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Copyright © 2017 by Margaret Brownley
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover art by Judy York
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
An Excerpt from Anna Schmidt’s Last Chance Cowboys: The Outlaw
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
I dedicate this book to my three granddaughters, Summer, Courtney, and Bryanna, the inspiration behind the three Lockwood sisters. In the interest of family peace, I’ll let each girl decide for herself which sister she most resembles.
One
Two-Time, Texas
1882
Could she trust him? Dare she trust him?
The man—a stranger—looked like one tough hombre. Perched upon the seat of a weather-beaten wagon, he sat tall, lean, and decisively strong, his sunbaked hands the color of tanned leather. The only feature visible beneath his wide-brimmed hat and shaggy beard was a well-defined nose. The beard, along with his shoulder-length hair, suggested he had no regard for barbers. From the looks of him, he wasn’t all that fond of bathhouses either.
“Need a ride?” the stranger asked, looking down at her with open curiosity.
She hesitated. It wasn’t as if she had a lot of choices. If she didn’t accept his offer, she might have to spend the rest of the day, maybe even the night, alone in the Texas wilderness with the rattlers, cactus, and God knows what else.
“Where you headin’?” he asked.
This time she answered. “Two-Time.”
“Same here,” he said with a gruff nod, as if that alone was reason to trust him.
His destination should have offered no surprise. Two-Time was the only town within twenty miles. “Why there?” she asked.
Her hometown had grown by leaps and bounds since the arrival of the train but still lagged behind San Antonio and Austin in commerce and population. Most people, if they ended up in Two-Time at all, did so by mistake.
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Good a place as any.”
Moistening her parched lips, she shaded her eyes from the blazing sun as she gazed up at him. No sense beating around the bush. “You don’t have a nefarious intent, do you? To do me harm, I mean?” A woman alone couldn’t be too careful.
The question seemed to surprise him. At least it made him push back his hat, revealing steel-blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. What a strange sight she must look. Stuck in the middle of nowhere dressed to the nines in a stylish blue walking suit.
“Are you askin’ if your virtue is safe with me?”
She blushed but refused to back down. The man didn’t mince words, and neither would she. “Well, is it?”
“Safe as you want it to be,” he said finally. His lazy drawl didn’t seem to go with the sharp-eyed regard, which returned again and again to her peacock feathered hat, rising three stories and a basement high above her brow.
It wasn’t exactly the answer she’d hoped for, but he sounded sincere, and that gave her a small measure of comfort. Still, she cast a wary eye on his holstered weapon. The Indian Wars had ended, but the possibility of renegades was real. The area also teemed with outlaws. In that sense, it wouldn’t hurt to have an armed man by her side. Even one as surly as this one.
“If you would be so kind as to help me with my…um…trunk. I’d be most grateful.”
He sprang from the wagon, surprising her with his sudden speed. For such a large man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. He was also younger than he first appeared, probably in his early thirties. He would have towered over her by a good eight inches had she not been wearing a hat gamely designed to give her height and presence.
Gaze dropping the length of her, he visually lingered on her small waist and well-defined hips a tad too long for her peace of mind.
“Name’s Rennick,” he said, meeting her eyes. “R. B. Rennick.”
A false name if she ever heard one, but for once, she decided to hold her tongue. He was her best shot for getting back to town. He might be her only shot.
“I’m Miss Amanda Lockwood.” She offered her gloved hand, which he blithely ignored. Feeling rebuffed, she withdrew it.
The man was clearly lacking in manners, but he had offered to help her, and for that she was grateful.
Thumbs hanging from his belt, he gazed across the desolate Texas landscape. “How’d you land out here, anyway? Nothing for miles ’round.”
“I was on my way home from Austin when I…had a little run-in with the stage driver.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of run-in?”
“He was driving like a maniac,” she said with an indignant toss of the head. “And I told him so.” Not once but several times, in fact.
Hanging out the stage window, she’d insisted he slow down in no uncertain terms. When that didn’t work, she resorted to banging on the coach’s ceiling with her parasol and calling him every unflattering name she could think of. Perhaps a more tactful way of voicing her complaints would have worked more in her favor, but how was she supposed to know the man had such a low threshold for criticism?
She gritted her teeth just thinking about it. “Thought he would kill us all.” He pretty near did. The ne
rve of him, tossing her bag and baggage out of the stage and leaving her stranded.
Mr. Rennick scratched his temple. “Hope you learned your lesson, ma’am. Men don’t like being told what to do. ’Specially when holding the reins.” It sounded like a warning.
Turning abruptly, he picked up the wooden chest and heaved it over the side of the wagon like it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. It hit the bottom of the wagon with a sickening thud.
She gasped. “Be careful.” Belatedly, she remembered his warning and tempered his order with, “It’s very old.”
The hope chest was a family heirloom. If anything happened to it, her family would never forgive her. The chest had been handed down from mother to daughter for decades. She inherited the chest after the last of her two sisters wed. Since she had no interest in marriage, she used it mostly to store books. Today, it contained the clothes needed for her nearly weeklong stay in Austin.
He brushed his hands together. “Sure is heavy. You’d have an easier time haulin’ a steer.”
“Yes, well, it’s actually a hope chest.” While packing for her trip, she discovered the latch on her steamer trunk broken. The hope chest was a convenient though not altogether satisfactory substitute. For one, it was almost too heavy for her to handle alone—the most she could do was drag it.
“Don’t know what you’re hoping for, ma’am, but you’re not likely to find it out here.”
He gazed into the distance for a moment, then suddenly spun around and climbed into the driver’s seat without offering to help her. “Well, what are you waitin’ for?” he yelled. “Get in!”
Startled by his sharp command, she reached for the grab handle and heaved herself up to the passenger side.
No sooner had she seated herself upon the wooden bench than Mr. Rennick took off hell-bent for leather.
Glued to the back of the seat, she cried out. “Oh dear. Oh my. Ohhh!”
What had looked like a perfectly calm and passive black horse had suddenly turned into a demon. With pounding hooves and flowing mane, the steed flew over potholes and dirt mounds, giving no heed to the cargo behind. The wagon rolled and pitched like a ship in stormy seas. Dust whirled in the air, and rocks hit the bottom and sides.
Holding on to her hat with one hand and the seat with the other, Amanda watched in wide-eyed horror as the scenery flew by in a blur.
The wagon sailed over a hill as if it was airborne, and she held on for dear life. The wheels hit the ground, jolting her hard and rattling her teeth. The hope chest bounced up and down like dice in a gambler’s hand. Her breath whooshed out, and it was all she could do to find her voice.
“Mr. R-Rennick!” she stammered, grabbing hold of his arm. She had to shout to be heard.
“What?” he yelled back.
She stared straight ahead, her horrified eyes searching for a soft place to land should the need arise. “Y-you sh-should s-slow down and enjoy the s-scenery.”
Her hat had tilted sideways, and he swiped the peacock feather away from his face. “Been my experience that sand and sagebrush look a whole lot better when travelin’ fast,” he shouted in his strong baritone voice.
He made a good point, but at the moment, she was more concerned with life and limb.
He urged his horse to go faster before adding, “It’s also been my experience that travelin’ fast is the best way to outrun bandits.”
“W-what do you mean? B-bandits?” It was then that she heard gunfire.
She swung around in her seat, and her jaw dropped. Three masked horsemen were giving chase—and closing in fast.
Two
“Oh no!” she cried.
“You better get down, ma’am,” Mr. Rennick shouted. “They look like they mean bus’ness.”
Dropping off her seat, Amanda scrunched against the floorboards. Her body shook so hard, her teeth chattered. “G-give me your g-gun,” she cried.
“Know how to use it?” he yelled back.
“N-no, but I’m a f-fast learner!” She pulled off her gloves, which flew out of the wagon like frantic white doves.
Holding the reins with one hand, he grabbed his gun with the other. After cocking the hammer with his thumb, he handed it to her. The gun was heavier than she expected, requiring both hands to grasp. Keeping her head low, she balanced herself on wobbly knees and rested the barrel on the back of the seat. She held onto the grip with all her might. Still, the muzzle bobbed up and down like corn popping on a hot skillet.
Aiming at a specific target was out of the question. The jostling wagon made control impossible. The best she could do was to keep from shooting the driver. She wasn’t all that anxious to shoot the bandits either. She just wanted to scare them away.
Eyes squeezed shut, barrel pointed in the bandits’ general direction, she pulled the trigger. The blast shook her to the core, and her arm flung up with the recoil. She fell back against the footrest and fought to regain her balance.
“Good shot!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder. “You stopped your hope-a-thingie from attackin’. Now see if you can do the same with the bandits.”
Her heart sank. Oh no. Not the hope chest. Her family would kill her. That is, if the bandits didn’t kill her first. Forcing air into her lungs, she fought to reposition herself. The horsemen kept coming. They were so close now, she could see the sun glinting off their weapons.
Bracing herself against the recoil, she fired again, this time aiming higher. The wagon veered to the right, and she fell against the side, hitting her shoulder hard. Her feathered hat ripped from its pins and flew from the wagon in a way that no peacock ever had.
“Oh no!” That was her very best hat, and the fact that it landed on the nearest highwayman gave her small comfort. His horse stopped, but the bandit kept going.
“Stay down!” Rennick yelled.
“But my hat…” It was one of the most elaborate hats she’d ever created. The peacock feathers matched the color of her eyes. “I loved that hat!”
“Yeah, well, too bad it didn’t return your affection.”
Of all the rude things to say. Blinking away the dust in her eyes, she hunkered close to the floorboards and struggled to catch her breath.
The wagon continued to race over uneven ground, jolting her until she was ready to scream. Just when she thought her battered body could take no more, the wheels mercifully rolled to a stop.
She shot Rennick a questioning look. “W-what are you doing?”
“Seems like our friends deserted us.”
She raised her limp body off the floorboards on shaky limbs and flung herself onto the seat, breathing hard. All that was visible in the far distance was a cloud of dust that seemed to be moving in the opposite direction.
Relief rushed through her. “W-why do you suppose they gave up the chase?”
He lifted the gun from her hand and holstered it. “Guess the hat was enough to convince them that whatever chunk change we might have wasn’t worth the trouble.”
She glared at him. He didn’t seem to notice.
Her hair had fallen from its bun, and she did her best to pin back the loose chestnut strands. She brushed the dust off her skirt and rubbed her shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, though without her hat and gloves, she felt naked.
He drank from a metal flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Here.” He handed her the canteen.
She hesitated before bringing the spout to her mouth. The water was warm and tasted metallic; still, it helped quench her thirst. Pulling a lace handkerchief from her sleeve, she poured a few drops on it before handing the canteen back.
She dabbed her face with the moist handkerchief, but it offered little relief from the heat. The sun was almost directly overhead, and though still early spring, the temperature hovered in the high eighties.
“Do you mind if I retrieve my parasol from my hope…trunk?”
“I’ll get it.” Before she could object, he jumped to the ground and walked to the back of the wagon.
She tossed him an anxious glance and tried to remember how she’d packed. Were her intimate garments on the top or bottom of the chest? She’d packed in a hurry and couldn’t remember. Shaking her head in annoyance, she blew out her breath. They had almost been robbed, maybe even killed, and here she worried about—of all things—a few pairs of red satin drawers and corset covers.
He returned to his seat with her parasol, his expressionless face giving no clue as to what unmentionables he had been privy to.
“Much obliged,” she said, taking it from him.
He regarded her with curiosity. “What were you doin’ in Austin?”
She opened the sun umbrella, casting a welcome shadow over her heated face. “I was at a Rights for Women meeting.”
He made a face. “I should’ve known.” He picked up the reins. “You’re one of those suffering ladies.”
She leveled a sideways glance his way. “They’re called suffragists,” she said. “I take it you don’t much approve of women having the right to vote, Mr. Rennick.”
“I have no objection to women votin’. But it’s been my experience that you give women an inch, before you know it, they’ll want the whole kit and caboodle.”
“Right now all we want is the right to the ballot.” She pursed her lips. “Are you married, Mr. Rennick?”
“Nope.”
She narrowed her eyes. Had she only imagined his hesitation?
He met her gaze. “What about you? Got any marriage prospects?”
“None,” she said, looking away. “And I plan on keeping it that way.”
* * *
His passenger fell silent as they drove the rest of the way to town, and that was fine with R. B. Rennick. A loner by circumstance, he wasn’t even sure how to act in front of a woman anymore. Especially one as independent as Miss Lockwood.
She was something, all right, sitting there all prim and proper in her conservative suit like a trussed up turkey. No one would guess from looking at her that she favored red satin petticoats and matching under trousers. Recalling the intriguing contents of her hope chest, his gaze traveled down the length of her. For a woman who had no interest in marriage, she sure did arm herself with enough trappings to catch an army of men if she so chose.
A Match Made in Texas Page 1
