The Bride Wore Spurs

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?”