The Bride Wore Spurs

Matt stifled a sigh. How could he make her understand what was at stake? Cowhands saw her as the boss’s daughter, more capable than many perhaps, but still young and inexperienced, hardly prepared to run a spread like the Lazy P.

“It’s not about money, Hannah. It’s about respect. Something that’s earned, not bought.”

Alarm traveled her face. She sighed, clasping trembling hands in front of her. “You make a point. I’ll need to earn their respect and earn it fast.”

Respect wasn’t earned overnight. Nor were these men eager to give it. But to say more would get her dander up. “Let me handle things for now.”

“You’re no longer needed here.” She pinned him with a fierce, chilling gaze. “I don’t want your interference.”

If looks could kill, Matt would be a dead man.

How would Martin have managed if Matt hadn’t—as she called it—interfered? He’d call it lending a hand, being neighborly. How in tarnation did the dainty debutante think she’d manage roundup?

Not his concern. She’d made that abundantly clear.

He jammed his Stetson on his head and swung into the saddle. Without a backward glance, he nudged Thunder in the flanks and rode in the direction of the Circle W, the peace of the starry night shattered.

Hannah Parrish had no concept of the trouble looming on the horizon. Trouble she’d bring on herself, as if she needed more.

She saw him as an enemy instead of an ally. Any action he took, she’d misconstrue. He’d warned her, it was all he could do. Except for checking on Martin and looking after his needs, Matt would stay clear of the little spitfire.

How long before her plan to run the Lazy P singlehandedly blew up in her face?

* * *

A rooster’s call pierced the muggy morning air drifting through the open window. Hannah stirred then opened her eyes, stretching languidly, relishing the pleasure of waking in her own bed.

A smile curved her lips. In the dream she’d had, a handsome cowboy, tall, dark, held her in his arms.

She reared upright. All the events of yesterday slid into her sleep-fogged brain, rousing her faster than a cold dip in a horse tank. Her stomach knotted, as she recalled Matt’s attitude toward women, and Papa’s poor health and sudden determination to make her a lady.

Lady or not, she had work to do. Last night she’d looked the part of debutante. Today she’d show Matt Walker, her father and the Lazy P cowhands she could run this ranch, if need be, wearing skirts. That ought to earn their respect. And wipe that smug smile off Matt’s face.

Hannah donned a pair of denims and a shirt, her hands trembling. What if she failed to earn the crew’s respect? What if they wouldn’t listen to her? What would she do then?

One glance around her room’s familiar belongings slowed her breathing. The quilt her mother had stitched, the rocker beside the open window, curtains rustling in the morning breeze. Peaceful, normal.

Her stomach clenched. With Papa ill, normal had fled faster than a calf freed after branding.

At the washstand, she splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then ran a fingertip over the chip on the blue-and-white ironstone bowl, the result of a carelessly tossed hairbrush years before.

Her possessions might not be perfect but this room was an oasis in a world flipped upside down. “Oh, please, God, don’t let Papa...” Her voice trailed off, the possibility too horrible to speak aloud.

Surely things weren’t as dire as they appeared. She took a calming breath. She’d see that Papa ate well and got plenty of rest. Whether Matt believed in her ability or not, she’d run the ranch, gladly taking the burden from her father and returning the operation of the Lazy P to its rightful owners.

She braided her hair, shoved her feet into scuffed boots, grabbed her leather gloves and Stetson, then strode out the door.

In the kitchen, Rosa removed a pan of biscuits from the oven.

“How’s Papa this morning?”

“Sleeping. You up with rooster.”

“I’m heading out to help with the chores.”

“I fix big breakfast when you finish.”

“Thanks.”

Hannah downed a hot biscuit and coffee, then strode to the stable. A few feet away, the pungent odor of manure and horseflesh teased her nostrils, softened by the sweet smell of hay, a welcome relief from the overpowering scents of potpourri and eau de cologne permeating her aunt’s house.

She stepped into the dim interior and a ray of sunlight dancing with dust motes lit a path to Star’s stall. As she approached, she spoke the mare’s name.

With a nickered greeting, Star poked her bronze head over the stall door, bobbing it in recognition.

Hannah pulled the mare’s nose against her shoulder, rubbing the white irregular shape that earned her name. “Oh, I’ve missed you,” Hannah murmured. “Later today I’ll take you out.”

Hannah grappled with the feed sack, watching the oats tumble end over end into the feedbox. A sense of peace filled her. Here in the stable, among crusty cowpokes, unpredictable livestock and her steadfast steed, she fit. This life filled her as she’d filled Star’s feedbox, to the brim, to overflowing.

Across the way, Jake Hardy lugged two buckets of water into the stable. Stooped and wiry, he’d worked on the Lazy P for as long as Hannah could remember. “Hi, Jake.”

“Well, welcome home, Miz Hannah!” Jake entered Star’s stall and tipped water into the trough. “Star missed you something fierce. Reckon lots of folks like me are glad you’re back, specially your pa.”

“Thanks, Jake. How’s that back?”

He grinned, revealing the gap between his front teeth. “’Bout what you’d expect for an old coot throwed too many times from breaking broncos.”

“Any news from your niece?”

The light in Jake’s gray eyes dimmed. “No idea where Lorna’s gone off to. I don’t mind telling ya, she’s got me worried. What kind of a woman leaves her child?”

What else had Papa kept from her? “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My sis is taking care of Lorna’s girl, Allie.”

Lord, help Lorna do what’s right. “I’ll pray for her.”

A smile crinkled his leathery face. “’Preciate it.”

If anything happened to Jake’s sister Gertie, Jake would have to take care of Allie. He wouldn’t know what to do with a seven-year-old girl any more than Hannah would.

Finished with the morning chores, Hannah glanced outside. “Do you know where I can find Tom?”

“I’ll fetch him.” Jake hobbled toward the bunkhouse, pitched forward from the waist, his legs curved as if permanently astride. Thanks to multiple injuries, Jake looked older than his years, but he was sinewy, his disabilities didn’t slow him down.

While she waited, Hannah checked the tack room. Oiled leather hung on the wall. The horses looked well cared for. Even with Papa’s poor health, the ranch appeared to be operating efficiently. How much credit was Matt’s? How much was Tom’s?

She wandered outside and spied the foreman rounding the corner of the corral, ambling toward her, his frame reed thin, a bandana around his neck, spurs jangling. She raised a hand in greeting.