Sunset: A Pair of Historical Romances

By Vanessa Carvo

Emma & The Restoration of a Soldier - A woman with one hand goes west to a mail ordered husband that her father has arranged for her before he died. On the train she meets up with a group of Civil War injured soldiers and one special young man who becomes a friend. However, when she meets her husband for the first time he runs out as he looks at her beautifully carved hand replacement and she believes that she may never see him again. She starts a workshop where she and a craftsman build hands and legs for people in town who have lost limbs from the war or accidents.

A Journey Of A Thousand Miles With Her Cowboy - A Southern woman, fallen on hard times with her family right after the Civil War, heads west and to a man she met reading an advertisement in the newspaper. She’s looking for love and stability after her fiancé was killed in the war, but what she gets is the adventure of a lifetime a man very different from what he advertised.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365304750

Book preview

Sunset: A Pair of Historical Romances

Sunset: A Pair of Historical Romances

By

Vanessa Carvo

Copyright 2016 Quietly Blessed & Loved Press

Emma & The Restoration of a Soldier

Synopsis: Emma & The Restoration of a Soldier - A woman with one hand goes west to a mail ordered husband that her father has arranged for her before he died. On the train she meets up with a group of Civil War injured soldiers and one special young man who becomes a friend. However, when she meets her husband for the first time he runs out as he looks at her beautifully carved hand replacement and she believes that she may never see him again. She starts a workshop where she and a craftsman build hands and legs for people in town who have lost limbs from the war or accidents. Her reputation spreads until one day, her husband shows up unexpectedly at her workshop while she is fitting a limb for her soldier friend.

Emma sat on the hard seat with a straight back and feet placed neatly side-by-side. For hours, she had held the same position without moving. Her back and shoulders protested with a throbbing ache but she refused to give in to the weakness. She stared out the window but the passing landscape held no interest for her. How could it, when the world had ended?

How could he do this to her? After all his words of loving her and taking care of her, this is his solution.

Scalding tears hovered on the verge of falling. What were tears if not just another weakness? Emma was not weak and she held them back by sheer force of will. He had betrayed her by sending her away, and then betrayed her again by dying.

A single tear slipped from her control and burned its way down her cheek to splash on the single sheet of yellow paper in her hand. She wiped the traitorous drop away without looking at it. She didn’t need to. The words seared on her heart.

Emmaline,

Father is dead. No need to come back, he is buried and you will get nothing from us. I don’t know how much he gave you but no doubt, it is more than you deserve. Don’t come back.

Robert

No mention of love, or shared sorrow there, but Emma had always known that her brother held no affection for her. He always concealed his disgust when father was around, but when they were alone, Robert’s torments had made her life a misery. He was the one reason she had agreed to this ridiculous situation.

Life at home had never been easy, but it was better when it was just father and her. Then Robert and his new wife had moved in to care for father in his illness and changed everything. Father had been too weak to resist her brother’s manipulation.

Father had agreed that Emma should go find a new life. He said he had written a letter that would make things easier for her. He said it was a good thing and handed her a paper to sign. Then he had said he had found her a husband.

A husband, Mr. Hugh Clarke. A man she had never seen, never spoken to, had never even heard of. What if she didn’t like him? What if . . .?

Emma’s right hand tightened around her left, but there was no response. There never had been, there never will be. Beneath the soft silk of her glove lay the hard weight of wood. Her father’s last gift to her. Carved of rosewood and polished smooth as glass, the replacement hand was a work of art.

Art was all it was, Beautiful to look at but useless for any practical purpose.

She hated it.

The train rolled into the next station with a blast of its whistle and a billowing cloud of steam to obscure her view. Not that it mattered, there was nothing here she wanted to see. As the steam cleared, she found that she was wrong.

The platform was crowded with men, many of them wearing the remnants of uniforms. Gray was the predominate color, but what really stood out was the fact that every single man carried a crutch or a cane. Many of them had empty sleeves neatly pinned up or hanging limply at their sides.

Slowly the platform emptied as the men climbed onto the train.

Emma stared as the men limped single file down the aisle filling the seats on either side. Finally, one of the soldiers stood beside her.

Excuse me, miss. His voice carried the warm drawl she had come to associate with the southern states she had been traveling through. Is this seat claimed? The man tipped his gray cap with his one remaining hand and nodded at the empty seat across from her. The silence stretched as she stared wordlessly at the empty sleeve tucked into his belt. At her continued silence, the soldier prepared to move on.

No, wait. She reached out to touch him, but only the empty sleeve was within reach. She hesitated before actually touching it. I’m sorry, please sit.

It’s all right. I know some folks are uncomfortable around cripples. The man didn’t meet her eyes, I’ll find a different seat.

No, it’s not that, please . . . Emma gestured toward the empty seat. The man sat, but still refused to meet her eyes. He looked to be a few years younger than she was, but pain and sorrow had aged him so he seemed far older. He stared out the window as the train built up steam and began to move. His hand massaged his thigh several inches above his knee.

She dropped her gaze to her own hands, one real, and one replacement. Almost of its own volition, her right hand began to pluck at the fingers of the other glove. Bit by bit, polished wood became visible. The vague texture of tendons and veins were nearly lost in the lines of woodgrain. The moveable joints carved into the fingers flexed slightly as the silk glove pulled free.

She looked up to find the soldier staring fixedly at her lap.

At her deformity.

Her first instinct was to hide it, in the glove or in the folds of her skirt, or behind her back. But she didn’t. For the first time, she allowed a stranger to gaze on her deepest secret, her deepest shame.

I’m not uncomfortable. I am ashamed. Emma’s soft words brought the soldier’s eyes to her face. I was just sitting here, feeling sorry for myself. Now perhaps I think I should count my blessings instead. My name is Emma. She reached out with her replacement and he took it in his remaining hand, bending forward to touch the smooth wood to his lips.

Edward Wright of Mobile, Alabama by way of the Confederate Army. I am honored to meet you, Miss Emma. He watched her hand as she pulled it back to her lap and replaced the glove. May I ask . . . He hesitated. Where you got it?

My father made it for me before I left England. The set was his final gift to me. Emma reached for the velvet-lined case beside her at Edward’s questioning look. I just got word that he died a few days after I left home. He made these for me.