Billionaire Flawed 1(49)

Grace bit her lip.

“I well know this, Girl. I thought long and hard before bringing that blasted ad to your kind attention,” she allowed, tone soft and sad, adding in a louder, more determined voice, “Even so I must say that this here man sounds like a gentleman—someone in search of a princess, not a fancy lady. And I do believe he will treat you as such.” She paused here, adding as she made a broad gesture in the direction of her niece’s expanding stomach, “He also might make a good father for your babe, which is exactly what you need at this moment.”

Amy thought a moment, then sighed.

“It is true, I must think of the youngin first,” she conceded, stroking her rounded stomach with protective hands as she added in a reflective tone, “As much as I wish to toil in my fields, working my own land and building the ranch that I began with my beloved husband, I fear that the same daily regime of hard labor that claimed my Vance’s life might come to claim my child as well—and perhaps me, right along with her.”

Grace arched her eyebrows.

“How are you so certain, my girl, that your child is a girl?”

Amy shrugged.

“I simply know,” she affirmed, adding as she lifted her chin to proud effect, “And I would not have my daughter believe that a woman can be bought and sold like chattel, hired to warm a man’s bed and make his meals like a glorified fancy woman.”

Grace nodded.

“So the matter is settled, then?” she asked, adding as she inclined her head in Amy’s direction, “You will not be answering the gentleman’s ad?”

Amy shook her head.

“Now I did not say that,” she corrected her aunt, adding with a mysterious smile, “I do believe that the gentleman and I may be able to reach a certain compromise.”







The dawn of a new week found a tense Amy in the back of a hired stagecoach, hands clenched protectively over her near bursting stomach as the carriage beneath her jarred and rocked down the surface of a hard road.

She came dressed this day in her finest day dress, a striking foot length calico work graced with a shade of robin’s egg blue and a delicate floral print of peerless ivory; a gown that glowed not only in its overall look but in its delicate accents, which included a fitted calico top with a scoop neckline and a matching skirt trimmed in pure ruffled lace, wide flounced sleeves, delicate buttons lining the front, a bustled back, as well as a soft white cotton underskirt and prim ivory gloves to complete the look.

Yet although she had dressed in the role of a proper Western lady, Amy felt far more like an Amazon warrior; one of those fierce, strong muscled women she’d read about in books, reading by candlelight after Vance went to bed.

Much like these brave warrior women that she learned about and secretly idolized, Amy felt strong and unbending in her resolve; and more than clear about the specific, very pointed mission that whisked her that day across the wilds of the Texas frontier.

All too soon for her liking, Amy’s stagecoach came to a resounding halt at the center of a field; one that marked the address specified in the newspaper advertisement that had launched this whole disastrous catastrophe in the first place.

“Why on earth am I doing this?” she mused with a sigh, rising to her slippered feet as her stagecoach driver—a silver-haired gentleman with a kind smile—opened her door and offered her his hand.

“Careful, Miss,” he urged her, his eyes flitting downward to her burgeoning stomach as he helped her out of her carriage.

Dropping some coins into his palm and thanking him for his services, Amy watched the stagecoach take leave of the field as she looked after it with longing eyes.

“Perhaps I should call him back,” she mused in silence, adding as she clutched her small floral suitcase with tense, near frantic fingers, “I truly have no business being here.”

Her troubled mediation was disrupted by a lush, very pleasant floral scent; a scent that flew forth to her on the wings of the wind, teasing and soothing her addled senses as she felt her shoulders relax.

“Roses,” she immediately identified the fragrance, her gaze following its ethereal tendrils as she beheld a scent that defined beauty.

Before her, spanned a sprawling field that brimmed with golden roses; a signature Texas crop that she’d always longed to grow on her own ranch, that bloomed forth with large velvety blossoms kissed sweetly by the sun above them.

Suddenly her worries and anxieties melted away, leaving in their place a girlish fervor that added a definite spring to her step.

In a moment she was ten years old again, twirling carefree with her eyes shut in the midst of roses whose very presence brought succor to her soul.