Lone Star Romance Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “You arrogant—”

  “Confident, not arrogant.” Chris folded his arms across his chest.

  “You’re brothers.” Mercy’s voice held both censure for their scrapping and a plea for them to make peace.

  Carmen laughed. “The Gregor men bellow and bluster, but they’d never come to blows. Duncan even told Jenny so. Isn’t that right, Duncan?”

  “ ’Tis true. I did. Fretting’s not good for the bairn, Mercy. Dinna let this upset you.”

  Chris faulted himself for having broached the topic in front of his sisters-in-law. Gentle women oughtn’t be caught between warring men. Rob slid his arm around his wife’s shoulders and drew her into the shelter of his side. ’Tis wondrous how he loves Mercy. As soon as that thought flashed through his mind, Chris knew God had given him the way to make peace with his brother.

  “Think back on the day Da passed on. Are you remembering how we read from his Bible on the Anchoria’s deck?”

  Duncan and Rob both nodded.

  “Micah 6:8. ‘He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’ We made a pact that day to live that verse because God mandated it and because ’twould be a tribute to Da. Rob, ’tis undeniable that you love Mercy.” Chris turned to Duncan. “And you—you and Carmen walk in step with the Lord and serve Him in the kind and gentle ways. Justice is left. Aye, ’tis, and I’m to fulfill that mandate. As a ranger, I’ll do justice.”

  “You could do justice as the town’s sheriff.” Rob’s molars might crack if he gritted his teeth any tighter.

  “Mollifying you ’tisna what I’m called to do.”

  Resignation stamped Rob’s features. “You’re going, no matter what I say.”

  “Aye. You hae your calling. I hae mine. I’m doing what I must.”

  “Then God go wi’ you.”

  The tension knotting Chris’s neck melted away. “Aye, I’m counting on Him being with me. But I’m also relying on Him to stay here and keep His hand on the lot of you.”

  Color streaked the dawn sky as Kathryn “Wren” Regent left her shack and headed for Hepplewhite’s Emporium. The clopping of horse hooves caused her to halt at the boardwalk and shove her glasses up a bit. An enormous, dust-covered man rode into town. He squinted at the buildings lining the street, then nickered softly to urge his mount onward.

  Two men followed after the large man. He’d shackled their hands behind their backs, tied rope around their waists, and half dragged them toward the jailhouse.

  A bounty hunter, Wren decided. Judging from what she’d overheard her brother say, bounty hunters weren’t any more law abiding than the criminals they chased. It wasn’t her business, though. She ducked her head and hastened to Hepplewhite’s Emporium.

  Every morning she drew a steadying breath before unlocking the door. Hepplewhite could have posed as an ogre in a child’s book. Uglier on the inside than he was on the outside, he filled her days with misery and strife. But what I have is better than anything I’ve ever had before. She shoved the key into the lock and gave it a savage turn.

  Wren hurriedly went to work preparing breakfast. She soon set a plate of biscuits and gravy and a slab of ham in front of Hepplewhite. She always ate as she cooked so she wouldn’t have to join him for meals. While he slurped his coffee and belched over the plate, she set out the spittoons she’d polished the night before, dusted shelves, and cleaned the glass display cases. Washing the breakfast dishes stripped the ammonia smell from her hands, but that was part of the routine she’d created. Now she could handle yards of fabric without spoiling them.

  Her shop took up the back corner of the emporium. Though Hepplewhite owned the bolts of cloth, spools of thread, lace, ribbon, and buttons, Kathryn owned the sewing machine. The Singer was her pride and joy. With it, she provided for herself.

  The morning passed quickly. A bachelor brought in a shirt that needed a new button. Another brought socks that needed darning. Old Widow Marsby toddled in to get her new petticoats, which Wren discreetly slipped into an empty sugar sack.

  Around those little tasks, she put the finishing touches on Ella Mae Tolliver’s dress. Made of gold, water-stained taffeta, the gown was a nightmare to work on. The fabric wanted to fray, so Wren painstakingly candled the edge of each piece to fuse the threads. If that weren’t enough, Mrs. Tolliver ordered that thin black braiding be stitched onto the skirts in an ornate pattern. That detailed embellishment took days of work, but Godey’s Lady’s Book could easily feature the resulting garment. Mrs. Tolliver would be in tomorrow, so Wren sewed jet buttons down the back of the garment.

  The bell over the mercantile door clanged, and Mrs. Tolliver trundled in. Kathryn swiftly took one last stitch, knotted the thread, and snipped it. “Mrs. Tolliver.” She stood. “I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”

  “You were wrong. I distinctly recall telling you at church Sunday that I’d come on Thursday.”

  “Today’s Wednesday,” Hepplewhite announced. He and Mrs. Tolliver were cousins, and they shared the exact same ugly disposition. Both were tall, blocky, and had mean-looking dark eyes and a permanent sneer. Once they started quibbling, Kathryn turned away and shook out the gown.

  “Well, don’t keep me waiting all day.” Mrs. Tolliver snatched the dress from Kathryn’s hands. “It’s taken you long enough to get this done.”

  Defending herself wouldn’t do any good. Kathryn knew the minute she so much as opened her mouth, Mr. Hepplewhite would suddenly remember Ella Mae was his kin. The last thing Kathryn wanted was to trigger his temper. Instead, she motioned toward the screen.

  Mrs. Tolliver swept past her and declared, “It’s taken you so long to finish this dress, the price should be discounted.”

  Wren didn’t reply. The contract for the dress rested in the top drawer of the treadle machine’s stand. The cost and date were clearly stipulated, and she refused to budge. She couldn’t afford to. Mr. Hepplewhite made her pay for every spool of thread and inch of fabric out of her own pocket whenever she started a project. He also took 30 percent of the price she charged her patrons.

  The emporium’s bell jangled once again, but this time the bounty hunter filled the entire doorway. He scanned the store as he stepped inside. Kathryn’s heart jumped as he started toward her.

  “Hey, Wren!” Mr. Hepplewhite leaned on the pickle barrel. “Git movin’ and make my dinner!”

  After several muttered comments and a lot of bumping around, Mrs. Tolliver emerged from behind the screen, yanking at the cuff of her gown. “You can wait, you old goat. Wren has to alter this at once. It’s abysmal. I’d be ashamed to be seen in it at all!”

  “She ain’t gonna stay on to do her stitchin’ iff’n she don’t make me grub quick like. ‘Sides, Ella Mae, you can’t much expect her to fit you into anything less than a tent. You ain’t lost anything you put on ‘tween babies.”

  The bounty hunter came to a stop about five feet away. For being such a big man, he walked with the lithe grace of a cougar. He took off his hat and waited patiently. Since she’d seen him earlier, he’d managed to dust off and wash up. Now his hair was wet, so she couldn’t determine whether it was black or a deep sable. Silvery blue-gray eyes gave him an air of aloofness.

  Mrs. Tolliver continued to splutter and cluck over her gown.

  The stranger jutted his chin toward her. “Ma’am, I think that’s a fine gown. I was in Chicago just a week ago, and none of the fancy society matrons wore anything that would put yours to shame.”

  Ella Mae stopped midtirade and gave him a withering glare. “Mind your own business.”

  “As a matter of fact, I came in to do business with the young lady. Her reputation—”

  My reputation! Wren’s mouth went dry.

  “Wren!” Hepplewhite bellowed.

  The stranger shot her a bolstering smile and continued on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “—is well known. I need to get a shirt
.”

  In the background, the ringing sound of metal dropping on a hardwood floor failed to drown out a nasty stream of oaths. “Wren! You ain’t even seen to the spittoons yet!”

  “I did. The Clancy boys came by for eggs—remember?”

  Hepplewhite snorted. “Gal, you gotta git me my food! My ribs are rattling!”

  Mrs. Tolliver struggled with the waist on her dress. “You were intentionally mean-spirited when you made this. You tried your hardest to make me look fat!”

  “Wren! I’m gonna starve!”

  Wren took a deep breath. “Mrs. Tolliver, if you give me another day, I’ll work on your gown. Sir,” she paused and shot a wary look at the bounty hunter, “I have to cook. If you’ll but wait, I’ll gladly give you my portion.”

  His face darkened. “If you’ll forgive me, ma’am, you look like a stiff wind could take you clear to the coast. I’d far rather see you eat whatever you’re fixing. Go on and see to things. I can look around.”

  “Thank you, sir. Mrs. Tolliver, do you need help with your buttons?”

  “I’m not a lackwit! I can take care of myself!”

  Mr. Hepplewhite slouched over. “Gal, I done tole you, you gotta work to keep yer space. Yer long overdue for dinner, and I full well ’spect pie after supper tonight. And see to them spittoons again.”

  Wren’s shoulders sank with weariness.

  “What are you a-standin’ there fer? Go cook!”

  “Yes, Mr. Hepplewhite.”

  The storekeeper grabbed her arm and glowered. “I want somethin’ good. None of them chicken an’ dumplin’s or chicken stew.”

  “Other than the ham for breakfast, you’ve allowed me only one chicken to feed us for the week, Mr. Hepplewhite.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me!” He let go, reared back, and smacked her across the face.

  Chapter 2

  Chris didn’t believe his eyes. He reacted out of sheer reflex and caught the poor girl as she flew toward him. After he set her to the side, he automatically spun back around. “That’s more than enough!”

  “Shuddup. Ain’t none of your affair.” The storekeeper sneered at the lass and took a menacing step toward her.

  Chris stepped between them and growled, “Don’t.”

  “This here is my place.”

  “Owning a place doesna give you license to harm anyone.” Chris slowly closed his hands into fists. Hepplewhite might be big, but none of it was muscle. His eyes narrowed and the veins in his neck bulged—both telltale signs of a building temper.

  “Get outta here,” Hepplewhite sneered.

  Chris didn’t budge an inch, but when the storekeeper threw the first punch, Chris didn’t hesitate to defend himself. A left to Hepplewhite’s middle and a right uppercut to his jaw dropped the man like a ton of bricks.

  “Miss Wren, are you all right?” Chris turned back in time to see her try to readjust her spectacles, only to find they were mangled from Mr. Hepplewhite’s smack. Tears filled her eyes, making them look like the flowers Carmen called lobelias. If her tears weren’t enough, a big red handprint, complete with rapidly growing welts, painted her cheek.

  “Oh no!” she whimpered.

  “You’re white as a sun-bleached bone. Let’s sit you down. I’ll go get a wet rag to press to your face. Come on, sit here in this chair before you swoon.” He gently cupped her elbow and led her to a battered cane chair. The poor woman’s knees gave out on her, and he caught her in the nick of time. Easing her onto the seat, Chris couldn’t help but note how thin she was.

  The whole while, Ella Mae Tolliver screeched at an ear-splitting level. Chris gave her a nasty look and snapped, “Hush up and get out your smelling salts.”

  “I’m not about to aid that … that.. . trollop. I’m not going to help a murderer, either!”

  “He’s not dead. Dump water over him, and he’ll come to.”

  The door burst open, and the sheriff entered with his pistol drawn. “What’s going on in here?”

  “That man,” Ella Mae screamed as she pointed at Chris, “tried to kill my cousin!”

  Having turned two prisoners over to the sheriff this morning, Chris reported, “He struck Miss Wren, continued to pose a threat, then took a swing at me. Self-defense.”

  “Now what did you do, Wren?” the sheriff asked in an exasperated tone as he holstered his weapon.

  “She did nothing at all,” Chris asserted.

  The sheriff glanced at the tiny woman’s face and grimaced. “He got you pretty good this time.”

  “This time?” Chris roared as his blood went from a heavy simmer clean into a rolling boil. The poor wisp of a woman didn’t deserve even one smack—how could any man ever raise a hand to a woman? And from the sound of it, this wasn’t anything new.

  Miss Wren deserved her unusual name. Plainly dressed in a mud-brown day gown and wearing her ordinary brown hair scraped back in a schoolmarm bun, she seemed as dull and dreary as a common wren. Even the bright yellow tape measure she wore looped over her neck seemed to fade and droop.

  Dark moons hovered beneath her eyes, and she bit her lower lip—most likely to keep from crying. Chris felt an odd need to shelter the little wren from the storm. He scowled at the sheriff. “This woman deserves protection.”

  Wren’s lids lowered in shame, and she leaned away from the sheriff’s touch. Once his hand dropped, she dipped her head. Chris watched how badly her hands shook as she tried to fix her mangled eyeglasses. Something deep inside him twisted. He paced across the worn plank floor, snatched a red bandana from a display stack, shoved a dipper to the side of a tin water bucket, and dunked the cloth inside. After wringing it out, he hunkered down by Wren and gently reached up to press its cool dampness to the fire in her cheek.

  She threw up her arm in an instinctively defensive move and flinched.

  Chris wrapped his hand around her stick-thin wrist and slowly lowered it back into her lap as he made a soft sound of reassurance. Folding the bandanna so another cool surface was available, he ordered in a tone milder than a spring breeze, “Miss Wren, you’d best go on and hold this to your face. It has to be paining you a fair bit.”

  Once she took the cloth, Chris rose and glowered at the sheriff. “The man flat out assaulted her.”

  “Oh, he had cause!” The old battle-ax pointed at Wren. “She only got what she deserved—could’ve gotten more and had no cause to whine. My cousin took her in out of the goodness of his heart. He lets her work here and even feeds the girl. She got fresh-mouthed.”

  The sheriff scratched his shoulder. “It strains a man’s imagination thinkin’ Wren could muster even a few fresh words.”

  Hepplewhite started to rouse. He groaned and rolled onto his side before struggling to his feet. Rubbing his jaw, he cursed vividly. “He done went an’ busted me in the chops. Go stick him in the jailhouse!”

  “Can’t. You struck Wren, and then you threw the first punch at him.”

  Mr. Hepplewhite turned on Wren. “I put up with more’n enough, gal. Git out. Now.”

  Wren’s mouth twisted as she cried out.

  “Git, I say!”

  The sheriff sighed. “Wren, he owns the place. Go on and gather up everything that belongs to you.”

  “She ain’t takin’ a thang! I git a third of everything she sews, seein’ as it’s my place, but she ain’t paid this week.”

  “You owe her for cooking and cleaning,” Chris gritted. “Call it even.”

  “I don’t owe her a cent.”

  “That wasn’t the agreement you made with her,” the sheriff growled. “We all thought you gave her a wage for her extra work.”

  “Thangs change.”

  “That does it,” Chris said. “Miss Wren, do you have any kin?”

  “Only a stepbrother. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Fine.” Chris gently flipped over the compress and set it back in place. “Let’s send him a telegram.”

  Hopelessness tainted her voice. “I don’t know wh
ere he is.”

  Poor woman. He looked to the sheriff. “Where else can she go?”

  Ella Mae simpered, “No decent folk are going to take her in.”

  Mr. Hepplewhite held his jaw and snorted. “Told ya. Folks have dirty minds. All of ’em think you an’ me—”

  “Say one more word—“ Chris snarled. He didn’t need to finish his threat. Hepplewhite shut up, but the damage was done.

  The blood drained from Wren’s face, making her horrified expression all the more stark.

  Chris glanced at the sheriff, his eyes asking an unvoiced question.

  “Ain’t much I can do. Hepplewhite’s been drinkin’ like a trout, an’ he’s been tellin’ tales.”

  “Don’t even think to ask me to take her in. I’ve got children. No scarlet woman is going to taint my home!”

  The sheriff heaved a sigh. “Now, Ella Mae, you just heard your cousin. He’s just been spreadin’ lies—”

  “She’s opened herself to lurid speculation. I won’t have men riding out to my place because they figure they’ll have a turn with her.” Mrs. Tolliver disappeared behind the screen and reappeared a few minutes later. She tossed the golden dress onto the floor. “I don’t want this after all.”

  As the sharp-tongued woman sailed out the door, Wren bowed her head.

  “Miss Wren,” Chris said as he tilted her face up to his, “go on and get packed. I’m taking you out of here.”

  Flinching again from his touch, she wailed, “You lost me my job!”

  “No, songbird. I freed you from slavery.”

  She eased away from him as she rose unsteadily.

  Chris looked her over slowly, taking in her mussed hair, trembling lips, and shy, deep blue eyes. He saw how her shoulders squared with pride, just as he noted her breaths came far too fast and choppy to indicate she felt sure of herself or her situation. She held her clasped hands right at the base of her ribs, and her knuckles were white.

  Chris clenched and unclenched his fists as he realized this defenseless woman had the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. Her drab dress hid her assets, and he began to wonder if she hadn’t planned the effect.