The Secret Admirer Romance Collection

by Barratt, Amanda; Beatty, Lorraine; Bull, Molly Noble

  The way she pinched her lips tight told him what she wanted to say, but he chose to pay attention to her nod instead.

  “It will take me a few minutes to see what”—kind of a mess—“you’ve got here. I have a canteen on the seat of my wagon if you’d like some water.”

  Her chin jerked up. “Thank you, but, no. I wouldn’t want to steal water from you.”

  What in the world? He was offering her his help and a drink of water. How did she get from that to stealing? “Are you still mad about this morning and the claim ticket?”

  She eyed him like he’d offered her a plate of steaming horse manure.

  “If you will take a moment and think back, you’ll see that I was helping you get your ticket back, not taking it from you.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Are you saying I’m being ridiculous, Mr. Tyler?”

  The woman jumped to conclusions—and wrong ones at that—faster than jackrabbits zipped across these plains. He ought to drive off and leave her to her own devices—

  Her sniff stopped him. And seeing her touch her ring finger to the corner of her eye.

  Someone had called her ridiculous. Someone she trusted. Someone who should have known her better.

  “Miss Maffey, I would never call you ridiculous. I think you’re trying very hard to do something that requires a great deal of courage, intelligence, and stamina.”

  She looked away, the tendons in her neck visible behind her open collar.

  “I also think this has been a trying day. First that pack of jackals surrounding you at the claims office, then the near theft of your claim ticket, and now a tent that won’t assemble as advertised. Since my track record is fifty–fifty in helping you, I will understand if you decide you’re better off putting this tent up by yourself.”

  Her eyes returned to him first, her head following at a slower pace. “What do you mean your track record is fifty–fifty? I remember your attempt to steal”—she held up a hand to stop his protest—“what appeared to me as an attempt to steal my claim ticket.”

  “But you remember the—I hesitate to call them men, so let’s just refer to them as males—surrounding you just before the scuffle that broke out.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m afraid my attempt to defend you from a rather foulmouthed one went a little awry.”

  Understanding dawned in her slate-blue eyes. “That was you?”

  He scratched the whiskers under his chin. “Yeah. I grabbed his arm, he hit someone’s chin, and a fight broke out that allowed that…”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Odorous male?”

  “…to steal your ticket.” Had she said odorous or onerous? He bent his head toward his armpit and sniffed. Nope, couldn’t prove it wasn’t him if she was going by smell.

  She held her hands in front of her skirt, fingers interlocked and thumbs tapping together. “All I remember is it being snatched out of my hand. When the tussling stopped, it was in yours.”

  “I’d just grabbed it out of his fingers.”

  She continued to tap her thumbs. “Why didn’t you shake my hand?”

  “What?”

  “My hand. I offered to shake your hand and you refused. Why?”

  He showed her his palms. “Because my hands were filthy and you were wearing nice gloves. I didn’t want to get them dirty.”

  “Oh.” She looked between him and the tent canvas lying on the ground.

  Him.

  Canvas.

  Him.

  Canvas.

  Deep breath. “All right, Mr. Tyler. I accept your help with the tent. If we are successful, then I will consider your track record to be fifty–fifty.”

  It took him a moment to figure out his other black mark. “I promise I will never even think of you as being ridiculous.”

  Her laugh was brittle. “You might not want to make that promise until we put up this tent.”

  Chapter 3

  You miserable beast!” Sarah chased after the runaway horse. Vigorous, the horse salesman said.

  Vigorous, her eye! Ornery, mean-spirited, and uncontrollable was more like it.

  And she’d thought nothing could be more difficult than that miserable tent.

  She slowed her chase to a fast walk. Proving up her land required that she cultivate ten full acres over the next five years. Two acres a year had seemed reasonable. Easy, even.

  Until she met her equine nemesis. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was trying to sabotage her efforts.

  At her first attempt to improve the land, Shakespeare—a beautiful name for a beast that didn’t smell sweet at all—raced off, taking the plow along for a ride. Sarah’s land looked like a toddler’s first scribbles on paper. After three hours, Shakespeare tired of playing hide-and-seek and returned home.

  Her second attempt, the horse bolted as soon as Sarah tried to slip the bridle over his head.

  Today, the dumb animal bolted the moment she opened his stall door.

  Was coming to Oklahoma a mistake?

  It couldn’t be.

  She’d come with a plan.

  Choose good land. Yes, except for John Tyler stealing almost all the water.

  Pay someone to build a house and barn. Yes. She’d ordered lumber for the barn and the house kit back in May, paying extra for delivery as close to the date of the land lottery as possible. The barn was already up, and the precut kit for her house would be delivered soon.

  Cultivate two acres a year. No, not yet. If only it didn’t involve a horse.

  Horseless carriages had been around for ages. Why couldn’t someone invent a horseless plow? And why couldn’t she have a horse like all the ones in those cowboy novels—the steadfast companion that saved the hero from death, that instinctively knew what was needed, that returned when they were supposed to? She raised her hand above her brow to shield the sun from her eyes. Shakespeare headed straight through the creek, ignoring her demands that he come back.

  Through the trees lining the streambed, she saw John Tyler emerge from his dugout. She’d not been inside it—she’d never even stepped on his land—but she’d read about dugouts. They were nothing more than dirt caves. They might cut the heat, but she’d take her tent and the heat if it meant she didn’t have spiders dropping on her head at night.

  John whistled, and the traitorous horse raced straight to the man. Stopped right in front of him and ate something out of his hand. Out of his hand! Sarah picked up her skirts and ran, exposing her ankles in a most hurly-burly way, but she didn’t care. “You leave my horse alone, John Tyler!”

  He cupped a hand around his ear and shouted something she couldn’t hear.

  She trudged through the shallow creek that cut across the northwest corner of her land. “I said, leave my horse alone!”

  “What?”

  She started to run again, careful not to step in one of the prairie dog holes between her and her wicked, insufferable horse. By the time she got close enough to yell again, she was out of breath. She slowed to a fast march, dropping her skirts back into place. “I said, give me back my horse.”

  “It’s not like I’m trying to steal him.”

  Maybe not, but Shakespeare was her horse and he needed to listen to her, not eat out of John Tyler’s hand.

  Shakespeare stood there munching away, a contented expression in his big brown eyes.

  Sarah slowed down as she got closer. She needed to take charge. Show Shakespeare who was boss. Not be afraid of him. But one kick from his powerful leg would send her halfway into the next county.

  “Would you like me to—”

  “No!” Whatever he’d been about to offer, she wanted no part of it. Yes, the tent required two people, but plowing only took one. That’s what all the books said. “I can do this myself.”

  She could.

  She must.

  But, gracious, that horse was big.

  The closer she got, the more skittish Shakespeare became. A malevolent light entered his eye
as if to say, Just try to get the better of me, you puny woman.

  She never should have bought a male horse.

  Shakespeare tossed his head and backed up a step.

  John Tyler tightened his fingers around the leather strips, pulling Shakespeare’s head down. “Easy, boy. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Give me the reins.” Gracious. What call did she have to be rude to the man? All he did was catch her horse. Why couldn’t she be nice? Her hand trembled as she reached out and took a deep, calming breath. “Thank you for catching my horse.” There. That was nice.

  “You’re welcome.” He handed her the reins. “Keep a firm hold, and don’t be afraid of him.”

  “Easier said than done.” As she turned to haul the stubborn beast back to her side of the creek, she saw dozens of beautiful, straight rows of tilled earth that filled her with awe and envy. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  Sarah tugged on Shakespeare’s reins and headed home. “Nothing.”

  John let her go without further comment. Whatever possessed a woman who didn’t know her way around horses to select a plot of land that required proving up? Why hadn’t she selected a town lot?

  Sarah Maffey was a mystery wrapped in porcupine quills. Trying to figure her out was like trying to solve a crime, and the Texas Ranger in him was intrigued.

  The key to unlocking the enigmatic Sarah Maffey was kindness. But, though he’d helped her with her enormous tent and at her barn raising—and remained calm when she accused him of stealing her ticket and now her horse—she remained leery of him. What more could he do to earn her trust?

  Maybe he’d offer to teach her how to plow. Poor woman would never get her wheat in at this rate. And the horse wasn’t helping. Stubborn Beast, meet Stubborn Hat Woman. He shook his head and laughed.

  Maybe he could…

  No. For the time being, he needed to focus on getting his own land plowed. Homesteading would offer plenty more opportunities for him to return kindness for her mistrust. And, one of these days, he’d hit on a good solution to the problem of Miss Sarah Maffey.

  John ducked back into his dugout. His beans and coffee were lukewarm now, but he swallowed them down. He’d survived on the plain fare for weeks on end before; he could do it again. Except, those times he’d not been downwind of heavenly smells. Sarah Maffey might not know her way around a horse, but she sure knew how to cook. Saliva pooled along the sides of his tongue just thinking about the pie she’d made to thank the men who helped put up her barn.

  He shoveled the last bite of beans into his mouth and shuddered. Imagining the sweet apple pie made the unsalted beans taste like mud. Some meat would go a long way toward making meals tastier, but hunting had to wait until the wheat was in.

  Mr. Harrison said the winter wheat seed would arrive today, and he’d agreed to let John pay off his order by building shelving and display cabinets once a wood-framed building replaced the grocer’s tent. It was a good trade, and one that preserved the dwindling reserves in his cash box.

  After washing up and setting another pot of beans to soak, John hitched Homer to his new wagon and headed to town. What had been nothing more than open land a few weeks ago was now a combination of tents, wood buildings, and a few half-walls of brick. Soldiers from nearby Fort Sill, men in aprons, cowboys and ranchers in Stetsons, and even a few women all went about their business. Most wore smiles and discussed the excitement of starting a new town from the ground up; a few troublemaking types groused about not winning a land claim and how the system had been rigged.

  Some people could find a conspiracy in a kettle of water.

  His attention snagged on a black-suited dandy escorting a blond in a tight-fitted dress and enormous hat. His lawman instincts shouted, “Out of place,” but as he had no authority in Lawton, and they were doing nothing but strolling down the street, he continued toward the grocer’s tent. He tied Homer to a hitching rail and went inside, stooping to fit under the flap. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Tyler. You here for your wheat?”

  “And a couple other things, if you have them.”

  Mr. Harrison’s eyes brightened. “Just got a shipment in from Dallas. If you don’t see what you need in the opened crates”—he swirled his head in a circle to indicate the length and breadth of his tent—“I might have it in an unopened one out back.”

  “Great. I’ll let you know.”

  Another man ducked inside the tent. Mr. Harrison wandered closer to him to give the same speech, but the new man turned out to be a pastor asking if the grocer would distribute flyers announcing services on Sunday.

  John worked his way around the store. Rows of open crates lined all four sides of the tent walls from floor to ceiling, and another row of back-to-back crates ran through the center. If only he had the money for canned peaches and tins of meat. With a sigh, John passed them by for coffee, axle grease, and stationery. He took them to the makeshift table, setting them down before hoisting a large bag of beans and the bag of wheat with his name pinned on it from under the sagging wood to add to his purchases.

  Mr. Harrison hurried over and began ringing up the items. “Did you find everything you wanted?”

  “Pretty much.” John pointed to the stationery. “I was hoping to find a fountain pen.”

  Mr. Harrison held up a finger, dashed out the back side of his tent, and returned a minute later with a small wooden box. He broke the paper seal and slid the top lid aside to reveal at least a dozen. “How many?”

  “One, thanks.”

  “Anything else I can get for you?”

  John cast a longing look at a tin of salt. He could afford it. His finances weren’t that tight. But…“No, thanks.”

  “You heading back out to your spread?” Mr. Harrison looked up from the cash register.

  John nodded.

  “Would you mind taking Miss Maffey’s wheat out to her? It would save me a delivery.”

  “Sure.”

  Mr. Harrison pointed below the table. “Hers should be somewhere down there with her name on it.”

  John found the bag easily, added it to his supplies, then loaded up his cart and headed for Miss Maffey’s spread. While he was there, he could offer to plow an acre for her.

  A new thought took root. Maybe he wouldn’t offer. He could just do. And maybe, just maybe, over time, she’d unbristle herself when they spoke. Who knew? One day, they might have a civil conversation.

  In a decade, they might even be real neighbors.

  Sarah was in the barn, lecturing Shakespeare on proper equine etiquette, when she heard John Tyler’s voice shouting her name. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “I’m in the barn.”

  A moment later, he poked his head through the doors. “Mr. Harrison asked me to deliver your wheat seed. I have it in my cart. Do you want it in here or inside your tent?”

  Did it matter? Either way it was going to sit unused until she figured out how to bribe Shakespeare into obedience. But, if she didn’t answer, John Tyler would stand there with his eyebrows raised, waiting. “Here is fine.”

  Instead of retreating to get the seed, he stepped fully inside the barn. “What are you doing?”

  Sarah lifted her chin. “Having a little discussion with Shakespeare.””

  A discussion?” He lifted his eyes to the heavens and shook his head. “That’s it. You go get the bag of wheat while I harness up this beast and teach him some manners.”

  “Now wait just one minute. This is my horse.”

  John Tyler came close enough to touch. “And a worthless one until he learns his job. You’ve got a few more weeks before your wheat needs to be in. At this rate, it’ll be next summer before you even get started. Now, I’m hitching up this horse and teaching him how to plow. You can either come along behind me and sow your wheat or not. Up to you.”

  Sarah swallowed. Goodness, the man could be imposing. And maybe a little impressive. Not that she’d ever admit i
t out loud. She swooshed her skirt to the side and marched out of the barn with as much dignity as she could muster, given how she’d just capitulated to the stronger will.

  But he was right. The wheat did need to go in, and she hadn’t the foggiest notion how to make Shakespeare plow. Grandmother Novak warned a time would come to swallow pride for the sake of getting a job done. Why did help have to come from John Tyler, though? Twice.

  Sarah leaned over the edge of his cart to hoist the heavy bag of wheat onto her shoulder. The horse swung his head to look at her before returning to munching grass. “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars to run off.”

  The horse didn’t react.

  “Two hundred?”

  Still nothing.

  Sarah checked to see if John Tyler was anywhere near before stepping closer to the annoyingly well-behaved horse. “I will give you five thousand dollars if you will run off and leave your owner stranded.” It would be worth it to see the look on her neighbor’s face.

  “You about ready?”

  Sarah gasped and swung around, grabbing for the bag of wheat before it fell off her shoulder.

  John Tyler pulled a fully harnessed Shakespeare from the barn. The horse gave her another of his speaking looks: See, the problem isn’t me.

  Sarah gritted her teeth. “I’m ready.”

  “Take the reins while I go get the plow.” John held the leather straps toward her.

  She dropped the bag of wheat on the ground. “And what am I supposed to do if Shakespeare bolts again?”

  “Hang on.” John grinned, dimples appearing in both cheeks. Why did the man have to be so attractive?

  “Very funny.” Sarah took the reins. Shakespeare didn’t even flinch.

  Stupid horse.

  Not that she wanted him to run away…yet. After the heavy iron wedge was secured and John Tyler was plowing would suit her fine.

  But, of course, Shakespeare acted like a perfect gentleman the whole time John plowed and she walked behind dropping seed into row after perfect row. She was so incensed, she overlooked the odd feel of paper inside her wheat sack until it poked her in the palm.

  “Ow.”

  John Tyler glanced over his shoulder. “You okay back there?”