Seven Brides for Seven Texans Romance Collection

by Amanda Barratt

  Something within her shattered. Her reserve, her docile obedience, broke like glass and the physical shock of it nearly catapulted her to the floor. She gripped her hands together, ignoring the pain.

  “Don’t you even care about me? I don’t love Stuart. We wouldn’t be happy together. Why should you care who I marry as long as he loves me and I him? What about what I want?” She was screaming, something she would never have done before, but now it hardly fazed her.

  The blow that followed nearly threw her to the floor. Annie stared at her father, one hand pressed against her scalding cheek. Tears stung her eyes.

  “It’s Travis Hart, isn’t it? You imagine yourself in love with him.”

  She looked down, so her eyes wouldn’t betray the painful truth.

  “What a stupid schoolgirl notion. He’s probably buried in enemy territory this very minute. Stuart is here. He is willing.” Her father grasped her shoulder with an iron grip. “And you will accept him!”

  “You can’t even carry a conversation without dazing off. I don’t want to know what it was you were thinking about just now.”

  The words vaulted her into the present. Her hands were slick with sweat, her knees shaking.

  “For once in your life, Father, just leave me alone. Please.” She rushed from the room, down the hall, and into the empty dining room. There, she crumpled to the floor, hands pressed to her eyes, hot tears leaking through her fingers.

  God, help me. I know I’ve sinned. I don’t deserve happiness, but would a morsel of stability be too much to ask? Or have I gone so far as to be undeserving of that, too?

  What had induced her to come home? She would have been better off to have never left Galveston. Maybe it would be better to return once Robbie was well enough to travel, though leaving would mean reneging on her promise to Mrs. Miller to take over the town midwifery responsibilities.

  Or perhaps she should start over somewhere new. A place where there weren’t memories hiding behind every door, where shadows of the past didn’t whisper in her ears.

  “Annie.” This voice wasn’t full of her father’s gruff rebuke. Although it was deep and masculine, it didn’t resemble her father’s at all. The single word, her name, held kindness. Enough tenderness to bring her to her feet, with the help of a hand on her shoulder. And when he stood, he didn’t take his hand away, nor move backward. Instead, Travis Hart drew her into his arms, letting her rest her head against his chest, and sob out the anxiety of the past hour.

  He was strength and gentleness all at once. She closed her arms tighter around his waist, her senses awash with soap and leather and sun-warmed cotton. His hand rubbed soothing circles across her back, and she let herself cry, feeling no shame in it. Truly, there was no shame in allowing emotion, though her father had always told her the opposite.

  She pulled away, raising tear-blurred eyes to meet his. “Robbie. I must go see to him.”

  “No. Josie is with him. You must sit down and tell me what it is you’re crying about.” He pulled out a dining room chair, and she sat. Taking the one beside her, he placed his hands atop hers. “And that’s a doctor’s order.” His smile ruined the effect of his commanding words.

  “Robbie is so precious to me. I’m always afraid of losing him.” She drew in a long breath.

  “Broken bones, especially a clean break like Robbie’s, are generally not fatal, given proper treatment.” His brown eyes didn’t hold even the tiniest hint of chiding.

  “I know that. But that doesn’t stop a mother from worrying. Foolish, isn’t it? I’m a trained midwife, yet I fall to pieces at something so slight.”

  “It’s not foolish. Though I’ve known your son less than an hour, I can already tell he loves you greatly. You’re a good mother, Annie Lawrence. It’s natural that you would be concerned about Robbie’s welfare. I’ve treated countless patients, and I’ve found that those who care most feel the most anxiety when it comes to their loved ones. I guess it’s one of those truths of life. As my father always says, ‘With love, there’s always the risk of loss.’”

  She smiled slowly, his words taking root within her heart. “For a man who spends his days stitching people up, you possess quite the poetic streak, Dr. Hart.”

  “Much to the exasperation of my brothers. They never took well to Keats on roundup days.” A dimple appeared, turning his smile so magnetic she found herself unable to drag her gaze away. “But it works wonders to distract the patients. Once I launch into Hamlet, they’re too diverted by my less-than-Shakespearean recitation skills to even care that I’m sticking a needle in their appendages.”

  She laughed. After her bout of tears, the joy of the sensation welled up and sent her into another spasm of giggles. He joined in, deep chuckles reverberating through the room. Had anyone stood outside the door, they might’ve thought she and Travis had taken leave of their senses. Perhaps they had. Perhaps finding laughter in the midst of such a tense day was as off-kilter as it seemed.

  Or perhaps, it was the cure she’d so long needed.

  Though Hartville wasn’t a booming metropolis by San Antonio standards, the town suited Travis just fine. He knew everybody, cared for them in times of illness. Helped them through births and deaths alike. After the long, hard years of war, healing others had healed him in the process. He’d seen so many good men die, powerless to offer them more than the barest comforts, powerless to give them pain relief while he severed gangrene-infected limbs from their bodies.

  Now he could concentrate on enjoying life, on helping others live theirs in good health.

  He waved to Michael Mortenson. The young man paused from sweeping the walkway in front of the mercantile to return the salutation.

  His glance fell on Collingswood & Henderson’s Hardware, a business next to the post office that was rumored to be going on the market soon. His thoughts turned to Houston. His favorite brother had been away for so long. Would he ever come to his senses and make Hartville his home? Like Travis, Houston didn’t share the Hart passion for ranching. That little old hardware store would be perfect for a businessman like Houston. Now, if only he would make up his mind to come home…

  Past First National Bank and Virginia’s Hotel lay Travis’s favorite building in town. Unlike the ranch, which belonged to the entire Hart family, the tiny, wood-sided building was his alone.

  WILLIAM TRAVIS HART, MD read the neatly painted shingle.

  He unlocked the door, flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and stepped inside. He didn’t much regret not keeping steady office hours. Families in the outlying areas needed his care. Many didn’t come to town often. Besides, in an emergency, everyone knew to send word to the 7 Heart. Usually one of the ranch hands or Perla, the family cook, had some inkling of where to find him.

  The clean smell of soap mingled with the pungent aroma of some of his herbal remedies. Had Mollie Olson been poking through them again? He’d hired the fifteen-year-old to clean the place, not stick her nose into jars.

  The bell above the door jangled only moments after he’d sat down at his desk in the back room to update some patient files. He pushed back his swivel chair, stood, and stepped into the waiting area.

  Miss Spanner, Hartville’s attempt at bringing Eastern fashions to the Texas Hill Country, adjusted her showy silk skirts and stepped into the waiting area.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  The longtime spinster held up a bandage-wrapped thumb. “I was in the midst of sewing Chantilly lace onto Miss Palmer’s new mauve silk, when I nearly hemmed my thumb to the fabric. I bandaged it, but the pain still lingers, three days later.”

  “Why don’t you come through, and I’ll take a look?” He motioned for her to precede him.

  Once Miss Spanner had seated herself on his examining table and unwrapped her thumb, she gave her usual opening line. “Did you hear the news?”

  He busied himself with collecting supplies from one of the cabinets—a clean cloth to wash the wound, comfrey salve to help with
healing.

  “Not today,” he answered, as was his custom.

  In less than three seconds flat, she pounced on the invitation like a tabby devouring a crock of cream. “Annie Lawrence arrived in town last week to take over Mrs. Miller’s patients. Already, she saved Helen Tatum’s baby’s life, went into the mercantile and bought a yard of white cotton, and dined at the Hartville Hotel with none other than Hartley P. Burton himself. Imagine that! And her away so many years. What in heaven’s name are you putting on my finger?” Apparently, he’d momentarily diverted her attention by opening the pot of strong-smelling, green ointment.

  “Comfrey salve. It’s well-known for its healing properties. I’m going to give you some to take home, and if you keep applying it, the wound should heal in no time at all.”

  “Mm-hm.” Lips clamped together, Miss Spanner sounded as if she were chewing on the very needles that had wounded her finger. “So, what do you think of my news, Dr. Hart?”

  He smiled, applying the salve to her outstretched finger. “You gave me four pieces of information. The first two, I know to be correct, as I was there. The third, possible. But the fourth, I know to be completely untrue, as her son broke his arm just last night. She wasn’t anywhere near the Hartville Hotel.”

  “For someone who professes to know little of the doings of the town, you know a lot about the doings of Mrs. Annie Lawrence. Do I have the hope of stitching yet another wedding dress to be worn by a new Hart bride?”

  Maybe the jar was slippery. Maybe his grip hadn’t been tight enough. All Travis knew was that it now lay smashed in a hundred tiny pieces, a glob of the greenish mixture adorning his shoes.

  “I’m so sorry.” Thankfully, he’d finished using the salve on her finger. He wrapped it with a fresh bandage, trying to ignore the glass crunching under his feet. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Miss Spanner’s thin lips formed a feline smile. “I do. What sort of dress would your bride prefer? Does she care for silk?”

  He knotted the bandage, glad to be finished with the task, simple as it was. “I’m not getting married, ma’am. At least not anytime soon. And I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention Mrs. Lawrence in connection with me.”

  The middle-aged woman pouted like a child. “But you’d make such a fine husband, Dr. Hart. Out of all your father’s sons, I’ve always thought you the best marriage material. Not that I’d tell anyone else, mind you. Some of those brothers of yours are so … wild. You’re much steadier. And wouldn’t you make a fine father to that son of hers?”

  Her words probed at him, small scalpels needling his insides. The sight of Annie Lawrence had revived something he long thought relegated to the dustiest corners of his mind. In the handful of hours he’d spent with her, she’d made him feel new again. As if, instead of merely helping others live their lives, he could have one of his own. The moment his father had issued his command that each of his sons wed, it had seemed an impossibility. Travis wouldn’t find a wife in order to hold on to something as concrete as land. It would be wrong, going against everything he believed.

  But now? Now this woman, this beautiful conglomeration of sweetness and strength, fragility and determination, had come back into his life like a flame newly lit.

  Lord, help me. Because I’m not sure if I could endure letting her go a second time.

  Chapter Five

  What would laying eyes upon Travis’s home do to her after so long? Memories were embedded into El Regalo’s walls, of growing up alongside Travis and the Hart family. Running away from young Hays Hart as the little prankster tried to steal her bag of gumdrops. Seeing GW come into the room and staring at him with unabashed, girlish awe. Trading smiles with Travis, and indulging in rose-tinted dreams of someday taking his name and sharing his house with all those happy, loving people.

  Now she was returning, Robbie at her side, squeezed between him and Travis on the hard-backed buckboard seat. She fought the urge to squirm. Every time the wagon hit a bump, she found herself pressed all too tightly against Travis’s side. Though she wore skirts and crinoline, the layers didn’t keep her from acquainting herself with his muscled thigh as it brushed against her. And wasn’t there some sort of law against smelling so fine—all soap and leather and undeniable maleness? A hateful blush burned her cheeks.

  “You’re gonna let me see your old rope, aren’t you, Doc Travis?” Robbie wriggled enough to put a hooked fish to shame. After nearly a month, his arm had healed almost totally, though he still wore a sling. This trip was Robbie’s long-awaited reward for being a good patient and obeying doctor’s orders.

  “Yes, sir. I sure am.” Travis smiled. “But you can’t have it till your arm is better.”

  “You mean I can have it then?” Robbie’s eyes lit.

  “Why not? I don’t do much roping these days. Getting too old, I guess.”

  Old? Him? Not in a thousand years would she call this vibrant man beside her old. He had a few lines in his face, particularly around his eyes, but the broad width of his shoulders and the strength in his stride gave him the appearance of someone who could rope and ride with one hand tied behind his back. Well, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but still…

  “Hear that, Ma? Doc Travis says I can have his old rope! I’ll be a real cowboy in no time.” Robbie grinned, his hair already wind-tousled. A stubborn cowlick flipped up on one side, and Annie smoothed it with her fingers.

  “That’s very kind of Dr. Hart. What do we say when people do kind things for us?”

  “Thank you, Doc Travis. You’re real nice. Can you sing that cowboy song again? The one you taught me when you was checking on my arm.”

  Annie suppressed a smile. Travis, sing? She must’ve not been within earshot when that was going on. She made a mental note to eavesdrop when Travis next spent time with Robbie.

  “Not right now. We’re almost there. You’ll be meeting some cowboys in just a few minutes.”

  “Come a ti yi yippee, come a ti yippie yay!” Robbie pumped his fist in the air.

  Travis glanced at her, amusement in his gaze. “Don’t tell me he learned that in Galveston.”

  She grinned. “You know very well you taught it to him.”

  He chuckled. “Guilty as charged, darlin’.” He accentuated his Texan drawl, prompting giggles from Robbie. Though it was meant as a joke, the endearment rooted itself in her mind. It would be easy to think of herself as this man’s darling. Easy to imagine the three of them together, not just for the afternoon, but for tomorrow and every day after.

  Far, far too easy.

  The moment El Regalo came into view it became easier still. Framed against the backdrop of gently rolling hills, the Hart ranch house could be termed only one thing—a mansion fit for royalty. Built of sandy brick, enlivened with ornately designed windows, it ought to have seemed out of place in this land she’d always thought of as wild. Yet it fit somehow. A tribute to George Washington Hart’s years of work, and most of all, a testimony to his abiding love for his beloved late wife. Annie’s breath caught.

  “This ain’t no ranch. It’s a castle!” Robbie exclaimed. The moment the horses stopped, he jumped down.

  “Isn’t,” Annie corrected. Her son had hit the nail on the head. When compared to the grandeur of El Regalo, the Parker ranch seemed like a rotting hogshead.

  They made their way to the door. Before Travis could lay a hand on the door handle, it swung open. A tall, roguishly handsome man stood just inside. His face split into a grin, dimples emerging that could melt the heart of any Lone Star State gal.

  “Well, well, look who’s come for a visit. My all-too-absent brother. Who’s the pretty lady, Travis?”

  Was she mistaken, or did a hint of a flush creep over Travis’s face? “You remember Annie Lawrence, don’t you?”

  “Of course. How could I forget? Heard you were back in town, Miss Gumdrops.” He grinned.

  So this was Hays. Annie returned the smile. “Haven’t they tossed you in the cl
ink for your thieving ways?”

  “Still evading capture. My wife’s been keeping me close to home lately, and she’s pretty enough to beat general store candy ten times over.” He squatted down until he was eye level with Robbie. The boy gaped at Hays’s genuine cowboy attire of checkered shirt, brown vest, jean work pants, and tall leather boots.

  “You must be Annie’s boy. How do you like this part of Texas?”

  “Fine and dandy. Just give me a rope, some cows, a horse that ain’t lame, and I’ll be ready and rarin’ to go.” Robbie said this with such gravity that the three adults were hard-pressed to stifle their laughter.

  “Sounds like a plan.” Hays matched Robbie’s serious tone. “Looks like you got a sore paw, partner. You’ll need plenty of grub to gain back your strength. Why don’t you come on inside. Don’t tell her I told you so, but our cook makes the best blueberry pie around. And if we sweet-talk her just right, I’ll betcha she’ll let us have a piece. But first, let’s say howdy to the rest of the family.”

  They made their way into the vestibule, Hays and Robbie keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Annie smoothed her hand down the front of her dove-gray silk dress, hoping her hair hadn’t suffered too much in the dust and wind.

  A mix of male and female voices drifted from the parlor. Annie swallowed hard. She’d grown up amongst these boys, so there was no need to be nervous. But they were grown men now. The war had no doubt wrought changes, some more obvious than others. Still, this was Travis’s family. And he didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable as he followed his brother into the room.

  Mercy, what a sight…

  Claret-colored wallpaper. Walnut wainscoting. Ornately woven rugs. Plush sofas and comfortable-looking wing chairs.

  And the people. A lovely, brown-haired young lady wearing a lavender skirt and white blouse sat on a sofa, Hays claiming the empty seat beside her. A broad-shouldered, dark-haired man leaned against the mantel, his jaw set into a hard line. Annie started slightly at the man’s missing left eye and burn-scarred face. A couple with their arms around each other seemed oblivious to everything else. She figured this was probably Chisholm and his new bride.