The Cowboy’s Bride Collection: 9 Historical Romances Form on Old West Ranches Read online

  “Martha’s resting.” Delia spoke to Lily, but her shy smile was for Fred.

  “Opera rail!” Georgie climbed up the corral rails like a squirrel scrambling a tree.

  Oh no she didn’t. Lily gripped the girl around the middle before she could reach the top bar, the “opera” rail, the so-called best seat in the house. “It’s too dangerous now.”

  Pausing from his match of wills with the mustang, Jackson smiled at his daughter. “You stay with R—Miss Lily. I need to concentrate now.”

  “Yessir,” Georgie said. But Lily knew he wasn’t just talking to his daughter. She’d interrupted him, and although he’d been amused enough to laugh at her, he didn’t need any more of her interference. Her molars ground together.

  She should go in the house. Stir the soup. But then he looked at her with the same sweetness he’d bestowed on his daughter, and the chip of ice in her chest thawed.

  “It’s been a long time since I teased a pretty lady. Sorry if I overdid it, Red.”

  In one fluid motion, Jackson managed to mount the bucking mustang. She couldn’t look anywhere else, much less move her feet. Something kept her clutching the rail. Worry, maybe, or the impressive sight of him taming the horse like he was born to it.

  When the bay reared high enough to throw Jackson, pain stabbed Lily’s throat. Jackson rolled away from the powerful hooves and remounted, his face set with determination. The ache spread to Lily’s chest and robbed her of breath.

  He’s fine. Unhurt. But the ache didn’t stop, spreading with scissor-like fingers that snipped open the sewn-up pockets of pain she’d hidden in her heart. Things she’d dreamt of as a girl, when Ma was alive, ran unleashed through her bloodstream.

  “Someday I’ll have a house and be a mama, too,” she’d told Ma when they dressed and undressed her dolls together. “We can play babies all day and sing in the church. Will you hear me sing, Ma?”

  “Oh yes, I love to hear you sing.” Ma had smiled. “And I couldn’t ask for better than you singing praise to God in His house.”

  Lily’s hand fisted over her mouth, holding back the memories. She didn’t want those things anymore. Couldn’t want them. She wanted to sing and earn enough money to not need anyone else.

  But if Ma had lived, or if Lily hadn’t had to protect Delia, maybe those childhood dreams might have come true. This is what she might have wanted.

  This, right here. Not the bucking horse, of course, but the sense of home, family, and honest labor. Watching her man at his work, feeling proud and worried. With her child in her arms, her supper bubbling on the stove inside.

  But Jackson wasn’t her man. Far from it. And she was on the path to a far different life.

  She was drawn to Jackson. There was no use denying it. But it didn’t have to change everything.

  Well, maybe one thing. Lord, don’t let him break his neck.

  She hadn’t prayed since Pa died. But it felt somehow right—if not terrifying—to start again.

  Quirt, spurs, rope, and bare-knuckled grip. Jackson’s arms, legs, and feet worked together, every muscle straining to keep him centered on the saddle while teaching the bay that bucking earned a consequence.

  She reared hard, jarring his neck and shoulders. If he let her get ahead of him, he’d fall and have to start again.

  Something changed. The mare’s muscles twitched, but she slowed to a walk and then a standstill. Jackson’s vision still swam, as if she continued to buck, but the worst was done. He rubbed the mare’s broad neck. “Thatta girl. Now we’re friends.”

  Only then did he look up to the group clinging to the corral rails. They’d stayed to watch, all of them. But his gaze glued to his daughter, snuggled in Lily’s arms. Something both ached and blossomed in him at the sweet sight.

  Lard hopped the corral rails and took the reins. “This’un deserves a treat, I reckon. With her spirit, she may make a fine cow pony yet.”

  “Agreed.” Jackson dismounted, wincing at the pain shooting up his leg. Everything hurt, from the crown of his head to his soles. He couldn’t turn his head, but tomorrow would be worse. Sleeping on straw didn’t help a lick, either.

  Fred and Delia congratulated him then ambled away like they were on a Sunday stroll. Georgie wiggled from Lily’s arms and ran into the house, leaving him alone with Lily. The awkwardness between them was as tangible a barrier as the corral.

  Her hands fidgeted. What angered her—his being in the corral alone or his teasing? She turned to leave, but Jackson didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want her angry with him.

  “I am sorry for teasing. Honest.” His words held her back.

  She hadn’t quite forgiven him. It was clear in the firm set of her jaw. But the way her shoulders relaxed indicated something was defrosting. “You may not have needed saving, but I’m still not washing those britches.”

  His laugh started in his gut, a bigger belly laugh than he’d had in a long while. It helped distract him from the pain clamoring over the rail caused him. “Good thing, because they’ll get filthy again tomorrow.”

  She turned, her orange dress swinging in a wide arc. “Is the bay for the order you got for fifty horses?”

  “Yep. The more horses we break and cattle we sell, the more money we make.” He paused at the pump. The cold water soothed his blistered palms like a balm.

  “Because you have to reimburse Martha for Uncle Uriah’s fee. I am sorry.” Lily’s shoulders were stiff.

  Ah, that still stuck in her craw. “That’s not what I meant. Here. Have a seat.” He gestured to chairs on the porch.

  “I have to stir the soup.”

  “Then stir the soup and come back out. Please.”

  A muscle worked in her cheek, as if she meant to refuse, but she mounted the porch steps and entered the house. He kicked dust off his boots and sat in one of the comb-back Windsor chairs Paloma insisted they needed once the house was finished—and she’d been right, of course. Sitting here, enjoying the land and sky, was a peaceful gift.

  In a minute, Lily returned with a glass of a daffodil-hued concoction. Lemonade? They hadn’t seen a lemon in ages, so it couldn’t be, but his mouth watered for it. Then the tart-sweet scent of citrus met his dust-filled nostrils. “How?”

  “I found lemon oil and a few dried lemons in the cellar.” Lily shrugged when he took the glass from her. “It’s not as good as fresh.”

  “It’s perfect.” As tangy and refreshing as if it had come from fresh-squeezed fruit. “Thanks.”

  Her seat creaked under her dainty frame. “It’s the least I can do. We appeared here uninvited and unwelcome, with a hefty price tag attached. You’ll have to break extra horses to pay for it.”

  “Red.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “You and Delia are welcome here. What happened with your uncle and my aunt wasn’t your fault and you shouldn’t have to pay for it.”

  “You shouldn’t either.” Her blue eyes flashed.

  “I don’t want your money.” It seemed the best way to unpurse her lips was to tease her, so he grinned. “One day when you’re famous, tell people about my beef and horses. Is that fair?”

  He hadn’t heard her sing, not really. She’d sung to Georgie the past two days, amusing, made-up songs about washing her face and going to sleep. She’d sounded pretty, but it was clear she held back. Curiosity to hear her full, rich voice itched at him like ragweed.

  Her voice was probably as beautiful as she was. Jackson startled at the thought and hid his discomfiture in a gulp of lemonade.

  “When I’m famous?” A teasing smile replaced her frown—success. “I suppose when I sing at the White House someday, if the president asks where he can find a nice roast? Sure, I’ll mention your name.”

  Good thing he hadn’t yet taken another swig of the lemonade, or he’d have spurted it out laughing. “Mighty kind, ma’am. It’d be fine to sell stock in Washington.”

  “Why couldn’t you? Fred told Delia you’ve sold cattle to California and even the West Indie
s. They’re a lot farther than the capital.”

  “It’s a matter of demand. Not much desire for beef up north.” The teasing was over, but he didn’t want to end the conversation. He settled deeper into the chair and took another sip of the improvised lemonade. “If it changes someday, I’ll be ready. If it doesn’t, God’ll give me another way.”

  Her grip tightened on the arms of her chair. “My Ma used to say something like that. God makes new paths when we lose the old ones.”

  “I believe it. Don’t you?”

  “I didn’t. Now I think I do.” She shrugged. “I thought about what you said, God providing me with a voice. You’re right. I haven’t gone hungry. God’s helped me. Just not the way I thought He would.”

  Something in Jackson warmed. “Sometimes that’s the way of it.”

  “I’ve been so frustrated by Uncle Uriah. I think I should pray for him.”

  Amazing. God was working in her. Maybe they should pray together. Now.

  Then she scooted to the edge of her chair and tipped her head, like a robin listening for worms. “Hear that?”

  Georgie, her tiny voice carrying through the kitchen window behind them. Singing and banging glass. Jars? La-la-la. He chuckled. “That’s sweet. You taught her?”

  “I taught her solfège. Do-re-mi.” Lily pinked with pleasure. “She sounds so innocent.”

  Georgie stopped la-ing and switched to the familiar tune of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” But the words she sang had nothing to do with lambs.

  “I want birds and a new mama, new mama, new mama. I want birds and a new mama. And a baby bro-ther.”

  His ears went hot.

  Lily’s cheeks were as bright in hue as her hair. “I didn’t teach her that—”

  The crash of glass split the air, then silence. Lily hopped from the chair.

  Jackson was on Lily’s heels but hesitated at the threshold because of his grimy attire. He could see enough. Georgie stood on a chair, spoon in hand, her mouth in an O. Water dripped down the oilskin tablecloth to the floor, where more water pooled around a pile of broken glass.

  “Don’t move, honey.” In a whirl of orange, Lily dipped under the dry sink, surfacing with a brush and pan. “I don’t want you to get cut.”

  Georgie froze on the chair. “I’m s–sorry.”

  “I know, little one.” Lily brushed the glass, creating jingling sounds against the metal pan. “I loved hearing you sing.”

  Jackson grinned. “Me, too—”

  “Georgia!” Aunt Martha tottered into the kitchen, her generally neat hair in disarray and her eyes rheumy with sleep. “For shame.”

  Georgie blanched. Then her cheeks mottled. Jackson knew well what came next: a sharp intake of breath and then a mighty wail that could probably be heard in Corpus Christi. When the howl escaped, Aunt Martha’s mouth pinched. “Fits of temper are unacceptable. Bed with no supper—”

  “Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Phipps.” Lily scooped his wailing daughter and set her down at the threshold, beside Jackson. “Do not touch her until you’ve washed up,” she warned him.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled then retrieved the metal basin, soap, and towel they kept on the porch. “Come on, Georgie.”

  The wail calmed to a sniffle. She nodded.

  “Mrs. Phipps.” Lily’s voice carried through the open windows. “Would you taste the soup for me? I might not have added enough salt, and you have impeccable taste.”

  “It is a miserable waste,” Aunt Martha agreed, clearly mishearing Lily. “This mess—”

  “Is almost tidied. Would you salt the soup for me?” The way she glided over Martha’s misapprehension must have settled matters, for the voices quieted.

  Jackson hadn’t wanted to admit it, but as he scrubbed at the pump, he couldn’t deny it anymore. Aunt Martha and Georgie both needed looking after. He’d brought his aunt here to help him, but maybe God had brought her to Texas so Jackson could help her.

  She’d never had children of her own. Mr. Phipps succumbed to a fever not three years after they wed. She deserved to be with family now. Jackson and Georgie.

  Lily appeared on the porch. “Supper will be served at its usual time.”

  And it was. When the supper bell rang, the kitchen was clean and the table set with fresh linen. “Lily started the soup, but I seasoned it,” Aunt Martha boasted.

  “Each night’s victuals taste better than the last,” Fred said with a wink to Delia. But it was Lily who still had traces of flour streaking her hair.

  He was mopping the last bit of beef broth from his bowl with soda bread when it hit him. Lily could stay. Here in Texas. At Bridge Ranch.

  He needed the help with Georgie, but that wasn’t all. He liked looking across the table at Lily. She occupied his thoughts as no other female had since Paloma passed. Lily wasn’t the saloon girl he’d taken her to be, and while she’d seemed to struggle with her faith, he sensed openness in her. He watched her, wiping Georgie’s dribbling spoon with one hand while conversing with her sister and Fred.

  “Delia plays piano.” Her eyes sparked with pride.

  “But Lily sings better.” Delia nudged her sister’s shoulder. “She’s the finest soprano in Boston.”

  Jackson dropped the bread, untasted, in the bowl. How could he forget? Lily wanted out of here with the stagecoach.

  No matter what he felt stirring in his chest, Lily Kimball was not the woman for him.

  Chapter 5

  Where’s your ribbon?” Lily’s gaze raked the kitchen table, where she’d set out the accoutrements for Georgie’s toilette: curling tongs, pins, and the rosy band that matched the flowers on the little girl’s dress.

  “On Cat.” Georgie pointed to the corner. Cat, her tail wrapped in pink from base to tip, lapped her dish of morning milk.

  “When did you find time to do that?” Lily pinned the last ringlet.

  “You and Miss Delia were whispering ’bout how peaceful it is here and what a nice fellow Uncle Fred is, and Miss Delia turned red as a tomato.”

  “Well, it is peaceful.” Delia’s jaw set in a mulish expression while she unwound the ribbon from Cat’s twitching tail. “Quite pleasing.”

  “’Specially Fred.” Georgie patted Cat with a thump.

  “Everyone’s nice,” Delia protested.

  “Even Pa?” Georgie twisted to look at Lily. Delia stared, too.

  Mercy. “Of course he’s nice. So are you.”

  Lily tied the ribbon through Georgie’s pinned hair, but once she finished, her fingers trembled. Who would curl the little girl’s hair when they were gone?

  Martha, who was closeted in the salon with her improving literature, enjoyed teaching Georgie the alphabet. Maybe she’d learn to like sharing other things with the girl, too.

  “There’s Fred.” Delia’s voice pitched higher than usual as she peered out the kitchen window. “He doesn’t have many chores today, so he’s teaching me how to throw a lariat.”

  “I want to come,” Georgie said, half out the door.

  “As long as you don’t tell I find him pleasant.” Delia followed behind without a farewell for Lily. She wasn’t happy with her sister since Lily reminded her they would soon leave Wildrye. This wasn’t their home, and while Georgie had moved back into the house, Jackson and Fred couldn’t sleep in the barn forever. Lily tidied the remnants on the table, peeking out at Delia, Georgie, and Fred in the yard. Carrying a coiled rope, Jackson strode past them then headed toward the house.

  The curling tongs were still hot. Lily took them to the lank red strand at her cheek, finishing before Jackson’s boots thumped on the porch.

  He paused at the threshold, knowing better than to stomp his mud-caked boots on her clean kitchen floor. “Red, you busy?”

  She was. She had a hundred things to do before their trip to town this afternoon, but the prospect of ironing shirts held far less appeal than whatever Jackson wanted. “Not at all.”

  He led her outside, past the farthest corrals. A sea of gr
ass spread before them, punctuated by cattle and brush dotted with small white flowers.

  Jackson nudged her arm. “Aren’t you the least bit curious where I’m taking you?”

  “To catch supper?” she joked. The crisp morning breeze played with the tendril of just-curled hair, straightening it. So much for looking well coiffed. She shoved the coppery strand behind her ear.

  His smile faded, replaced with an expression that was almost shy. “Delia’s learning to lasso. You want to, too?”

  They stopped walking, or maybe they had stopped an eon ago and she hadn’t paid mind to anything but his closeness. His gaze touched her eyes and chin and cheekbones, leaving a trail of fiery heat over her skin.

  “Don’t you have chores?” Her voice squeaked.

  “About as many as you do.”

  Tingles, pleasant and uncomfortable all at once, radiated over her limbs. “Oh.”

  He took that as consent, busying his hands with the rope. He formed a loop and tied a strange knot. “Hold the end of the shank.”

  She didn’t know what a shank was, but she took what he offered. The rope was stiff as wire, heavy in her hand. “Don’t I need gloves?”

  “Not if you want to feel the rope.” His hand was hot and rough under hers as he rotated their wrists so the rope turned. Then he sidled behind her. “Swing like this.”

  His breath was warm on her ear. Her arm jerked and the rope flung back to hit their legs. “Sorry.”

  He laughed. “Good thing I’m wearing chaps. Let’s try again.”

  Shouldn’t have been hard. But he was behind her, smelling of dust and sweat and the starch she’d put in his shirt, everyday smells that somehow, paired with his proximity, made her knees wobble. She forced her focus onto the rope. To her surprise, the rope formed a perfect circle before her. Her hand stilled, and she spun to face Jackson. “I did it!”

  “You did.” For the span of two breaths, he stared down at her. Then he dropped her hand.

  She wanted his hand back. Ninny. Instead of holding hands you should be holding your Jenny Lind token.