Unconventional Series Collection (2 page)

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 occasionally
punctuated by granite boulders. 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.
I'd love 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 thudded 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
we live in Bingham. 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 belongings."

"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?

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.

"My place is about four miles south of
town. I raise Longhorns and grow as much of my own food as I can. I have some
chickens and a milk cow and I trade with local ranchers for salt pork and other
goods. I know you're a city gal, but have you ever had ranch experience?"

"Um, no." Abigail thought she heard
him sigh.

"I hope I explained well enough in my
letters how difficult this life can be."

"Yes, you did, perfectly."

"So tell me again why you would choose this
life when you seem to have had an easier one in Philadelphia?"

His question caught her off guard. With her
customary frankness, she said, "Honestly, Mr. Samson, I was sick of my
life in the city and saw endless years of monotony ahead of me."

He didn't respond to her answer, but instead,
said, "I think we should be on a first name basis, don't you?"

"Yes, you're right."

"Okay, back to your reason for coming here.
Believe me; this life can become quite monotonous, too."

"Are you bored to tears, Mr. Samson? I
mean, Brant."

"No, Abby, I don't have time to be bored."

"Precisely." His nickname for her
sounded good coming from his deep-timbered voice.

"Do you mind if I call you Abby?" He
turned to look at her. "Abigail seems so…formal."

"I've never been called Abby, always
Abigail, but its fine with me if that's what you prefer."

"Your parents never gave you a
nickname?"

"No, I was an only child born to older
parents who were academically inclined and very proper."
And without
the slightest idea of how to play with a child or have fun.
She wanted to
change the subject. "So, tell me about your children."

Brant made a clicking noise and shifted the
reins in his gloved hands. The horses followed his command and moved to the
center of the dusty road. "As I tried to describe in my letters, my eldest
son, Luke, is a bookworm. It's how he copes with his mother's death. He can be
quite sullen and temperamental and downright rude at times."

Abigail heard his frustration and nodded her
sympathy. He gave her a little smile and when her shoulder bumped his again,
she quickly scooted over.

He gave her a questioning look and continued,
"Jenny is ten and shouldering far too much responsibility for a child. She
cares for her baby brother while Luke and I work the ranch. She never complains
and has a gentle disposition like her mother."

Fascinated by his hands, Abigail watched them
maneuver the horse's reins again.

"Now, Ty, he's my baby and just starting to
talk pretty good. He keeps the family laughing." He adjusted the brim of
his hat. "God knows, we need a good laugh now and again."

They traveled on in silence. Abigail had so many
emotions coursing through her she wasn't able to focus on any one of them:
anxiety, excitement, intimidation, and female awareness of the handsome man
beside her, an emotion she wasn't familiar with. The thought of becoming a
man's wife in the biblical sense wasn't something she'd wanted to dwell on.
She'd relegated the ramifications of that to the back of her mind, believing
she could endure the outcome as it played out. However, she hadn't expected
such a robust man on the receiving end of her letters.

Brant turned off the road and onto a narrow
drive. "Around that bend of trees is home."

Abigail's heart hammered.

When the horses clomped around the turn, her
breath caught. His home appeared crude, small, and…homey. It was like a drawing
in the books she'd purchased about frontier lands. The wide front porch with
railings had a couple of rockers on it. Standing behind the railing, four pairs
of eyes watched their approach. Abigail couldn't help but smile. The children
she'd only imagined now stood before her and beside them sat a large mixed
breed, brown dog with wiry fur. Luke squinted, Jenny smiled, Ty lifted a finger
and pointed, and the dog barked.

* * *

Brant glanced from his children to Abby as he
reined his horses to a halt in front of the porch. He did a double take. Abby's
smile had transformed her face from plain to lovely. Certain his eyes were
playing tricks on him, he blinked, but her smile revealed beautiful white
teeth, and when she bit her bottom lip, he quickly looked away.
Damn!

He jumped off the buckboard and came around to
lift her down. Shyly meeting his gaze she looked past him to his children.
Holding her elbow, he guided her to the porch.

"Luke, Jenny, Ty, I want you to meet Miz
Abigail Mary Vaughn."

"Welcome and howdy, ma'am," said
Jenny.

"I'm so happy to meet you, Jenny. You're
beautiful and just as sweet as I imagined."

Jenny grinned. "Thank you, Miz
Vaughn."

The dog darted to Brant and he squatted and
rubbed behind his ears. He looked up at Abby. "And this is Wally. He
wandered into our place a few years back and never left."

Abby reached to pet the dog. "It's nice to
meet you, too, Wally."

Ty interrupted them. "Mama?" He
stretched his hands toward Abby, and Brant watched her shocked expression
quickly become replaced by joy. She looked at him and asked, "May I hold
him?"

Brant felt a lump choke his throat and sudden
resentment strike his heart like a cobra that it wasn't Molly holding their
baby. He nodded and Jenny stepped off the porch and handed Ty to Abby. Ty,
always trusting, hugged her neck. Abby hesitated a moment and then laid her
cheek against his blond curls.

Brant looked at Luke. "Please welcome Miz
Vaughn to our home, son."

Luke gave his father a mutant look but Brant
didn't waiver in his stare. Finally, the boy said in a resentful tone,
"Welcome, Miz Vaughn."

"Thank you, Luke. I appreciate that this is
difficult for you," she replied softly.

Ty stretched his arms toward Brant,
"Papa."

Abby shifted the baby and handed him over. Her
eyes, the color of freshly brewed coffee, met Brant's gaze when he lifted Ty
from her arms. For a second he couldn't think what to say. "Uh, why don't
we go inside where it's not so hot? Jenny can pour tea for everyone." He
handed Ty back to his daughter. "Luke, help me unload Miz Vaughn's trunk
and then take the buckboard to the barn and unhitch Sugar and Smoky."

With a defiant look, Luke grabbed one end of the
trunk.