Weddings Under a Western Sky: The Hand-Me-Down BrideThe Bride Wore BritchesSomething Borrowed, Something True

by Elizabeth Lane

  It surprised him that he could read her so well sometimes and not at all the rest. Like he’d understood she was hurt as well as angry but not why. He got to his feet, unable to sit while his thoughts had him so churned up. He stared at the lake and shoved his hands in his pockets. Could you wound someone who was indifferent to you? He didn’t think so.

  He paced to the water’s edge. It made no sense. She hadn’t responded to his proposal as if she had any feelings for him. It had taken his sister to talk her into the marriage. Even the censure the people in town hadn’t been incentive enough. Had his unemotional approach put her off? Could it be she cared about him as more than a friend?

  A thrill shot through him at the idea that she might love him. Why that would be, he didn’t understand. It wasn’t as if he wanted to love her in return. What kind of person did that make him?

  Not one he was proud to be. He wasn’t a taker. That wasn’t who he was. Agitated, Dylan started walking along the shoreline needing the motion. The action.

  He kicked a stone. He hated that he’d hurt her.

  Even the act of taking her virginity had made him cringe for her pain. He thought back to the second time he’d made love to her. He’d looked in her eyes and his heart had turned over with wanting for what he’d seen there.

  He stopped and blinked. Love was something he’d sworn he’d never want. Yet he did. He wanted hers. He hadn’t wanted to love anyone, either. But he must love her. What else could cause this aching need to be with her? To protect her? To make sure she was happy?

  He loved her. With all his heart.

  What a prize idiot! He’d left his family over sheep but had married her in spite of them. He’d do anything to keep her safe and make her happy. Anything!

  He stopped walking, suddenly sick to his stomach. She must feel awful. There were only two things she could give him as his wife. One—her love—was something he’d said he’d never want. The other—her body—he’d said he could wait for as if he’d been indifferent.

  She must think she’d gotten everything with this marriage and he’d gotten nothing. He spun around and started back the way he’d come. He had to tell her. But how? How to let her know and ease the guilt he now understood?

  He swallowed. There was only one way to fix this. And that was to show her he loved her above everything. He had to do it. She had to know nothing was more important to him than she was.

  That only left one question. Could he do it by tomorrow and give her the best birthday gift possible? The gift of knowing how much he loved the woman she was.

  He arrived back at the house and found only the scent of burning food. A pot sat on the hot stove untended. Burning. He grabbed a hot pad and ran it outside then went back in to open all the windows.

  Where the hell was she? “Rowdy?” he called.

  No answer.

  He checked the bedroom thinking maybe she was tuckered out from the hard morning she’d put in. Nothing made your back hurt more than a day shearing woolies. But Rhia was nowhere to be found. Which meant she was working. With those hands!

  He stomped out to the shed but she wasn’t there. While he was there he took a look at her shears. They were in bad shape. It was a wonder she had any unblistered skin left on her poor hand.

  He checked the barn next. And heard a scuffing sound in the tack room. Was she never still? He grinned. She had been last night after each time they’d made love. She’d been played-out and satiated, her body pliant. He liked that he could affect her the way nothing else did.

  Dylan looked into the tack room and drank in the sight of her sitting on the floor, surrounded by a large pile of ruined goods. She was busy sorting. “Hey there, wildflower. You forget something?”

  “I’m not shearing. I came out to see how bad the quilt Mum made was damaged. I think I can fix it. That got me started on going through all this.”

  “I meant did you forget something at the house?”

  She frowned, her forehead wrinkling adorably. “The house? No, I—” Her eyes widened and she dropped whatever it was she’d been looking at. “Oh, my God, dinner.” She scurried up and moved toward him and the doorway. “Get out of the way.”

  He grabbed her around her waist. “It’s too late. I’m not sure even the buzzards want whatever was in the pot.”

  She let her head drop on his shoulder. “Stew. It was stew. I’m the worst wife ever. I didn’t make us dinner last night or breakfast this morning and now I burned tonight’s dinner.”

  He kissed her exposed neck. “I liked what I had for dinner last night,” he murmured, thinking he could as least hint at how much she’d pleased him in bed. “Let me be the judge of your success as a wife. I think there’s some ham in the springhouse. Let’s slice it up and make sandwiches then top it off with wedding cake.”

  “I had cake for breakfast,” she confessed.

  He chuckled. “So did I. I didn’t want to wake you. And cake has milk, eggs, flour. It’s really puffy griddle cakes. Right?”

  She groaned against his chest. “Stop, Dylan. I still ruined good meat and vegetables. I never told you why we always had a cook after Mum died. I can’t cook. If I could remember I was in the middle of cooking, I could probably make a passable meal, but something always steals my attention.”

  He gave her a little squeeze to reassure her. “How many women can shear sheep, repair a fence and keep a kitchen? It’s okay. We’ll cook together. I’ll make sure you don’t get distracted and help with the chopping. I’m good at that. I used to hide from the don in the kitchen. Cook put me to work. We’ll be partners inside and you’re boss out here. How’s that for a deal?”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  He let go, stepped back and tilted her chin up with a crooked finger. “Stop apologizing. If I’d been the one cooking you’d wish it had burned.”

  They supped by the lake on thick slabs of bread, ham and more of their wedding cake. When she got cold, he warmed her up until she burned. He muffled her cries with his mouth and gloried in her response. But he didn’t tell her how he felt. Not then. Not on the walk back to the house. Or before, during or after they made love again.

  He wasn’t sure she’d believe words. He wanted to show her. Prove how much she mattered. And by tomorrow afternoon, she’d believe him.

  * * *

  Dylan rose early the next morning and crept from bed as he had the day before. He’d told Rhia he was going to take Annie to the blacksmith in town to cover his real plans. He saddled Rory, put a leader on Annie then headed for the Rocking R. His heart was a mite heavy but he knew he was doing what was right.

  He concluded his business with Alex quickly and left for town with a wad of cash on a mission that needed Abby Wheaton’s touch. After he’d finished there, he’d hurry back to give his bride her birthday gifts.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rhia lay in bed fighting a smile and pretending to sleep as Dylan snuck out of the room on cat feet. As soon as she heard the front door shut, she jumped up, washed and dressed in her pretty blue dress. She grabbed the last of the cake and ran to the barn, to hitch up old Jessie.

  She felt lighter than air as she all but danced through the chore. The decision she’d made, the dinner by the lake, the closeness they’d shared afterward, had changed something between them. Or maybe it had just changed something in her.

  What did it matter if Dylan never said “I love you”? He showed her with more than just passion, though there was plenty of that. He treated her as if she were precious to him. He cared. Deeply. It was in his every action. Words came cheap. It was actions that mattered.

  Actions had always been enough between her and her father. He’d shown his love but rarely talked about it, yet she’d been secure in that love. She was going to choose to believe Dylan loved her.

  Shortly sh
e’d be dealing with the reason why Dylan didn’t understand love. His father.

  The cut on her hand burned, protesting her grip on the seat as she climbed onto the wheel of wagon, then swung into the seat. Once seated, she took up the reins, thankful Jessie was such an easy animal to control. Dylan had been so worried about her hand, he’d made her promise to stay away from the shearing in the shed, another example of the way he cared for her. She smiled. She’d had other plans for her day anyway.

  She was off to change Adara’s direction. Change the dream to suit a future with Dylan.

  A weight lifted from her shoulders even as she stopped in front of Belleza’s hacienda, ready to face the don.

  Farrah rushed outside. “Happy birthday,” her new sister called. “I planned to ride over with gifts later. What on earth are you doing riding around by yourself? Dylan’s going to be fit to be tied.”

  Rhia laughed. “If your father agrees to my proposal, I don’t think Dylan’ll even think about how it came about.” She climbed down with Farrah’s help, not yet used to wearing skirts. Rhia eyed her friend’s Levi Strauss jeans with envy. Remembering Dylan cupping her bottom last night, Rhia had a feeling he wouldn’t cringe if she wore those.

  They walked into the inner courtyard. “Papa,” Farrah said, “Rhia’s here to see you.”

  The don looked up from his meal, his eyes narrowed. “Have you learned you married a man with no means? If you come to plead his case, you waste your time, señora.”

  “Dylan doesn’t need anyone to plead for him.” She stood straighter. Prouder. She was through deferring to this old toad. “I’ve come with a business proposition.” She saw Farrah melt into the interior. “I have two hundred and fifty ewes. Twenty yearling rams. And fifteen mature rams. They’re good stock. And for sale.” She named her price and saw his interest before he schooled his features and tried to bargain her down. When she threatened to sell elsewhere, he capitulated.

  She left with thirteen hundred dollars and an escort to the Rocking R. There, Alex Reynolds listened to her offer to buy the half-Arabian stallion Dylan was so interested in. Clearly confused at first, Alex finally shot her one of his irreverent grins and agreed to her price. She paid him three hundred dollars and he promised to get the balance of her money safely to the bank for her. Then he sent her home with an escort to control the big high-spirited stallion.

  Dylan had never even dreamed of owning the stallion and soon he’d be culling the wild mustang herds for mares to breed with him. Dylan would be in business. They might have a few lean years but they’d be together and their children wouldn’t be taunted as he had been.

  She was thrilled to get home before him. Determined, she stoked the fire in the stove and got out the ingredients for a cake. It came out of the oven without a single singed spot. While it cooled, she made boiled ham, carrots and potatoes. Then she iced the cake and had just set it on the table when she saw Dylan, trotting down the lane. He must’ve needed to leave the mare with the blacksmith but Scout was with him.

  She clasped her hands together and started out the door but stopped and ran back to take the dinner off the stove and set it on the warming shelf. When she stepped outside Scout raced up onto the porch barking his enthusiastic greeting. She ruffled his fur and hugged him while watching Dylan enter the barn. She rushed to the barn and she found Dylan scratching his head and staring into the stall holding Midnight.

  “Happy birthday,” she said, sneaking up behind him and grabbing his muscular arm.

  He whirled around, more than a little confused. “What’s he doing…?”

  “I changed the dream. To your dream. I sold my sheep. To your father. We get to finish this last shearing. We can use the money from that and what’s left from the sale of the flock to build your corrals and fence your paddocks. And I guess build a stable and anything else you need.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then he erupted in laughter. She’d expected him to be happy but not to laugh like a crazy man. Next thing she knew, he grabbed her and took them flying into a hefty pile of fresh hay. She screamed as she landed on top of him, then he rolled onto his side, laying her in the fragrant hay. They stared at each other.

  “You’ve been busy, Rowdy. But so have I.” He jumped up and rushed to his horse, pulled a roll off the saddle they dug into his saddlebag. He rushed back and sat next to her, handing her a box. “Happy birthday to you.”

  She opened the box and found a set of new shears. She sputtered a laugh. “Abby’ll take them back. I’m sorry if I spoiled your surprise.”

  He handed her another, much bigger bundle. She untied the cord and delved inside. There were two pairs of the Levi Strauss jeans she’d coveted just that morning and two blouses. There was also a pretty yellow dress. All of which said he understood her. Except… “I thought you’d spent all your savings fixing the house. This isn’t on credit, is it?”

  He snorted out a laugh. “Nope. I sold Annie to Alex.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s why he looked so confused. And amused. He could have warned me!”

  Dylan chuckled. “Too much fun for him to spoil, I’d guess.”

  “He’ll sell her back, right?”

  Dylan nodded then he took her gifts and set them aside, pulled her into his arms and over him as he fell back into the hay. His expression turned serious as he cupped her face with both hands. “I love you, Rhiannon Varga.”

  She stared. “Did you—? You love me?”

  He grinned. “More than life. Hell, more than I hate sheep and that’s powerful. I married you in spite of them, didn’t I?” His eyebrows pulled into a V. “You forget something, wildflower? You love me, don’t you?”

  It was her turn to grin. “Dylan Varga, I’ve loved you for what seems like my whole life.”

  “And I’m going to love you for the rest of mine,” he promised and sealed the deal with a long, lingering kiss.

  * * * * *

  Something Borrowed, Something True

  Lisa Plumley

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading “Something Borrowed, Something True”! I’m thrilled to be a part of the Weddings Under a Western Sky anthology, and I’m happy to introduce you (or welcome you back) to my favorite Old West town, Morrow Creek! I’ve written several books set in this cozy Arizona Territory town, and it’s always a pleasure to return for a visit.

  If you like Nellie and Everett’s story and would like to know more about my books, please visit my website at www.lisaplumley.com, where you can read free first-chapter excerpts from all my historical, contemporary and paranormal romances, sign up for my reader newsletter or new book reminder service, catch sneak previews of my upcoming books, request special reader freebies and more.

  I’m also on Harlequin.com, Facebook and Twitter, so please “friend” me on the service of your choice. The links are available on www.lisaplumley.com. I hope you’ll drop by today!

  Lisa Plumley

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  “The first thing necessary to win the heart of a woman is opportunity.”

  —Honoré de Balzac

  April 1884

  Morrow Creek, northern Arizona Territory

  When a man couldn’t pick out his own blasted fiancée from the crowd of people on a train platform, it was probably time to rethink a few things. Like the way he was living his life. The honorable intentions he clung to. And the damnable, meddlesome vaqueros he employ
ed, depended on, and trusted…far too much.

  Standing hip deep in confusion at the Morrow Creek train depot, Everett Bannon reckoned this was what he deserved for letting down his guard. He deserved cinders and sparks. He deserved hordes of travelers, cheery train whistles, and puffs of sooty coal smoke. He deserved a mail-order bride—arriving on today’s 10:17 train from San Francisco—that he hadn’t ordered.

  The vaqueros at his ranch had ordered her. For him. Secretly. Giddily. Most of all, inconveniently. Now it was up to Everett to deal with the imminent arrival of one Miss Nellie Trent—and to squash her expectations that they were to be wed.

  He hoped she didn’t bawl. He couldn’t cope with bawling.

  Feeling altogether provoked by this unexpected turn of events, Everett paced the length of the depot platform. The springtime sun shone down on him. The morning breeze threatened to steal his hat. Travelers streamed past—but none of them wore the red hat “with a jaunty blue ribbon” that his hypothetical bride-to-be was supposed to be sporting. None of them gazed at him with knitted brows, trying to match his rugged face to his farcical written description. None of them brightened at his approach. None of them seemed hopeful…and therefore vulnerable.

  Everett knew all about romantic hopefulness. He wanted no damn part of it. Not anymore. His calamitous experiences with his former ladylove, Miss Abbey O’Neill, had taught him that. He was better off without sentimental mush like loving. And needing. And hoping. So, he reckoned grumpily, was Miss Nellie Trent—wherever she was.

  “Patrón!” Casper—one of his interfering ranch hands—clomped his boots in Everett’s wake. “Wait! You forgot your armband!”

  Turning, Everett was nearly blinded by the hank of blue fabric that Casper foolhardily waved at his face. It was frayed. It was spotted. It stank of saddle leather and stale tobacco.