Billionaire Flawed 1(62)
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.”