Inherited Wife

By Michael R Emmert

Woodrow (Woody) Hancock's uncle offers him two wagers. First, he could make Woody find a wife sooner than he wants, and second, Woody would build the home for unwed pregnant girls they've both dreamed about, and both would happen by the end of next year. But Woody declines the outrageous wagers because he's not ready to get married, nor does he have the funds to build the home. 

 

When his uncle dies just after the new year, Woody inherits his uncle's beautiful farm. In addition, $186 million 'could' become his, plus $23 million for a home for unwed pregnant girls, but 'if', and only 'if', he's married by July. Or all the funds will be forfeited to an abortion clinic, a place he abhors. Hounded by fortune seekers, Woody is forced into hiding and starts working at a pregnancy center. The Covid pandemic sweeps the country and the center relocates to Woody's farm where he's secluded with four lovely women. But despite the women's deceptions and secrets, he hurries to woo one of them as his lucky bride. 

 

When he selects a woman and they marry, his problems multiply. As Woody and his inherited wife attempt to fulfill his uncle's second wager of building the home for pregnant girls, they must endure threats, fire, lawyers, inspections, and a gun. They struggle to maintain their sanity against someone who vows their downfall. Can they survive the ever-increasing turmoil before they lose it all, or worse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R Emmert
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201279516

Book preview

Disclaimer

Inherited Wife—–Acquired Distress is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, or incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental.

This story is contemporary to the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic and set in a central part of the United States and a fictitious area within Cass County, Iowa.

The views and opinions expressed in this novel are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect or represent the views held by the author.

Synopsis

Woodrow (Woody) Hancock’s uncle offers him two wagers. First, he would make Woody find a wife sooner than he wants, and second, Woody would build the home for unwed pregnant girls they’ve both dreamed about. Both wagers would happen by the end of the following year. But Woody declines the outrageous wagers because he’s not ready to get married, nor does he have the funds to build the home.

When his uncle dies just after the new year, Woody inherits his uncle’s beautiful farm. In addition, $186 million could become his, plus $23 million for a home for unwed pregnant girls, but if, and only if, he’s married by July. Or all the funds will be forfeited to an abortion clinic, a place he abhors. Hounded by fortune seekers, Woody is forced into hiding and starts working at a pregnancy center. The Covid pandemic sweeps the country and the center relocates to Woody’s farm where he’s secluded with four lovely women. But despite the women’s deceptions and secrets, he hurries to woo one of them as his lucky bride.

When he selects a woman and marries, his problems multiply. As Woody and his inherited wife attempt to fulfill his uncle’s second wager to build the home for pregnant girls, they must endure threats, fire, lawyers, inspections, and a shooting. They struggle to maintain their sanity against someone who vows their downfall. Can they survive the ever-increasing turmoil?

Dedication

to the beloved

women in my life:

––––––––

My wife

Lottie

––––––––

My Daughter

Cheryl

––––––––

My Granddaughters

Anna

Grace

Rebekah

Caitlyn

Bethany

Rachel

Part One

The Rejected Wager

Chapter One

Afternoon: September 1, 2019—Labor Day weekend

Uncle Logan flicked his fishing rod back and forth over his shoulder. Woody, do you have a girlfriend yet? He plopped his lure in the water a scant three inches from my leg.

I jerked backward and fought against the river’s current. "Blast you, Uncle Logan. If you mess around, how do you expect to catch Old Soldier?"

He chuckled. I got your attention, didn’t I? Answer the question. He reeled in his line.

I regained my balance as my waders created swirls in the flowing water. Why should I answer your silly question? It’s got nothing to do with what we’re doing. We came to fish for trout, not talk. I reeled in my line and prepared for another cast.

Son, we can always fish. I’m tuckered. Let’s talk.

Why was he always tired? I pointed to the old tree stump at the edge of the river. Give me five minutes. It looks promising. He could be hiding in its roots.

"Okay, you’ve got those five minutes. But Old Soldier isn’t there. Uncle Logan flicked his line and dropped the lure under an overhanging branch on the opposite bank. He likes these cool places to search for grubs and flying insects; not the deep recesses where there’s no food."

I cast my fishing fly toward the stump and toyed with the line as the lure skimmed across the surface. Any telltale ripple might reveal our lurking trophy.

Five minutes passed and neither of us got a bite. We reeled in our lines and retreated to the bank with our day’s catch. During each summer holiday, Uncle Logan and I camped out to fish. He’d bought this extension to his farm in Cass County, Iowa, to fish for trout. Uncle Logan was a top fisherman in my book.

This meadow, under the overhanging oak trees along the river, was our favorite spot. We’d seen Old Soldier, a twenty-three-inch trout, a couple of times in the rapids and christened him with that moniker because of his scarred and ratty tail.

He grabbed my stringer with four rainbow trout and held them up, each one longer than fifteen inches. These fish are nice. Let me put them in the cooler with my five. He pointed. You get those sandwiches your mom made. She makes the best cheese spread with honey. He placed his hand on his stomach, and a smile creased his cheeks.

I fetched Mom’s wicker basket, grabbed a sandwich, and stretched out my six-foot frame on the plaid blanket.

Uncle Logan took a sandwich and glanced at me before lying down. It appears your mom’s cooking has put muscle on your bones.

Not hardly. I got my muscles by tossing hay bales all summer long.

He took a bite, and between chews asked, Back to my question. What’s your answer?

I frowned. What’s the question?

The question about your girlfriend. How’s your search coming?

As I rolled to face him, a fly landed on my sandwich. I brushed it away. Would you quit harping on that subject? I have no interest in a girl. So why look?

Why aren’t you interested in a young lady?

Because it leads to marriage.

He peered at me. Before a man is married he’s not complete.

I snorted. After he’s married, he’s finished.

What’s wrong with getting a wife?

I held up two fingers and wiggled them. First, I’ll look like a bumbling idiot, meaning the search to find the right girl is slim to none. Second, the dating scene is hostile, confusing, and not easy.

He grunted and took a bite of the sandwich. You’re a smart, handsome man with a head of blond hair. You’re intelligent enough to avoid the pitfalls to find the right girl. What’s wrong with finding one to be by your side and share your life?

I lay back. I don’t need a wife. When I get my degree in agriculture next May, you and I will be partners and I’ll work beside you and the farmhands. That’s my plan.

He rolled and faced me. Don’t let your final year make you lazy. Never do your studies with half-measures. I’ve not done anything less than one-hundred percent.

I would agree. Uncle Logan had passed along his keen insight, how to read people and their intentions. He’d used his acute perception to build a dominant chain of computer stores before selling out and retiring. His retail stores had covered the entire state and half of each surrounding one. His competitors nicknamed him the Bull because he always charged ahead in everything.

Uncle Logan, my grades are right at a 4.0 GPA. I work hard at everything.

Everything? He snorted and pointed to the cooler in his pickup. Not today, you didn’t. Your stringer is proof you didn’t fish hard enough. Your four fish against my five wasn’t enough to win our bet. I always win.

I chortled. Not on the fourth of July, you didn’t. You treated me and mom to a full course meal at Mike’s Restaurant, remember?

Uncle Logan growled, That was a fluke, and you know it. If the darn turtle hadn’t messed with my stringer, those five beauties wouldn’t have gotten away and you’d have lost.

I grinned and wagged a finger. But you can’t prove those fish got away, so I didn’t lose.

He lay back with his hands under his head and laughed. Yes, I admit, that was one time you outfoxed me. Otherwise, I usually outsmart you. You try your best to beat me in our wagers, but this old man maintains the edge. He reached for another sandwich and took a bite. I’m visiting lawyer Bennett next week to make a will.

Why? You’re sixty-one and raring to go like a bull among heifers. There are lots of years left to lie back and fish.

He eyed me. Someday I’m going to pass. Best to make plans and not allow the state to take a bite out of my assets. I want my money to go for the most good.

I sat up. What about the plan for a home for unwed pregnant girls you and I drew up last year? You’ve got the money to build one.

Uncle Logan grunted. You never give up campaigning for pregnancy centers. I agree more of them should be available. It’s much too easy to get an abortion these days.

Come on, Uncle Logan. Why don’t you build a home now?

I’ve thought about it but if it’s important to you, make it your life’s goal to build one. That way you’d help those girls.

I snorted. I’d like to, but how could I accomplish it?

It’s your dream, so keep planning. It’s how I built the business.

Overhead, a blue jay jumped from branch to branch, squawking at a squirrel who chattered back.

For a few minutes, Uncle Logan watched the antics of the squirrel before pointing at it. I bet she’s trying to protect babies in her nest, like a good mother. I’ll change my mind and make arrangements to build a home for single pregnant women. Does that make you happy?

I lay back on the blanket. Thaaaaank you. I’ve been praying you’d do that. Uncle Logan always kept his word.

The squirrel flipped her tail and disappeared into a hole in the tree.

Woody, getting back to a girlfriend ... He put his hands together as if casting a line. You need to hook one.

"Come on, Uncle Logan. Quit harassing me. I’ve told you a hundred times I’m not interested. Why do I need a wife if I’m coming back as your partner? If I were to look for a girl, there’s no way I’d do it until after graduation."

He eyed me. You’ll get the house and the farm like you always wanted, including this section of the river. But I want to make absolute certain there’s a pretty girl beside you when you take ownership of it.

I jerked. Say what?

He focused on the clouds floating lazily above. You’re not deaf. You heard me.

Mom is your sister. She should be included.

He rotated his jaw. I promise she’ll be amply included. It should have been my wife, Mary. Her death changed my life. He rolled to face me. Marriage isn’t a word, it’s a sentence. But with Mary, it was a sentence of love. She was the cream at the top, the best thing for me. That’s why I’m aiming for you to find the right girl. You’re a grown man and not getting any younger.

Will you stop it? Why is it so important for me to find a wife?

Mary and I could never have children. A year after your mom gave birth to you, she met Daniel, and your stepfather raised you as his own. Woody, you’re the only person left to pass on the Hancock name. I’ve called this place Hancock Farm, and I want the name attached to it for a long time to come.

Why is our name so important?

"Because William Conrad was persnickety. He’d only sell me the land if he could insert a clause saying I, or an heir with my last name, would own it until the year 2040. I figure he wants me to improve the place, then hopes a Hancock name won’t stay attached to it. Then it would revert to him and his heirs. Now you know why it’s important for you to find a wife, so you can give it to your son and keep it in the Hancock family."

I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. Forget it. I have no plans to get married. I don’t want to talk about this.

He lifted an eyebrow. You better make plans, because you’ll inherit the farm. He paused before snickering, then laughed out loud. Woody, would you be willing to wager I can make you get married faster than you want?

I jerked back. What in the world? No, I don’t.

Are you chicken or something? I never knew you to back away from a good wager with me. We’ve made many friendly bets: fishing competitions, football games, baseball teams, elections. Why not one where you find a pretty girl?

I’m not betting you. Just forget it. I glared at him.

The blue jay flew off and the squirrel exited her home and chattered above us, scolding me like she knew a secret I didn’t.

He shrugged. I’m warning you. You’ll lose two wagers without betting.

Huh? If I don’t bet, how do you figure I’ll lose?

Here are my wagers. First, by the end of next year, you’ll be married and have a child on the way. Second, you’ll be the one to build our home for single pregnant girls.

I snorted. None of that will happen. To meet a girl and date her would take nine months. Then there’d be the engagement and planning for the wedding, another six to twelve months. More than a year would have passed. Nor do I have the money to build a girl’s home. I wouldn’t bet you, even with those odds, because it’s my life we’re talking about.

Suit yourself. I figure before long you’ll jumpstart things and be in a hurry to tie the knot. Then you’ll begin building the home we want. Think about it and let me know if you change your mind. I’m taking a nap. He closed his eyes.

My uncle sometimes got crazy ideas. We’d made numerous wagers. But never a wager where I got married. His insistence of me finding a girl had become a point of contention this past year. He brought up the idea at inopportune times. I planned to farm and not raise kids, at least not any time soon.

He appeared to be dozing.

While he rested, I retrieved a can of Coke from the truck, popped it open, and took a swig. I meandered into the woods and topped the ridge overlooking Uncle Logan’s farm. His white colonial-style house and red barn stood like beacons in an ocean of green cornfields.

His 1,280 acres of farmland faded from view beyond the horizon. He’d made this farm into a centerpiece by growing the county’s record corn harvest every year. Other farmers tried to match his success. However, Uncle Logan’s main agricultural accomplishment involved his Angus beef herd. He’d striven to make it a showcase, and in my opinion, he’d achieved that goal. After graduation, when I returned to work beside him, I’d concentrate on raising good ... no, the best, beef animals.

During the four years after I had finished high school, I worked beside him, and he trained me to operate the farm and keep it profitable. Back when I decided to attend college, I continued working with him during the summers and holidays. I planned to keep doing it without a wife being in the way.

The sun crept lower in the sky, and I returned to where he slept.

Uncle Logan hadn’t moved, and his eyes remained closed, but he asked, Woody, how old are you, twenty-five?

I stood over him. What’s the matter with you? Your mind is slipping. You’re usually sharp as a tack. I’m twenty-eight. Don’t you remember my birthday celebration at your house? You wore a pointy hat and tooted a horn.

He didn’t open his eyes. Ah, yes. It’s getting hard to think clearly these days. Woody, I don’t know an easy way to tell you this, but I have stage four prostate cancer. It’s metastasized and the doc gave me until the end of the year. I might not reach Christmas. I won’t see you walk the aisle with a pretty girl. But I promise it’s going to happen sooner than you know.

Chapter Two

Morning: Friday, January 10, 2020

While we waited in the lawyer’s waiting room, Mom said, Woody, you’re too quiet. What’s the matter?

"I wish Uncle Logan hadn’t passed away. We had great times fishing and hoped to catch Old Soldier. We thought we could hook him but never found his hiding spot. Now we won’t be able to fish together, and I’ll miss those good times."

Mom snapped her purse shut. Every time you went fishing, he asked me to clean your catch, simply because he was so much older than me. I never did.

I frowned. I never knew that. What do fourteen years have to do with anything?

It was my brother’s way of teasing his baby sister. I’ll miss his good-natured banter, but will mostly miss not being able to phone him to ask for advice.

I know, I said. He inspired me to give one hundred percent.

Whenever Logan visited our house, he and your father always cracked jokes. Now the house will be quiet. What did you think of your dad’s eulogy of Logan? I felt it was apropos.

"It was. The Irish proverb, Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal, was great."

Yes, it captured my brother’s essence. We all loved him. He was larger than life. She fingered a copy of the lawyer’s letter.

I glanced at the first paragraph. George Bennett, Esq., requires Eunice H. Jensen and Woodrow M. Hancock to attend the reading of Logan M. Hancock’s will.

I tapped the letter. "Why are we required to be here for the reading? I know what I’ll receive. He told me a hundred times when we visited him at the hospital. He’s leaving me the farm, his house—"

Keep in mind, we might lose something if we don’t attend. We’re here out of respect.

That’s not true. No lawyer can change a will. Anyway, I hope the reading won’t take long. I should get back to campus and settle in before starting classes.

Woody, don’t worry. You’ll make it to school before the start of next week. She patted my knee. Your father will be here shortly, and we can go in together. If this reading doesn’t take long, you’ll have plenty of time to drive back to college.

Mom brushed my cowlick back into place. You’re so handsome. The girls must find you irresistible with this blond hair.

I scowled. Mom, stop that.

She looked out the window. Here comes your father now.

Dad turned into the lawyer’s parking lot. His car bumped against the curb and the tires squealed as he almost collided with a parked vehicle. He left his car catawampus in the parking stall and hurried inside, his suit coat flapping.

He was often late for everything, but at least he wasn’t today.

Huffing, he approached us across the blue carpet and checked his watch. Nine o’clock. I made it in time. My boss wasn’t pleased and will dock my hours if I don’t get back right away.

He kissed Mom, then placed a hand on my shoulder. You’ll be rich soon. Money won’t buy love, but it’s a good negotiating tool.

Thanks for nothing, Dad.

He grinned. If you attempt to buy love, you’ll go bankrupt in the process.

I brushed his hand off my shoulder. Will you stop it?

Mom said to Dad, Hush, dear. That wasn’t necessary. She straightened his tie and adjusted his suit coat. We’re ready to go in.

I selected a seat near the aisle to leave as soon as the lawyer completed the formal reading. Betty Hoy, Uncle Logan’s secretary, smiled at me. I didn’t know the other women.

Mr. Bennett, the lawyer, waddled into the opulent, wood-paneled office carrying a folder and plopped into the seat behind a mahogany desk.

This obese guy’s shirt was untucked and tie askew. He sported a belly that dunlapped over his belt, and his hair looked like Einstein’s. Why had Uncle Logan chosen this lawyer?

He glanced at everyone and cleared his throat. I see most of us are here. Two people are not able to come because of other obligations. Therefore, we’ll begin with reading the will. Logan Hancock required two of you to be present. The reason will become evident soon enough. He looked at me and Mom.

I shifted in my chair. This wasn’t good. Uncle Logan had promised what we’d receive and he always kept his word.

Mr. Bennett opened the folder, picked up the document, and began reading.

"I, Logan M. Hancock, being of sound mind and living in the state of Iowa and Cass County, do hereby revoke all previous last wills and testaments made by me. My wife, Mary Beth Hancock, has preceded me in death, therefore, I bequeath my real property in the following manner:

"1. To my beloved nurses, Dianne Smith, Evelyn Berkenbosch, and Esther Royer, who eased my pain and suffering and provided friendship during my final days, I leave the sum of $10,000 each, which they can use in any manner they deem appropriate.

"2. To Daniel Jensen, my brother-in-law, I leave my rare coin collection in my safe deposit box, my Mercedes-Benz, my riding mower, my tabby barn cat (may she ever be prolific), all my fishing paraphernalia, my two-hundred-gallon fish tank, and my 30.06 Browning hunting rifle with 10x scope so he can bag the deer he’s always dreamed about. Daniel’s best quality was to have married my sister to provide a respectable home for her and my nephew. Thank you, Daniel. You will forever have my gratitude.

"3. To my sister, Eunice Hancock Jensen, I leave the sum of $150,000 in five-year CDs from my bank, my life insurance policy of $10 million with Richard’s Insurance Agency of which she is the beneficiary, and all my personal items in the house, including my Noritake Charlotta Gold fine china with matching sterling silverware, and my music CD collection.

"4. Concerning my collection of art, stored in the vault at my office, I leave the collection in its entirety to my sister Eunice Hancock Jensen, provided a) she attends the reading of this will, and b) she does not sell any item to William Conrad—not ever, (may he rot in his own filth and never recover). Should my sister not meet either of these provisions, then my estate will loan my art collection to the Des Moines Art Center in Des Moines, Iowa in perpetuity.

"5. To my beloved secretary, Betty Hoy, I bequeath $940,000 set up in a trust fund where she may live off the accruing interest for the rest of her life and never have to work for another hard-nosed, disgruntled, old fogey like me (she put up with my shenanigans for eighteen years before I sold the business).

"6. To my nephew, Woodrow Mark Hancock, I leave my entire holdings of Hancock Farm which include twelve hundred eighty acres of prime land in Cass County, Iowa, all buildings, machinery, equipment, all crops either stored or unharvested, the Angus beef herd, the house, its contents, and the section of the woods and river where we enjoyed many days of fishing. The approximate value is $9.2 million.

7. Also, to my nephew, Woodrow Mark Hancock, I leave $186 million. My lawyer will distribute the funds to him provided a) he attends the reading of this will and b) after he has married to start a family by the next fourth of July.

I quickly stood. He can’t do that.

My stepdad grinned. Logan tricked you there, Woody.

My voice rose. How can that be legal?

Lawyer Bennett pointed at me. Your uncle is dispensing property in a manner he chooses. He may apply stipulations and conditions to a bequeathed item for any individual. For them to receive the said property they must meet those conditions. In this case, he stated you must be married by the fourth of July before you receive the said monies.