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 an historic 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?

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

BOOK: Unconventional Series Collection

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