The Outlaw's Daughter

by Margaret Brownley

  Locking his words in her heart, she pulled her hands from his and threw her arms around his neck. Staring up at him with tear-filled eyes, she whispered, “Oh, Matt!”

  Hands around her waist, he held her tight and grinned down at her. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  Joy bubbling inside, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “It means I love you, too, and being with you would make me the happiest woman in the world.”

  His grin widened. “I think I loved you the moment I first set eyes on you,” he said, his voice catching with emotion.

  She drew in her breath and tried to think when she had first fallen in love with him. “I think I fell in love with you the day I came to your hotel room.”

  He looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It was my bare chest, right?”

  She blushed at the memory. “Not exactly. It was your kindness when I told you I was an outlaw’s daughter. That meant a lot to me.” Still did.

  He gently knuckled away a tear on her cheek and caressed her face with his hands. “I don’t want you thinking of yourself as an outlaw’s daughter. Once we’re married, I want you to think of yourself only as my beautiful wife.”

  “I think I can manage that,” she whispered. “Long as you think of yourself as my handsome husband.”

  “Handsome, eh?” He laughed and then kissed her tenderly but oh so thoroughly on the lips.

  Epilogue

  For her wedding day, Ellie-May had loaned Anvil Neal’s frock coat and dark pants. Surprisingly, the suit fit him without much in the way of alterations. “Don’t you look handsome?” she said, straightening his bow tie.

  Anvil looked pleased. “And you look mighty purty yourself,” he said, bringing a blush to her face.

  “Thanks to Mrs. Buttonwood,” she said. The woman had insisted upon making Ellie-May’s wedding gown. The ivory dress with its lace bodice, satin paniers, and short train was far more elegant than anything Ellie-May had ever owned.

  She had decided against a veil. Instead, she chose to wear the blue and yellow wildflowers in her hair that had been picked by Alicia and Lionel.

  Anvil crooked his elbow. “Ready?”

  Smiling up at him, Ellie-May slipped her arm through his. “Ready,” she said. “More than ready.”

  Matt had insisted the wedding take place inside the barn where he’d first set eyes on her. Thanks to Mrs. Buttonwood and the ladies of her quilting bee, the barn had been transformed with candles, streamers, and satin bows.

  “I’m ready, too,” Lionel said, looking sharp in his knee pants and little bow tie.

  Alicia adjusted the basket of rose petals on her arm. “Me, too.”

  Her children’s affection for Matt filled Ellie-May’s heart with unbelievable joy and thanksgiving.

  Anvil nodded. “What do you say we get this over with so we can get to the good stuff.”

  Ellie-May arched an eyebrow. “The good stuff?”

  Anvil grinned. “Me and Mrs. Buttonwood are gettin’ hitched, too.”

  “Anvil, that’s wonderful!” Ellie-May arched an eyebrow. “Who proposed this time?”

  “Who do you think?” Anvil said, avoiding her gaze.

  Ellie-May laughed. “I can’t believe you said yes.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he said, sounding defensive. “I saw how happy you and Taggert are together. Made me want some of that good stuff for myself.”

  “Oh, Anvil.” She gave him an affectionate hug. “I’m so happy for you, and I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  The sound of a fiddle playing “Here Comes the Bride” drifted from inside the barn. “I think that’s our cue,” Anvil said, signaling Alicia to move with a nod of his head.

  The thrill of anticipation rushed through Ellie-May as she and Anvil followed Alicia and Lionel into the barn and down the center aisle. Matt stood in between the minister and his best man, Jesse. Mrs. Buttonwood had insisted upon being Ellie-May’s bridesmaid and had even relinquished her usual manly attire for a dress. Anvil’s eyes lit up when he saw his future bride, and Ellie-May gave his arm an affectionate squeeze.

  When the two of them reached the front of the barn, Anvil took her hand and placed it in Matt’s. “I love you,” Matt said, his eyes filled with tenderness.

  Locking the moment in her heart, she whispered back, “I love you, too.”

  Jesse flashed a know-it-all grin. “See? I told you,” he said in all seriousness. “It’s a rule. Sometimes things are exactly as they seem.”

  Matt laughed. “Yes, they are,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Yes, they most certainly are.”

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  I hope you enjoyed Matt and Ellie-May’s story. This is the third and last book in the Haywire Brides series. If you missed Cowboy Charm School and The Cowboy Meets His Match, both books are still available.

  I don’t know if this happens to other writers, but I’ve had some strange things happen during the writing of a book. I once turned a manuscript in to my editor at the same time as another writer turned in hers. Oddly enough, our protagonists shared the same first names and professions. There were also many other similarities throughout our manuscripts, and all had to be changed.

  Another time, I was hiking a trail in Mammoth when I met a geologist who was the spitting image of the geologist hero in the book I was working on. Even weirder, his first name was Damian, and I’d named my hero Damon. Close enough, right?

  But the strangest thing that happened occurred recently. I’d been toying with the idea of taking an Ancestry DNA test for quite some time, so my daughter decided to gift me with one for Christmas. The results were pretty much what I expected, with one surprise. It turns out that the outlaw Jesse James and I share a common ancestor.

  The timing was especially weird since Jesse James was a character in The Outlaw’s Daughter, which I had just completed. Come to think of it, it’s not the first time Jesse James has popped up in one of my books, and I can’t count how many blogs I’ve written about the outlaw.

  That’s because Jesse is an interesting person to write about. Not only was he controversial, but he had both a light and a dark side. The son of a Baptist minister, he was known to pass out press releases to witnesses at his holdups and had no qualms about exaggerating his height. He might also be the only person on record to take a gang on his honeymoon. I don’t know what his bride did while he and his partners in crime robbed a stage. Maybe she went shopping.

  Jesse James lived for only thirty-four years, but there was never a dull moment. He was a Confederate guerrilla, was shot in the chest on two separate occasions, and once overdosed on morphine. He also claimed to have murdered seventeen people, although some historians suspect that number was exaggerated.

  Jesse went by many aliases, but his nickname was Dingus because he shot off the tip of his finger while cleaning his pistol. After forming a friendship with the editor and publisher of the Kansas City Times, he wrote many letters for the newspaper about his gang and political beliefs. He also claimed that they robbed the rich and gave to the poor, though all indications are that the gang kept the spoils to themselves.

  Far as I know, he was also the first person to prove that housework can kill. While cleaning a dusty picture, he was fatally shot in the back of the head by his new hire Bob Ford, who hoped to collect a reward and promised amnesty for his own crimes.

  I can’t tell you what it was about Jesse James that first caught my interest. I can’t even tell you why this writer, who’s allergic to horses, writes Westerns. All I can say is that it must be in my DNA.

  Until next time,

  Margaret

  Acknowledgments

  I always feel a little sad whenever I finish writing the last book in a series, and this time is no different. The Outlaw’s Daughter is book numbe
r forty-eight for me. When I sat down all those years ago to write my first book, I never imagined such a thing.

  If I were to thank everyone who made this amazing journey possible, it would require another whole book. For brevity’s sake, I’ll mention just a few, starting with my publisher, the amazing Sourcebooks, whose motto is “Books change lives.”

  I’m especially grateful to my editor, Mary Altman, whose editorial help, keen insight, and thoughtful suggestions help turn my flaws into strengths and make my books better than I thought they could ever be.

  As always, I can’t say enough about my super-agent, Natasha Kern, who gallantly leads the way through the crazy maze of publishing. I’ll always be grateful for having her as a mentor, friend, and cheerleader!

  Also, a big thank-you to my family and friends who patiently put up with me spacing out and talking about people who don’t exist.

  Finally, I want to thank my readers. So many of you have written to say my words mean a lot. Well, your words mean a lot to me, too, especially when you take the time to post a review on one of the many media outlets. Nothing sells books better than word of mouth, and I thank you one and all!

  Read on for an excerpt from Left at the Altar, the first book in the A Match Made in Texas series by Margaret Brownley

  1

  Two-Time, Texas

  1880

  “Fifty-four minutes.”

  Her father’s booming voice made Meg Lockwood want to scream. But airing her lungs in church wasn’t an option, and thanks to the whalebone corset beneath her wedding gown, neither was breathing.

  “Mama, make him stop.”

  Her mother straightened the garland of daisies in Meg’s hair for perhaps the hundredth time so far that day before turning to her husband. “Henry, must you?”

  Papa kept his gaze glued to his gold pocket watch rather than answer, his wagging finger ready to drop the instant the minute hand moved. Not by any means a formal man, he’d battled with Mama over his wedding attire until, like a defeated general, he’d thrown up his arms in surrender. Unfortunately, the knee-length coat Mama had chosen emphasized Papa’s ungainly shape, which bore a striking resemblance to a pickle barrel.

  The finger came down. “He is now fifty-five minutes late.”

  Meg’s hands curled around the satin fabric of her skirt. Where was her bridegroom? She hated to keep the wedding guests waiting, but she didn’t know what to do. Time meant nothing to her erstwhile fiancé, but he’d promised not to be late for their wedding. She’d trusted him to keep his word.

  Just you wait, Tommy Farrell!

  When he finally did show up, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions.

  Tommy wasn’t the only reason for her ill temper. As if her too-tight corset wasn’t bad enough, the ruffled lace at her neck made her skin itch, and the butterfly bustle hung like a brick at the small of her back. Worse, the torture chambers disguised as dainty white slippers were killing her feet.

  The church organ in the nearby sanctuary moaned louder, as if even the organist’s patience was spent. The somber chords now rattled the walls of the tiny anteroom, threatening the framed picture and forcing the glass beads on the kerosene lamp to jiggle in protest.

  She met her mother’s worried gaze in the beveled-glass mirror. At forty-five, Elizabeth Lockwood still moved with the ease and grace of a woman half her age. The green velvet gown showed off her still-tiny waist and slim hips.

  A wistful look smoothed the lines of worry on her mother’s face. “You look beautiful.”

  Meg forced a smile. “So do you, Mama.”

  Meg had inherited her mother’s honey-blond hair, turquoise eyes, and dainty features, but her restless countenance was clearly thanks to her father’s side.

  “Fifty-six minutes late,” her father exclaimed, and Meg’s already taut nerves threatened to snap.

  Clenching her hands tightly, she spun around to face him. “You never change!”

  “Change? Change!” Papa looked indignant as a self-righteous preacher. “Why would I? Someone has to maintain a healthy respect for time.”

  The door swung open. Thank goodness. Meg whirled about again, ready to give her errant fiancé a piece of her mind, but it was only her older sister. The worried frown on Josie’s face told Meg everything she needed to know, but still she had to ask.

  “Anything?”

  Josie shook her head. At twenty-three, she was two years older than Meg, and at five foot ten, stood a good six inches taller. Today she wore a dusky-rose gown that complemented her dark hair and gave her complexion a pretty pink glow. She took after Papa’s side in looks, but of the three Lockwood girls, she was most like Mama in calm disposition.

  “Ralph looked all over town.” Ralph Johnson was Josie’s husband, and he owned the saddle shop at the end of Two-Time’s main street. “You don’t suppose something might have happened to Tommy, do you? An accident?”

  “It better have,” Meg muttered.

  Gasping, Mama looked up from straightening Meg’s gown. “Of all the things to say!”

  “Sorry, Mama.” Hands balled at her sides, Meg gritted her teeth. Her mother was right, of course; such uncharitable thoughts didn’t belong in church.

  Neither did thoughts of murder.

  “Fifty-eight minutes,” her father announced.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon, Papa.” Josie always tried to see the bright side of things, but even she couldn’t hide the doubt in her voice.

  Papa’s gaze remained on his watch. “Soon’s already come and gone. Now he’ll have to answer to me for keeping my daughter waiting!”

  Her father didn’t fool Meg one whit—he’d been against the marriage from the start. If she didn’t know better, she would suspect him of causing her fiancé’s absence just to prove he was right.

  “Fifty-nine minutes!”

  “Henry, please,” her mother cajoled. “You’re upsetting her.”

  “She should be upset. The boy’s irresponsible and will never amount to a hill of beans. He’s like a blister; he never shows up till the work’s all done. Doesn’t even know whether to wind his watch or bark at the moon. I should never have agreed to this marriage.”

  “You didn’t agree to anything, Henry.”

  “And for good reason! Furthermore—”

  A knock sounded, but before anyone could answer it, the door cracked open and Reverend Wellmaker popped his head into the room. “Is everything all right?” he asked, eyes round behind his spectacles. “We’re almost twenty minutes late.”

  “Fifty-nine minutes late!” her father roared.

  The difference in times raised no eyebrows, since no standard time existed in Two-Time. It was common practice for communities to set watches by the local jeweler, but unfortunately, their town had two—Meg’s father and Tommy’s pa. Both stubbornly insisted they alone had the right time.

  The feud dividing the town for more than fifteen years was expected to end the minute the two families were joined by marriage. Both fathers had agreed—albeit reluctantly—to standardize time once the deed was done.

  “Shh, Henry, not here.” Her mother gave the minister an apologetic smile. “Soon.”

  Josie left with the pastor, and Papa continued his sonorous count until interrupted by another knock on the door.

  “Meg, it’s me, Tommy.”

  “It’s about time!” She hiked her skirt above her ankles and started across the room.

  Her mother grabbed her by the arm. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see you in your wedding gown,” she whispered.

  “It’s worse luck for the groom to be an hour late for his own wedding.” Meg pulled free from her mother’s grasp and ripped open the door. “Where have you been? You agreed to get married on Lockwood time and—” Suddenly aware that something was terribly wrong, she bit back the rest of her sente
nce.

  Tommy looked as sober as an owl in a barn. Even more worrisome was his attire—old canvas trousers held up by blue suspenders. He appeared haggard, as if he hadn’t slept, and his unruly red hair stood on end like a rooster’s comb.

  “We have to talk.” He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the room and down the hall.

  She held back. “Thomas James Farrell, stop right now. You hear me? I said stop!”

  But he didn’t stop, not until they reached the cemetery behind the church. It took a moment for Meg’s eyes to adjust to the bright autumn sun.

  Tall, granite grave markers stood at attention like pieces on a chessboard waiting for someone to make the first move.

  She snatched her hand from his. “What do you think you’re doing? What’s going on?”

  Tommy grimaced. “Meg, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I can’t marry you.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. This can’t be happening. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m sayin’ I can’t be the husband you want. I can’t spend the rest of my life workin’ on watches in my father’s shop. All those hairsprings and gears and stems and—”

  “This is how you give me the news?” She gave him an angry shove. “Tommy Farrell, I’ve known you nearly all my life, and you’ve caused me plenty of grief along the way, but this takes the cake!”

  “I’m sorry.” He slapped his hand to his forehead. “I’m goin’ about this all wrong. It’s not that I don’t want to marry you. I just can’t.”

  “And you waited for our wedding day to tell me this?”

  “I feel bad, I do.”

  “You feel bad? How do you suppose our guests feel after being kept waiting all this time? And what about the town? Our fathers promised to end their feud—”

  “I know, I know.” He grimaced. “Right now, I’m only thinkin’ of you.”

  “By humiliating me in front of the entire world?” She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. For years, she’d made excuses for his lackadaisical ways and had even defended him to his own father. She’d forgiven him for forgetting her birthday—not once but twice! But this…this was by far the worst thing he’d ever done.