The Gentleman's Heart: Dry Bayou Brides, #6

By Lynn Winchester

Isadora Mosier never fit in, and she didn't mind. She still laughed and loved and experienced life at its fullest. But when an accident steals the use of her legs, she's left with a half-life…until she's given a new one, as someone else.

Professor Allon Banks is a broken Civil War veteran who never thought he could find a mind and wit to match his. As he begins to correspond with Philomena Parks, he discovers a spirit that captures his heart. Overcome with his need to see her face to face, he travels to Dry Bayou to meet his Philomena and make her his own.

Dora is shocked with Allon arrives in town, searching for the woman he'd fallen in love with on paper. What happens when he finds out the woman he's been writing to is a cripple? What happens when Dora falls for a man who is already in love with someone else? Someone who isn't real?

Allon is torn between his love for the spirited Philomena of his letters and his attraction to the lovely, warm Dora who seems to know more than she's saying. When he discovers Dora is keeping secrets, Allon must decide if the woman in the letters is the same one he can't stop thinking about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charizomai Press
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223883524

Lynn Winchester

Lynn Winchester is the pseudonym of a hardworking California-born conservative, now living in the wilds of Northeast Pennsylvania. Lynn has been writing fiction since the 5th grade, and enjoys creating worlds, characters, and stories for her readers. When Lynn isn't writing she is running a successful editing business, reading whatever she can get her hands on, raising her four children, making sure her husband is happy, and binge watching shows on Netflix.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Mosier Home

Dry Bayou, Texas

1871

No matter what medicine her mother forced down her throat, the fire in her legs didn’t dissipate. The pain still spread from her toes, past her shattered knees, burning the muscles and bones in what was left of her ruined hips. Moving only made the agony worse, but lying there allowed the muscles to bunch, which sent breath-stealing spasms through her thighs and calves.

Lord, please, take this pain from me. If you must…take my life from me. She knew praying for her own death would shock her family and friends, but they weren’t her. They couldn’t possibly understand what she was going through. In a town of happy, blessed, beautiful people, she was the cursed one.

Even before the accident that crippled her, she was the one everyone always looked at with curiosity. She wasn’t like the other girls her age. She didn’t care about planning socials or snagging a beau. She didn’t care a nit if her parents and their cronies gossiped about her behind her back, wondering where they’d gone wrong with her.

They hadn’t gone wrong. She had. And now she was paying for it.

Memories of that evening stirred within her, riling up the bile she’d tasted every time her mind returned to that night. That night…she shouldn’t have let her mother’s harsh words bother her—it wasn’t as if she’d never heard those accusations and spiteful terms before. That night was like any other night. She’d done something to disappoint her family, her mother had thrown ugly words at her…but that time, instead of taking it and hiding away in her room, she’d fled. She’d needed to escape for a while, take a ride through the quieting town to gather her thoughts. But, if she’d just stayed at home, just taken the condemnation as she’d always done before, then she wouldn’t have been out riding Cinnamon, her roan, that night of the smithy explosion. And her horse wouldn’t have thrown her and then trampled her legs to splinters.

Sighing, she readjusted her back against the pillows and immediately regretted it. The pain shot from her hips to her ankles and back again. She gasped and hissed, her eyes rolling back into her head. She didn’t have a moment to recover her bearings or wits before her door swung open and her mother strode into the room.

Without a word, her darling mother swept to the windows and threw open the curtains. The morning sun poured in, filling the room with a bright, yellow light. Turning from the windows, her mother stalked toward the bed and then unceremoniously pulled the blanket from Dora’s body. The movement made Dora’s body clench and heave with the unexpected pain. But her mother didn’t care.

Has she ever? Dora knew her mother loved her, at least she assumed all mothers loved their children, but Mama Mosier was as cold as a morning frost and as hard and calculating as a cash register.

Isadora Luciana Mosier, I am up to here with your moping about. It’s time you got yourself out of the bed and did something with purpose, her mother declared, planting her fists on her hips. Her clear blue eyes, so much like her children’s, didn’t hold an ounce of warmth or concern. It was typical, though, so Dora didn’t know why she even bothered wishing her mother, or even her father, would have a little sympathy.

Well, what do you suggest I do, Mama? I’m a cripple. My legs are no good, which means I can’t help you in the store—shoot I can’t even get to the store unless Gaston carries me there, Dora replied, her voice a tad shrill.

Her mother frowned. No, you’d be no use to us at the store, but you can at least make some use of yourself. She pulled a packet of letters from her skirt pocket and tossed them onto Dora’s lap. We keep getting these letters requesting volunteers or donations for the post-war reconstruction efforts. Vultures, the lot of them. Probably heard about our success and so they came with their hands out. We have no supplies or money to spare for the pickpockets, but I expect you can figure out a way to volunteer your time. No, her parents didn’t have money or supplies to spare, because they wouldn’t part with a pea unless someone paid a premium for it. For the Mosiers, the mercantile was their golden ticket into a life of leisure and prominence in their quickly growing town. They spent every waking moment tending to the store, its customers, and their growing bank account.

Suddenly tired of the conversation, Dora tugged on the sleeve of her sleeping gown, wishing her mother would leave. No, thank you, Mama. I’m just fine. She was done dancing to her family’s whims. She couldn’t even dance anymore. And besides that…what could she possibly do to help veterans?

Her mother picked up one of the letters and shoved it under Dora’s nose. You will help or you’ll find yourself hungry before too long. Her mother’s hard blue eyes turned to steel.

Dora stopped breathing. Would she really starve her own daughter? Yes, she would.

If you don’t work, you don’t eat. Don’t be surprised, Dora. Now, make yourself useful. Her mother turned on her heel and stomped from the room.

Speechless with anger, Dora slapped at the stack of envelopes on her lap and winced at the self-inflicted pain. Stifling a frustrated outburst, she swallowed a curse.

Grrr, her mother was the only one in the world who could make Dora feel so…pointless.

I’m not pointless, she muttered, wondering who she was trying to convince.

Determined to prove to her mother, and to herself, that she was useful, worthy of food and affection, and especially not an utter invalid, she reached for the envelope on the top of the stack. Flipping it over, she read: American Christian Corps of Veteran Advocates in the top left corner.

Tearing it open with a finger, she pulled out three sheets of paper.

The first sheet was a greeting, an explanation of their organization, and a request for donations. It asked for supplies for their offices, monies for veterans who couldn’t work due to injuries they sustained during the war, and for volunteers to write letters and send care packages to the many officers who’d survived and were in need of kind words and thoughtful gestures—anything to help them heal from the hideousness of what they’d endured. The ACCVA was seeking Christian charity from God-fearing people.

An unkind snort escaped her lips. They’re looking in the wrong place for Christian charity, she thought. Her parents only attended church services to be seen. They didn’t care about God’s people any more than demons did. Probably less.

Returning her focus to the letter, she reread it.

She could understand why something as simple as a letter or a package of baked goods or woolen socks could help a wounded person feel…human.

The second sheet of paper listed the specific supplies they needed and the amount of money they were hoping to collect for their cause. The third sheet of paper was a list; eight names and addresses of officers who were wounded in the war. Gallant, brave, courageous men who fought for honor and what was right.

But what could she say to them? What could she possibly write that would alleviate their physical aches or their painful memories? She’d suffered agony when she’d been crippled. The nightmares about the explosion still visited her during the night. But her experiences couldn’t possibly compare to seeing, living, and experiencing the horrors of war. Of watching your friends and fellow soldiers killed right beside you. Of smelling the gunpowder, the stench of burning flesh, the rot of corpses on the open, bloody battlefields.

She’d read of the war—who hadn’t?—but she never thought she’d have the chance to write to someone who’d actually been there.

Could she do it? Could she write letters to men who’d seen the worst life had to offer and came out the other side alive, yet…different?

Alive, yet different…like me.

Yes, she could. Determination and a strength she hadn’t felt in months flowed through her, lighting a flame in her belly she never wanted to snuff out. She could write to those men and, in doing so, she’d offer her ear to ease their troubles, her empathy to show them they weren’t alone, and her strength…so that they could carry on, just as she was.

She groaned, struggling to pull herself upright so she could reach the bedside table where she kept sheets of paper and a stubby pencil. Snagging the empty serving tray off the stool beside the bed, she slowly, gently slid it onto her lap. She placed the sheets of blank paper on the tray and reread the list of names. Where did she start? Her gaze darted from one name to another, until she came upon name that seemed to prick her thoughts.

Captain Allon Banks.

What kind of man was he? He was a captain so he must have been educated, perhaps from a family with good social standing. He lived in Baltimore, Maryland. She’d never been to Maryland—never been out of Dry Bayou—and probably would never have the chance to. She’d read articles about Baltimore, the university there, the harbor nearby in Annapolis. Had Captain Banks attended the university? Was he an intelligent, well-spoken man? What did he like to do when he wasn’t trying to forget about the war?

She sighed. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be able to walk the streets of Baltimore, taking in the sights; maybe visit a museum or sit in on a lecture at the University of Maryland. She’d give anything to learn literature at the foot of great minds, and write stories, poems, essays on all she learned.

Why can’t I?

Smiling to herself, Dora picked up the pencil and poised it over the paper. She could be anyone she wanted to be…on paper. She could be someone who travelled the world, could quote from Shakespeare or Socrates. She could be a woman of wisdom and intelligence who was free of spirit and mind—if only in her imagination. Her smile grew even as the ache in her heart began to dim.

Dear Captain Banks,

I sincerely hope this letter finds you well. My name is Philomena Parks…

CHAPTER 1

La Maison De La Fontaine

Dry Bayou, Texas

1872

Seated in a well-appointed carriage, Dora waited for Albert, driver to the La Fontaines, the town’s founding family, to unload her wheeled chair. Then he turned to lift her from the carriage and into the seat that had been one of her only sources of freedom over the last year.

Finally settling into the chair, Dora waited for Albert to hand her the silk reticule she’d brought with her. She clutched it to her chest. The contents were her most precious possessions. Though, no one would possibly understand why they were precious…

Albert made sure her dress was secure and off the ground before rolling Dora up the small ramp at the side of the porch—a ramp Cressida, Mrs. La Fontaine, insisted they add just so Dora could come visit whenever she wanted. At first, Dora felt shame that anyone would have to make concessions for her. But Cressida had been so sweet yet insistent about it, Dora couldn’t help but eventually feel…cherished. Someone cherished her, appreciated her friendship—her, a cripple. It was a wonderful feeling, one she held just as close to her chest as the precious things within her reticule.

Entering the grand, three-story foyer, she was greeted by Millie, the housekeeper, a woman she’d know since she could walk—

Immediately, her heart thudded awkwardly in her chest. Walk…oh, for the chance to walk again. Angry at herself for thinking impossible, ridiculous things, Dora pinched her lips into thin line before turning to greet the woman.

Millie stopped abruptly, looking down at Dora with a displeased expression. She planted her work-worn hands on her hips and gave Dora a Millie-patented glare. Why you gone and made yourself angry?

Dora wasn’t surprised the woman knew her innermost thoughts, the woman had been her first nursemaid—before her parents fired the woman for stealing. At first, Dora had been shocked that Millie would steal anything. But then, when her parents told her the nursemaid had been overpaid by a penny and hadn’t returned it, Dora began to understand the depths of her parents’ sickness. A sickness for money and social standing. A sickness that had only grown more powerful over the years.

Millie, can I just say how glad I am that the La Fontaines hired you? I would hate to think you’d have to leave Dry Bayou just because of something my parents had done.

Mille clicked her tongue and flipped her wrist. It’s no skin off my back—your parents weren’t exactly the best people to work for. The only thing worth the work was that I got to see you every day, sugar.

Warmth spread over Dora’s face and she smiled at the darling woman. Millie was only just a few inches shorter than Dora’s height of five-foot-five—at least she’d been five-foot-five. Now, she wasn’t sure she could reach the bottom branch of an apple tree. Her legs and hips were so warped and twisted, she was sure she’d shrunk at least two feet.

Enough about those tiresome people—Ma’am Isabeau and your sister, Doctor-Missus Tilly, are in the lady’s bedroom.

Realizing what that meant, Dora felt a weight of shame press on her shoulders.

Do you want me to call Albert to carry you upstairs? Or I can help you into that lift thingamajig Mister Leslie had built? Millie’s expression held no pity, but that didn’t stop Dora from feeling like the lowest worm.

Forcing a smile, Dora replied, No, thank you. I’ll wait for them in the drawing room, if you don’t mind.

Millie clicked her tongue again. Course not, sugar. I know you can find your way there. I’ll bring you a tray of sweet tea and my famous maple cakes. The woman turned and left the foyer before Dora could utter a thank you.

Dora knew her way to the drawing room and made her way there easy enough. The chair her sister and brother-in-law, Hank, had purchased for her, was a well-made contraption that moved forward and backward with just a little push or pull of her hands and arms. She often joked with Tilly that she’d have arms as large as Leo Watkins’, the blacksmith, in no time flat.

They laughed about it, but Tilly didn’t know that Dora felt the falseness in her sister’s mirth. She knew Tilly loved her, but she also knew Tilly hated seeing her eldest and only sister a broken and twisted human being, left to molder in a metal chair for the rest of her lonely days.

Pulling herself from the mire she knew could drag her down, she rolled the chair to a stop right beside a settee upholstered in the most becoming deep violet. It was ravishing and it felt like heaven beneath Dora’s freshly calloused fingers, catching on the areas of rough, thickened skin that had developed since Dora started using the chair.

The drawing room had six large windows, three on each exterior wall. The light filtering through the gauzy curtains warmed her skin and glinted off the silk of the reticule in her lap.

Goodness! How could I forget? Opening the reticule, Dora extracted a packet of well-read letters wrapped in a red velvet ribbon. The edges of the envelopes were damaged from postal handling and her handling—excitement borne of receiving letters at all.

Placing the packet of letters in her lap beside the reticule, Dora retrieved what she’d been most excited about—a new letter, arrived just that morning from Baltimore.

Steadying her trembling hands, she tore the top of the envelope open. When you were eager to read what was inside, one didn’t wait to find a letter opener!

Dora pinched the very edge of the folded piece of paper and pulled it from the envelope, inhaling the welcome, delicious scent of the one who sent it—the leather of books and the crispness of parchments. Smiling, her heart thumping rapidly, she unfolded the paper and began to read.

My dearest Philomena,

I find that the benighted U.S. Post Office cannot deliver your letters fast enough. Though it’s only been three weeks since your last letter, it feels like an eternity has passed. No matter how many times I remind myself that your letters are coming, and I must be patient, I cannot make my heart understand. Each evening, after returning from my office at the university, I dive head first into the correspondence left on the foyer table. When no letter from you is there, I eat my sorrows with tasteless meats and puddings, and stare into the fire in my study, wondering what your letter will say once it is in my hands, close to my heart.

I am besotted with you, my dear Philomena. I cannot