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

  “Miss Lucy”—Sam held out his arm to escort her to the boardinghouse—“might I request a few more moments of your time? I reckon I could use your help. That is, if you’re willing.”

  “I’m intrigued.” She didn’t seem to mind his use of her given name. Or didn’t notice. Except, Lucy noticed everything. “Do tell.”

  Before he could begin, Jasper strode by whistling, a shovel propped on his shoulder. Sam ushered Lucy toward her aunt’s garden, only to be blocked by Old Man Cantwell, who jabbed a stubby finger into Sam’s chest.

  Sam tugged Lucy behind him and faced off with the weathered rancher as he tried to understand the accusations flying his way.

  “I don’t give a rotten fig if you are a high-falutin’ Pinkerton agent! Whatever Ernest told you, it ain’t true, and you ain’t gonna arrest me. I ain’t left this town for nigh on twenty years. Stay on my own property most times, all peaceful-like. Want no trouble from no one. So there!” The man’s chest rose and fell at the exertion, and the veins on his neck throbbed.

  “I’m not sure what—”

  “See here, you no-account—”

  Lucy stepped out from behind Sam, pushing away his protective arm. “Mr. Cantwell, are you concerned about the rustling charges?”

  The blustering began again. Warily eyeing the man’s gun hand, Sam tried to force Lucy out of harm’s way once more. She refused to go, holding out a calming hand and smiling.

  “No need for this, Mr. Cantwell. The Rockin’ R seems to know nothing about missing cattle. Mr. Brazos is not hunting you. …” Lucy arched her eyebrows at Sam. “Are you, Mr. Brazos?”

  If Cantwell truly hadn’t left town in twenty years—and Sam’s information so far confirmed that—Lucy was right. “I’m not a Pinkerton agent, Cantwell. You’re safe on that front.”

  “You’re not?” he asked.

  “I’m not,” Sam said.

  “You’re sure?” Lucy asked, a smile playing around her full lips.

  “I figure I would know.”

  “Huh.” Cantwell squinted at Lucy. “I reckon that’s what they have to tell people.”

  She shrugged. “I reckon.”

  “Well then. My cattle are my own. That’s all I have to say. Evening, ma’am.” He tipped his hat, squinted his eyes at Sam as if searching out telltale signs of Pinkertonism, then ambled away.

  Lucy turned to Sam. “You were saying?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat, searching for the train of thought so thoroughly derailed. “There’s something in my past you should—”

  “Lucy!” At the sound of Margret’s strident call, Sam clammed up, sliding a hand over his raspy jaw.

  “I’m sorry.” Lucy appeared as frustrated as he felt. “I must go.”

  “Will you be at supper?”

  “You ask this question of me two days in a row, Mr. Brazos?”

  “Sam. Call me Sam.”

  She bit her lower lip as the corners of her mouth curved. “All right. Sam. As I do have a habit of eating three times a day whenever possible—yes. I’ll be at supper.”

  “Until then.”

  “Be sure to hold off on any arrests if I’m not present.”

  “I am not a Pinker—”

  “You heard Cantwell. That’s what they all say.” She flounced away, her laughter floating over her shoulder.

  Chapter Five

  Curiosity kept Lucy on edge all through folding linens, helping prepare stew for the boarders, and setting the table. Was Sam looking for someone and needed her help tracking down clues?

  If he was a Pinkerton agent, he should be an expert in that area.

  Maybe he needed Lucy to accompany him to question a woman he couldn’t for propriety’s sake? Lillie Jo, perhaps, in connection to the missing/not missing cattle.

  Or he could be seeking a newspaper job and wanted her to put a recommendation to her father. A lot of good that would do.

  Whatever the case, she was dying to hear his story. When she finally slid onto the bench across from Sam, those riveting eyes caught hers. Her bright smile faltered when his stare slipped away, not acknowledging any connection.

  Right. He would want to keep their conversation private. A secret. She could play along. She picked up her spoon.

  “Miss Lucy,” one of the boarders said, pointing to the waspish man next to him, “Lasso Larry here was expounding on the fact that there’s an outlaw hiding in these very parts. Any guesses who it might be?”

  “Yes, Miss Lucy,” Sam asked, his casual tone not matching the ice in his eyes. “What do you know about an outlaw hiding in our very midst?”

  Lucy’s forehead wrinkled at his tone, but she turned her attention back to the gentleman. “I can hardly imagine anyone in Ripple being dangerous.” Unless they counted the peril Sam presented to her emotions. She chanced a quick look in his direction, noting his hand fisted around his fork. “No one I’ve come to know, at least. But the reverend’s wife did mention the other day that a few articles of clothing were missing from her clothesline. Perhaps the outlaw has stowed away in a barn or a cave near the church building.”

  Aunt Margret gave a thoughtful nod. “That could explain the hand pies Mrs. Thorp claimed disappeared from her windowsill.”

  “Perhaps,” Lucy said, fairly certain the dear lady had managed to make the hand pies vanish all by herself.

  Still, there might be a story with this latest rumor. She’d have to track it down to its source. But not until Sam finally told her what was on his mind.

  Wishing supper would end, Lucy took another bite and kept watch on the mysterious cowboy for the signal he was ready to speak to her. But when she returned from clearing the table, Sam was long gone.

  At first opportunity, Sam hightailed it to the livery. Dusty was taking excellent care of Stinkeye, but he checked on the horse anyway as he couldn’t handle more conversation now. Not with anyone hankering to share the latest gossip, and absolutely not with the one he suspected started it all.

  In the midst of brushing the mustang’s coat too vigorously and waging a silent debate over cutting his losses or sticking it out, Sam heard someone behind him.

  “Mr. Brazos?”

  He didn’t need Dusty’s openmouthed grin to tell him who the sweet, slightly husky voice belonged to. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Sam composed his expression, set aside the brush, and turned to greet Lucy Frederick.

  “It’s Sam.”

  She stood with hands on her slim hips. “Are you always this way?”

  Sam gave himself a once-over then met her eyes and rested his arms on the edge of the stall. “I’m a lowly cowboy. Dirty, a mite rough around the edges, with only the great outdoors to call home and a worn-out horse to take me there.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Must you try your hand at waxing poetic? Not everyone is skilled in that area.”

  His hand clutched at his heart as Dusty chortled. “You wound me, Miss Lucy.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  She was beautiful when she was sassy—which was most of the time, come to think of it.

  “You know very well I’m not talking about your appearance, which is…passable. Even pleasing to some. Mrs. Thorp, for example.”

  Sam elbowed the snickering Dusty, sending him away with a glare.

  Lucy continued without batting any of her thick, curly lashes. “Though I want to revisit the topic of you, in fact, being a cowboy, at this moment what concerns me is twice now you’ve begun telling me something vitally important—so much so that you were actually requesting my aid. And then you pull a vanishing act.”

  “I’m a cowboy, Miss Lucy, not a magician, or at least not a very good one. Here—” He spread his arms wide. “You’ve found me.”

  “I believe you’re trying too hard to convince me of the drifting cowboy act.”

  Shifting uncomfortably, Sam maintained his poker face. “What else do you believe?”

  “That you do need my help, but you’re too proud to ask a woman for
anything.”

  Quirking an eyebrow, Sam leaned against a stall. “Why, Miss Frederick, I asked you for a second biscuit this very morning.”

  Her cheeks reddened, and if she weren’t so much a lady, Sam was certain his own would be stinging. Well deserved, but he couldn’t help tweaking her tail. Besides, if she were mad at him, he was less likely to succumb to the temptation to kiss her.

  Maybe.

  “Mock me if you will, but I’ll find the truth about you, Sam Brazos. You can forget obtaining my assistance, though I would have willingly offered it because—”

  She looked away, and suddenly Sam was desperate to know her thoughts. “Because what?”

  She refused to meet his gaze.

  “Miss Lucy,” he said, softer now. “I want to know.”

  She peered through lowered lashes, though flames leaped in the jade depths of her eyes. “Then I guess you have your own mystery to solve, and let’s hope you’re better at that than poetry. Good evening, Mr. Brazos.”

  She whirled, her skirts a frothy cloud of blue, a honey-scented breeze floating in her wake.

  Dusty poked his head out of Admiral’s stall. “Gummy! That there be some woman, mister.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Sam murmured.

  “You made her awful mad.”

  “That I did.”

  He shouldn’t have antagonized her. He needed her on his side. What’s more, he wanted her there, more than was probably healthy, all things considered. He lived in search of a killer. She, in search of a story.

  One he could give her.

  Sam scratched the back of his neck. Now if this wasn’t a pickle, he didn’t know what was.

  Wrapped in a shawl the next day, Lucy bent over her paper, writing furiously. Ink stained her fingers, and her words scrawled around black spots, evidence of her agitation while refilling her Waterman’s Ideal Fountain Pen.

  All fault belonged at the feet of the most infuriating, obnoxious, mysterious, arrogant, frustrating, handsome, secretive, and frustrating Pinkerton agent/drifter/cowboy she’d ever had the privilege and misfortune of meeting.

  Catching herself before she could hurl her treasured pen across the room…again, Lucy grumbled under her breath and focused on the last section she’d written.

  The passenger knew the stagecoach was doomed as shots rang out through the humid morning air. She’d just tucked her treasured locket into her right boot when the door flung open and a masked man peered inside. Determining not to swoon, the passenger stared him in the face, unwilling to show herself a shrinking violet before a common thief. Instead of ordering her down or snatching her reticule, he stared back, his eyes a stormy blue. Declaring her to be in danger from the outlaw gang he rode with undercover as a Pinkerton agent, the gunman and his noble steed escorted her to the safety of a nearby ranch.

  The cad. Even the fictitious version of Sam Brazos had the ability to charm her into making him a hero. But not to win her forgiveness. He’d insulted her. He’d hurt her. Worse, he’d made her think he was going to kiss her, and she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the notion ever since.

  Was he toying with her emotions on purpose? Or was there something about her that repelled him every time she let down her guard? Father had warned no man would want a lady journalist, that chasing stories would lead her to surrender good manners and breeding, that if she didn’t want to become a bitter old spinster, she’d best leave the news to men.

  Marriage or her stories: that was the choice. She hadn’t listened to Father at the time. She wanted—believed she could have both. The lack of any viable marriage proposals should have been her first clue if she truly was so good at putting together the facts. Brushing it off as a sign God hadn’t sent along the right match may have been naive.

  Anger faded, taking her energy with it. Lucy lined up the corners and folded the stained pages, tucked them into an envelope already addressed to Amelia, and informed her aunt she was going out.

  At the post office, she responded as briefly as possible to Mrs. Thorp and Widow Aurilla, who persisted in telling her about a possible sighting of Butch Cassidy.

  The amateur journalist in her itched to take notes, and she wrapped her fingers around her lucky pen…but didn’t pull it free of its hiding place. A week ago, she would have, even traveled to the site and nosed around for clues to corroborate their words. Maybe she still should, since she was well on the way to spinsterhood. But the way those two sweet biddies gossiped, the story probably began as a lost prairie dog emerging among the potatoes in Polly’s root cellar.

  She was learning.

  When Gus noticed her, he stretched his lips in a toothy grin. “I declare, Miss Lucy. Two letters this week?”

  “What can I say? Things are getting more interesting.”

  Gus’s catlike eyes gleamed. “They shore are.”

  “So you’ll take care of that for me?”

  He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed a sip of lemonade Polly must have delivered. “I’ll treat it like my own. Like always.”

  “Thanks.” Lucy offered a weak smile and turned to go, barreling into the chest of the man she least wanted to see at the moment.

  “Miss Lucy.” Sam tipped his hat, a devilish glint in his eye.

  “Mr. Brazos.” Lucy kept her voice cool, hoping he didn’t catch the slight waver at the end. She pushed by him and out into the harsh sunlight, lamenting the fact that the spots she saw as her eyes adjusted took on the shape of Sam’s chiseled silhouette.

  She half-expected him to follow. Squaring her shoulders, she braced for it—to go through the whole teasing, infuriating routine again. But no footsteps sounded behind her, and the only voice to hail her belonged to Doc Smith.

  “Afternoon, Miss Frederick. Where’re you headed?”

  Though she didn’t know him well, the doctor reminded her of a cross between St. Nicholas and a boxer. His dimpled smile was jolly, his dark eyes on the shifty side.

  “Back to the boardinghouse, Doctor. And you?”

  “I’ve been at the sheriff’s office.” He fell into step beside her, offering her a pecan before popping a handful into his mouth. “Voicing some concerns.”

  “What seems to be troubling you, Doctor?” she asked, hoping she hid her curiosity with her casual tone. She didn’t want to come across too terribly nosy.

  He cast her a sidelong look and gave the nuts another crunch. “You seem to be very astute. With your background growing up in the home of a newspaperman, your eyes are probably more open to the state of Texas and even the nation. Maybe you could share your thoughts with the sheriff as well. Maybe you could make a difference.”

  A trickle of warmth soothed her wounded ego. “I’m listening.”

  “When I came to Ripple a year or so ago, the small, safe community drew me in. I settled here and haven’t had any regrets…until the past month.” He stopped, seeming to struggle with his next words.

  “Yes?”

  “The gold fever. The scuttlebutt about murderers and cattle rustlers and kidnappings …”

  Lucy’s brow creased. She hadn’t heard that last one as of yet.

  “I’m considering pulling up stakes.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “I don’t know. I do not wish to leave. I’m comfortable here. But when the time comes that I feel I should rummage through the wanted posters to make sure I know the truth of the patients I treat, well…that’s not the life I was hoping to find here in the sleepiest town in Texas.”

  Wanted posters? Now there would be some fodder for article ideas. Why hadn’t she thought to look at those?

  Her father was right. But again…she was learning.

  “I wouldn’t leave yet,” she said, forcing herself to return to the conversation. “The town needs a good doctor. I’m sure the storm will blow over soon and everything will go back to normal.”

  “You may be right, young lady. I hope you are. Once that Sam Brazos leaves town, I’m sure
it’ll calm right down.”

  “Sam?” She coughed into her hand to cover her surprise. “Er, Mr. Brazos? What role do you believe he plays?”

  The doctor looked at her steadily. “All of them.” Nodding his farewell, he added, “I’ll think on what you’ve said. Be careful, Miss Frederick. Maybe this town will get a newspaper someday, and they’d be fortunate to have someone with your class involved in the running of it.”

  Lucy watched him walk away, his shoulders droopier than his mustache. Interesting character, if a bit on the melancholy side. Would he consent to an interview—life as a doctor in the Wild West? Not that Ripple was wild.

  Or was it?

  Passing the sheriff’s office, she paused. Now that the idea had been planted in her mind, she was itching to see those posters, but she needed something besides a bat of the eyelashes to convince the sheriff to allow it. Without extra persuasion, the sheriff wouldn’t permit the niece of his lady love to look on such evil—she could almost hear him utter those very words.

  She needed something to distract him.

  She needed Aunt Margret.

  Chapter Six

  A brisk ride outside town relaxed Sam. He’d explored along the river to the north last week. The hills to the east the week before. Allowing Stinkeye to choose the path, Sam left the trail leading south and began memorizing the landscape, to keep the image of Lucy’s face from haunting his thoughts. The hurt and confusion swirling in her sea-green eyes yesterday—he’d put them there. That was on him.

  But if she had suspicions about him, why couldn’t she come out and ask? Why dance around it, all coy-like? Why spread lies and suspicions behind his back? That didn’t seem to fit who she was.

  Who he wanted her to be.

  Stinkeye’s ears twitched. Sam placed a hand near his gun and eased the stallion to a walk, at the ready for whatever was around the corner. As they cleared the brush, the postmaster whirled, brandishing a shovel.

  Sam eased away from his weapon. “Just me, Gus.”

  “Aw, shucks, Brazos.” The shovel hit the ground, and the scrawny man leaned against it. “Scared the ever-livin’ out of me.”