The Cowboy’s Bride Collection: 9 Historical Romances Form on Old West Ranches
Page 44
Pop, Josiah, and the children crowded into the open doorway, watching the buggy turn out of the yard and head down the road. As it disappeared around the first bend, Pop let out a holler. Joe joined him, as did Jessica, but Josiah just stood there taking deep breaths that pulled his shirt tight across his muscled back.
Corra’s heart broke in two.
Chapter 16
That evening, Josiah linked an arm around each child and pulled them close. His chest swelled with gratitude and threatened to bust him open. She’d done it. Corra Jameson had done what he’d asked her to do, and his family stood intact because of her. Come Sunday, he’d load her trunk in the wagon, she’d stay in town after church, and he’d ride home with both children, thank the Lord. But when she went back to the boardinghouse, she’d be taking more than Jess’s teacher, his family’s cook, and a good horse.
She’d be taking his heart.
He had to talk to her, but how? Where? If he didn’t say his piece, she’d leave and never know she had him snubbed to the post. He’d die there without her. He’d already lost one loving woman. Lord help him, he couldn’t lose another.
Over the next two days he made himself scarce. He couldn’t bear to be around as she prepared to leave, cooked extra food, laid vegetables aside in the root cellar. But he watched from a distance, praying for an opportunity. Afraid to create one.
Saturday evening she didn’t take her place in the rocker with her Bible. Jess and Joe plopped onto the rug, the checkerboard between them. Every so often, they looked up, hope in their eyes, waiting for her to share her stories and bring another world to life in their small home. But she wouldn’t be reading tonight. She’d left while Jess finished cleaning up the supper dishes. He’d watched her from the open doorway. Saw her slip through the wire and walk out to the pasture, her skirt skimming the grass.
It was now or never.
He threw a look over his shoulder. “Believe I’ll take some air.”
Joe nodded absently, but Jess hurried over and tugged him down to whisper in his ear. “Miss Corra would make a fine Ma for us, Pa.”
His breath caught, and he kissed the top of her head. “I’m thinking the same, but it’s up to her.”
He left the house and ducked between the wires. Corra ambled out to an open place where the stock had flattened the grass. He held his feet to a slow stride until he was a few paces away. “Corra.”
She turned, and the low sun sparked a light in her eyes. Tears? Hope shot to his throat. He swallowed hard. “I got a fine little mare for you.”
Not what he wanted to say.
“You can try her before you leave and—” She held her hand out to stop his words. He stepped closer. “You did it. You turned my headstrong, green-broke youngest into a girl.”
She smiled that same pretty smile that tied a knot in his gut. Then she brushed the back of her hand against her cheek and his heart stopped beating.
“Thank you.” A sound broke from her lips—not a laugh, closer to a sob. “For asking me to come here. I can’t say who benefited more, Jess or me.”
Or him. Could he tell her?
Longing to sweep her up like he had in the kitchen, he closed the distance between them. “You fed us with more than your cooking, Corra. You fed us with your stories. Your laughter. Your gentle ways.”
“I see.”
He took hold of her arms, felt her tremble beneath his touch. “Do you? Do you see that you feed me in a way I thought I’d lost forever?”
She covered her mouth, eyes brimming.
“I know I asked you to come out here for a short time, and I’ll keep my word and butcher that beef for you. But could you find it in your heart to stay?”
Fear flashed in her eyes, and she glanced toward the aspen grove. Had he misread her these last few weeks? He had to know. Even if she turned him down, he had to know.
Dropping his hands to his side, he gentled his voice over the stampede in his chest. “I loved Maisie. I always will. But that part of my life is behind me, and you are right here in front of me.” He reached for her hand. “I love you, Corra. Could you take a man like me?”
She swept his face with her dark gaze, pulling the very breath from his lungs. “On one condition.”
He froze. “And that is?”
“That you give that beef you promised me to Letty for the boardinghouse.”
Relief billowed from his chest in unbridled laughter. Corra stepped into his arms and melted against him, and he bent to scoop her up. She linked her arms around his neck and lit his heart with her smile before he covered her warm lips with his.
Corra pulled her head back but clung to him still, savoring his strength, his laughter. His kiss. “If that is your way of sealing a deal, then yes. I can take a man like you, Josiah Hanacker. Because I love you.”
A deep and distant rumble turned her gaze to the sky, but the cloudless, dimming arch bore no threat of storm. Josiah swiveled toward the high pasture. Held securely in his arms, she saw them. They thundered over the open ground, the late sun glinting through mane and tail. Surging past and down into the next meadow, the mares and foals followed their natural impulse to run strong and hard and free.
Josiah buried his face in her neck, driving her pulse to rival the horses. No paper beau could match the tenderness of his touch. No fanciful dream could outshine the light of his love. And no thunder of heaven or hoof could outpace the beating of her overflowing heart—strong and hard and free.
Davalynn Spencer writes inspirational Western romance complete with rugged cowboys, their challenges, and their loves. She won the 2015 Will Rogers Gold Medallion Award for Inspirational Western Fiction and makes her home on Colorado’s Front Range with her handsome cowboy and their Queensland heeler, Blue. Connect with her at www.davalynnspencer.com.
COWBOY COMPETITION
By Becca Whitham
Dedication
For my parents.
Being raised by you is a blessing that grows sweeter each year.
~and~
For the choir at New Post Chapel, Fort Sill, Oklahoma, who prayed me
through this novella and the last one. You will always be family.
Prologue
Northern Texas
September 1839
Nia Lindley closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pushed her lips toward George Smith. Her first kiss! So what if it happened in a barn. Her pink dress was fit for a princess, and he was as handsome as a prince in his fancy black suit.
A clatter popped her eyes open. She spun inside Mr. Smith’s arms, knees buckling at the sight of her father. Heat radiated in waves from her breastbone. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Papa took hold of her forearms and tossed her aside.
“You’ve made a grave mistake, Smith, if that’s really your name.” Papa pulled Mr. Smith’s black lapels until the two men were nose to nose. “You’re in Texas, son. We string a man from the nearest tree for touching a gal he hasn’t spoken for.”
George Smith, his face purple, cast a pleading glance toward Nia. “But I love your daughter, sir.”
Nia’s spirits lifted. He loved her!
Papa snorted. “Love? Love, you say? You met two hours ago! And how you wrangled an invitation to her sixteenth birthday ball when neither I nor any of my household staff knows who you are is a mystery I intend to unravel.”
Mr. Smith jerked his head back toward Papa. “No need for that, Mr. Lindley.”
Sharp pain stabbed the center of Nia’s chest. Her smile wilted. The pungent odor of manure, strangely absent until this moment, thickened in her throat and lungs.
Papa sneered. “I thought not.” He let go of Mr. Smith’s jacket and pushed him away in one motion. “You have ten minutes to get off the Double L, or I’ll see that you never leave my land. Do I make myself clear?”
Mr. Smith scuttled away like a cockroach.
Nia sank to the floor. Mama, God rest her soul, would be livid if hay and dirt damaged the silk gown. She’d orde
red it from New York City six months ago. Her last gift to Nia before dying.
A large hand dropped in front of Nia’s eyes. “Get up, Petunia. We have a house full of wagging tongues ready to ruin you.”
She grasped her father’s hand. He yanked her off the floor, a testament to his strength—she was no frail flower despite her given name. She let go to brush off dirt and hay. If only the falling debris included the bitter pain clinging to her heart. Unable to meet her father’s eyes, she watched a button on his black dress coat rise and fall.
He pulled a long, thin box from his pocket and thrust it at her. “Take this.”
Fingers trembling, she opened the velvet box. Inside lay a three-strand pearl choker adorned with an oval pink topaz the exact shade of her dress.
“I intended to give it to you in front of our guests, but I couldn’t find you.”
She ran a fingertip over the bumps and ridges. “It’s beautiful, Papa.”
“We’ll just pretend I wanted a private moment to give it to you.”
Nia handed the choker to her father. She turned away, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes, but couldn’t stop the tears trickling down her cheeks. After three-and-a-half years and a thousand warnings, why was she still so gullible to sweet-talking men?
Memories of the dancing master who’d wheedled his way into her twelve-year-old heart sent shame prickling down her spine. When Papa came home from avenging the Alamo, he told Mr. Casey that Nia wouldn’t inherit until she reached thirty. The dust didn’t have time to settle behind his fleeing wagon.
The choker tightened around her throat.
As soon as the clasp clicked, Papa dropped his hands and stepped back. Nia shivered despite the September heat.
“Ready?” His arm appeared.
She placed her hand on it. He patted her fingers, but the gesture offered cold comfort. Nia drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Ready.”
Chapter 1
Southern Texas
March 1848
Thwack!
Toby Lane glanced sideways. Eight-year-old Sadie Miller barreled down the front steps, dark braids flapping like slack reins.
“Mr. Toby! Mr. Toby!”
He finished tying Blaze to the hitching pole, dropped to one knee, and braced for impact. Sadie ran into him, wrapping skinny arms around his neck. He stood, whirled her around in a circle, and set her back down. “Good afternoon, Miss Sadie.” In the nine months he’d been working at the Whispering Pines Ranch and recovering from a gunshot wound, this little girl had stolen what was left of his battered heart. Her cheerful prattling eased his loneliness and made him want a home and family again, the curse be hanged. “Where you off to?”
Her brown eyes shone. “Pa said I could watch you train mustangs since I got my learnin’ done early.”
“Then you best get to it.” He pointed toward the pens where newly captured wild horses neighed.
She tilted her head. “Ain’t you comin’, Mr. Toby?”
“Not right now. Your pa wants to talk to me.”
Sadie scrunched up her face. “How come? You can’t be in trouble, not when you’re the bestest cowboy we got.”
His chest swelled even as doubt niggled. “Why, thank you kindly, little lady.”
She put a cupped hand to one side of her mouth. “Miss Petticoat says I ain’t no kind of lady, but that’s ’cause I don’t wanna be. I’m gonna be the bestest cowboy in all of Texas when I grow up. Just like you.”
The sharp-eared Miss Pettijohn appeared in the doorway. “Sadie Miller, last time you called me Miss Petticoat you spent hours practicing your penmanship by writing my name. Were you hoping to repeat that lesson?”
Sadie hung her head, the impish grin on her face visible only to Toby. “No, Miss Pettijohn.”
“Then off with you, child, or I shall speak with your father about returning to lessons.”
Sadie hitched up her blue calico and took off at a run. “Bye, Mr. Toby. See ya later!”
He watched her go, felt a piece of his heart tear off and go with her. Rustling fabric announced the tutor was following her student. Toby removed his hat. “Miss Pettijohn.”
She didn’t wish him a good day or stop to chat with him as she had before. Instead, she pulled her skirt to the side and walked by without a backward glance.
His shame had caught up with him.
Again.
The moment the straw boss said to report to the big house, Toby started counting cattle and horses. None were missing. He checked the men’s faces. None sneered or threatened violence. Since those were the usual signs he was about to be fired, he’d allowed hope space in his chest. Now, it fizzled like a dying firework.
Toby swallowed. No matter how many times he prayed that this ranch, these people, would be different, it always ended the same. But what else could a cursed man expect?
Blaze nickered as if to say, “Might as well get it over with.”
“I hear ya.” Out of respect for the lady of the house, Toby pulled a bandanna from his hip pocket, dipped it into the horse trough, and wiped his face. After tucking the bandanna away, he brushed dirt from his red plaid shirt and leather chaps.
Blaze tossed his head.
“I’m not stallin’.” But his hand lifted to the button tied around his neck with a leather strip. “Okay, maybe a little.”
There were five steps to the door. With each one, Toby berated himself for getting too attached to the Whispering Pines. Memories assaulted him—waking to find Mrs. Miller bent over him and laying cool cloths on his forehead. Mr. Miller’s firm handshake and guarantee that men who worked hard would be rewarded. The stunning chance to train horses instead of chase cows. Little Miss Sadie watching him work with Blaze. She’d wormed her way into his heart by pestering him to teach her cowboy talk and launching herself at him with loving abandon as soon as his shoulder was out of the sling.
Toby removed his spurs and set them in the basket on the porch. Heart pounding, he knocked on the door.
Too soon, Mr. Miller opened it. “Come in, Toby. Let’s go to my office, shall we?”
As Toby stepped across the threshold, cool air wafted across his cheeks. His ma used to dream about homes like this. Real brick exterior to make summers cooler and winters warmer. Fancy curtains covering glass windows. Colorful rugs on gleaming hardwood floors. When he was a whelp listening to her read, she’d stop at descriptions of fine things and write them in her Someday Journal. “So as the good Lord knows how to furnish my mansion,” she’d say.
Back then, he’d believed her. But now…?
Well, now he was being fired for no good reason. Once again, he’d have to convince someone to let him work for beans, sleep on the ground, and risk his life to save their cattle.
“Have a seat.” Mr. Miller swung his right hand toward two wooden chairs opposite his carved oak desk.
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.”
“Suit yourself.” Mr. Miller sat behind the desk and rested his elbows on an open ledger. There was nothing else on his desk except a framed picture and an inkwell holding a feather pen. Like the man himself, the room was sparse and practical. “Are you the son of Lawrence Lane?”
Toby turned his hat in circles. “Yes, sir.”
Miller sat back and stroked one brown sideburn. “Wish you’d’ve told me when you first came to work here.”
Heat worked up Toby’s chest. No matter how many times he’d been through this, it always burned. The unwritten code of the West dictated that no one ask a man’s past because, in leaner days, anyone could’ve done something he wasn’t proud of. And yet here he was, paying a price for the past. His father’s past.
“Don’t miss my meanin’, Lane. The trouble’ll be findin’ a replacement. You’re the finest ranch hand I’ve ever watched train a horse.” Miller grinned, creasing the sunbaked skin around his eyes. “I thought you were foolish thinkin’ you could tame a wild mustang. But you showed us all.”
“None of which matter
s, though, on account of what my pa done.” Bitterness lay like dust on Toby’s tongue.
“If he’d just been a common horse thief, the boys mighta been inclined to let you live. But not when he sold stolen horses to Santa Anna on his way to the Alamo.” Miller shook his head. “Don’t matter it was twelve years ago and we just sent that butcher home with his tail between his legs. The minute the boys find out, they’ll rope you like a scalawag cow and string you on the nearest tree.”
“I can take care of myself.” The hole in his shoulder said otherwise. “I understand your meanin’, though, so I’ll take myself off.”
Miller held up a hand. “Not so fast. I owe you pay.”
Usually Toby left with empty pockets and blistering ears. He didn’t know what to do. He stood too far from the desk to reach anything and too far from the door to disappear. Should he go forward or backward?
“I got a letter of reference for you, too, but it’s likely worthless here in Texas.” Miller opened a side drawer and withdrew a leather pouch and a wax-sealed letter. He held them out.
Toby stepped forward and gripped them. “Texas is home, sir. I aim to stay.”
Miller didn’t let go. “Listen to me, Toby Lane. Next place, you tell them who you are right up front. I might’ve hired a different set of cow hands.”
Toby lifted a shoulder. “One man can’t make up for a whole crew.”
“Maybe not, but the things you can do with a rope, and how you shared some tricks, well, it made the hands here better.” Miller let go.
The pouch felt heavy. “This is too much, Mr. Miller.”
“You let me decide what’s too much. If your idea about training mustangs pans out, I figure I’d owe you more than this.” He stood and held out his hand.
Toby shook it. “Thank you, sir.” He stuffed the leather pouch and letter in his pants. “I’ll collect my things from the bunkhouse and be gone before sundown.”
Miller cleared his throat. “Stop by the kitchen here at the house before you leave. I’ll have cook prepare some sandwiches. Might get you a couple days down the road.”