The Bride Takes A Cowboy Read online

  The Bride Takes A Cowboy

  By

  Maren Smith

  To Todd, the man I simply cannot

  imagine my life without.

  Titles by Maren Smith:

  Black Light Series:

  Unbroken (Black Light: Valentine’s Roulette, Book 3)

  Shameless (Black Light: Roulette Redux, Book 7)

  Fearless (Black Light, Book 10)

  Determined (Black Light: Celebrity Roulette, Book 12)

  Masters of the Castle Series:

  Book 1, Holding Hannah

  Book 2, Kaylee’s Keeper

  Book 3, Saving Sara

  Book 4, Sweet Sinclair

  Book 5, Chasing Chelsea

  Book 6, Owning O

  Book 7, Maddy Mine

  Book 8, Seducing Sandy

  Witness Protection Program Box Set

  A Few Other Titles:

  B-Flick

  Build-A-Daddy

  Daddy’s Little

  The Great Prank

  Jinxie’s Orchids

  Life After Rachel

  The Locket

  The Mountain Man

  Something Has To Give

  Unexpectedly His

  The Bride Takes A Cowboy

  by

  Maren Smith

  Copyright © 2019 by Maren Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

  means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not

  limited to, photocopying or by any information storage

  and retrieval system, without permission in writing from

  the author. [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, locales, and

  events are either a product of the author’s imagination or

  are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  places, and events are purely coincidental.

  Originally published as Harmony. However

  this version has been completely re-written and

  expanded. It is almost nothing like the original.

  Cover Artist: The Cover Collection

  Editor: Maggie Ryan

  Formatting: Rayanna Jamison

  Chapter One

  At a minute before noon, Gage Pennell stepped down from the stagecoach onto the dry, dusty streets of Harmony, a small town in the middle of cattle country, population two hundred and ninety-eight, according to the sign. For that one minute, his new life was just as idyllic and full of promise as the name of the town implied.

  He took a deep breath of hot desert air, stretched his arms and back to relieve the kinks after such a long, cramped ride, and then swept off his hat for a gallant bow to the two matronly ladies just coming out of Skeet’s Mercantile beside him. They smiled, nodding politely back as they passed him, before stepping off the wood-plank sidewalk onto the street and out of the shade of the mercantile into the full heat of the sun.

  Harmony was a picturesque place. The streets were clean, the buildings in good repair—all except the one just past the church at the far end of town. Minus the roof and one wall, at any moment a good, stout breeze could have turned that single-story dilapidation into next winter’s kindling. In sharp contrast to that, the church seemed well-maintained. As did Harmony’s only hotel. There was a saloon square in the middle of town, although it didn’t appear to host any female entertainment, which was unusual. But then, there wasn’t a single frippery in any of the upstairs windows, so if there were women entertaining there, well… then that was unusual, too.

  Not that it mattered either way. That was not what he had come to Harmony for. No sir. He patted his hat back onto his blond head, picked up the well-worn saddle the coach driver unpacked off the boot, and swung his luggage—an equally worn saddlebag—onto his shoulder. Needing directions, he headed for the sheriff’s office across the street. He had a job. And a good paying one at that, managing cowhands at the Double T Bar, owned by Hurley Ames, one of the biggest cattle barons in all of the New Mexico Territory and Texas combined.

  Yes, sir, he was here to work. In fact, he’d actually made it to town a bit early. He glanced up at the tower clock above the town hall just as the winding mechanisms clicked over to a fresh hour and, with a grind and a whir, the big hand shifted one space to the right, landing squarely on high-noon twelve.

  In the distance, an explosion of cannon fire shattered the afternoon quiet. Everyone on the sidewalks and streets, Gage included, dropped facedown on the ground and got intimate with the dirt. A shrill overhead whine heralded the rapid approach of an airborne projectile bare seconds before a heavy leaden ball crashed into the dilapidated building, punching a brand-new hole through what boards remained of the porch eaves and sending debris flying everywhere.

  “What in the blue blazes…” Gage cautiously raised his head, staring back over his shoulder at the long-suffering building, which surprisingly remained standing. Damn fine craftsmanship, that.

  A second loud bang flattened Gage back to the ground. He knocked his hat flying as he threw his hands up to cover his head. Only belatedly did he recognize that second bang as the harsh whack of a door crashing against a wall. Boots pounded out of Skeet’s Mercantile and Gage glanced up just in time to see two of the prettiest legs—surrounded by lace and white taffeta and ending in a dusty pair of cowboy boots—come leaping off the porch and right over the top of him. The raven-haired beauty hit the ground next to him, grabbed her bridal skirts and kept on running, her long black braid bouncing against her back.

  Across the street, another door crashed open. This time it was the sheriff, flanked by two lawmen, who came charging outside. At least ten years too old for his station and beer gut overhanging his gun belt, the sheriff took off running after her. He chased her only a few yards before, red-faced and panting, he gave up. He shook his fist after her instead. “Dammit, Millie! You said you’d get that shot away from him! This is the last straw, woman! One more time—just one more—and I’m gonna—”

  “Millie, wait!” A middle-aged woman rushed out of Skeet’s far enough to shout, “Don’t you dare get that dress dirty!”

  “I know! I know!” But if anything, the woman—Millie—ran faster. All the way to the end of the street where she jumped up onto the buckboard of a parked wagon, threw off the brake and whipped up the horses. “Hyah!”

  It would have been understandable for a woman racing her wagon out of town after dodging a cannonball blast to look scared. But this one didn’t. Rather, she looked angrily determined, her mouth set, her bridal dress and braid both flying from the speed of the horses.

  “Slow through town, dagnabbit!” the sheriff bellowed after her.

  She didn’t slow, but she did look magnificent, and frankly, that was something a man just didn’t see every day.

  “Land sakes, that girl never holds still.” Swiping her hands on her aproned skirts, the woman shopkeeper shook her graying head.

  Across the street, the two matronly ladies helped each other up off the ground. With dirt smudged across her elegant nose, one snapped, “Somebody ought to lock that lunatic up before a body gets hurt!”

  “God forbid he changes the trajectory of that gun,” the other agreed, patting at her hair. “He’ll be hitting the church next; you just see if he doesn’t!”

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Gage glanced up to find the female shopkeeper leaning over him. “I sure hope so.” He stood slowly, dusting off his clothes—brown britches and vest, which hid the dirt admirably, long sleeved red calico shirt, which didn’t. Still, the contents of his saddlebag seemed sound, so no harm done. He tossed it back over his shoulder and reclaimed his saddle from the road.

  Smiling as she appraised him, the corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled and her brown eyes laughed as she noted, “You, sir, are in need of a hat.”

  His hand went automatically to his head. Feeling nothing but hair, he looked down and immediately stifled a groan when he spotted it under the stagecoach horses, one of which was in the process of doing the unmentionable right on top of it. Just what he needed before meeting up with the man who’d promised him a new job, a new home, and a brand-new start in life.

  “Hell,” Gage said under his breath as he considered just how badly he wanted to retrieve it. He’d worked cattle for years; this was hardly the first time he’d worn a little shit. He couldn’t exactly go to work without a hat, either, not under this southwestern sun and definitely not during the summer. Equally unappealing was the prospect of showing up to his interview improperly dressed or, worse, smelling of horse hockey. There wasn’t time to give it a good wash. Even if there was, he doubted if that would get all the smell out.

  So much for being early.

  Flashing the shopkeeper a boyish smile, he had no choice but to agree. “Looks like you’re right.”

  She thumbed back over her shoulder. “Come on in, honey. I’ve got some John B’s in stock. You’re welcome to take a look.”

  Ten minutes and five dollars he could ill afford later, Gage once more headed for the sheriff’s office. Although no longer early, he was still on schedule and that was always good. Harmony had lost some of its allure, however. For a picturesque little place with such a deceptive name, a man just had to respect a town that could, within the first five minutes of arrival, knock a fella flat on the ground, rob him of his hat and handmade snakeskin headband, and lighten his wallet of all but
his last two dollars.

  There were words for new beginnings that started this way. The two that came most prominently to Gage’s mind were: ill and omen.

  Chapter Two

  The yard looked almost innocent. Chickens clucked contentedly in the coop. A mare and her latest filly came trotting to the fence to greet and keep pace with her wagon as Millie drove past. A flick of the barn cat’s tail betrayed its presence up in the hayloft where it was either hunting or soaking up the sun. Located almost a mile out of town, at first glance, her grandfather’s house looked much like any other farm around… if only one could look past the anti-cavalry obstacles that fortified the picket fence and the twelve-pounder 1857 Napoleon cannon standing sentry at the gate. Its long black muzzle was aimed at Harmony, obscured in the distance by a small hill, and Millie’s stomach did what it always did when she knew her grandfather intended to use it. It sank.

  Reining in the horses, Millie brought the wagon to a cautious stop not far from the cannon. The rammer and sponge lay abandoned on the ground, and the smell of freshly fired gunpowder still burned the air. Shielding her eyes, she searched the house windows and then the fields for any hint of movement. If he’d fired the cannon, then it was more than likely he’d once again be back in his military blues, but she couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see her aunts, either, and that was equally worrisome.

  It was laundry day. All six clotheslines were laden with blue Union uniforms interspersed among all the petticoats and unmentionables that three women in a house would require. White bed sheets billowed gently in the breeze, but only one bed’s worth. There should have been four, yet no one manned the washer. That would have been Aunt Faith’s job, but while a basket full of wet dresses waited to be put to the wringer, her aged aunt was nowhere to be seen.

  A thin line of smoke wafted from the open kitchen window. Whatever Aunt Mary was cooking for their evening supper was burning, which meant no one would be in the kitchen, either. Added up, all Millie could think was her grandfather must have fallen back into full colonel-mode while she was gone. That was never good.

  “Hello?” she tentatively called, and immediately heard a squeal in return.

  From the house, two clamoring voices shouted back in unison, “Millie!” and “Thank God!”

  “We’re in here, dear!”

  “Hurry, girl! My biscuits is burnin’ up!”

  Careful of her wedding dress, Millie jumped down from the wagon. Searching the yard continuously, she made her way up onto the porch. When Grandpa was the colonel, one did not enter boldly. Heart pounding harder, she approached the open front door, careful not to make herself an easy target within it. Inside, some of the main floor furniture had been moved into barricades. She could hear no movement, though. No sly scrapes of sound that might be her grandfather, lost in his memories, holding vigil against a war that had ended more than twenty years ago.

  Her back up against the wall as she peeked around the threshold, Millie called again, “Where are you?”

  “Where is he, you mean,” harrumphed one aunt. “God knows, but he’s not in the house.”

  “Kitchen, dear.”

  “Hurry up! My biscuits!”

  Why they couldn’t rescue the biscuits themselves became startlingly obvious when Millie slipped into the house, skirting through the dining room and through the open kitchen archway. The acorn of dread that had landed in the pit of her stomach when first she’d heard the familiar boom and whistle of the cannon being shot, bloomed at last at the sight of her aunts sitting back-to-back in the middle of the kitchen floor. They were tied together, hand and foot. At one point, they’d even been gagged, but they’d managed to work free of that.

  Plump, cheerful Aunt Faith beamed her most optimistic smile, her round cheeks slightly flushed. “Hello, dear. Is that the wedding dress Aggie’s making you? How lovely!”

  “Only took us twenty years to get her into one.” Tall, a veritable stick of unsmiling cantankerousness, Aunt Mary barked, “Millie, blame it, my biscuits!”

  Grabbing an apron from the hook on the wall, Millie unlatched the cast iron stove, releasing a gust of smoke. Fishing out the tray from inside, she rushed to lay it on the windowsill and did her best to wave the smoke outside. “Do I even want to know what happened?”

  She already knew she didn’t, but she was obligated. She had to know how bad it was.

  “He put that damn uniform on the minute you left,” Mary muttered, twisting to give Millie access to the ropes once she’d found a paring knife with which to cut them free.

  “When we saw him priming the cannon, we tried to take the shot from him,” Faith said. She gasped when Millie cut through the last rope, then sighed and rubbed her wrists. “Oh, he’s a mean one with the knots. He’s also right cross, I’m afraid. Oh… oh my, Mary. Your poor biscuits. Well, soak them in soup long enough, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  “Soak them in soup? They’re ruint, Faith!” Clambering to her feet, the grumpier of her aunts rubbed her aching knees, and then her back, and gradually worked her bony frame up straight. Her mouth flattened as she glared at the still-smoking cooking tray. “Once it was men used to come from all over just to make eyes at me and sample my cooking. They’re not coming anymore, though, are they? No! And why should they?” Slapping the tray out the window, she sent charred lumps of black raining to the ground. “Look at me! I’ve given my whole life to that… that… lunatic!”

  Millie exchanged unhappy looks with her Aunt Faith, who smiled and mouthed, “I got this.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she pulled down a small flour sack to start a new batch of biscuits. “Give me a hand, Mary love. You know you’re better at this than I am.”

  As one aunt distracted the other, Millie set the knife in her hand back on the counter. They couldn’t continue on like this. She loved her grandfather, she did. But the man running around somewhere outside was barely recognizable as the man who’d helped raise her after her parents died. Her grandfather had been the kindest, gentlest man she’d ever known. The colonel, on the other hand, was a military taskmaster. He was angry. He was suspicious. He was unpredictable, and there was just no telling from one day to another who she’d be talking to. The bitter old man waiting for an invading army that had long since been put down, or the frail, confused one who knew full well that his mind was slipping.

  “I think he’s in the cornfield,” Mary said tersely, taking the mixing bowl from her sister before the other could ruin the next batch with too much buttermilk. “Probably trying to round up volunteers for our firing squad. Fortunately, that scarecrow ain’t took him up on the offer, not once in two years.”

  “You’ve got to admire a man who keeps trying.” Faith chuckled. “Eternal optimism, you know it runs in the family.”

  “What, to have us killed?” Mary shot her sister a withering look. “Or the unending crazy that keeps him talking to the blasted scarecrow?”

  From outside came a deep-throated bellow, “Corporal!”

  All three women jumped.

  “Speak of the devil,” Mary muttered, swiping her wrist across her brow before taking her aggression out on the dough. “I love Daddy, Millie, but something has got to be done. Maybe we should reconsider Hurley’s proposal.”

  Millie recoiled. “No.” Just the thought of it curdled her stomach.

  “John’s a good man,” her aunt persisted. “No one’s saying he ain’t. He’s been your best friend since childhood, but he’s got no money, girl. And yeah, we’ll have to move, but at least with what Hurley’s offering we’ll be able to afford that hospital in El Paso. It’ll be a good place for Daddy. They can do more for him there than we’d even know how.”

  “What are we going to do in El Paso?” Millie protested, but she was being selfish and she knew it. Grandpa would be better off in that hospital. It was a good one, everyone said so. Run by church folk mostly, and staffed with doctors full of new ideas on how people with illnesses of the brain ought to be treated. More importantly, they were also full of ideas on how they ought not to be treated. That was important to Millie. She didn’t think she could live with herself if she knew her grandfather was spending his life tied down, strapped in a straitjacket or subjected to horrible disciplinary treatments.