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

  FOR A SONG

  By Susanne Dietze

  Dedication

  For my parents, Allen and Virginia Copeland, who encouraged my storytelling when I was small and who support me still. Thank you! I love you.

  He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God.

  Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the LORD.

  PSALM 40:3 ESV

  Acknowledgments

  I owe profound thanks to those who helped me while I wrote this story. To my dear husband and kids, thanks for telling me time and again I could do this (and thanks for your willingness to eat lots of crockpot stew in the meantime). A heartfelt thank-you goes out to my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, and the team at Barbour Publishing, especially Rebecca Germany, for helping make my dreams come true. The ladies of Inkwell Inspirations cheered and encouraged me—thanks, sisters! In addition, I couldn’t have written this story without the kindness of Suzanne Wagner, who inspired Lily’s voice and helped me navigate the world of song; and Susan and Casey Elliott, who answered my many questions about riding a bucking bronco. The above folks were gracious to assist me, but any errors in the story are mine alone.

  Prologue

  Massachusetts

  April 1858

  Reading, writing, and ’rithmetic. How soon these former students forget the basics.” Mrs. Martha Phipps squinted, the better to decipher the sluggish script on the job-board posting. A large S at the top of the page caught her eye, although she couldn’t condone the paper’s ragged tear. Still, if this job seeker had the skills Martha required, she would make allowances for paltry penmanship and an inability to use scissors.

  Alas, the S stood for seamstress, and one without scissors, apparently. Martha’s lips pursed. She must find another store with a job board. She’d already spent three long, achy days hunting. How had she managed to stand all day, teaching, before she married Mr. Phipps? Now, that was a man who understood the importance of careful cursive, God rest his soul.

  “May I help you?” The balding store proprietor’s hands rubbed together.

  Martha sighed. “I cannot find what I require on this posting board.”

  His hands stilled. “Come in to look but never buy.”

  How rude. But then, her hearing wasn’t what it used to be. “Pardon?”

  “I’ll look before we bid good-bye,” he enunciated. “Although an employment agency might serve you better. Not too many maids or cooks come here to advertise. Mostly fellows who’ve been let go from the Boston & Worcester Railroad.”

  He thought her deportment fine enough to indicate she could afford a cook? Martha couldn’t suppress a twitter of pleasure. “Mr. Beadle, is it?”

  “Uriah Beadle of Beadle’s Dry Goods.” He bowed, something too few men did nowadays.

  “Alas, I haven’t need of a handyman. Or a cook. You see, I shall soon visit my great-nephew’s ranch in Texas.” An arid place, in her imaginings. Although today, with spring not yet sprung in New England, dry heat held some appeal. “Jackson, my nephew, requested I bring songbirds. One red, one yellow, but brown headed will do.”

  “Waste of my time,” he mumbled.

  “Speak up, please?”

  “Sounds sublime. But we do not carry birds.”

  She laughed. “Not birds. Songbirds. Female singers for his saloon.”

  “Saloon?” Was his hearing as impaired as hers?

  She withdrew Jackson’s latest letter from her bag, thrust it under his nose, and pointed at the word in question as if he were a primary student she taught to read. “‘Saloon.’” Christened with an s, looped until the final n. “’Tis difficult to read his lazy longhand, true.”

  His eyes narrowed. Martha recognized where his thoughts had taken him. Well, she’d spent years educating others and correcting ignorance, and it was not a habit she’d forsaken in her retirement.

  “The word saloon is derived from the Italian, sala, first a private assembly room, and since last century, an entertainment hall or ship’s dining room. It can also refer to an unsavory establishment, true, but Jackson would never own one of those.”

  Mr. Beadle’s hand covered his smile. “Believe that, if it helps you sleep at night.”

  “What, sir?”

  “Informative, all right.” He rubbed his hands together again. “What was the red and yellow thing?”

  “Hair color. Looks matter in the theater. Perhaps Jackson hopes to put on a play.”

  “Shakespeare, no doubt.” He chuckled. Perhaps he was thinking of one of the Bard’s more amusing comedies.

  “Jackson often laments the dearth of cultured women in Wildrye. I’ve no doubt he wishes me to find the finest female specimens of talent, since he’s willing to pay such a wage.”

  “Pay, you say?”

  She pointed at the letter again. “‘Seventy-five apiece ought to do it fair if they sing well.’ Although fairly would have been more proper, being an adverb describing—”

  “Seventy-five.” He nodded at the paper. “I can help you, after all. Hear that singing?”

  She cocked her head to the side but heard nothing. “A bit,” she lied.

  “My nieces. One with hair of flax, the other with hair of fire. Singing, day and night.”

  A redhead. A blond. Singing upstairs. Martha’s chin trembled in time with her aching ankles. “Would they be willing to leave Boston?”

  “They’ll go, all right. Now, that fee?”

  “Wage.”

  “No, a fee, for me as the gals’ broker.” He strode to the foot of the establishment’s back stairs. “Quit that wally-hooing and come down. Someone wants to hire you.”

  She’d heard his shout just fine. “If they’re acceptable, of course.”

  “They’re acceptable.” He held out his hand. “You’ve given me the deal of a lifetime.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’ve given them the chance of a lifetime.”

  She placed her gloved hand in his. Done. Jackson would be so pleased by her efforts.

  “Now then,” Mr. Beadle said. “Will this be cash or a bank draft?”

  Chapter 1

  South Texas

  May 1858

  At the coachman’s whoa, Lily Kimball prepared for the worst. She wedged her leg against the opposite seat and flung her arm across Martha Phipps’s torso to prevent the dozing older woman from tumbling across the stagecoach. “Brace yourself!”

  Lily’s younger sister, Delia, gripped the coach door. The whole, hot, miserable ride from Corpus Christi, the driver had demonstrated competence with but two speeds, breakneck and stop. When he yelled whoa, the coach wouldn’t so much slow as it would lurch to an abrupt halt.

  Poor horses. Lily didn’t have to know a thing about the beasts to pity them.

  The rapid slowdown hurled the ladies forward then back, pinching Lily’s neck. At least it was over fast. She removed her protective arm from Mrs. Phipps.

  The older woman blinked into consciousness. “What did you say, dear?”

  Lily patted their chaperone’s bony arm. “Just to brace ourselves, ma’am.”

  “Why?” Her dry mouth smacked. “We aren’t even moving.”

  Indeed they were not. Now.

  But Lily and Delia required buttressing of a different sort, because their final destination of Wildrye, Texas, waited outside the coach. The Kimball girls were about to become Ma’s worst nightmare, and if that didn’t require a body to brace herself, nothing did.

  Sorry, Ma. But you died and left me and Delia alone, with nobody to watch over us. Not even God. We do what we have to do.

  “Lily?” Delia’s whisper sounded like a child’s. “What if Mrs. Phipps is wrong, and—”

  “We are singing and nothing more. Temporary degradation.” But her fingers snaked into her pocket, anyway, to finger the brass token she kept to remind her of her goal. “We’ll be gone faster than a cat can lick its ear.”

  Delia nodded, but her face was as pale as her white-blond
hair. All wide-eyed like that, she didn’t even look her eighteen years.

  With a quick tug, Lily adjusted the yellow ribbon tying the straw bonnet under Delia’s chin. Then she patted her own temples to feel for her bonnet’s rose embellishments. If the cream clusters were square above her ears, her crimson corduroy hat must be on straight, even after that jerky stop.

  As for the rest of her, well, there was nothing she could do about the grime caking her red plaid ensemble or the perspiration dampening her from brow to boot. Although she shouldn’t care about making a fine impression on a gaggle of drunken saloon layabouts. And drunk they would be, despite what Mrs. Phipps insisted about her estimable nephew.

  No, she and Delia—and Uncle Uriah—knew what sort of saloon Jackson Bridge ran. But Lily and Delia lacked the heart to enlighten Mrs. Phipps. In mere moments, their chaperone would learn Jackson Bridge peddled whiskey, and it would break the poor dear’s heart.

  She wasn’t inclined to like Mr. Bridge, for his occupation and for deceiving his aunt Martha. But he was her employer, and she needed the job. So when the coach door swung open, Lily ignored the thudding of her pulse in her ears, mustered a smile, and prepared to step out.

  A hand reached for hers. A large hand, too young and clean to belong to the grizzled coachman. “Miss?”

  Nice to know someone in Wildrye was polite. Giving her hand to the tall figure clad in a brown coat, she looked up to behold a pleasing, square-jawed face framed by dark brown curls and a wide hat brim. And she gaped.

  “Miss?” His cocoa-brown eyes narrowed in concern.

  Never before had Lily been so grateful for the privacy of her own thoughts, because she liked him looking at her, and she liked his strong hand under hers. Which was nonsense.

  She must be overtired, indeed. “Sorry. Thank you.”

  If she’d imagined he was anything more than polite, she stood corrected, for the instant her boots touched the ground, his hand let go and his attention returned to the coach.

  Delia received the same courtesy and baritone “Miss” from him. But other tenor and bass greetings of “miss” and “ma’am” competed in a chorus behind her. Lily turned.

  A dozen men gathered, doffing hats and nudging one another in the ribs. A few broad smiles revealed stained or missing teeth. A lanky fellow expectorated into his hand and used it to slick back his stringy orange hair.

  “Gal folks,” somebody said in an awed hush.

  Delia gripped Lily’s hand. “Who are they?”

  “Customers.” Mercy, her voice was as tight as a toad’s when the lake went dry.

  So many men. Looking at her with expectation and appreciation. Maybe she couldn’t do this after all. Lily spun back to the coach. “Mrs. Phipps?”

  The tall man in the coat guided their chaperone from the coach, his hand beneath hers. Mrs. Phipps’s free hand fluttered as words spilled over her lips, one over another in excitement over her estimable nephew, no doubt. But if the frail woman didn’t mind her feet, she could miss the coach step and—

  Mrs. Phipps lunged forward. Lily reached out, but the man caught the older woman to his chest. With a quick shift, he hoisted her into his arms. The poor lady didn’t have the wherewithal to protest.

  Or do anything. She’d fainted.

  “She’s overheated. She needs shade.” Lily pointed to the row of plain storefronts behind the group of bystanders. “And water. And Mr. Bridge.”

  “Don’t fret. I’ve got her.” The man in the coat brushed past her as if Mrs. Phipps weighed no more than the clothes on her back. The crowd parted from him like hair to a comb, allowing him to settle Mrs. Phipps on a plank bench against the storefront.

  Lily tugged a paper fan from her bag and waved it in front of Mrs. Phipps’s heavy-lidded eyes. “She’ll be fine in a minute. None of us are accustomed to this heat, but my sister and I have it in hand now.” To prove the point, she handed the fan to Delia so she could face the onlookers. “May I trouble someone for water?”

  Three fellows jostled to comply, including the redheaded chap who’d used spittle as hair unguent. Lily shuddered. She’d not care to take a cup from his unwashed hand.

  Best try to rouse the lady before the water arrived. Lily bent to the unresponsive woman and slipped the reticule from her wrist.

  “I’m not sure you should be rifling through her bag like that.” The man in the coat watched her with narrowed eyes, as if he expected her to steal from it. Who was he, the sheriff?

  She held up the filigreed vinaigrette. “Smelling salts. She’s needed them several times since we left Massachusetts.”

  “You’ve been with her this whole way?”

  As she waved the vinaigrette under Mrs. Phipps’s nose, the pungent ammonia odor of hartshorn stung her eyes. “Yes. We—”

  The older woman roused, blinking and smacking as if she’d had a pleasant nap.

  The coated man was even more handsome smiling than he was when serious. “Mornin’, Aunt Martha.”

  The blood drained from Lily’s head. This was Jackson Bridge? Handsome, polite—and her boss. He didn’t look like a saloon owner, although, to be fair, she’d never met one. But this fellow’s neck and hands were sunbrowned, indicating he didn’t spend much time indoors, much less pouring whiskey or counting coins.

  The fellows who’d run for water returned with a glass so full, liquid sloshed over the side. Lily took the slippery-wet cup and held it to Mrs. Phipps’s mouth. “Drink it all, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Phipps took a delicate sip but no more.

  “Better now?” Mr. Bridge’s hand cupped his aunt’s shoulder.

  “My, yes. The sun blinded me a moment, ’tis all.”

  A bundle of pink froth and dark brown hair barreled into Mr. Bridge’s side. “Pa, are they here?”

  So this was the motherless child Mrs. Phipps spoke of. Lily wasn’t sure what sort of father a saloon owner would make, but this one seemed genuine in his affections when he lifted the girl into his arms. “That’s no way to greet Aunt Martha, Georgie. Say hello, proper like.”

  “Hello.” The girl grinned, revealing tiny teeth. “Where are they?”

  “What a precocious child.” Mrs. Phipps blinked. “Greetings, Georgia. They are right here, as you can see.”

  Georgia craned her neck, in search of whatever they were, as a sandy-haired young fellow in a blue plaid shirt pushed through the crowd. “Sorry, Jack, she got away. Oh.” Catching sight of Delia, his eyes grew wide as flapjacks. “Howdy, miss.”

  Delia flushed a becoming shade. “Good day.”

  “Martha Phipps, meet Fred Davis, my friend and part owner of Bridge Ranch.” Mr. Bridge turned to Lily. “And these are, er—”

  “The Kimball sisters.” Lily stepped forward, her stomach swooping now that the dreaded moment had arrived. But the sooner she and Delia began earning coins, the sooner they could exit this town and find honorable employment. Swallowing her pride and a mouthful of dust, she looked Mr. Bridge in the eye. “We appreciate the opportunity to work at your saloon, sir.”

  He didn’t blink. “I’m sorry, you’re who?”

  Mrs. Phipps stood with a harrumph. “The women you asked for, of course. Close your mouth, Jackson. You are making a horrid first impression.”

  Jackson shut his mouth, all right, biting back the first words on his tongue.

  He’d asked for books. And trifles for Georgie. But women? Never. Yet here were two, their gaping jaws seemingly held in place by the red and yellow bows of their bonnets. “I didn’t ask for women.”

  “Yes, in your letter.” Miss Red Kimball lowered her head like a challenged buck. “Red and yellow headed with the ability to sing.”

  “But brown headed would do,” Aunt Martha added. “Not that it was necessary. They have what you requested. Hair the hues of their bonnets. Songbirds for your saloon.”

  Oh no.

  “Saloon,” Georgie echoed.

  It was too late to cover her ears, so Jackson slid his daughter to the gro
und so she could get distracted. Find a bug or something to play with. She shouldn’t hear this.

  “I said I had a salon. A parlor. In my house. And I wanted two canaries, not crooners.”

  Aunt Martha blinked. Miss Yellow’s lips quivered. Miss Red smiled, a becoming but confusing response. “Oh, Uncle Uriah.”

  “There’s no birdies for my cage?” Georgie scowled.

  His hand landed atop her pink calico bonnet. “No, sweetheart.”

  Georgie sucked in her breath and issued a wail so high-pitched it could peel layers of bone from his teeth. Miss Yellow joined her in the tears, and Fred’s paw thumped the gal’s shoulder in a comforting pat. Aunt Martha, too, was misty-eyed, already arguing with him without pausing to breathe. “This is not my fault. You said songbirds. And saloon. Look what trouble your poor penmanship has wrought.”

  “Lookee that.” A ne’er-do-well from the crowd hooted. “Bridge done made three gals cry, and it’s not yet suppertime.”

  And him with but one handkerchief. He pressed it into Aunt Martha’s hand. Georgie wiped her face on his britches. Miss Yellow dabbed her eyes with Fred’s huge red bandanna.

  But Miss Red didn’t weep. Her blue eyes crinkled in amusement. Then she sighed, and the look was replaced with resolve. Like she was used to disappointment. Pity stirred in Jackson’s gut when she brushed her hands, as if wiping off the dust of the entire debacle.

  “Come, Delia.” Her voice rose above the noise of the other three tearful females. “We’ve arrangements to make.”

  As she spoke, the stagecoach driver shouted farewell. Jackson waved his arm to forestall the coach, but the horses bolted down Front Street like their tails were singed.

  His arm fell along with any sense of hope he had of speedily getting out of this mess. Without the coach, the womenfolk couldn’t leave Wildrye.

  Thank heaven they weren’t his responsibility.

  Chapter 2