Table of Contents
Cover Page
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Excerpt
Other Books by
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
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Copyright
10TH ANNIVERSARY
Special thanks to our well-wishers, who have contributed their congratulations and support.
“The best historicals, the best romances. Simply the best!”
—Dallas Schulze
“Bronwyn Williams was born and raised at Harlequin Historicals. We couldn’t have asked for a better home or a more supportive family.”
—Dixie Browning and Mary Williams, w/a Bronwyn Williams
“I can’t believe it’s been ten years since Private Treaty, my first historical novel, helped launch the Harlequin Historicals line. What a thrill that was! And the beat goes on…with timeless stories about men and women in love.”
—Kathleen Eagle
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—Ruth Ryan Langan
“As a writer and reader, I feel that the Harlequin Historicals line always celebrates a perfect blend of history and romance, adventure and passion, humor and sheer magic.”
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“As a one-time ‘slush pile’ foundling at Harlequin Historicals, I’ll be forever grateful for having been rescued and published as one of the first ‘March Madness’ authors. Harlequin Historicals has always been the place for special stories, ones that blend the magic of the past with the rare miracle of love for books that readers never forget.”
—Miranda Jarrett.
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“Happy birthday, Harlequin Historicals! I’m proud to have been a part of your ten years of exciting historical romance.”
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“Harlequin Historical novels are charming or disarming with dashes and clashes. These past times are fast times, the gems of romances!”
—Karen Harper
The Courtship of Izzy McCree
Ruth Langan
For Isabella Mary Shrader And her proud parents, Mary and Dennis Her sisters Caitlin Bea, Ally and Taylor And big brother Bret
And for Tom For a lifetime of courtship.
Matt dragged her closer.
“I can’t give you pretty things, Isabella.”
All she could feel was his breath, hot against her temple. And the wild stutter of her heartbeat as those big, work-worn fingers kneaded her arms, her shoulders, then began trailing fire along her spine.
“I don’t need things, Matthew.” This is what I need. The feel of strong arms surrounding me, soothing me. Protecting me. Arousing me.
She’d never known such a rush of feelings. Intense, seething emotions. Fire. Ice. Need. All rushing through her system, leaving her stunned and breathless.
He lowered his head until his lips were pressed to a tangle of hair at her temple. “I’m no good with pretty words either, Isabella.”
She shivered. “I don’t…need the words.”
As he continued to torment her by keeping his mouth just inches from hers, she said softly, “This is what I want. Just this.” She couldn’t bear to wait another moment. Standing on tiptoe, she brought her mouth to his.
“Matthew. Kiss me. Please kiss me.”
Also available from Harlequin Historicals and RUTH LANGAN
Mistress of the Seas #10
†Texas Heart #31
*Highland Barbarian #41
*Highland Heather #65
*Highland Fire #91
*Highland Heart #111
†Texas Healer #131
Christmas Miracle #147
†Texas Hero #180
Deception #196
The Highlander #228
Angel #245
Highland Heaven #269
‡Diamond #305
Dulcie’s Gift #324
‡Pearl #329
‡Jade #352
‡Ruby #384
Malachite #407
The Courtship of Izzy McCree #425
Other Harlequin works include:
Outlaw Brides—“Maverick Hearts”
Harlequin Historicals Christmas Stories 1990—
“Christmas at Bitter Creek”
Coming soon
Blackthorne #435
† Texas Series
* The Highland Series
‡ The Jewels of Texas
Chapter One
The California-Nevada border, 1880
“How soon, driver?” Izzy poked her head out the window of the stage and shouted above the pounding hooves and creaking harness. The rushing wind tugged at her hat and would have whipped it loose if she hadn’t clamped a hand to it.
“I told ye. The name’s Boone. And ye’re already on Prescott land, ma’am.”
“I am?”
“Yes’m. Been on it for the last couple of miles. Should see the ranch house just over this next rise.”
Izzy dropped back to the hard seat and stared out the side window. Who would have thought? All this land belonged to Matthew Prescott. Though the countryside looked forbidding, with rocky fields climbing upward to high, snow-covered peaks, Izzy couldn’t help but be impressed. Her husband-to-be owned all this. She clasped her hands to her cheeks, which had suddenly become flushed.
Working quickly, she opened her satchel and removed a pair of shoes. They’d been too fine to wear, so she’d carried them all the way from Pennsylvania. Over three thousand miles she’d carried them. On the train. On a succession of stagecoaches. Handling them like a treasure. Though her traveling gown was soiled and coated with a layer of dust, and her hair beneath the fussy bonnet was windblown and tangled, her shoes were polished to a high shine.
She removed her scuffed boots and stuffed them into the satchel, then slipped her feet into the shoes and carefully laced them. And all the while she rehearsed the lines she’d been preparing.
Isabella McCree. Member of the First Pennsylvania Congregation. So pleased to make your acquaintance.
When she glanced up, she had her first view of the ranch house.
Her heart sank. It looked to be no more than a rough cabin surrounded by several equally rough outbuildings. The structures were dwarfed by the forested peaks of the Sierra Nevada rising up directly behind them.
The horses strained against the harness until they crested the hill. The ground leveled off, and they sped across a high meadow until they came to a shuddering halt at the cabin.
“Here you are, ma’am.” The grizzled driver leapt to the ground and yanked open the door to the stage.
Izzy handed him her satchel before stepping down. The new shoes were stiff and uncomf
ortable, but to her delight, her gait was sure and even. Money well spent, it would seem.
“I don’t see anyone, Boone.” She glanced uncertainly toward the door of the cabin. “Could Mr. Prescott have gone somewhere?”
The driver grinned, showing teeth stained brown with tobacco. “He’s out in the fields, I expect.” He handed her a packet of mail. “Haven’t been out this way in more’n six months. He’ll be happy to get this. Oh, and to see you of course, ma’am.”
He heaved himself up to the driver’s seat and caught the reins. With a crack of the whip, the horses lurched forward, hauling the stage in a wide turn. Within minutes the team and driver had disappeared below the tree line.
Izzy glanced uncertainly at the closed door. Though her journey had left her weary beyond belief, she didn’t think it would be right to let herself into a stranger’s cabin. And so she stood, hand lifted to shield her eyes from the thin autumn sun, staring at the distant hilltops.
Within minutes she spotted a figure on horseback coming at a brisk pace from the nearby woods. Running alongside was a baying hound. From the opposite direction came another horse and rider, racing through a stream. Several more hounds ran alongside. In the sunlight the water splashed out in a rainbow of color, making a dazzling display. But before she could admire the beauty of it, she heard barking directly behind her and a child’s voice.
“Well, I’ll be. Del, look. It’s a…lady.”
Izzy whirled to find herself facing three scruffy children. All were dressed in tattered britches and faded shirts with the sleeves rolled to their elbows. All had straggly hair cut in identical fashion, chopped just below the ears, falling in bangs that covered their eyebrows. The youngest had fine blond hair; the middle one had red gold; the tallest had coarse dark hair. Except for the similar haircuts and shabby clothes, they looked nothing alike. These couldn’t be Matthew’s children.
Circling her were a handful of hounds, sniffing at her ankles, yapping so loudly she knew it would be impossible to make her voice heard.
Still, she was determined to try. “Hello. I’m…”
Before she could continue, the two horsemen reined in their mounts and dropped to the ground, keeping their rifles trained on her. The younger of the two wore his pale yellow hair exactly like these three. The other one was taller by a head. It was difficult to tell what he looked like. Thick black hair hung below the collar of his shirt, and his cheeks and chin were covered by a bushy dark beard, masking his features.
The newly arrived dogs joined in the chorus of barking until their master gave a curt command. At once all the animals dropped to their bellies.
In the silence the older man’s voice seemed even more commanding. “My name’s Matt Prescott.”
“Yes. I know.” With a warm smile Izzy handed him the packet of mail. “The stage driver left these for you.” She then offered her hand. “I’m Izzy…” She nearly groaned aloud. All these miles and all these hours to prepare, and still the old hated name had almost slipped out without warning. “Isabella McCree.”
Instead of accepting her handshake, he pocketed the mail while keeping his rifle pointed at her. “I thought that was the stage I spotted in the distance. Why did Boone drop you here in the middle of my land?”
Her smile faded. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said my name is—”
“I heard you, Mrs. McCree. What I’d like to know is what you’re doing on my land, handing me my mail.”
“What I’m…?” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “It is Miss McCree. And I am here at your invitation, Matthew.”
At her use of his given name, he shot her a frigid look that had her taking a step back.
“Now, what’s that supposed to mean, woman?”
“I came in answer to your letter.” She could tell by the look on his face that none of this was making any sense to him. She sucked in a breath as the realization dawned. “Sweet salvation. You never got my reply to your letter?”
“Miss McCree, not only did I not get your reply, but I don’t have any idea what letter you’re talking about.”
“The letter you wrote seeking a wife.”
“A wife?” His voice thundered, and several of the hounds began to whimper.
She fumbled in her satchel. When she finally located the paper she’d been seeking, she waved it in front of his nose. “This letter addressed to the First Pennsylvania Congregation, seeking a good woman with the courage to make the journey to your home and assume the care of your family.”
He barely glanced at the words on the paper. “If this is some sort of joke, I fail to find the humor in it.” He lowered his rifle and turned away. Over his shoulder he called, “Children, get back to your chores. There’s still an hour or so of daylight.”
“But, Pa…” Aaron, the oldest boy, who stood nearly six feet, seemed torn between obeying his father and dealing with their visitor. “What about the lady?”
“She can go back where she came from.” Matt pulled himself into the saddle.
Izzy felt faint For a moment she trembled and feared that she might sink to her knees. Instead, she gathered her courage and found her voice. “That is impossible.”
Matt stared down at her from the back of his mount. “Why?”
“Because I spent everything I had to get here.”
He gave a savage oath, then caught himself when he saw his children watching in silence. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to one of the boys. “Take our horses to the barn and unsaddle them, Benjamin.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy grabbed the reins and hurried away.
To the others Matt said sternly, “Take the lady’s things inside.”
While the two older ones carried her satchel between them, the youngest one raced ahead to open the cabin door.
Matt turned the full power of his glare on her. “Come along, Miss McCree. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
Without waiting for her reply, he strode to the cabin, leaving her to follow behind. She entered the cabin, then paused just inside the door to stare around in dismay.
The floor was littered with assorted clothing, guns, dog bones and even chickens, hopping and strutting about, leaving a mess in their wake. The windows were layered with so much dust and grime the sunlight could barely filter through. The room smelled of animals, dung and rotted food.
“Del,” Matt snarled at his youngest. “You let the damned chickens in again. How many times have I told you about this?”
“But, Pa, if I don’t lock them up, the coyotes will get them while we’re off doing our chores.”
“Then lock them in the barn where they belong. You heard what I said. Not in the house.” He picked up a broom and sent the chickens squawking and leaping out the doorway. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he cleared the table of all the clutter.
“Aaron, Clement, as long as we can’t get any more work done, you may as well start supper.”
“Yes, sir.” The two boys began bustling around the cabin.
“Sit, Miss McCree.”
Izzy crossed the room, picking her way through the debris, and ran a hand over the rough wood of the chair before sitting. She watched in fascination while the oldest son removed a hunting knife from his belt, wiped it on his pants and began carving slices from a side of beef that had been roasting on a spit. Blood from the meat sizzled into the fire as he sliced, sending a cloud of steam toward the roof. His brother ladled liquid from a blackened pot hanging over the fire. And the youngest poured glasses of thick, clotted milk, handing one to her.
“Ah. Buttermilk.” Izzy took a long, grateful swallow. “I must confess I’m parched from my travels.”
But it wasn’t buttermilk. She nearly gagged as she realized that what she had swallowed was warm, curdled milk. For the space of a few seconds she feared that she would embarrass herself. But after several attempts, she finally managed to get it down, then prayed it would stay down.
When his fourth child returned from
the barn, Matt called them all to the table.
Izzy stood. “Would you mind if I washed up first?”
They all looked at her in surprise. Without a word Matt poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and finally located a clean square of linen in a cupboard. Knowing they were all watching made Izzy awkward and clumsy. Her fingers fumbled as she removed her hat and set it aside. With quick, nervous movements she washed her hands, her arms and her face and patted them dry. That done, she made her way to the table and took a seat.
As they began reaching for the food, Izzy bowed her head and closed her eyes, then whispered a blessing.
“What’s she doing, Pa?” the youngest asked.
“Praying.” Matt paused a moment and waited until she opened her eyes before passing her a platter of beef.
“Why? Is she scared?”
“Little Bit, some people pray even when they aren’t scared,” the oldest boy said with authority.
“You’re lying, Aaron.” The youngest turned to Matt. “He’s lying, isn’t he, Pa?”
“No, Del. Some people pray even when they aren’t afraid. Toss me a biscuit.”
Izzy stared in surprise as the youngster tossed a biscuit across the table. Matt caught it and popped it into his mouth. “Hard as rocks,” he said after a couple of bites. “Clement, that’s the last time you make the biscuits.”
“Yes, sir.” Following his father’s lead, the boy ducked his head and continued to shovel food into his mouth.
While Matt and his children ate, the hounds circled the table, snapping up scraps tossed to them. Occasionally two or three of the dogs would get into a fight over a morsel, until Matt called out a warning. Then the animals would crouch and wait for the next scrap of meat. And the next fight.
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