Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  Amanda’s 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 seen.

  “Much obliged,” she said, taking it from him.

  He regarded her with curiosity. “What were you doin’ in Austin?” he asked.

  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.”

  Three

  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 undertrousers. Recalling the intriguing contents of her hope-a-thingie, 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.

  Clearly, she was a woman who could cause a man all sorts of trouble if he didn’t watch out. Even so, the way she’d handled herself in the face of danger had earned his begrudging respect.

  He also felt sorry for her. It was hot and humid and dusty, the air thick as a wet blanket. She had to be downright miserable but was either too polite or too stubborn to admit it. If he was a betting man, he’d put his money on the latter.

  The sun hung low, and shadows ran long by the time they reached Two-Time. The town was larger than he expected. A railroad ran the length of the town, along with a string of saloons. A street two wagons wide separated rows of adobe and brick buildings, each with false wooden fronts. They passed a general store, bakery, gun shop, post office, and barber along with other businesses.

  “What kind of name is that, anyway? Two-Time?” he asked. “Doesn’t sound like a very trustworthy name for a town.”

  “It’s not what you think,” she said. “Until last year, the town had two time zones.” She gave him a short history of the two feuding jewelers, including her father, who kept the town divided for years by refusing to agree to standard time.

  Rick had little interest in town history. He was more concerned about the lay of the land. “Where shall I drop you off?” he asked abruptly.

  She hesitated. “At my father’s place. It’s two blocks up yonder. At the Lockwood Watch and Clockworks shop.”

  He tossed a nod toward a knot of people blocking the street. “Looks like trouble.”

  She craned her neck. “No more than usual.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Where he came from, trouble didn’t usually start till the sun went down. Something about the night made prisoners restless.

  The mass of people spilled off the boardwalk and into the street. Traffic had come to a complete stand-still, preventing him from driving any farther. Tugging on the reins, he guided his horse to the side of the road and parked behind a dogcatcher’s wagon.

  “You can let me off here,” she said.

  “Sure?” He slanted his head to the back. “Your hope-a-thingie weighs a ton.”

  “I can manage,” she said.

  Setting the brake, he leaped to the ground and hauled her chest out of the wagon and onto the wooden sidewalk. This time, he showed more care in setting it down. A chip in the wood the size of a quarter drew his attention, and he rubbed his finger over it.

  He heard her gasp and looked up. For an independent woman, she sure did put a lot of stock in that old chest. Or maybe it was the finery inside…

  “It’s just a bullet hole,” he assured her. “Probably passed right through all that satin and lace.”

  Her slender frame stiffened, and her cheeks turned a most beguiling red. She really was a looker. Especially now that she’d lost that ridiculous hat. The headgear’s odd geometric shape would have given even a mathematician a headache.

  At first glance, her turquoise eyes had seemed too large for her delicate features and her body too slight to support such an independent spirit. Now that she was in familiar surroundings, she’d dropped her guard, and all the mismatched parts worked together to create a very pleasant whole.

  He touched the brim of his hat with the tip of his finger. “Sure you don’t need help with your—”

  “No, that’s fine,” she said quickly, avoiding his eyes. “I can manage from here. Much obliged.”

  He watched the late afternoon sun play with the golden highlights of her brown hair. Why a woman would want to hide such a fine mane beneath a ridiculous bunch of bird feathers was one of the mysteries of life.

  She gazed up at him through a fringe of lush lashes. “If you need a place to stay, we passed the hotel back a ways. There’re also a couple of boardinghouses in town. Some of them are even respectable.”

  “In that case, I’ll stay at the hotel.” He nodded his good-bye and forced himself to turn away, starting off on foot. Since the street was still blocked, there was no sense trying to drive his wagon. He’d come back later to stable his horse. Without the distraction of Miss Lockwood, he could concentrate more fully on the town. This time, he paid particular attention to the location of the bank, the sheriff’s office, and the hotel.

  This town was everything he hoped for and more. It was large enough for a man to remain relatively unnoticed, yet small enough to escape quickly should a need arise.

  All in all, it was a perfect hide-out for a cold-blooded killer.

  Order Margaret Brownley’s next book

  in the A Match Made in Texas series

  To Win a Sheriff’s Heart

  On sale June 2017

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Last Chance Cowboys: The Lawman

  Book 2
in the Where the Trail Ends series by Anna Schmidt

  One

  Arizona Territory, October 1882

  After six months on the streets of Kansas City, Jess Porterfield had come home. But he might as well have kept on riding for all the place where he’d grown up felt like home to him. In the relatively short time that he’d been away, everything about the Clear Springs Ranch and the town of Whitman Falls—indeed, the entire Arizona Territory—had become nearly unrecognizable.

  As he slowly rode up the trail that led to his family’s home, he saw the adobe house with its flat roof meant to ward off the desert heat. His father had built that house and added to it through the years as the family had grown. Jess expected to find his mother, two sisters, and younger brother inside, gathered ’round the table in the kitchen. He expected to hear laughter coming from the bunkhouse. He expected to see a light in the small outbuilding next to the house where their foreman lived. He planned to corral his horse and walk past the chicken coop and the plantings of cholla and barrel cactus and on into the kitchen as if he’d just come back from checking on the herd.

  Instead, the annual party his family always hosted after the livestock had been taken to market was in full swing. The courtyard was packed with people—some he recognized and some were strangers. Everyone seemed to be in the mood to celebrate…which made no sense, given that the ranch had been about to fail the day he left.

  Back then the situation had been dire on all fronts. His father had just died in a freak accident. A drought that had gone on for over a year threatened to send the family and the ranch into bankruptcy. His mother had been so consumed by her grief that she refused to believe her husband was truly gone. And he was ashamed to admit he had left his sister, Maria, on her own to fend off the land-grabbing Tipton brothers, who already owned most of the land in the territory.

  And yet there were lanterns lighting the courtyard and bonfires where guests gathered between dances to warm themselves on this autumn night. He had heard the music from some distance away, and now that he was closer, he could also hear the laughter and excited chatter of people enjoying themselves. So who was throwing this fandango? He half expected to see Jasper Tipton and his much younger wife, Pearl, playing the role of hosts. Surely Maria had had to surrender and sell out. Truth was, his father had barely been hanging on before he died. But there were some things that didn’t seem right about the atmosphere of the party—like that their hired hand, Bunker, would never have agreed to provide the music for a Tipton party. Yet there he was along with a couple of the other cowboys, stomping their feet in time to the music they produced from a worn fiddle and guitar and banjo. Just like old times.

  “Is that you, Jessie Porterfield?”

  Their nearest neighbor and Jess’s father’s dearest friend, George Johnson, waited for Jess to dismount and tie up his horse at the hitching post before grabbing him in a bear hug. “Good to have you home.”

  “Looks like there might have been some changes since I left,” Jess ventured.

  George laughed. “Things are pretty much the same, only better. That sister of yours is quite the little businesswoman.”

  “You don’t say.” Jess was baffled. Was Mr. Johnson saying that Maria had managed to somehow save the ranch? “So we still own this place?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Maria can fill you in, but the short version is that several of the smaller ranchers decided the only way to fight the Tiptons was to beat them at their own game. So we’ve banded together in a cooperative arrangement. We share the profits—and the debts. We help each other out. ‘Course, having just come back from taking the stock to market, we’ve got a little time to get settled into this new arrangement, but you mark my words, by spring every small ranch in this territory will be holding its own.”

  So Maria—his sister—had held the Tipton brothers at bay. Their father would be really proud—of her.

  “You’ve got a new foreman,” George continued. “A Florida boy—came drifting in here not long after you left. Went to work with the others and everyone’s pretty sure that him and Maria will be heading down the aisle before too long.”

  Jess was aware that several others had spotted him and a crowd was beginning to form as they pushed forward.

  “What about Roger?”

  “He took off. Some think he might have been involved in that business with your pa. ‘Course, there’s no proof, and he was a good foreman and all. Didn’t get along with the drifter, though—not one bit.”

  “What business with Pa?” Jess was reeling with these bits of information that made no sense. But George didn’t get a chance to answer.

  “Jessie!” his younger sister, Amanda, squealed as the crowd parted to let her through. Jess scooped her up and swung her around.

  “Look at you,” he said, glad for the diversion. “I go away for five minutes and you go and grow up into a real beauty.” He set her down and his expression sobered when his other sister stepped out of the crowd. “Hello, Maria.”

  He saw Maria hesitate as she ran through a range of emotions that went from anger to confusion and wariness. After what seemed like an eternity, she opened her arms to him. “Welcome home, Jess.”

  As he hugged her, feeling hesitation even in her embrace, they all heard a shrill cry. Jess looked up to see his mother—Constance Porterfield—running across the yard, her skirts clutched in one hand as she reached out for her eldest son with the other. Jess steeled himself to accept the fact that Constance Porterfield was probably thinking he was his father. When he’d left, she’d lapsed into a fantasy world of unreality, refusing to believe her husband was gone.

  But when she reached him, she pushed his hat off and ran her fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. “Jessie, at last,” she said.

  She recognized him—surely that was progress. He smiled and bent to kiss her cheek. “Kill the fatted calf, Ma,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve come home.”

  “To stay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let the dancing begin,” his mother shouted, and the band struck up a lively tune as she pulled him into the center of the lanterns that outlined the dance floor.

  “You look older, son,” she said, frowning as she studied his face closely.

  “And you look…better,” he replied searching for any sign of the glassy-eyed, distracted woman he’d left behind.

  She frowned. “Stop looking at me as if you expect me to start speaking in tongues. I had a rough time of it, but one cannot hide from reality forever.” She quirked an eyebrow and he understood that her words were her subtle way of saying that she had not been the only one hiding from reality.

  “Well, you’re still the prettiest woman around,” he countered, reluctant to get into the details of the last several months.

  “Prettier than Addie Wilcox?”

  Addie—the reason he had gone and one of the reasons he had finally come to his senses and returned. She was the one person he had not yet allowed himself to think about. His intent had been first to settle things with his family and then…

  “She waited for you to come to your senses, you know,” his mother continued. “Why didn’t you at least write to her?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Addie, Ma. It’s you I’ve come to see.” He was glad to see her well again…and sorry that he’d had no part in her recovery. It was, after all, a key reason for his return—the realization that while he was not and never would be his father, the family needed him and he had a responsibility to be there and care for them. Now it appeared they had managed quite well on their own. “How are you feeling?”

  She laughed. “Well, if you’re thinking that I’m the batty old woman you left six months ago, stop worrying. I needed some time. I’m still missing your father every minute of every day, but now that the culprit who murdered him is in…”

  Jess stumbled to a stop. “What are you saying, Ma? He died in an accident and…” Maybe she wasn’t better after all
. His heart sank.

  She heaved a sigh of resignation. “You have a lot to catch up on, Jessie. We’ve all had to face some hard truths lately.”

  Jess thought of what George Johnson had been saying when Amanda interrupted—something about there being no proof that their foreman, Roger Turnbull, had been involved in “that business with your pa.”

  “Murdered?” he said, unable to take it all in. The news shook him to his boots. Could it be true that his father’s death had been no accident at all—but cold-blooded murder? He was speechless, first with disbelief and then rage as he tried to think of what signs of foul play he could have missed that day they’d found his father’s body on the trail.

  “Now you pull yourself together, Jess,” his mother ordered as the band hit the final notes of the tune. “The culprit—Marshal Tucker—is in custody at Fort Lowell. This is a matter for Colonel Ashwood and his men to handle, and you need to stay out of it. Is that clear?”

  “Tucker? But what kind of beef could he have had with Pa?”

  His mother looked away and then back at him. She linked her arm through his, but it was less a gesture of consolation than one that felt as if she was trying to make sure he stayed put. “You’ll hear it soon enough, so it may as well be from me. At least then you know you’re getting the truth of it. Tucker was working with the Tipton brothers. It appears that he decided to take matters into his own hands when your father refused to sell. I suspect he hoped he would endear himself to the Tiptons with his actions.”

  He slapped at a biting bug that attacked his neck. Some things, he realized—like the bugs and the dust and the underhanded Tipton boys doing whatever they found necessary to control the territory—did not change. “You’re saying they had nothing to do with this?”

  “I’m saying there is no evidence that points to that. I am saying that Tucker is in custody and Colonel Ashwood assures me he will be tried and punished to the full extent of the law.”

  “But what about…”

  “Now you listen to me, Jessup Porterfield—I have lost my husband, but I will not lose my oldest son in the bargain. So you just contain that temper of yours and let the colonel handle this. If the Tiptons are involved, then they will be arrested.”