His Make-Believe Bride

By Martha Hix

She’s a bride with a secret as big as Texas… 
 
Widowed and alone, Linnea Powell agrees to swap places with a reluctant mail-order bride. Arriving in Lubbock, Texas, armed only with her future husband’s letters promising a prosperous life, Linnea feels hopeful—until the stagecoach leaves her standing before a handsome stranger who has more ambition than he does prospects. Still, Linnea accepts Sam Kincaid’s proposal, knowing the moment he seals their vows with a hungry kiss, she’ll never be able to keep her past a secret. For her appealing new husband is all too eager to share the marriage bed….
 
Sam knows there’s something mysterious about his new bride. But that only adds to Linnea’s allure. And when he learns his wife is really a vulnerable widow, he’s even more determined to give her the life and family she dreams of. Sam’s not afraid of hard work, especially when the prize is Linnea’s love. What the rugged rancher doesn’t know is that Linnea has an even bigger secret, one that could destroy his reputation—and shatter his heart….
 
Praise for Martha Hix

“A romantic mixture of sensitivity, humor and spice, Martha Hix's delicious love story offers a refreshingly atypical heroine.” —RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars, on Terrific Tom

“Filled with humor...and a wealth of love.  Enjoy!” —RT Book Reviews on Magic and the Texan

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Oct 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781601839374

Martha Hix

Martha Hix -- author of 15 romance novels, one medieval novella, and a section of the Lair of the Wolf continuing story at Romance Communications that will soon be published by Leisure Books -- finds herself amazed that life can be this grand. Recently one of the six writer-celebrity emcees in the Mr. Romance Cover Model Pageant, sponsored by ROMANTIC TIMES Magazine aboard Carnival Cruise Line's m/s Celebration, as well as being the organizer of the RT Spice Girls, Martha enjoys a splendid personal life along with an amazing career...for, she says, "a fat girl." Martha's newest book addresses the issue of being fat and being satisfied with it. Terrific Tom, a Silhouette Special Edition available in mid June of this year, has received fantastic support for looking the issue of weight in the eye and saying, "So what?" Her books have been translated into an assortment of foreign languages, some of them very foreign--like Japanese, Mandarin, Greek, and Turkish. Her historicals, Destiny's Magic and Mail Order Man, were finalists in the HOLT Medallion competition, an award for literary excellence determined by readers across the nation. "The best 'literary excellence,'" Martha says, "comes from the wonderful letters I receive from readers." A Texas native and resident whose family has been in the Lone Star State since the 1840s, Martha says with her trademark grin, "I enjoy writing. I get to be in charge." She has a couple of daughters, a couple of grandkids, and a couple of pets, but only one husband. She says, "He's great. I don't know how he puts up with me, not to mention my moods and antics. But I'm glad he does." If Martha could have three wishes on a magic lamp? "Great health for my family. Great health for myself. And that chocolate eclairs weren't fattening. But since they are, so what?" On a trip to the Copper Canyon in Mexico, Martha and her traveling companion, Evelyn Rogers, put their Spanish to the test, asking everyone, "What famous person, living or dead, would you most like to meet?" We asked Martha the same question, and she replied, "Golda Mier. She was an American woman of simple origins, not beautiful, yet she rose to lead Israel. I'd love to ask what fired her soul, what made her happy and sad. Why Israel was important to her." Recently Martha became pals with multi-published author and cover model, the gorgeous and talented SUSAN PAUL. Martha and Susan have formed the Podners writing team to explore various forms of fiction.

Book preview

careers.

Chapter 1

Stage Stop Dining Room

Fort Worth, Texas

Late March, 1904

"What makes you think you can just step in and take this nice young lady’s identity?"

Still feeling the shake and rattle of riding for days in a stagecoach, Linnea Powell, disgraced widow, tried to ignore her lunch companion’s question. Impossible. The dark-haired, skinny woman was jerking her thumb at the eatery’s newest waitress.

Linnea leaned in to whisper, Put your finger down or Mr. Philpott will notice you’re upset.

Jewel Bellingham did drop her hand, but her mouth flattened with disgust.

They both glanced at the reporter, their fellow stagecoach passenger since leaving the East Texas town of Jefferson—one of several waystations on their journey from Shreveport, Louisiana. The man sat at a table for one and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Despite his hunger for a shocking story, he always refused to break bread with the women, which suited Linnea just fine.

The prig then wiggled on his chair and raised a forkful of pie as if to smell the contents. One side of his mouth lifted in what appeared to be distaste.

He could ruin everything, Linnea said, her tone a hushed yet heartfelt plea.

The newly hired waitress approached. Carrying a large tray of plates, Ermentrude Flanders winked as she breezed by to deliver the noonday meal to a table of four. Just this morning, when the stage pulled into Fort Worth, the pleasant, flaxen-haired girl had abandoned her seat to ask the proprietor to take down the Waitress Required sign.

I can understand wanting to better oneself, Jewel remarked, leaning in to whisper, but I have a hard time reconciling her future. She could have been a respectable matron. To take a waitress job, on the off chance she can quit if a highfalutin bunch of Fort Worth doctors will allow her to study medicine at their school? Not likely.

The previous evening, Linnea had listened in amazement to the whys and what-fors. Ermentrude had agreed to marry, simply to please her mother. Then she had decided to please herself, accepting a match with Mr. Kincaid by correspondence. It would put hundreds of miles between her and her mother.

Understanding that part didn’t come easily, as Linnea ached for family. Well, they were her decisions to make. I hope she’ll soon trade her serving apron for the surgical variety. And I appreciate this chance to benefit from her decisions.

Stirring sugar into her coffee, Jewel snickered. You would.

Linnea chose to ignore that. She had ignored much worse comments over the past three years, had been deeply hurt by even more.

When she was offered the identity switch, her battered heart had swelled with hope for the first time in months. Thus, Linnea had jumped at the chance at something far more stable and certainly more fulfilling than her shaky plans to apply for a position in the New Mexico household of a former employer.

And now a major problem had reared its ugly head in the visage of what her late husband had called the Fourth Estate.

Namely, Edgar Philpott, formerly of the Jefferson Jimplecute.

The strange little man had now traded nostrils to get another whiff of the dessert, then dug in to his slice of buttermilk pie. The way he behaved—and had behaved since boarding the stage for his own new start—reminded Linnea of the way a dog smells around, looking for the best place to empty his bladder.

I wonder what Mr. Philpott would say if he knew the whole story? Jewel said in a stage whisper.

Linnea leaned in. Shh! Don’t even consider telling him. Edgar Philpott knows too much already. Do you remember how he recognized my name? When we introduced ourselves, in Jefferson.

The reporter had hitched his britches up just a tad too high on his belly. Right in front of the driver and the other passengers, he flourished a narrow notebook and a pencil. Tell me, Mrs. Powell, he said while touching the pencil lead to his tongue. How did you feel when you got the news your husband shot dead the sheriff of Rapides Parish?

She had let fly with her feelings. "I didn’t feel nearly as bad as when I got the news that his deputy shot my husband dead."

But that was days ago and this was Fort Worth. With many more jarring miles now behind them, she figured the Philpott problem would right itself once they reached Jacksboro. He had a new position waiting at the Jacksboro Bee.

The diners at the next table left, allowing Linnea more room to speak privately with the other bride on her way to the milk and honey of Lubbock, Texas.

Linnea reached for Jewel’s bony hand. Jewel . . . Never have I ever in my wildest dreams imagined that a decent gentleman might come along. Mr. Samson Kincaid of the High Hopes Ranch offers even more than dreams. He is security.

By all accounts Mr. Kincaid is a decent, God-fearing cattleman. His uncle—my intended—serves as his foreman. Jewel lifted her nose so high that the black hairs in her nostrils protruded. "They’re now expanding their success with cotton farming. Absolutely, Mr. Kincaid expects to match with a mail-order bride of his own stripe. But you are an imposter."

You needn’t remind me.

Still gnawing the bone of righteousness, Jewel chewed down. If you hadn’t lived the scandalous life, missy girl, you wouldn’t have to worry about some reporter’s opinion.

I didn’t do anything wrong, except marry stupidly.

"You mean you didn’t do anything wrong until now."

Why was it so wrong, grabbing a chance for happiness laced with refuge? A great lady—the grandest person she’d ever known—had told Linnea it was cheap and common, stooping to tit for tat. Unfortunately, recollections along the ladylike-behavior line usually came as second thought.

She came back with, What’s it to you?

You’d be my niece. Family. Forever. That’s my stake.

That’s reason enough for me to call it quits.

Smart aleck. The arbiter of deportment slurped coffee from its saucer. The newspapers called your Mr. Powell a gambler.

It could be that Linnea owed her self-appointed inquisitor—and future in-law—a few explanations.

Percival was whatever the moment needed him to be. That was being generous. I was barely eighteen when he called on Reston Oaks to sell Bibles. That very day, he said he’d give me a Good Book, if the lady of the house bought one. The mere idea of owning my own Bible—I was thrilled half to death. I was an orphan. I’d never owned anything special.

Oh? That set of cameos you’re wearing. That brooch. Those earbobs. They look pretty special . . .

Linnea’s shaking fingers touched the diamond-surrounded cameo she’d pinned above her breast. Her worldly possessions totaled her Bible and what was left of Miz Myrtie’s diamond-studded cameo jewelry. Never in her twenty-three years had she even seen jewels more beautiful than her matching brooch and earrings.

Of course they’re special, she said. They belonged to a grand lady. Miz Myrtie. Myrtle Reston. Mrs. Rutherford G. Reston. I was her parlor maid. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. Before she and Mr. Reston moved to New Mexico to improve her health, she was well-known in Shreveport for her good deeds. Linnea swallowed the lump in her throat. Miz Myrtie went to her greater reward, last summer, several months before my husband answered to his Maker. She left these cameos to me in her will.

What luck. Valuable jewels to a housemaid.

Their value isn’t counted in dollars. They remind me of a grand lady who was decent and kind, and understanding and sentimental. Linnea closed her suddenly scratchy eyes.

I don’t know about the cameos, but diamonds are valuable.

Better they were made of paste. Then her husband wouldn’t have stolen the matching ring, just to lose it in a game of three-card monte. That very same week, Percival Powell also lost his life.

As his widow Linnea had no one to turn to. With the citizens of Shreveport shunning her, she couldn’t find work. Finally, she decided to throw herself on the mercy of Miz Myrtie’s relocated widower, which meant a trip west. Then along came hope, glorious hope, in the form of Ermentrude Flanders.

As if she read Linnea’s mind, Jewel said, I can’t imagine why Ermentrude even offered this exchange.

Jewel knew those reasons; Linnea saw no reason to rehash the situation with Miss Deaf Ears, who just wanted to be hateful. Ermentrude doesn’t want to marry Samson Kincaid. I ache for this chance to become Mrs. Kincaid. I wish her every success in becoming a doctor. Besides, it’s not as if I’m doing anything to hurt her, or Mr. Kincaid. I do intend to make him a fine and respectable wife.

Do you cook?

Well . . . no.

How are you at making shirts for your husband?

"Dad-gum it, Jewel! Refined ladies don’t sew any confounded shirts. Rich ladies arrange flowers and make nice homes for their husbands. They have hired help for the shirts and the washing up."

That’s the life you’re already on your way to. With that banker in New Mexico. Why don’t you go on? He’s a widower. I think you should marry your banker.