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The Bride Wore Spurs
Janet Dean
THE COWGIRL TAKES A HUSBAND!To keep the Texas ranch she loves, Hannah Parrish will wed a man she doesn’t. Cowpokes won’t take orders from a young, single female. But while her exasperating neighbor Matt Walker jokes about her being a mere debutante, Hannah is a rancher to the core. Just like Matt. “Will you marry me?” It’s a question widowed Matt never intended to ask again.Now spirited Hannah is asking him for a marriage of convenience! Yet whether she’s birthing a calf or caring for a young orphan, the tomboy next door is becoming the partner Matt always hoped for. Now he must convince her the greatest strength comes in trusting your heart to another—and your future to God….
The Cowgirl Takes a Husband!
To keep the Texas ranch she loves, Hannah Parrish will wed a man she doesn’t. Cowpokes won’t take orders from a young, single female. But while her exasperating neighbor Matt Walker jokes about her being a mere debutante, Hannah is a rancher to the core. Just like Matt.
“Will you marry me?” It’s a question widowed Matt never intended to ask again. Now spirited Hannah is asking him for a marriage of convenience! Yet whether she’s birthing a calf or caring for a young orphan, the tomboy next door is becoming the partner Matt always hoped for. Now he must convince her the greatest strength comes in trusting your heart to another—and your future to God....
“Are you having second thoughts about our marriage?”
The eyes Hannah lifted to his might not look like those of an excited bride, but they were steely with determination. “Marriage is what I want. Are you changing your mind?”
“No, ma’am.” Matt grinned. “I’m corralled and ready for branding. Thing is, which brand will I wear?”
“The Lazy P, what else.”
“And you’re just the woman to get the job done.”
Hannah grinned back at him. “Never doubt that, cowboy.”
Good to see her feisty side back. A man didn’t hanker to be led around by his nose, but if pretending Hannah was boss would put a smile on her face, that’s what he’d do.
But he couldn’t help wondering at what point a marriage based on pretense would blow up in his face?
JANET DEAN
grew up in a family that cherished the past and had a strong creative streak. Her father recounted wonderful stories, like his father before him. The tales they told instilled in Janet a love of history and the desire to write. She married her college sweetheart and taught first grade before leaving to rear two daughters. As her daughters grew, they watched Little House on the Prairie, reawakening Janet’s love of American history and the stories of strong men and women of faith who built this country. Janet eagerly turned to inspirational historical romance, and she loves spinning stories for Love Inspired Historical. When she isn’t writing, Janet stamps greeting cards, plays golf and bridge, and is never without a book to read. The Deans love to travel and to spend time with family.
The Bride Wore Spurs
Janet Dean
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
My grace is sufficient for thee:
for my strength is made perfect in weakness.
—2 Corinthians 12:9
To my friends and family who believed I’d achieve my dream. Your support means everything, then and now. Thank you.
Acknowledgments
A huge, heartfelt thank-you to Mary Connealy and Becke Turner for their invaluable help with researching this story. Their expertise enabled this greenhorn to ride into the Old West largely unscathed. Any errors are my own.
Contents
Chapter One (#uf517ed95-8f32-5aa6-b70d-a206cb996fc2)
Chapter Two (#u2d3e690c-bc2d-5173-b957-a572218cbf15)
Chapter Three (#u8f0539d6-fdf5-5149-8379-a18e7e85f760)
Chapter Four (#u92509ff4-7b41-5c64-9a63-692bd451d938)
Chapter Five (#ubc848748-a1e2-5f06-a1ec-d54cbea97614)
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)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Bliss, Texas
Spring, 1888
The wrong man showed up to collect Hannah Parrish at the train station. And he was late.
Matt Walker.
Hannah bit back a groan. Of all the people in Bliss, why him? Matt never saw her as grown-up and capable. Instead he still treated her like a child, like the young girl he’d teased.
The man was too sure of himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, long legs encased in denim, his suntanned face hidden by the wide brim of a black Stetson, Matt’s every inch oozed cowboy. And every one of those inches oozed irksome.
He came to a halt in front of her, boots planted in a wide stance as if buffeted by the winds that blew across the open range. With a smile, Matt doffed his hat, the late afternoon sun gleaming in his dark wavy hair. The man was good-looking, she’d give him that, but the only man she ached to see was Papa.
“Welcome back,” he said. His Texas drawl was polite, yet the pucker between his brows was far from friendly.
“Good to be back.” She scanned the crowd milling about the depot platform, retrieving baggage and greeting family. “Have you seen my father?”
Matt plopped his hat in place, throwing his chocolate-brown eyes in shadow. “Martin asked me to pick you up.”
Surely after being apart for a year, Papa wouldn’t miss meeting her train unless...
Was something wrong? She swallowed against the sudden knot in her throat. “Why didn’t he come himself?”
“Didn’t say. Better not keep him waiting.”
Before she could question him further, Matt took her by the elbow and guided her across the wooden platform, dodging two rambunctious youngsters running through the throng.
Was it only four years ago she’d tagged after Zack, Matt’s youngest brother? At the time, Matt had been married to Amy, his high school sweetheart, and had reveled in teasing Hannah at every opportunity. That had been before Amy’s horse threw her and she died from a broken neck, when Matt’s laugh came easy.
Now, he looked tense. Did he resent picking her up? Well, she wasn’t any happier about the switch.
Still, to be fair, she should ease her attitude toward the man, give him the benefit of the doubt. From what Papa had told her, he’d closed himself off after his wife’s death.
They stopped before the baggage cart’s perspiring attendant. Hannah pointed out her bags and large camel back trunk.
The porter surveyed her luggage, mumbling an oath under his breath.
Heat flushed her cheeks. If she’d had a choice, she would’ve left every dress behind in Charleston. But, Papa had tired of seeing her in denim and had insisted she return with a new wardrobe. Aunt Mary Esther had made his wishes her mission.
Matt slipped the attendant a tip. “I’ll take it from here.”
With a snaggletooth smile, the porter doffed his hat, then turned to the next traveler.
Matt hefted the trunk onto his shoulder, letting out a grunt. “A man could bust a gut toting this load. Must’ve brought the entire state of South Carolina back with you.”
“That’s not my fault, I—”
“If you packed them, I’d say that makes them yours,” he said before she could explain the large number of cases weren’t her idea.
He balanced the trunk then grabbed a valise’s leather handle, straining muscles that pulled his shirt tight over powerful shoulders and arms, producing an odd flutter in the pit of her stomach.
“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’m perfectly capable of carrying...” Her voice faded as he swaggered off. How dare he treat her like a hothouse flower.
She grabbed the three remaining cases and marched after him, the sun glaring on her back, her lungs heaving against her cast-iron corset. The ostrich plume on her gray felt hat drooped into view, tickling her nose. Her aunt would say the hat made fashion sense. More like fashion insanity.
Papa had sent her away to gain grace and style and all those put-on manners the finishing school had drummed into her. Now she supposed she was indeed finished.
But not as Papa intended.
Her aunt’s aimless life had made Hannah all the more determined to remain a rancher. What she did on the Lazy P had significance, and gave her satisfaction.
Without a free hand to swat at the tormenting feather, she blew a puff of air. The feather fluttered, then came to rest against her nose.
Matt stopped, turned back. His gaze settled on the feather. He gave a smirk. “I’d prefer you’d wait until I can return for the rest.”
“I prefer doing my part.”
Surly eyes gave her a cursory glance. “In that?”
Hannah’s gaze swept her traveling dress, all flounce and ruffle, as uncomfortable as armor thanks to the torturous corset. “Don’t judge me on my attire.”
He harrumphed. “Like Charleston hasn’t changed you.”
She jerked up her chin. “It hasn’t. At all.” Another breath lifted up the feather. This time it stayed put.
“Whatever you say, Miss Parrish.”
He headed down the boardwalk. She followed, perspiration beading on her forehead. At the wagon, she dropped the load with a clatter at Matt’s feet—feet clad in cowboy boots, high quality, Texas made. And he accused her of being a clotheshorse.
Matt leaned against the wagon, apparently untouched by the heat. “Didn’t that fancy finishing school teach you to allow a man to give you a hand?” he drawled.
“It taught me to take care of myself.”
Not exactly the truth. The headmistress’s main message was a proper lady relies on a man for everything, not merely heavy lifting. Well, Hannah tried to never rely on anyone for anything.
His amused expression disputed her claim. “Course you can.”
She slapped her arms across her chest, arms that ached from carrying that load, but she’d never admit as much by rubbing them. “Are you questioning that?”
“All right, then. Go ahead. Take care of yourself.” He gestured toward the trunk.
On the ground. Six feet below the bed of the wagon.
“You mean put that...in there?”
