Four Weddings and a Kiss

by Margaret Brownley

  “She always had a mind of her own. So why are you so upset? Seems to me the two of you had a plan going into this, and Katie’s just doing what y’all agreed to.”

  Treb stared at him for a moment before he muttered, “That’s true, I guess. Listen, can I ask a favor? Could you and maybe some of the women folk from town go by every once in a while and check on her? She’ll get lonesome out there and, well, she needs to know that everyone doesn’t think she’s crazy. She’s not gonna shoot anybody, unless it’s some no-count with bad intentions, and she has the right to scare them off.”

  The preacher studied him hard. Then, like the first time they’d met, Pastor Dawson struck Treb as more lawman than preacher. “I’ll go by,” he said, “and now that we know she’s not going to shoot every living thing that moves, I’ll make sure the ladies’ group gets out there to see her. Maybe we can get her to join us on Sundays again.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Treb said, wondering what Katie was doing right now. “That’s what she needs.” He reached across the desk and they shook hands. Then he turned to leave.

  “Do you love her?”

  The preacher’s words stopped him at the door. He couldn’t lie. “I do,” he said, then turned back. “To tell you the truth, Preacher, I didn’t want to. I’ve lost too many people in my life who I loved and felt responsible for. I don’t want to go through that again. But . . . Katie.” He dropped his chin to his chest and stared at his boots, thoughts whirling. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Katie isn’t the marrying kind. She told me that. I knew it and I . . .” He faltered, then started pacing the floor.

  “You fell in love with her anyway,” the preacher finished for him.

  “I tried not to,” Treb said.

  “Did you tell her how you feel?”

  “Are you kidding? She wouldn’t let me.”

  “Did you want to?”

  The preacher’s question had Treb’s boots skidding to a halt.

  “Sure I did. But it wouldn’t have served a purpose. She didn’t want it.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “She made it clear on several occasions.”

  “Treb, sit down, please. I’d like to tell you something.”

  Doing as he’d been asked, Treb sank to the edge of the chair and stared across the big desk.

  Preacher Dawson took a deep breath as if nervous.

  “I’ve been the preacher here for a long time. And I watched Katie wear her heart on her sleeve as a young lady. There was one young man in our congregation she had her eye on and everyone knew it. But he had eyes for another young lady, and they started courting as soon as they were old enough. I performed their wedding ceremony soon after, and I believe it hurt Katie deeply.” He took a deep breath, his expression solemn.

  His heart heavy, Treb waited, anticipating more was coming. He was right.

  “There were a couple of young men who did start courting Katie, but it was over before it got started both times. Maybe it was because Katie had been raised by her pa and she wasn’t one to know how to . . . to attract a fella. A fella wants to be needed, and I don’t think any man ever thought Katie would need him, much less love him or be easy to love herself. Does that make sense?”

  Treb nodded slowly.

  “I watched Katie see every young woman her age marry. Finally she quit wearing her heart on her sleeve. I think she decided it was safer to decide never to marry. And then to have these four or five worthless cowboys offer to marry her right after the tornado . . .” He hiked a brow.

  Closing his eyes, Treb hung his head.

  Katie had been hurt far more than he’d ever known. And he’d almost hurt her again.

  She’d been right to send him away.

  Treb stood. “Thank you for telling me. But still, if you’d look in on her I’d be obliged.” That said, he hightailed it out of there like a yellow-bellied coward. He and Katie both knew how hard it was to love and lose.

  Leaving was the best thing he could do for both of their hearts.

  “What are you doing here, Silas Pruit?” Katie’s tears had barely dried when the aggravating cowpoke came riding over the ridge and straight into her ranch yard. Her eyes narrowed and her hand tightened on her whip, the other on her gun. If he knew what was good for him, he’d turn and run out of there because she had a hankerin’ for some target practice in the worst way.

  “I’ve come to give you another chance to accept my offer.” The cowboy thumbed his hat back, looking cocky and trying every last nerve she had.

  The cowpoke might be nice to look at, but he had shiftless eyes and a no-good heart. She wouldn’t trust him as far as she could spit. “Don’t even think about getting off that horse.”

  “Now, Katie, I don’t mean any harm.” He swung out of the saddle.

  She whipped out her pistol, then thought about him going back to town to tell everyone that she was crazy. The thought made her hesitate. During those moments, he took three strides and was standing closer than she wanted.

  She aimed her pistol at his boots. “You take another step my direction and I’ll shoot off one of your toes.”

  Silas’s jaw jerked and his eyes hardened. One minute he was glaring at her, the next he’d lashed out and grabbed hold of her pistol.

  “You loco, fool woman. Your pa is gone and I aim to have this ranch. You’ll be nice and do as I ask or you’ll be sorry. I’m losing my patience.” He wrenched her gun from her hand, then backhanded her across the jaw. The blow shocked her, and she stumbled backward a few feet before landing on the ground with a thud.

  “I knew you were a worthless skunk, but I didn’t figure you for this,” she snapped, her jaw throbbing. She didn’t hold with a man who would hit a lady—even a lady who was itching to shoot off his toe. She’d shoot them all off if she had her gun.

  “You’ll play along or you’ll regret it.”

  “I’ll never marry you,” she said, too angry to be afraid.

  He glared down at her as he shoved her gun into the waist of his pants, then cracked his knuckles. “Oh, believe me, I aim to have this ranch. And I’ll do what I must to get it. When I get done with you, you’ll marry me and be glad to be alive to do it. Or else . . .”

  From her makeshift stall Myrtle May snorted and pawed at the ground. Would the horse charge Silas? He’d think nothing of putting a bullet into the animal. Katie’s hand tightened on the whip she suddenly realized she was still holding.

  “You want to turn around here and pick on someone your own size?”

  Treb!

  Katie gasped as he stepped from behind the barn, his pistol aimed at Silas. Fear clutched her heart as Silas whirled around and yanked her pearl-handled pistol from his waistband. Treb’s eyes were full of fury. He must’ve witnessed Silas strike her. He wouldn’t like seeing a man strike a woman. Something terrible was about to happen. If she didn’t stop it!

  One quick flick of her arm and the whip snaked free of its coil as she sprang to her feet. She whipped it through the air. It reached out and grabbed Silas’s wrist. He yelled in pain and surprise as she yanked him to the ground.

  Everything worked beautifully until the pistol fired.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PAIN SURGED THROUGH TREB AS THE BULLET KNOCKED him to his knees. Feeling the warm flow of blood running down his arm, he kept his gun steady on Silas. Katie, white as snow, raced forward, grabbed her gun from the ground where it had dropped, then took Silas’s from his holster.

  “How bad are you hit?” Katie’s voice trembled as she backed toward him, keeping her gun on Silas who had suddenly lost his tongue. He was holding his wrist and blood dripped from his fingers where she’d yanked him to the ground like he’d been no more than a willow branch.

  “I’ll live,” Treb said. “Can you grab some rope?”

  She nodded, her gaze flicking once to his wound before she ran. Only after she was gone did he remember that the rope was in the barn. Within moments, she returned carrying the rope
, and he watched her push Silas to the ground. Treb marveled. She hadn’t even hesitated to go into the barn, and for that he was so very happy for her. As if she were working cows, she placed a knee in his back, grabbed both of his wrists, and hog-tied him within moments.

  The sound of hoofbeats sounded, and to Treb’s surprise Pastor Dawson rode into the yard. He swung himself from the saddle, rifle in his hand.

  “You folks all right?” He shouldered his rifle when he saw Katie hog-tying Silas.

  “We’re fine, Preacher,” Treb said.

  “No you’re not,” Katie said, kneeling at his side. She grabbed the hem of her dress, and gently covering his wound on his upper arm, she applied pressure to both the entry and exit wounds. She was staring into his eyes and he forgot everything. Everything but her.

  “You came back,” she said softly.

  “I couldn’t leave. And I’m so glad I got here when I did. I came over the ridge and saw Silas knock you down. I wanted to charge in here as fast as I could, but I knew if he shot me I would be useless to you. So I rode through the woods and came in behind the barn.”

  She kept pressure on his arm, her eyes softer than he’d ever seen them. “But why did you come back?”

  He touched her cheek gently, loving the feel of her skin. “I came back because I love you, Katie. And the preacher here made me realize that the only thing that matters to me is you. I want to marry you, Katie Pearl.”

  Katie stilled, searching his eyes with her beautiful blues. “But what about your dreams?” Her voice quivered. “Seeing the Gulf?”

  He smiled. “You are my dreams. I’ve been traveling around, adrift with no anchor until I wandered in here and found you. God knew exactly where I was wanderin’ to all along, and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

  Katie’s eyes misted, and his heart nearly burst with his love for her.

  “Will you marry me?”

  That smile he loved so much spread across her face and dug deeper into every dark corner of his life. “Oh, Treb,” she said softly, “you’re the only one I’d ever marry.” Her sweet lips trembled as tears began to stream down her cheeks. “And”—she hiccupped, her words catching—“of all”—hiccup—“people, I went and shot you. Oh, Treb, I almost killed you.”

  The last words were barely audible.

  He couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed.

  “This is serious, Treb. Why are you laughing?” She stopped crying and her eyes were flashing fire again.

  “Because I love you, and if the preacher is up to it, we’re fix’n to have ourselves a wedding to stop all this nonsense.”

  “I’m fine with that,” Preacher Dawson said, grinning, “if Katie says she wants the same thing.”

  Katie smiled. “Oh, I do.” She leaned in and kissed Treb, right there in front of the preacher. “It sounds wonderful.”

  “I don’t want to watch a stinkin’ wedding,” Silas growled.

  The preacher shifted his rifle from one arm to the other. “I don’t think you have a choice. Especially since I’m going to throw you over a saddle horn and take you to the jailhouse soon as we’re done. After all the trouble you’ve caused and from the looks of that bruise on Katie’s cheek, you better be on your best behavior.”

  Katie jumped up and went to a chest of clothes that sat among the things they’d salvaged from the house. She opened it and pulled out a length of muslin. She came back and wound it around Treb’s wounds. When she was done, she grinned. “Preacher, would you marry us now, please? The sun is going down and I want to spend the first night in my new home with my husband.”

  Treb grinned. “I do love the sound of that.”

  “And I love you,” Katie said, helping him stand. “But, Treb, if I agree to wed you, do you promise to show me some of the places you were planning to see?”

  “Katie Pearl, I’d love to do that.” And he would. She would love it.

  “Then let’s make this official.”

  Treb looked into Katie’s eyes. He’d come to her ranch hoping to earn enough money to leave town to see the world. He never expected he’d be the man who would tell Katie he loved her and then stick around to prove it.

  But he would. For the rest of his life.

  Courting Trouble

  Margaret Brownley

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lone Pine, Colorado, 1882

  BROCK DANIELS SCOWLED AT THE LEGAL BRIEF HE’D BEEN studying for more than an hour. Obstreperous conduct? It took thirty-two pages to list a complaint that added up to little more than one shop owner calling another a name generally reserved for crooked politicians and stubborn mules.

  Hardly a week went by that a similar freewheeling lawsuit didn’t cross his desk. No wonder Lone Pine was on litigation overload. They sure didn’t do things here in Colorado like they did back in Philadelphia.

  Tossing down the brief, he reached for his dip pen. No sooner had he dunked the nib in the inkwell and started to write than a slight sound made him lift his gaze. A boy of eleven or twelve stood in front of his desk, staring at him with big, rounded eyes.

  It wasn’t the first time someone had sneaked up on him while he was working at his desk. The two-room office had been his for six months, and he still hadn’t gotten around to attaching a bell to the front door.

  Brock stuck the pen in its holder and reached into his vest pocket for his watch. The gold case opened with a flip of his thumb. It was nearly ten p.m. Too late for someone so young to be roaming the streets. He snapped the watch shut.

  “May I help you?”

  Instead of answering, the lad placed four coins on the desk with such care that the money had to have been hard earned. The coins added up to fifty-six cents.

  “I want to hire you,” the boy said.

  There wasn’t enough money there to hire a mule, but the boy’s youth demanded special consideration.

  Brock slid his watch back into his pocket. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Jesse Morris.”

  Brock was pretty sure he’d not seen the boy before. Certainly he’d never seen a more sorrowful pair of trousers. Innocent of anything resembling the original fabric, they were patched so thoroughly that they resembled shingles on a roof. The child’s shirt didn’t fare much better. The thin cotton was more suited to hot summer days than cool spring nights.

  “What kind of trouble you in?”

  “No trouble,” Jesse said. “It’s my ma.”

  Brock’s eyebrows shot up. “Your ma’s in trouble?”

  Jessed nodded. “She’s in jail.”

  Far as Brock knew, the only woman in jail was the one they called the Black Widow. From what little he’d heard, it sounded like an open-and-shut murder case. What he hadn’t known was that she had a son. More’s the pity.

  The boy twisted his porkpie hat in his hands. Reddish brown hair reached his shoulders and curled around his neck and ears. “The sheriff said she killed her husband and that ain’t true.”

  Husband, not father. Brock pinched his forehead. It was late and he was tired.

  “I’m sure the judge has appointed your mother’s legal counsel.”

  The boy nodded. “Her lawyer’s name is Mr. Spencer.”

  David Spencer was one of three lawyers in town. Far as Brock knew, the man had no formal education in law. But neither did the others, which explained why the Lone Pine legal system was such a mess and, in some cases, a joke. The closest any of them had been to “passing the bar,” which consisted of a simple oral exam, was to walk past a saloon.

  “If your mother has a lawyer, why do you want to hire me?”

  Jesse set his hat on the corner of the desk and pulled a piece of paper from his trouser pocket. With as much care as he’d afforded the coins, he unfolded it and straightened out the creases.

  “Mr. Spencer loses most of his cases,” he said. He placed the paper on the desk and pointed to the names carefully printed beneath a hand-drawn gallows. “Those are the men he let hang las
t year.”

  Half a dozen names were on the list, including a gang of horse thieves. The boy had done his research. “I admit that doesn’t look good but—”

  “Reverend Fields said you’re the best lawyer in town. Said you were almost as good at law as Moses.”

  “Did he now?” Moses? If only the reverend knew . . .

  “I handle mostly contracts and land disputes,” he explained. Not only was business law more lucrative than criminal law, it was less risky; no one was likely to die if he messed up. “I don’t handle criminal cases.”

  “Ma’s innocent, so this ain’t no criminal case.”

  “Jesse—”

  “Please.”

  When Brock showed no sign of relenting, the boy’s eyes filled with tears. He apparently thought that if he tugged on enough reins, one would eventually give. He wasn’t that far off in his thinking.

  “I don’t know that there’s anything I can do,” Brock said. He could well imagine the town’s reaction if he stuck his nose in the high-profile case. Not many liked his big-city ways, but then he didn’t much like what passed for justice in this town.

  “You could talk to Ma.” Jesse swiped a tear from his cheek. “Then you’ll know she didn’t do the awful things people say she did. Please, Mister.”

  Brock grimaced. Law school had not taught him how to turn down a pleading youth. Giving up the fight, he said, “All right. I’ll talk to your mother.”

  A corner of the boy’s mouth curved upward, and Brock had the feeling the boy didn’t laugh much. Probably didn’t smile much either.

  “Where you staying, son?”

  “With Reverend Fields.”

  “The pastor and his wife are good people.” They would do right by the boy. “Do you like it there?”

  He nodded. “But I’m not sure Reverend Fields likes me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He asked me if I was Methodist or Presbyterian.”