The Courageous Brides Collection

by Johnnie Alexander, Michelle Griep, Eileen Key, Debby Lee, Rose Allen McCauley, Donita Kathleen Paul, Jennifer Uhlarik, Jenness Walker, Renee Yancy

  He headed through the door.

  “On a plate, please.”

  “Yes’m.” The door slammed.

  Grant shifted.

  Mae took in a sharp breath. “He’ll soon be gone. We don’t welcome visitors.” Her words must have sounded stark in her own ears. Her eyes snapped to Grant’s, then her whole face lightened with a warm smile. She winked. “Normally, that is.”

  She moved to the edge of the top step as the man pulled up to the hitching post a few yards away. Silver disks circled his hat. He wore a string tie around his neck. But unable to escape the heat, his white collar wilted slightly against his shaved chin and neck. A tailored strip of a black mustache accented his upper lip, and his dark hair must have been trimmed recently.

  Grant’s impression of the man fluctuated between dandy and danger. His outward appearance seemed too studied, like a piece of polished wood that didn’t quite hide an interior riddled with blight. Termites? Dry rot? Greed and power lust?

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stilling.” Though cordial enough, her voice didn’t hold any of the softness that Grant craved.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Mae. We’ve missed seeing you in town.”

  “We were there just ten days ago, selling horses.”

  “I missed seeing you. I meant to offer you a meal at the High Grounds Café. Surely you remember it’s my dearest desire to spend some time in your company.”

  The visitor’s sleazy smile and unbearable arrogance were just about enough to make Grant bolt from his chair. He sorely wanted to comment on the man’s intrusion. To be able to stand and purposely position himself beside Mae as her protector would have sat well with Grant.

  And he would have if it wouldn’t hurt like all get out. But staggering to his feet didn’t actually present a picture of dominance.

  Grant understood why Mae didn’t like this particular visitor. None of the Seadys were fond of him. On first acquaintance, he didn’t like this Mr. Stilling, either.

  “You are the finest woman the territory has to offer. It’s a shame you’re practically sequestered like a nun on this ranch.”

  Nope, didn’t like Mr. Stilling one bit.

  “It is my parents’ wish that I don’t socialize, and I believe I’ve explained that before.”

  “Ah, yes, the trip back East.”

  “Someday, Mr. Stilling. Someday.”

  The man nodded toward Grant. “Are you going to introduce me to your company?”

  Mae’s chin thrust forward, and Grant figured she would pass on that social necessity. Buckeroo came from the side yard, walking carefully so as not to spill the water. Joe-Joe appeared at the same time with a biscuit on a plate.

  Mr. Stilling made a move as if to dismount. The sound of Gramps cocking the hammers on his double-barreled shotgun came from a window behind Grant.

  “Not a good idea,” said Mae. “You forget how particular Grampa Seady has become in his old age.”

  The man’s eyes shifted to a point somewhere beyond the people on the porch, a point between Mae and Grant.

  The screen door squealed again, and Lucy’s light footsteps crossed the porch. She sat in Gramps’s rocker, a piece of material in her hands, a needle ready to be plied. She nodded to the man on the horse but then turned a falsely bright smile to Grant.

  Lifting the cloth for his inspection, she said, “Almost done.”

  A shirt for him? This was the first he’d seen of any such endeavor. What game were they playing? Why did he feel that the stakes were very high? Was this shyster about to shove all his chips to the center and call their bluff?

  “Miss Lucy.” Mr. Stilling touched the rim of his hat as if he acknowledged one of the ladies at a church function. “The schoolmarm sends her regards. Her offer to train you to be the next teacher still stands.”

  “Are you interested, Lucy?” Mae sounded sincere in her question.

  Lucy spoke to her sister, not the visitor. “Mom and Dad need me here. I help with everything.” She held up the shirt again. “I like sewing much better than lessons.”

  “There’s a new seamstress in town. A woman from Cincinnati.” Stilling looked at Mae. “Someone you could talk to about your visit east.” His eyes shifted to Lucy. “I’m sure she would be interested in an apprentice.”

  Lucy ducked her head, suddenly absorbed by the next stitch she made.

  Grant heard the slight edge in the tone of Mae’s question. “Lucy? Lucy, would you like to do that? I’ll talk to…our parents if it’s something you’d like to do.”

  The look Lucy tossed at her sister said more than her words. “Of course not. Why would I want yet another person telling me how to do things? I like to experiment and make my own ideas show up in a dress.” Her eyes turned to meet Grant’s. “Sorry, but cowboy shirts don’t offer much of a challenge. I prefer dresses.”

  The smile and slight nod of his head cost Grant less pain than the same movement would have a few days before. Deacon had his body healing nicely. But this family had his mind more confused than when he first woke in bed with little girls giggling all around him.

  What parents?

  Mr. Stilling broached the subject for him.

  “I’d like to talk to your father and uncle about the riverside property. I’d like to lease the water rights.”

  Gramps growled from the window, and Grant detected movement, heard the metal barrel scrap against the wood frame.

  “You’ll find them up at the high-meadow cabin. Uncle Boss, Mom, and Dad left two days ago to set it to rights for the winter.”

  “I’ll wait until they return. I’ve never been able to locate that outpost of yours.”

  “Suit yourself, Mr. Stilling. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m behind in my baking.”

  Mr. Stilling looked purposefully at the laundry line visible round the south side of the big house. “Seems more like washing day with all those sheets hung to dry.”

  Mae said nothing. Her silence chilled the air. After an awkward moment, the man on the horse doffed his hat, reined his horse away from the rail, and trotted away from the ranch.

  “Wh–what th–that mean, M–mae?” Buckeroo sidled next to his sister and put his hand in hers.

  “It means Mr. Stilling is too interested in our family.”

  Robert appeared on the front porch, still shuffling and hunched like a man three times his age. He propped himself against the post holding up the porch’s roof. “The only thing he’s really interested in is our property. All we have to do is keep him at bay two more years until Tim and I turn twenty-one.”

  Mae jerked to a straighter posture. “Robert!” She indicated Grant with a quick glance.

  “Ah, Mae, he’s no threat. First, he can’t talk yet. Second, he’s probably grateful we saved his life, so he owes us, not Mr. Rich and Mighty Stilling. And last of all, he thinks you hung the moon.”

  He jumped out of reach right before Mae’s hand could knock him off the top step. Laughing, he collapsed on the stoop. Through guffaws, he managed to say, “Mae, you’ve got a suitor, and I don’t mean old moneybags. Tim and I’ll have to ask Cowboy’s intentions, but we’ll wait till his jaw heals up some more so he can answer.”

  Chapter Five

  Grant sat at the big table with a sheet of paper in front of him and a pencil clutched awkwardly in clawlike fingers. Mae hovered on the kitchen side of the table, paying more attention to him than she had in two days. Her actions betrayed anxiety. She didn’t know what to make of him since her brother pointed out that he had a hard time keeping his eyes off her every movement.

  The rest of the family sat around the table as well. Not for a meal, but because of the guest who’d ridden in midmorning. Of course, Gramps was napping, and the parents were conveniently off at the high-country cabin.

  Grant forced his attention back to their current visitor. Unlike the other one, this man had managed to get in the house. The invitation, generously extended by Tim and reiterated by Mae, had surprised Grant. The law posed
no threat, so whatever falsehood the family enacted had nothing to do with illegal activities. Why was Stilling such a threat then? The older man’s presence caused caution but no fear.

  The sheriff slouched in his chair opposite Grant. His hat hung on the top corner of the high-back chair, and his coat lay open to reveal the star pinned to his vest. A plate of cookies sat nearby and his hand cradled a coffee mug.

  He’d come to deliver news and was pleased that his assumptions had proven correct. “As soon as Whit Stilling reported an unnamed, battered stranger out here at the Seady place, I put two and two together.” He pointed to the paper. “Just write what you remember.”

  He took another cookie and slurped his coffee. Then he gave Mae a wide smile only slightly dimmed by yellowed teeth. “Sit down, girl. I’ll tell you the whole tale.”

  Chairs scraped on the wooden floor as members of the family scooted closer, taking interest in the sheriff’s account.

  “You might not know the Biden brothers. Good-looking boys without a lick of sense. Mother died ten years ago and their pa passed last winter. They’ve been barreling into trouble one way or another since the snow thawed. They just don’t have the smarts to be good at criminal shenanigans.” He shook his head as if this were a sorry circumstance.

  Grant thought it was. In fact, he agreed wholeheartedly. The Biden boys’ activities had caused him a great deal of sorrow. And pain. And inconvenience.

  “First thing those boys did was bring your horse and saddle into the livery and sell them to Max. Max comes to my office as soon as the Bidens are out of sight. With a knock on the head like you got, you might not remember, but you’d talked to Max the day before about the Seady horses. He told you that you’d missed the sale and gave you directions to the ranch.”

  Grant remembered up until the next morning while he followed the trail the liveryman had detailed. Something happened, and that something was the beginning of a blank place in his memory.

  The sheriff continued. “Seems one or all of those boys were in hearing distance, because they decided you must be carrying money to buy horses. They’d plotted to relieve you of your funds and put it to their own use.”

  His pause for effect allowed the members of the family to dwell on just what those ornery boys had in mind.

  Good Ole Bess wasn’t as involved with the flow of the tale as the others. “Pass the cookies, please.”

  The listeners stirred.

  Grant thought it inconceivable that everyone’s attention shifted to refreshments. Good Ole Bess waited while the plate traveled past her siblings on the left side of the table. After she’d taken one, the cookies returned down the right side. Mae got up, replenished the plate, and put the milk jug in front of Lucy. The procedure for refilling drinks, coffee, and milk, plus supplying yet another helping of cookies, wrung the last drop of Grant’s patience. He couldn’t demand his right to know the end of the tale. He ought to be at least as long-suffering as the little girls, but he thought he’d explode with curiosity.

  Finally, the sheriff returned to his story. “I found them at the saloon. Got there before they’d spent much money on booze and gambling.” He winked at Grant. “Locked up your things in my office, ’cept your money. It’s in the bank under your name. Found everything I needed to identify you. Sent a letter to your folks.”

  Grant groaned.

  Mae’s eyes grew wide. “Perhaps you can write a note to them, and the sheriff will post it when he returns to town. They must be worried sick.”

  Grant nodded. Father, Mother, three older sisters, four older brothers, and George the cook. Worried? More likely some of them were en route to rescue the youngest son. He could do without that. His ma would be beside herself. She probably led the search and rescue party.

  “Getting the truth out of the Bidens only took time. They’re too stupid to lie very well. Let ’em talk and they dig their own holes to fall in.” The sheriff couldn’t hold back the grin on his face. “For instance, I asked where they’d seen you last. One of them says he can’t tell me ’zackly ’cause he wasn’t paying much attention to where they were. And he tops that by saying he didn’t know where he was ’cause he was too busy keeping track of where you were.”

  Mae frowned, not finding the story as funny as the older grinning boys did.

  The cookie platter passed by again. The sheriff picked up another.

  Was that an even dozen for the lawman?

  He crunched a bite then pointed with the remaining crescent. “They said you were already hurt when they got to you. Dead probably. They said you fell off your horse when it got spooked by something. Then one of them pipes up and says all horses spook at the sound of a gun going off.”

  “It w–wasn’t f–funny,” said Buckeroo.

  “We were there.” Though Joe-Joe’s voice didn’t quiver, emotion sucked out its usual volume.

  Charlie pushed his empty milk glass as far from him as he could. Grant noted his attempt at distancing himself from youth failed with a telltale milk mustache bristling with stray cookie crumbs. But his serious face and sober tone testified to the true feelings behind the scamp’s usually happy-go-lucky expression. “Those men weren’t fooling around. They meant to kill him.”

  “W–we h–hid.”

  Joe-Joe nodded vigorously. “Of course we did. Smart thing to do.”

  “Right!” Charlie searched the faces of those around the table as if seeking a second to his opinion. “If I’d had my rifle, I’d a shot at ’em and scared ’em off. But we were across the canyon on the east side in the shadows. And we couldn’t run across and climb that steep drop-off and do a lick of good.”

  “And afore you knew it,” said Joe-Joe, “they rolled him over the edge, and then we could get to him.”

  “We—we helped him.”

  All three of the boys telling the tale stopped to stare at Grant. He could read the anguish in their eyes. They’d wanted to rescue him before the men left, but what could three boys do against three armed men bent on cruelty?

  Grant recognized their visible torture of being inadequate. Their distress pounded at him for forgiveness. He managed a nod and said, “Thank you,” much louder and clearer than he’d have thought he could.

  In unison, the boys released a sigh. Their liberation from guilt lightened the whole room.

  Mae stood and moved behind the twins. Her hands on their shoulders must have been light, but Grant saw strength pass from her to them. “You saved his life by getting him in the goat cart and home as fast as you did.”

  Charlie swallowed hard, blinked hard, and nodded hard enough to knock the cowlick into a swagger as it shot up from the crown of his head.

  Mae stood on the porch and breathed in the cool night air. The stars glittered across the heavens, as if she could reach out and scoop them up like a sprinkle of sugar. They couldn’t be reached, of course. A lot of things in life looked attainable but were not.

  The cowboy had been completely incapable of writing out what had happened to him. The sheriff eventually understood he’d have to wait another week or so, but keeping the Biden brothers under lock and key was his intent. He had evidence as well as the testimony of Charlie, Buckeroo, and Joe-Joe.

  Grant had managed to write one shaky line to his folks, saying he was on the mend. She’d taken the paper from him after watching him struggle to push that pencil in all the right directions. She hadn’t realized how mangled his right arm and hand were. Compared to his battered body, the arm looked pretty good.

  She’d written about the boys finding him and bringing him home. Of course, she didn’t mention that her parents and aunt and uncle were deceased. Nor did she mention she’d gone off to round up horses. She didn’t mention she’d left Grant with the youngsters.

  At the time, she’d thought he was going to hang on a few days and then die no matter what they did for him. He didn’t die.

  For almost a week, he’d watched her from that hideously swollen, discolored face. His calm presenc
e occupied far too much of her thoughts. She longed to sit and gaze into his eyes and, by sheer will power, figure out what he was thinking.

  Now, she knew his name. Grant Winchester. He wasn’t a down-and-out cowboy, but the son of a respected rancher. That ranch was two hundred and some miles north of them and did well enough to buy the best horses. The rancher was smart enough to know that Seady horses were the best. She knew the cowboy had family and a place to go to when he recovered.

  He didn’t have one reason to want to hang around the Seady place. How she wished she could create a reason. Wishing was as unprofitable as dreaming. Wishing. Dreaming. Bad ideas.

  Mae closed her eyes to pray. But before she really got started, a thought struck her plea like a hammer hits a nail. Her eyes shot open.

  Maybe praying had slipped into that mire of bad ideas.

  Chapter Six

  Grant tottered along, following Robert as the young man worked with the new horses. The finely crafted crutches made by Tim and Lucy gave him amazing stability. He leaned himself and the sticks against the railings of one of the training corrals. The carved wood with padded underarm braces looked better than he did.

  Grant’s face had faded from black and purple to a red and brown mottle, and now sported yellow and green as predominant coloring. The swelling had subsided to the point he could use his mouth for more than an inadequate portal for mushy food.

  Chewing still involved pain, but he could talk. At least now his mumble had additional clarity as far as consonants and vowels went. Everyone understood him now. And when he got tired, his fingers worked enough to manage a pencil.

  He’d spent the first week following Mae with no objections from the lady herself. The little girls giggled a lot. Lucy cast him tolerant smiles. But the young men in the family never missed a chance to tease, harass, and embarrass their sister and her suitor.

  Mae’s patience with their shenanigans amazed him. If he were in better shape, he’d be tempted to give them a lesson in respect. But looking through Mae’s eyes, he began to see their incessant ribbing as love. Their jests were never mean-spirited.