Duchess on the Run: Broken Bow Brides

By Julia Daniels

She's fleeing scandal. He's given up on love. Can a proper gentlewoman and a salt-of-the-earth
single dad embrace a second chance at forever?

England, 1916. Elizabeth Edwards's humiliation is complete. Jilted by her cheating beau before
he flew off to war, she bolts to her grandparents' house in Boston away from the lurid
newspaper stories. And when her ex-fiancé tries to kidnap her, the frantic woman hops a train to
Nebraska to answer a charming rancher's mail-order bride ad.

 

Graham Ballard is desperate. A widower with a farm to run and two children to raise, he's
unprepared when the lady he's corresponded with arrives—as regal as a queen. And though
their attraction is immediate, he's painfully aware this grand and rich aristocrat is ill-fit for his
modest world.

 

Out of her element with an instant family, a laundry list of chores, and indelicate situations,
Elizabeth fears a dead wife's shadow will always keep her apart from Graham. And the clever
but intimidated hog farmer is certain his gentle beauty will finally tire of the simple life and him.
Can they meld together to find their perfect union?

 

Duchess on the Run is the heartwarming first book in the Broken Bow Brides historical romance
series. If you like fish-out-of-water heroines, delightfully authentic backdrops, and sensual
encounters, then you'll adore Julia Daniels's step back in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julia Daniels
• Release date: Sep 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9780996485401

Julia Daniels

Dear Reader: In this technological age, many people are using AI or artificial intelligence to assist in crafting their novels. Please note that I, Julia Daniels, have not used any generative artificial intelligence (AI) in the creation of this novel or the cover artwork. Additionally, I do not permit any corporation or individual(s), American or Foreign, to utilize my words and/or descriptions for purposes of training any AI software or devices to generate text. This limitation includes all of this work in electronic, print, or audio versions. I solely reserve the right to offer a license for my work to be used for AI generative training, or in the development of language learning models.

Book preview

From a mansion in London, to the Nebraska prairie, follow Elizabeth Edwards on her search for love during World War 1.

Jilted by her earl beau, Elizabeth Edwards sails across the sea to spend time with her grandparents and lick her wounds.

Graham Ballard has big problems. Two small kids, a farm to run, and no wife to help him. Throwing caution to the wind, he places a Bride for Hire ad in the Boston Globe, hoping to find a lady who's desperate enough to marry him without having ever met him.

Unbelievably, it’s a magical, almost instant love when they meet, but when the past threatens to spoil their future, can their love carry them through to happily ever after?

Chapter One

Boston, Massachusetts

September 1917

"Bloody hell," Elizabeth cursed under her breath. She snapped the heavy draperies and then leaped away from the window. The man was stalking her. Of all the nerve!

Pardon, love? Gran pushed the reading spectacles up to the top of her grey head. Her dark, beady eyes drilled into Elizabeth’s soul, daring her to lie.

Oh... Um... Elizabeth swallowed, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Nothing, Gran. The last thing she wanted was to unduly concern the elderly lady, her benefactor, and her guardian.

Is there something out there? she asked, reaching for the arms of the chair to help lift her.

Oh, no, Elizabeth said, waving her off. No one at all. I thought I saw someone, but...well, um...no. She smiled reassuringly and patted Gran on the hand before taking a teacup from the tray on the table and filling it, her hands shaking all the while. She sat down with a sigh.

Who could she confide in about the man? The police, perhaps? Would they think she was crazy? She could not deny that he was following her. The man was around far too much for it to be a mere coincidence.

You seem on edge today, Lizzie. Are you unwell? Gran leaned in closer and touched Elizabeth’s forehead. "Is it perhaps your monthly time?"

Gran, Elizabeth scolded. Polite Society did not discuss such things. She flushed and then laughed. I simply feel a bit out of sorts today.

Well, love. Care to come outside with me? There is some gardening to do—chores your grandfather refuses to give over to the yard keepers. Gran placed her empty cup on the table and eased her small body from the upholstered chair. If I don’t keep an eye on him, he’ll overdo the pruning again, and I’ll have no roses next summer.

Elizabeth’s eyes strayed back to the window. Why was Percy Anders standing outside the front door, holding space on the sidewalk, monitoring her activities?

Elizabeth swallowed. Perhaps another time, Gran.

Oh, very well. She winked at Elizabeth and kissed her head before leaving the room.

When the back door banged shut, Elizabeth set aside her teacup and walked over to the window overlooking the large garden at the back of the house. It would take an act of God for her to look through the front window again that afternoon. Maybe Percy Anders hadn’t done anything more sinister than follow her about, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have plans beyond that—plans that could lead to Elizabeth’s harm.

She sighed, trying to steady her breathing. The gentle, cool afternoon breeze filtered through the lace curtains and sent a calming caress against her cheeks. It was an unseasonably warm day on the southern slope of Boston’s Beacon Hill. She watched Granddad’s face bloom into a radiant smile as he caught sight of his wife’s face over his award-winning roses. Even after fifty-three years of marriage, their affection for one another was obvious.

How can I find a love like that?

She thought Lord Barnard Frederick, Marquess of Bridgewater, had been the answer to that question.

She was wrong.

Elizabeth arrived in Boston months earlier, wearing her broken heart on her sleeve. Running away from England, across a dangerous, war-torn ocean, had seemed a logical means to escape the heartbreak and scandalous stir Barney’s illicit affair had created in London.

Ten months to the very day after Barney Fredrick left for the Great War, Elizabeth herself departed London, set for America. In that full three hundred and one days, he’d not responded once to any of the letters she’d sent. Every day, at least in the very beginning, she had faithfully jotted down tidbits and gossip. Her feelings and hopes. Her dreams. So many words never spoken between the two of them, she’d written down in her letters, with hopes of drawing them closer.

And not a single reply.

At first, she’d thought he’d simply fallen dead in a trench. However, his constant correspondence with everyone but Elizabeth had proven that incorrect. In fact, after the first month, his parents received a letter at least once every month. Elizabeth had seen them all. The first one was embraced with excitement and treated with reverence. An impromptu-but-extravagant dinner party was assembled, with Elizabeth and her parents among the invited guests. While savoring a slice of decadent chocolate mousse pie, Barney’s father had read the sacred letter aloud—twice!

There had been no reference to Elizabeth in the letter. No mention of the hasty proposal. Barney did describe, in great detail, the rickety wooden aircraft he was training to fly, ending with polite questions about his family. While surprised, Elizabeth wasn’t terribly disappointed he’d not included her. She just expected that a letter would soon arrive for her, for her eyes alone.

Foolish and naïve, she chided herself. She wasn’t particularly young, just stupid. She’d misjudged him. After a year of courting, it had taken him only a month to forget her.

Was she really that forgettable?

His parents continued their kindness and shared his letters until it became too difficult for Elizabeth to hear about him, without hearing from him. Months passed without word, yet Elizabeth held out foolish hope.

That is, until a young, very pregnant woman plopped herself on the Fredricks’ front steps, claiming to be carrying Barney’s child. They’d had relations the night before he left, she alleged, and now, because of her condition, she’d been thrown out of her family’s home. She couldn’t work and had no money, so, would they support her?

Of all the nerve.

To Elizabeth’s dismay and horror, the Fredricks welcomed the other woman into their home, despite the scandal. Elizabeth couldn’t believe it, but when the baby boy was born, sporting a thick thatch of blond hair and Barney’s distinctive Fredrick family chin, Elizabeth knew she could no longer deny the truth.

The gossip-loving newspapers grabbed hold of the story like a dog with a meaty bone. The idea of Barnard Fredrick, heir to Hemingsbough, throwing over a well-heeled and respected earl’s daughter for an urchin from the wrong part of town was inconceivable.

Humiliated and heart sore, her plan to flee England was conceived. Elizabeth jumped at her mother’s suggestion of Boston. She had to get away from the tittle-tattle and thoughtless stares of pity. Even the recent major shipwrecks of the Titanic and Lusitania, and warnings of Germany’s unrestricted U-boat attacks, weren’t enough to keep her in London.

Why can I not rid this from my mind? She gave her temples a rub and focused again on her grandparents, who were now sitting together on a wrought-iron bench, wrapped in the thick wool blanket Gran had taken outside with her. Elizabeth shut the window, the breeze becoming an uncomfortable chill up her bare arms.

She knew the answer to her question, of course. Today especially, it had to do with the letter burning a hole in her pocket. It was her first correspondence from Barney since he left for the war, which had arrived only the day before, and her fingers itched to open it again, to re-read the paltry explanation and ultimate request for absolution. She perched her spectacles on her nose and gave in to the temptation.

Forgive me, dear Eliza. I have indeed sinned against you. We can be how we were, darling. Just come home. I am safe from the war and wish to have you in my arms again.

I’ve enclosed the proxy I obtained for the wedding. All you need do is sign the document, and under the law, we are wed. Amazing and easy.

I shall expect you to do so, and when you return, we will stand together in a church, before God. An escort will arrive to bring you home to me. I shall make up for my indiscretions and make you happy. Your family’s reputation may hang in the balance.

What a load of rubbish. You are delusional and threatening. A year ago, this would have worked, Barnard, but not today. She spoke to the walls, of course; Gran was outside cuddling with the love of her life, and Elizabeth was alone, as she had been far too often lately.

Barney’s fine stationary shredded easily as she ripped down one slice at a time. She took ghoulish delight in imagining the paper was instead Barney’s pretty blond hair, and she was removing it from his head, one strand at a time. She threw it in the trash and swiped her hands together, ridding herself of any remnants of the fool.

It didn’t help, either, that the mysterious man was skulking outside the house, waiting for what, Elizabeth couldn’t begin to guess. He had been following her for the better part of a week, but after introducing himself the first day she noticed him, he had not said a word to her since. He was always there—everywhere, it seemed—lurking about.

Was she just being paranoid? Perhaps he lived in the neighborhood. But why, then, did he not just go home? Was he perhaps the man Barney suggested would come to escort her to London? It would not work. Her life was no longer in England, and regardless of how many apologies he offered, Barney was not going to be part of her future, either.

LATER THAT EVENING, she and Gran sat in the same room, watching the fire dance in the fireplace. Elizabeth was particularly sedate, lost in thoughts and memories. It would be fair to say she was depressed and perhaps more than a bit homesick. Gran and Granddad had tried all sorts of activities to keep her busy and involved, but none of them seemed to jar her from her funk.

Here’s one for you, Elizabeth. Gran took a deep sip of her wine, cleared her throat, and continued, "It reads:

‘Nebraska farmer, father of two, in need of a kind woman to care for my family and become my wife. War widows with children welcome.’

He lists his reply address as a place called Broken Bow, Nebraska. She shrugged with an indulgent smile that crinkled the skin at the corners of her eyes. It’s worth a try."

Shocked, Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery. What in the world are you reading? The sound of people laughing, and Ford’s fancy new automobile passing on the busy street filtered into the background. Was Percy still out there?

"Why, the ‘Brides to Order’ section of the Globe. Gran took another swallow. Not sure why I hadn’t considered this for you before. Almost like an arranged marriage."

Had the letter and marriage proxy she received from Barney disturbed Gran as much as it had her? Was she feeling Elizabeth’s need to flee? If Gran had read the ads before, she’d never shared her finds with Elizabeth. And why did she point out a farmer? Surely, there had to be men here in Boston advertising in the publication?

Farmer, eh? Elizabeth sipped on her wine, one of the benefits of staying with Granddad. He had a fabulous wine collection. She looked down at the needlework resting in her lap. Well, I have always loved the country, Gran, but Nebraska? That’s in the middle somewhere, isn’t it? Elizabeth’s hand flailed in the air.

Well, I am certain it’s not like Boston or London, love. But nearby there is Omaha; surely, you’ve heard of it? Kansas City is somewhere close.

It’s rather uncivilized out there yet, isn’t it?

The older woman shrugged again. I imagine it would be quite a bit different, but perhaps the gentleman could tell you better. Cannot be too many farmers living in the city, you know.

True! Elizabeth laughed. I can’t picture him plowing through gravel-lined streets, dodging gaslights and new autos. She laughed again, imagining what a disaster that might be. Does he give his name? She tried to disguise the curiosity she felt. What did it matter? The idea of marrying a stranger was inconceivable. And yet...

Gran bent her head closer to the newspaper and adjusted her small spectacles. Graham Ballard.’

A farmer. Elizabeth sighed. "With children.

What would Mum and Papa say?" The idea was insane. She could already see the newspaper headline: Lady Elizabeth Edwards, daughter of the Earl of Wallingford, marries common American farmer. Her name had already been in the papers enough this past year.

Why your father did not find a suitable match for you in London before you fled, I shall never understand. Gran shook her head, mentally scolding her absent son-in-law. If Barnard wasn’t the man you thought, surely there was another? Gran sipped her wine and then refilled the delicate goblet. What about the men you’ve met here in Boston, Lizzie? Why have you not found someone suitable?

Elizabeth shrugged, uncertain why no one turned her head.

What about Louise’s brother? Gran continued, That attorney fellow? He comes from a very good family. Louise is your bosom friend.

Too old and stodgy, Elizabeth answered automatically. And he smelled bad. She grinned to herself, remembering how she had to avoid smelling his breath. The onion scent was so strong, it made her eyes water to the point he thought she was crying. Very bad first impression.

He’s only thirty-two, love, hardly in his dotage. Gran leaned forward and placed her empty goblet on the table. And what of that writer fellow your grandfather dug up for you? You told me you would entertain him again. What was his name?

Albert.

Ah, yes. So, why not give it a go with him?

Elizabeth took a minute to answer and then shrugged. He’s not asked again. He’s probably so consumed by his progressive ideas and creative endeavors that he may not even remember my name. She sighed. Elizabeth had been permitted perhaps five words during their dinner date. The other two hours were filled with Albert talking politics and the war. Perhaps what I need is a farmer, someone tied to the land, less opinionated about politics and the like.

Well, Gran stood, a bit unsteady, If you would like to visit with the writer again, Granddad could arrange it. You are a bright girl, my Lizzie. I would not wish you to sell yourself short and settle for someone not your equal or better.

Elizabeth envisioned her hunched-over Granddad begging the writer to call on her again. She giggled and shook her head. Gran stared at Elizabeth for what seemed like an eternity before clucking her tongue at her.

You young people. She shook her head with disdain and grabbed a chair for support as she stood. I say it would not hurt to reply to the man from Nebraska. At least you have no worry of losing him to the war. They will not call up the people growing our food. Gran cupped the side of Elizabeth’s face. Besides, love, the city has stifled you, just as London always did. Your weak lungs need fresh, clean country air, and I imagine the wilds of Nebraska can provide that. Gran, with a scent of wine on her breath, lovingly kissed Elizabeth’s head as she stumbled forward to the door. I fear Barney is getting restless. Perhaps that’s why he went so far as to send a legal document. He may try something unexpected. Perhaps Nebraska could be your safe haven.

The proxy wedding certificate and suggestion of an escort had convinced Elizabeth he was already plotting something. Was Percy Anders Barney’s hired thug? Would the man kidnap her and drag her back to London? She shook her head at her foolishness. Perhaps she’d been reading too many spy stories as of late.

Goodnight, love. Don’t stay up too late.

Elizabeth watched a slightly inebriated Gran navigate past several chairs, bumping hard into one as she left the room. Elizabeth closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair. When Gran called to Patrick, the handsome young butler, to guide her up the stairs to her room, Elizabeth giggled. She was a bit tipsy herself.

The room stilled again, save for the crackling of the fireplace. As it had for Gran, the wine was going down far too easily tonight. Elizabeth felt more relaxed than she had in days. So, she was being followed... What was the worst that could happen? She was always with someone in public places. It wasn’t as if he was out to kill her; he would have done so already. So, what were his intentions?

She picked up the Globe newspaper Gran had haphazardly tossed onto the table. Elizabeth emptied the rest of the wine bottle into her goblet and re-read the advertisement for a bride. He didn’t seem particular, even considerate enough to accept war widows. Either he was desperate or just plain lonely. Not unlike herself, really.

Maybe it was an excess of wine. Maybe it was Percy Ander’s stalking. Maybe it was a sixth sense that she didn’t know she possessed. Whatever the cause, Elizabeth glided to Gran’s mahogany writing secretary and pulled out a piece of thick, monogrammed linen stationary, replaced her fragile reading glasses on her nose, and, throwing caution to the wind, began a letter to a stranger.

If nothing else, the dozens of letters she’d written Barney made her a bit of an expert. Maybe this gentleman recipient would have the courtesy to respond. She’d be safe in Nebraska; Barney’s family’s tentacles could never reach that far. Or so she hoped.

Goodbye, Barney.

Chapter Two

Broken Bow, Nebraska

Graham Ballard shivered at the strange chill that crept up his spine and ran the length of his muscled arms. It was warm for late fall, and although a little dampness hung in the air from a much-needed rain earlier in the day, there was no reason for a chill.

The reaction had to be from the long envelope the postmaster had just handed him, tucked securely between two farming journals. The return address on it was from Boston, the city where his advertisement had run. Based on the flowery writing, Graham realized it had to be from a woman—but not his sister, who also lived in the city in the east.

Graham was in a daze as he left the post office, but he managed to walk to the lumber mill without bumping into anyone. He paused, stuffing the journals under an arm so he could stare at the writing on the envelope one more time, just to make sure it was indeed his name scrawled across the front.

Goot day to ya, Ballard. Vat can I do ya for, now? With a start, Graham turned toward the voice, haphazardly shoving the envelope into the back pocket of his Levi’s.  Helmud Jorgenson smiled and wiped his hands on a towel hanging from his waistband.

Hello to you, Helmud, Graham raised his voice over the din of the saws clubbing the wood into two-by-fours. He walked closer to the older man, trying to remember why he was there. I’ve decided to build a tack room in the barn. The saws stopped, and he resumed his usual volume. I’ll need some wood and supplies.

Ach, but sure. Come in zee office wit me, and let us zee if I ’ave vat you’ll be needin’. Helmud patted him kindly on the back and guided Graham inside.

Graham let his eyes adjust to the dim interior before he leaned on the tall order counter. How is Olga?

Just fine, now that our Lars is home from overseas. Helmud began shuffling papers, looking, Graham guessed, for a pen to write out the order.

The war had touched the lives of everyone in the community. If a brother or son hadn’t been called up, each and every person knew some young man committed to the war effort. Lars left early in the year, part of the American Expeditionary Forces led by Nebraskan General John Pershing. He was sent back home five months later, missing half a leg and his left hand. From what Graham overheard, the boy was devastated and did little but sit in a chair by a window overlooking the pond where Helmud and Olga had settled their family, nearly forty years earlier.

Is he healing? Graham asked quietly, not wanting to pry, but still concerned about the young man’s well-being. Lars was only a few years younger than Graham. Had Graham not chosen to carry on his father’s legacy at the farm, he too could have been hurt or killed overseas.

Helmud looked up momentarily, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. What a proud man. Helmud shook his head and resumed his hunt for paper and a pen. Graham swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away.

’Ere vee are. Now, Ballard, what is it ya’ll be needin’?

Helmud poised the pen over the paper and listened as Graham read off the list he had prepared before leaving the farm that morning. He added a couple of items he had thought of during the drive to town and stuffed the list back in his pocket before following Helmud into the workroom. There was a time when a person would have to walk away from the older man to get him to quit talking. Polite and kind as always, he now had far more on his mind than idle chitchat and town gossip.

I’ll pull the wagon ’round. Graham left Helmud to find the materials and walked down the dirt-covered street to fetch the farm wagon he had parked at the livery. He flipped a coin to a youngster who was watering his horses and climbed in the buckboard to head back to the mill.

Shifting, he reached for the letter in his back pocket. Funny how a sheet of paper had made his day. He didn’t even know what it said, but the possibilities were enough to put a smile on his face. He patted another pocket and then reached into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Panic gripped him, and in response, his hands pulled back on the reigns a bit too hard. Both horses reared back. Dag nab it to high heaven.

It was gone. Where in blazes did it go?

He slowly scanned the street he’d just walked down, tracing his steps from high up in the buckboard. There wasn’t any wind for a change, and the rain had settled the dust, so a white envelope would stand out.

It was nowhere to be seen. He looked back to Helmud’s without any luck. His pulse raced, and a sinking feeling began to develop in his gut. Surely, if the girl didn’t get a response, she would not bother to take the time to write again, would she? And, after three months of advertising in the publication, she’d been the only woman to respond. His sister Grace thought it would be a good idea, yet so far, she had been wrong.

Feeling defeated, Graham jumped down from the wagon. He walked to Helmud’s young employee, John, who held the smaller supplies Graham had ordered in a burlap sack. Soon the two men were loading the boards in the back of the wagon, tying them down firmly so the ruts on the gravel road home wouldn’t jar them loose.

Thanks for the help. He nodded toward John and snapped the reins on the backs of the horses. A loud shout caught his attention and he pulled back just in time to avoid running into Helmud, who rushed from his small office waving a piece of paper at Graham.

Stupid. He tapped the side of his head. I forgot to pay. Graham pulled the horses to a stop again just next to Helmud.

Here, Ballard! Helmud handed him the Boston woman’s envelope. So, he’d left it in Helmud’s office? Had the other man looked at it?

Thank you. He cleared his throat. I wondered where it went. This time, he folded it and shoved it fully in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Trying zee mail order route again, eh? Helmud smiled, not to belittle him as Graham might have expected, but warmly, encouragingly. My Erick is doing the same. He has ’eard from three women, but none are quite ready to come out ’ere yet.

This is her first letter, Graham admitted sheepishly. "I put an advertisement