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

  “Now try without me,” he said. “When you feel the weight pitch forward, throw the rope at that oak stump.”

  It didn’t work. But it was fun to be out in the spring sunshine, laughing over her failed attempts, even though the rope burned her palms and the stump remained unconquered. After a while, he took the rope and lassoed the stump on his first try.

  “Well done.” She applauded, her rope-burned hands stinging.

  “Not hard when it’s not moving.” He coiled the rope, ending the lesson. But his gaze pinned her to the spot. “Georgie’s cottoned to you, you know.”

  It was mutual. “She’s darling.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the three figures closer to the house. “I was orphaned young and had to make my way, and I never wanted a rootless life like that for my own child.”

  “Rootless—that’s how I felt, too, even though I always lived in Boston.”

  “Things weren’t easy with your uncle, I reckon.”

  Her thumb smoothed a wrinkle on her apron. “It wasn’t a home. That’s why I decided it’s safer to not have a home than be trapped in the wrong one. I forgot some people have… this.”

  “This?” He gestured at a patch of sick-looking cactus.

  She laughed. “You know what I mean. A house, generations together, sharing life.”

  His stance shifted. Faced her a fraction more. “It took me awhile to find home. After a few years running the ferry business on the Rio Grande, I could buy this rancho. Fred came along, like the brother I never had.”

  “And you married.”

  He twisted the rope, even though it was plenty coiled. “Paloma was a good woman. But now there’s just me and Georgie. I wanted Aunt Martha to help us, but now I think she came here to rest and be loved.”

  Lily’s heart skipped triple time. If Aunt Martha couldn’t care for Georgie, who would?

  The answer settled over her shoulders like a warm shawl. She would.

  In that moment, everything looked different. The light. The landscape. Her future. The way Jackson’s gaze burned her. Especially when it landed on her lips. Could she give up her dream? Or had her dream changed? She already cared for Georgie, and the thought of leaving her ached. Something was happening between her and Jackson, too, something slow but steady. Given time, what could it grow into? Her hand fumbled for the Jenny Lind token in her pocket.

  If Jackson asked her to stay, she wasn’t sure she could say no. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. Minute by minute, it was this. This family. This home. This man.

  Delia wouldn’t argue. She never did.

  Maybe God had brought them here for a purpose, after all, and it had nothing to do with Uncle Uriah’s greed. Or singing. Although praying about those two things had changed her view of them. Uriah needed God’s grace, and she’d forgiven him and prayed for him to find peace. And her singing… well, it was God’s gift for her to use for Him, wherever He willed.

  Even here. She released the token into the depths of her pocket. Her hands pressed her apron front, as if the pressure would soothe the veritable beehive buzzing within. “I’ve been thinking. About my leaving when the coach comes. There’s nobody permanent to care for Georgie. We can stay a little longer.”

  He looked away, breaking the spell, and when he glanced at her again, she could see why. Panic darkened his eyes. Fear of her? Of opening his heart again, or just to someone like her?

  It didn’t matter why. What mattered was he wouldn’t ask her to stay and care for Georgie. To care for him.

  He offered the polite smile he’d cast on her when they first met. “Mighty kind of you, Red, but it’ll all work out.”

  So this was what heartbreak felt like. Ache to her bones. But Jackson would never know, so she smiled brightly while her fingers found the token again.

  “Circuit preacher arrived in town yesterday.” Jackson, clearly ready for a change of subject, tipped his head north, the direction of town. The churchgoing folks of Wildrye met at the livery stable on Front Street—the only building large enough for a gathering—once a month, when the preacher made his rounds. “Are you going to church with us tomorrow?”

  Each evening, she and Jackson discussed scripture, and he’d been patient, not pushing or judging. Maybe the folks of Wildrye were more like him than Ma’s friends, who’d shunned Lily and Delia once Pa started drinking.

  She nodded. “Maybe I could talk to the preacher while we’re in town today.”

  “Of course.” He smiled, but his eyes were still guarded. “Guess we should get ready to go, then.”

  The lesson—and the magic—were over. She backed away, her skirt catching in a bush. She bent to tug it free. “We’re leaving after lunch?”

  Thwap-a-thwap. A dark blur flapped before Lily’s face, accompanied by a too-loud gobble. Lily’s gasp coated her tongue with dry, salty feathers. A scream escaped her throat in a gargle. Jackson pulled her against his firm chest.

  “You’re shuddering.” His grip tightened. “It’s just a turkey. Don’t cry.”

  She wasn’t crying at all. She should be, with her heart splintered in pieces, but her heightened emotions made laughter froth from her lips like sarsaparilla foam. At last she caught her breath. “Hope you didn’t want a turkey dinner.”

  He laughed, too. She and Jackson must look ridiculous, clutching each other and giggling like schoolchildren. But she didn’t care. Their laughter and his arms around her felt too good to put a stop to, even if it was just this once. He let go once Fred, Delia, and Georgie arrived, panting, brows creased with concern.

  “Just a turkey.” Jackson pointed at the bush.

  “Can we keep it?” Georgie squatted on the ground, dirtying her pinafore. “I want to name it Miss Feathers.”

  “You name it and we’d never eat turkey again.” Jackson didn’t look at Lily again. Their moment of laughter was all it was—a moment. Unrepeatable.

  After she’d made a decision to stay with him, he hadn’t even asked. It hurt, but if he was unsure of her, it was for the best. Even though she now knew she cared for them all. Martha, Fred, and Georgie. And Jackson. In a far different way than the others.

  At least she could help him before he put her on the stagecoach. When she was finished shopping for dry goods and speaking to the preacher today, she’d look for someone to watch Georgie.

  Because if she couldn’t care for this family, it had better be someone decent who did.

  Sunday morning, Jackson struggled to keep his eyes on the road rather than Lily. She perched on the far end of the wagon seat, shielded by Aunt Martha, who sat straight and opaque as a pine plank between them. While Georgie, Fred, and Delia chatted in the back of the wagon, Aunt Martha exclaimed over every rut in the road, requiring no response from anyone. Which left him plenty of chances to sneak peeks at Lily.

  He couldn’t stop. A crackling moment—or two, to be truthful—passed between them yesterday that made him quake in his boots. She’d felt it, too. And he’d known he was playing with fire. He didn’t want to be drawn to Lily any more than she wanted to stay in Wildrye.

  He’d almost asked her to stay and help with Georgie. To give them more time together. To make things clearer between them, because he loved her. But if he cared for her, he shouldn’t stand between her and her dream.

  He had to let her go live it.

  “Go around that hole.” Aunt Martha pointed at a divot in the road. “Miss Lily is ailing and cannot tolerate all this jostling.”

  “You’re ill?” There, he had an excuse to look Lily square in the face—which didn’t look the least bit poorly. Sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks…

  “I’m fine.” Lily’s cheeks pinked a deeper hue.

  “Keep your eyes on the road before your horses run away with us.” Aunt Martha sniffed.

  Jackson held back a snort. He knew a thing or two about handling horses. Aunt Martha, however, moved on to Lily. “You’re putrid in the throat, aren’t you? Drank plenty of hot tea this morning f
or it, you said.”

  “Oh. That’s to prepare my voice for singing. I assume we’ll sing in church?”

  Jackson nodded.

  Lily patted Aunt Martha’s arm. “But you had a headache last night. Are you feeling better?”

  “Watch the road, Jackson! Mercy.”

  He drove the horses straight over a gopher hole and exchanged a conspiratorial look with Lily. Then, as if remembering something somber, she frowned and looked away. They were almost to town when Fred gripped Jackson’s shoulder. “What’d ya find out in town yesterday ’bout that rumor from Mexico?”

  Jackson snuck in a peek at Lily before turning back to Fred. “It was true. Drought decimated an entire village’s crops, so they’re selling off their stock. I think it’s a good opportunity for us. It’d help the affected folks, too.”

  “Watch the road,” Aunt Martha snipped.

  Fred released his shoulder. “Maybe we should head south this week.”

  “Agreed.”

  Lily leaned past Aunt Martha with furrowed brows. “You didn’t mention it yesterday. I suppose I monopolized the conversation on the ride home, though.”

  “Your time in town was far more important than mine.” She’d practically gushed about her talk with the circuit preacher, Clark Wyatt, and the scripture passages he’d shared with her.

  “Buying every animal in a village sounds important, though.” Her brows knit. “What’ll the people do?”

  “Start somewhere new, I s’pose.”

  Her mouth twitched. Maybe she was nervous about church. A quick prayer rose from his heart as he turned down Front Street. Beside them, three men wheeled the saloon piano up the street, an odd but kind loan by Frank each month for church services. One of the women who worked at the saloon, the mousy brown-haired one with a ratty shawl, trailed in the piano’s wake.

  Lily smelled of soap when he helped her down from the wagon. He’d have liked to linger over her hand, but Aunt Martha waited for him, her lips pursed like she’d eaten a pickle. When he’d seen her safely to the ground, he expected Lily to wait behind him, but she was gone.

  Up the street, conversing with the saloon gal.

  She was clean and bright in her ensemble of red plaid compared to the waif, half-dressed in a jade frock that looked more like underwear than a dress. Lily nodded then turned and rejoined him, her mouth and shoulders set in firm lines.

  He took her elbow and allowed the others to precede them inside. “What was that?”

  “Pearl? I invited her to church.”

  “That was kind.” If misguided. A woman like Pearl—so that was her name—wouldn’t be comfortable in a church service, but it was thoughtful of Lily to ask.

  She shrugged. “She declined earlier, too, but I thought I’d try again.”

  Earlier? It was one thing for Lily to approach a soiled dove and invite her to church. The thought she’d spoken with her more than once, however, heated the back of his neck. He tugged at the collar of his best boiled shirt. “You’ve talked to her before?”

  “I’d finished with Mr. Wyatt yesterday, but you were still busy at the bank. I thought I might find someone in town to help you with Georgie.”

  The heat drained, leaving his fingers cold. “You asked a—her to come to my house?”

  “It’s not my place to invite anyone to your house. And no, I didn’t consider her to watch Georgie.” Her eyes narrowed, a sign he’d already come to recognize as building anger. “Pearl was following me so I approached her. I thought maybe I could help her somehow. She doesn’t want to work at Frank’s. Aren’t I supposed to reach out to others in Christ’s love?”

  “Aw, Lily.” Her renewed faith touched him, even if she didn’t understand the consequences of what she’d done. “You’re right about wanting her out of that occupation, but talking to her? It’s not proper.”

  Her lips popped apart. “Inviting her to church and offering her my shawl because hers is so holey it can’t possibly keep her warm—well, if that is improper, I’ve misunderstood the definition of the word.”

  Hot shame hit his midsection like a hoof to the gut.

  He’d been humbled by unbroken horses. By his parents’ deaths. But this was different. Lily’s words shattered every pretension he held.

  He’d always thought he was as good as anyone else. In truth, he’d thought he was better.

  Shame lodged in his throat. When Lily looked at Pearl, she saw a person who needed help. But him? He’d judged her by her willingness to work in a saloon and forgot he was a sinful man himself.

  He raised Lily’s gloved hands to his lips. “You are a far more generous person than I could ever hope to be, Red. Thank you for reminding me of so many things I’d forgotten.”

  The angry lines around her mouth and eyes vanished. And she didn’t say a word.

  Rendering Red speechless? Now that was an achievement.

  The bell over the livery door rang as a call to worship. “After you.”

  They took seats on a plank bench with their families. Beside him, Lily’s posture was stiff, as if she were tense. The other women eyed her and Delia with open curiosity. Someone muttered saloon. The way Lily had been treated in the past, it was no wonder she was nervous.

  “It smells like horses.” Aunt Martha’s announcement echoed off the high ceiling.

  A smile broke Lily’s tension. She patted his aunt’s hand.

  Sometime during the service, Georgie shifted seats, from his to Lily’s lap. She settled there, restful, during the sermon. Lily’s attention was far more rapt than his, for more than once he had to remind himself to look at Reverend Wyatt, not Lily.

  After the message, Mrs. Buckridge, the liveryman’s wife, took a seat at the saloon piano. The Isaac Watts hymn was familiar, but the words lodged in Jackson’s throat. Lily’s voice lifted the hair on his arms. She didn’t overpower the others. But it was clear she could if she wanted.

  Even more moving was the passion evident in her voice. Her tearstained cheeks and closed eyes testified to the fact she meant each word she sang. It was a true act of worship.

  He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, for at hymn’s end, no one uttered a sound until Reverend Wyatt beckoned the Kimball sisters forward. Georgie scuttled back onto his lap while Mrs. Buckridge relinquished her place at the piano to Delia.

  Reverend Wyatt beamed. “Some of you have met the Kimball sisters. Yesterday, Miss Lily told me she had nothing to offer the Lord but her voice—as if it were a meager contribution. But it’s fitting we give back to Him the gifts He’s given us.”

  “What’s she doing, Pa?” Georgie patted his cheek.

  “Singing, I think.” Really singing.

  Chapter 6

  Lily would have to apologize when it was over.

  She’d sing in German, and it was doubtful anybody could understand the words. She hadn’t warmed up her voice, except for singing the hymn. She wouldn’t be able to do the piece justice, when Haydn had penned The Creation for soloists, a chorus, and an orchestra. Jenny Lind had sung it far better than Lily ever could. But she and Delia wanted to do it despite the lack. Delia was talented enough to adapt an accompaniment.

  Haydn might object to the offense. Hopefully God wouldn’t.

  “Thank you for allowing us this opportunity.” She couldn’t look at Jackson, or anyone, focusing instead at the bell over the door. “This air extols God’s creation of birds. The first line translates to ‘On mighty pinions the eagle proudly soars aloft.’”

  Delia’s fingers trilled the F major scale.

  Deep breath. Straight posture. Then Lily sang with the voice God gave her to use as He saw fit. She saw that now. Wherever it led her, she must share it for His glory. A stage in New York City or a livery barn in Texas.

  When she finished, the final note echoed off the walls.

  Mrs. Phipps blinked. Georgie pulled the hem of her skirt over her eyes. Fred gazed adoringly at Delia. Jackson sat taut as an oak tree, his expression inscrutable. Did
he hate it? Did they all hate it?

  Her gaze swept over the congregation of twenty-odd souls. Pearl lurked at the threshold then slipped out the door.

  “Thank you for blessing us, ladies.” Reverend Wyatt then concluded the service. Before Lily could return to her seat, three women were at her elbow.

  “How beautiful.” Mrs. Buckridge shimmied closer to Lily when her husband and two others rolled the piano behind her on its way out of the livery.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You sang like one of the birds in your song.” An older woman with tight gray curls—the doctor’s wife—put her hand over her heart.

  The third woman, a short brunette, had been in the general store yesterday. “I’m Louise Gardner. We have a small room in the back storage area we could’ve offered you and your sister, but our boys had measles.”

  Jackson had mentioned something like that, hadn’t he? “I hope they’re better now.”

  “Much.” She pointed to where a brown-haired toddler chased Georgie.

  Mrs. Gardner nudged Mrs. Buckridge. “The Misses Kimball can help us start a choir. Think how it could bless Wildrye. It might even help grow the church.”

  Lily shook her head. “We’ll be on the next stagecoach.”

  The doctor’s wife frowned. “I hoped to get to know you.”

  Lily’s chest ached. Few women had ever wanted to know her. Uncle Uriah hadn’t liked her and Delia socializing, which hadn’t helped. If this was where You’d led me, God, I wouldn’t have minded. But I’m trying to trust You. If Jackson can’t ask me—

  “Lil—Miss Kimball?” Jackson supported a weary-looking Mrs. Phipps on his arm. “I reckon we should go. Aunt Martha’s headache came back.”

  Lily thanked the women then followed the others to the wagon. The ride passed quickly while everyone conversed about the sermon and the Haydn piece.

  “It was—remarkable,” Jackson said as the wagon reached Bridge Ranch. “You have a rare gift, Red. You could sing on any stage in America.”

  He sounded almost sad about it. “Thank you, Jackson.”