Emily fanned her heated face with the soiled handkerchief and gazed out the glassless window. Compared to Boston’s sturdy red brick buildings, the adobe shops with their false fronts and rough-hewn signs looked like they could be blown away with one good gust of wind.
No cobblestones lined the thoroughfare. Instead a bumpy dirt road wound through town, flanked by wooden sidewalks.
She looked for the drugstore owned by the man she’d traveled all this way to marry, but didn’t see it. Instead, they passed a general store, bank, gunsmith, and leather shop, but no ladies hat or dress emporiums. A sign reading The Haywire Book and Sweet Shop gave her a flicker of hope. The selling of books suggested that maybe the town wasn’t as primitive as it appeared.
She reached into her purse and pulled out the dog-eared letter that had been carefully tucked inside. Unfolding it, she reread the simple instructions written in bold handwriting. She was supposed to check in to the hotel. A driver would pick her up at four o’clock sharp and take her to the courthouse. Her betrothed would meet her there to exchange vows.
She chewed on her lower lip and forced herself to breathe. Never had she imagined herself a mail-order bride. But then neither had she dreamt she would be forced to leave Boston in shame, with hardly a penny to her name.
Her only hope was that her soon-to-be husband was as kind and caring in person as he appeared to be in his letters.
She checked her pendant watch, grateful that she’d remembered to adjust it to local time at the train station.
The omnibus turned onto a bewildering series of winding pretzel-like streets before pulling up the drive leading to the Haywire Grande Hotel.
Judging by the weathered facade, the only thing grand about the hotel was its size.
Her stomach knotted. Whatever fate had in store for her couldn’t be any worse than what she’d left behind. While the thought did nothing to lift her spirits, it did help calm her pounding heart. Refolding the letter, she returned it to her purse. Moments later, she stood in the blazing sun and waited for the driver to unload her luggage.
“Will that be all, ma’am?” he asked. His sudden politeness could only mean he expected a generous gratuity.
“Yes, thank you.” She handed him twice the number of coins she normally would, more out of guilt for commanding so much space than gratitude.
While a bellhop arranged her luggage onto a wooden handcart, she glanced again at her watch. In two short hours, she would be married to a man she had never set eyes on—a total stranger.
Now, having seen the town, it seemed she was about to exchange one prison for another.
* * *
Chase McKnight paced the floor of the judge’s chambers. Where is she? His bride should have been here by now.
The dark wood paneling along with the teak desk reflected his gloomy thoughts. Never had he imagined a wedding day as bleak and unsettling as this.
There were three men in the room, counting Chase. Judge Gray sat behind the desk waiting to perform the wedding ceremony. Chase’s uncle occupied the single chair in front of the desk, ready to serve as a witness. With their dark suits and serious expressions, they could just as easily be attending a funeral.
Chase wished to God he’d never agreed to this marriage. He’d met the bride-to-be but once, years ago when they were both in their early teens. Still, what choice did he have? What choice, for that matter, did the lady have?
Now a widow with three small children—two boys and a girl—she lived in the next county. Not that there was anything wrong with the woman. He’d heard that she regularly attended church, was a hard worker, and had accepted her lot in life with grace and goodwill. If his memory served him right, she wasn’t that bad to look at, either. But that wasn’t the point.
He glanced at his uncle. “Maybe she’s not comin’.” It would be disastrous if she didn’t show, but who could blame her? He was as much a stranger to her as she was to him, with less than a stellar reputation.
“Relax. She’ll be here,” his uncle said, though his drumming fingers belied the calmness of his voice. Uncle Baxter was a large, pompous man who resembled his brother—Chase’s father—in size, but not disposition. Chase’s father was much more easygoing, a trait that turned out to be more of a curse than a gift. In contrast, his uncle was a hard-nosed businessman whose relentless ambition had driven more than one woman away. “She needs this marriage as much as you do.”
Chase sincerely doubted that, but now was no time to argue.
Judge Gray reached into his vest pocket for his watch and flipped the case open with his thumb. As round as he was tall, the judge had a long white beard and white hair. Faded gray eyes peered from behind tortoiseshell spectacles. “She better come soon. I’ve got another wedding in fifteen minutes.”
Chase balled his hands at his sides. He longed to shrug off the frock coat and boiled shirt. As a cattle rancher, he wasn’t used to such formal attire. Why weddings required such a getup was one of the mysteries of life.
Discomfort turning to irritation, he glared at his uncle. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” There had to be another way.
Uncle Baxter leaned forward and snubbed his cigar in the copper ashtray on the judge’s desk. “You know what your father’s will said. The first son to marry gets the ranch. Do you want your brother claiming what’s yours?”
“Stepbrother,” Chase gritted out through wooden lips.
The mere thought of losing the ranch was like a knife to his heart. It wasn’t just a spread; it was a family legacy. The Rocking M Ranch had been founded by his Scottish grandparents. It was Grandpapa McKnight who had taught Chase everything he knew about cattle and ranching. By the age of twelve, Chase could ride, rope, and shoot as good or better than any man.
The judge checked his watch again. His uncle’s gaze sharpened, and his mustache twitched, but he said nothing.
Chase paced the floor and punched his fist into his left palm. When his uncle first approached him with the idea of marrying the widow, it had sounded like the perfect plan. It wasn’t easy being a rancher’s wife, and few women could handle the demands. Cassie had grown up around cattle. That alone would make her an asset.
Chase stopped pacing and tossed a nod at the shotgun in his uncle’s hand. “Why’d you bring that? I said no violence.”
His uncle left his chair. At six feet, he was almost as tall as Chase. “Think of this as insurance.” His uncle tapped the floor with the gunstock. “If your stepbrother gets wind that you’re here, there could be trouble. I don’t aim on letting anything go wrong.”
Chase pinched the bridge of his nose. Already something had gone wrong. The bride-to-be had apparently suffered a case of cold feet. “Maybe I can get a bank loan.” He resented having to pay his stepbrother to save the ranch. But, if his bride didn’t show, he might not have a choice.
His uncle discounted this idea with a shake of his head. “No bank is gonna give you a loan and you know it. Not with the economy the way it is.”
“I’ll think of somethin’.”
“If there was another solution, we’d have thought of it by now.” His uncle slipped a hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his gold watch. “You better start praying that the lady shows.”
The judge’s unkempt bushy eyebrows rose and fell. “You have ten minutes.”
Chase took a seething breath and continued pacing while his uncle kept checking the time.
After another couple of minutes, Chase stopped. “Whether she shows or not, I’m not givin’ up.”
Uncle Baxter grimaced. “You may have to,” he said, surprising Chase. It wasn’t like his uncle to admit defeat. “It’s a shame for it to end this way. The ranch meant everything to your father.”
Chase’s nostrils flared. “If it meant so much to him, then why did he put such a stipulation in the will?”
&
nbsp; How his father’s second wife had persuaded him to write such a will was a puzzle that continued to haunt him. Her son, Royce, had never put in an honest day’s work in his life. Drinking, gambling, and womanizing were more his style.
“There’re some things that are out of a person’s control,” his uncle said, cryptically.
Chase’s gaze sharpened. “What things?”
A look of uncertainty crept into his uncle’s expression. “Just…things.”
There was something his uncle wasn’t saying, but Chase was too incensed to pursue it.
The judge’s voice floated across the room. “If your bride doesn’t show in the next couple of minutes, I won’t have time to marry you. The next wedding party is due to arrive momentarily.”
Chase sucked in his breath and started for the door.
“Where are you going?” his uncle asked. “There’s still time.”
Chase whirled around. “Marrying the lady was your idea and I should never have agreed to it.” Lord knew he had enough on his plate without taking on an unwilling bride.
“Now listen to me—”
“No, you listen to me.” Chase was shouting now but didn’t care. “If I lose the ranch, I lose the ranch. But at least I won’t be tied to a loveless marriage!”
He turned toward the door just as it flew open. The widow had finally arrived, and she was decked from head to toe in full bridal regalia.
Recipes
Horehound Candy
Take two cupfuls of brown sugar, one cupful of corn syrup, and one-half teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Pour over this the horehound liquid made by steeping two ounces of dried horehound (which can be obtained at the drugstore) in one pint of hot water. Boil down to a cupful before adding to the sugar. If you do not wish it to be very strong of horehound, don’t use quite so much. Boil to the hard crack stage or about 300°. Pour into a buttered pan or pans. Mark deeply into small squares while still warm, and when cool it will break easily.
Chocolate Taffy
Take two cupfuls of sugar, one cupful of golden corn syrup, one-half cupful of boiling water, and one-fourth teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Boil to the soft ball stage, then add two ounces of unsweetened chocolate, shaved fine. Boil to nearly the crack stage or about 270°, then add one teaspoonful of vanilla. Pour out on a buttered platter, cool, and pull. Cut into small pieces, using shears or a sharp knife, and place on a buttered plate or paraffin paper.
Mary M. Wright, Candy-Making at Home (Philadelphia, PA: The Penn Publishing Company, 1915), gutenberg.org/files/43370/43370-h/43370-h.htm.
About the Author
Bestselling author Margaret Brownley has won numerous awards, including the National Readers’ Choice and RT Pioneer awards. She’s a two-time RITA finalist and has written for a TV soap. Not bad for someone who flunked eighth-grade English! Just don’t ask her to diagram a sentence. You can find Margaret at margaret-brownley.com.
Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
I hope you enjoyed Kate and Brett’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
While doing the research for my book, I turned up some fun and interesting facts about candy. For example, we can blame our sweet tooth on our cavemen ancestors and their fondness for honey.
I also learned that during the Middle Ages, the price of sugar was so high that only the rich could afford a sweet treat. In fact, candy was such a rarity that the most children could expect was an occasional sugarplum at Christmas.
This changed during the early nineteenth century with the discovery of sugar-beet juice and the invention of mechanical candy-making machines. Many of today’s candy favorites, including conversation hearts and Twizzlers, were first produced during this period.
Few people voiced concerns about the candy mania that had swept the country. Sugar candy was touted as a health food that would cure anything from the flu to heart disease.
Soon, jars of colorful penny candy could be found in every trading post and general store in the country. It took almost four hundred candy manufacturing companies to keep up with the demand.
Penny candy changed the market considerably. Children as young as four or five were able to make purchases independent of their parents.
Children weren’t the only ones enjoying the availability of cheap candy. Civil War soldiers favored gumdrops, jelly beans, and hub wafers (now known as Necco Wafers).
Never one to miss a trend, John Arbuckle noted the sugar craze that had swept the country and decided to use it as marketing tool. He included a peppermint stick in each one-pound bag of Arbuckles’ Coffee to encourage sales.
“Who wants the peppermint?” was a familiar cry around chuck wagons. This call to grind the coffee beans got a rash of volunteers. No rough-and-tumble cowboy worth his salt would turn down a stick of peppermint candy, especially when out on the trail.
Arbuckle wasn’t the only one to see gold in candy. Outlaw Doc Scurlock, friend of Billy the Kid and participant in the bloody Lincoln County War, retired from crime in 1880. Though he was still a wanted man, he moved to Texas and opened—what else? A candy shop.
Cadbury, Mars, and Hershey rode herd on the chocolate boom of the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds. Penny candy still made up 18 percent of candy sales, but by this time, some merchants had refused to sell it. Profits were thin, and selling such small amounts to children was time-consuming. Chocolate was more profitable. The penny candy market vanished altogether during World War II when sugar was rationed, though it did make a minor comeback in the fifties. Fortunately, no war could do away with chocolate.
As for Haywire, Texas, there’re still stories to be told, and you won’t want to miss the next book in the series.
Meanwhile, you can reach me through my website: margaret-brownley.com.
Until next time,
Margaret
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go to the great Sourcebooks team for the work they put into my books. From editing to marketing and everything in between, I couldn’t ask for a more dedicated and talented group.
I’m especially thankful for my editor, Mary Altman, whose insightful comments help make my stories stronger. Sometimes she knows what I’m trying to say in my stories even before I do!
There are no words to express my gratitude to my agent, mentor, sounding board, and all-’round good friend, Natasha Kern. No matter what happens, I always feel better after talking to her.
As always, I can’t say enough good things about my family and friends, who never complain when I ramble on about people who exist only in my head.
Finally, thanks to you, my dear readers, for making the journey worthwhile.
TRAILBLAZER
A brand-new series from award-winning author Anna Schmidt
Grace Rogers is ready for an adventure—and to support her struggling family—so she heads west with the prestigious Fred Harvey Company. There, a handsome cowboy quickly turns her head. Too bad the Harvey Girls are forbidden to marry…
Nick Hopkins doesn’t plan on falling in love. But after meeting Grace, he can’t keep away. They plan to marry in secret… But a powerful new rival soon pursues Grace and won’t take no for an answer. Can Nick and Grace save their happily ever after?
“Western fans rejoice!”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars for Last Chance Cowboys: The Rancher
For more Anna Schmidt, visit:
sourcebooks.com
LEFT AT THE ALTAR
From New York Times bestseller Margaret Brownley
After she’s left at the altar, Meg Lockwood knows she can’t show her face in town again. After all, her marriage was supposed to end a bitter feud between rival jewelers, who both keep time in Two-Time, Texas.
Handsome lawyer Grant Garrison is hired to defend the groom in a breach of promise suit—but he instead
finds himself developing undeniable feelings for the jilted bride. When the former groom decides to make good on his promise, Meg realizes that her ex-fiancé is no longer who she wants.
Does Meg have enough time to marry the man of her dreams?
“A great story by a wonderful author.”
—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author, for Left at the Altar
For more Margaret Brownley, visit:
sourcebooks.com
CHRISTMAS IN A COWBOY’S ARMS
Stay toasty this holiday season with heartwarming tales from bestselling authors
Whether it’s a lonely spinster finding passion, an infamous outlaw-turned-lawman reaffirming the love that keeps him whole, a broken drifter discovering family in unlikely places, a Texas Ranger risking it all for one remarkable woman, two lovers bringing together a family ripped apart by prejudice, or reunited lovers given a second chance…a Christmas spent in a cowboy’s arms is full of hope, laughter, and—most of all—love.
“Everyone will be uplifted and believe in the joy and wonder of the season through these wonderful novellas.”
—RT Book Reviews
For more from these authors, visit:
sourcebooks.com
Also by Margaret Brownley
A Match Made in Texas
Left at the Altar
A Match Made in Texas
How the West Was Wed
Christmas in a Cowboy’s Arms anthology
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