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His Brother's Bride
Judith Bowen
MEN OF GLORYA cowboy town in a cowboy country.This is a place a woman could love.These are men a woman could love!She's pregnant–and she's his brother's wife-to-beShe met Jesse Winslow at a cattle show. They had a brief affair–and now Abby Steen is pregnant. Jesse, a rancher from Glory, Alberta, offers to marry her, and Abby accepts. She leaves her home in South Dakota to come to the Lazy SB, jointly owned by Jesse and his brother, Noah.But while Jesse might have good intentions and lots of charm, responsibility isn't his strongest trait. That's always been Noah's department.So when Jesse takes off–just abandons his bride before the wedding–Noah marries her instead.Their marriage might be for the sake of her babies–twins!–but Abby and Noah soon discover they haven't made such a bad bargain. Because love that starts the slowest often lasts the longest….
“He’s gone, Noah. Your brother’s gone. He’s left.” (#u5e524f42-54fb-599e-8438-656db4342984)Letter to Reader (#u6020c2c7-84a1-5450-871e-373fb1484ba2)About the Author (#u3b3a2d81-d590-50e4-b650-1465a460455a)Title Page (#u2fe68817-eb51-5f9c-89ac-64914b15b9b0)Dedication (#ucfbafa38-7dbd-5b7d-b092-0029a9d8e8f9)CHAPTER ONE (#ue6442a70-c4d8-5a53-aad5-db24a64340d4)CHAPTER TWO (#u2fc3f78a-090d-5c37-aefb-9b74a7b870c4)CHAPTER THREE (#u53cdc224-8f06-506f-a148-99969ca43cf7)CHAPTER FOUR (#u8be12c1c-08d7-5b28-8d78-8d676c69dc7c)CHAPTER FIVE (#ub7b9f534-d261-5140-a9cd-75bbe955785e)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“He’s gone, Noah. Your brother’s gone. He’s left.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean, he’s gone?”
“This.” Abby fumbled in her skirt pocket and took out a balled-up sheet of lined paper. “This!” she cried.
Noah opened the crumpled paper and scanned the few lines on the page. “I’m so sorry, Abby,” he read. “I wish I could have faced up to it, but I just can’t marry you....” The letter was signed simply Jesse.
Noah swore. His brain was spinning. Left her! The stupid, useless son of a bitch had left her. High and dry Alone. Pregnant. With no one to turn to—except him.
“Come on,” he said, leaning down and taking her by the arm. She staggered to her feet “Come inside and let’s talk this over.” Noah cleared his throat “You got any money? Enough to go home?”
“I can’t go home again, I just can’t,” she said, shuddering. “And I quit my job. Who’s going to hire a teacher with a baby on the way? No husband? Maybe...maybe I could start over. somewhere else....” She buried her head in her hands and her shoulders shook.
He glanced at her. “I have one idea,” he said. “You could marry me.”
Dear Reader,
Every baby ought to be welcomed and loved, but certainly every conception isn’t planned—all women know that!
Still, when it happens, expected or unexpected, a woman’s life is never the same again.
Usually the expectant mother has the love and support of a good man. When she doesn’t, she hopes she can count on the love and support of her family. That’s looking on the brightest side. Too often, the single mother is shunned by her community and her family. When she has no man to stand by her, either, where does she turn?
American Abby Steen finds herself in that situation when she moves to Canada, pregnant and alone. Glory rancher Noah Winslow has no plans to marry—ever. But how can he turn his back on a woman in trouble? Especially when it’s his brother who’s responsible for the whole mess?
I hope you enjoy this new story in my MEN OF GLORY series set in Alberta ranch country. I know you’ll recognize some of the townspeople, and the ranch and farm folk, too.
Judith Bowen
P.S. I’d love to hear what you think of Noah and Abby’s story. Drop me a line at P.O. Box 2333, Point Roberts, WA 98281-2333
His Brother’s Bride
Judith Bowen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Paula
An Editor in a Hundred
CHAPTER ONE
Carlisle, Minnesota
November
WHAT IN HEAVEN’S NAME had happened to her friend? She’d gone to the ladies’ room nearly fifteen minutes ago.
Abby played with her empty glass and tried to ignore the curls of cigarette smoke that floated lazily in the overheated air. The atmosphere in the bar was thick with sweat and sawdust and booze and hormones belonging to both sexes. Plus the music. She could hardly hear herself think.
She wasn’t used to this. The one gin and tonic she’d had was making her feel dizzy. That, and the music. As soon as Marguerite returned from the ladies’ she was going to ask if they could leave.
Abby felt thoroughly uncomfortable sitting by herself at a table along the wall. She hoped no one would think she was looking for company. From time to time she glanced around quickly, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. If her father could see her now. If the good folks in Wicoigon. South Dakota, could see her now. Mavis and Perry and the well-meaning Viola Palmerston, the town librarian, the widow who’d had been so helpful to her when Frank died.
Damn. There was a big cowboy at the bar who she swore kept watching her. It gave her the creeps. She didn’t dare look any closer. Besides, without her glasses on, what could she see, anyway? That had been an exercise in vanity, leaving her glasses at the motel room, thinking she looked better without them. Who would care?
“Another one, ma’am?” The waiter paused briefly, his tray loaded with beer glasses, pitchers and a stack of flimsy foil ashtrays.
“No, thanks.” She shook her head, not sure the waiter could hear her in the din. She was getting out of here. If her so-called friend didn’t show in another two. minutes-Abby glanced at her watch—she was leaving without her. Trust Marguerite to go off with someone else, or sit down at another table.
Abby would just take a taxi to the motel. Tomorrow was a busy day for Wicoigon Jersey Farm at the stock show, and she could use the sleep. Her father would never forgive her if she blew this fair. He lived and breathed Wicoigon Jerseys, and if he hadn’t had a bad fall last week, he’d be here at the agricultural exhibition himself, showing the family company’s top young bulls and heifers with Pepper and Will.
But he wasn’t. Abby was in charge on her own. Pepper and Will, both eighteen, her niece and nephew, twins, weren’t around much except to fulfill their duties of mucking out the stalls and feeding the cattle. They were supposed to be her assistants, but Abby did most of the showing and grooming herself.
Not that she minded. She loved cows. She’d grown up with the gentle doe-eyed Jerseys and they were still her favorite breed, although she hadn’t worked on the farm for quite a few years, since before she’d married Frank. The Carlisle exhibition brought cattle of all breeds, both dairy and beef. It was one of the big stock fairs of the year, and Carlisle blue ribbons were valuable additions to any breeder’s showroom wall. Wicoigon Jerseys already had nearly a dozen.
Everything had changed. Frank was dead now, nearly two years ago. And then last year... when her baby daughter had been born dead—
Abby released her empty glass from nerveless fingers. She still couldn’t bear to think of it. People said things happened for a reason. People said you’d get over it. People said it wasn’t as though you’d gotten to know the child.... That was the stupidest of all the things people said. She’d so hoped she’d have the baby at least-something of Frank, to keep with her always. She’d longed for that baby, as she’d longed for nothing else on earth. And then? An accident of birth, they said. Couldn’t be helped.
And now Abby Steen had no one and nothing.
Frank had been killed in a traffic accident when the rig he was driving smashed into another rig on an interstate in Georgia. Her husband of just over three years had been working extra time to supplement her teaching salary, in the hopes that they’d be able to buy a house of their own, now that they had a family on the way. Abby had been three months pregnant when Frank was killed.
How could such terrible things happen to one person? Her mother had told her that everything happens for a purpose. How could that be true? What horrible purpose was there in two gentle, innocent souls like her husband and her infant daughter dying like that? She’d named the baby, over the objections of her doctor and her parents, who’d said it would only make the pain worse. Mary Francesca, for Frank. How could the pain be any worse?
Sometimes Abby didn’t think she had anything to live for anymore. She had nothing to hope for. But she stopped that thought as soon as it hatched, as she’d done so often, out of habit There were her parents, approaching retirement age. They needed her, in their way. And her older sister, Meg. Abby wasn’t especially close to her family, but she’d had to lean on them in the past few years. She’d always be grateful that they’d been there for her.
Still, the grief had withered her soul until she sometimes thought she was more like a dried-up sixty-year-old spinster than a young woman. Just twenty-eight. Her friend Marguerite had had to cajole her even to agree to come out this evening. She’d have preferred to stay in the motel and watch something on television and go to bed early.
Which was what she should have done, obviously. Now she had to haul herself out of this den of iniquity, as her mother probably would have called it. She’d had her gin, she’d lost her friend, and now it was time to get out of there and get some sleep.
“Ma’am?”
The rich baritone at her left shoulder had her spinning. She reached up to push aside the blond lock that had snapped across her nose as she turned. “Yes?”
She sounded almost angry. Schoolmarmish. She hadn’t meant to. Nor had she been in a classroom for quite a while.
“I’d like to buy you a drink, if I may?” It was the cowboy she’d been sure was examining her from across the dance floor, from his position at the bar. He was big, as she’d thought. Tall and handsome and friendly looking.
Of course, what would she know? She hadn’t dated since Frank’s death. She had very little interest in men, although she dreaded the loneliness that seemed to surround her.
This man had a mustache. A thick, luxuriant brown mustache. Otherwise he was neatly shaved and his hair was freshly bartered. He wore standard-issue Western-type clothing, right down to the string tie and plaid shirt, the brand-new Wranglers and fancy belt buckle. He didn’t wear a hat, which she supposed was a departure from the norm.
“Y-yes. I suppose so.” Abby realized how ungracious she must sound. She’d noticed his name tag—Jesse Winslow, Winslow Herefords, Glory, Alberta-pinned to his shirt pocket. He must have forgotten to remove it when he left the show barn. So he was at least associated with the stock exhibition.
He introduced himself, reaching up to tip his nonexistent hat. She supposed it was a habit. She felt self-conscious suddenly when he pulled out the chair Marguerite had occupied. The waiter had already taken her friend’s empty glass away.
“Mind if I sit here?”
“Er, no.” Abby abruptly sat back down in the chair she’d just vacated. Where was Marguerite?
“And you’re—?” The cowboy smiled.
For a moment Abby wondered what he was smiling at, then realized she hadn’t introduced herself.
“Abby Steen.” She reached across the table on impulse and shook his hand. Be normal. Businesslike. His hand was large and warm. Callused. The hand of a working man. “I’m, uh, here with a friend. She’s just, urn, left for a moment—” Abby cast worried eyes in the direction of the ladies’ room. Still no Marguerite. Par for the course.
“Are you here with the stock show?”
“Yes. Wicoigon Jerseys. In South Dakota.”
“Ah. A farmer.” The cowboy smiled again. He had a gorgeous smile, Abby decided despite herself. And he really was a very handsome man. Healthy-looking, virile—she glanced quickly at his hands on the table—and single.
“You could say that. My father’s the farmer, actually. I’m just helping him out this year, showing the stock.”
“Your dad here?”
“No. He had an accident last week and wasn’t able to come. I’m here with a couple of assistants. My niece and nephew.”
“I see.” The cowboy caught the attention of the waiter and ordered another gin for her and a beer for himself. “A family affair,” he finished, with a glance toward her after the waiter left. His eyes were very blue.
“What about you?” Did this qualify as social chitchat?
“I’m here with one helper. My neighbor’s boy. My brother and I raise Herefords up in Alberta. Glory. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the place.”
Abby smiled and shook her head. “Can’t say as I have,” she replied, unconsciously imitating the stranger’s speech patterns.
“We’ve just got a few young bulls in the show this year. Normally my brother comes with me and we drive a couple of stock trucks down, but this fall he decided to stay home.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He’s an ornery son of a gun. Not much for shows. He prefers the back-home stuff. Cutting hay and pulling calves. Minding the books. Which is just fine by me.” Jesse Winslow smiled again and his eyes crinkled and a pulse bobbled low in Abby’s midriff. She realized with horror that she found him attractive—as a man. This hadn’t happened, this feeling, since she’d first met Frank at a college track meet years ago. Maybe she’d better leave while she was ahead-
“G and T for the lady?” The waiter put down the glasses with a flourish and Abby watched as Jesse paid for the drinks and gave the waiter a sizable tip. Too late, she realized she should have of fered to pay for her own drink. Although he had asked....
“Where’s your friend?” The cowboy raised his beer glass slightly, then took a leisurely draft.
“Oh, heck.” Abby frowned, remembering. “She went to the bathroom and didn’t come back. She probably met someone on the way there and took off.”
Jesse met her annoyed gaze with a look of surprise. “Some friend. She. do that often?”
“That’s Marguerite, I’m afraid.” Abby tried a shaky laugh, as though she was used to people treating her like that. “I’ve known her for years, off and on. Her people farm in southern Minnesota somewhere. Shorthorns. I’ve met her at a lot of the same shows. You know how it is.”
“Uh-huh.” The cowboy took another drink of his beer and made a quick survey of the room. Abby followed his glance. The band, almost indistinguishable in the corner behind a haze of smoke, had started up an old-fashioned swing tune, and couples were moving onto the sawdust-covered dance floor.
Abby felt comfortable with the handsome stranger, all of a sudden. Maybe it was the second gin. Maybe it was the realization that he’d known exactly what she meant—regulars on the show circuit met people from year to year at the same events. You became friends with someone you saw for only a day or two, two or three times a year. Friendships were struck quickly when there was no time to waste in preliminaries. It was easy to make a mistake that way, but then a few days later, you pulled out of town and left your mistakes behind you. You had a few months, maybe a year to think things over. Generally, by the time you saw the person again, if there’d been any problems, they were all forgotten.
“Dance?” The cowboy was smiling at her and holding out his hand.
Impulsively, Abby took it. Why not? She hadn’t danced in ages, and the music was catchy.
The floor was crowded by now, and Jesse Winslow held her close. Abby’s head was reeling. She breathed in his masculine scent, so near-leather and sweat and a faint, pleasant manufactured scent of some kind, probably aftershave. His hand on her waist was firm and decisive. He steered her clear of any collisions with the other dancers, a few of whom weren’t all that sober. Her hand in his felt very protected, very safe. He was an excellent dancer.
Trouble was, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
Neither could he, it seemed. The silence became heavier and heavier, and Abby’s imagination ran wild. One instant she pictured this man, the man she’d met all of twenty minutes ago, naked, all muscle and brawn and hairy broad chest. Then, horrified, she clamped down on her thoughts and the next thing she knew she imagined him kissing her, unsnapping her bra....
Omigoodness. What kind of lonely, sex-starved creature was she?
“Oh, there you are, Abigail!” Marguerite yelled, as though it were Abby who’d done the deserting. Marguerite was in the arms of a tall, thin blond man wearing an expensive-looking gray Western-cut suit. Abby recognized one of the organizers of the stock show. Marguerite obviously had her eye on the main chance....
“I see you’ve met someone—good! Take your mind off your troubles, hon, just like I told you—” Then, when Marguerite met her again a few seconds later, after the man in the suit had spun her, she continued, “I’ll be going to a party with Stan here-” She winked at Abby. “Maybe you could take a cab to the motel? Or drive my car?”
She was being ditched. Abby nodded, embarrassed, and was glad when Jesse steered her discreetly in a different direction.
“Your friend, I presume?” he said, gazing down at her.
He was so close. Abby caught her breath. “Yes.” She was determined to offer no excuses, either for her choice of friends or for Marguerite’s rude behavior.
“You want to drive her car home?”
“No. I’ll take a cab.” Abby looked up as he held her a little closer. “I don’t like to drive when I’ve been drinking, especially someone else’s car.”
“Drinking!” Jesse laughed. “How many?”
“That’s my second, the one you bought,” Abby replied. What was so funny?
“Your second, eh? Well, you aren’t exactly drunk, Abby Steen.”
“No. But I’m not used to it, either. I feel a little, uh—”
“You okay?” He looked concerned.
“I’m fine. I just feel a little queasy, that’s all.”
They danced one more number, then returned to their table and Abby finished her drink. Her head was foggy. She was more than ready to go back to the motel. She dug in her purse for change, coming up with everything but a quarter. Jesse Winslow watched her for a few moments, then stood and held her chair.
“Here. Let me take you home. I’m about ready to leave, anyway.”
“Heavens, no! I’ll take a cab. Can you give me change for a dollar?” She smiled, feeling extraordinarily foolish.
