The Bride Takes A Cowboy Page 2

  Everyone said that hospital didn’t do that. Everyone said it was the best, so if she were really the loving granddaughter she kept telling herself she was being, she’d have loaded up the wagon a long time ago and taken him to a place where he could be safely treated, and everyone else would be safe from him.

  But she hadn’t. Because she was awful, and because she was afraid the minute he stepped foot off this property, then everything would change.

  She fiddled with the lace on her gown, feeling every inch of her was like a pig playing dress-up in something so much fancier than herself.

  “You don’t really want to get married, do you?”

  Millie glanced up to find Faith watching her, a sad, sympathetic smile pulling at her mouth.

  No, she didn’t want to get married. But they were between a rock and that hard-hearted bastard, Hurley Ames. If he got his way, he’d take their house, their land, everything her grandfather had worked for all his life, and the only home that Millie had ever known from the day that she’d been born. Marriage would stop that, and so this time tomorrow, married is what Millie would be.

  “I’d sooner make a deal with the devil than with Hurley Ames,” she said, with far more surety that she honestly felt.

  “Does John know?”

  Probably, not that she’d ever confirm it for him. Frankly, he probably felt the same way, which was likely why he hadn’t shown up to meet her before the fitting like he’d promised he would.

  “Corporal!”

  Millie tipped her head back, staring first at the ceiling and then at the open doorway. God, how she didn’t want to go out there. It was getting harder and harder to deal with her grandfather when he went full-blown colonel. She barely knew what to say to him anymore. If she disagreed with him or tried in any way to shake him from his fantasy world, he only got angrily more violent, more confused. If she agreed with him or played along, well then, wasn’t she making it worse?

  Faith nudged the window curtains apart to peek outside. “He’s got his gun. Oh Lord, do you suppose he’s found the real bullets yet?”

  “We can’t keep doing this,” Mary said, repeating what they already knew.

  Millie’s shoulders drooped. “I know.” Hanging the apron back on its hook, she wearily headed back outside.

  “Corporal dad-blamed Hackett!”

  The heat of the sun barely warmed her shoulders as she stepped down off the porch and made her way around the side of the house. “I’m here, Colonel.”

  In full military blues, his red sash tied smartly around his waist and rifle held at the ready, Colonel Barlow Hackett spun from the cornfield to glare at her. His bushy white eyebrows arched in surprise, but then just as quickly came crashing down over his blue eyes. “What the hell are you wearin’?”

  “It’s my wedding dress, Grandpa. I’m getting married tomorrow, remember?” She said it almost hopefully, though she knew he wouldn’t. He hardly remembered much of anything these days unless it had something to do with his past military life. “We were doing the final fitting when you fired on town again.”

  “War don’t stop for happiness, Millie. That town’s full of Confederates and spies. Ain’t nothin’ we need so badly we gotta go to that hell’s den to get it. That’s two demerits for consortin’ with the enemy and two more for bein’ out of uniform. Write yourself up.” He sniffed and considered the corn. “Don’t suppose you happened to check the road while you was rubbin’ elbows with the Johnnies?”

  “The roads are all clear.” Even knowing it invited disaster, she gently said, “The war’s long over, Grandpa. The Confederates are all gone or in Texas.”

  “Gone, ha! That’s what they want you to think.” He turned sharply, poking the end of his rifle through the open kitchen window. “I smell smoke. If there ain’t no more Graybacks, who’s burnin’ down the outpost?”

  “The supper biscuits burned, that’s all.”

  The colonel scowled. “Damn army cooks. Workin’ for the Johnnies, ever’ one of ‘em. Tryin’ to kill us with indigestion.”

  From inside the kitchen, Millie heard Mary’s angry harrumph just before the gun was yanked from the colonel’s hands, straight back in through the window.

  “And there’s the staunchest of their blasted supporters!” he bellowed, grabbing wildly to snatch it back again.

  “Burn my biscuits?” Mary snapped back. “I’ll ‘staunchest blasted supporter’ you, you old goat!” She dashed away from the window at the same time the colonel shoved past Millie, running for the front door.

  “Quick!” Faith cried. “He’s coming! Hide it!”

  Millie chased her grandfather as far as the front door, but stopped when all hell erupted inside.

  “Insubordinate!” the colonel bellowed.

  Mary shouted, Faith squealed, and between the pounding of running feet and the shattering of glass being thrown, Millie sank down to sit on the stoop. Swallowing hard, she looked at her lap and then at smudges of dirt on both her knee and the lacy hem of her wedding dress. Everything she did, it was all one mistake after another.

  Covering her face with both hands, she tried not to cry.

  Chapter Three

  There were at least twenty men that Gage could see in full trail coats and hats as he was escorted onto the Double T Bar. Just about all of them were armed.

  He counted eight near the horse paddock, and three more shoveling hay and shit down by the barn. He must have passed half a dozen or so out on the road on his way here, and some were undoubtedly sleeping. A grizzled old man with a beard that dangled to his belly sat sharpening a knife in front of a bunkhouse large enough to sleep sixty. Six other men lounged on the front porch of a veritable fortress of a farmhouse, all carried either a rifle or pistols. Or, like the two men walking along beside him, both. Once they noticed him, just about all of them stopped what they were doing and stared. It raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck how, each to a man, had the steely-eyed stares of experienced gunmen and weathered expressions that were as hard as flint.

  He’d worked some pretty rough places before, but all he could think was the Double T Bar must have one hell of a rustler problem, because these were some tough-looking cowhands.

  As he neared the house, a well-dressed man in his forties came strolling out. Adjusting the brim of his hat, he jogged lightly down the steps, striding toward Gage with his hand extended. His black suit looked freshly pressed, his bow tie was perfectly straight, even the dust he trod on seemed loath to defile the spit-shined boots he wore. And though his spurs dinged smartly with each step he took, Gage would almost bet this was one man who’d never sat on a horse long enough to need them. If he was wrong, well… he’d eat his brand-new hat.

  “Mr. Pennell,” he greeted. “I’m Hurley Ames. So glad you could make it.”

  “Nice of you to invite me,” Gage politely returned. “This is quite the operation you’ve—” He tried to find a direction to gesture that didn’t already have a man standing with one hand resting on his gun. Failing that, he adjusted his hat instead and gave Hurley his friendliest smile. “Well, I swear I must have waded through an ocean of cattle about two miles back. I’ve worked some good-sized ranches in my time, but this is mighty impressive.”

  “Direct and to the point. I like that.” Hurley nodded. “Mine’s not the biggest ranch in the country, but it is the biggest in the Territory. I’ve got thirty thousand head of cattle to my name, four thousand of which I need to get to Wichita. Now, my friend back east says you’re the best trail boss he’s ever had. Good at avoiding hostile Indians, rustlers and such. Is that true?”

  “I’ve had me some luck in that area, yes, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Hurley’s smile widened, his bright, white teeth contrasting sharply with the sun-bronzed hue of his skin. He raised his hand, summoning one of the older men from the porch. Lean and chiseled, his face unshaven and his legs bowed from a lifetime of riding horses, the cowboy sauntered out to join them. “This is Ben, my lead caporal. He’ll get you acquainted with who’s who and what’s what, and be your right hand as you get to know the men you’ll be riding with out there on the trail. Anything you need or want, you just ask him, and it’ll be provided for you.”

  Gage reached out to shake the older cowboy’s hand, but paused with a start when two men came out of Hurley’s farmhouse, half-carrying and half-dragging a third man between them. That man had definitely seen better days. Both his eyes were swollen shut, his battered face was bloody and bruised, and the entire front of him was spattered with what had flowed from his mouth, nose, and a gash above his eye.

  Noting the direction of Gage’s stare, Hurley’s smile barely faltered. “Ah, yes. As you can see, you arrived at an interesting moment. I was just finishing up a troublesome business.”

  “Rustler?” Gage asked, carefully neutral.

  “Of sorts, yes.” As the man was heaved up into the bed of a wagon, Hurley turned back to Gage. “Don’t worry. He’ll get proper medical attention once he gets back to town, but I’ll bet you a dollar for a dime he never tries to take what’s mine again. Now, on to more pleasant things. Ben, show our friend here to his new lodgings. The drive is scheduled to begin in four days, which doesn’t give us a lot of time to do what needs to be done.”

  As the driver clicked to the horses, the wagon began to move. Wooden wheels rattled, old springs creaked, and the three men huddled in the bed of it with the now groaning wounded man swayed, lightly bumping shoulders. Gage didn’t dare watch it go. When Ben started walking, he picked up both his saddle and saddlebag, and followed all the way to the bunkhouse.

  It was without a doubt one of the nicest bunkhouses Gage had ever bedded down in. Two wood-burning stoves were evenly spaced among four rows of sturdy double bunkbeds. Those were for the hands, as he found out. Trail bosses and caporal had more private accommodations in the form of narrow rooms, each no bigger than a horse stall, but lavishly (all things considered) furnished with a narrow cot, a pot bellied stove for heat, and a chest of drawers upon which already sat a ceramic pitcher and wash bowl, plus a square of mirror hanging from a nail on the wall so a man could see himself while shaving. Hell, he even had a window, tiny though it was. Someone had dressed it in gingham drapes.

  “This is nice,” Gage said, honestly taken aback.

  “Five-seater outhouse out back,” Ben told him. “There’s a line most mornings, so no one’ll say much if you opt to piss in the weeds. Just take it at least twenty yards from the building. I probably don’t need to tell you, you’ll get thumped if you do it near the well.”

  “No, you don’t.” Dropping his saddle by the stove and his bag on the cot, Gage brushed back the curtain to peek outside. He was treated to a parting sight of the wagon, bumping its way along the road he’d just walked down. It looked headed for Harmony.

  Nothing quite like traveling two thousand miles only to wind up working for a brute (if Hurley did allow that man medical care) or a murderer (as his new boss would likely become, if he didn’t). Either way, rustler or not, Hurley’s actions just didn’t sit right with Gage.

  “How many cattle did that boy steal?”

  “Just the one,” Ben surprised him by saying. “A little heifer by the name of Millie Hackett. They was supposed to be married tomorrow.”

  “And Mr. Ames wants her for himself,” Gage deduced, studying the retreating wagon.

  “Close enough,” Ben said. “He wants her grandfather’s spread. The parcel used to belong to Ames’s daddy, but he sold it to Hackett some forty years ago.”

  “Now he wants it back?”

  “He’ll get it back, too. The deed had inheritance contingencies. It can only pass from father to son or son-in-law. There was a son, but he died years ago, leaving behind a girl.”

  “Millie,” Gage guessed again. “I don’t suppose he’s offered to buy it.”

  “Sure.” Ben shrugged. “She won’t sell, which means now he’s planning to take it.”

  “Why? I saw at least two good streams on my way out here. The water’s not reliable?”

  “It’s not water he’s after,” Ben said, tapping the side of his nose. “It’s oil.”

  Letting the curtain drop, Gage turned all the way around. “Oil?” he echoed.

  “According to rumor, Hurley found a rich pocket on the back forty. Except it wasn’t his back forty. Because of the rock and slant, he can’t drill into it from his side. He’s got no choice but to get the land back.”

  “Does she know?”

  Ben shrugged. “Not that she’s mentioned, and if you say word one to anyone about this but me, it’ll be you bleeding in the back of that wagon.”

  Now he was having an even harder time reconciling his conscience to the violence he’d seen. “That’s a might bit underhanded, isn’t it?”

  Again, Ben shrugged. “Welcome to the Double T Bar.”

  “If you don’t agree with what he’s doing, then why are you still here?”

  “Son,” the older man sighed, “the boss owns sixty percent of all the land within a hundred square miles of here, plus eighty percent of the town. What he doesn’t own outright, he supports or it ain’t here for long. I got eight kids to feed, I can’t afford to disagree with anything, and neither can you. Not unless you want to wind up looking like John.”

  Gage stared at his bunk. It still didn’t sit well, but a job was a job. What with the cattle drive coming up in a couple days, he probably wouldn’t be around too much to see how Hurley planned on treating his neighbors.

  A flash of memory crossed his mind: two pretty legs attached to a beauty with long raven-black hair, running down the streets of Harmony in a wedding dress. Millie. That was the name both the sheriff and the shopkeeper had yelled out. Gage winced. Aw hell. Jumping over his prone body while he’d been lying in the street hadn’t exactly been a proper introduction, but having placed the name with a face—or a pair of legs, anyway—his conscience became completely unbearable.

  Except, he didn’t have the money for a stagecoach back home, and two thousand was an awful lot of miles to travel using nothing but the boots on his feet. And lugging a saddle, as well.

  Hell. He was stuck. Long enough, at least, to drive Hurley’s cattle to Wichita and collect his paycheck.

  Hands on hips, he sighed. “All right, Ben. How about you give me the grand tour?”

  The caporal patted his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do about it anyway. Just keep telling yourself that, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I figured as much.” Gage followed him from the bunkhouse. “Tell me something though. How do you ignore that little voice whispering at the back of your mind that what you’re doing is wrong?”

  “Easy. I just tell that voice to shush it, afore we both end up bleeding in the back of Hurley’s wagon. Then on payday, I buy it a couple of drinks.”

  Chapter Four

  Having changed out of her wedding dress into her most comfortable day-to-day—white blouse, brown homespun skirt—Millie was helping set the table for supper when her grandfather hissed through the open front door that a military invasion was coming up the road. Deprived of his gun, he was armed with a broom, and the look he gave Millie when she ventured outside, wiping her hands on her apron, said everything about what he thought of that that his tightly clamped mouth didn’t.

  Knowing the scarecrow would be hearing about it later on, she shielded her eyes from the setting sun and watched until she recognized the rider.

  “It’s Sheriff Rettig,” she said, surprised. Stepping off the porch, she ventured out to meet him.

  The colonel followed, eyes narrowed and broom weapon-ready in his arthritic hands.

  Soft puffs of dust drifted on the breeze down the road the trotting horse had taken. Trotting, Millie noted again. Not walking, not galloping. She swallowed, but wasn’t quite successful at pushing back that all-too familiar sense of dread now rising up into the back of her throat.

  “Sheriff,” she greeted cautiously, coming out to meet him halfway across the yard.

  She stopped, not because she’d reached him, but because she could see his face now and the look he wore made her legs go weak beneath her. She couldn’t take another step, not if she wanted to stay standing.

  He was here to arrest her grandpa. She’s been dreading this day, always suspecting in the back of her mind that it would come and terrified of what would happen when it did.

  She couldn’t bear it.

  She held herself stiff as the broom her grandfather wielded, her fists hidden in the folds of her dress.

  “Colonel,” the sheriff greeted, his tone every bit as grim as his expression. He touched the brim of his hat to her, but then he just kept staring. At her, not her grandfather. As if he had actually come out all this way for her.

  Her chest tightened now too, so close and hard that she almost couldn’t breathe. Her stomach dropped. The dying summer sun washed hot across her face, but warmth was the last thing she felt. “What?” she heard herself say. Her voice came out so tense and odd that she barely recognized herself. “What’s happened?”

  Grimacing, he looked at the house. Not because he was searching for someone else, she thought. Rather, it seemed he couldn’t bring himself to keep staring at her. When he reached into his inner vest pocket and pulled out a folded paper, the sun got colder and her stomach fell even lower.

  “I hate like hell that I have to give this to you, Millie. I really do.” He held the folded paper out to her.

  She didn’t want to take it, but when he simply sat there, waiting, with that look on his face, Millie had no choice. She gave in, accepted the note and opened it. It read simply: I can’t. Two short words, with John’s scrawling signature below them.

  She read it multiple times, but it didn’t make sense. The longer she stood there, the less she understood it. She looked back up at Sheriff Rettig, still sitting atop his horse, making no effort to dismount because he wouldn’t be staying. Bearers of bad news never did.