Abby Mail Order Bride

by Verna Clay

  Abby

  Mail Order Bride

  Unconventional Series

  By

  Verna Clay

  This book is dedicated to those who do not always follow the dictates of convention.

  Abby: Mail Order Bride

  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,

  After writing a contemporary western, I decided to try my hand at writing a period western. The year I chose for beginning the love story between Brant Samson and Abigail Mary Vaughn is 1886, and the setting is Central/Eastern Texas, a place of rolling hills, many trees, and lush vegetation. In my research, I discovered that the winter of 1886-1887 was severe and didn't bode well for the cattle industry. That fact worked well with my story.

  Except for the obvious cities of Philadelphia, Abilene, Dallas, and Ft. Worth, the towns and geographical places I describe are figments of my imagination.

  This story is first and foremost a romance, the body of which revolves around the sorrows, dreams, and emotional healings of its characters.

  Verna Clay

  Chapter 1: Courage or Folly?

  Chapter 2: Butterflies

  Chapter 3: Eight Eyes

  Chapter 4: Cookies

  Chapter 5: Ornery Chickens

  Chapter 6: Miz Pitts

  Chapter 7: Barn-Raising

  Chapter 8: Wedding Day

  Chapter 9: Honeymoon Blues

  Chapter 10: Awakenings

  Chapter 11: Tidings of Great Joy

  Chapter 12: Luke

  Chapter 13: Birthdays

  Chapter 14: Life's Twist

  Chapter 15: Endless Despair

  Chapter 16: Toothless Charlie

  Chapter 17: Sorrow Expressed

  Chapter 18: Revelations

  Chapter 19: Homecoming

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1: Courage or Folly?

  Abigail picked up the newspaper advertisement for the hundredth time, read it again, reread it, and tossed it back on the desk in her library. Smoothing her hand over the sides of her auburn hair and the bun at the nape of her neck, she pushed her chair back and walked from the library to the parlor. Pacing the length of the lovely room, she stopped occasionally to straighten a vase or lift a family photo, all the while contemplating something so crazy it made her heart pound.

  After an hour, she squared her shoulders, returned to the library, sat at her desk, slipped a piece of stationary from the drawer, reached for her ink and quill, and wrote:

  March 18, 1886

  Dear Mr. Samson,

  I am writing to introduce myself. My name is Abigail Mary Vaughn and I read your classified advertisement in the Philadelphia Inquirer seeking a wife to help raise your three children. I would like to recommend myself. By trade, I am a teacher and that would benefit your children.

  I have never been married and I am thirty-eight years old. I have lived in Philadelphia all my life and taught school for the past eighteen years. I am an only child and my parents died last year so there are no responsibilities keeping me here. I have always desired my own family, but circumstances of caring for my elderly parents prevented that.

  I do not believe in withholding information, so I have been candid in my response to you. I hope to hear from you.

  —Miss Abigail Mary Vaughn

  Before she could react and change her mind, Abigail enclosed the letter in an envelope and asked Harry Puffins, her old servant, to walk it to the post office not far from her home near the city's center.

  * * *

  Brant removed his cowboy hat and ran a hand through hair as black as coal. Standing in front of the blacksmith's where he'd just had his horse shod, he heard his daughter calling from the entrance to Clyde Jenkins General Store across the street. Clyde, being the most likely candidate, was also the postmaster for the central eastern Texas town of Two Rivers. Jenny held her baby brother in one arm and waved letters in the other. "Hey Pa, you got more mail. Maybe you'll find us a Ma in this bunch."

  Brant paused while a buckboard pulled by a swayback horse ambled past. He waved at old Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and then crossed to the warped boardwalk that ran in front of a dozen businesses. "Jenny, did you give Mr. Jenkins that list of staples so we can pick them up next trip to town?"

  "Yes, sir." She shifted two year old Ty to her other hip. "One of the letters came all the way from Philadelphia."

  "I'll read them tonight. Where's Luke?"

  "He's still talking to Mr. Jenkins about ordering some more dime novels."

  Brant bent and kissed his baby's forehead. "Well, run in and tell him it's time to go while I hitch Sugar back to the buckboard and bring it around. We've got chores to finish up."

  "Sure, Pa."

  Several minutes after Brant had pulled the wagon in front of the store, his fourteen year old son sauntered out. Inhaling a calming breath, he said, "It's nice you could join us, Luke. I'd sure like to get home before nightfall. If not, you'll be mucking the barn in the dark."

  With a sullen look, Luke hopped onto the back of the wagon and sat on a sack of grain. Jenny snickered and Ty scrambled to sit on his big brother's lap. Brant flicked the reins. "Giddy-up."

  After a long evening of chores, Brant finally collapsed into his favorite chair and propped his feet on the hearth. He could hear Jenny telling Ty a bedtime story in the room she shared with her baby brother. No doubt Luke was in the loft devouring another cheap novel.

  Leaning his head back, he surveyed his cabin. Besides his bedroom and Jenny's room, there was an additional bedroom that his mail order bride would stay in until they got to know each other. His plan to remarry scared the bejesus out of him, but he was dead set to find a ma for his children. He closed his eyes and saw Molly's laughing face. God, he missed her. How he'd loved her. His eyes stung and he blinked rapidly, glancing again around the combined living, dining, and cooking area that still held her touches in the curtains and knickknacks. Although modest, the cabin was sturdily built from the labor of his own hands.

  Unable to put it off any longer, he unfolded his lanky frame and reached for the letters he'd tossed on the mantel. Sighing, he read more responses to his advertisement, none of which he felt any inkling to respond to. Damn, but the thought of marrying someone he'd come to know through a newspaper ad irked him. However, his children needed a mother. Jenny did the best she could caring for Ty, but she was only ten years old. Guilt plagued him at the responsibility that had been forced on her. As for Luke, Brant hadn't been able to bond with his son since Molly's death, and now the boy lost himself in dime novels. And Ty, his baby, God help him, needed a mother's care.

  He fingered the letter from Philadelphia. He'd placed ads in newspapers, local and cross country, and wondered if the call of the West would provoke responses from city girls. He'd received a few, but from the tone of their letters, they'd seemed too high and mighty to live in a humble cabin on a small ranch. He slipped a thumb under the envelope flap and ripped it open. The letter was short and written on quality stationary in neat
printing. He read it a couple of times.

  Going to his room, he retrieved a paper and his quill and ink and brought the kerosene lamp to the dining table. Tapping his jaw, he thought about his response.

  May 1, 1886

  Dear Miss Vaughn,

  Thank you for your letter and also your forthrightness. Please tell me more about yourself and why you would want to marry someone you have never met and mother children that are not your own.

  As for myself, I will also be forthcoming. I am solely seeking a mother for my children. If you have romantic notions, I am not the husband for you. My wife died over a year ago from lung fever. I have two sons, a fourteen year old and a two year old, and a ten year old daughter. My ranch is small, as is my cabin, so if you are looking for anything else, I suggest you not respond to this letter.

  As for your qualifications, they are excellent. My eldest son loves reading. I can hardly get him to complete his chores without a book in hand. My daughter is very smart and an avid learner. Both children attended school until their mother died. My eldest son now helps me on the ranch and my daughter cares for her baby brother. My desire is for them to return to school after I marry. I am the son of a teacher so I know the importance of education.

  As for Two Rivers, it is a small town that does not have much in the way of diversion to keep folks interested.

  So, as you can see, I have not painted a pretty picture. I have written the truth so as not to waste your time or mine.

  —Brant Samson

  Chapter 2: Butterflies

  The stagecoach bumped and jostled and jarred Abigail until she wanted to scream. Most of her trip had been by rail, which, although tiring, was easy compared to carriage travel. Across from her, fellow travelers, Mr. and Mrs. Willowood, spoke in hushed tones. When Abigail opened her eyes, Mrs. Willowood said, "Oh, good, you're awake. We're almost to Two Rivers. My husband and I have traveled this route many times. Our town is Bingham, the county center, three hours past Two Rivers.

  Mr. Willowood patted his wife's knee. "She knows, dear. Being our lovely companion for two days, you've already told her."

  "Oh, yes, of course. I guess old age is catching up with me." Mrs. Willowood turned her attention back to Abigail. "How does our countryside compare with Philadelphia's?"

  Abigail gazed out the window at rolling hills covered with tall grasses, juniper trees, thickets of cottonwood, maple, and oak trees dressed with autumn leaves, and a scattering of pines. Granite boulders occasionally punctuated the terrain. She smiled, "In some ways it's quite similar with its abundant trees and foliage."

  Mr. Willowood said proudly, "We've lived here for nigh on forty years and raised six sons. Four of our boys stayed in Texas and another one moved to Kansas, which is why we travel there occasionally. We lost our youngest a few years back to scarlet fever. Anyway, I can tell you one thing, coming home is a breath of fresh air. Of course, I'm probably repeating myself, too."

  Abigail smiled at the friendly couple and glanced out the window at the dust stirred by the horses. A breath of fresh air?

  For the remaining hour of her trip, she tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She was a sensible woman, but her stomach was behaving like that of a young girl. Smoothing a hand over that wayward part of her body, she willed it to settle down, but her thoughts just stirred the butterflies again. Perhaps she would regret her hasty decision to become a mail order bride when she met Mr. Samson. Maybe he'd be as homely as a toad and his children impossible. If so, she could catch the next stagecoach and return home. Home? What do you have waiting there except endless days of loneliness? You've always dreamed of having a family of your own. So what if he's ugly? He certainly sounds intelligent. And children can be taught manners.

  Mrs. Willowood spoke, "Abigail, dear, you shouldn't chew your nails. You'll have them down to the quick."

  Abigail jerked her hand back into her lap like an errant schoolgirl.

  "So, you said you're visiting family?" Mr. Willowood prodded.

  "Ah, yes."

  Mrs. Willowood interjected, "My husband can sometimes be nosy. It goes with the territory of being an attorney. You don't have to answer his questions, if you don't want to."

  Abigail wasn't sure how to respond and thankfully didn't have to. The driver yelled, "Two Rivers!" and guided the team of horses to the front of a rundown hotel with hand-painted lettering proclaiming, Mayflower Hotel. The lead driver jumped down and swiftly opened the stagecoach door to help the occupants out. Abigail waited for Mrs. Willowood to exit and then Mr. Willowood waited for Abigail to step down.

  She swayed as she got her land legs and glanced around the dozen or so buildings. Pitiful looking town. Scanning the hotel porch, she saw a middle-aged man sitting on the railing. His smile showcased missing teeth. Remember, he's intelligent. Hesitantly, she smiled back. Another man exited the hotel with a gun holstered to his hip. He tipped his hat and reached to adjust his gun belt around his expanding waistline.

  Abigail retied the ribbons of her straw hat and opened her parasol against the early afternoon sun. The second driver handed her trunk down to the first driver and it thunked on the ground. Next, he dropped her small valise and the grizzled man below caught it and set it on her trunk. "There ya go, ma'am."

  "Thank you," Abigail said politely.

  The driver was already climbing back atop the stagecoach. With a flick of his wrists and a shout, the horses pulled the coach across the street to a stable. Abigail glanced at the blacksmith's shop next to the stable and noticed a long-legged man leaning against the siding. He held his cowboy hat in one hand and lazily watched the stagecoach occupants. Even from a distance, she could see he was lean and broad shouldered, with black hair that brushed the collar of his denim shirt. Too young, too handsome.

  She turned her attention to another man exiting the general store next door to the hotel. Maybe that's him. He wore a suit a decade out of style, but looked distinguished in a countrified way. He was very short, but carried himself proudly and had a pleasant, boyish countenance for a man probably in his forties. Please God, let that be him and not the one with the missing teeth or the one with the gun.

  A voice spoke from behind her, "Miz Vaughn?"

  Abigail turned and stumbled backwards. The lean cowboy from across the street—with eyes that she could now see were the same color as the cloudless sky above them—reached out and caught her by the shoulders before she fell on her backside.

  "Y-yes?"

  "Ma'am, I'm Brant Samson."

  The butterflies in Abigail's stomach fluttered into her throat and she couldn't squeeze a word out.

  * * *

  Brant held the woman's shoulders until she was steady on her feet again. Hell, he hadn't meant to scare her. Her eyes had widened like she was looking at a monster. Criminy, what have I gotten myself into?

  The woman recovered quickly and stepped backwards. "Yes, I'm Abigail Vaughn. I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Samson."

  For a second they stood in awkward silence appraising one another, but that was broken when a full-figured older woman approached. "Well, Abigail, I see your man's here for you. My, my, but aren't you a fine looking young gent. My name is Mrs. Willowood, and Mr. Willowood–" she pointed to a portly gentleman stepping onto the hotel portico, "–and I, boarded the stagecoach on Friday in Ft. Worth with Miss Vaughn. We've had a delightful journey. Abigail is so refined and proper." Mrs. Willowood glanced back at her husband. "Looks like Mr. Willowood is motioning me over." She turned and embraced Abigail. "Well, you know the town we live in. All you have to do is mention our name to any of the locals and they'll direct you to our home. If you and your man are ever in our part of the country, please look us up. Goodbye, dear."

  "Goodbye, Mrs. Willowood. Thank you for your kindness and company throughout the trip."

  Brant nodded politely to the woman as she turned to leave. He glanced at the large trunk beside Miz Vaughn. "Ah, my buckboard is next door. I'll be right back to load your bel
ongings."

  "Thank you, Mr. Samson."

  Brant walked to his wagon, berating himself for his stupid idea of advertising for a bride. He should have just waited until someone suitable settled in Two Rivers. Yeah, right. Like eligible women ever come to Two Rivers.

  Untying his horses, he jumped into the driver's seat and urged them forward. He groaned; Abigail Mary Vaughn looked like what she was—an old maid schoolmarm. Her hair, pulled back under a narrow brimmed straw hat whose crown was encircled with ribbons and bird feathers, had a severe bun peeking out the back that emphasized her strong features of a long nose, long face, and high cheekbones. When she'd compressed her lips, she'd looked like a teacher about to scold a wayward child. He pulled the buckboard next to the trunk and wished he'd never responded to her letter.

  "Hey, Brant," Toothless Charlie called from his usual place on the hotel railing.

  "Yeah, Charlie?"

  "You want me to help you lift that trunk?"

  "Naw, I think I got it." He set the valise in the back of his wagon and then reached to load the trunk. What'd she pack—bricks? He hoisted the damn thing next to the valise and then turned to help her onto the plank seat. She gave him her schoolmarm look as he reached to encircle her waist. She wasn't petite like Molly. The top of her head reached his chin and he could feel curves in spite of the jacket and blouse and corset and skirt and petticoats and whatever else she was wearing. Glancing at Miz Vaughn's blushing profile, he circled the wagon and scolded himself. Great, a middle-aged, virginal school teacher. What were you thinking?

  Chapter 3: Eight Eyes

  Abigail scanned the rolling countryside and angled her parasol to protect her complexion against the blazing sun. The wagon hit a rut and her shoulder bumped the cowboy's. Never, in her wildest imaginings, had she envisioned such a tall, handsome, and virile man. Surely, he had to be disappointed by her appearance. She realized he was talking and turned to give him her full attention, feeling the impact of his beautiful eyes all the way to her toes.