Billionaire Flawed 1(50)
“Um, Ma’am?”
Coming to an abrupt halt at the center of the field, Amy felt her smile dissolve as she realized she’d been caught; that her momentary escape from her troubled life had come to a resounding halt.
“Of course,” she thought, adding as she opened her eyes, “Now it is time for me to meet the no doubt hideous gent that I am soon bound to marry.”
Yet when she finally garnered the courage to face the man who addressed her from the edge of the field, she beheld a vision even more beautiful than the roses before them.
Standing tall and statuesque above the land he tended, the man before her boasted a muscular bronzed form that reflected long days spent out on the range. Yet while his toned masculine physique betrayed him as a rancher of the frontier, his face and hair rendered the likeness of a virtual angel on earth.
His flowing mane of golden hair indeed seemed kissed by the sun itself, framing as it did a chiseled face that boasted aquiline eyes, carved cheekbones and full moist lips.
Lips that now spread in an amused smile as their gazes collided above the field.
“Can I help you?” he asked her, arching his feathered eyebrows in a show of keen curiosity.
Clearing her throat loudly, a stone-faced Amy squared her slender shoulders and lifted her pert chin firm in his direction.
“Mr. Thomas Wyatt?” she asked, tone cool and officious.
The rancher nodded.
“Guilty as charged, Ma’am,” he declared, charming her with a soft, smooth Southern accent as he struck a courtly bow in her direction.
Amy pursed her pearl pink lips, observing that the image and demeanor of Thomas Wyatt more than matched the vision he’d cultivated of himself in the context of his advertisement. The charming, kind, impossibly handsome man portrayed on paper seemed to materialize magically before her; and she mused that if she could somehow transport herself back in time, back before the time of marriage and babies, ranching and responsibilities, she might well be tempted to dance with this gentleman at a cotillion, or flirt with him at a tea.
Yet within an instant the passing of a hard brisk wind awakened her harshly to the reality of her life; reminding her that her prince was dead—along with any and all semblance of frivolous romantic dreams. Her future held within it no promise of balls, teas or cotillions; and, as far as she was concerned, no romances or heartfelt marriages either. She had come here on this hot Texas morning to strike a merger—not make a match. At least not a match that came from the heart.
“Well good day to you, Thomas Wyatt,” she said finally, walking forward to offer him her hand as she introduced herself, “I am Amy Phillips, the lady who recently sent you a letter of interest in regards to your advertisement for a helper at the ranch.”
She rather enjoyed the effect moments later, as the man before her gaped outright; dropping the hoe he held tight in his hand as he processed what was apparently most unexpected news.
In lieu of a verbal reply, his wide azure eyes took a long walk down the length of her (mostly) slender frame; seeming to warm in appreciation as he regarded her fair skinned, rosy-cheeked face—one that came complete with wide dark eyes, sculpted cheekbones and pearl pink lips—and her lustrous mane of waist-length reddish gold hair, then again fly wide as they seemed to peruse the bulge that protruded from her slender frame.
“Yes, that’s right,” Amy finally spoke up, bringing his attention back to her face. “I did not come alone.” She paused here, adding as she inclined her head sharp in his direction, “My baby, in fact, is the entire reason that I’m here today. I need work, and badly. I need a good amount of income that I can send home to my aunt, so she can hire me a couple of ranch hands, to help me work my own land.”
Thomas nodded.
“I see,” he mumbled, although his shockingly wide eyes and gaping—if full and appealingly soft—lips betrayed the fact that he did not see—at all. “Well Miss, I am sorry to say that I may have misrepresented myself in my advertisement; this probably owing to the fact that I am a right shoddy writer, at best. The fact remains, though, that I advertised in particular for a mail order bride.”
With these words he ducked his head, shuffling his booted feet beneath him as he mumbled embarrassed, “I was seeking a wife, not a ranch hand. And, no offense intended Ma’am, but you already seem to be somebody else’s bride—or so it would appear.”
Amy couldn’t help herself. For what seemed like the first time since her husband’s death, she guffawed outright; doubling over to let loose with a robust laugh that did much to relieve her tightly held tension.