you some coffee,” Stacey said, handing a cup to her.
“Thank you,” she said, not adding a smile as she would have in the past. She k
new she looked as if death had swarmed over and frankly she didn’t care.
“I also brought you a newspaper. I know you liked to read them,” Stacey said, her own brown eyes tortured with grief. It was when she sat the paper down, came over to sit by her and wrapped her in a hug that Sarah fell apart. That simple understanding opened the floodgates and Sarah’s body heaved as the sobs tore from her soul. Gut wrenching sobs that were full of mourning for a man she’d loved with her entire being. Forty-five minutes later, Sarah was able to compose herself enough to enjoy the coffee Stacey had brought.
“I still can’t believe it,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying. “I expect him to be here and every time I turn around, he isn’t.”
“Me too,” Stacey said, a sad smile creasing her lips. She busied herself in the kitchen before she turned around. “I’m going to leave the coffee. I want you to enjoy it. Then curl up in bed, crawl under the covers, and read the newspaper. Maybe something marvelous happened that will perk up my day. I’ll come back and check on you later tonight.”
“Thank you Stacey, for everything.”
“Anytime, sweetie.”
Sarah did as Stacey had said. She’d enjoyed her first cup of coffee and then crawled into bed with her second cup, taking the newspaper with her. She read about Florida joining the United States as the twenty-seventh state and of course, the growing tension in Texas as President Tyler sought to annex Texas into the Union. Obviously there were those in the country that didn’t want to lose their power to the idea of statehood.
Flipping the page, Sarah read through the editor’s notes and responses before she landed on an open letter that seemed quite amusing. It read:
February 1844
To All Eligible Women on the Eastern Coast,
My name is Bernd Blindow and I am just move to Texas from my native Germany. I find myself nearly overwhelmed by the rough terrain of this beautiful country. It is, however, a bit of a surprise to me that there are not more women in Texas. Being so new here, I find myself terribly lonely and in a bind that I can’t seem to fix.
[2016] Widow Finds Love Page 16