Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal

by Lara Temple

  Chapter One

  Smoke River, Oregon, 1871

  He knew something was wrong the minute he stepped up onto the front porch. For one thing, Charlie was rocking away in the lawn swing with a big grin on his lined face. And for another, Alice, the ranch owner’s wife sitting beside him, wasn’t.

  “Been waitin’ for ya,” Charlie drawled.

  “Yeah? Not late, am I?” Maybe that was why Alice’s heart-shaped face looked so set, but Zach discarded that thought right away. When Alice Kingman was displeased about something, she didn’t waste time looking dour; she bared her nails and lit right into your hide.

  “All the hands are inside, Zach. And they’re damn hungry,” Charlie added.

  Alice stopped the swing with her foot and rose in such a ladylike motion for a woman climbing up on her forties that it brought a chuckle to Zach’s throat. Alice was pure female, and in her blue denim skirt and ruffly red-check blouse she looked good enough to eat.

  Charlie slapped him on the back. “Come on, Zach. Consuelo’s fried chicken is getting cold.”

  Alice disappeared through the screen door, and Charlie draped a heavy arm across Zach’s shoulders. “Got somethin’ I want to show ya.”

  All Zach’s senses went on alert. The last time Charlie had had something to show him, Zach had limped for three days after the boss’s new stud horse threw him.

  “It’s not a horse, is it?”

  “Heck, no,” Charlie spluttered. “Cain’t invite a horse to Sunday dinner, can I?”

  So it was a someone, not a something the boss was showing off. Someones got invited to Sunday dinner at the ranch house, along with Zach and the Rocking K ranch hands.

  In the dining room, Zach stood between slim, dark-skinned José and Roberto, an older, slightly overweight man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, and waited for Alice to seat herself. He eyed the vacant chair across from him. Okay, boss, we’re here. So where’s the someone?

  He heard the rustle of petticoats behind him and caught a whiff of something that smelled like lilacs. Oh, no, not Alice’s Great-Aunt Hortense! Hell’s bells, Roberto had put her on the train for San Francisco scarcely a month ago, and...

  Zach swallowed hard and the other hands stiffened to attention, waiting for Aunt Hortense’s entrance.

  But it wasn’t Aunt Hortense.

  A young woman so pretty it made him swallow hard glided across the room and sat down next to Roberto’s nephew, Juan. The young Mexican’s blush turned the tips of his ears red.

  Everyone dropped onto their chairs like boneless sandbags and Zach slid into his upholstered seat and waited. No one said a word. Finally, Alice signaled Consuelo and the meal got under way.

  “Boys,” Charlie announced, snagging a drumstick off the platter the cook offered, “say howdy to Miss Murray.”

  A rumble of respectful male voices rose. Then another long silence fell.

  “Miss Murray is visiting from Chicago,” Alice said, thin lipped. She split a biscuit with a stab of her knife.

  “Welcome, Señorita Murray,” Roberto offered. The older man had civilized manners; his nephew also knew what to do, but he was real young and not as polished as Roberto.

  “Ees an honor, señorita,” Juan said with an even deeper blush.

  Miss Murray smiled across the table. “Why, thank you, gentlemen.”

  Charlie took over the introductions. “On your left is Juan Tapia, and to your right is Skip Billings. Across the table is José Moreno, Zach Strickland and Jase Snell. Zach’s the trail boss for the cattle drive.”

  Miss Murray inclined her head. “Gentlemen,” she said again.

  Man, oh, man, her hair was something else, dark as blackstrap molasses and so soft-looking that Zach curled his fingers into fists.

  What was Charlie’s game here? He thought it over while platters of mashed potatoes and green beans were handed around the table. A prettier girl he hadn’t seen in too many years to count, but Charlie knew Zach wasn’t interested in romancing a female ever again, so what did Charlie want to show him?

  Before Zach picked up his fork, Charlie dropped a hint.

  “You boys still readin’ those newspaper stories from back East?”

  “Sure, boss,” Jase volunteered. “Got ’em all pinned up on the bunkhouse wall.”

  “Can’t hardly wait for the next one,” Skip added. “Best da—uh, darn horse-racin’ stories I ever read.”

  Zach drove his fork into the pile of mashed potatoes on his plate. So that was it. This Murray woman was somehow related to A. Davis Murray, the newspaper reporter whose stories the hands devoured each week. His daughter, maybe? Or...his gut tightened...his wife? Who was she, exactly? And what was she doing sitting all pink and white at Sunday dinner at the Rocking K ranch house?

  The hands couldn’t stop jabbering about A. Davis Murray’s horse-racing stories, and Miss Whoever-She-Was Murray looked mighty interested. More than interested. She was hanging on every word and her eyes... Oh, those eyes. Blue as desert lupines. Anyway, they sparkled like they’d been polished.

  Zach caught Charlie’s eye and quirked one eyebrow.

  “More chicken?” Charlie asked, his voice bland.

  Zach shot a glance at Alice at the opposite end of the long walnut table and lowered his eyebrows into a frown. Alice looked madder than a wet cat, and that was a real puzzler. Alice never got mad about anything—not Skip’s rough table manners or Consuelo’s constant nattering about her dwindling supply of coffee beans, not even the time Charlie forgot her birthday.

  But for darn sure she was mad today, and Zach figured it had something to do with pretty Miss Murray.

  But Charlie always took his own sweet time about things, and this afternoon was no exception. Finally, finally, the owner of the Rocking K swallowed his last bite of strawberry shortcake, groaned like a contented heifer and rapped on his coffee cup for attention.

  “Well, boys, today I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Jase’s scraggly blond head came up. “Yeah?”

  “What if I told you...” Charlie paused dramatically and Alice rolled her eyes “...that Miss Murray’s first name is Alexandra.”

  “What if ya did, boss?” Jase said. “Fancy name, but it don’t ring no bells for me.” Jase’s grammar stopped at the fourth grade.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” Consuelo hissed as she circled with her coffeepot. “You set a bad example for my José.”

  José ducked his head.

  “I mean,” Charlie continued, “what if her name was Alexandra Davis Murray?”

  “She is marry to the newspaper man?” Juan guessed.

  Charlie gulped a swallow of coffee. “Nah. She is the newspaperman. Or, rather, newspaperwoman. This here lady is A. Davis Murray.”

  “Ees not possible,” José protested.

  Zach stared across the table at Miss Murray. Miss Alexandra Davis Murray. José was dead right, it wasn’t possible. Just what kind of game was Charlie playing?

  Miss Alexandra Murray sent Zach an apologetic smile. “It’s true,” she said. “I write newspaper articles for the Chicago Times.”

  Skip gaped at her. “You write about all them horse races?”

  “I do.” She looked around the table at each of the ranch hands in turn until she came to Alice, who was still tight-jawed. “Aunt Alice doesn’t approve, obviously. But I like horse races. And I like writing about them.”

  “Jehoshaphat,” Jase breathed.

  “Madre mia,” José muttered.

  Zach wanted to laugh. The thought of this soft, ruffly female tramping around a horse stable made his lips twitch.

  Then they were all talking at once. During the hubbub, Charlie leaned forward and addressed Zach. “I want to talk to you,” he intoned. “In private.” He heaved his bulky frame out of the chair and led the way to his office ac
ross the hallway.

  “Whiskey?” he asked when he’d shut the heavy oak door.

  “No, thanks. Gotta ride out at first light.”

  Charlie pushed the cut-glass decanter across his desk toward him anyway. “I’d change my mind if I was you, Zach.”

  Without another word, he filled two glasses.

  “Spit it out, Charlie, what’s up?”

  His boss touched his glass to Zach’s and tossed back the contents. “Kinda hard to come right out and tell you, son.”

  Uh-oh. Charlie only called him “son” when bad news was coming. Zach swigged down half his whiskey. “Let’s have it, Charlie. Like I said, I’ve got an early get-up tomorrow.”

  “Well, Zach, it’s like this. It’s true that Alexandra is a newspaper reporter.”

  “You already said that. Or somebody did. Anyway, I know that.”

  “Yeah, well. See, her newspaper, the Chicago Times, wants her to do a story about a cattle drive.”

  Zach slapped his empty glass onto the desk. “No.”

  “I understand how you feel, Zach, but you see the answer’s gotta be yes.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Charlie just nodded. “Yeah, it does.”

  “Why?” Zach demanded. “Why does she pick this ranch? Tell her to choose another cattle drive.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because.” He refilled his glass. “Because not only is Alexandra a newspaper reporter, she is, uh, as you’ve no doubt realized, my niece. Her mama is Alice’s sister.”

  Zach said nothing for a long minute. “So?” he inquired at last.

  “So,” Charlie said, “she wants to—”

  “No,” Zach repeated.

  Charlie reached for the whiskey decanter. “You want to keep your job, don’tcha, son?”

  Damn, he hated to be threatened, especially by the man who had his financial ass under his boot heel. Zach sighed and refilled his glass.

  “Well, hell, Charlie, can she ride?”

  Copyright © 2018 by The Woolston Family Trust

  Keep reading for an excerpt from DEVIL IN TARTAN by Julia London.

  Devil in Tartan

  by Julia London

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lismore Island, The Highlands, Scotland, 1752

  THE CAMPBELL MEN landed on the north shore of the small Scottish island of Lismore in the light of the setting sun, fanning out along the narrow strip of sand and stepping between the rocks and the rabbits that had infested the island.

  They were looking for stills.

  They also were looking for a ship, perhaps tucked away in some hidden cove they’d not yet found. The stills and the ship were here, and they would find them.

  Duncan Campbell, the new laird of Lismore, knew that his tenants—some two-hundred odd Livingstones—were gathered to celebrate Sankt Hans, or Midsummer’s Eve, a custom that harkened back to their Danish ancestors who had settled this small island.

  The Livingstones, to the Campbell way of thinking, were laggards and generally far too idle...until recently, that was, when it had come to Duncan’s attention that this hapless clan had begun to distill whisky spirits without license. He’d heard it said in a roundabout way, in Oban, and in Port Appin. Livingstones were boastful, too, it would seem. Rumor had it that an old Danish ship had been outfitted to hold several casks and a few men.

  Where the Livingstones lacked godly ambition, the Campbells fancied themselves a clan of superior moral character. They were Leaders of Scotland, Pillars of the Highlands, Ministers of Social Justice and they distilled whisky with a license and sold it for a tidy profit all very legally. They did not take kindly to illicit whisky that undercut their legitimate business. They were downright offended when someone traded cheap spirits against their superior brew. They disliked illegal competition so much that they took great pains to find it and destroy it by all means possible. Fire was a preferred method.

  The Campbell men creeping along the beach could hear the Livingstone voices raised in song and laughter, the strains of a fiddle. When night fell, those heathens would be well into their cups and would light a bonfire and dance around it. Bloody drunkards. But alas, the Campbells did not make it more than a few dozen steps into their search when they heard the warning horn. It sounded so shrilly that it scattered rabbits here and there and, frankly, made Duncan’s heart leap. He hardly had a moment to collect himself before buckshot whizzed overhead.

  Duncan sighed skyward. He looked at his escort, Mr. Edwin MacColl, whose clan inhabited the south end of Lismore, and who was diligent in paying his rents and not distilling whisky. Duncan had pressed the very reluctant Scotsman into service by threatening to raise his rents if he didn’t lend a hand. “That’s it, then, is it no’?” he asked MacColl as another shot rang out and sent up a spray of sand when it hit the bit of beach. “They’ve seen us and warned the others.”

  “Aye,” MacColl agreed. “They keep a close eye on what is theirs. As any Scot would,” he added meaningfully.

  Campbell recognized the subtle needling, but there was no opportunity to remind MacColl that illegal whisky was bad, very bad, because four riders appeared on the hill above them with long guns pointed at their chests. Naturally, Miss Lottie Livingstone, who, as daughter of the chief here, ran wild on this island, led them. If she were his daughter, Campbell would have taken her in hand and ended her feral behavior tout de suite.

  “Laird Campbell!” she called cheerfully, and nudged her horse to walk down the grassy slope to the beach. “You’ve come again!”

  Campbell groaned. “Must it be so bloody difficult to root out corruption and illegal deeds?” he muttered to MacColl. “Must the most beautiful lass in all of Scotland be the most unruly and untamed of them all?”

  Apparently, Mr. MacColl had no answer to that, and in fact, he turned his head so that Duncan could not see his face. Duncan rolled his eyes and addressed the woman who lived like an undomesticated cat on this island. “Hold your fire, aye, Miss Livingstone? I am your laird after all!” As if that needed explaining.

  “How can we help you, laird?” she asked.

  “No’ you, lass. I’ll have a word with your father.”

  Her eyes sparked, and above another glittering smile she said, “Oh, but he’ll be delighted, he will.”

  The lass had a way of giggling sometimes when she spoke that made Duncan wonder if she was laughing at him or was just a wee bit off her head. He called in his men, and motioned for them to follow along as he and MacColl trudged up the hill toward the Livingstone manor.

  If they couldn’t find the stills and Livingstone would not own to them, then by God, Campbell would inquire about the past due rents. He’d have something for his trouble.

  Copyright © 2018 by Dinah Dinwiddie

  ISBN-13: 9781488086595

  Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

  Copyright © 2018 by Ilana Treston

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