The making of Mail Order Groom
Someone asked me the other day if I ever read my own work--without my writer hat on. And the answer is YES, though admittedly, it is difficult to do. Such was the case last week when I donned my reader hat and re-read Mail Order Groom, my second book. I got the idea for it during a writers workshop when several authors were gathered around a table talking about their current works. One of them was a lady who had several books out on Oregon Trail mail order brides. A gentleman in the group, the late Caleb Pirtle,III, a very gifted and prolific writer himself, looked at me and said "Why is it always a mail order bride? What not a mail order groom?"
Immediately, my writers brain kicked into gear and I thought, "Yeah, Why not?" A quick search on Amazon showed not much, and the idea was born. By the time I got home that evening, I had the story lined out in my head, and I sat down and wrote until three in the morning. Eight months later, Groom was a reality. Until I started my current work, Groom was the first book that just flowed...I mean, I never got stuck, never worried about where to go next, or stumbled through a passage. It normally takes me a full year to do a book because I do other things as well, and sometimes my muses aren't talking to me. That never happened with Groom.
Bakersville, Texas, spring,1878.
Emma Marshall, age 25, and by standards of the day, is a spinster. Only daughter of wealthy rancher, Rafe Marshall, her mother died when she was ten, leaving her to the care of a grieving father and kindly housekeeper, Lupe. With no other female influence in her life, she grew up working beside her father, building win Oaks into a profitable cattle ranch. Feisty and independent, she worked hard to earn the respect of the men. Her world was perfect. She had the freedom and independence she craved, and her father wanted to take that away. His illness grew worse each day. He didn't have much time.
He wanted her married. Or else.
"Find a husband in thirty days or lose the ranch when I die."
Rafe's ultimatum rang in her ears. How could he do this to her? She had to marry someone--anyone--or lose her home. But she couldn't picture herself married to any of the locals. Busy with running the ranch alone, she stalled, thinking he'd get over that silly notion and things would go on as before.
But Rafe didn't give up. He put it in his will, then, without her knowledge, he placed an ad for a groom. Spurred by the lure of a prosperous ranch and a beautiful bride, strangers, young and old, began knocking on her door. Angry, embarrassed and heartbroken by her father's actions, Emma struggles for a way out.
Tyler "Ty" Roundtree is a drifter. The war took everything from him, leaving him empty and searching for something he couldn't name. His best friend talks him into taking the position of temporary ranch foreman at Twin Oaks after the sudden death of the previous one. His first shock comes when local lawyer Hank Walker, a man Ty instantly disliked and didn't trust, seemed to be in charge. His next shock came when he discovered his new boss was actually a beautiful jean-wearing, gun-toting woman with enough grit and determination to go bear hunting with a switch.
Distracted by persistent suitors and a dangerous man intent on gaining control of her ranch--and her--Emma is unprepared for the instant attraction to Ty. Thrown together by chance, working with him every day, she begins to wonder if he might not be the answer to her problem.
There's just one tiny little problem--she knows everything about running a ranch. And nothing about being a woman.
Ty watches as Emma deals with the unwelcome callers, including Hank Walker, his every protective instinct on high alert. One night at dinner, Hank tells Emma her thirty days are almost up. She needs to marry someone--him--right away. When Ty sees Emma's frightened face, he impulsively tells everyone that he and Emma are getting married.
A marriage of convenience is just the beginning of the story.
What follows is a funny, heartbreaking and heartwarming story of two people thrown together--then separated by chance, finding a love as sprawling as the rugged east Texas landscape.
Read a sample below or click here to buy: Amazon
Chapter Two
Tyler Roundtree entered the Broken Spur Saloon and paused. Hooded gray eyes scanned the room, marked the position of each customer as well as doors and windows before he sauntered toward the worn oak bar. He angled to the right, his back to the wall, where the door and room remained visible.
The bartender, a huge barrel of a man, his face a mass of wrinkles, gaze heavy lidded and bored, wiped the counter as he approached. “What’ll it be, mister?”
“Whiskey. The good stuff. Leave the bottle.”
Ty grabbed the items, dropped coins on the bar, and moved to a table in the corner. He sipped the potent drink, enjoying the pungent bite as it slid down his throat to warm his near empty belly. Brim of his worn Stetson pulled low, he missed nothing around him.
Not for the first time, he asked himself why he had accepted the job at Twin Oaks two weeks ago. The fact that Henry Owens talked him into it spoke volumes for their friendship. They served together in the war and Henry returned home and married Sarah five years ago.
Ty still searched for a home to return to.
On Ty’s last visit to the Owens ranch, Henry advised him the Marshall’s foreman died after being thrown from a wild mustang. With Henry’s recommendation and encouragement, Ty applied for the job and here he sat, putting off the moment he would meet his new employer with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
Laughter from a nearby table drew his gaze toward it.
“What on earth made you think you had a chance with her, Lucky?” The question came from a young cowboy, slender as a reed, hair the color of iron ore rocks, whose prominent Adams apple bobbed wildly when he spoke. “Hell, she’d eat you alive and spit out your bones!”
The one referred to as Lucky ducked his head and grunted. “Yeah, well, at least she didn’t kick my ass like she did the feller from the Bentley place.”
His comment brought another round of laughter from the group.
Lucky snorted. “He should ‘a known better than to try and kiss her. She’s prickly as a cactus.”
His cohorts bobbed their heads in silent agreement.
“You gonna give it a try, Slim?”
The red-headed cowboy spoke up. “Hell no. I mean, she’s purty as a speckled pup when she fixes up, but I got no desire to bed a woman who is tall as me, can probably out shoot, out cuss, and out ride me.”
More nods from the table.
“I mean, who wouldn’t want Twin Oaks? Three thousand acres of the best water and grazing around. Old man Marshall done a fine job with it. Too bad he raised her to be a boy ‘stead of a girl.”
“Sure is a shame,” said Lucky, “it is for a fact.”
Slim glanced at Ty. “Say, mister, you here to try your luck?”
Ty looked up but didn’t reply.
“You here cause of them posters?” Slim shook his head. “I can’t believe Old Man Marshall had notices stuck up all over the place looking for her a husband.”
Ty’s curiosity overrode his natural aloofness. “She that bad?”
A chorus of “Hell no’s” greeted his question.
“She can be right pretty,” offered one cowboy, “slim, kinda tall, though, brownish hair and crazy green eyes.”
“Yeah,” said Lucky, “it’s like they can see right through a man.”
“Got a smart mouth, though,” declared another from group. “Don’t know a woman’s place.”
“Yeah,” said Lucky, “she runs Twin Oaks like a man. Even wears britches!”
“And that’s bad?” Ty’s question held a note of sarcasm the group didn’t appear to notice.
“Well, yeah,” said the leader of the group, “a woman should be doing woman stuff like cookin’ and havin’ babies, not brandin’ cattle.”
“I help out from time to time,” offered the man nearest Slim. “Last year I seen her wrestle this bull calf to the ground and castrate him right then and there.”
Lucky actually shuddered. “A woman ought not do that.”
Ty’s attention swung to the front door where the squeak of rusty hinges announced another arrival.
A man entered and stopped, surveying the room with a commanding air of self-confidence. He wore a black derby hat cocked over one heavy brow and an unlit cigar protruded from the corner of thin lips. He wore a dark suit and tie even though the Texas heat steadily climbed. He stood about six feet-tall, with broad shoulders and an arrogant swagger. He strode toward the cowboys’ table and stopped. He removed the cigar from his mouth and sniffed it, disdainful smile aimed at Lucky. “I hear things didn’t go well today.”
Lucky avoided looking at the man, a bright flush on his cheeks. “So what?”
The man patted him on the shoulder, gaze shifting to Ty as he spoke. “Told you it was a waste of time. Emma’s mine. You all best remember that.”
The hair on the back of Ty’s neck tingled like it did the time he walked up on a rattlesnake ready to strike.
The man eyed him a moment, then stepped forward. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
“Haven’t been here before.”
“Name’s Hank Walker.” He held out his hand.
Ty eyed the hand but made no move to shake. “Tyler Roundtree.”
“Well, Mr. Roundtree I –”
“No mister, just Tyler.”
“I see. Well, Tyler, what’s your business here in Bakersville?”
Ty sipped his whiskey, right hand dropping to grip the handle of the Colt strapped to his leg. “Don’t see as how my business is any of yours.”
Walker’s smile never reached his eyes. “If you’re here about Emma Marshall, you can leave now.”
The last thing he needed or wanted was to get in the middle of someone else’s problem. Already, this job had earmarks of trouble in spades. He had no doubt he’d just met an adversary…one with his eye on Emma Marshall, who he assumed to be his new employer’s daughter. But, he promised Henry he would take this job until they found someone else, and he would not break his word. Plus, he didn’t like Walker on sight and had no qualms about provoking him.
“What if I am?”
“As I said, you can leave now.”
“And if I don’t care to?”
Chair legs scrapped against the rough wood floor as Slim and his companions moved toward the door.
“I’m the Marshalls’ attorney.” Walker pulled his coat open to show he carried no gun. “I have their best interest in mind.”
Ty studied the man intently. Evil eyes. “That include Miss Marshall? You looking out for her best interest, too?”
Walker’s nostrils flared and his jaw tightened. When he spoke, his voice was cold and flat. “She’s none of your concern.”
He sipped his whiskey. “Well, since I’m the new foreman, and she’s the boss’s daughter, I reckon she is my concern.”
Walker flinched, gaze darting around to see who might have heard him. “Since when?”
“Since I was hired two weeks ago.”
“He never mentioned it to me.”
The man’s arrogance grated on Ty’s nerves. “Not my concern.” He pushed his chair back, nodded toward the irritated man and ambled out the door, certain he had not heard the last from Hank Walker.
Chapter Three
Emma had the horse out of the stall and saddled in record time, so angry she was on the verge of tears. A hard tug on the cinch gave evidence of her indignation. “I swear, Midnight, if one more cowboy rides up and says he wants to marry me, I won’t be responsible for what happens.” She grabbed up the reins, loped out of the barn and turned west but stopped when hailed by one of the hands.
“Ever’thing all right, Miss Emma? Where you off to in such a hurry?”
“I’m fine, Leo, just taking Midnight for a quick ride.”
“Ain’t the new foreman gonna be here today?”
“I won’t be gone long.” Gentle pressure to the horse’s flanks sent the mare into a gallop before Leo could say anything else. She had to get away before she exploded, or worse, broke down in front of the men.
Once out of sight, tears flowed freely, their salty trails drying as Midnight’s powerful legs ate up the ground. She reached the edge of Cherokee Creek three miles from the ranch and pulled to stop under the shade of a massive live oak. Her legs shook as she dismounted, sank to the ground, and cried until only soft hiccups remained.
Drained, she sat up and patted the nose pressed to her cheek. “How could he put me out there like a prized heifer for sale to the highest bidder?”
The horse snorted and nudged again.
“He put up posters, Midnight. Posters! All over the place. Even advertised in the Ft. Worth paper.” Heat crept into her cheeks as she recalled the line of men, young and old, who had paraded through the house the last ten days, offering their services as a husband, among other things, which mortified her soul.
Hank Walker topped the list.
She still trembled at the thought. He made her uneasy, though she couldn’t pinpoint the precise reason why. On the surface he appeared cordial and polite, and while not handsome, he wasn’t bad. But a look appeared in his dull, brown eyes from time to time that made her skin crawl.
There were others after him, some shy and embarrassed, others blatantly masculine and overbearing who became angry when refused. Which explained the holstered Colt on her thigh. Whether coincidence or by design, one of her regular hands was always nearby when a new suitor came to call, and she appreciated their concern and show of support.
For her, marriage to anyone, especially those who called on her these days, meant the loss of the one thing she would never give up – her independence.
A life where she lacked the freedom to ride where and when she pleased, work with the cattle, sleep under the stars, and work side-by-side with men who respected her as the boss was completely unimaginable. Her father wanted her to believe they only obeyed because he still lived, but she knew better. The road to respect and acceptance was hard and long, but she’d made it to the end, and would never give it up…even if it meant spending the rest of her life alone.
She loved her father, would do anything for him, but this was too much to ask. She simply didn’t understand why he would force her to do something so repulsive. How could he expect her to marry someone she did not love; someone who didn’t love her? Hell, some of these cowboys she had never even met before they showed up on her doorstep with professions of love and devotion.
They wanted the ranch. Not her, though he didn’t seem to agree.
A lot of people in town laughed at her behind her back. She heard their snickers and snide remarks, but ignored them. She had only two friends, both of whom were married. Mable Barker at the general store, and Sally Owens from the Lazy O, with whom she had been friends since childhood.
Mable, older than Emma by ten years, and a mail order bride herself, quickly gave advice, solicited or not. “You wanna get a man, Emma, you gotta trade them britches for a skirt.”
Emma insisted she did not want to get married and if she did, the man must accept her as she was, britches and all.
“A man don’t want a woman who looks like a man. You’re beautiful when you get gussied up. I don’t see why you hide it.”
She shook her head at the disquieting memories and lay on the cool grass, enjoying the balmy spring breeze. Her lips curled up in soft smile as one last thought swept through before sleep overtook her - I wonder if Grey Eyes needs a wife?
***
Ty took a less direct route to the ranch arriving from the north to get a feel for the lay of the land. He reined Diablo to a stop near the top of a small rise and surveyed the awe-inspiring expanse of rolling green hills divided by the rushing waters of Cherokee Creek. His beautiful Eden’s Garden plantation once overlooked such a vista. Don’t go there; Eden is gone.
Most days the abysmal hole in his heart went unnoticed, the pain as much a part of him as an arm or leg, but every now and again, a reminder of life before that horrible war popped up; his family, his fiancé, and the pain rushed in anew, taking his breath away. He clenched his teeth and with much effort, pushed it back to the darkened corner of his mind where it belonged.
He nudged his mount into a slow walk while he studied the range he would soon be responsible for, at least temporarily. From what Henry said, it was a prized spread, and based on what he saw to this point, he agreed. Verdant pastures sprinkled with Longhorns and sturdy mustangs as far as the eye could see, dotted with massive oaks, pines and assorted Texas foliage. Cypress trees hugged the banks of the creek, which looked to be roughly twenty-feet wide, and patches of early wildflowers added vivid splashes of color. The creek disappeared behind another rise off to the left, and he headed toward it.
He stopped short when he saw her lying on the ground.
His thought at first she had fallen from her horse and might be hurt. Then she moved, stretched slightly, and he decided she was fast asleep. He dismounted and left Diablo back far enough not to disturb the woman or the horse, and walked forward, transfixed by the beauty in front of him.
Face turned toward the sun, one hand pillowed her head, the other rested on the grip of the Colt strapped to a shapely thigh. Although dressed in jeans and a man’s shirt, a woman’s body was easily discernible. His quickly noted long legs and well-rounded hips, moving up to a narrow waist, then to full breasts that strained against the buttons of the too-tight shirt. Chestnut hair caught with streaks of golden fire fanned out around her head like a bonnet. Sun-kissed complexion, delicately arched brows, and full lips, edges tilted up in a serene smile that made him wonder what she dreamed, completed the package before him.
If this woman is Emma Marshall, this foreman job just got a lot more interesting.
He considered waking her but discarded the notion. Certain the dirty smudges on her cheeks resulted from dried tears, he decided whatever she did here was personal and private, and he would not interrupt.
But that smile…what dream put it there?
She stretched out one leg and arched her back like a cat. Unwanted visions of those long legs wrapped around his waist blindsided him. He tried to look away but his gaze hit the top button of her shirt, dangerously close to popping open, and the effect hit him hard and fast. Before he did something really stupid, he spun around, and walked back to his horse.
He led the animal some distance away, then mounted, and headed for the ranch, vision clouded by a single button.
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