I thought it would be fun to post another excerpt from my current project, Abby: Mail Order Bride. I'm aiming for release sometime in July. In this excerpt, Abby gets her first look at Brant Samson. Needless to say, he's way more than she expected.

Excerpt:

For the remaining hour of her trip, Abigail tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She was a sensible woman, but her stomach was acting 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 besides 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. 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 called, "Twin 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 her to exit.

Inhaling sharply, Abigail 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.

The second driver handed her trunk down to the first driver and it thunked to the ground. "Here ya go, ma'am."

"Thank you." Abigail looked past the driver and noticed a long-legged man across the street leaning against the side of the blacksmith's shop. 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 muscular, with black hair that brushed the collar of his denim shirt. Too young, too handsome.

Abigail turned her attention to another man walking along the wooden planks from the general store next door. Maybe that's him. He looked distinguished in a countrified way and wore a suit that was a decade out of style. Although short, he carried himself well and had a pleasant boyish countenance for a man probably in his forties. Please God, let this 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 she could now see were the color of a cloudless summer sky--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.

In the midst of writing a sci-fi futuristic romance called, The Ordinaries, I had a sudden inclination to start another project, a Western Romance. However, unlike the Kisses series, this is a period story set in the late 1800s. I've always found the practice of finding your spouse through "mail order" during that era to be quite fascinating. Of course, this storyline has been written numerous times, but that fact has not quenched my desire to write about Abby and Brant Samson, characters that keep popping into my mind.

My heroine is Abigail Mary Vaughn, a thirty-eight year old school teacher, who finds herself alone in the world after the death of her parents. Since her heart's desire has always been to have a family of her own, but life's circumstances have kept her from fulfilling that dream, she is now considered an old maid. Nowadays, her subsequent actions would be termed a midlife crises, but boredom and loneliness motivate her to do something absolutely, unbelievably crazy--answer an ad by a rancher seeking a wife and mother for his three children.

In writing this story, I am attempting to convey the loneliness and despair of not only Abigail, but the rancher and his children. These are sad souls trying to find happiness again. I'm also trying to create funny situations that a city girl could be thrust into on a farm. Having never lived on a farm, I have my research cut out for me. Mostly, I want to explore the relationship between Brant and his three children as they grow in their relationship with Abby and each other.

Here is an excerpt from Chapter One (could be changed as the story progresses):

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 quill, and wrote:

March 18, 1870
Dear Mr. Samson,
I am writing to introduce myself. My name is Abigail Mary Vaughn and I read your classified advertisement in the Philadelphia Gazette seeking a wife to help raise your three children. I would like to apply. 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 a year ago. I have 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 your advertisement. I hope to hear from you.
--Miss Abigail Mary Vaughn
 
Before she could react and change her mind, Abigail enclosed it in an envelope and asked, Harry, her old servant, to walk it to the post office not far from her home built near the city's center.
* * *
Brant removed his cowboy hat and ran a hand through hair as black as coal. The town needed a spring rain to clear the air. He stood in front of the blacksmith's where he'd just gotten his horse shod and heard his daughter calling from the entrance to Clyde Jenkins General Store across the street. Clyde was also the postmaster for the dusty town of Two Rivers. She 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 rambled past. He waved at old Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and then crossed to the warped planks 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?"

"Sure did." 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 bring the buckboard around. We've got chores to finish up."

"Sure, Pa."

Several minutes after Brant had the wagon in front of the store, his fourteen year old son sauntered out. Inhaling a calming breath, Brant 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 marry 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 opened them again, glancing around the large combined living, dining, and cooking area that still held her touch in the faded curtains and small 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. Damn, but the thought of marrying someone he'd meet 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 store novels. And Ty, his baby, God help him, needed a mother's care.

Brant 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 the letters, they'd seemed to high and mighty to live in a simple 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 returned to the dining table. Tapping his jaw, he thought about his response.

May 1, 1970
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 two years ago after complications from childbirth. 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 my elder children attend school whenever there is a teacher available and I am the son of a teacher.

Two Rivers 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 to not waste my time or yours.
--Brant Samson

I'm finally satisfied with Chapter One in Baby Kisses, so I decided it was okay to post. I've had a blast developing the H/h. They are polar opposites. But opposites attract, right? In this instance, I'm happy to conclude the saying holds true. However, Miles and Tooty must go through many trials and tribulations before they accept that they are meant to be together. I hope Chapter One peaks your interest.

Chapter One: Not an Airhead

Tooty drove her old Ford Ranger, gray in color under all the oxidation, to the front of Jacob and Julie's cottage. Parking in a cloud of dust, she sat for a minute and tried to calm her nerves. She was about to meet Maxwell Henry--the famous author. Sarah had explained his real name was Miles Brightman, and he was staying at the cottage while Julie and Jacob visited Maude and Clyde Hix in Alaska. Tooty had often heard stories about the former employees of the Lazy M Ranch and how they had struck it rich as gold prospectors. Now in their eighties and sixties, with Maude being the older, they still lived in the same cabin they'd built after moving to the wilds years earlier. Tooty understood Julie's desire to spend as much time with the old-timers as possible. She and Jacob were going to have a blast.

Okay, you've stalled long enough. It's time to get the embarrassing part over.

Tooty bit her thumbnail and still didn't move to open her door. She remembered Miles from Julie and Jacob's wedding reception. He was the guy in the wheelchair. Actually, he was the hot older guy in the wheelchair. Even now, she cringed remembering their encounter. She'd gone in search of her mischievous four-year old and seen him checking out the man's wheelchair. When she'd approached, she'd heard Harris say, "Hi, my name is Harris and, hey, that's a really cool chair. Ya wanna take me for a ride?"

Rushing forward, she hadn't reached Harris in time to stop him from climbing onto the man's lap. The startled expression on the guy's face had said everything. He wasn't used to kids. Besides that, she didn't know how severe his physical challenge was and whether Harris could injure him. When she'd reached to grab her son off his lap, he'd said, "No, leave him." After that, he'd told Harris about his wheelchair and shown him how to operate it, both manually and with battery assistance. Of course, Harris had been fascinated and oblivious to his faux pas of just climbing on the guy's lap. With a mixture of mortification and gratitude, she'd stepped to the sidelines to watch.

The man had finally said, "Well, Harris, looks like your mother is waiting for you, you better hop down now."

That's when Tooty had stepped forward and bent to lift Harris into her arms. As she was lifting, he'd glanced from her to the man and said, "Hey, I need a daddy. You wanna marry my mommy? Don't you think she's pretty?"

Tooty had looked from her son's innocent brown eyes into the man's Mediterranean blue ones and literally froze. She'd seen his shocked look and then a slight quirk of his lips, like he was trying not to laugh. Before he could say anything, she'd jerked Harris off his lap. "I'm really sorry. My son just says whatever comes to his mind."

Harris defended himself. "But Mommy, Grammy says it too. She says I need a daddy and you need a man. What's wrong with him?"

"Ah…ah…I'm really sorry." Knowing there was no way to salvage their fiasco, she'd simply walked away carrying Harris. She'd never felt so embarrassed in her life. Every cell in her body felt like it was on fire—even her scalp.

Shaking the memory and inhaling a calming breath, Tooty forced her hand to the door handle. She was turning scarlet again just thinking about meeting Mr. Brightman and had half a mind to flip the ignition key, back the truck up, and peel out of the driveway, never looking back. Of course, she wouldn't do that. She needed to earn money, but, more importantly, she'd never forgive herself if she turned down an opportunity to work with a famous author—an author whose every book she'd read at least twice.
* * *
Miles shifted his wheelchair so he could see out the living room window. He watched the young woman step from her battered pickup. So this was the girl with the strange first name Sarah had referred. Her dark strawberry colored hair looked familiar. When she'd almost reached the porch, recognition slammed him and he groaned. It was the girl from the wedding; the one with the cute, but rascally little boy—the boy who'd ask him to marry his mommy and become his daddy. He groaned again when the doorbell rang. Rolling his chair to the door he opened it and pasted a smile on his face. "Hello, please come in," he said politely.

The girl opened the screen and he backed his chair up. "H-hello. My name is Tooty Townsend and Sarah said you were looking for a personal assistant."

He rolled toward the back of the house. "Let's go to the kitchen. I've got coffee brewing and we can talk about it." He paused at the kitchen entrance and waited for her to enter. She waited for him to enter. Finally, he said, "Please go in and pour yourself a cup of coffee; that is if you drink coffee. I think there's tea in the fridge."

Self consciously, she said, "Okay," and walked past him. At the counter, she reached for one of the cups he'd set out and lifted the pot. "Can I pour you one, too?"

"Yes, please." He rolled his chair to the drop leaf table and motioned for her to sit across from him. She set his coffee in front of him and took a seat.

When she lifted her cup to her lips, he noticed her hand was trembling. Shit. He didn't want to scare the girl. She didn't look much older than eighteen or nineteen. She was probably much too immature to act as a personal assistant, but then again, she already had a child. That could mature a person fast.

"I–"

"Please–"

They both spoke at the same time. Miles cleared his throat, "You first."

She looked at him with her big brown doe's eyes. "I just want to apologize for the incident at the wedding reception. My son can be quite vocal, but he's only four years old…" she defended him, but didn’t finish her sentence.

Miles chuckled. "No apology needed. At least he speaks his mind. No beating around the bush."

His words seemed to ease her nervousness and she sipped her coffee again without trembling.

"Your turn," she said.

It took him a second to realize that she was waiting for him to say what he had been about to. "Oh, I was just going to ask you to relay any experience you've had in working as a personal assistant." He saw her eyes slide to the table.

"Um, I-I haven't actually worked as a personal assistant, but I did good in school and I'm an avid reader. I've read all your books. I also worked for Mrs. Smiley at Beautyluscious Beauty Shop as the receptionist for six months. The reason I'm not still there is because she retired and the new owner laid me off to save money."

Miles wanted to groan. He'd let her down easy. Keeping a straight face, he asked, "Are you working anywhere now?"

"Uh, yes."

She didn't elaborate, and he finally prompted, "Can you tell me where you're working and what you're doing?"

"I-I work after hours at Boot Bustin' Barn cleaning the club. The owner said he's gonna work me into a waitress position."

Miles stared at his coffee. This interview was going nowhere fast. Even though she indicated she'd read his books, he wondered how literate she was.

"Do you know anything about computers? Do you think you could handle checking and replying to emails?" He glanced up, surprised to see an almost hostile expression on her face.

Before he could say anything, she said, "I think I can handle checking emails and writing correspondence. And yes, just in case you're wondering, I have a high school degree and I can read and write. Sarah wouldn't have sent me if she didn't think I was capable. However, it appears that you have doubts, so I'll just say goodbye and wish you the best in finding the right person."

She started to stand and Miles darted his hand to hers. "Wait. I didn't mean that to come out quite the way it did. It's just that you're so young and I want to be sure–"

She interrupted, "You want to be sure I'm not an airhead."

Damn it. She was twisting his words. He looked at her, and said, "Exactly."

A tiny smile drew up the corners of her mouth. "Mr. Brightman, I had a child when I was sixteen and I've been taking care of both of us ever since. I assure you I am not an airhead. But I'll release you from having to make the decision of whether or not to hire me. Good day." She stood.

"You've got the job. Be here at nine tomorrow morning."