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

  Mrs. Phipps glared at Jackson. “You did not exaggerate the need for women’s refining hands in Wildrye. Including your own home.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” But his lips twitched. “Georgie, ladies don’t like to be asked their ages.”

  “I like it. I’m four, and Pa is nine-an’-twenty.” She spun to Lily with chalky fingers aloft. “How old are you?”

  Jackson leaned forward. “What did I just say?”

  Lily pinched her palm so she wouldn’t laugh. “I don’t mind telling, just this once. I’m twenty-three.”

  “Marriageable age,” Mrs. Phipps said. “Perhaps you should consider husbands instead of singing careers, girls. Now, Georgie, the letter D.”

  Lily’s face was no doubt as red as her hair. “Speaking of careers,” she said to fill the uncomfortable silence, “I will reimburse you that hundred and fifty dollars.”

  His work-coarse hand waved in dismissal. “It’ll all work out, Red. God will provide.”

  “I heard that about God all my life, but it seems, well…” Her hands fretted Delia’s glove. “It seems like He didn’t pay much note to us. Neither did folks who claimed to follow Him. If He provided, I didn’t see it.”

  Why had she said that? Oh, how embarrassing. She must be more fatigued than she realized.

  He watched her but didn’t say anything, which was somehow more comforting than words. As if he didn’t judge her but wanted to know more. So she decided to tell him. To prove that she wasn’t quite the saloon girl he thought she was.

  “After Ma died nine years ago, my father soothed his grief in drink. Ma’s church friends disapproved and disappeared. When Pa passed, we went to Uncle Uriah. It was—” Cold and frightening. But Mr. Bridge didn’t need to know that. “It was hard. Soon as I could, I taught music at a girls’ seminary, but I couldn’t leave Delia alone with him.” She glanced up to make sure he understood.

  When he nodded, she looked at her lap again. “That’s why Delia and I took the job here. Uncle Uriah didn’t give us much choice, true, and he knew we’d be singing in a liquor hall. But when he saw dollar signs, we saw freedom. Don’t misunderstand. Delia and I want no part of saloons. But taking this job?” She looked him square in the eye. “We’d be together, and the job would be temporary. Just until we could go to a bigger city and audition for something decent.”

  “And sing for your supper?” His eyes were soft.

  “Like Jenny Lind.” The Swedish Nightingale. It felt foolish to speak of her dream aloud, but she’d already blurted out her life story, so why not? “Did you hear her when P. T. Barnum brought her to America?”

  He shook his head. “I was running a ferry on the Rio Grande, but I read she was something.”

  “She was.” A smile pulled her lips at the memory. “She sang at the train station in Boston. People wept at her voice, including me. And you know, she made over three hundred thousand dollars touring America.” When his brows lifted, she leaned toward him an inch. “That’s when I knew my voice could save me and Delia.”

  Mr. Bridge’s gaze seemed to penetrate to her soul. “God did provide for you. He gave you your voice.”

  “I never thought of it that way. But since I heard Jenny Lind sing, I’ve kept this to remind me what I need to do.”

  She withdrew her token from her pocket and handed it to him. He weighed it in his callused palm, scrutinizing Jenny Lind’s face on the obverse and the lute on the reverse.

  Georgie scuttled from the floor and leaned on his legs. “I know what I need, too, Pa. More of Miss Lily’s cookies.”

  Clever girl. But Mrs. Phipps was right. Good manners required constant reinforcement. Lily leaned forward, as if about to impart a secret. “Perhaps Pa will say yes if you ask and say please.”

  “Please, Pa, I want a cookie?”

  “Just one.” He hadn’t finished speaking when she bolted from the salon.

  “Hmph. I suppose the letter E will have to wait.” Mrs. Phipps bent to scoop the slate from the floor, where Cat sniffed at it.

  “Tomorrow,” Lily began. It was hard to know how to phrase it. “Tomorrow Delia and I will figure something out.”

  He handed her the token. It was warm from his hand. “Not to worry.”

  After slipping the coin back in her pocket, Lily plunked her needle into the glove. Stopped. An acrid odor stung her nose. Her gaze flew to the low flames crackling in the hearth. And then she heard the soft cry.

  The mending fell from Lily’s hands. “Fire!”

  A cloud of smoke, thick and pungent, obscured the kitchen ceiling. Jackson hauled Georgie into his arms and passed her to Miss Red Kimball. “Get outside.”

  She bent to grab a bucket before she dashed out. Water. Smart. He reached under the dry sink for the pail of sand, keeping his gaze fixed on the skillet of smoking char atop the range. He’d smothered the mess before Fred arrived, heavy towels in hand.

  “No flames to beat out, but thanks.” A grating cough fought its way out Jackson’s chest. He reached into the dry sink where he’d noticed the kettle, but it was empty. He’d have to wait for a drink to wash the smoke out of his mouth. “Let’s air this place out.”

  “Agreed.” Fred dropped the towels on the table. Within seconds the sounds of his heavy boot steps and windows scritching open carried down to the kitchen.

  Miss Red returned with a sloshing bucket, but at seeing his inactivity, her shoulders relaxed. “Looks like you took care of it. What was it?”

  “Something on the stove. I should get it outside.” But the cast-iron skillet was too hot to handle without padding, like a towel. He turned to the drying peg and found it empty. “Where’s the dish towel?”

  “Drying on the veranda.” Her round cheeks pinked, but maybe it was the heat and smoke. “I found a clean one in the cupboard and hung it on the peg, though. Pretty bird embroidery on the hem in blues and greens.”

  The bird towel was the last one Paloma embroidered before the illness that took her. But he didn’t see any bits of blue in the towels Fred dumped on the table. He did, however, see a thread of azure on the less-burned half of the skillet. “You sure you hung it on the peg?”

  “Yes.” Then her widening eyes fixed on the skillet.

  He wrapped the handle in one of the bath towels and hauled the offending pan out the kitchen door. Georgie clutched Miss Yellow’s leg, but at the sight of him and Miss Red, she ran toward him, only to grip Red’s skirt. “Is the house burning?”

  “No, dear. We’re safe.” Miss Red’s voice soothed Georgie, but it needled Jackson.

  It had been a year since Georgie had gone to anyone but him for comfort, and it felt jarring. But he supposed it was a healthy sign, because his daughter needed more than him in her life, didn’t she? Unsettled, he dropped the skillet on the rocks under the pump. Water hit the hot pan with an angry hiss that echoed his jangled nerves.

  Miss Red looked to the veranda, where Aunt Martha sat in one of the Windsor chairs. “Are you well, Mrs. Phipps?”

  “It smells awful.” She waved her hand over her nose. A lone dish towel flapped on the banister before her. Dread pooled in Jackson’s gullet.

  “Georgie.” He kept his voice as calm and sweet as honeyed tea. “Did you put something on the stove when you went in for a cookie?”

  “No.” Georgie patted the mud under the pump.

  Red leaned into him, smelling like smoke and flowers. “She can’t reach the towel peg.”

  “I know. I had to ask.” He took a long, deep breath. “Aunt Martha said she put the kettle on. Except the kettle was empty and in the dry sink just now.”

  Lily’s mouth set in a grim line.

  His mouth probably looked the same, through the cleaning of the kitchen until dark, when he, Fred, and Georgie set up beds in the hayloft. Within a minute, Georgie fell asleep between Jackson and the wall, her thumb securely in her mouth.

  Jackson blew out his lantern and flopped atop his blanket—the loft was too warm to get under it. “I need Aunt
Martha to help with Georgie, Fred. I can’t keep doing this by myself.”

  “No, you can’t.” Fred shook out a quilt. “But maybe she isn’t the one to do it. The Kimball sisters are good with Georgie. And they owe you a heap of money. Seems like you could employ them until the coach comes.”

  “Whoa, there. Paloma wouldn’t want me leaving Georgie with saloon gals.”

  “Aw, you know they didn’t want to sing at a saloon. Sounds like that uncle of theirs was a harsh fellow, withholding food and blankets and such. Miss Delia told me.”

  Jackson’s jaw tensed. The uncle sounded unloving and greedy, sending his nieces to work in a saloon. But starving them, too? If he ever met the fellow—

  “Besides, Paloma would’ve been the first to welcome them into her home,” Fred added.

  She would’ve. Jackson’s jaw relaxed. Fred was right about another thing: the Kimball sisters weren’t quite what he’d judged them to be. Talking to Red tonight, he’d realized she and her sister had gumption. He couldn’t help but admire it, even if he wasn’t so sure about them flaunting themselves for cowpokes.

  Not that it was his business. “If Paloma were here, I wouldn’t be in the barn. I’d be in my own bed in the house.”

  “I don’t know ’bout that, because the house would’ve burned down if not for Miss Lily’s sniffer. She and Miss Delia cooked a fine meal, too. Can’t argue with eatin’ somethin’ other than Ol’ Bill’s snake stew. ’Sides, Miss Delia was pleasant company. I wouldn’t mind someone like her sharin’ my house, once it’s finished.” Fred blew out his lantern, but not fast enough to hide the blotch of color pinking his cheeks.

  Fred might be taken in, but Jackson wouldn’t be. Still, as he listened to the snuffles of his daughter, he couldn’t ignore the prickles of both the hay and his conscience irritating him. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that. ’Cause I bet breakfast will be even better than supper.”

  A hint of acrid smoke still pervaded the kitchen when Jackson sat at the table, but it was shooed away by tantalizing aromas when Red, pretty in a modest green dress, set the platter of bacon and fried eggs before him. Before he could blink she was at his side again with the coffeepot.

  Fred wiggled his brows. See? I told you so.

  After saying grace, Jackson cleared his throat. “Miss Kimball?”

  Red looked up from pouring Aunt Martha’s coffee. “There are two Miss Kimballs, so you might as well call me Lily.”

  It’d be hard not to call her Red, even in his mind. “Lily. Since you’re in town for two weeks with nowhere else to go, well, you can stay in the house for the duration. And if you still feel you’ve got to pay me back, I have an idea how.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, Mr. Bridge.” She sat in Paloma’s old chair. “How do you propose I find a hundred and fifty dollars in two weeks? Is there a gold mine on your property?”

  A chuckle escaped his throat. Her joke made this a bit easier. “My name’s Jackson. And I have something more precious than gold. Georgie. Could you watch her? Cook, too, if you’d be so kind?”

  Maybe in two weeks, God would have straightened everything out. Aunt Martha would be settled enough to take charge of Georgie. Or maybe someone else of high moral character would become available to watch his daughter.

  Aunt Martha dabbed her thin lips with her napkin. “With me as chaperone, the arrangement sounds suitable.”

  Delia’s tiny nod and eager eyes seemed to settle the deal for Lily, whose shoulders squared with determination and, no doubt, pride. “Thank you, Jackson. But I don’t think two weeks of housekeeping and childcare is equal to a hundred and fifty dollars. Room and board, perhaps—”

  “Plus a stipend.” Please don’t refuse.

  “I owe you more than I’d earn, and I will reimburse you, even if I must wire you the money at a future date. But for now, I’d be honored to watch Georgie in exchange for room and board. And a small stipend put toward my debt. For now.”

  Relief filled his stomach, warmer than the coffee and eggs. A mighty strange feeling, considering he didn’t want the gals here in the first place. But Fred was right. The Kimballs were good with Georgie, and despite their intention to work in a saloon, they seemed to be decent womenfolk.

  More than that, though, he’d prayed, and this seemed to be the best solution. For now, as Lily had said.

  He ruffled Georgie’s hair, which one of the Kimball gals had curled with Paloma’s old tongs. “That suit you, pumpkin?”

  Georgie shook her head.

  “No?” He and Lily said at the same time.

  Georgie’s arms folded. “I don’t think Miss Lily should be my watcher. I think she should be my mama.”

  Chapter 4

  Lily’d agreed to quite a lot when she accepted Jackson Bridge’s offer two days ago. Minding Georgie. Keeping house and a tacitly implied watchful eye on Mrs. Phipps. But being complicit in a man’s death?

  No, sir. Not if she could stop it.

  She turned from the kitchen window, wiping her damp hands on her apron. “Georgie, I need to run outside. Stay here, please.”

  “Yes’m.” Georgie didn’t look up from her perch at the kitchen table, where she tapped a wooden spoon against eight jars Lily had filled with different levels of water. Georgie’s favorite, the one filled one-eighth of the way, was as close to high C as Lily could manage, and the other seven jars sounded enough like the other notes on the C major scale that Lily had attempted solfège and taught Georgie a few tunes.

  Lily paused at the door. “You keep on singing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ all right?”

  “I’m not playing that song anymore, because I don’t want a lamb.” Georgie thunked the top of the E-note jar. “I want two birds and a mama.”

  And didn’t they all know it. But no one dared mention Georgie’s earlier suggestion that Lily become her mother, not after the glower that purpled Jackson’s face.

  Lily would no doubt make him scowl again in about thirty seconds. She stomped to the closest corral, where Jackson showed every indication of wanting to die.

  He couldn’t miss seeing her and the voluminous folds of her orange-and-white plaid dress, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Granted, if he tore his attention from the rearing bay mustang confined in the corral with him, he could be stomped to death. How did he manage to control it, tethering it with one hand while his other arm gripped a heavy saddle?

  Pride, that was how. And pride went before a fall, didn’t it? Even if it was rather impressive, the way he handled the mustang. Lily’s cheeks heated.

  Still, the man had nothing to prove. Lily climbed on the lowest rail of the rough-hewn corral, her boots hooking on the narrow mesquite. Maybe if he saw her, he’d stop. Jackson shouldn’t be alone with this wild beast. Its forelegs were hobbled, true, but it couldn’t seem to keep four hooves on the ground at once.

  Jackson tossed the saddle atop the bay. Reached under its belly to cinch it in place. The saddle stayed put, but the bay reared against the foreign weight. A hoof struck an inch from Jackson’s toe. Lily clutched the rail so hard a splinter pierced her palm.

  “Jackson Bridge, you want to leave Georgie an orphan?”

  He glanced at her before he refocused on the bay. “What’re you doing here, Red?”

  “You shouldn’t be doing that alone.” The horse reared again. Strange noises escaped its throat that sent goose pimples over her flesh.

  Jackson didn’t flinch, however. “Spent much time breaking horses in Boston, Red?”

  Lily snorted, sounding like the mustang. Of course she hadn’t broken a horse, but in the forty-eight hours she and Delia had resided at Bridge Ranch, her gaze had often drifted to Jackson at work—not because he was handsome, of course, but because the corral he favored was visible from the kitchen window. He’d broken half a dozen four-year-old mustangs yesterday. But every other time she’d peeked, there were others nearby to lend assistance.

  Not ten minutes ago, Jackson was helped
by a skinny fellow she’d met yesterday with the ironic name of Lard Jones. Lard wasn’t around now, although plenty of other ranch hands gathered around now that she was outside. Unlike Jackson, they gave her their attention, forgetting their tasks. Meanwhile, Jackson was nearly pummeled by the bay.

  “Wait for Lard before you get killed. And my name isn’t Red.” Though she didn’t mind the nickname. When he called her Red it caused her stomach to whoosh.

  “I’ve got a buyer for fifty gentled horses. No time to waste.” His lips curved into a saucy smile. “Although I appreciate your concern, Miss Red.”

  If he weren’t such an upstanding widower who didn’t like saloon gals, she might get the impression he was flirting with her. But that was impossible, so he must be mocking her. A stinging sensation prickled her innards. “Fine. Get stomped on by that horse. I won’t save you. More supper for the rest of us.”

  The man had the nerve to laugh. So did masculine voices behind her. Fred, Lard, and two ranch hands lingered behind her, grins splitting their sun-worn faces. Lard rested his blistered hand on the top of the corral. “You need saving, boss?”

  “Not from the horse.” Jackson’s smile grew.

  Lily wouldn’t bother them anymore, then. “Just because I watch your daughter doesn’t mean I’ll tend your ill-gotten wounds.”

  “Ain’t worth gettin’ hurt then, boss, if you cain’t get a lady to tend you!” Lard howled.

  Lily flushed hotter. Jackson laughed, and the horse yanked him off balance. He managed to hold on, though, while the mustang tugged him around the corral.

  Not that she’d laugh at his expense, as he had hers. But she couldn’t help smiling while he regained control. He lost his hat in the scuffle, but no body parts. When he managed to stand, every inch of him was caked in dirt.

  Except his teeth, which he flashed in a triumphant smile. “I’m still alive, Red. No need to refuse to tend me.”

  “I’ll find something to refuse. Like scrubbing those filthy clothes.”

  The men guffawed. The only decent creature out here was the mustang. She spun to return to the house, but the kitchen door scratched open, spilling Georgie, then Delia.