Brazen: Four Historical Romance Novellas

By Doreen Milstead

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 PLUS Banking On Love - An overweight woman, tired of her life and job at a bank in New York, spends weeks trying to find a mail order husband through a marriage broker and when she does, all of her fears about there being no love and a lot of work, surface PLUS Fighting For His Love - An overweight English widow makes the long journey from England to her intended, a Texas cowboy. It turns out that neither got what they expected PLUS Jousting In The New Mexican Desert - A woman’s father sends her off via a matchmaker to a man with a castle in New Mexico.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387371563

Book preview

Brazen: Four Historical Romance Novellas

Brazen: Four Historical Romance Novellas

By

Doreen Milstead

Copyright 2017 Susan Hart

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.

She unlatched the case and handed it to him. Nestled in their specially designed spaces, the replacement hands spoke to her heart of her father’s love. Each one designed for a purpose, a simple hook for general use, a silver fork for meals, a needle for knitting, and a clamp for holding things. Each one was both beautiful and functional, just for her. He really had loved her. 

They are beautiful. Edward handed them back, although his eyes lingered. You are fortunate.

More so than I had first believed. Emma’s gaze shifted to his empty sleeve. Except that it wasn’t completely empty. A fullness near the top hinted at a stump.

Edward noticed her look and answered her unasked question. Artillery blast at Gettysburg. Took both my arm and leg. He pulled up his pant leg exposing the wood of his leg above his boot. Government is giving out new legs, but they don’t think arms are important enough. He paused, Unless maybe you lost both arms. Trouble is, I’m a wheelwright, and I need both arms to pursue my trade.

What will you do instead? Emma kept her eyes on his face and saw the despair fill it.

Truthfully, I don’t know. His sigh seemed to come from deep within. There are few trades for a one armed man. Even if I could find one, most people would prefer a two-armed man fill it. The government has agreed to pay maimed veterans a monthly stipend, but having fought on the losing side, it is barely enough to keep body and soul together.

Emma shivered at the bitterness in his voice, even his soft drawl sounded harsh with it. For a long time, there was no sound other than the rhythmic clacking of the wheels and the creak of the swaying car as the train rolled over the steel tracks. Edward stared blindly, seeming to have forgotten her presence and she could think of nothing to say to comfort him.

What was there to say? He was right in what he had said. It was hard enough as a woman, to be one handed, but for a man whose way of life depended on two usable arms, the loss of one of them spelled a death sentence. At the very least poverty and ridicule would dog his steps until they drove him to an early grave.

She pressed the fingers of her good hand against the replacement until she could feel the curved edges of the joints pinch her skin. If it would do any good, she would offer the false arm to Edward. He needed it far more than she did. For her, the replacement was more a matter of pride than necessity.

She had learned to do nearly everything one handed when she was a child. The shrunken and withered limb she was born with had become infected and was removed while she was quite young. She had not even noticed until much later and she overheard other girls her age laughing about her lack.

Emma had gone to her father in tears and soon afterwards, he had presented her with a replacement. His own design, it had been a simple leather cuff tied around the stump and a wooden attachment that ended with a hook for her to grab things.

Since then, he had developed new replacements and refined the original until this last version, which mimicked her other arm perfectly; at least in looks. A socket at the wrist had threads to match screws protruding from each of the alternate ‘hands’ in her velvet case. All she needed to do was unscrew her current hand and replace it with another. She glanced at Edward’s empty sleeve. If he had her replacement, perhaps his bitterness would fade.

Surreptitiously, she eyed the outline of his stump. His arms were more muscular than hers were, but the amputated arm had become atrophied with disuse. If she widened her cuff to its widest setting, it might fit. But could she give it up? Would he accept it?

They did not speak again until the train pulled into the next stop. Emma stood and let the blood flow back into her feet, wincing at the pins and needles that the movement awoke. She looked down at her companion.

I believe this is our dinner stop. Will you join me? Emma waited for a response, but it seemed Edward was lost in his dark contemplations so she turned and filed out behind the rest of the passengers.

Meal stops were not long, so most travelers focused on eating rather than talking, so Emma didn’t have to bother with making small talk. Under the cover of the table, she curled her wooden fingers around the handle of her fork and fastened the tiny strands that held them in place. Disguised by the trim of her gloves, the replacement tendons would hold until she released them.

As she ate, she glanced around the room trying to be inconspicuous. The soldier's story seemed to repeat throughout the room. None of the men within range of her vision had all his limbs. Like the soldier on the train, they all had one, if not two artificial legs. Some had missing arms. She wondered how many of those had lost their ability to make a living.

She had heard of the war that had ripped through the American states. The English were no strangers to war and the scars it left, but Emma had never seen such wide spread maiming. It made her deformity seem mild in comparison. Unable to eat more, she laid her hands in her lap and fingered the smooth wood of her replacement hand. If only she could offer the same thing to the men around her.

What could she do? She was no better off than they were and she was a woman besides. So deformed and useless, her own brother wanted nothing to do with her. What was the point in trying?

The call came to board the train. Emma followed the other passengers with her head bowed, strangely ashamed of her two working legs. When she returned to her seat, the young soldier was gone. She hadn't seen him in the restaurant or on the platform. Perhaps this had been his destination.

She hoped he found comfort wherever he had gone. The train left the station, slowing building up steam and speed. Emma tried to relax, but the evidence of suffering around her made rest impossible. In true soldier fashion, the men were able to drop off to sleep immediately and the sounds of snoring and heavy breathing. The steady drone of noise shredded her nerves until she couldn’t sit still.

Rising, she carefully made her way past her sleeping companions toward the end of the rail car. Grasping the handle of the door, she tugged it open. The sudden rush of air made her skirts billow around her ankles. Her young soldier stood there, his one good arm clinging to the railing as he stared down at the blurring rails below.

Have you ever just wanted it over? Just wanted to give up and end the pain? His voice was quiet, barely audible over the rumble of the train.

Yes.