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

  Pa gave a few terse instructions, and then Bat rode away. Rilla moved back from the window and took out her paring knife and opened the potato bin. A moment later, Pa entered the kitchen.

  “How’s your mother?”

  “She’s resting,” Rilla said. “I think she’ll be all right, but the whole business unnerved her.”

  “I should think so. I’m a little wobbly myself.” Pa sank onto a kitchen chair. “Got any coffee?”

  Rilla took the coffeepot from the back of the stove and poured him a cup. She set it in front of him with a clean spoon and slid the sugar bowl over. Pa always put a spoonful of sugar in his coffee.

  “Did you thank Bat for saving our lives?” She eyed her father narrowly as he stirred the sugar in.

  “Saving our lives? He was in the right place at the right time, I’ll give him that.”

  “Pa, those men might have killed us. And you know for sure they’d have gotten away with the month’s payroll if Bat hadn’t showed up and taken things into his own hands.”

  “Well, I may have missed something, girl, but it seems to me it was that foolish dog who turned the tables.”

  Rilla stamped her foot. “Yes, Woolly helped us get the jump on those men. But do you think he would have gone for that hat if I hadn’t signaled him?”

  Pa blinked at her and tapped the spoon on the rim of his cup before setting it down. “You signaled the dog?”

  “I certainly did.”

  “My back was turned. That was good thinking, though.”

  “Yes, it was, but it wasn’t my thinking. Bat looked in at the window and gave me the idea.”

  “Hmm.” Pa raised his cup and took a sip of coffee.

  “You ought to give that man a raise, Pa, not just order him around like he’s a piece of dirt.”

  Pa’s face hardened. “Watch your tone, young lady.”

  “We owe him.”

  Pa set the cup down with a thud. “And Wilson’s quitting, remember? He put in his notice a week ago.”

  “Ask him to stay on, Pa. He’s a good worker. You said so yourself.”

  “He wants to leave.”

  “Maybe you could change his mind. At least you could ask him. If he has a grievance, maybe you could take care of it, and then he’d want to keep working here.”

  “What kind of grievance? What are you talking about?”

  Rilla sighed. “I don’t know. I just… sometimes I think the men aren’t happy because you never thank them for all their hard work. I know our wages are lower than some—”

  “I pay as well as most ranchers in this area.”

  “Not all,” Rilla said. “Nancy Markham told me her father pays ten dollars a month more than we do, and their foreman gets double.”

  Her father made a scornful grunt.

  “Besides,” Rilla went on, “people who work hard like to feel appreciated. You could do something nice for the men once in a while and show that you’re glad they’re loyal.”

  “But they aren’t.”

  “Maybe they would be if you were easier to work for.”

  He said nothing but took another drink from his cup.

  Rilla went to the potato bin and took out several wrinkly spuds. “I’ll be glad when we get some fresh potatoes.” When she had peeled them, she rinsed them off and plunked them in a pan.

  Pa pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m going out to check on those thieves. When the sheriff gets here, send him to the barn.”

  Bat rode along with Sheriff Tanner and his deputy, heading back to the ranch. Scrappy was tired out. Bat would turn him out and choose another pony before rejoining Dwight and the other men.

  When they arrived at the ranch, he led Tanner and the deputy into the barn. Mr. Lane sat on a bale of hay, facing the closed door of the box stall, with a shotgun across his knees.

  “You made good time, Tanner.” The boss stood.

  “Howdy, Lane. Wilson says you caught a couple of robbers?”

  “We sure did.” Mr. Lane walked over to the box stall and removed a peg from the hasp holding the top of the dutch door shut.

  “Good thing Wilson came back to the house when he did,” the sheriff said.

  Bat winced. Dwight was probably madder than a hoot owl, wondering why he hadn’t come back to tell him what to do with Markham’s steers.

  “Yes,” Mr. Lane said slowly. “He did some quick thinking. I… we…” He nodded at Bat. “My family owes you, Wilson.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, sir,” Bat said. “I know you’d have done the same if you walked into a situation like that.”

  “Maybe.”

  Bat swallowed hard. He wasn’t comfortable being the object of gratitude, and Mr. Lane was obviously unused to expressing it.

  “Let me help you, sir.” Bat stepped forward and swung open the upper panel of the stall door.

  Sheriff Tanner and his man leaned on the lower door and looked in at the two robbers. They were lying on the floor, on a layer of clean straw, the way Bat and Mr. Lane had left them, trussed up like a couple of calves ready for branding.

  “Did you say you’ve got their horses?” Tanner asked.

  “They’re out behind the house,” Bat said. “I can go water them before you head out, if you like.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  Bat got the horses ready and turned Scrappy out to graze. Tanner and the deputy brought the prisoners out and helped them mount. Instead of giving them the reins, Tanner hitched a lead rope to each of the outlaws’ horses.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” he said dolefully before he mounted his own horse.

  Bat stood with Mr. Lane, watching them ride out toward town. When only a puff of dust was visible in their wake, he looked over at the boss. “Guess I’d better go tell Dwight you’ll tend to those steers tomorrow. Or maybe you want them returned this afternoon?” It occurred to him that Mrs. Lane might not have delivered the message in the stress of the robbery.

  Mr. Lane hesitated a moment. “Tell Dwight to do whatever he thinks is best.”

  Bat tried not to look too surprised. “Yes, sir.”

  “And we’d be pleased if you’d join the family for supper tonight.”

  Bat stared at him. “I—well—yes, sir. Thank you.” What on earth? Eating with the boss’s family—he’d be on edge every second. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” He put his hand inside his vest and brought a letter out from his inside pocket. “While the sheriff was saddling up, I ducked into the post office. There was a letter for Miss Rilla.” He held out the white envelope. The name of a newspaper in Philadelphia was plainly printed in the upper left corner.

  Mr. Lane gazed at the letter for a moment. “Take it in to her yourself if you want, Wilson. She’s in the kitchen. I’m going to go put my shotgun away.” He turned and walked toward the front door.

  Bat gazed after him for a moment, stunned. The boss was acting mighty strange today. Maybe the robbery scare had tipped him off-kilter.

  Slowly, Bat walked around to the kitchen door, pulled off his hat, and knocked. A moment later, Rilla opened it.

  “Hi, Bat.” She smiled and swung the door wide. “Come on in. I hoped I’d have a chance to thank you.”

  “It wasn’t much.”

  “Of course it was.” Rilla took his arm and propelled him toward the kitchen table. “Sit down and have some coffee. I’ve got oatmeal cookies, too.”

  “Thanks, Miss Rilla, but I need to get back to Dwight and the rest. But I wanted to give you this.” He held out the letter.

  Rilla took it and stared down at the envelope. “Oh.”

  “Is it…?”

  “The contest.” She looked up at him and smiled ruefully. “I’m almost afraid to open it.”

  “They wouldn’t write you if you lost, would they?”

  “They let you sign up to get a list of the winners, even if you didn’t place. I asked for that.”

  “Oh.” He twirled his hat in his hands. “Well, you never know.”


  “No, you don’t. I’m going to quit being such a chicken.” Rilla took a small knife off the worktable and slit the crease of the envelope. She pulled a folded sheet of paper out. As she opened it, a small paper fluttered to the floor. Bat stooped to retrieve it. “What’s that?” she asked.

  He turned it over and looked at it. “It’s a check.” He couldn’t help grinning.

  “A check?” Rilla bent her head over it, and a scent of wildflowers wafted up to him from her hair.

  “For five dollars,” Bat said.

  She straightened with an incredulous look on her face and held the letter up where she could read it. “Bat!” She looked up and grinned. “I won second prize.”

  “Hey, now, that’s terrific.”

  She laughed. “Second place. What do you know?” She fanned herself with the letter. “That five dollars will pay for a lot of postage stamps and stationery.”

  “It sure will. Seems like a sign that you should keep on writing.”

  “I believe I will.” She took the check from his hand and slid it carefully into the envelope with the letter.

  “Well, I’d better ride out.” Bat started to leave but turned back. “Oh, did you know your pa asked me to take supper with your family tonight?”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Did he really? That’s great. I’m glad.”

  “All right, then. I’ll see you later.”

  Bat went out to the corral feeling happier than he had in weeks. For some reason, he didn’t care anymore what was over the horizon. That feral feeling had left him. What was the opposite? A longing for domesticity? He shook his head and whistled. Three cow ponies trotted over to him, and he slid his bridle onto a stout pinto. He would miss this ranch when he left—or some parts of it, anyway.

  Rilla put on a nice dress before supper—better than the housedresses she wore while cooking and cleaning, but not one of the fancy ones she had saved for concerts and parties in Philadelphia. The thought that she might never wear those again was daunting.

  The light blue delaine she chose was one she had worn to church or to afternoon teas. She hadn’t put it on since returning to Texas, but tonight seemed like an appropriate occasion. They didn’t often have a guest at the supper table.

  Bat arrived at the front door, looking scrubbed and a bit shy. Rilla wondered if the other men had been teasing him about getting “duded up.”

  “Come right in, Bat,” she said. “We’re so glad you could come.” She showed him into the parlor. Pa was already waiting there, but Mama hadn’t come from her room yet. “I’m sure Mama will be out in a minute.” Rilla took Bat’s hat and laid it on the desk.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He shot a glance at Pa. Yes, Bat was definitely nervous.

  The conversation over the table leaned heavily to the menu and the herd, but Rilla didn’t mind. Pa seemed to make an extra effort to be sociable, even though the guest was a lowly employee.

  When Rilla cleared the table and returned from the kitchen with slices of chocolate cake on a tray, Mama was speaking to Bat.

  “And Rilla explained to me about how you motioned to her to get the dog to jump at that man’s hat. I thought that was so clever.”

  Pa cleared his throat but said nothing.

  Rilla took a cake plate off the tray and placed it before her mother. “We’re all extremely thankful you came along, Bat, and that you thought of a way to take control of the situation.” She looked at her father and arched her eyebrows.

  “Er, yes,” he said. “Quick thinking, Wilson.” Pa picked up his fork. “I guess you know that none of you men would get paid tomorrow if those thugs had taken the cash box.”

  Rilla scowled at her father. “I’m sure Bat’s motive in helping us wasn’t entirely selfish.”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t mean that.”

  Rilla set Bat’s dessert plate in front of him. “My biggest fear was that they might hurt Pa or Mama.”

  “Or you,” her mother added.

  Rilla nodded and looked into Bat’s brown eyes. “We all thank you, Bat. You did a very brave thing.”

  He looked down at his cake. “Well, thank you. I’m glad it turned out so well.”

  Pa turned the conversation back to the ranch work, and Bat seemed much more comfortable tackling that subject.

  A few minutes later, Rilla rose and began to collect the cake plates. “More coffee, Bat?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Pa?”

  “Not now.”

  Rilla carried the plates into the kitchen. When she turned around, she found Bat inside the room, holding the milk pitcher and the empty meat platter.

  “I thought maybe I could help you,” he said.

  “That’s very kind of you, but there’s no need.”

  “Well, I…” He set the dishes down on her worktable. “The truth is, I wanted a chance to speak to you. Alone, that is.”

  “Oh.” Rilla’s pulse fluttered. “Anything in particular?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Your pa said earlier that… well, he let me understand that he wouldn’t mind if I was to stay on.”

  Rilla couldn’t hold back her smile. “That’s wonderful! We’d all be pleased.”

  “Would you?”

  “Ever so much.”

  He took a step closer. “I’m glad, because he also said… well… if you had a mind to, I might be able to…” He swallowed hard.

  “To what, Bat?”

  “To court you. If you… had a mind to.”

  Rilla’s heart warmed. She hadn’t thought her father capable of such a thing. She said softly, “Why yes, I’ve a mind, Bat. I’d like very much to further our acquaintance.”

  He smiled then, as though he’d dreaded her answer and received an unexpected but longed-for reprieve. “Then maybe I can help with these dishes and we can talk.”

  She handed him a linen dish towel. “Would you like an apron?”

  “I think I can manage without one, but thank you.”

  Four months later, in the crisp fall air, Rilla tossed her dishwater out the kitchen door and heard the sound of many hoofbeats approaching. She dashed back inside and fumbled with her apron strings.

  “The men are back from the roundup, Mama.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty certain.”

  Mama took off her apron and hung it up.

  The hoofbeats were louder now. Rilla pushed back a flyaway strand of hair. “I must look awful.”

  “Nonsense,” Mama said. “I dare say you’re the prettiest thing any of those men have seen for a week.”

  Rilla laughed and walked with her mother out into the yard. Pa and the ranch hands thundered in on their ponies. One of the young cowboys gave a whoop. They pulled up in a cloud of dust and jumped down.

  Bat left Scrappy’s reins trailing and strode toward Rilla, smiling and pulling off his hat.

  “Welcome home, Bat.” Mama turned her attention to Pa, who was moving a little slower and just swinging down from the saddle.

  “How was the roundup?” Rilla asked.

  “Better’n some,” Bat said. “Walk out with me tonight?”

  Rilla grinned. “Absolutely.”

  She hummed all afternoon as she helped Ma cook extra dishes to send over to the bunkhouse and put away the leftover food supplies Rolly brought in from the chuck wagon. Shortly after supper, when she was putting away the family’s clean dishes, a confident knock came at the kitchen door. She smiled to herself as she closed the cupboard and removed her apron. Bat’s confidence now could not be compared to his tentative advances in June.

  She flung the door open. “I’m so glad you’re back.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  Bat no longer looked embarrassed when she did this. In fact, he looked very pleased.

  “Got your shawl?” he asked. “It’s chilly out this evening.”

  “I’ll get it.” Rilla fetched the warm, soft angora shawl Mama had knit her for her birthday. They went out the back door together and
headed by unspoken agreement for the creek path.

  “Rilla?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know Dwight’s leaving tomorrow?”

  “No. Well, I knew he was going soon after the roundup, but I didn’t know it was tomorrow.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “We’ll miss him,” she said.

  “Yeah.” They walked on until they were nearly to the willow. “Rilla?”

  “Yes?” She stopped walking.

  Bat stopped, too, and looked down at her in the twilight. “Your pa told me last night that I can have Dwight’s job if I want it.”

  A laugh burbled in her throat. “That’s wonderful. Foreman.”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. “I… uh… He said I could have the house.”

  Rilla nodded. The small house that was more of a cabin went with the job. “Do you want to live in the foreman’s house?”

  “Well, sure, if… if I didn’t have to live alone.”

  She smiled but waited.

  Bat drew in a deep breath. “I tried to write you a poem while we were out on roundup, but I’m just not much good at it.”

  “A poem?”

  He nodded. “It came out horrible, and I was afraid one of the fellows would see it, so I burned it.”

  “I’m sorry.” She eyed him carefully. “Can you tell me what it was about?”

  “I… I love you. I want you to marry me, Rilla, and live in the foreman’s house. Do you—would you?”

  “Oh, Bat. You don’t have to write poems for me. You said it just fine.” She stepped into his warm embrace.

  “You can write enough poems for both of us,” he said, and he stooped to kiss her.

  Susan Page Davis is the author of more than fifty novels, in the romance, mystery, suspense, and historical romance genres. A Maine native, she now lives in western Kentucky with her husband, Jim, a retired news editor. They are the parents of six, and the grandparents of ten fantastic kids. She is a past winner of the Carol Award, the Will Rogers Medallion for Western Fiction, and the Inspirational Readers’ Choice Award. Susan was named Favorite Author of the Year in the 18th Annual Heartsong Awards. Visit her website at www.susanpagedavis.com.