by Carol Arens
His Fair Lady
The only life Ivy Magee has known is aboard a gambling boat. Until cowboy Travis Murphy arrives with the startling revelation that she’s inherited a ranch. Ivy must now leave her home behind and put aside her tomboyish ways.
To save the ranch, Travis knows Ivy must marry a wealthy stranger. And if that means teaching her to become a lady, then so be it. Except, being a part of Ivy’s transformation makes Travis wish he could be the prince to this unlikely Cinderella!
Travis walked to the shoreline. He stood shoulder to shoulder with her, staring at the water slogging slowly past.
“I reckon you wish someone else was the heir.” It bothered her to think that he did, but she couldn’t blame him for it. “I’ll do my best not to shame you.”
“Shame? I’m so damn grateful for you, Ivy.”
He turned to face her. Those lush green eyes all but made her weak in the knees. They reminded her of home...of the river and the trees. He tugged gently on her braid, then let go so quickly that it was as if her hair had burned him.
“I’ll teach you everything you need to know,” he said.
Author Note
Do you sometimes feel like Cinderella, staring out of your turret window and watching your dreams ride off without you? I think we all do in one way or another. Perhaps you did not get a job you had your heart set on? Perhaps your prince was not charming? The home you made an offer on went to someone else?
Ivy Magee knew for certain what she wanted from life...until the dream of her heart was snatched from her. Like Cinderella, she never cried, “Oh, poor little me.” She didn’t jump into a lake of woe. She smiled, she worked hard and one day her cowboy-prince noticed her...fell desperately in love with her. Not that he could claim her, of course. Travis Murphy was a man bound by obligation. He understood that the woman he loved was meant for another. This was a problem that not even a fairy godmother could fix. But true love could. Given the courage of Ivy and the devotion of Travis, old dreams fell away and new ones blossomed.
Life happens that way sometimes. The things we want most don’t happen but something better does.
So, my friend, be open to new dreams, because you never know when the glass slipper will fit.
Carol Arens
The Cowboy’s
Cinderella
Carol Arens delights in tossing fictional characters into hot water, watching them steam and then giving them a happily-ever-after. When she is not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, beach camping or lounging about a mountain cabin. At home, she enjoys playing with her grandchildren and gardening. During rare spare moments, you will find her snuggled up with a good book. Carol enjoys hearing from readers at [email protected] or on Facebook.
Books by Carol Arens
Harlequin Historical
The Walker Twins
Wed to the Montana Cowboy
Wed to the Texas Outlaw
Cahill Cowboys
Scandal at the Cahill Saloon
Linked by Character
Rebel Outlaw
Outlaw Hunter
Stand-Alone Novels
Renegade Most Wanted
Rebel with a Cause
Christmas Cowboy Kisses
“A Christmas Miracle”
Rebel with a Heart
Dreaming of a Western Christmas
“Snowbound with the Cowboy”
Western Christmas Proposals
“The Sheriff’s Christmas Proposal”
The Cowboy’s Cinderella
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Dedicated to the memory of
“The luckiest man in the world”...
my father, Glenn Lester Ebert.
“love you I.”
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Excerpt from The Harlot and the Sheikh by Marguerite Kaye
Chapter One
Coulson, Montana, June 1882
“Gull-durned female traps!”
Ivy Magee watched three women dressed in all manner of frippery stroll across the gangplank of the River Queen.
Leaning over the rail of the upper, hurricane deck, she observed their slow, sashaying mosey from the boat to shore.
With all the fussy petticoats, there wasn’t room for all of them to walk side by side. They were trying, though, arms linked and giggling. One wrong step and someone would tumble headlong into the river.
While the image playing in her mind presented a humorous picture—with flailing legs getting all tangled up in ruffles, elegant hair dripping water and mud weeds—Ivy could only pity the woman who would have to launder the muck from the clothes. Sure as shootin’ wasn’t going to be those fancy ladies.
Wasn’t going to be Ivy, either.
Just because she was a female didn’t make her honor bound to clean up after folks. Uncle Patrick was training her to pilot the River Queen. She was happy as a fish in deep water to be his “cub.”
For the life of her, Ivy couldn’t figure the female species out.
Gosh all-mighty! Why would a soul want to stuff her body into whale bones and yards of heavy cloth that would only make her sweat and stumble? If she guessed right, the whole of female creation could not breathe.
“Gull-durned female duds...worst kind of a trap,” she repeated, this time with a dash of scorn.
Sometimes she thought her fellow sex were touched in the head to willingly—even happily—submit to such abuse.
Once again, she was grateful for the soft cotton shirt she wore, for the durable denim pants. Even the belt that held her trousers up was just a strip of red cloth. Its flower print and the bow she fastened it with was all the adornment she needed.
The oldest of the three women, the one walking in the middle, lost her balance when the plank heaved with the current. The young ones tried to set her to rights but they all listed toward the water.
Just in time, young Tom, a deckhand, dashed across the plank to help them rebalance.
Ivy had grown up on this boat. In her twenty-two years, she’d seen that not all of the ladies maneuvering the plank were so lucky. Last fall, one had gone over and washed up half a mile downriver. A couple of roustabouts fished her out a second before her waterlogged skirts dragged her to the Great Beyond.
These ladies were luckier than some. At least they might be, were they not destined for a life of selling their bodies in this wicked town.
Ivy was glad the boat would dock here only one night before turning east toward respectable towns...more profitable ones, too.
The River Queen was unique among the boats that did business along the Missouri. Most of them were workhorses, transporting goods and passenge
rs.
But Patrick Malone, her uncle and the man who had raised her, had a different vision for his boat. The River Queen did transport people and their goods, but it was also a high-class gambling boat.
Like Ivy, Uncle Patrick had spent his life on a riverboat, but a grand one on the Mississippi.
Oh, the stories he loved to tell of a night, when the after watch took over and the boat grew quiet. He’d spend hours spinning yarns about the glory of the old days when floating palaces plied that great and perilous river.
He’d started as an apprentice, a cub. He’d gone on to become the highly respected pilot of the Jewel of the Mississippi.
The tales he’d spun about that huge boat left her breathless. The glitter of crystal chandeliers, the orchestra playing and lots of folks becoming instantly rich, then just as fast, poor again...it was as though she’d seen it all herself.
The events she witnessed through his eyes had been beyond grand, the gentlemen and the ladies all rich and refined, the firemen and roustabouts not refined but strong as bulls, their mighty muscles glistening with sweat in the reflected heat of the fire that kept the floating palaces moving.
Ivy’s favorite stories involved the river pilots, whose uncanny intuition sensed how the river changed, noticed every ripple in the current that might foretell disaster, could see below the water in their mind’s eye, even on a pitch-dark night.
Lives depended upon their knowing when and where the riverbed shifted. If a pilot made a mistake, failed to sense sudden changes below the water, tragedies occurred.
Uncle Patrick remembered many such events. But none of them were of his making.
Even as a tot, no more than two years old, Ivy used to sit at her uncle’s feet and listen to him spin his magical stories, fascinated even though she didn’t understand much of what he said.
By the time she was four, she knew that she wanted to be a pilot, just like Uncle Patrick.
But time was running out for riverboats. Her uncle expounded on this very subject every time he saw her becoming breathless with excitement over piloting a boat.
The railroad had done in the Mississippi years ago. It would do in the Missouri as well.
Just last night she had argued with him over it.
To her way of thinking, yes, freight hauling and transporting folks would give way to train travel, but gambling would not. Folks were always in a sure-fired hurry to lose their money and there was romance in doing it on a steamboat.
But Uncle Patrick believed even this recreation would end.
She sure did hope he was wrong because she was set on being a pilot.
“The ladies invited me to the Sullied Gully tonight, me being their hero and all.” Young Tom settled beside her at the rail.
“My uncle will have your hide, Tom.” And he would. “He promised your ma he’d keep you in hand.”
“I’m of an age.” Tom grinned at her. Sunshine touched his nose, dotting it with fresh freckles.
“An age for what, you young fool?”
“Women.” Just saying the word made him blush.
“Wait until you grow up a bit for that.” Ivy knocked the cap from his hair with a flick of her fingers. “There’s one of our passengers down there on her knees. Looks like she tripped over her fool skirt. I don’t think she’s a lady of the night, though. See if you can find her a safe place to stay.”
Tom pushed away from the rail. “Sure won’t miss that noisy green bird of hers.”
She watched him cross the deck, disappear down the stairs then reappear on the stage plank.
He was carrying the woman’s trunk across his shoulders. She indicated a spot on the ground for him to set it down. It looked like she handed Tom some money for his effort.
“Gosh almighty.” She sighed. “Uncle Patrick will tan his hide if he spends it at the Sullied Gully.”
All of a sudden her hat shifted, tipping toward her nose. She caught the small white mouse that slid from the brim.
“You little varmint, what’s waking you so early? Sun’s not even set yet.” Ivy fished a peanut from her pocket and gave it to the mouse.
It sat on her shoulder nibbling the treat. After a moment she tucked the furry creature back into the special pouch under a large satin flower that was attached to the brim of her hat.
“Go back to sleep until dark. It’ll be Hades own chaos if a passenger sees you.”
To her relief, the mouse snuggled into his space and became still.
Not even Uncle Patrick knew that her best friend was a rodent.
* * *
Moonlight reflected off the liquid face of the Missouri River.
From the cabin deck of the docked River Queen, Travis Murphy watched the sparkling ripples gliding past, not in a straight line, but with the twisting tug of the current.
The sight kept him mesmerized, since at the moment, his life resembled those twisting ripples. It sure wasn’t traveling the straight line that he hoped this journey would take him on.
The future of the Lucky Clover Ranch depended upon him finding Miss Eleanor Magee. But it seemed the harder he searched the more twisted the trail became, the pursuit more urgent.
At one point, he’d nearly caught up with the woman, but his horse had come up lame. It had taken some time for the poor creature to heal properly.
That delay had been frustrating, but he’d finally made it to Coulson, a day ahead of the steamboat.
Now, here he was, the boat finally arrived, but he sure didn’t see anyone who resembled the woman’s twin sister, Agatha.
Travis swatted a moth away from his face. The determined insect seemed intent upon incinerating itself on the lamp hanging over his head.
Where the blazes could Eleanor Magee be?
Hell, he’d only learned of Eleanor’s existence when his boss, the man he loved as much as he remembered loving his own father, confessed on his deathbed that he had another daughter.
That revelation had nearly kicked Travis to his knees. He’d always felt like a member of the family, believed he’d known everything about them.
When, at six years old, his parents had been put in the grave, Travis had wanted to leap into the hole with them. But Foster Magee had been there, his big hand pulling him back from the shadow of death. He’d taken him to the big house and raised him as his own.
But another daughter? In the moment he’d demanded that Foster tell him why this girl’s existence had been kept a secret, why she had not been raised at the ranch.
The reality was, he’d had no right to demand anything of Foster. But in that moment he had been a stunned son, not an employee.
The reason turned out to be a divorce agreement. He’d learned the full story while watching tears drip down his mentor’s disease-ravaged face—his stand-in father’s face.
He’d given up Eleanor in an agreement with Mollie Clover Magee.
“She was a beauty, my wife,” he’d admitted.
The proof of that, her portrait, still hung over the mantel of the huge fireplace in the great room back at the ranch.
“She was a wild flower, a free spirit, the plain opposite of me. Fire and ice I reckon.” he whispered, his voice hoarse, weak from the effects of his illness.
It was true. Foster Seamus Magee had been a man of purpose. His desire to have the largest and most influential ranch in the state had consumed him. A proper life of social niceties, all the rules of etiquette observed, this was what he’d striven for.
“My Clover, she was never cut out for that kind of life. I watched her dry up in front of my eyes. My pretty wife... The life I sought sucked the life out of her.
“Son, you understand that I never stopped loving her, but I had to let her go when she wanted to...just not all of her. I wouldn’t let her have Agatha because of the tw
o girls she’s the one who reminded me of my Clover, with that blaze of red hair and those emerald-colored eyes. Turned out, though, she didn’t have her mother’s high spirit. The girl is sickly...well, you grew up with her, you know.”
He did know. Agatha was a shut away. She was frail, retiring, and lacking the vigor that the demands of inheriting the ranch would place upon her. He only hoped that Eleanor was different from her twin.
A lot of livelihoods depended upon her being strong, but even more, that she was willing to step into her role.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, not with stressful thoughts of past and present, but because the heat of the day lingered on the land and shimmered over the water. In the mountains nearby the temperature would be different. He reckoned just a short distance away the night was getting cold.
Well, not the night so much anymore, but the wee hours. Even the gamblers had taken to their beds.
He swiped the ticklish moisture from his neck while he strolled to the side of the boat facing west. Maybe there would be a breeze off the water.
There wasn’t a breeze...but there was a woman.
A naked woman.
Naked women weren’t so unusual in Coulson. But here on the riverboat at this hour? Perhaps she’d been entertaining a gambler.
Propriety told him to look away. Nature urged him otherwise.
The woman stood on the lower deck, her back toward him and her arms reaching for the night sky. When she lifted her face toward the moon, he saw the slim line of her nose but nothing else.
He smiled, wished he was the moonglow. That elusive finger of light touched the curve of her hip, shimmered in the fall of blond hair tumbling down her back. It cupped the lovely round orbs of her bottom.
She bent her knees, pushed off the deck, and dove headlong into the water.
She came up, grinning, then went under again. Her fair-skinned body skimmed inches below the surface of the water as she swam alongside the boat.
Hell, now he wished he was the river, with the right to touch her so intimately.
Spinning about, he strolled toward the other end of the boat, hands shoved deep in his pockets.