The Mail-Order Bride
Carries a Gun
Wanda Ann Thomas
~ Book Description ~
BOOK ONE in the BRIDES OF SWEET CREEK RANCH SERIES—A SWEET HISTORICAL WESTERN ROMANCE
The Brides of Sweet Creek Ranch is an uplifting Sweet Historical Western Romance series set in Wyoming Territory on a frontier homestead ranch. The books follow the untamed Haven brothers. the spirited brides they marry, and the struggle to find love and joy amid the rough-and-tumble West.
ELLA HUNTER never thought she’d be a mail-order bride. But when she sees a photo in the Marriage Gazette of the man she believes killed her brother, Ella agrees to marry the Civil War soldier turned cowboy. Prepared to confront a cold-hearted killer then return home, she finds all her expectations dashed when her intended husband appears to be a good man. Ella’s loyalties are torn between honoring the memories of her family and her undeniable attraction to Ty Haven.
TY HAVEN needs a wife. The ranch he runs in the wilds of Wyoming Territory could use a woman’s influence. Frankly, so could he. So when Ella arrives like a gift tied up in a cornflower-blue hair ribbon, more intelligent, practical, and, yes, beautiful, than he could have imagined, he hopes she will give him and the West a chance. Turns out, he doesn’t just need a wife. He needs Ella. But she has a secret, and it might destroy their marriage almost before it’s begun.
Can the unforgivable be forgiven? What will the cowboy ranchman do when he learns why…THE MAIL-ORDER BRIDE CARRIES A GUN?
~ Contents ~
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Book Description
Author Note
Other Books
About the Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
1886, Wyoming Territory
The vast empty plains and jagged mountain range sped by to the harsh clacking of the train wheels. Ella Hunter glanced about the lone passenger car, making sure no one was studying her too closely. Men dozed with heads lolled against grimy windows or chins resting on wrinkled jackets and shirts. Two whiskey-drinking cowboys played at cards.
Sweet biscuits and jam, she’d soon be married to a cowboy, and worse yet, one who used to be a Yankee soldier.
She hefted her battered brown satchel onto her lap, removed her worn journal, and studied the magazine clipping pasted to the inside cover. Ty Haven’s blank eyes and unsmiling mouth curdled the remains of her breakfast.
A man who would gun down a helpless prisoner of war—a thirteen-year-old boy full of life and adventure—a man who would do something so detestable couldn’t have much good in his heart. She studied the lines of the curved saber held to the man’s chest and traced the raised initials on a band below the grip. JH. Johnny would have slept with the beloved saber tucked beneath his pillow if Momma would have allowed it.
Ella had been eight years old the day the Union army marched into LaGrange, Georgia, a little over twenty years ago. A bitter taste filled her mouth at the memory of the mule cart rolling down the main street filled with wounded Yankee soldiers and the callous indifference of the young man clutching Johnny’s saber.
Her eyes returned to the grainy image of Haven’s hostile face. Though older and more muscular and rugged, he was the man she’d seen in the mule cart. She was almost certain of it. Even if he wasn’t, he had Johnny’s saber.
She snapped the journal shut, stuffed it back in her bag, and dug underneath her good dress and cotton nightgown. Her fingers slid over the cold metal of a gun barrel. She prayed she would never have to use it.
One of the card-playing cowboys ambled up the aisle wearing a six-shooter the size of a bank vault. He tipped his hat. “ma’am.”
She swallowed and gripped the handle of Granny Bessie’s Colt Walker. Cowboys didn’t frighten her. Not much. Granny Bessie would tell her to laugh in Ty Haven’s face while snatching Johnny’s saber from his no-good hands. I will face down a dozen Billy the Kids if I have to, Granny.
If all went well, she’d be on her way home within the month with Johnny’s saber. The marriage wouldn’t be real. The question was, could she trust Mr. Haven to remain true to their agreement to wait one month before consummating the wedding. Her face heated. Even though it wouldn’t be a real marriage, it would take all the grit she possessed to say I do.
Three piercing blasts of the train whistle blistered her ears and shot down her spine. The Aurora train station loomed ahead. The depot’s shiny new clapboards and pristine roof attested to the fact they had reached the end of the tracks.
In a matter of moments, she would come face to face with Ty Haven. A leap off a sheer cliff wouldn’t have been more unnerving.
She patted around inside the bag and dragged out three dog-eared envelopes bundled up with string and covered in neat lettering. Miss Ella Hunter, Bridge St., Georgetown. The Yankee devil could write pretty. She would give him that.
Even if the picture of Johnny’s saber hadn’t caught her attention, his advertisement in the Marriage Gazette announcing his desire to “marry a woman of good reputation and strong constitution to share in the work and prosperity of Sweet Creek Ranch” would have appealed.
Since Ella was way past the usual age of marriage at twenty-eight-years old, the Marriage Gazette had been her Bible this past year. Each time a new edition arrived she’d read it cover to cover many times over. It was full of ads from gold miners and farmers in search of wives, but life in a mining town or on a homestead farm hadn’t tempted her to leave her position as companion to the Widow Bonnell.
The train lurched to a jarring stop. Ella grasped the satchel to keep it from sliding off her lap, reburied the letters under her clothes, and searched the depot platform for the Yankee devil. It was empty except for a scruffy yellow dog pacing and barking beside two half-grown boys sprawled on the fresh-hewn planks, fighting in a tangle of legs and arms.
A pair of tall, lean men, wearing wide-brimmed cowboy hats, low-slung gun belts, and scuffed leather boots approached the platform with unhurried, rolling gaits that were both beautiful and mesmerizing. Sharp-edged, weathered faces clashed with their lazy grace, sparking an unsettling excitement deep inside
that had her clutching tighter to the handles of the satchel.
The dark-haired, dark-eyed cowboy leaped onto the platform and set about breaking the boys apart.
The second cowboy stared up at the train windows. Sandy-haired with stormy amber-brown eyes, he was as handsome as he was intimidating.
Ty Haven. The man in the photograph. The man who had killed Johnny.
Ella pushed herself onto unsteady feet. Heart pounding, she almost wished she had been jilted. The cowardly thought was replaced by a more pressing matter. What was she going to say to this perfect stranger who would be her husband before the hour ended? She wanted to run…run the entire fifteen hundred miles back to the safety of the Widow Bonnell’s mansion.
Once she put herself under Ty Haven’s power no one would be rushing to her defense. Her father, mother, brother, and Granny Bessie were dead and gone. The Yankee cowboy could treat her unfairly or cruelly and no would come to her rescue.
Granny’s adamant voice rang in Ella’s ear. When you don’t have men about for protection, or to fight on your behalf, you need to defend yourself, do the fighting yourself. Granny Bessie and the brave women of the Nancy Hart militia unit wouldn’t run. No, they would face down the danger.
Ella lifted her chin and clutched her satchel tighter. There was no turning back. This was her battle. The war had stolen everyone and everything she cared about. Taking back Johnny’s saber would be her first step to reclaiming her life.
CHAPTER TWO
Ty Haven peered at the train window and caught a glimpse of bright blue ribbon tied to a long, black braid. His breath left in a rush, and his chest tightened like a Texas longhorn had taken a seat on his ribcage. Miss Ella Hunter. His mail-order bride.
He lost sight of her among the men jostling toward the exit before he could make out her features. She was pretty enough in the photograph she’d sent. Of course, with the shortage of women in these parts, men would come from miles around for the privilege of marrying the plainest of spinsters. And he’d be the first in line. At age thirty-six it was high time he married.
Ty was much more eaten up about what Miss Ella Hunter would think of him. He examined his denim button-down shirt and pants, swept his broad-brimmed hat off his head, and beat the dirt from his clothes.
The advent of train service faithfully delivering supplies and domestic livestock and mail to mid-east Wyoming Territory and hauling cattle and coal back east was a godsend. And put Sweet Creek Ranch fifty miles from civilization. If that’s what you wanted to call the two-saloon town, with a population made up almost entirely of bachelor cowhands, miners, and farmers.
Fine grit picked up by the crisp fall breeze swirled around his boots. Pigs squealed and sheep bleated from their pens inside the boxcars. A drunken gold miner tumbled out of the Rawhide Saloon.
What would a woman born and bred in the East think of the remote West, of heading off into a wilderness overrun with grizzlies, wolves, and cattle rustlers, of living exclusively with men for company? Ty wouldn’t blame her if she took one look, turned around, and boarded the train back out of town. But he sure hoped she’d give him and Wyoming Territory a fair chance.
He bounded up the platform stairs. Jack wagged his tail in greeting. Boone held the two grubby-faced boys he’d rescued from the seamy underside of Cheyenne by the scruffs of their necks.
Fourteen-year-old Seth twisted and turned, trying to break free. “Take your paws off me!”
Dark and dangerous as they came, Boone gave them a glare that would freeze water solid. “You don’t want to pick a fight with me.”
Seth stilled, but continued to glower at Boone. The other boy, ten-year-old Billy, looked ready to bawl his eyes out.
“You boys best save your strength,” Ty said mildly, remembering when he had been a frightened, homeless youth, and the relief he’d felt when someone finally showed a bit of kindness. “You’ll need it when you see the chores we have lined up for you at the ranch.” Hard work and gentle encouragement had gone a long way toward dissipating his misery and anger, the same as it would with these boys.
Ty wished Boone used a less hostile approach to life. “Folks are saying a cardsharp and a lady of the evening were gunned down in Cheyenne a few days back. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”
Boone’s menacing glare shifted. “I told you my gunslinger ways are in the past.”
Sweet Creek Ranch was more than a cattle operation. It was also a place of refuge for orphaned or neglected boys. Boone ranged far and wide, rounding up the boys. Coincidently, people often showed up dead in the towns Boone passed through. Most often the victims were scum-of-the-earth cretins who preyed on the weak and helpless, but that was beside the point.
Ty didn’t want to see Boone end up in the grave. “You’re thirty. That’s old for a gunslinger.”
Ignoring Ty, Boone let out a low whistle. “Now there’s a fine-looking woman.”
Miss Ella Hunter stood on the bottom stair of the train biting her lower lip and surveying the gathering crowd of gawking men.
Raven-black hair framed an oval face. More thick waves of hair, held back by a cornflower blue bow, framed brilliant eyes full of life and strength. Her pretty nose wrinkled. “Good glory, didn’t your mommas teach y’all not to stare?”
The collection of miners and ranchers grinned sheepishly.
Her Southern drawl was a punch to Ty’s gut. His mail-order bride might have been living outside Washington, D.C., but her pronounced accent marked her as someone who’d grown up in the Deep South, transporting him back twenty years to a time he’d hitched himself to the 18th Indiana Light Brigade. A time he’d just as soon forget.
Her lovely blue eyes met his and held.
He stepped forward and tipped his hat. What was done, was done. He’d offered to marry her and he’d follow through on his promise. “Miss Hunter, welcome to Wyoming Territory. I hope the train ride wasn’t too difficult?”
The buzz of conversation around them died.
Her smile was brilliant, a little too shiny and bright, even as the hands clutching an old travel case trembled. “I enjoyed the trip immensely, thank you.”
Impressed by the show of bravery, Ty tipped his hat. “I’m Ty Haven, ma’am, but you probably already guessed that. May I take your travel bag?”
“Mr. Haven, how lovely to finally meet. There’s no need to fuss over me or carry my satchel. I’m sturdier than I look.”
A self-reliant spirit was a good trait for life on a remote ranch, but no bride of his would lug her own travel bag to her wedding. He reached for the bag. “I insist.”
She held tight to the bag. “It’s light as a feather.”
“I’ll take great care with it, if that’s what has you worried.”
She grumbled something under her breath, but handed over the bag.
His arm sagged under the weight. Light as a feather, his foot. It felt like she was carrying a dead goose. “What do you have in—”
Alarm filled her eyes. He bit his tongue. Don’t go and embarrass her in front of half the town, Ty. He cleared his throat. “I rented a room to give you a place to freshen up before the wedding.”
She glanced at the travel bag, then back at him, and the forced smile reappeared. “That’s most kind of you.”
He cupped her elbow. “Be careful, the last step is a big one.”
She sprang to the ground. The men from town pressed closer. She leaned into him, trapping his hand against soft womanly curves.
His blood hummed, reminding him it had been too long since he’d held a woman in his arms, too long since he’d been engulfed in a woman’s lovely scent, too long since he’d tasted a woman’s soft kisses. “Step back fellas.”
“You heard him,” Boone growled.
The men moved off, casting longing stares back at Ella.
He felt a tremble pass through Ella. Releasing his arm, she stepped away. She fiddled with the tail of her
braid as she studied him and Boone. “You’re honest-to-goodness cowboys. Like the ones in the news pamphlets.”
Charmed by her straightforward manner, Ty shrugged a shoulder. “I’m afraid so.”
“Ask anyone in Aurora and they’ll tell you there’s no finer cattleman in these parts than Ty,” Boone said, then turned a sardonic eye on him. “Does your mail-order bride know you’re taking her to an out-of-the-way ranch with only outlaw cowboys and street urchins for company?”
Ty wanted to boot Boone. He hadn’t been dishonest with Miss Hunter, but he hadn’t been exactly forthcoming. He’d informed her he lived with his brothers and a few farmhands, but failed to mention his brothers ranged from a cattle rustler, to a cardsharp, to a mountain man, to a gunslinger.
Boone’s returning to the ranch with a couple of new homeless boys was bad timing. Ty had hoped to give Miss Hunter a few months to adjust to life on the ranch before springing Boone and a new batch of untamed boys on her.
He scrubbed at his face. “‘Outlaw’ is strong. ‘In former trouble with the law’ would be more appropr—”
“I didn’t expect to find myself living among angels,” Miss Hunter said in a sweet voice, yet still managing to sound firm.
Ty was relieved to find Miss Ella Hunter as pragmatic in person as she was in her letters. Not good with flowery words, and honest about seeking a wife for practical purposes, he had worried she would be put off or disappointed his letters hadn’t been chock-full of romantic declarations. But she continued the correspondence, copying the businesslike tone, setting a pattern which ended with them agreeing to wed. The matter had been decided as cut and dried as a cattle sale.
Boone’s laugh was grim. “That’s good, ma’am. ‘Cause, aside from our resident saint Ty, you won’t find a single angel at Sweet Creek Ranch.”
Her brow furrowed and the light went out of her eyes. “Mr. Haven, if you would be so good as to introduce me to this gentleman, whom I presume is your brother, and to these fine-looking boys, I’d be most grateful. Then I’d appreciate you showing me to the room you rented so we may have a private word.”
The Mail-Order Bride Carries a Gun: A Sweet Historical Western Romance (Brides of Sweet Creek Ranch Book 1) Page 1
