Corbin's Bend Homecoming

by Ruth Staunton

  “Don’t you see? I don’t only have my very own cowboy, my own Dustin, my own Marshal and Lord of the Manor, your initials guarantee I’ll always remember I have my very own HOH.”

  It only took a moment for those residents of Corbin’s Bend to join her in laughter, each one understanding the humor.

  “In that case, it’s time to make sure everyone else knows that you are my Quincy, my cougar, my Mrs. Robinson, my cowgirl, my lady, my TIH and always and forever, the love of my life.”

  Applause broke out as the crowd divided to reveal not only Judge Stone standing at one end of the room, but the staff of the hotel lined up as well. Henry released Quincy to Benjamin who took her arm as Jeff walked to the front to join Henry. Venia and Lizzy, both wiping their eyes and giving her huge grins, lined up in front of Quincy. Abby engulfed her aunt in her arms, hugging her tight.

  “I am so unbelievably happy that he is your cowboy.” The two shed a few tears until Abby stepped away to stand slightly behind Venia.

  Heidi approached with a soft smile, her own cheeks glistening as she took the fan from Quincy’s hand and replaced it with a small bouquet of white roses. “You are a beautiful bride.”

  Quincy looked up at Benjamin. “We’re getting married right now? For real? How?”

  “Seems your cowboy knows that there is no waiting period in Colorado and no blood tests required. Judge Stone has the certificate and is very willing to perform the ceremony, so yes, sweetheart, now and for real, but only if you are ready.”

  Looking towards where Henry was standing, she smiled and nodded. “I’ve never been more ready to do anything in my life.”

  Benjamin lifted his hand, his thumb up and the orchestra began to play the wedding march. It hadn’t been planned months in advance, there was no white gown and half the guests were mere acquaintances and yet it was a beautiful wedding.

  Henry did dance with others as Quincy was twirled around the floor by her friends and neighbors. As Henry led Venia in a waltz, he thanked her for all her help in orchestrating the event. “Almost everyone came,” he exclaimed, seeing face after face that he’d grown accustomed to seeing in his community.

  “Everyone adores Quincy,” Venia said, “and as you’ve proven how very much you love her and will keep her safe, everyone also loves you.” She paused as he twirled her in a circle and once back in his arms, she grinned. “I’m thinking Jeff and I will be eating a free meal at least once a month.”

  The dance ended, and he bent to kiss her cheek. “And I’m thinking that’s a very small price to pay to become the luckiest man in the entire world.”

  At intermission, their friend’s involvement became even more evident as a trolley bearing a large, tiered wedding cake was wheeled in by Jim O’Brien, Ange at his side, a huge smile on her face. Champagne corks popped as the staff filled flutes. Quincy and Henry cut the cake, linked their arms and carefully fed each other a bite. A toast was made by Judge Stone and Henry didn’t even flinch when Walter bent Quincy slightly backwards and planted a very loud smacking kiss on her lips. After all, the man had definitely gone above and beyond when Henry had approached him after the night they’d met and told him of his desire to wed Quincy during the Grand Ball.

  Jeff stood and lifted his glass as the residents of Corbin’s Bend formed a circle around the newlyweds. Quincy stood in her husband’s arms as the orchestra began playing and their friends began singing their own version of the song made famous by the well-loved movie Fiddler on the Roof.

  Matchmaker, Matchmaker, you found your match,

  He caught your heart, he gave you his own,

  You’ve found your love, you made a great catch,

  And together you’ll never again be alone.

  By the time Henry turned his wife in his arms and bent to kiss her, his cheeks were as shiny as hers as their guests laughed, cried, cheered and applauded.

  As the evening continued, Henry told Quincy that he’d run out of cards and that Tory had enough clients lined up to keep her busy for a long time. They watched as Ever and Rob, Violet and Charles, Brent and Char, and Benjamin and Jonathon all joined in a lively dance while their friends laughed and encouraged them to keep going.

  Quincy stood in Henry’s arms, her head resting against his chest.

  “Tired?”

  “A little but I don’t want this night to ever end. How did you ever manage to pull this off?”

  “With quite a bit of help,” Henry said. “I almost had a heart attack this morning when I saw Ange walking out of the restaurant kitchen.”

  “You did? I never saw anyone from home and never suspected a single thing. You are an amazing man, Mr. Hopkins.”

  He bent to kiss her and they both startled when the entire room broke out into a rather off-key but enthusiastic rendition of Happy Birthday. They smiled and with the last strain of the song, he kissed her again.

  “Time to go celebrate in private, Mrs. Hopkins,” he whispered. Quincy nodded and they made the rounds, hugging and thanking everyone. As Quincy gave Abby a last hug, Henry spoke quietly with Heidi, grinning as she told him that everything was in place.

  Returning to their room, Henry smiled as he opened the door. Quincy gasped at the sight of the room’s transformation. A soft glow came through the windows, the moon seeming to hover just outside the glass. Candles were shimmering on tops of tables and a trail of white rose petals led directly to the bed.

  Henry shut the door and took her hand. “It’s after midnight, it’s your birthday and, young lady, I still owe you a half-dozen.”

  Quincy turned her face up to his, a smile playing on her lips. “Why, Mr. Hopkins, whatever do you intend to assault my poor derriere with this time?”

  “With that,” Henry said, nodding towards the bed.

  Quincy turned and gasped before turning back to him. His heart pounded as she slipped her arms around his waist, her eyes shining and her smile causing his blood to race.

  “I suppose you can now add Nancy Drew to your list. After all, I just solved the ‘Case of the Missing Tawse’.”

  The End

  Note to my Readers

  Thank you for joining me as we discover more about one of my favorite characters from the wonderful books that make up the Corbin’s Bend series. It was an honor to bring Quincy to life and after watching her helping guide several others to their love, it was time for her to find her own. I honestly can’t imagine a more perfect partner than Henry Oliver Hopkins, her love and definitely her HOH.

  Yes, there is really an annual Festival held in Durango, Colorado. Though the events Henry and Quincy experience do exist, I admit to taking a bit of artistic license. After researching the possibilities, I discovered that not only do I wish I could move to Corbin’s Bend to live my life among such wonderful people, I want to visit Durango as well.

  I hope you are blessed with your own special match to share your life with, and I thank you for sharing mine. Until we meet again, I wish you –

  Happy reading,

  Maggie Ryan

  Maggie Ryan

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  #1 International Best Selling Author in Victorian/Historical,

  Contemporary and Western Erotic Romance

  Multi-award Winning Author

  Fantasy is a world that offers endless possibilities. Whether you travel back in time to when the plains were open, take a journey to the cobblestone streets of London, take a stroll along the beach or walk through the streets of some foreign country, every letter of every word offers infinite possibilities. I love to write stories that take a reader on a journey, one they can disappear into and experience what might have been or what is to come. I never try to restrict myself to any one genre because there are just too many delicious possibilities out there and inside my head. I hope you will curl up in your favorite chair and take the journey with me. Happy Reading!

  Don’t miss the rest of the Corbin’s Bend Series!

  Welcome to Corbin’s Bend


  Return to Corbin’s Bend

  At Home in Corbin’s Bend

  Corbin’s Bend Homecoming

  Love in the Rockies

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  Her Cowboy

  Kate Richards

  ©2016 by Blushing Books® and Kate Richards

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

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  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  The trademark Blushing Books®

  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Richards, Kate

  Her Cowboy

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-294-6

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the Author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Chapter 1

  Cooky packed up the last of the utensils then brought up the table, closing the box at the rear of the chuck wagon. Hat low over his eyes, faded calico shirt gaping where buttons needed replacing, he limped to the front and climbed up on the box. No one knew how old the man was, but rumor had it he’d been the trail cook for the children of Israel on their way to the Promised Land. Slapping the reins on the back of the horses, he started off down the dusty trail. The lingering scent of a range breakfast, boiled coffee, red flannel hash, the bitter edge of over-toasted bread followed him like an old friend. They wouldn’t have a real meal again until after sunset, so, no matter how good or bad, they ate everything the grizzled old cook put before them. No cowboy wanted to insult the cook by leaving anything on a plate.

  Tales abounded of the ways the man could repay the slight. The Circle X took care of their men, provided quality foodstuffs, but the man at the stove controlled whether the biscuits were angel light or molar-bustin’ hard; if the coffee boiled past bitter that even cowboys couldn’t swallow. More than one tactless greenhorn had found gravel in his stew.

  And, by the end of the afternoon, they’d be ready to gobble boot leather if it came on a tin plate—but nobody’d mention such a dish and give Cooky ideas.

  Days on the trail, nights sleeping on hard ground, all for not much money… Earl Hollingsworth didn’t know why he did it. His brother, the fancy lawyer… his best friend from college, the financier. Everyone back East wanted to know, too. None of this was how they—or his parents—had seen his life. Hard riding all day, squatting by campfires at night, and not seeing women for weeks or months at a time.

  No… not the life he’d planned either.

  But as he slung his leg over his quarter horse and settled in the smooth leather saddle, the sun blazed over the distant hill lighting up spring’s green, blanketing the rolling Texas Hill Country, and he knew again.

  Despite his degree, his parents’ expectations of a son who would take his place in East Coast society, no building could enclose him.

  Cowboys weren’t made, they were born, and he’d be one until he grew as old and wizened as Cooky, if he had anything to say about it. Until his worn-out legs could no longer boost him into the saddle and his arthritic hands couldn’t tighten on a rope to lasso a calf.

  Until a certain snooty young woman with shiny dark hair and eyes as blue as the Texas sky forgot his foolish courtship amid the bliss of her happy marriage to a man with enough money and attitude and a marble mansion good enough for her.

  Earl would ride the range for the rest of his life.

  And nothing would ever change.

  Except, for a certain twenty-first century cowboy, something had.

  John Estrada read over the few hundred words he’d managed to pound out and shook his head. His editor would be pleased to see he’d finally added a “romance element” to this story. Not a big element, but she insisted the romance of the Old West had a place in every tale of the time. “After all, John,” Suzy insisted, “there’s been love as long as there have been people. Reviewers complain your heroes are lonely. They feel bad for them and are starting to wonder if you don’t like women or something.”

  He liked women fine, not that you could tell from his social life recently. Hours spent glued to the monitor didn’t leave a lot of time for getting out there and meeting lady friends. But if the women of Corbin’s Bend were anywhere near as pretty as the lady next door, he needed to find the time.

  John Estrada grimaced at the congealed remains of a microwave dinner, next to his keyboard. How long ago had he “eaten” it? Six hours or so? Cowboys, or ranch foremen, didn’t cook. They didn’t need to, at least not where he’d worked.

  Biscuits. He’d kill for even a gritty, burnt one. Not that Mrs. Carson had ever turned out anything but golden, fluffy biscuits back on the Circle X. Generous breakfasts, packed lunches of thick sandwiches and fruit and homemade oatmeal cookies studded with raisins to tuck in their saddlebags. Big Steve, her rancher husband, had never had trouble getting hands. Well-fed, decently compensated cowboys stuck around.

  His stomach growled at the memory.

  Succulent beef from their own grass-f
ed herd and potatoes—creamy mashed, sliced and fried, baked, or his favorite boiled parsley spuds drenched in butter—served with flavorful, peppered gravy and mountains of vegetables along with the lightest biscuits in the Republic. Golden butter and strawberry jam from her beloved garden.

  And pie…

  He’d walk twenty miles under the blazing Texas sun for a slice of her mixed berry pie, juices oozing from the flaky crust. Especially topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream churned in her ancient, hand-cranked model on the back porch. Some cowboy would always hang around on a Sunday to take the task. He’d done it many times himself.

  Mouth watering, he pushed away from the desk. He’d head out and find something to eat. Maybe the Mexican place would be good. It sure smelled good when he strolled past there. It had to beat cold, disgusting—he tilted the plastic tray, trying to remember what the entrée had claimed to be—probably chicken. Brent Carmichael recommended them highly, when he’d asked where a single guy could get a good meal and nobody knew Corbin’s Bend better than Brent. John didn’t want to overeat, since he’d become sedentary, not out riding every day like he was used to, but he didn’t need to starve either. It didn’t help when his cowboy characters were at least as obsessed with food as he’d become.

  Only long hours in the saddle—or on the ATV—had kept him lean and whipcord thin on the ranch. His new home might not be glass and steel, exactly, but walls were walls, and he’d never expected to find himself in a house in town. Corbin’s Bend sat an hour outside Denver, and he’d hoped it would be far enough out of the city to make a difference.