by Diana Palmer
Poor Kirk, with streaks of ruddy color down both cheeks, had to endure a storm of ribbing from his buddies. He muttered something and handed the bouquet to the nearest woman, who turned out to be Felicity Evans, Abby’s college roommate who had acted as a bridesmaid.
Felicity glanced down at the bouquet and back up at handsome Kirk with her heart shrinking in her chest. She was going to stay on the ranch while Abby and Chayce went on their honeymoon. Chayce had asked her to go through some old Derringer family papers and put them into order. Chayce’s kind job offer came at a time Felicity was in dire need…
The dismayed look on Felicity’s sad face drew Abby’s attention, but Chayce caught her hand and brought it to his lips warmly just before Becky, in her Sunday best and in tears, hugged them both affectionately.
“I told you it would all work out,” Becky reminded Abby.
“Yes.” Abby looked up at Chayce with her whole heart in her eyes. “And it did.”
Chayce smiled with pure pleasure as she met his downward gaze. His fingers contracted around hers. “My stolen bride,” he murmured in a voice that only she could hear.
She chuckled and nuzzled her cheek against the jacket of his elegant suit, the faint scent of the white carnation he was wearing tickling her nose. She thought of her parents and the long, painful years that had led to this moment. Then she glanced at the wedding band on her finger and lifted her eyes to her husband’s handsome, beloved face.
“Deep thoughts?” Chayce murmured at her head.
“Sweet ones,” she countered.
“No regrets?”
She shook her head. Stars were shimmering in her gray eyes and she looked gloriously happy. “Dreams come true,” she whispered.
He sighed gently. “Indeed they do, my darling,” he said softly, smiling at her soft color when he used the endearment.
A firm cough interrupted them. They turned to look at Becky, who was holding a big knife.
“The cake,” she prompted. “The wedding cake? The one you both have to cut together.” She jerked her head toward the waiting crowd at the table. She leaned forward. “Just between us, if they don’t get some cake pretty soon, this nice wedding may turn into an ugly riot. Remember that cake started the French Revolution.”
“Cakes don’t start revolutions!” Abby exclaimed.
“That’s what Marie Antoinette thought.” Becky handed her the knife.
Abby glanced at Chayce and grinned back at him. Together, they walked to the table that held the elegant wedding cake, hands clasped tightly together, looking like two halves of a whole.
Chayce put his hand over hers as they cut the cake, and when he looked into her eyes, the love that blazed forth from them was as exhilarating as the champagne Becky was pouring into crystal flutes. The photographer they’d hired to document the wedding snapped a picture of them at that exact instant.
He would tell his assistant later that it was the closest he’d ever come to capturing the very essence of mutual love on film.
COWGIRL BRIDE
Susan Mallery
SUSAN MALLERY
is a New York Times bestselling author known for emotionally complex stories told with charm and wit. Susan has lived all over the United States, including a childhood in the suburbs of Los Angeles, graduate school in the hills of Pennsylvania and several years in Texas. These days, she makes her home in Seattle, Washington. She’s there for the coffee, not the weather.
Find Susan online at www.SusanMallery.com. She’s also very active on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads, and has been known to invite her fans to help her name characters and brainstorm aspects of her books.
Chapter One
Sierra Conroy wasn’t sure if it was the sharp cry or the flash of movement that caught her attention and she didn’t much care. Before her mind finished registering what had happened, she’d already grabbed the rope hooked to her saddle and started racing toward the corral. The milling steers spelled trouble as clearly as a neon sign.
With an instinct honed by years spent on a ranch and in the rodeo, she dived into the melee of sharp horns and hooves. Someone called frantically from outside the corral, but she ignored that voice. Weaving between the annoyed animals, she searched until she saw something other than muscular shoulders, flashing tails and dust-covered hides. Her brief glimpse of jean-clad legs was enough to send her in that direction. She pushed her way through the corral.
“Steady,” she said, speaking in a low voice designed to calm. Unfortunately whoever was in the pen with her wasn’t equally at home with the restless steers. She felt the animals’ growing tension.
Something flat and powerful butted her in the center of her back. She stumbled forward and bumped into a steer that bellowed in protest.
“Stay still!” Sierra called out. “I can’t find you if you keep moving around.”
More animals lowed in annoyance.
“Help me!” Terror laced the cry.
Sierra swore under breath. The steer next to her lowered its horned head to charge. She quickly ducked to the left, around another animal and saw a young boy being pushed and shoved by the unsettled herd.
“It’s all right,” she told him, reminding herself to smile, even as she felt the danger grow. “You’re going to be just fine.”
By God, that had better be true. She’d spent her entire life around big, ill-tempered animals and she refused to be trampled in a corral. The cowboys gave her enough grief about being a woman. When she received the bouquet at her brother’s wedding a few weeks back, the men had tormented her for weeks. She wouldn’t allow them the satisfaction of smirking at her funeral. Of course if she was dead would their attitudes really matter?
Before she could work that problem out, several of the steers shifted, giving her a clear path to the boy. She jogged to his side and wrapped her arms around him.
“Let’s get going, kid,” she said.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an arc of movement. Instinct again took over. She turned, shielding the child’s slight body with her own. Pain exploded against her upper arm, sending both her and the child staggering. She ignored the bone-jarring jolt, the sick feeling in her stomach and the instant wet heat that told her she was bleeding. Steers had kicked her before, although it had been a long time. She’d nearly forgotten how badly it hurt. Of course the stitches wouldn’t be much better. Why on earth had she thought this job would be fun?
“He kicked you,” the kid told her.
“I figured that out already.”
She continued to use her body as a shield while they made their way to the edge of the corral. One last steer lowered its head for a final charge. Sierra saw a man standing on the other side of the fence. Refusing to give in to the weakness creeping up her left arm, she bent over and grabbed the boy.
“Catch,” she yelled and tossed him toward safety. At the last second possible, she spun on her heel and narrowly avoided a head-on collision with several hundred pounds of annoyed steak-on-the-hoof.
She staggered the last couple of feet and climbed out between wooden slats. Her legs gave way as soon as she reached safety. She leaned against a fence post and slid to the ground. When her butt hit packed earth, new blood trickled down her arm and she bit her tongue. The hell of it was, the morning wasn’t even half over.
All she wanted to do was sit there until the aching stopped, but that wasn’t an option. She had to check the cut on her arm. Maybe she wouldn’t need stitches.
She nearly smiled at that one. There was too much blood for the wound to be small and shallow. One more scar for her collection.
She pulled her flannel shirt free of jeans and began unbuttoning it. She drew it back over her shoulders and released her right arm first. The spring morning was chilly and goose bumps erupted on her tanned arms. Teeth clenched, she winced as she peeled the blood-soaked left sleeve down her arm. A shiver racked her. The thin cotton tank top she wore underneath might accommodate her modesty but it wasn’t worth spit
for warmth.
She didn’t want to look. Looking at an injury always made it hurt a whole lot worse. Still she had to. Sierra forced herself to stare at her arm. The hoof-print formed a perfect half circle about four inches wide. The bleeding cut was on top, the area below was covered with blood. No doubt it was already swelling.
“Stitches and a bruise. Guess this just isn’t my day.”
“Sierra, I don’t know how to thank you. If you hadn’t rescued Rory, he might have…” The male voice trailed off, then the man swore sharply. “You’re hurt.”
She opened her mouth to make a sarcastic response. Sarcasm and pretending not to give a damn were often her only defenses in this male world she inhabited. But she couldn’t speak. Not because of what he’d said, but because of the sound of the man’s voice. Her mind didn’t want to believe. She refused to remember. But her heart knew—and recognized. It thundered in her chest, then jumped to lodge in her throat.
She tilted her head back so she could stare up at the intruder, stare and convince herself it wasn’t true. The morning sun was in her eyes. She had to raise her right hand to shield her eyes, vaguely aware she’d lost her hat in the corral. It would be trampled now. She loved that hat. After five years it fit perfectly. Damn it, why’d she have to go and lose her best hat?
The distraction nearly worked. Worrying about the hat was almost enough not to notice the man’s strength, his broad shoulders and the familiar set of his head. She could try to convince herself that Fate wasn’t playing a cruel trick on her, that her past hadn’t shown up to bite her on the butt with a nip that was a lot more startling and painful than the kick to her arm.
Then he knelt down to inspect her injury. He was nearly eye level and without the sun blinding her, there was no reason not to see him. To see him and remember.
“Dylan McLaine,” she breathed, too stunned to feel his hands as he gently probed her arm. She hadn’t seen him for a lifetime. If he hadn’t been here right this minute, she might have been able to convince herself she’d forgotten all about him. But she hadn’t.
Without closing her eyes, she remembered Dylan—loving Dylan had been the best part of who she was. When he’d left her—when he’d betrayed her and walked out of her life—she’d not only lost the man of her dreams, but she also lost herself.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, reaching for her flannel shirt. “I didn’t see Rory fall into the pen, but when I heard the cry, I knew what had happened. Then you tore in after him. I knew if anyone could save him, you could. But I sure didn’t want you to get hurt.”
He took a knife from his jeans’ pocket and notched the flannel, then tore it into strips. Two he folded into square pads and pressed against her arm to stop the bleeding, the rest he wrapped tightly to secure the pads in place. It was only when he’d knotted the ends together and sat back on his heels that she realized two things. First, his hands were shaking and second, she’d stopped feeling the pain.
He looked at her. “How can I thank you?”
By growing old, she thought to herself. By being ugly and hard and not anything like the boy she remembered. Unfortunately he’d done none of those things. Oh, there were a few lines by his eyes and his lips didn’t automatically turn up in the soul-stirring smile she remembered so well. He’d become a man in the ten years they’d been apart. Still handsome, still strong, still…Dylan. All the years and miles hadn’t been enough to make her forget, or allow her to recover.
“Sierra?”
He spoke her name as if it still mattered. Almost wistfully. The way he’d spoken it a hundred—a thousand—times before. The pain returned with a nearly audible crash. She winced as her heart twisted painfully, still bruised from the loss she’d suffered all those years ago.
She deliberately closed her eyes. “Go away.”
“I can’t. Not until I thank you for saving my son.”
The steer’s kick had been like the brush of a feather when compared to the impact of Dylan’s words. His son. She remembered the slight boy she’d hustled out of the corral. Forcing herself to face the inevitable, she opened her eyes and looked past the man still kneeling beside her. Her gaze settled on the skinny kid in black jeans and an orange-and-white University of Texas sweatshirt.
His son. The boy looked to be about nine or ten, with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. He was slight, with a sweet, earnest expression that made him impossible to hate. Not that she’d planned on hating him—he hadn’t done anything wrong. The circumstances around his birth were unfortunate. At least Sierra had always thought so. But that was never the child’s fault.
Dylan held out a hand to the boy. “Rory, come and say thank you to the lady who saved your life.”
Sierra noticed Dylan’s fingers trembled slightly. She wanted to think he was as affected by their reunion as she was, but that wasn’t it at all. He was still recovering from the shock of Rory falling into the pen with the steers. The natural reaction of a parent when a beloved child was in mortal danger.
As Rory approached, she looked at him closely, trying to find some resemblance to the man in front of her. She didn’t see much, although there was something familiar about the way his mouth tilted up at the corners and the shape of his eyes. But those characteristics didn’t come from Dylan. They belonged to Claire—Rory’s mother.
She hadn’t thought more pain was possible, yet a new wave crashed over her, taking away rational thought and the ability to breathe. All she could do was feel. Not just the agony of this moment, but all that she’d suffered ten years ago. It was as if the time between had never passed. She remembered standing in front of Dylan, listening in disbelief as he swore to her nothing had happened that night. That he and Claire had only been friends. That he still loved her—Sierra.
She’d wanted to believe him, had needed him to be speaking the truth, because anything else was too unthinkable. If Dylan had betrayed her, there was nowhere for her to run and hide. He was her world. So she’d believed because it was easier than facing the truth. But she couldn’t keep believing. Not when the truth stood directly in front of her. Truth in the shape of a nine-year-old boy.
As Rory stopped at his side, Dylan placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Son, this is Sierra Conroy. You and I are going to have a talk about following instructions, but first I want you to thank her. She risked her life to save you, and got a bad cut in the process. That steer could have killed you both.”
Rory didn’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. His face split into a broad grin as his eyes widened. “You’re a real superhero! Just like on TV.”
“A superhero?” Sierra asked, feeling more like roadkill than anything larger-than-life. “That’s a lot nicer than a few other names I’ve been called.”
“You made me fly.”
“I tossed you out of the pen, kid. There’s a difference.”
The boy moved closer to her and grinned. “It felt like flying.”
“I’ll bet it did.”
His gaze swept over her before settling on the makeshift bandage around her arm. His humor faded. “I’m real sorry you got kicked. Does it hurt bad?”
When compared with the shock she was feeling? Hardly at all. But that wasn’t what he was asking. “I’ll recover,” she said. “I’ve had much worse.”
“Really? When? Do you have scars? Can I see them?”
“Rory.” His father spoke in a stern voice. “You’re missing the point, son.”
Rory glanced at his dad and nodded. His chin lowered as he stared at the ground. “I’m real sorry for what happened, Miss Conroy. I didn’t mean to fall in with the steers. I was just sorta watching them, but I couldn’t see anything so I climbed on the fence to get a better look. Then I guess I slipped.”
While she didn’t blame the child for his part in destroying her life, she certainly hadn’t expected to like him. Yet there was something appealing about Rory’s big blue eyes and engaging smile. “Have you been on a ranch before?” she asked.
/>
“Sure.” He grinned. “Sorta. My dad just bought a ranch. We’ve got horses and steers, like this one. And the house is real big, but it’s kinda dark inside.”
A ranch? Sierra tried to imagine the ever-perfect Claire in a ranch setting. It was beyond her mental abilities. “A ranch can be a lot of fun,” she told the boy. “But it can also be dangerous. If I hadn’t come along, there’s no telling what would have happened to you.”
“My dad would have saved me,” he said confidently.
Sierra didn’t voice her private thoughts about what a citified lawyer would do in a corral full of restless cattle. She didn’t doubt that Dylan would have risked his life to save his son, but she doubted either of them would have survived the resulting chaos.
“And if your dad hadn’t heard you calling?” she asked.
Rory thought about that for a second. His mouth twisted and he shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. Do you think you could have made it out on your own?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You think you weigh enough to push back those steers?”
“No, ma’am.” His voice got a little softer and smaller.
“You think your parents would like finding you after you’d been trampled?”
This time he just shook his head.
“You think you’re going to remember all this the next time you want to climb a fence you shouldn’t be climbing?”
“Yes.”
She could barely hear the word. “Good. You’ve learned an important lesson. I want you to know that even though it was stupid to climb the fence, you did the right thing when you called out for help. And when I was looking for you, you kept your head. You followed instructions very well. That made a difference. You’re a smart boy. Good for you.”
He grinned. “Yeah? Thanks, Miss Conroy.”
“You can call me Sierra.”
He looked at his father, who nodded at the unspoken question. Sierra felt her heart contract. For those few minutes, she’d been able to forget Dylan was right next to her. Now she was forced to acknowledge him, even if just to herself. She swore silently. Why couldn’t she have forgotten all about him?
