Chapter One

A my Brown's day started much too early, her feet padding softly across the cold wooden floors of the foundling home where she'd been raised. With tender hands and a gentle hum, she roused the slumbering orphans, her "sisters" of circumstance rather than blood. A smile graced her lips as sleepy eyes blinked up at her.

"Up you get," Amy whispered, tucking stray locks behind tiny ears and straightening tousled nightgowns. Her heart swelled with every giggle and yawn, every small hand that found hers in the dim morning light. Though not a mother by name, she was one in every other sense to these girls, and she held onto the hope that one day she would extend such love to children of her own.

Meanwhile, some two thousand miles away, Timothy Stockwell stood against the vast backdrop of his Fort Worth ranch. He loved his life and the work he did, but since his wife had died, everything was harder. He watched his herd, but his thoughts were with the chaos brewing back at the house.

"Pa, I can't find my boots!" George's voice called out.

"Beatrice, have you seen your brother's boots?" Tim called out, knowing the futility even before the words left his mouth.

"No, and I don't care! I'm not the maid," came the sullen reply from his twelve-year-old daughter.

Tim sighed. He loved this land, but without his beloved Felicity, the house no longer felt like a home. It was a structure that kept the rain off him and his four children.

AMY FINISHED TYING the littlest one's shoes, her gaze drifting toward the window. She allowed herself a short moment to dream of wide-open spaces and the laughter of children that were truly hers. Her mind painted a picture of a life far removed from the institutional walls of the foundling home—a life filled with love, joy, and the bustling activity of a family she could call her own.

Not that she had ever felt unloved at the foundling home. The matron had hidden her there for a while before there had been a spot for her to work there. Most girls in her position ended up as factory workers, maids, or nannies. She had no desire to be any of those things. She was intelligent enough to know what she wanted from life, and what she wanted was a family of her own.

TIMOTHY WIPED THE SWEAT from his brow as he returned to the house, the aroma of an attempted breakfast wafting out to greet him. His attempts at cooking had not been successful, and he longed for the delicate flavors and loving preparations his wife used to make. As he faced another day of makeshift meals and mounting chores, he couldn't shake the feeling that something needed to change. Not just for his sake, but for the children, each one as lost in this new world as he was.

But whether Felicity was there or not, he was their father, and it was his job to raise them, and that meant sending them to school with full stomachs.

AMY TIED HER APRON strings in a neat bow at her back, ready to face the day's chores. The kitchen of the foundling home was her domain, and it was her task to teach the girls to cook. She loved to teach the girls, just as she'd been taught by the older girls when she was younger.

Her cheeks flushed with the warmth of the oven, Amy hummed her favorite hymn while she whisked eggs for breakfast, envisioning a bustling kitchen filled with her own brood. She couldn't get the thought of having children out of her mind that day—or any other day for that matter.

"Amy," piped up a small voice, interrupting her thoughts, "how do you know if someone will ever love you?"

Amy turned to see little Susie, one of her nine charges, clutching a rag doll and looking up with wide-eyed innocence. She knelt. "Oh, "she spoke gently, "love has a way of finding us when we least expect it."

With breakfast served and the clatter of spoons against bowls filling the air, Amy busied herself with the day's cleaning. Each sweep was a step closer to her imagined future, each polished surface reflecting her hope for a chance at love.

The afternoon brought mending. The orphans' clothes were well-loved and often in need of repair. Amy threaded her needle with practiced ease. The children gathered around, their conversations weaving through the fabric of her thoughts.

"Miss Amy, can you make my dress pretty like yours?" asked Daisy, her eyes following the needle's dance.

"Every stitch I make is meant to make you feel special," Amy replied.

In the quiet moments, between the guidance she offered and the laughter she shared, Amy held fast to the belief that somewhere beyond these walls, love awaited—a love that would grant her the family she yearned for and transform her dreams into reality.

Amy paused as she worked on fixing a little one's trousers. A daydream took hold as she peered outside, watching the cottonwood seeds flutter in the breeze. She imagined herself not as an orphan but as a mother, surrounded by children of her own, each with bright eyes and laughter. For a fleeting moment, Amy wondered about the woman who had left her wrapped in swaddling at the foundling home's doorstep—did she ever peer out of a window, dreaming of the daughter she could not keep?

TWO THOUSAND MILES away in Fort Worth, Timothy Stockwell was wrestling with a pot over the stove, the contents bubbling and protesting as he attempted to coax supper from its depths. His brow furrowed; his wife had made it look so easy.

"Beatrice, can you fetch the plates?" he called out.

"No," came the sullen reply from the doorway. Beatrice clutched her arms, a scowl etching her young features. "Mama should be doing that, not me."

"Your ma would've wanted us to stick together, Bea," Tim said, his voice gentle yet tinged with the fatigue of many such conversations.

But Beatrice turned sharply, leaving Tim to navigate fatherhood alone, his heart aching for a companion's touch in the middle of the chaos of his love-filled but unruly home.

TIM WIPED THE SWEAT from his brow as he hoisted another bale of hay onto the wagon under the relentless Texas sun. As he secured the hay, his thoughts wandered to the chaos of last night's dinner, the children's squabbles, and the untamed laundry pile mocking him.

"Lord knows, I need help," he muttered under his breath, a half-prayer, half-plea to the open sky. The idea of remarrying twisted inside him like a lasso. It wasn't just about love; it was survival, structure...sanity.

A shadow fell across the pasture, and Timothy recognized Beatrice's slender frame approaching. Her steps were heavy, burdened with grief. Her eyes, once bright as Texas Bluebonnets, now were filled with a sorrow that wouldn't go away.

"Pa, why do we still keep Mama's garden?"

Timothy set down the pitchfork and walked over to her. "Your mama loved that garden," he said softly. "Keeping it alive feels right, like she's still with us."

Beatrice's arms folded tightly against her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line. "But she's not," she snapped. "And no one else can pretend to be her, either."

"Never," Tim promised, his own heart constricting. "No one could ever take your mama's place." He reached out, hoping she would lean into the offered embrace.

But Beatrice stepped back. "Just leave me alone," she whispered before turning on her heel and walking back toward the house, leaving Timothy alone once more with his thoughts.

As he watched her retreat, the weight of solitude settled on his shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, there was someone out there who could bring a new kind of love to their home.

TIM STOOD IN THE FIELD , his son beside him. George manned the plow with youthful zeal, his lean muscles already taking on the definition of a rancher's life.

"Pa," George said, pausing to catch his breath, "I've been thinking."

"About?" Timothy asked, offering the boy a swig from his canteen.

"About land. Someday, I want a piece of this earth too, just over yonder." He gestured broadly to the horizon. "Close enough so we can work together every day."

Timothy smiled at the thought. "I would like that a great deal, son."

"Me too!" George exclaimed, his eyes alight with future dreams.

AS EVENING FELL, AMY gathered the orphans in the common room of Brown's Foundling Home. The smell of freshly baked bread still lingered in the air, a testament to her day's work. She sat down in the oversized armchair, the fabric worn smooth by years of use.

"Miss Amy, I want to sit with you!" little Sarah called out.

"Me first! Miss Amy promised yesterday!" Peter interjected, trying to climb onto her lap before anyone else.

"Children, there's enough of me to go around," Amy chuckled, her heart full. With practiced ease, she settled one child on each knee and began to read from a book of fairy tales, her voice lulling them into a world where every story promised a happy ending.

AMY NESTLED INTO THE makeshift bed on the floor, a quilt folded beneath her for cushioning. She was too old to sleep among the girls there, yet this foundling home was all she knew. Her eyes traced the gentle rise and fall of each sleeping form, these sisters of circumstance, before closing her own.

"Goodnight," she whispered to the room, though none stirred at her words.

As sleep claimed her, Amy imagined a cozy farmhouse, its windows aglow with the warmth of a family inside. Laughter repeated from within its walls, and the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted out as the front door opened.

In her dream, Amy stood in the kitchen, rolling dough with flour-covered hands. Children's giggles filled the air, and she turned to see her children. They tumbled around the wooden floors, their cheeks rosy from play.

"Supper will be ready soon!" she called out.

Outside, beyond the picket fence, stretched fields of golden crops, and a man—strong, kind, her partner in every way—waved from where he repaired a fence post.

"Mama, tell us a story!" a little one pleaded, tugging at the hem of her skirt in the dream.

"All right, my sweet," Amy agreed, lifting the child into her lap. "Once upon a time..."

The words flowed naturally, a tale spun from hope and heart, while in the real world, Amy's breaths deepened as she settled into the most perfect dream in the world. The dream of a man who loved her and at least a dozen children.

TIM SHIFTED UNEASILY in the hard wooden pew, his gaze fixed on the stained glass window as the pastor's voice repeated through the small chapel. Beside him, David Dailey, a fellow rancher and friend, leaned closer.

"Something on your mind, Tim?" David whispered, his eyebrows lifting in concern beneath the brim of his Sunday hat.

Tim nodded, glancing toward where his eldest daughter, Beatrice, sat with her chin defiantly tilted upwards, her expression stormy. "Beatrice," he murmured, the name heavy with worry. "She's been...well, she's been downright rude since her ma passed. I can hardly keep up."

David gave a sympathetic nod. "Kids'll test you at every turn, especially when they're hurting. But you've got four to wrangle on top of running that big ranch of yours."

"Exactly." Tim ran a hand through his hair. "I'm out there from sunup till sundown, trying to keep things together. When I come back to the house, it's like stepping into a hornet's nest. And supper..." He shook his head. "Let's just say we've had beans from a can more times this week than I care to admit."

"Sounds like you need help, my friend," David said with a chuckle. The man had mastered the art of seeming to pay rapt attention to the pastor while conversing about something different entirely.

"Help would be a blessing," Tim agreed. "But where do you find someone willing to step into this mess? Someone who can handle the ranch life and...well, and Beatrice."

"Patience and love, Tim. That's what they need," David advised, patting Tim's shoulder reassuringly. "And you need a touch of stubbornness to match your daughter's."

"Seems like I'm asking for a miracle," Tim sighed, half-joking.

"Miracles happen, especially in these parts," David replied with a wink. "Keep your chin up, Tim. Things have a way of working themselves out."

The preacher's final "Amen" released the congregation, and as the chapel emptied, Tim felt a sliver of hope. Maybe David was right; maybe there was someone out there who could bring warmth and laughter back into their home. With a prayer tucked away in his chest, Timothy Stockwell stepped out into the bright Texas sun, ready to face another week on his beloved ranch, children, and all.