The Bride Wore Spurs. Janet Dean

      “Me, too.” She gave him a weak smile then led Lightning from the stable, mounted and headed north.

      In her entire life she’d never carried the weight of responsibility she shouldered now. What if she couldn’t find the hands she needed? Most honest, hardworking cowpokes were employed. She didn’t trust those loafing around town.

      She bit her lip. Matt had been right. She couldn’t handle things by herself. Not a camel back trunk, not a cattle ranch. Not her father’s death.

      God, please, help me. Show me what to do.

      Near the copse of cottonwoods alongside the creek winding through the Lazy P, Hannah slowed Lightning then stood in the stirrups. Her gaze scanned the herd dotting the landscape, a mix of breeding Hereford and longhorn, evidence of one of the many changes in ranching, along with fenced pastures, wells, windmills, earthen tanks and short drives to railroad heads. By fencing their cattle, they’d protected the land from overgrazing. Or so she hoped. Without rain they still faced that risk. They’d raised hay and saved half of their herd during the harsh winter of ’86 and ’87. Exactly why she couldn’t deplete their supply in spring.

      She dismounted and the leather creaked, loud in the stillness. A fly buzzed near Hannah’s head then lighted on the horse’s flank. Lightning flicked his tail but the fly persisted.

      Hannah shooed the pest, then walked the horse to a patch of shade, struggling to gather her thoughts and come up with acceptable options. Each alternative that paraded through her mind was worse than the last.

      Her gaze roamed the pastureland she loved, settling on the prairie dogs playing tag across the way. The cattle lowing in the background was a sound she’d heard all her life. A few calves bunting each other brought a smile to her face.

      How could she leave the ranch? She’d shrivel up and lose herself in Charleston. To remain on this land and give her father peace, she’d do whatever she had to do.

      In the distance she spotted a lone rider. Even from here she could identify him and his horse. Matt. A man who cared about Papa and would understand her grief.

      Papa trusted him. Matt had only been helping Papa, not trying for financial gain. He’d been right about the cowhands, but instead of listening to his advice, she’d suspected his motives. She’d misjudged the man. She had nothing to fear from Matt, a man she could lean on.

      He loved the land. He’d help her find a way.

      * * *

      Matt had come to apologize. The fire he’d seen in Hannah’s eyes earlier had vanished, replaced with a gut-wrenching sorrow that slammed into him.

      God help her, she knows.

      Huddled on the ground in the shade of a cottonwood, she exhaled a shaky breath, turning her gaze to the pastureland beyond. Her shoulders sagged, as if the starch had left her spine.

      “Papa’s dying,” she said, tugging on a weed that wouldn’t budge.

      To hear the words from her lips, each word laden with anguish, knotted his throat. He sat back on his heels beside her. “I’m sorry.”

      She stopped fiddling with the weed and folded her hands on her knees. “Me, too.”

      “Your father doesn’t deserve this.” But then, who did?

      “How long have you known he has...he was sick?”

      “About a month, since I took him to the specialist in Dallas.” He took her hand. “What are you going to do?”

      “I don’t know.” She raised determined eyes to his. “But I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to leave this land.”

      He’d seen Hannah as a nuisance, incapable of facing realities. Yet look at her now. Strong. Not falling apart as most women would’ve done. He bit back a sigh. Strong or not, she couldn’t run this ranch alone.

      “Martin needs the peace of knowing you’re with family, back in Charleston. Best thing you can do for him is sell the ranch.”

      “I’d do anything to please him.” Her voice broke. “Anything but that.” She rose and turned her back to him, swiping at her eyes. Yet that ramrod spine spoke of spirit and strength. Silhouetted against the horizon, small and alone, she had no one to turn to for comfort.

      Except him.

      Matt crossed the distance in two strides and gathered her into his arms. Something he’d do for anyone struggling with sorrow, for any one of his brother’s friends.

      She laid her face against his chest, her tears dampening his shirt. He cradled her close, his heart pounding like the hooves of a herd of wild mustangs. What was happening to him?

      “I can’t run the ranch alone,” she said, lurching away. “I can’t handle the roundup without a crew. I can’t make Papa well.” She lifted glistening eyes rimmed with spiky lashes, eyes filled with desperation.

      “I’ll help any way I can.” He wanted to ease her burden. Ease her heartache, but he didn’t have the power. God, help her.

      As if deep in thought, she stepped away, eyes fixed on the horizon, filled with a faraway look. What was she thinking?

      She turned to him, resolve on her face. “You’d help me even after the way I treated you earlier?”

      “Yes, of course. I care about Martin. About what will happen to you. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

      She gave a nod, resolute blue eyes nailing him with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer shoeing a horse.

      Something in her gaze made him take a step back, unsure he wanted to hear what was coming.

      “If you mean that, marry me.”

      Chapter Four

      Matt held up his palms and took another step back, tripping over a tree root, but managed to stay on his feet. Barely. What the tarnation had just happened?

      Assistance with the coming roundup he’d expected.

      A helping hand on the Lazy P, sure.

      But marriage?

      Nothing could’ve been further from his mind. Hannah Parrish, that gangly girl from the neighboring ranch, his kid brother Zack’s tagalong, had proposed?

      To him?

      “Did you just say...marriage?”

      “I did,” she said.

      His gaze swept over her slender yet curvy frame, wide blue eyes, wind tossed red-brown hair. That gangly girl had grown into a fine-looking woman. Still, the idea of marriage was crazy. Why, Hannah could barely tolerate him.

      Not that he hadn’t been at fault for raising her hackles. Since he’d laid eyes on her at the depot, he’d teased her about her finery, her debutante days in Charleston, her elocution. He’d done it to keep her attention on him and off her father.

      He bit back a sigh. Why not be honest? He’d become an expert at holding women at arm’s length. He had no intention of falling for a woman, especially a female with an iron will.

      A scowl on her face, Hannah folded her arms across her chest. “You look like a man sentenced to hang.”

      An apt description considering his throat had constricted with the pressure of a squeezing noose. He took a step closer. Lifted a hand toward her. “I’m sorry, I...ah, you surprised me.”

      She whirled out of his reach. “Forget it!”

      “Wait.” He shot after her, taking her by the arm. “You can’t blame a man for being taken aback. A request for help doesn’t usually include a marriage proposal.”

      “These aren’t usual circumstances.”

      He released a gust of