Read Online Della: Bride of Texas (American Mail-Order Bride 28) by Trinity Ford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Trinity Ford
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical, Saga, Western, Short-Story, Texas, Religious, Christian, Inspirational, Cowboys, Bachelor, matchmaker, Marriage of Convenience, Faith, Community, victorian era, Forever Love, Single Woman, Banker, Fifty-Books, Forty-Five Authors, Newspaper Ad, American Mail-Order Bride, Factory Burned, Pioneer, Twenty-Eightth In Series, Fort Worth, Store Owner, Trouble Maker, Heartache
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she’s had time to stop and think about the situation with Milton,” Roy said.
“Why don’t I head on over to the store with you and take a look at that space—see what we might be able to do about making it a little bigger?” Hank asked, knowing full well he already intended on building the addition—he only wanted to see Della again. He dismissed the meeting, picked up a pouch of cash he wanted to deposit at the bank while he was out, and tucked it into his jacket.
The two walked over to the store, where Della was handling the crush of customers just fine on her own, weaving in and out, smiling and filling orders. Hank pretended to be taking measurements and making decisions, while listening in on the conversations she was having.
“You going to the shindig over at the Stockyards tomorrow?” Roy asked Della, after the last customer exited the store.
“That’s right!” Della said, pointedly ignoring Hank’s presence in the store. “I’d almost forgotten it was this weekend.” The Fort Worth Union Stockyards was finally celebrating its official grand opening—complete with a dance. They were turning the auction house into a ballroom for the night, but on the frontier, it wouldn’t be as formal as some of the events she’d heard about back east.
"I reckon I'll head on up to the bank to make a deposit before I leave to check on Mary," Roy said.
"Oh, I'll take it," Della said. She quickly secured her bonnet and picked up the pouch of money—marching straight to the door without acknowledging Hank at all.
"Why Miss Owens," Hank said. "I'm beginning to think you don't wish to get to know me."
"That's not it at all, Mr. Hensley...or is it Sam today?" Della asked impatiently as she turned and opened the door. "I'm simply far too busy to engage in frivolous discussions."
"Well if that's all it is, I'll be happy to accompany you to the bank so we can talk on the way," Hank teased. “I like to get to know as much about my employees as possible. Helps me work with them and know what makes them tick.”
“I’ll be out of your hair in less than six weeks’ time, Mr. Hensley, so there’s absolutely no need for you to get to know me better—and even less reason to know what makes me tick ,” she said. Despite the rebuke, Hank followed Della out the door and quickened his pace until he sidled up next to her, ignoring the look of complete disgust on her face as she hastened her step.
"So you’re going through with the marriage to the venerable Mr. Tidwell,” Hank stated the obvious. "I must say, I was expecting someone different to be in this situation," Hank said.
"And what situation would that be, Mr. Hensley?" she said, nose high in the air and chin jutting out.
"One where a woman is sent for like a parcel," Hank said as Della stopped dead in her tracks and shot him a look of anger. "In the words of your beloved Mr. Tidwell, of course," Hank went on to explain. “That’s how he summed up your move to town to marry him—like a piece of furniture he ordered from the Sears & Roebuck catalog.”
Visibly shocked by Hank’s words—and the words of her future husband, Hank observed Della struggling to maintain her composure. "And just what kind of person would you expect?" she asked, her voice shaky and filled with emotion.
"Well...someone more like…Beatrice Reynolds," Hank laughed at his own wit.
Della had met Beatrice at church and in the store. She was a stout woman, considered homely by most, who didn't act friendly toward newcomers. Her status in the community was cemented in the fact that her family owned almost as many businesses as Hank Hensley himself.
"I can assure you I'm perfectly content with my situation ," Della said. As they walked down the street toward the bank, the women they passed whispered and smiled—most likely gossiping about his supposed lascivious ways or his latest conquests. The men moved aside to let him pass, each one taking time to offer a gesture of
“Why don’t I head on over to the store with you and take a look at that space—see what we might be able to do about making it a little bigger?” Hank asked, knowing full well he already intended on building the addition—he only wanted to see Della again. He dismissed the meeting, picked up a pouch of cash he wanted to deposit at the bank while he was out, and tucked it into his jacket.
The two walked over to the store, where Della was handling the crush of customers just fine on her own, weaving in and out, smiling and filling orders. Hank pretended to be taking measurements and making decisions, while listening in on the conversations she was having.
“You going to the shindig over at the Stockyards tomorrow?” Roy asked Della, after the last customer exited the store.
“That’s right!” Della said, pointedly ignoring Hank’s presence in the store. “I’d almost forgotten it was this weekend.” The Fort Worth Union Stockyards was finally celebrating its official grand opening—complete with a dance. They were turning the auction house into a ballroom for the night, but on the frontier, it wouldn’t be as formal as some of the events she’d heard about back east.
"I reckon I'll head on up to the bank to make a deposit before I leave to check on Mary," Roy said.
"Oh, I'll take it," Della said. She quickly secured her bonnet and picked up the pouch of money—marching straight to the door without acknowledging Hank at all.
"Why Miss Owens," Hank said. "I'm beginning to think you don't wish to get to know me."
"That's not it at all, Mr. Hensley...or is it Sam today?" Della asked impatiently as she turned and opened the door. "I'm simply far too busy to engage in frivolous discussions."
"Well if that's all it is, I'll be happy to accompany you to the bank so we can talk on the way," Hank teased. “I like to get to know as much about my employees as possible. Helps me work with them and know what makes them tick.”
“I’ll be out of your hair in less than six weeks’ time, Mr. Hensley, so there’s absolutely no need for you to get to know me better—and even less reason to know what makes me tick ,” she said. Despite the rebuke, Hank followed Della out the door and quickened his pace until he sidled up next to her, ignoring the look of complete disgust on her face as she hastened her step.
"So you’re going through with the marriage to the venerable Mr. Tidwell,” Hank stated the obvious. "I must say, I was expecting someone different to be in this situation," Hank said.
"And what situation would that be, Mr. Hensley?" she said, nose high in the air and chin jutting out.
"One where a woman is sent for like a parcel," Hank said as Della stopped dead in her tracks and shot him a look of anger. "In the words of your beloved Mr. Tidwell, of course," Hank went on to explain. “That’s how he summed up your move to town to marry him—like a piece of furniture he ordered from the Sears & Roebuck catalog.”
Visibly shocked by Hank’s words—and the words of her future husband, Hank observed Della struggling to maintain her composure. "And just what kind of person would you expect?" she asked, her voice shaky and filled with emotion.
"Well...someone more like…Beatrice Reynolds," Hank laughed at his own wit.
Della had met Beatrice at church and in the store. She was a stout woman, considered homely by most, who didn't act friendly toward newcomers. Her status in the community was cemented in the fact that her family owned almost as many businesses as Hank Hensley himself.
"I can assure you I'm perfectly content with my situation ," Della said. As they walked down the street toward the bank, the women they passed whispered and smiled—most likely gossiping about his supposed lascivious ways or his latest conquests. The men moved aside to let him pass, each one taking time to offer a gesture of
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