The Cattleman's Christmas Bride (Wells Cattle Company Book 2)

by Pam Crooks

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Author’s Note

  About Pam

  THE CATTLEMAN’S CHRISTMAS BRIDE

  Copyright © 2018, 2006 by Pam Crooks

  Cover Design: Killion Group

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or transmit this book, or a portion thereof, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  THE CATTLEMAN’S CHRISTMAS BRIDE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by, the trademark owners.

  Version 2018.10

  25,575 words.

  A thousand nights, he’d thought of her.

  Worried over what he’d done to her. If she could ever forgive him, and why would she?

  It was too much to hope for, her forgiveness. He didn’t deserve any of it, but God knew that didn’t stop him from wanting her. And that want was barreling through him like a locomotive, gathering steam the longer he stood here, touching her. Filling his head with ideas of ways to warm her faster and more pleasurable than the way he was doing it now.

  He swallowed down an oath and pulled his hands off her. He had to get out of the cabin, or he’d do something he’d regret later.

  “I have chores to do outside,” he muttered. “I’d best do them before the snow gets heavier.”

  And with that, he left.

  Chapter One

  Montana Territory

  December 23, 1886

  Ever since Allethaire Gibson had been kidnapped and held for ransom three years ago, nothing in her life had gone right.

  But this was the worst.

  She stared miserably through the train’s frosty window into the darkness outside and wondered how she’d fallen so low. What had she done to deserve such humiliation? And just when she’d begun to pull herself together, hold her head high and prove to everyone she was the same person she’d always been.

  She’d tried. So hard.

  After her horrific ordeal as a hostage in the wilds of Montana, she’d wasted no time in returning home to blessed civility in Minnesota. She’d gone to the usual parties with her friends, young and wealthy like herself. She’d frequented her favorite shops and restaurants. Had even indulged in a lavish European vacation--all to prove she was the same honest and upright woman as before.

  Allethaire Gibson, daughter of Paris Gibson, the respected and forward-thinking industrialist.

  Except it wasn’t long before she discovered everything had changed.

  She had changed.

  Minnesota didn’t feel like home anymore. At least, not like it used to. And Allethaire knew why. What everyone thought. She knew what they said when her back was turned.

  That her reputation was ruined. That she’d become a fallen woman while living with a band of outlaws.

  It wasn’t true.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Allethaire thought she’d found her salvation in the Ladies Literary Aid Society. She’d worked tirelessly to promote her idea for a new library to be built in Minneapolis. The design had been breathtaking, exciting, modern. With the city’s growing population, the need for such a fine exhibit of civilization and culture had been clear, and eventually, after more of her hard work raising funds, the money had rolled in by the fistfuls.

  She should have succeeded in restoring respectability to herself. But something had gone wrong, and she was too blind, too naïve, to see it coming.

  Her fingers closed over the slender, brown bottle tucked in her handbag. Now, here she was, fleeing in the middle of the night like a common criminal--back to Montana, of all places.

  Her despair begged for solace in the brandy she kept hidden, but she didn’t dare allow herself the privilege of taking a swallow. Not even a little bracing one. No one on this crowded train could see her need to cope. Her abominable weakness.

  She had to stay alert, even though she hovered on the edge of exhaustion. She had to appear strong and not the coward she really was.

  Her eyes welled on a wave of renewed misery, and she leaned her head back against the thin cushion, letting her body absorb the rocking motion of the wheels hurtling along the tracks. In her haste to leave Minneapolis, she’d been forced to take one of the few remaining coach fares left on the St. Paul, Minneapolis and Manitoba Railway train headed west, a far cry from the comfort of the Pullman private car in which she was accustomed to traveling. No reclining chairs, no warm berth, no plush and pampered privacy.

  But what did it matter?

  As far as everyone was concerned, Allethaire was just another ordinary passenger, a woman journeying alone and packed into her seat with other wayfarers, like a sardine in a can.

  For the first time in her life, she was glad no one knew who she was. It was easier that way.

  Feeling little of the heat from the stove behind the long row of seats, she crossed her arms and huddled deeper inside her wool coat. Snores from the slack-jawed travelers stretched out around her warred with her tired brain. How could anyone get comfortable under such tight quarters? How could anyone sleep?

  Amazingly enough, however, her lashes drifted closed, and she did.

  She awoke, disoriented and cold, and flooded with a sense that something wasn’t right.

  Sunlight stretched in through the dull windows. Allethaire sat bolt upright and grappled to find her purse, then discovered it was exactly where she’d kept it. Tucked against her chest. A quick check revealed nothing missing--her money, her handkerchief, her hand mirror, a few folded papers. Her brandy. They were all there, and oh, thank God, she hadn’t been robbed while she slept.

  “Someone is riding along the tracks.” Sitting next to her, a matronly woman with cheeks pinkened from the chill leaned forward and rubbed at the glass with her coat sleeve. The accent threading her words revealed her German heritage. “Ach! That is strange.”

  Allethaire blinked in confusion. She scrambled to focus. “What?”

  “See him?” The woman tapped a gloved finger against the pane. She peered closer. “What is he doing out there?”

  Allethaire stared like an owl at the man indeed riding close to the train, but in the next moment, he was gone, left behind by the propelling locomotive.

  Distracted, she swiveled her glance toward the opposite set of windows. Toward mountains and unforgiving range sprawled beneath somber gray clouds as far as she could see.

  Montana Territory, as wild and desolate as ever.

  She’d hated this part of the country once. Three years ago. She hated having to come back now.

  “Where are we?” she asked to one in particular.

  “Helena, coming up.” A scholarly-looking man in spectacles and a wrinkled tweed suit stared out the window, too.

  Allethaire’s heart tripped. They were closer to Great Falls than she thought. One more stop, and her journey
would end. A wary desperation from seeing her father again--and telling him all the things he didn’t yet know--fluttered through her, leaving her feeling sick to her stomach.

  The woman beside her settled back into her seat.

  “My name is Margaret Butterfield,” she said, venturing a smile.

  Allethaire endured a stab of guilt. She’d made no attempt to be friendly since boarding the Manitoba; in fact, she made a pointed effort to keep to herself, but to refuse to respond to Margaret’s friendliness now would be blatantly rude.

  Still, she chose a careful response. “Mine is Allie.”

  She hadn’t been called that since she was a child, but the less anyone knew about her, the better. Especially her name, which had always been much too distinctive.

  “Are you coming to Montana to celebrate Christmas with your family?” Margaret asked.

  “No.” Allethaire had given little thought to the holiday, though it was only a couple of days away. “I won’t be staying out here long.”

  Not any longer than she had to. Besides, her father’s social calendar was likely filled with a wide array of Christmas gatherings, just as hers would be had she stayed in Minneapolis and her life hadn’t taken such a horrifying turn for the worse. Her father wouldn’t have time to be with her anyway, even if he wanted to.

  Which he wouldn’t, once he learned the truth.

  A sudden craving for the brandy hidden in her purse gripped her.

  “Oh?” The woman nodded, encouraging Allethaire to continue. “Then where will you go?”

  “South.” The word dropped from Allethaire’s tongue without her conscious thought. “Somewhere south.”

  “Where it is warmer.”

  Allethaire shivered. “Much warmer.”

  Yes, that’s what she’d do. Go south. Texas, maybe, with its millions of acres. Or really south to South America. No one would find her there, at least not easily, and she could use the time to find the answers she needed. To figure out what she’d done wrong.

  But her eyes burned from a sudden sting of tears and the glaring truth that she didn’t want to go south at all.

  “No husband, dear?” Margaret patted Allethaire’s knee in sympathy. “Or children to keep you at home?”

  Allethaire knew she meant well and likely interpreted Allethaire’s weepiness for loneliness. Or maybe she only kept up her nosy chatter to pass the time until the train reached Helena.

  Whatever her intentions, her query touched a spot inexplicably raw. Allethaire latched onto her composure. “I’m afraid I’m too busy to have need of a husband. I have greater”--she almost choked on the word--“aspirations for my life.”

  “Aspirations. Hmm.” Margaret didn’t seem to know what to make of it. “But what better way to share them than with a man who loves you?”

  Allethaire blinked fast and fought an overwhelming feeling of loss. Frustration, too, and the unmistakable sensation of her life spiraling out of control.

  She clutched her purse to her chest. Her fingers found the familiar shape of the slender bottle inside.

  “Excuse me, Margaret,” she said, rising unsteadily to her feet. “I--I must go to the lavatory.”

  But the train unexpectedly lurched and threw her off balance. She yelped in surprise and fell back into her seat.

  Scree-eech. Hiss, Hiss, Hiss. Scree-eech.

  The bespectacled gentleman across from her jerked his glance to the window and frowned. “We’re slowing down.”

  Movement in the glass startled Allethaire. Blurred shapes of men riding alongside the tracks. In a flash, they were gone.

  “Why are we stopping?” Margaret asked, bewildered.

  “Have we reached Helena already?” Allethaire asked.

  But that didn’t seem possible. She could see nothing of the town. Not a hint of civilization. Only mountains and the endless Montana range.

  Muffled shouts sounded from outside. Somewhere toward the back, male voices, their words indecipherable.

  Clunk! Something--or someone--landed against the door.

  Scree-eech. Hiss, Hiss, Hiss. Scree-eech.

  Allethaire gripped her seat. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, for the Manitoba to stop now, in this desolate stretch of territory.

  Pop!

  A gunshot! Another pop! confirmed it, and oh, God, oh, God, what was happening out there?

  Murmurs rippled through the passengers, each of them as alarmed as Allethaire. Heads twisted toward the rear. A few men stood, their stances revealing their intention to march past the row of seats and see for themselves what was transpiring.

  But before any of them could, the door burst open.

  The train’s conductor stumbled forward with his arm twisted behind his back. Blood trickled down his left temple.

  Collective gasps went up.

  Allethaire couldn’t breathe.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” someone shouted.

  A red bandanna covered the face of the man holding the trainman captive. He kept his revolver pressed to the conductor’s head and pushed him forward, past the stove, into the aisle.

  “What do you want?” another man yelled.

  “A woman,” the outlaw gritted. His gaze raked over each passenger’s face.

  Until he found hers.

  “Her name is Allethaire Gibson.”

  Chapter Two

  Mick Vasco pounded the last staple into the fence post, gave the barbed wire a testing tug, and called it a morning.

  He’d been out riding fence since just after dawn, and the Montana cold had seeped into his bones but good. He’d already sent the rest of the fencing crew back to the line camp. By the time he joined them, they’d have the big enamel pot brewing with plenty of blistering hot coffee for all of them.

  Mick hooked his hammer onto his saddle, but delayed mounting up. The air carried the smell of impending snow, a crisp scent that slid through his nostrils and reminded him that here in the valley, they'd yet to feel the brunt of a true Montana blizzard. Soon, he knew, they would, and a renewed anticipation to head back to camp swept through him.

  Still, caught up in the peace and silence, he lingered beside his horse. His pensive gaze snagged on the Bear Tooth Mountains in the distance, their peaks already tipped with pristine white. At the foothills, thousands of acres of rangeland stretched in every direction. Beside him. Behind him. Around him.

  It boggled his mind sometimes, all that rangeland. The fact that it was half his, especially.

  The Wells Cattle Company. Split right down the middle with his half-brother, Trey Wells. His heritage. His legacy. Hard-won after a lifetime of denial and deceit and hell, why was he thinking of all that now?

  Mick's mouth tightened. Because he still hurt from his father's betrayal. Likely always would, too. Three years ago, upon finding out Sutton Wells had raped Mick's mother, a Basque woman, Mick had lashed out and made some stupid decisions. Before everything was said and done, an innocent woman had been kidnapped, a man had been killed, and Mick had gone to jail for his sins.

  Turning grim from his ruminating, he swung up into the saddle. But the mood dug in and wouldn't let go.

  He'd paid the price for his stupidity, and Mick had no intention of making the same mistakes again. He'd gotten what he wanted. His rightful inheritance. His place in the Wells empire.

  Times like now, though, when he was left alone to contemplate the immensity of the WCC, the self-doubt crept in. Like a flock of angry crows pecking away at his confidence and pride and exposing the raw flesh of... unworthiness.

  If not for the unfortunate circumstances of his conception, Mick knew too well he'd never be able to claim a spread as fine as the WCC. He wouldn’t own a horse as well-bred as this one, either. A golden palomino quick on his feet and trained for cattle. He'd done nothing to deserve the privilege of being a Wells. Not like Trey, who'd grown up working day in and day out alongside Sutton to build the ranch into the respected, powerful operation it was today.

  Mick
pulled the collar of his coat closer to his ears and pinned his gaze on the foothills. Therein laid his roots. A small Basque village where every sheepherder and his family struggled to survive. With the winter barreling into their lives, they'd struggle to stay warm, too, and find enough food to eat.

  A tight sigh of worry slid through his teeth. Mick felt guilty for his comforts, all right. The birthright which assured he'd have all the food and warmth he needed.

  With more and more clarity, he'd begun to realize he had a responsibility to his Basque family. He had to find a way to help his people, to ensure them a future as stable, as promising as his own.

  He didn't have an inkling of how, though. Or where to begin.

  A distracted part of his brain registered the sound of a train clattering down the tracks behind him. Lured by his troubled thoughts, he nudged the palomino forward and contemplated that long line of fence instead. Funny how those wooden posts and barbed wire symbolized his new life. How he'd begun to earn his place in the WCC. By learning the ropes from the ground up. Digging posts and stringing barbed wire, like any lowly cowboy in the outfit. Without regard that he was half-owner of the land the fence held in. Or that he was part Basque--

  Suddenly, a gunshot echoed throughout the valley, and Mick's head whipped toward the sound. A pair of riders approached the train--the St. Paul, Minneapolis and Manitoba on its regular run--and damned if the steam engine hadn't started to slow.

  Scree-eech. Hiss, Hiss, Hiss. Scree-eech.

  Mick reached for his Winchester. No reason for that train to stop out here. No reason but trouble.

  He shot a quick glance behind him. He half-hoped to see someone from the outfit coming out to check on him and give him a hand, but there was no one.

  Except him.

  Mick had no intention of letting that train get robbed on WCC land. He knew for a fact the Manitoba carried passengers west. Innocent folks who'd be powerless to defend themselves or their belongings against thievery.

  Damn it to hell.

  He spurred his horse after the train and braced himself for what laid ahead.