The Cowboy’s Bride Collection: 9 Historical Romances Form on Old West Ranches
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The Cowboy Poet © 2016 by Susan Page Davis
For a Song © 2016 by Susanne Dietze
Crazy about Cait © 2016 by Nancy J. Farrier
Love’s Sweet Storm © 2016 by Miralee Ferrell
The Reformed Cowboy © 2016 by Darlene Franklin
A Texan’s Surprise © 2016 by Vickie McDonough
The Wrangler’s Woman © 2016 by Davalynn Spencer
Cowboy Competition © 2016 by Becca Whitham
The Cowgirl’s Lasso © 2016 by Jaime Jo Wright
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-525-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-744-4
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-745-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations marked ESV are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in Canada.
Table of Contents
The Cowboy Poet
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
For A Song
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Crazy About Cait
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Love’s Sweet Storm
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
The Reformed Cowboy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A Texan’s Surprise
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Wrangler’s Woman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Cowboy Competition
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
The Cowgirl’s Lasso
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
THE COWBOY POET
By Susan Page Davis
Chapter 1
June 1, 1880
Near Beaumont, Texas
Have a safe journey, Henry.” Rilla Lane held up a small basket. “I’ve packed you a lunch, for on the train.”
The old man sitting on the wagon seat looked at the basket for a moment, his eyes wide, then reached out for it. “Bless you, Miss Rilla. That’s mighty kind of you.”
“Just being practical. I know from experience the food you can buy along the way is expensive—and not always the best. I wish I could go with you as far as the station.”
The young cowboy holding the reins leaned forward and looked at her. “You’re welcome to come along, Miss Rilla.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Bat, but Mama and I will be doing the washing today. Mama’s still not very strong, and she’ll need me.”
“I expect you’re right.” Bat Wilson’s brown eyes held her gaze. He had come to the ranch during Rilla’s absence at school. She’d seen him working around the barn and the corrals with the other ranch hands but hadn’t had much opportunity to get to know him. So far, she liked what she saw, and she’d heard nothing bad about him.
She’d seen how considerate he was to Henry, too. The old ranch hand was retiring, going to live with his daughter in Galveston. Bat had loaded Henry’s bedroll and his old, worn saddle into the back of the wagon as carefully as if they were blown crystal.
“You ride old Bluebell for me once in a while.” Henry’s smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Don’t let her get stiff.”
“I will,” Rilla promised.
“Don’t know why I’m even taking my saddle,” Henry muttered, glancing back at his few bits in the wagon bed.
“You’ll ride another horse in Galveston,” Bat said. “You know you’re not done ridin’, Hen.”
“I dunno.” Henry’s face scrunched up, as though just the thought of mounting a horse made his muscles ache.
Woolly, his black-and-white spaniel, ran across the dooryard and barked. He put his front paws up against the wagon’s frame near Henry’s boots and wagged his tail.
“No, fella, you can’t come,” Henry said sadly.
“You sure?” Bat asked. “They’d put him in the baggage car. Wouldn’t cost much.”
Henry shook his head. “My Annie’s got babies and a small house. She said no critters.”
Rilla gently pulled Woolly down and stroked his silky head. “Sit, boy.” The dog immediately sank to his haunches. “Don’t you worry about him, Henry. We’ll take good care of him.”
Henry cracked a smile. “That’s good of you. Now, don’t let him chase the wagon.”
“I won’t.”
Henry looked down at the dog that watched his every move. “Woolly, roll over for me one more time, boy.” As he spoke, he gave a subtle signal, wiggling his index finger in a circle.
Woolly flopped ove
r on his back and rolled over then stood gazing at his master, waiting for praise.
“Good dog. Now sit. You guard Miss Rilla, y’hear?” Henry nodded to Bat, who gathered the reins and clucked to the horses.
Rilla stood with her hand on Woolly’s head, in case the dog tried to bolt after them. Woolly tensed but kept his position, his tail jerking back and forth as the wagon rolled up the lane.
Rilla closed the cupboard on the clean supper dishes and hung up her apron. The sun was low in the west, but it hadn’t set, and she might snatch an hour before dark. She hurried to her room and grabbed her composition book, a pencil, a hat, and the short jacket she wore around the ranch. At the finishing school in Philadelphia, the worn coat would be forbidden and she would have used a fringed shawl. She missed school, but the ranch had some compensations, including her comfortable old clothes.
She slipped out the back door before Mama could see her and give her another chore. Rilla didn’t mind working all day—that was what she had come home for. If she had stayed in the East, she’d be working, too, probably as a teacher. But surely she had earned an hour of leisure after doing laundry and housework all day, not to mention bottle feeding the two orphaned calves and ironing her father’s shirts.
One of the ponies in the corral whickered, and she veered her steps to pat him. Three others drifted over for attention, jostling the first gelding aside.
“Oh, are you jealous?” Rilla stroked each one’s muzzle in turn and scratched beneath their forelocks. Henry’s aging mare seemed especially to love that. “Hello, Bluebell.”
“Did you want to ride, Miss Rilla?”
She whirled and found Bat Wilson and Woolly a couple of yards behind her.
“No thanks, Bat. I need to start riding again, but tonight I thought I’d do some writing.” She held up her composition book. “Seems like I never get time for it.”
“I know your ma appreciates having you home.”
She smiled. “I think she does. But I need to finish a piece this week.”
“You have some kind of… like, a deadline?” Bat asked.
Rilla felt warmth flood her cheeks. “Sort of. It’s a contest. I promised one of my instructors I would enter, and if I don’t get my poem off soon, it won’t be on time.”
“You write poems?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Well, I try.” Some of her teachers had thought her poems were quite good, but she could hardly tell him that. She stooped to pet Woolly. “Do you think he’s figured out yet that Henry’s gone?”
“I don’t think so, not for sure. He’s a pretty smart dog, though.”
Rilla laughed. “That’s the truth. Henry could teach him any trick he wanted. This is my favorite. Bend over.”
“Huh?”
“Lean down like this.” She demonstrated, bowing from her waist.
Bat copied her, watching her from beneath the broad brim of his hat.
“Woolly,” she said, and when she had the dog’s attention, she gave a little salute. At once, Woolly leaped up and knocked Bat’s hat to the ground.
“Hey!” He stood up, laughing. “That’s pretty good.”
“Isn’t it?” She gave Woolly an extra pat. “Well, I’d better get going, or it’ll be dark. Good evening.” She walked away, toward the creek, where she had found a special spot years ago. A large willow branch jutted out from the tree less than three feet off the ground. Rilla climbed up carefully and settled in the curve of the branch. She hadn’t outgrown her favorite perch.
She opened the notebook and looked through the last few pages she had written. Miss Saxon had praised her writing highly. She had urged Rilla to think about becoming a published writer, perhaps while she taught other young women to love literature as much as she did. The teaching position would pay her expenses while she established herself as a writer, and she might enjoy a career at it. Rilla had embraced the idea—until Mama took ill.
Last spring her mother had suffered from severe pneumonia. Terribly worried, Rilla had nearly left school a month early. But her father had told her to finish out the term, and her teachers had encouraged her to do so, since she was so close to graduating. Pa’s telegram saying Mama had rallied was enough, and she had received her diploma in May. Her parents weren’t able to attend the graduation, but that was all right. Mama was getting better. The next morning, Rilla had boarded a train for Texas. By the time she got home, Mama was sitting up and able to exclaim over the beauty of Rilla’s diploma, which now hung, framed, in the parlor.
Rilla poised her pencil over the first blank page. Miss Saxon had extolled the freshness of her voice. Confused as to what that meant, Rilla had asked her. The beloved teacher had replied that it was her attitude in writing. Rilla was from the West. Her essays and stories, but especially her poems, didn’t sound stuffy and suffocated like those of some of the city girls, the teacher said.
Now Rilla was home and in the middle of the wide, wild places that gave her that voice. She should be able to write even better poems. She looked out beyond the creek, to the distant hills for inspiration. She ought to be able to write something new and stirring about this vast, rolling land. She put her pencil to the paper.
From afar I see the punchers riding in.
In the city, I never saw a vista of the sort.
With buildings pressing all around, I’d spin
And long for Texas and my faithful horse.
She reread her effort and curled her lip. It was awful! Just horrible. Now, the poem she had sent to the Canfield Magazine last month, that was a fine example of verse. She almost wished she hadn’t sent it to the editor to consider for publication, so she could send it now to the contest. With a big sigh, she turned the page. She would have to try harder, that was all.
She leaned back to think, but instead of panoramic views and Texas’s turbulent grandeur, a dark-haired cowboy with bright eyes filled her mind.
When had Bat become the object of her reverie? Shortly after she returned home, if the truth were told. He could ride and rope with the best of them, and he always seemed eager to do his part of the work. In fact, she’d seen him come in late one afternoon from stringing fence, and instead of heading right into the bunkhouse, he had stopped to help another cowboy, Zeke, finish his own work—the unsavory job of cleaning the harness. Pa periodically assigned the task to one of the hands.
Rilla wasn’t sure why she was so attracted to Bat. Sure, he was nice looking, in a fresh-off-the-range sort of way. His kindness to others had something to do with it, and probably the fact that he was still an unknown to her. His background was a blank so far as she was concerned, and Rilla had learned at school that young ladies found a mysterious man appealing. She’d laughed when her friend Alicia had put that idea forth, but maybe it was true. Bat fit her concept of the tall, dark stranger, and he certainly did intrigue her. She began to write.
The dark-haired stranger rides in from the north.
Who is he? How long will he stay?
Townsfolk watch him from
Rilla stopped with a sigh. What rhymed with north, anyway? Forth, she supposed. In a pinch, worth, but she didn’t care for approximate rhymes. She erased from and wrote:
Townsfolk watch him as he rides forth
And wonder what will be his sway.
She frowned critically at the lines, sighed, and turned to another page. At this rate she would need a new tablet the next time Pa sent one of the men into town for supplies.
All right, instead of the mysterious stranger, how about if she wrote something about the typical rancher. These men weren’t like city dwellers, it was true. They faced dangers every day, but they never seemed to dither about it. Instead, they met each new challenge with determination and hard work. She began to write again.
Spare and lean, the ranchman gathers his gear
For a day in the hills, chasing the steers.
Lariat, boots, pistol and chaps,
Bridle and blanket, strings and straps.
He packs light, only what he might need
To face the next cattleman’s deed.
A knife, lest the unexpected comes up;
A few matches, courage, and a small tin cup.
She sneered at her own work. A small tin cup. Where did that come from? She was at the mercy of her rhyme scheme again. She turned the page and chewed the end of her pencil. She’d better forget about the cowboys and go back to her feelings. She did better when she thought about the grand scheme of things, not one particular cowboy.
She scrawled two more lines and stopped. Hopeless. Utterly hopeless. She ripped the page from her composition book. Crumpling it, she was startled by a sharp bark. Woolly burst from the underbrush near the creek and dashed toward her, yipping at full volume.
Rilla laughed. “Hello, Woolly. Where have you been?” She loved the silly little mutt. No one but Henry had paid him much attention. She would have to make good on her promise to take care of him. She wondered what Henry had fed him. Scraps, probably. Her father would certainly balk at spending any money on food for a dog.
As Bat swung the corral gate to, Mr. Lane came from the ranch house.
“You seen my daughter, Wilson?”
“Yes, sir, about half an hour ago.”
“You know where she’s at?”
Bat shook his head. “She said she was going to find a place to do some writing.”
The boss made a disapproving sound in his throat. “Maybe she’s up on the knoll, watching the sunset. That girl hadn’t ought to be out by herself after dark.”
Mr. Lane spoke gruffly, and he was often strict with the men about their work, but he did seem to care about his daughter. Bat had to think he had a soft spot somewhere in his heart.
The boss strode away, toward a low hill about a quarter mile west. Once you topped that rise, you could see bigger hills in the distance, and Bat allowed it was a fine place to watch the sun go down. But what if Rilla wasn’t up there? Maybe she’d gone down to the creek. He hadn’t seen which way she took while he put the horses out to pasture, but Woolly had gone off in that direction shortly after she’d left. The twilight was thickening. Bat settled his hat firmly and set off for the creek.
He spotted her walking toward him before he was halfway to the stream. He knew it was her in the dusk. Her flowing skirts betrayed her identity—that and Woolly. The dog’s white patches stood out clearly. Even if he hadn’t yapped the moment he saw Bat, he would have given her away by his spotted coat.