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

by Susan Page Davis, Vickie McDonough, Susanne Dietze, Nancy J. Farrier, Miralee Ferrell, Darlene Franklin, Davalynn Spencer, Becca Whitham

  Where had that come from? She’d never intended to compete. But, now she’d made the offer, would he take her up on it? Her stomach cinched like someone pulled her buckle too tight.

  “Thought you wasn’t competing.”

  Panic fluttered in Nia’s stomach. “I’m not. I just… uh…”

  His eyes twinkled. “You might as well straight up say whatever your hemmin’ and hawin’ over.”

  It was almost word for word what she’d said to him yesterday. She pressed both hands against her stomach. “If you must know, my father has asked me to help judge the competitors’ character. I figure getting in the middle of things is one way to do that.”

  The hand rubbing his shoulder lifted to his lips and tugged at a corner.

  They were such nice lips. Nicer than whatever-his-name-was in the barn eight years ago.

  Nia bit at a rough patch on her bottom lip, hoping the pain would keep her from doing something stupid like stepping forward and puckering.

  “You any good?”

  How would she know? She’d never been kissed! Wait… he meant at roping and penning. Nia leaned on her left leg and stopped nibbling. “Better at heading than heeling, and I’ll put my horse up against any for penning.”

  He considered her for a long moment. “All right.”

  A grin split open the tear on her abused lip. The pain was inconsequential compared with gaining his approval. A squeak of door hinges behind her spun Nia around.

  Her father ambled down the back porch and headed toward them. Unlike the last time he’d caught her alone with a man, there was no fire in his eyes or urgency in his stride. “Good morning, Petunia. Might I ask what you are about at this hour?”

  Nia stepped sideways so he could join the conversation. “I was asking Mr.—” She turned to the cowboy wide-eyed.

  “Lane.”

  She blew out a breath and returned her attention to her father. “I was asking Mr. Lane to partner with me for the team events. He’s agreed.”

  Papa’s head tilted right. “Lane, is it? I know that name.”

  The cowboy went still, his shoulders high. “Yes, sir. I expect you do.”

  Nia looked back and forth between the two men. She was missing something. “Do you know each other?”

  Papa stuck out his hand. “Arthur Lindley. We’ve never been formally introduced, but I’m a friend of A. J. Miller. He told me all about his hired hand’s loco idea to train wild mustangs for riding and herding cattle.”

  Mr. Lane took Papa’s hand, his shoulders hitching down. “Toby Lane, sir, and that loco hired hand would be me.”

  Letting go of the handshake, Papa swung his left hand toward a nearby bench. “Have a seat. Miller thinks you might be on to something.”

  Toby urged his legs to move. They obeyed. Which was almost as startling as not being booted off the ranch the instant he said his name. He sat on the stone bench, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble.

  Mr. Lindley sat like a man who carried too much flesh on his bones, though his suit hung loose. “Okay, Lane, tell me your idea.”

  It took a moment to swallow the tension lodged in his throat. “Well, sir, last time I was driving cattle I come across a field of dead horses. Worst thing I ever seen, counting the one battle I was in during the war.”

  “You got off lucky, then, son.”

  Toby’s breath hitched at the word. No one had called him son in close to eighteen years. That this man, of all people, used the term would have dropped him to his knees if he wasn’t already sitting. He eased air in and out of his lungs. “A few days later I come up on a company of soldiers walking across the prairie and heard what happened. Seems their shipment of oats got delayed. The horses plumb starved to death ’cause they couldn’t survive just eatin’ on the native grasses.”

  Mr. Lindley scooted sideways on the bench, allowing his daughter to sit beside him. “I see. So you think the answer is capturing horses who don’t need oats to supplement their diet, and train them?”

  Miss Lindley squinted at him. “But that’s crazy. Those horses can’t be tamed.”

  Toby grinned. “Tell that to the horse that won the calf-roping competition yesterday.”

  Her eyes went wide. “I wondered what breed he was.”

  Pride bubbled inside his chest. Not the muted kind—like when Sadie Miller praised his efforts—but the honest-to-goodness kind that made a man do outrageous things just to see a woman like Petunia Lindley go slack-jawed.

  “Last I checked,” Mr. Lindley broke the spell, “the army wasn’t buying mustangs.”

  “Not yet.” Toby dropped his eyes to his lap. He couldn’t keep staring at Miss Lindley. “But they gotta be tired of shipping oats and purchasing hundreds of horses every year to replace the ones dying off.” He raised his head to look at Mr. Lindley. “It might take a couple years, but I’m betting the army’ll pay fistfuls for large numbers of well-trained horses who can survive on the prairie.”

  Mr. Lindley leaned back and scratched at his sideburns. “You a betting man, Mr. Lane?”

  “Not on cards, but on just about everything else.” It took years to admit it. Years of denying any part of his father resided in his soul. “Every man’s a gambler, Mr. Lindley. Even you.”

  Miss Lindley’s brown eyes stretched wide.

  Mr. Lindley’s lips pursed tight.

  Toby reached for the button around his neck before remembering it now lay buried with his mother a few feet away. He dropped his hands and rubbed them on his thighs. “Way I see it, ranching’s nothin’ but a bet you can make more money selling cattle than you put into feed, medicine, and driving them to market.”

  Mr. Lindley’s lips relaxed a bit. His daughter sat straighter, her brown eyes no longer stretched wide.

  The easing of their hostility was both comforting and confusing. Did Mr. Lindley not know whom the Double L was named for? Not even in combination with a discussion about gambling? Toby’s chest ached with the possibility. “What’s this here cowboy competition if not a bet that the expense of hosting it’ll pay off by finding a man who increases your profits by managing cattle and cowhands well.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Lindley pressed the sound through still-tight lips. “While I concede you’ve made a fair point, I don’t approve of gambling, Mr. Lane. Not with cards or on the outcome of races or any of the thousand other ways men lose what they can’t afford betting on silliness.”

  So he didn’t know! A man who didn’t gamble must not have beaten Lawrence Lane at poker with the Double L as the prize.

  “I never bet on that kind of thing, sir.”

  If only that was enough to break the curse.

  Chapter 6

  Nia sat on her bay horse gripping her rope and staring straight ahead. Toby Lane was on the other side of the chute as they waited their turn at the team roping competition. Her stomach flopped like a caught fish.

  “Thought you said you was good at this, miss.”

  “I am!” She had no right to be angry at the man, yet she was.

  “Well, you’re makin’ your horse nervous, which is givin’ Blaze fits, too.”

  Nia sucked in a deep breath, held it, and blew out with a deliberate whoooosh so her partner could hear. But Galahad still danced beneath her. She leaned down and whispered, “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”

  The cowboy holding the chute closed glanced at her, then looked over at Toby. “You two ready?”

  “Yes.” Nia spoke between gritted teeth. But, of course, the cowboy ignored her. Kept his eyes on Lane.

  Same way her father had ignored her after their chat about rounding up and training wild mustangs. It was foolishness. Nonsense. Just because Lane trained one horse didn’t mean—

  The chute opened.

  She jerked the reins. Galahad reared up. Nia got him under control and raced out, swirling her rope above her head, but the calf had a good start on them. Should she toss the rope this far away? Risk missing the head to make up time?

&nbs
p; “Not yet, Petunia. Hold on.”

  How dare he tell her what to do! And call her by her first name—her full, hated first name—without permission! She tossed. And missed.

  Laughter surrounded her. Fueled her fury. She gathered up the rope, looping it until she had a good coil, and started twirling it over her head again.

  She edged closer to the calf.

  Too close.

  Backed off.

  Tossed again.

  The moment her rope circled the calf’s horns, she reined left and turned to watch Lane rope the calf’s feet. She pulled right bringing Galahad to a halt, the calf stretched between horses.

  “Good!” The competition judge threw his hand in the air, signaling the timers to stop.

  But it wasn’t good. It was horrible. And entirely her fault.

  Swirling red dust stung her eyes, making them blur, but not enough that she couldn’t see her father shaking his head as he checked their time. The judge who’d followed them as they chased the calf down dismounted and released the ropes. The calf ran off, Nia didn’t care where.

  Lane trotted next to her. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” She tapped Galahad’s sides and galloped for the fence.

  Hoofbeats followed, grew louder, pounded inside her chest. Lane came alongside. “You don’t wanna talk, fine by me. But, until you do, you find yourself a new partner for team penning.” He galloped ahead, quickly reaching the fence line where gawking spectators wagged their heads and smirked.

  Nia slowed Galahad to a trot. She needed to calm down. Papa had told her a hundred times not to get emotional when things went wrong. To reason things out. Be logical.

  In other words, be a man.

  But she wasn’t a man, and she couldn’t stuff her emotions into a pocket and ride on.

  Some cowboy from who knows where shows up with an idea to break wild horses, and Papa seriously considers the idea. His own daughter tells him it’s crazy, and he waves her off like a fly buzzing around his head.

  Which didn’t make sense if he expected her to run the ranch someday.

  Nia swayed in the saddle. What if he didn’t? What if he’d simply been humoring her all these years—letting her play cowboy—to make up to her for the loss of Mama?

  Three years ago, when Marigold pleaded to attend that hoity-toity finishing school back East, Nia pleaded with her father to say no. Papa scolded her for being selfish. “Your sister needs to find her own way through her grief.”

  Like Nia had found her way wearing wool pants, leather chaps, and spurs?

  Mama had been the perfect blend between rancher’s wife and society hostess. She rode out every morning with Papa to check over the cattle and discuss business with him, then in the afternoon, effortlessly planned a dance or hosted a tea.

  After her death, had Nia become one side and Marigold the other?

  Head swirling, Nia gripped the saddle horn to keep from falling.

  Was her desire to run the Double L because she wanted to or because she needed to feel close to her mother?

  She reached the gate separating her from the spectators. Fighting the urge to bolt, to ride until the questions tormenting her spirit were answered, Nia drew Galahad to a walk and waded into the crowd. A few people called words of consolation, most avoided eye contact altogether. Ahead, she saw Toby Lane, still mounted on his horse. She needed to apologize, and she would.

  After a good cry.

  Toby picked his way through the crowd on his way back to his campsite. Blaze needed to cool down then be fed and watered. And sometime before tomorrow afternoon, Toby needed to find a new partner. But why bother? Whatever lead he’d had after the calf-roping competition was long gone.

  “You packing it up, Scrubby?”

  He looked to his right. Sure enough, Peltzer leaned against the fence with a group of cowboys surrounding him. Toby restrained the urge to gallop straight into their midst and scatter them like rats. He kept Blaze at a sedate walk.

  Apparently that didn’t sit well with Peltzer, because ten seconds later the cowpoke’s hand grabbed Blaze’s bridle and yanked down. “You listen to me, Scrubby; you stay away from Miss Lindley. She’s mine. You hear me? Mine. I’m gonna marry her, and when I’m running the Double L, there ain’t no way you’re gonna be let within ten miles of it.”

  Toby lifted his right leg and positioned it near Peltzer’s gut. “You let go of my horse or there won’t be enough left of you to marry anybody, you hear?”

  Peltzer let go and took a step back, a tinge of surprise—and fear—in his eyes.

  On one hand, the reaction was disappointing. Toby longed for a reason to pummel the man. But, on the other hand…

  No, it was still disappointing.

  Toby faced forward and rode on.

  “That’s right,” Peltzer called loud enough for everyone around them to hear, “you go on home to your mama.”

  “I am home, you bone-picker.” Though whispered, the words shouted inside Toby’s head. He was home! And this time he wasn’t packing it in at the first sign of trouble. Petunia Lindley chose him as her partner, not Peltzer or anyone else. True, their score was terrible, but one bad event didn’t disqualify a man.

  And Peltzer could talk all he wanted about marrying. Didn’t make it true. A woman intending to marry one man wouldn’t team rope with another. Plus, Mr. Lindley seemed levelheaded. He wouldn’t allow his daughter to marry a man who wasn’t worth his salt.

  Toby drew Blaze to a stop beside the creek and let him drink.

  The advertisement for the contest had said Mr. Lindley reserved the right to judge a man’s character before he named him foreman. Yes, he’d keep his daughter from making a bad choice.

  Toby dismounted and scooped water into his mouth. The chill quenched both his thirst and his temper.

  At his campsite, Toby removed Blaze’s saddle, brushed the horse down, and let him graze. Then he lay down, placed his hat over his eyes, and shut out everything except the inner argument about whether or not it was time to quit.

  “Mr. Lane?”

  Toby woke and pulled the hat off his eyes. Petunia Lindley stood a few feet away. Judging by the sun, he’d slept a good hour. He stood and brushed bits of grass from his chaps with the brim of his hat. “Miss Lindley.”

  She wiped a finger under her nose, leaving a smudge of dirt like a mustache. “I… I’m very sorry.”

  He blinked. From what he’d heard, she wasn’t one for apologies.

  She tilted her head sideways and narrowed her eyes. “Well, do you accept my apology or not?”

  She’d gone from sorry to bossy awful quick. Toby scratched his collarbone and laid down a small test. “What’re you sorry for?”

  Her head snapped straight. “What?”

  “You heard me.” Toby took a step forward. “Where I come from, when you say you’re sorry you include the why for.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “Look, miss, you and me need to come to an understanding. I may be nothin’ but a hired hand, but I aim to be straw boss here.” Saying the words aloud poured resolve into his spine. “I’ve talked to your men and heard how you work alongside them, which I—and they—respect. But I also heard how you order them around without so much as a please or a thank-you. Seems you have a problem affording men like us the decency of common manners.”

  Eyes wide, she snapped her jaw shut, the clank audible.

  He took another step forward and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, before I agree to work for you, I gotta know if you’ll listen to things you don’t like.”

  Chapter 7

  Nia worked her jaw open before her teeth shattered. She’d said she was sorry, and the man upbraided her for everything from the way she apologized to how she handled hired hands!

  Yet…

  Was he right? She thought hard and couldn’t remember saying “please” or “thank you” to the cowboys—although that didn’t mean she’d never done it.

  Nia swallowed dow
n the defense rushing to her lips. She’d spent the past hour discovering she wanted to run the ranch for the wrong reasons. Stretching a bad motive into a bad method didn’t take much.

  Some of her anger exhaled.

  The cowboy stood still, waiting for her response. Sunlight glinted off his brown rough-cut hair, turning a few strands copper. He wore the same red plaid shirt from yesterday, the collar and cuffs frayed and graying. Probably the only shirt he owned.

  Nia replayed every word they’d exchanged as well as the ones she’d overheard him speak that night by the willow. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Lane?”

  He nodded, though his eyes narrowed.

  “Yesterday morning, when you said some cowboys left jobs and wouldn’t be welcomed back, are you one of them?”

  Pain flickered across his face. “Yes.”

  Respect nudged past her resentment. “And yet you don’t hesitate to give me a set-down and fill my father’s head with foolish notions.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Figure you best know what you’re getting if’n you decide to take me on.”

  “I see.” Nia tapped her toe against the soft grass. “So you believe honesty is the best policy?”

  “Yes’m.” A tight smile stretched the corners of his lips.

  She really needed to stop noticing his mouth! “Then here is my apology, Mr. Lane. I’m sorry for asking you to partner with me then letting you down with such a dismal performance. I’m normally much better. I hope it doesn’t end up costing you too much in the overall competition.”

  Because, much as she didn’t like his wild mustang idea, a man who told the truth regardless of the consequences might make an excellent foreman.

  His horse nickered and pawed the ground.

  “Blaze and I accept your apology, Miss Lindley.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “And, if’n I hear my horse right, he thinks we should give you a chance to show us your team penning skills.”

  Amusement tickled her chest. She looked past the man to his horse. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Mr. Blaze. I accept.”

  Blaze tossed his head up and down several times.