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

  In less time than they had any right to expect, the three yearlings were penned.

  “One minute, twelve seconds!” The announcer shouted like he’d been inside the fence instead of outside it.

  Nia beamed. “You were marvelous, Toby. Simply marvelous.”

  Peltzer scowled.

  “You, too, Mr. Peltzer.” She gave him a tight smile.

  Happier than he could ever remember, Toby tipped his hat to her. “You were marvelous yourself, Nia.” It was small of him, using her first name to rub Peltzer’s nose in it, but the man needed to quit dreaming he’d marry her. As they headed for the exit gate, Toby trotted close. “Nia, I need to tell you something. You think you and your pa could—”

  Blaze let out a snort and reared up.

  Toby grabbed for the saddle horn but couldn’t regain his balance. He kicked his feet from the stirrups and threw his right arm toward the ground to break his fall.

  A loud crack. Agonizing pain.

  He rolled onto his back and grabbed his right forearm, moans escaping his clamped lips. He closed his eyes against what his fingers felt. The bone had broken through the skin.

  “Toby! Toby! Are you okay?” Nia’s voice. Frantic.

  “Check Blaze.” Toby opened his eyes to see if she heard. “Check Blaze.”

  She nodded and disappeared from view.

  “Out of my way. I’m a doctor.”

  Toby closed his eyes again.

  “I want to be here when you tell him.” Nia crossed her arms over her chest, daring her father to disagree.

  “Fine by me.” Papa strode to the office door and gripped the handle. “In fact, I’ll let you do the honors.”

  Nia grinned and glanced over at his desk. “Can I sit in your chair?”

  Papa’s eyes brightened. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, my dear.”

  Surprised but pleased, Nia dashed to the chair and sat. She smoothed the sides of her hair, brushed a bit of dirt from her sleeve, and then wiggled in the leather seat until she was comfortable. At the last instant, she scooted forward and perched as though wearing six layers of petticoats instead of work pants. “Ready.”

  Her father swung the door open, admitting Mr. Peltzer.

  Gentle in spirit, unbendable in principle. Free to express emotion balanced by logic. Respectful, but hard on any who abuse it.

  Nia repeated her new resolve three times before the man sat. “Mr. Peltzer, it has been suggested that you kicked Mr. Lane’s horse causing him to rear up and throw Mr. Lane to the ground.”

  The cowboy turned fiery red. “That’s a lie. I didn’t do anything.”

  “A lie? How interesting.” Nia folded her hands in her lap the way Marigold taught her was proper. “And yet the person bringing the accusation has proven himself quite reliable over the years.”

  “Who!” Peltzer pounded the edge of the desk. “Lane?”

  Rather enjoying the authoritative side of the desk, Nia crossed her feet at the ankles and slid them to one side. “Not Mr. Lane, but our ranch foreman for the past fourteen years. You might remember him. He’s the man who checked us in to the team penning event. Redhead. We call him Rusty.”

  Peltzer went a shade whiter.

  “I see you remember him.” Nia uncrossed her ankles. No one could see the ladylike gesture anyway. “Rusty also said he offered to help you and Mr. Lane cheat to see if one or both of you would take him up on it. Mr. Lane declined.”

  Her father grinned in the background. It infused her with confidence.

  “And I checked Blaze’s hindquarters and saw a V-shaped bruise. Shall we check its size against your boot, Mr. Peltzer?” She kept her words flat, emotionless. Like a man.

  All the red drained from his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  Nia stood to deliver the final blow. “You have ten minutes to get off the Double L, or I’ll see that you never leave my land. Do I make myself clear?”

  Peltzer’s eyes glazed over like the man who’d tried to kiss her in the barn eight years ago. And, as before, the fleeing man’s shoes sounded like cockroaches scurrying away from light.

  “I thought that went well.” Nia swiped her hands together as though ridding herself of dirt.

  Papa laughed. It began small but built until he doubled over, slapping his knee.

  Nia chuckled, but when her father started hiccuping, she lost all control and was soon wiping away tears of laughter.

  Later that afternoon, Nia returned from watching the competition. She needed to speak to her father. Now. She found him sitting on the front porch drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. She kissed him on the forehead—his brow was wonderfully cool and skin dry. “Did you have a nice nap?”

  He grimaced at her. “Doc Hickman fusses worse than an old woman. Ordering me to bed because I laughed too hard. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “I see the nap did restore you. Your ranting was noticeably absent a few hours ago.” She sat down, removed a boot, and shook out the dirt. “Has our beloved doctor said anything more about Toby?”

  “Said he gave the boy enough laudanum to keep him sleeping until tomorrow. Nasty break, but Doc expects it to heal well enough.” Papa set the newspaper aside.

  “Good.” Nia pulled her boot back on and repeated the dirt-shaking ritual with the other. “That’s good.”

  Was now the time to tell him what she’d done? His coughing fit had scared her witless.

  “Are you planning on wearing that boot or throwing it at someone?”

  She laughed and shoved her foot into the worn leather. “I’d like to throw it at several someones.”

  “Peltzer didn’t go quietly, I take it.” He sipped his coffee and eyed her over the rim.

  “Nor did several of his cronies.” She brushed dust from her thigh. “It took all our men and several of the other competitors to escort them off the Double L.”

  “Sounds like Toby Lane has some admirers.”

  “A solid point in his favor.”

  “Yes, but why it has you frowning is a story I’d like to hear.” He set down his cup. “Now, if you please.”

  Reassured by his command, Nia launched into an edited version of all that had happened. No sense telling him the vulgar names and lewd accusations hurled at her. She just described the ensuing fight, which ended with twelve bloodied cowboys tossed in the river.

  Papa’s eyes gleamed. “Sounds like I owe our boys a little extra pay this month.”

  “You don’t mind”—Nia rubbed grit from her cuticles—“that I gave an order without consulting you first?”

  He leaned forward to pat her hand. “Time for you to step into your role as First Lady of the Double L. How I feel about it is irrelevant.”

  Some tension left her shoulders. “First Lady of the Double L. I doubt President Polk’s wife boasts such a fine title.”

  “Nor such a fine white house.” He winked and leaned back. “Is there more?”

  Reluctance tightened her tongue. Toby Lane was the only man she’d proposed as manager. Was it a mistake? Or was the mistake listening to gossip about him?

  Papa rested his hands on his stomach, the picture of patience.

  Nia gripped her hands together. “Some have made accusations against Toby. Most of them nonsense, but a couple are… concerning.”

  “I see.” His thumbs twirled in lazy circles. “And you’re worried about our bargain.”

  More like terrified. “A little.”

  “You know, my dear, seeking wise counsel is part of making good decisions. I promise to listen and offer advice without judgment. Except”—he raised an index finger—“I won’t comment on character issues.”

  That was good enough. “The first problem is his desire to train mustangs.”

  “I thought we settled that.”

  Nia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, you settled it. I agreed not to argue about it for the moment.”

  Papa chuckled. “So you did.”

  “One of
the accusations was that Toby planned to ruin the Double L by getting us to invest in something cork-brained and letting our cowhands run wild.”

  “Hmmm.” The unhelpful syllable came with raised eyebrows that said, “Character issue.”

  So, was it about his character? If so… “I don’t believe Toby has any desire to ruin us.” Nia recalled a certain overheard vow. “Quite the opposite. But what if he’s so preoccupied with training mustangs that he doesn’t have time to oversee the hands? The end result would be the same disaster for the Double L.”

  Papa considered her words. “I have always thought it wise to try new things without letting go of the old. Should you decide Mr. Lane’s character is worthy, I propose we offer him a two-year contract restricted to training the mustangs. During those two years, we will continue business as usual. After two years, if his wild mustang plan doesn’t pay off as he hopes, you can re-evaluate—everything.”

  Nia tugged the cuff of her sleeve. “If Toby’s training horses, who will be straw boss?”

  Papa inclined his head. “We have a competition going on for that express purpose, if you remember.”

  Humor bubbled in her chest. “Why, yes. Yes, we do.”

  “One issue settled.” He brushed his hands together the same way she had after dismissing Peltzer. “Next.”

  Chapter 9

  Toby awoke in heaven. People didn’t die of broken bones, at least not straightaway, but he must have. There was a soft bed beneath him. Deep red curtains attached to its canopy matched those hanging on glass-paned windows. A marble fireplace on the opposite side of the room crackled, and the scent of spiced apples tickled his nose.

  He sat up. His right forearm screamed he was very much alive, the sling and cast protecting it adding further proof.

  A short woman wearing a starched apron, her hair tucked under a cap, bustled into the room carrying a tray that smelled of coffee, baked bread, and ham. “Good. You’re awake.”

  Toby grabbed a fistful of bedsheet with his left hand, pulling it high to cover what the sling didn’t. “How’s my horse?”

  The woman, who’d reach his shoulder if he was standing, cut him down to knee height with her look. “First, I’ve seen plenty of bare chests, so don’t go getting all ruffled up, hear? You’ll just reinjure that arm of yours, and we can’t have that, now can we? And second, you’ll have to wait until the mister visits to hear about your horse.”

  She set the tray over top of his thighs then whisked away a silver dome, unleashing the powerful perfume of breakfast.

  Toby stared at the food, salivating in anticipation. It was too pretty to eat. Scrambled eggs filled with bits of bacon, fluffy biscuits slathered in butter and dripping honey out the sides, and dark coffee accompanied by cream and sugar.

  “Well?” She set the silver dome on the nightstand. “Do you plan on eating or painting a picture?”

  “Where am I?” Even with an arm stinging like the dickens, Toby suspected he’d died and gone to heaven.

  She placed her hand on his forehead. “No fever yet, praise the good Lord, but I’ll have to tell Doc you’re still fuzzy.”

  Toby pulled away from the touch of her hand. “No, ma’am. Not fuzzy, just…” He swept the room with his eyes. “I never been in a place this fancy—or this clean—my whole life.”

  The woman beamed. “Why thank you, Mr. Lane. I try to keep a tidy house despite Miss Nia and her muddy boots.”

  “So I’m still at the Double L?” Toby leaned over the breakfast tray to minimize spillage as he fed himself with his left hand. He scooped eggs into his mouth and closed his eyes. A body could get used to this real fast.

  “I take it you approve of the food.”

  Not wanting any flavor to escape, Toby kept his lips closed but opened his eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”

  She picked an errant bit of egg off the linen sheet. “I’ll leave you in peace, then, but the mister will likely be checking on you in a few minutes.” After adjusting the angle of a wingback chair by the fireplace and fluffing the little pillow sitting on it, she left.

  He was biting into the second biscuit, honey drooling down his chin, when both Mr. Lindley and his daughter walked into the room.

  Nia took one look at his chest and went pink, turning her eyes toward the fireplace. In that yellow dress, her blond hair done up in a loose bun…

  She took his breath away.

  Mr. Lindley walked straight to the bed and put his hand on Toby’s forehead. “Mrs. Lambert said you didn’t have a fever, but I’m not so sure.”

  Pretty sure he knew why his skin was hot, Toby dropped the biscuit and wiped at his chin. He sat back and pulled at the linens with a sticky hand, but the breakfast tray wobbled, so he sat forward again and did his best to shield his bare chest. “Could I get a shirt or somethin’?”

  Puzzlement settled on Mr. Lindley’s face.

  Toby sent a significant look toward Nia then back to his exposed shoulder.

  “Ah.” Mr. Lindley shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over Toby’s left side. “Better?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Toby drew his left hand into a fist so honey didn’t touch the fabric. “How’s Blaze?”

  “He’s fine. A bruise, but my farrier assures me there’s no lasting damage.” Mr. Lindley walked to Nia and turned her toward the bed. “My daughter and I have a proposition for you.”

  Dread settled over Toby’s heart like a sodden blanket.

  Nia took two steps closer, her skin still flushed. “Mr. Lane, my father and I have discussed offering you a position as—”

  “No.” Toby shook his head, sucking in a breath at the stab of pain. “I… I can’t take a job here.

  “But you don’t even know what we’re offering.” Nia crossed her arms, her eyes filled with fire. “Not to mention the fact that you just rudely interrupted me.”

  A worse breach of common courtesy than not saying “please” or “thank you.” “I know, and I’m right sorry, miss, but”—Toby stopped babbling to take a breath—“the thing is, I… I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  Nia blanched. Her father scratched one sideburn.

  “See, my father is Lawrence Lane.” Neither father nor daughter flinched, which only meant they didn’t understand. Toby swallowed down the bit of biscuit threatening to come back up. “Lawrence. Lane. As in… Double L.”

  “But the ranch is named after my mother, Lily Lindley.” Nia turned shocked eyes to her father. “To make up for too many L’s when she changed her name to marry you. That’s the story I’ve heard for years. Tell him.” She pointed with her right index finger. “Tell him the story.”

  Mr. Lindley shook his head. “No, dear. That’s the reason I didn’t change the name of the ranch.”

  Chest rising and falling, Nia sank into one of the wingback chairs. She wiggled, reached behind her, and pulled out the fluffed pillow. After tossing it onto the other chair, she stared at it like it was a lecher who’d pinched her backside. Even frowning, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Toby hurt down to his toenails. All that fussing about whether his motives were pure or not. What a waste! He was as horndoodled as Peltzer, thinking about settling down. “I tried to tell you.”

  Nia crossed her arms. “When?”

  “After team penning.”

  Nia narrowed her eyes and stared at him. Toby held his breath until her shoulders relaxed and her gaze dropped. “I remember.”

  If only that ended his shame.

  “There’s more.” Before he lost his nerve, Toby spilled the entire, miserable story—how Pa gambled away the Double L in a poker game, the fight his parents had when Ma found out, her labor and death followed soon after by the baby’s death, and his pa’s horse thieving and treason by selling to Mexican soldiers on their way to the Alamo.

  “I been trying to make up for what my pa done, but I can’t get out from under the curse, and I won’t have the Double L suffer for it.”

  Nia narrowed he
r eyes again. “What curse?”

  Toby looked between Nia sitting in the chair and her father leaning against the wall. Their faces reflected genuine puzzlement. “The sins of the father following to the third and fourth generation.”

  They still looked confused. Were they not churchgoing people? “It’s in the Bible. I done heard a whole sermon on it about ten years back.” Toby cradled his injured arm and told them the bad luck that followed him from place to place. “I’m not gonna bring my curse here. I’ll collect my things and be gone”—he started to get out of bed, but the pain sent him back into the sheets—“as soon as I’m better.”

  Mr. Lindley stepped close to his daughter. “I don’t think you have a choice in the matter, son. Petunia, what’s your verdict? Does Mr. Lane stay or does he go?”

  Nia opened her mouth to send Toby Lane packing.

  Papa put a hand on her shoulder.

  Her lips snapped shut.

  This was it. The test. How she responded determined whether she kept her home.

  Alarm heated her skin. She angled her lips to blow cool air on her chest. The image of her pink dress—the one she’d worn to her sixteenth birthday ball… the one Marigold retrieved from storage to suggest as a bridesmaid dress—invaded her thoughts.

  What did that awful dress have to do with anything?

  She needed time to think, to go somewhere away from the pain and yearning in Toby’s eyes, but her father’s hand kept her in the chair. Apparently she needed to decide on a judgment now.

  She’d not fail before she’d begun. “I’m struggling with how to respond, so please lend me patience while I talk this through. Let me start with your father, Mr. Lane.”

  Toby nodded and lowered his head like he was waiting for an ax to fall.

  “I don’t care two hoots or a holler about what he did.”

  Toby’s head snapped up. He grimaced and clutched his arm.

  Nia watched his expression change from shock to wary hope. “I’m concerned that you believe God cursed you, because the supposition is blasphemy. You have created a false god who condemns a man for the actions of another. What’s worse, you’ve bowed to this creation of yours.”