Hearts and Spurs

by Linda Broday

  “The hinge is broken, though,” she murmured into his hair. “It won’t open.”

  “Let me see.” Keith removed the necklace, and with his pocket knife, gently opened the locket. “This is Badge?”

  “Yes.” She blinked away tears. “And Aunty Hetty, who made so much possible. But I need another picture to replace hers now. She wouldn’t mind.”

  “Whose?” Keith’s dark eyes twinkled as dawn broke into the room.

  “Yours, silly goose.” With a broad smile, she snuggled hard against him. “And how fitting. I just realized the date. Valentine’s Day.”

  “You don’t say?” He chuckled and climbed into the bed next to her. “Then, sweetheart, do I ever have a gift for you.”

  About the Author

  Tanya Hanson loves those cowboys and writes Western romance, both historical and contemporary, both sensual and inspirational. Claiming His Heart, her first full-length inspirational romance is a recent Prairie Rose Publications release.

  Writing as Anya Novikov, she is developing a Young Adult series for the Painted Pony line.

  She lives on California’s Central Coast with her firefighter husband and considers their son and daughter the best thing she’s ever done. Volunteering at the local horse rescue is a treasured activity. Best of all are two little grandsons whom she considers the halves of her heart.

  www.tanyahanson.com

  anyanovikov.blogspot.com

  A Flare of the Heart

  Jacquie Rogers

  Celia Yancey heads west to marry a preacher her father picked for her. Bounty hunter Ross Flaherty has traded his guns for a pitchfork and is content to be a farmer, but Celia brings his nemesis right to his door. Can Celia and Ross shed the past and forge a new beginning?

  Once Celia Valentine Yancey’s father had heard the Silver City Church was built on a mine, he decided its pastor was in sore need of a wife. She’d even agreed, what with her being on the shelf at twenty-eight despite her middle name. That was before she’d seen miles upon dreary miles of crackly sagebrush, winding mountain roads, clouds of powder dust that sifted into the most uncomfortable spots, rattlesnakes, and heathen men of every ilk. The last two were equally dangerous.

  Still, a promise was a promise. She’d agreed to marry Reverend Cheasbro, and so she would. If she survived the long trek into the Owyhee Mountains, that is. Celia had never met her future groom—her father had insisted on conducting all the correspondence, which annoyed her even now. At least she’d get some children out of the deal, and a home of her own.

  She finally had the stagecoach to herself on the last leg, which was a vast improvement over the fourteen passengers crowded inside and on top of the stage that left from the train station in Winnemucca, Nevada. Unfortunately, this coach also carried luggage and several bags of mail, one of which she had to hold on her lap, along with her own valise. Her trunks had been loaded onto a freight wagon and wouldn’t arrive in Silver City for a week.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Gunshots! The coach lurched, hurtling down the rutted road, and Celia dropped in a heap onto the floorboards, praying the driver and messenger fared well.

  The coach clattered and rumbled. Bags of mail thudded on her back and mashed her face into the buckle on her valise. She grasped the leg of the center bench, the only thing that was stable, and hung on for dear life. The coach veered side to side, bouncing violently over ruts and washouts.

  More gunshots, the horses’ neighs sounding like screams. She gripped the bench leg even tighter as the coach veered around, and heard the loud crack of wood splintering as it tipped, flinging her onto the window, which was now scraping the ground. With another crash just beside her head, boards poked through the coach wall. Piglets squealed and as their box broke, they scrambled into the coach on top of her.

  Celia heard more shots, this time much louder and closer. Her heart raced and she felt hot, like she wanted to run, but she was trapped under mail pouches and squealing pigs. They stepped on her head and one of them caught its leg in her bonnet.

  Reverend Cheasbro’s mine better be rich. If she lived to see it.

  ****

  After killing two bandits, Ross Flaherty kept his rifle sighted on the retreating riders. He’d recognized them—the Sully Gang, and it looked like the new preacher in town had rejoined his old buddies. Too bad for him, because Ross had just sent him to the hereafter.

  The Sullys had been a thorn in his side for ten years. Lem Sully had caught some of Ross’s lead four years before, and the bounty had been enough for Ross to buy a good-sized farm. Old Man Sully hadn’t been too pleased about his son’s death, and threatened to gun down Ross the first chance he got.

  Ross was sick and tired of traipsing all over hither and yon hunting scoundrels who’d rather skin him than shoot him clean. He’d hoped the farm in the remote mountains of Owyhee County in Idaho Territory would get him out of the business. Since then, he’d married—and nine months later, lost both his wife and his son in one instant.

  Old Man Sully hadn’t ridden in this holdup, but Ross recognized his second son, Bob, and a few of the other gang members. There were some new ones, too, that Ross didn’t know. With luck, maybe they didn’t place him.

  Once Bob Sully thought he was out of rifle range, he turned around and hollered, “You ain’t seen the last of me, Flare.”

  So much for not being made out, but at least he didn’t have a wife to worry about any longer. Ross held bead as the rest of the gang rode off. He could’ve shot them, but he’d given up hunting men, and he sorely regretted having to plug the two he did kill. He was a farmer now, and that’s just how he liked it.

  Both teams reared and stamped, still scared from the gunfire and wreck. His first job would be to settle them before they hurt themselves on the harnesses and twisted wagon tongue. Then, he had to tend to the baby pigs.

  “Whoa, there.” After considerable cooing, his own horses calmed first, most accustomed to his voice. He patted the nigh-wheeler on the neck, then set to talking low and easy to the stagecoach team.

  After both teams settled, he stood on top of the pigs’ crate, which was partially impaled in the stagecoach, to see if anyone had survived the robbery attempt and the wreck. Bullet holes pierced all sides of the coach, and the only noise he heard was squeals.

  Then a lady’s head popped up through the window, her eyes wide as fried eggs, only a whole lot prettier. He could see the top of her shoulders, but no lower. He could definitely see the Peacemaker she pointed at him.

  “Don’t shoot!” she hollered. “I have no valuables, and there aren’t any other passengers.” Blood streaked her face, and tears streaked the blood. Her bonnet with squashed violets hanging from the brim sagged to one side, showing honey brown hair on the other.

  “Lady, I don’t shoot women, even if they deserve it.” Her hands shook like a penny on a railroad track as she held the six-gun on him. He holstered his pistol. “I’m not a robber—I saved you.”

  “Oh, in that case—” She shrieked and threw up her hands, firing the pistol, as a weaner pig squealed. The poor critter must have been as scared as she was, and wanted out of the coach. The lady sure didn’t see it that way. “Get me away from these stupid pigs!”

  She trembled, her face pallid. Likely, both the robbers and the pigs scared the stuffin’ out of her. Not to mention that last gunshot, or the tumbling she must have taken.

  “Calm down, lady. I’ll get you out of there.”

  Ross climbed to the top of the coach, which was actually the side since it was tipped, but there was no door. “The door’s on the bottom. We’ll have to take you out through the window.”

  “I don’t care how you do it. Just get me out of here.”

  He gripped her arms and lifted her, but her bustle and petticoats caused her skirts to snag on the window. Too much frippery to fit.

  “Hang onto my neck while I mash down your unmentionables, or else you’ll have to stay in there with the pigs.”


  Pretty thing. If he wasn’t all the way done with women, she’d warrant a second look.

  He took hold of her arms and lifted her up but her hips stuck in the window.

  “Pull harder!” Her face was all skewed up something terrible and he felt powerful bad about her predicament.

  “I’ll have to get a better grip on you.” He wrapped his arms around her bosom, even though she huffed a bit, but this was no time for the niceties, then he planted his feet and tugged on her with all his might. She didn’t move an inch but she did make an unladylike grunt.

  “Ma’am, you’re gonna have to doff that bustle. Petticoats, too.”

  “Can’t you try one more time?”

  “It won’t do one whit of good. When I push you down, take ’em off as quick as you can, then holler and I’ll fish you up again.”

  “It’s not seemly!” She let out another shriek.

  “Quit your screechin’. You’re scaring my pigs.”

  “They’re sucking on my limbs,” she whimpered.

  “They ain’t weaned yet. Their mama died—I was taking them to find another sow for ’em. They won’t hurt you none.”

  He managed to poke her back down the window despite her protests.

  “Don’t look!”

  “I won’t. I swear on my mother’s grave...’Course, she ain’t dead yet.” And since she was still alive, he wouldn’t dare peek, lest she come at him with a rolling pin for disrespecting a woman.

  Amidst the pigs’ squeals, he heard the rustle of stiff petticoats, some clanking, and considerable muttering between an occasional squeal.

  “I’m ready,” she called, her voice shaky.

  He turned around and peered down. The lady raised her arms over her head and he grabbed them, then pulled. Her hips stuck again.

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid the bustle wasn’t the only problem.”

  “Turn me so that the wide part of my, um, lower area, is diagonal.”

  “You’re right.” He turned her cattywampus, then pulled, and after considerable struggling and groaning, out she came.

  The team shied, and the stagecoach and connected farm wagon inched closer to the two-hundred foot cliff, with nothing but rocks all the way down to a little stream of water. The lady whimpered and dropped to her behind, then scooched off the coach on the other side, dust billowing around her as she fell.

  “I would’ve helped you down, lady.”

  “You may call me Miss Yancey.”

  He reached for his hat to tip it, but realized he’d lost it somewhere. “You’ve likely already decided what you’re gonna call me, but my name’s Ross Flaherty.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Flaherty.” Her pleasure sounded downright mechanical, but he had to admit she’d been through a trial.

  “Where are you headed, and I’ll see to it that you get there.”

  “I’m on my way, or was, to Silver City. Reverend Cheasbro will meet me there and we’ll be married.”

  “No, you ain’t. I just killed him.”

  ****

  Celia took a moment to gather her wits. Couldn’t just one thing in her life go right? The reverend could’ve at least lived long enough to marry her before he got himself killed. And a robber, no less.

  “If Rev. Cheasbro had a silver mine, why would he hold up a stagecoach?” she asked.

  Ross Flaherty eyed his wagon’s broken axle. Without looking up, he said, “He’d be the one to ask, except he’s dead, but old habits die hard.”

  Celia leaned against the stagecoach and pressed her forearm against her brow. All those miles of bumpy roads, bad food, and lice-infested beds—and for naught?

  “Now, don’t you go swooning on me, ma’am.”

  “Do I look like the swooning type to you, Mr. Flaherty?”

  “Well, no, you look...uh, sturdy.”

  “Sturdy?”

  The farmer bobbed his head apologetically, as well he should. “In a nice-looking way.”

  He was right—sturdy described her very well. Every town in Ohio her father had dragged them to, she’d pitched in and helped the community with whatever it needed, whether digging a well or setting up a nursery. And her father had always gotten the credit. Yes, she was indeed sturdy, and also organized and tenacious. She’d come out on top of every test the Maker had thrown at her so far, and she wouldn’t crumple now.

  She pushed away from the stagecoach and walked around the wagons, studying the damage. “We must get organized.”

  “Yep.” But he shook his head. “I know what that means. You do the tellin’ and I do the doing.”

  “You misunderstand, Mr. Flaherty. I’m sturdy, remember?” Nothing like dealing with a bone-headed man. Then again, that described all of the male species.

  “We’ll have to take the dead to the closest town for a Christian burial.”

  Mr. Flaherty loosened a strap on the harness. “First thing, those pigs need water or they’ll die.”

  “Where’s the closest water?”

  “About two hundred feet straight down.”

  This man could run for president. “The next closest water?”

  “My place—four miles up the road.” He scratched his head. “Might we should do a little more working and a little less palavering.”

  “We need to have a plan.”

  He continued unharnessing the team. “You need a plan. I need to get some water for those pigs and fix my wagon.”

  “But what about the deceased?”

  “Them fellers ain’t getting any deader. They’ll wait.”

  “I’ll unharness the teams. A stagecoach harness can’t be that much different than a carriage harness. You go take care of the dead and see to their horses.”

  “Now, there’s where you’re wrong, ma’am. Here’s how it’s gonna go—you set over there on that rock and I’ll unhitch the horses. Then me and you will ride my horses to the farm because I know they’re broke. If the other team will take a lead line, we can take them, too. Savvy?”

  “I can help. I have a way with animals.”

  “I seen that, what with you hollering about a few baby pigs and all.”

  She could understand how he would think little of her abilities, but she’d always been in charge of the animals because she could gentle them. The piglets did alarm her, but then she’d been scared out of her mind from the gunfire and the runaway stage.

  “Suit yourself, Mr. Flaherty. Let me know when you need help and I’ll be happy to assist you.” She sat on the designated rock, listening to the piglets’ soft grunts, and waited until he got to work. His manner with the horses impressed her. His croons, pats, and strokes calmed the beleaguered beasts, and she chuckled when they nuzzled his pockets looking for treats.

  As he worked on the tangled straps of the off-wheeler, she quietly rose and began unbuckling various straps on the stagecoach team. She’d never worked with this sort of harness before, but she could figure it out. By the time he finished unhitching his team of two horses, she had a good share of the straps unfastened.

  He rounded the stagecoach, quickening his stride when he saw her. “Woman, I told you to stay set. You could be hurt.”

  “The day’s a-wasting—and my name’s Miss Yancey.” She didn’t quit until he took the traces from her.

  “I’ll finish up. You rest—I need to take a look at that cut on your face, but I won’t be able to see much until we can get to the farm where there’s water to wash with.”

  “A cut?” She brushed her fingers against her cheek and when she looked at her hand, saw blood. “Must not be too bad if I didn’t even realize it was there.”

  “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll take a look-see and if it’s deep, we’ll get you to the doctor in Silver City.”

  “What about the other robbers? Will they come back and attack again?”

  “They’ll be busy for a while on account of I wounded a few, but then after that—maybe.”

  “In that case, I’d be much more comfortable i
f you’d please fetch the pistol I left in the stagecoach. It’s loaded, and there’s a box of bullets, too, although I doubt you’d ever be able to find them in that mess.”

  “Do you know how to shoot it?”

  “I learn fast.”

  Once all the horses were unhitched, Mr. Flaherty jumped on top of the stagecoach and knelt, sticking his head through the window. The pigs squealed and he pushed himself up on his knees. “I see your Peacemaker.” He lowered himself feet first into the cabin, not having an issue with his hips, but he did have some difficulty wedging his shoulders through the small opening.

  When he climbed out, he held the pistol with two fingers. “It’ll be all right once we clean it up some.”

  Celia had never been squeamish, but she had a hard time working up the enthusiasm to take her pistol, which was covered with pig poop. She whisked her finely embroidered hankie out of her sleeve and handed it to him. Truth was, he didn’t smell all that rosy, either.

  “We can’t get to that water any too soon.”

  ****

  Ross made a quick trip up the road and collected the weapons from the two robbers he’d killed as well as the stagecoach driver and messenger. Neither of the gang members were Sully’s kin, so there was a chance the old man wouldn’t come after him right away. But he’d come.

  When he got back, he led the gentler of his two horses and tied it to the coach wheel. “Up you go,” he told Miss Yancey. He laced his fingers together and held them on his knee for her to use as a stirrup.

  Without one whit of hesitation, she stepped into his hand and swung her right leg over the horse, then adjusted her skirt to cover her stockings.

  “I’ve ridden bareback before, but not with a harness bridle.”

  Ross felt a little easier about her riding his horse. “I’ll set a slow pace until I see how good your seat is.” She had a right fine seat, near as he could tell. Whether it would stick on a horse or not was another matter.

  After a few minutes, she nudged the horse to a trot, then to a lope. “Trotting was shaking my teeth out,” she hollered. But she smiled, and even with that battered bonnet with the drooping violet flopping with the gait, Ross had to admit she was pretty as a summer doe.