Regency Romance: An Intriguing Invitation (Historical Billionaire Military Romance) (19th Century Victorian Romance) (39 page)

The smile died on Stephen’s lips as he considered these words.

“Well now there are just a few problems with that idea, dear brother,” he told Cal, adding with a hefty sigh, “I only advertised for one helper around this place, and I didn’t exactly request the services of a ranch hand. And, all things considered, I do believe it best that you interview our prospects yourself. Personally.”

Cal froze.

“I can’t say that I quite like the way you just said the word personally,” he admitted, adding as he folded his arms
strong
and firm before him, “And if you didn’t advertise for a ranch hand, what
specific
job title do you want to fill?”

Stephen shrugged.

“Well, if you
really
want to know the nitty gritty of things,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet beneath him. “I advertised in particular for a mail order bride.”

He cringed as his chagrined brother met these words with an unearthly, near inhuman growl; ducking just in time to avoid Cal’s lethal left hook.

“
A Mail.
Order. Bride?” he repeated, spitting and grinding out these last words as though they were poisonous. “What kind of madness has seeped into that already dense noggin of
yers
? How dare you place one of those
tasteless
ads in my name?” he paused here, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “What are folks in this area going to think when they find out that the deputy sheriff of this here town is seeking out a…a….”

“A mail order bride,” Stephen supplied, remaining clear of his brother’s striking range as he added, “Remember just a few minutes ago,
brother
when you were thanking me profusely for pulling you through a rough time? Could we maybe go back to that point, before you decide to use me as target practice for your shiny new
six-shooter
?”

Cal shook his head.

“Well why is it that you think this time has been so very rough for me?” he countered, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “Elsa was my life, my whole world. I’ll never find a woman as sweet, as beautiful, as hardworking, as supportive, as smart,” he paused here, adding as he raised his
sculpted
chin to
prideful
effect, “My wife was nothing short of the perfect woman. And once you have experienced perfection, you don’t lower yourself to
connectin’
up with some woman who would sell herself off as a mail order bride.”

With these words he whipped off his
wide
brimmed ivory hat of silver belly felt, tossing it reckless to the ground beneath him.

“Hell Stephen, no man who respects a woman would buy her into servitude,” he insisted, adding as he seared his brother with a fierce sideways glance, “What kind of a human being do you think I am?”

Stephen sighed.

“I’m not
talkin’
about
buyin’
slaves Brother—that’s against the law, just as it should be,” he asserted with a sharp nod, “I’m
talkin’
about getting the help that you need to run this place—along with some much needed female company. Mail order brides are mature and very willing women looking for adventure.” He paused here, adding as he made a broad gesture down the length of his brother’s
tall,
muscled
form, “And seeing as to how you’ve always been popular with the ladies, I think that just about any
lady
would grab the opportunity to get adventurous with you.”

*****

All things considered, Abigail Tompkins figured that she’d prefer any fate to that of a mail order bride.

A teacher. A nurse. A ranch hand.
A stable
girl—even the type that hacks out the stalls on hot summer days. A dancing girl at any given saloon. A nun at any given convent.

“OK then, I’m veerin’ dangerously close to the ridiculous with those last two options,” she sighed, adding as she cast a self-conscious look down the length of her fully made form, “Nobody is going to put these hips on a saloon stage—especially given the fact that their bearer would be tempted to deliver her high kicks straight to the face of the first man who leered at her or made an inappropriate comment.
And she’d give the same treatment to any given Mother
Superior,
who tried to tell her what to do—or, in that particular environment, what not to do.”

So why had she planted herself square at the center of a rickety old stagecoach, riding with unseemly speed to meet a man in search of a mail order bride? And why, for that matter, had she dressed for this rather
miserable
occasion in a dag gum calico dress; a fancy and highly impractical effort colored cranberry red and boasting an elegant lace lined
collar
and
a prim
empire waist?

“Oh, and let us not forget the puffed sleeves,” she growled aloud, adding as she rolled her eyes heavenward, “Real women do not wear puffed sleeves.”

Indeed, there existed only one living person in Abigail’s life who could inspire such complete and total tomfoolery.

“What mad and utterly ridiculous things I won’t do for my Ma,” she mused, remembering once again the
fateful
conversation that had delivered her straight into this most unfortunate situation.

In the wake of her father’s death, she and her mother had tried valiantly to do the same amount of work once performed by five people.
Yet in
the absence of her father and sisters, they quickly found themselves overwhelmed by both
work
and bills.

By becoming a mail order bride, her mother reasoned, Abigail could still live her dream of working the land; also potentially bringing home the man and the money needed to revive their
own
ranch.

“So here I am,” she shook her head as her rented ride made a long last turn through the gates of Elsa’s Rose; the spacious ranch where she’d agreed to meet her mysterious future husband. “One question though: Who in the blazes is Elsa, and why in the blazes does she
not mind
me
marryin’
her man?”

Her troubled meditation
was disrupted
by a vision that soothed her senses; an image perhaps more beautiful than any she’d ever seen.

Before
she
grew endless fertile rows of ebullient golden
hued
roses; sun kissed florals that both adorned and glorified their nature made surroundings.

At the center of this horticultural haven stood the most
radiant
vision of all: a tall,
ebony-haired
wonder who himself seemed the product of his
ethereal
surroundings.

The man’s eyes sparkled as
wide
and azure as the Texas day that oversaw his labors; his
skin
glowing as bronze as the sun itself as he stood shirtless in the midst of the florals who seemed to command his attentions.

Quickly paying and dismissing the stagecoach driver who’d delivered her into this paradise, she soon found herself standing
squarely
at the center of this most intriguing scene; getting a better look at the florals that dotted the landscape and the man who apparently tended them.

Her gaze basked in admiration at the singular vision of the Texas yellow rose;
a floral
wonder that boasted large lush blossoms, velvety
petals,
and
a sublime
golden hue.

In exchange for shucking more corn than seemed humanly possible, Abigail had been allowed to tend a small garden of yellow roses at a far corner of her parents’ property.

“Yet it
seems
that this
gent
has a whole ranch just
brimmin’
with roses,” she thought in silence, adding with arched eyebrows, “I guess that would explain the latter half of its mysterious moniker. I still don’t know who in the blazes Elsa might be—and do I even want to know?”

“So
do ya favor
yellow roses, Miss?”

Abigail jumped as her thoughts
were disrupted
by the sound of a deep sonorous voice; a most appealing tone that raised her gaze to behold the face of an angel.

Now she stared straight into the azure blue gems that she’d admired from the stagecoach; finding that they gleamed
brightly
from
a peerless
face that also boasted carved cheekbones, full moist
lips,
and a perfect cleft chin.

Then she allowed her curious eyes to
stray
the length of his
tall,
muscular form; a body defined by the presence of hard toned pectorals and abdominals, and long trim legs that today came encased in tight, sculpting blue jeans.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, adding as she squared her
substantial
shoulders and stood up straight in the field, “That is to say, I find these flowers incredibly beautiful. And,
just so
you know, I’m Abigail Tompkins. I’m the lady who sent a letter in answer to your advertisement for a mail order bride.”

The man nodded.

“Pleased to meet ya, Ma’am. I’m Cal Hopkins,
owner,
and proprietor of Elsa’s Rose, which as you may have heard is the largest farming garden in this stretch of Texas. And I’m mighty glad to hear that you favor these flowers,” he told her, adding in a matter of fact tone, “As those are the only roses you’re likely to be
receivin’
during your time at this ranch.” He paused here, adding with
an empathetic
smile, “I’m so sorry to tell you this, Miss, but I am not interested in cultivating a romantic relationship with my
thusly
called mail order bride. I am interested only in
cultivating
my crops, and with the help of someone who knows the lay of the land.”

Abigail thought a moment, then pursed her lips.

“Did you come to that conclusion when you placed your advertisement for a mail order bride?” she queried, adding as she inclined her head sharp in his direction, “Or at the moment that you saw me step out of the stagecoach?”

She froze as the man before her whipped his ivory cowboy hat clear off his head, holding it reverent over his heart as he said, “Oh no Ma’am, please don’t take offense at what I said.” He paused here, adding as he returned his hat to its place on his head and let loose with a frustrated sigh, “Truth
be told
I didn’t even place that blasted ad. My brother
placed
it, with the intention of finding me a new bride—totally ignoring the fact that all I need is an able assistant here on the ranch. I already had my wife, the love of my life, and was on the verge of
fatherin’
the child that completed our family. Then, in a heartbeat, they were both gone.”

With these
words,
he took the garden
hoe
clutched in his
sturdy
grasp and threw it
recklessly
to the ground beneath him.

“For all my brother’s
annoyin’
meddlin’
, I have assured him that I am in no need of a replacement
bride
,” he insisted, planting his hands firm on his hips as he added, “I want a professional arrangement here, nothing more.”

His eyes flew wide as his guest met these words with a
loud,
joyful whoop; one that came accompanied by a spirited Texas
two-step
that would look right at home at a barn dance.

“Well Ma’am, I’m most pleased that you’re taking this news so well,” he muttered, adding as he pinned her with a sideways glance, “Did you come to that conclusion when you answered my advertisement for a mail order bride? Or at the moment that you saw me here working in the fields?”

Coming to an abrupt halt as her rawhide boots skidded in the dirt below her, Abigail let loose with a hearty chortle as she considered this question.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous Gent,” she admonished her host, adding as she pointed a most accusing finger straight in his direction, “You likely qualify as the most ridiculously handsome gent I’ve ever seen. I reckon that your degree of preposterous male beauty probably should be illegal, in point of fact. And most any woman would be more than eager to hogtie you into submission and drag you headfirst before the nearest justice of the peace.”

Blinking with surprise as he considered these words, Cal let loose with
a robust
chuckle as he shifted his boots
in
the grass beneath him.

“Well you sure do have a way with words Miss,” he praised her finally, adding in a reflective tone, “especially to the ears of a man who hasn’t laughed in a mighty long time.”