The Bride Wore Spurs

“You said you could take care of yourself.”

To admit she needed help would mean admitting defeat. She bent, the feather quivering in front of her eyes, then gripped the leather handles and heaved with all her might, releasing a decidedly unladylike grunt. And managed to budge the trunk three whole inches before she let it drop. A year in Charleston had made her soft.

“Give up?” Matt asked.

“Never.” Heat flooding her cheeks, she gritted her teeth and tried again.

“We’ll be here all day while you try to prove your point.” He bent down, grabbed the trunk as if it weighed less than the obnoxious feather on her hat and shoved it into the wagon, then stowed the rest of her bags.

“I could have done that.” She met his amused gaze. “Eventually.”

“Next time the trunk is all yours.” With a chuckle, he rounded the wagon and gave her a hand up.

His touch trapped the air in her lungs. Since when did Matt Walker affect her this way? Exhaustion had muddled her mind into mush.

He climbed up beside her. His fluid movements revealed how comfortable he was, how completely at ease. Whereas she felt thrown off balance, as if she’d stepped into somebody else’s skin with a whole set of reactions she didn’t understand. Or appreciate.

She wanted to go home, to see her father, to soak in the tub until not one speck of travel dust remained.

Home. To the cattle, to the land she loved, the limitless expanse under the Texas sky. Home. Where she’d shuck her frills and finery and don her usual garb and favorite Stetson, clothes she could move and breathe in. Home. To Papa.

With large, capable hands, Matt took the reins, then clicked to the horses. The wagon jerked forward as the horses pulled away.

Beyond the depot lay the bustling town with wagons, buggies and horses jamming the streets. After a year in Charleston, returning home was like easing into comfy boots.

Hannah removed her hat, her gaze caressing each edifice they passed. The courthouse dominated Main Street, teeming with storefronts, saloons, Bliss State Bank, Bailey’s Dry Goods, The James Hotel, the post office, the office of The Banner Weekly newspaper and two groceries. They passed the blacksmith shop, O’Hara’s livery stable, the sheriff’s office and the Calico Café, owned by the widow Shields with two rooms to let upstairs if boarders met her strict standards.

At the outskirts of town, they headed toward the ranch. No longer distracted by the racket and dust of Bliss, she turned to Matt. “Is my father well?”

Matt glanced at her, then away, staring at the horses’ rumps. Just as she decided he wouldn’t speak, he cleared his throat. “Martin’s had a rough few months. When I stopped in last night to check on him, he asked me to meet your train.”

“Check on him? Why? Isn’t Rosa there?”

“Yes, of course.” Matt shifted on the seat. “Wait to talk to him.”

“I need to know what’s wrong before I arrive.”

“He’s facing...some challenges.” He met her gaze. “Having you home will lift his spirits.”

And lift a load from Papa’s shoulders. If he was sick, she could run the ranch. Oversee the foreman while Papa recovered. If only she’d known he needed help. “Why didn’t he send for me?” A rut in the road sent Hannah’s hat tumbling to the floorboards. She retrieved it, then whacked the crown against her knee, raising a puff of dust. “I didn’t want to go to Charleston in the first place.”

He shot an amused glance at the mound of baggage in the wagon bed. Proof he didn’t believe a word. What did she care?

She’d take the focus off her. “How’s Zack? Is he out of school?”

“My little brother graduated and joined a law firm in Dallas.” He arched an eyebrow. “He’s still single.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t met someone.”

“Figured he was waiting on you. Or you on him.”

“You figured wrong. I’m in no hurry to get married.”

Dark eyes bored into hers with the force of an auger. “From what I’ve seen, most women are downright desperate to get hitched.”

Desperate to get hitched, my eye.

The claim didn’t deserve a retort. From what Hannah had seen, a wife was either a household drudge or an ornamental knickknack. Determined to ignore him, Hannah kept her gaze on the road, away from the vexing man at her side.

At last they drove onto Parrish land, passing a field of bluebonnets carpeting the earth to the horizon. A sense of serenity absent in Charleston seeped into her spirit. But then her mind niggled, filling her with troubling disquiet.

Matt had danced around her questions about Papa. What wasn’t he telling her?

* * *

Matt eased back on the reins, slowing the horses to pass through the Lazy P gate. At his side, Hannah soaked up the terrain. Barely nineteen, yet certain she had her future mapped out. The set of her shoulders, her ramrod back, the tilt of her jaw, all pointed to one determined woman.

He swallowed hard. One determined, beautiful woman.

The skinny tomboy in baggy clothes, who sometimes could outride, outshoot and outrope Zack, had grown up. He forced his eyes away from the pretty woman at his side and onto the Parrish house up ahead.

The past year, he’d fallen into the habit of spending evenings here with Martin, discussing politics or cattle business over a game of checkers. With Hannah away, this ranch had become his refuge, his second home. Here he could unwind, away from haunting memories of Amy in his parents’ house, away from the watchful eyes of his loved ones, away from his father’s tight control.

As he’d gotten close to Martin, he hadn’t seen the signs of his friend’s waning health, but when he grew weak, pale, Matt could no longer deny Martin was sick—too sick to run the ranch. Without shirking his responsibilities at the Circle W, Matt had overseen operations of the Lazy P. The additional work pushed him to his limits, but nothing compared to the agony of watching a friend’s body deteriorate.

Like a crouching lion, a sense of helplessness, sorrow and anger had sprung up inside him, awakening feelings he’d had when he lost Amy. Feelings he’d tried to bury with endless work, collapsing into bed at night, too drained to feel anything.

He’d seen the flash of fear in Hannah’s eyes as he’d spoken of Martin’s health. Unless God wrought a miracle for Martin, she’d have her heart broken.

This spitfire in a skirt, about as competent as a man with his hands tied behind his back, could no more handle this ranch than a cowpoke could handle city life. No matter what she said, she’d need to sell the land. Go back to Charleston where she fit, where she could find herself a husband.

The thought of the anguish awaiting her stung the backs of his eyes. He blinked, clearing the mist, and strengthened his resolve to stay clear of entanglements. He’d do all he could for Martin. But, the debutante’s future wasn’t his problem. He’d hold himself apart, keep that armor in place. The only way he could be of use to anyone.

He halted the horses in front of the Parrish house, a low-slung solid structure with an inviting shady porch sheltering a cluster of twig furniture. A quiet spot where a man could catch a sunset. Catch his breath. Catch a moment with God.

He climbed down and headed toward Hannah. Before he reached her, she’d grabbed a fistful of skirts, jumped down and dashed up the steps. No doubt impatient to see her father.

The door swung open. Rosa, the Parrish housekeeper, stepped out, plump arms thrown as wide as the welcoming smile on her face. “Hannah!”

Rosa had to be around Matt’s parents’ age, yet her dark hair held only an occasional strand of silver and not a single wrinkle creased her round face. With one eye on the happy reunion, Matt unloaded and lugged the baggage to the porch.

Before he toted them to Hannah’s room, he’d check on Martin, see that he was prepared to greet his daughter. The man couldn’t stomach appearing weak, looking like an invalid.

Across the way, Rosa cradled Hannah’s face in work-worn hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “You left a girl and came back a woman. You favor your mama more and more.”

Tears running down her cheeks, Hannah hugged the older woman. “I’ve missed you, Rosa.”

Why women cried at happy occasions baffled Matt. At least they weren’t weeping in his arms.