Western Spring Weddings

by Lynna Banning

  Good. One of her wrists had stretched the rope binding enough that she could almost squeeze her hand through. One more pull and—

  “You lyin’ quiet over there?” he asked suddenly. “He don’t want you, but looks like I’m gonna get his ranch, anyway.” He paused. “You thirsty?”

  Thirsty! Her throat was parched, but she didn’t think it was water Arness had in mind. Still, maybe it would keep him busy.

  “Yes, I am thirsty.”

  He tramped to the door and retrieved a bottle of something from over the door frame. “Ain’t nothin’ like good whiskey.”

  She gave another desperate tug and managed to squeeze one hand free. Arness lumbered toward her, the bottle in one hand, and she noticed that his holstered gun hung at his side. She caught her breath.

  He uncorked the whiskey bottle and just as he bent over her she snaked out her hand and grabbed the revolver.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gray left Ramon and the others stationed around Arness’s cabin and headed for the Bar H as fast as Rowdy could gallop. He could never, ever, remember riding this hard. He clattered over the Bar H cattle guard and up to the ranch house, dismounted and pounded into the parlor and up the stairs, past a frozen Maria and a white-faced Emily. His safe stood next to his desk in his bedroom.

  Then he was back out into the yard and was in the saddle before the startled horse could stop wheezing. He spurred Rowdy across the cattle guard and out into the night, the deed to the Bar H safe in his shirt pocket. Funny that he hadn’t given a second thought to relinquishing his ranch. Funny that he hadn’t realized until three days ago what Clarissa Seaforth meant to him.

  Yeah, but she wants to go back to Boston.

  So what if she did, at least she’d be free from Arness. He wasn’t about to let Arness have her. He didn’t want anyone to have her unless it was himself. He’d ask her to stay—beg her to stay. Damn, loving someone sure tied a man in knots! But if that’s what she really wanted...oh, hell, he couldn’t think about it anymore.

  As he neared the woods near Arness’s line shack, Ramon and Shorty fell in behind him. They picked up Nebraska just before they reached the clearing where the cabin stood. Gray reined up.

  “We’ll walk in. When I get a few feet from the porch I’ll call Arness out.” He dismounted and started forward. He hadn’t gone a dozen yards before a shot rang out, and he went cold all over. If that lowlife has hurt her... He raced for the cabin.

  “Clarissa?”

  “Gray! In here!”

  She was half sitting on a cot, a revolver dangling from one hand. He reached her and tossed the gun aside, folding her into his arms. Good God, she smelled of whiskey!

  Arness’s body sprawled awkwardly across the floor. He didn’t move.

  “Is—? Is he d-dead?” she whispered.

  “Think so, yeah.”

  “I sh-shot him, Gray.”

  “Yeah, looks like you did.” His heart was banging away so hard he could scarcely talk.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. I—I want to go home.”

  He cut her other hand free and gathered her up in his arms. Ramon pulled Arness’s body out of his way, and Gray carried Clarissa to his horse, lifted her into the saddle and mounted behind her.

  “Better send Nebraska for the sheriff,” he called to his men. Then he reined away and headed for the Bar H. He had sent his foreman on ahead to explain things to Maria and ask her to take Emily to their cabin for the night.

  When they rode through the Bar H gate, Clarissa began to cry. “I n-never thought I would be so g-glad to see this place,” she sobbed. “But, oh my, it l-looks so beautiful!”

  He lifted her down and pulled her trembling body close. “I sent Emily home with Maria,” he whispered against her hair. “Thought you might want to pull yourself together before you see her.”

  She nodded and clung to him. He rubbed her back, then guided her up the porch steps and into the house. Maria had left a fire crackling in the fireplace, and he could smell coffee in the kitchen. He walked Clarissa over to the warmth.

  “You want some coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “Heavens, no! I took a swallow of the stuff at the cabin just to c-calm my nerves. I never want to taste it again.”

  He laughed wryly. “Well, I sure in blazes need some! This has been one helluva night.”

  Clarissa sank onto the settee before the fire while Gray rattled around in the kitchen. He returned with two tumblers, one of water and one half full of whiskey. He sat down beside her and let out a long breath. “Lord God, deliver me from another night like this one.”

  “I’m not sorry I shot Arness,” she said quietly. She shuddered. “I have never been so frightened in my life.”

  “Pretty spunky of you to shoot him, Clarissa. But you know that means you can’t go back to Boston right away. You’ll have to stick around until the sheriff talks to you.”

  She gave him a long stare, her green eyes looking so deep into his he wondered if she could be reading his thoughts. “It was wrong of Caleb Arness to try to blackmail you into giving up your ranch,” she said. “It was stupid of him to use me as the bargaining chip.”

  “It wasn’t so stupid, Clarissa.”

  “It didn’t work, did it?” she said in a shaky voice.

  “No, it didn’t. But it almost did.”

  He set the glass of whiskey on the hearth and turned to her. “Clarissa, I would have given up the ranch in a heartbeat to get you back. I had the deed to the ranch in my shirt pocket.”

  She stared at him. “But—”

  “Don’t argue.” He slid his arm around her shoulder and leaned over to kiss her. “You’re worth ten ranches.”

  The instant his mouth touched hers she moved into his embrace. “You sure you want to go back to Boston?” he whispered against her lips.

  “Gray,” she murmured. “Oh, Gray, you know I don’t belong out here.”

  He was quiet for a long minute. Then he smoothed the hair off her face and gave her a little shake. “You know what the old-timers out here in the West say, don’t you?”

  Clarissa studied his face. “No. What do they say?”

  “That you have to bloom where you’re planted.”

  He kissed her again. “Am I changing your mind?”

  “You know I still can’t cook very well,” she whispered. But she could do other things; she could learn. And, oh, God, for Gray she wanted to bloom out here in the West.

  He drew away and took her face between his hands. “Clarissa, it might seem funny, but I don’t give a rat’s, uh... I don’t care if you can’t boil water.”

  * * *

  “You’re gonna get married?” Emily flung herself into Clarissa’s arms. “Really and truly?”

  Clarissa laughed and bent to hug her daughter. “Really and truly.”

  “Oh, Mama! Then we can stay here and everything? And Gray will be my papa?”

  Gray laughed. “Would you like that, Squirt?”

  “Oh, yes! Yes, yes!”

  * * *

  The wedding of Clarissa Seaforth and Graydon Harris was more like a fiesta than a solemn ceremony. Clarissa wore a pale pink dimity dress and carried a bouquet of the roses that threatened to smother Maria and Ramon’s small cabin. Emily sprinkled rose petals all over the lawn where the ranch hands and some of the townspeople had gathered, then demurely took her place between Gray and her mother, one hand clasped in each of theirs.

  Reverend Pollock rode out from town to perform the ceremony and stayed for cake and strawberry ice cream. Nebraska played his violin, and the ranch hands and the assembled town folks danced and sang until the moon rose. Ramon brought out his guitar and sang Mexican love so
ngs until the toasts of lemonade and whiskey subsided and Maria took Emily home to sleep at the cabin.

  At last Gray put his arms around Clarissa and the two of them moved over the lawn in a dreamy two-step. “I’m not payin’ much attention to my feet,” he whispered.

  “It’s not important,” she murmured. “I’m not paying much attention to anything except you.”

  He tightened his arms about her. “Think you’ll grow to like bein’ a ranch wife?”

  She smiled up into his face. “I will probably never grow to love plucking chickens,” she said quietly. “But that’s not important, either.”

  He stopped dead. “Yeah? What is important, Clarissa?”

  She stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his cheek. “You are important, Gray. Emily is important because I love her, and you are important because I love you, too. All three of us are important, don’t you see? And, after all, life here in Smoke River, with you, has all sorts of advantages.”

  When he finished kissing her right there in front of everyone, the assembled guests burst into cheers and applause. After more kisses and well-wishing, Gray and Clarissa waved goodbye to their guests from the front porch of the big white ranch house and disappeared inside.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, Gray opened the window wide so they could hear the music, and kissed Clarissa thoroughly. Then he began to undo the row of tiny pearl buttons on her pink dimity wedding dress.

  It didn’t take long.

  * * * * *

  His Springtime Bride

  Kathryn Albright

  This story is dedicated to my dear friend Aletha—sister of my heart, fellow pilgrim and keeper of dreams.

  Dear Reader,

  I love stories about prodigal sons (or daughters) who finally decide to fight for their happily-ever-after despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Gabe and Riley have secrets from their pasts that threaten to ruin any hope of being together, but they also have grit...and determination.

  I hope you enjoy Gabe and Riley’s story.

  Kathryn Albright

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  Southern California

  1879

  Gabe Coulter stopped walking and stared at the shingled roof of the old homestead through the pines. He let out a slow breath, feeling the tension that had coiled deep inside him start to loosen. The cabin still stood. For five hundred miles he had tried to squelch the worry that the ranch house—his home—would be gone when he arrived—burned down by hate mongers, invaded by squatters, any number of things. He’d been away too long—four years too long—without word of the place.

  A man in prison didn’t have much say in property rights.

  He was so close now he could smell the scent of moist earth from the water in the creek and hear the wind rustling the leaves of the oak trees on his property. The afternoon sun beat down on his back and shoulders. He forgot how tired his feet were and how empty his stomach. From here he could see the road leading up to the gate and the stretch of meadow behind the house that sloped toward the stream. Infused with renewed energy at the sight, he walked on.

  Excitement pressed against his rib cage and simmered with the first breath of hope he had felt in years. First he would check to see if the water pump worked. Then he would probably have four years’ worth of cobwebs and mice to chase from the small cabin. His land—the one place on earth he felt as though he belonged. He would fix it up and live here until the end of his days, doing what he did best...ranching.

  Thoughts of his father and mother overwhelmed him and he realized that the first thing he would do would not be at the well—it would be to check to see that his mother had been buried next to his pa. The anger he once felt for her no longer simmered inside. Prison or time or maturity had intervened. Yet mixed with that was the frustration that now he’d never be able to talk with her to learn the truth.

  His first inkling that something wasn’t as it should be came when he spied a small herd of cows hugging the shade of the large spreading oak down near the water. Who would be running cattle on his property? From here it looked as if they were branded, but they were too far away to make out which brand.

  As he approached the house, a paper tacked to the door fluttered in the warm breeze. He stepped up on the small porch, his foot sliding into the worn indentations made from years of his father’s boots pounding the wooden planks, and snatched the paper down.

  “‘SOLD. April 4th, 1876. Mr. Frank Rawlins owner. No Trespassing.’” Gabe read the words aloud. He took a deep breath and tried to bank the full-bodied rage that sprang up inside.

  Rawlins. He should have known.

  He slammed his fist against the door. This was his place! His land! Worked and earned by his own sweat and the sweat of his parents. It rightfully belonged to him!

  Rawlins was the one man on this earth he should steer clear of. The one man he hated for the things he’d done to his father, his mother and himself. Guess hurting Gabe’s family over the years wasn’t enough. Now he had taken his land.

  His hands shook as he stared at the notice and tried to sort through his options. Just because he’d killed one man and served time for it, didn’t mean he had a compunction to kill whenever he got riled. Life was precious. No one knew that more than him. And besides, Frank Rawlins was Riley’s father. No matter what, he wouldn’t be hurting her. But he wasn’t going to just let the man walk in and take his land. Rawlins had enough as it was.

  He looked out to the large oak tree in the pasture and inhaled long and deep, and then exhaled, forcing himself to calm down. He resisted the urge to rip the notice to shreds, and instead folded it and stuffed it in his hip pocket. Sign or no sign, he was going over there to see about his mother’s grave. Then it would be time to have a talk with Mr. Frank Rawlins.

  * * *

  Twilight was encroaching by the time Gabe strode under the wooden arch that marked the entrance to the Golden R Ranch. The actual ranch house sat two miles back within the Rawlins spread, down a twisting dirt lane lined with manzanita and scrub oaks and a few pines that scented the air as he passed by. When he arrived, a cowboy heading across the expanse of yard from the bunkhouse to the main house spied him and stopped. He stood there, bowlegged and relaxed as though he owned the place. “If you have come looking for a job, we are done hiring for the season.”

  Gabe would work for anybody else in the valley but Rawlins. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “A bit late to be calling then.”

  “Name is Coulter. I want to talk to Frank Rawlins.”

  “Johnson. Foreman.” His gaze narrowed and he scratched his scruffy dirt-colored beard. “Coulter? From around these parts?”

  Gabe lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

  “Most Injuns never make it to prison if they kill a white man. And if they do—they don’t make it out.”

  Gabe stiffened. He’d heard the same thing before from guards at the prison—their tone much uglier. It wasn’t the only time his father’s blood had saved him, but it was the most important time. In a world where both whites and Indians looked upon him with suspicion, he had quickly learned to trust no one. He had fought it when he was young, trying to fit in, but it did no good. Now all he wanted was to be left in peace. Obviously, Johnson had heard of him and didn’t care about that.

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m half white. Tell him I’m here,” Gabe said. By his tone, he made it clear he wasn’t asking.

  The foreman
eyed him for a moment longer and then clomped up the steps and, after a sharp rap on the door, let himself into the house.

  Three minutes later, Johnson ushered him inside.

  Gabe had been in the house a few times when he was young. His folks had been invited to a ten-year wedding anniversary party for Rawlins and his wife. That’s when he’d first met Riley. He had been quiet and she had been all gangly tomboy arms and legs and talked up a storm. He remembered swinging on the rope swing that hung from the old oak in the side yard with her and a few other children. He had never seen blond hair before that, and each time he tried to touch her braids, she would whip them around just out of his reach to tease him. She laughed and the other kids laughed right along with her, which made him mad—mostly at his own awkwardness.

  Had Riley ever come back to visit her father? Once she had loved the ranch and vowed never to leave, despite her mother’s schemes to position her for a rich husband back east. By now she probably had that rich husband along with a baby or two. With effort, he pushed his memories of Riley to the back of his mind. Thoughts of her would only complicate the confrontation ahead with Rawlins.

  He squared his shoulders and followed Johnson. The foreman stopped in the hallway before the study and indicated Gabe was to enter. “No such thing as a half Injun,” he said, his eyes cold as Gabe passed by. “Bad blood taints the good.”

  Rawlins sat behind a massive cherry-wood desk, his expression inscrutable. He had to be in his early fifties now, with silver-streaked hair and black hawkish brows over striking blue eyes. A small amount of paunch around his middle where there hadn’t been any before spoke to his more sedentary days of late. As Gabe stepped farther into the study, Rawlins walked slowly around from behind his desk and hiked one hip onto the corner to sit. “So you are out.”

  Gabe wasn’t here for small talk. “I was down to my land today. Saw the sign. Looked new.”

  Rawlins nodded...watching him carefully. “The sheriff in Nuevo mentioned your release. I thought you might head this way. I also thought you should be clear about the situation here.”