Seven Brides for Seven Texans Romance Collection

by Amanda Barratt

  Caro stomped her foot. She was a woman, not a child. Why had Chisholm changed his mind about seeking out the shooter as soon as they’d met Whit on the road?

  “It’s for your own good.” Chisholm glanced at Whit, hoping he’d add his opinion, but Whit remained silent. “The more I think about it, the more I’m sure we should come back after we see you home.”

  “You’re not familiar with the trails around here. You need my help.” And if she didn’t help them, the dimpled Texas Ranger would be around forever. “Besides, you said that you believe whoever shot at you is long gone.”

  He scowled. “They shot at us, not just me.”

  “Look at this dress.” She held out the sides of her yellow skirt. “If they were shooting at me and missed, then they are a very poor shot. I’m an easy target.”

  “She’s right, and it will go faster if you let her help, Chisholm. Remember, you need to get on with that other job.”

  Chisholm’s brows drew together. “Other job?”

  “The one your dad gave you.” Whit chuckled.

  He shot a glare in his friend’s direction, and then climbed on his horse, silent for the first time all day. Apparently, the Texas Ranger didn’t like to lose an argument. That was fine. Neither did Caro.

  Caro listened as the two men discussed their findings. Whit reported that Slade McCord said his wranglers had completed 90 percent of their roundup. He had no idea why the two ranches were targeted or where the stolen cattle could be hidden. His men, Whit said, seemed deeply loyal to Slade McCord.

  “But I wasn’t impressed with Mr. McCord. He’s a hard man, and I had the feeling he’d do anything necessary to get ahead.” Whit turned to Caro. “And he sure believes Ricardo is behind this.”

  “Slade McCord is a fool.” Caro steeled her shoulders and pointed to the trail ahead. “I think the shooter would have taken this path.”

  Conversation ceased as they made their way along the narrow trail. When they neared the shooter’s possible perch, Caro watched the two men dismount and examine the area on foot. Her stomach knotted every time they appeared to find something of interest. What were they looking at? As much as she insisted Ricardo was innocent, she wasn’t absolutely certain. He was an excellent shot. Would they discover something that linked him to the cattle rustling, or worse, to the shooting?

  Caro joined the Rangers. “How do you know what you’re looking for?”

  “Chisholm is a great tracker. It’s what got him into the Rangers.” Whit stood. “The rest of his brothers were on a cattle drive, but they left him home to keep an eye on the ranch. A Texas Ranger came looking for a murderer, so Chisholm used his tracking skills to hunt the man down and helped the Ranger capture him.”

  “How did you learn to be a tracker?”

  Chisholm walked over to stand with them. “Pa found a wounded young Kiowa when I was a boy. He stayed at the ranch until he was better. I spent a lot of time with him and taught him enough English so that we could talk. We became friends, and he taught me to see things that most people miss.”

  “Such as?”

  “Come here. I’ll show you.” He returned to the area he’d been examining. Squatting, he pointed to a set of prints. “Tracking is like a story that’s being written and unwritten every day. You have to look for the parts and put the pieces together. You can’t learn it overnight. It’s like learning to read. You start with the ABCs, the easy stuff, like where the suspect was heading, then you work up to the hard stuff with hidden meanings, the suspect’s mind-set or intent.”

  She knelt beside him. “You can tell all that from a footprint?”

  “Not just one, but yes, you can from a set of prints.” He bent low and pointed to an area. “You see this grass? See how the animal, in this case a person, pressed it down and now the shiny side of the grass catches the sunlight? That shininess disappears in about two hours, and the grass will return to normal in a day, so that means someone has been here in the last two hours. Our shooter most likely made this track.” He stood and held out his hand to assist her. They walked over to another set of prints. “See how far apart the prints are here? Our shooter was running. He mounted his horse here.”

  His knowledge was impressive, but his willingness to share the information with her, as if she was an equal, meant even more. “Anything else?”

  “The man’s horse has a loose shoe. Right hind. He headed toward the Mesquite.”

  “So the shooter is one of Slade’s men?” She exhaled and said a silent prayer of thanks.

  “Possibly. We can only know he went that direction.” Chisholm wiped his brow with a blue kerchief. “I found a shell casing from his rifle, but nothing else. The trail ended when the shooter went across that rocky area.”

  “So we can’t follow them farther?” She shielded her eyes to scan the area. “Wouldn’t his trail begin again on the other side of those rocks?”

  Chisholm looked at Whit and frowned. “Probably, but we’re taking you home before we look further. It’s too dangerous. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

  If she left, she couldn’t be sure Ricardo hadn’t been involved, so she hurried to her horse and quickly mounted. “The sun will set before you get back, and I want to see more of your excellent tracking skills. I will be careful and do as you say.”

  Whit chuckled and followed her lead, but she heard grumbling from Chisholm about doubting she’d do as he or anyone else said. He was most likely correct.

  They headed up a hill, and he rode beside her, still grousing. She smiled in his direction. She needed him to believe she would keep her word, but he didn’t return a grin. Too bad. She’d grown rather fond of his dimples.

  Her cheeks warmed. How had Chisholm gotten her to thinking fondly about him or his dangerous dimples? She needed to focus on the task at hand and make sure this man left the area before she found herself admiring more about him than his dimples.

  Whit reined Buckshot in and let out a low whistle. “Well, look at that.”

  Chapter Five

  Chisholm’s jaw tensed. Cattle grazed in the valley below them, trampling any hopes of following the shooter’s tracks. Five cowboys rode lazily around the herd. Could one of them be the shooter?

  Whit patted his pinto’s neck. “Do you want to go speak with those men or just head back?”

  “Let’s go talk to them. Maybe they saw something.” Chisholm led the group down the hill, but stopped well away from the ornery longhorns.

  One of the cowboys approached on horseback, his rifle across his lap. Chisholm guessed the man to be in his forties. His crooked nose and the scar on his cheek said he didn’t mind a good fight. His worn Stetson told Chisholm the man was no stranger to the range. The man seemed to zero in on Chisholm’s badge and dipped his head slightly. “I’m Digger Harrison, range boss of the Mesquite. What can I do for y’all?”

  “A man shot at us from up on that hill, then took off.” Chisholm eyed the weapon Digger carried. A range boss would have an excellent aim. “Seen anyone riding through?”

  “We saw a Mexican about an hour ago.” Digger jabbed the rifle into the scabbard.

  Chisholm slipped a glance toward Caro. “How do you know he was a Mexican?”

  “Sombrero.” He looked at Caro. “Probably that one she was protecting the other day. You should have let us lynch him.”

  Caro’s face reddened. “Other cowboys wear sombreros!”

  “I know, Caro. Take it easy.” Chisholm turned back toward the foreman. “Did you notice anything else? The direction the man rode off perhaps?”

  He nodded toward the Mesquite Ranch. “Probably went that way to throw you off.”

  Whit cleared his throat. “What about your wranglers?”

  Digger leveled a gaze at Whit. “Been here all day.”

  Caro grabbed her saddle horn and leaned forward. “You’d swear to that? On a Bible?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Crazy woman, you calling me a liar?”


  “Mind your tongue, Harrison, and she didn’t call you anything.” Chisholm nudged his horse between them. “We’ll be going now. Thanks for the information, and if you see anything else, send word to the Walking Diamond. We’re staying there.”

  “Watch your back, Rangers,” Digger added, then turned to leave. “This country can be pretty unfriendly to folks who go poking around—especially with the likes of her by your side.”

  For the next half an hour of their ride, emotions fired inside Chisholm. Fury at the man’s veiled threat directed toward Caro. Anger at her for stirring things up. Frustration at losing the trail and at the lack of answers, and gnawing concern that Ricardo might indeed be involved. Why had Digger suggested that having Caro around was dangerous? He knew about how she’d stopped the lynching, but had her outspoken tendencies caused trouble before?

  He rubbed the crick in the back of his neck and swept the area for danger once again. Maybe they should abandon the road?

  Caro seemed to sense his unrest and said little. He guessed the early morning hours and long ride were taking a toll on her. Even her smart tongue seemed to be losing its edge. Only Whit kept a steady conversation going, mostly with himself. They stopped to water their horses and then hurried back to the road.

  Without any further problems, they made it back to the Walking Diamond before sunset. Chisholm dismounted and went to assist Caro. To his surprise, she let him.

  “I need to go help my mother.” She paused. “I know you are angry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset Mr. Harrison.”

  “I’m not angry with you.”

  She lifted her dark eyebrow and nuzzled Angel.

  “Well, not really.” He drew in a long breath. “I didn’t like how he spoke to you.”

  She blinked. Once. Twice. Her gaze did not leave his own.

  “Mi prima!” Ricardo came out of the barn, walked directly to Caro, and pulled her into an embrace. “You are back. Your mother is waiting for you in the summer kitchen. How did your day go?”

  She looked over her shoulder as Ricardo directed her toward the ranch house. Was that appreciation he saw on her face, or was Chisholm simply imagining that he’d made a crack in Caro’s ironclad armor?

  Morning prayers on the front porch brought Chisholm a renewed sense of purpose, a clear head, and a direction to follow. This case was about rustlers and not Caro Cardova. When they’d shared their day with the Walking Diamond’s owner, Hank Reynolds, he’d said Digger Harrison wasn’t the type who’d hurt a lady. Still, he recommended they leave Caro behind if they went into town.

  Since they didn’t have a lot to go on yet, Chisholm suggested that he and Whit would go into Brady City and ask some questions. Rumors in small towns were a lot like a ball of yarn. If you pulled the string of maybes carefully, you might finally get some honest answers.

  Armor back in place, Caro handed them filled canteens and said they’d best be on time for supper as she had no intention of holding it for them. Still, something in her tone made him doubt she meant it. Somehow she seemed a little softer, more bark than bite now.

  By midmorning they reached Brady City. Whit tied his horse to a hitching post in front of the town’s general store. “All I’m saying is you’re awfully protective of her.”

  Chisholm let Bullet finish drinking from the trough and then tied him, as well. “I’d be protective of any woman, and you know it.”

  “True, but if you dig down deep, I think you’d see you might actually like that she-wolf.”

  “Like I’d like a case of measles.” Chisholm grunted. “You talk to the storekeeper, and I’ll head down to the saloon and talk to the barkeep.”

  Chisholm’s boots thudded against the boardwalk, the familiar jingle of his spurs calming the irritation Whit’s words had caused. What was his partner thinking? Chisholm was a gentleman, and he’d treated Caro Cardova like any other female in Texas. But he had to admit she was a puzzle, and he liked a challenge. Was there an inkling of truth in Whit’s observations? Nah, he just felt sorry for her. She was alone, and the only man who cared for her seemed rather worthless. She deserved better than Ricardo.

  He crossed the dirt street to the saloon and pushed through the swinging doors. Given that it was so early in the day, he was surprised to find several people already imbibing. He made his way to the bar, and the barkeep was quick to offer him a drink on the house since he was a lawman.

  Chisholm put his foot on the brass rail at the base of the bar. “Make it a sarsaparilla, and we have a deal. But what I really want is some information.”

  The barkeep chuckled. “Not sure I have much of that. You might try the school.”

  “Oh, I imagine you know more about this area than most folks. For example, did you hear about the man who was almost lynched?”

  “Ricardo?” The barkeep grinned, revealing a host of crooked teeth. He set a glass in front of Chisholm and filled it to the brim. “Even if he was innocent, it wouldn’t have been a great loss if they’d done it.”

  Chisholm took a swig. “Do you think he’s innocent?”

  The barkeep shook his head. “He’s not smart enough to do it alone, and he’s usually not—”

  A chair fell over behind Chisholm, and he whirled to find a man stumbling. Ricardo? Here? Drunk before noon? Did Caro know?

  “Hey! Give me back my sombrero!” Ricardo batted at the hat a man dangled just out of his reach.

  Chisholm waited to see if the men complied with Ricardo’s request. When they continued to taunt him, Chisholm stepped forward. “Give it back.”

  “We’re just funnin’ him.” A young redhead waved the hat again. “Why would a big, fancy Texas Ranger care about the likes of him?”

  “Give it back.” Chisholm kept his voice firm and low.

  The redhead relented and tossed the hat to the floor. Ricardo scrambled for it, nearly falling in the process. Chisholm grabbed the hat and stuck it on the unsteady man’s head.

  The barkeep picked up a fresh glass and polished it with a white cloth. “Like I said, lately he’s not sober enough to do it, Ranger. Waste of good Texas air.”

  Chisholm draped Ricardo’s arm over his shoulder and led him stumbling toward the swinging doors. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  He shouldn’t judge, but what did Caro see in this no-account drunk?

  “You promised to stay near home.”

  Caro ignored her mother’s pleading and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “You promised, Mamá. Not me. But I won’t go far. I only want to ride out to see if the bluebonnets have bloomed. They are close, and they’d make a lovely bouquet on the table for our guests.”

  “Very well.” Her mother kissed her cheek. “But I wish you’d wait for one of the Texas Rangers to escort you, or even Ricardo.”

  “He should be in the barn. If it pleases you, I’ll ask him to ride with me.”

  Her mother smiled. “Thank you, my precious one.”

  Caro searched the barn, but Ricardo was nowhere to be found. Worse, his chores were not yet completed. Where was he now? If Señor Reynolds discovered Ricardo had shirked his responsibilities again, he’d be fired for sure.

  She rolled up her sleeves and reached for a pitchfork. She had little choice. Instead of riding out in search of bluebonnets, she needed to muck out stalls.

  Family or not, Ricardo would pay for this one.

  Chisholm fought the urge to give Ricardo a lecture all the way back to the ranch. Since the man wouldn’t remember a word of it, it wouldn’t do any good. He’d save their “discussion” until Ricardo was sober. He’d better wait until Whit returned from town, as well, because Whit could make sure Chisholm didn’t haul off and hit the cowhand.

  Where had the idea of hitting Ricardo come from? When Chisholm became a Christian, Pastor Darby encouraged him to stop using his fists to settle problems and start using the brain God had given him. It had been years since he’d truly wanted to pummel someone, but that desire was growing every time he looked at R
icardo.

  Chisholm dismounted in front of the barn and hurried to assist Ricardo before the man fell. Caro would be furious if he let her beau get hurt. “How could you do this to Caro?” The words exploded from his mouth before he could contain them.

  Ricardo gave him a lopsided grin. “Caro, mi prima.” He muttered something unintelligible in Spanish.

  Chisholm led the man inside the barn and stopped short when he spotted the back of a shapely woman in a calico dress, heaving manure out of a horse stall. Like Ricardo, she released a string of exasperated words in Spanish. Chisholm translated enough to know Caro was not a happy woman.

  Ricardo made a retching sound, and Chisholm whirled to find him with his hand pressed against his mouth. Chisholm grabbed hold of his arm. “Oh no, you don’t. Not in here.”

  Chapter Six

  Chisholm dragged Ricardo outside and let the man empty the contents of his stomach beside a fence post. Behind him, he heard the rustle of Caro’s skirt.

  She laid a hand on Chisholm’s arm. “Is he ill?” She appeared to catch a whiff of the air, and her face paled. “He’s drunk again?” Skirting Chisholm, she faced Ricardo, who had yet to stand. She slapped the hat off his head. “You promised, Ricardo. No more liquor. Are you listening to me?” When he didn’t answer, she picked up a tin bucket and banged it against the fence.

  Ricardo winced. “Stop, mi prima. The world is spinning.” He rubbed his brow. “I’m sorry. So, so, so sorry.”

  Chisholm slipped his hand under the man’s arm. “Help me get him to his bed.”

  Caro didn’t move. When she turned toward Chisholm, her eyes shone with tears. “I … I can’t.”

  Her pain was palpable. First her father and now the man who held her heart. Another man had let her down. Chisholm made a silent vow to not be the next one.

  Once he’d deposited Ricardo in his bed, Chisholm followed the scraping sound of the pitchfork, punctuated by Caro’s rantings, to a stall in the far corner. He stilled the pitchfork with his right hand. Caro pivoted, holding fast to the tool. Tears slid down her dust-covered cheeks. Chisholm gently grasped her wrist. “I’ll handle this.” She met his gaze defiantly, but like a milk bucket with a hole in its side, the fight seemed to seep out of her. When he gave the pitchfork a little tug, she released it.