The Bride Wore Spurs. Janet Dean

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.

      Rosa smiled at him. “Hello, Señor Matt.”

      “How’s the finest cook in the county?”

      Rosy-cheeked and beaming, the housekeeper giggled. “You try for cookie. They cool in kitchen.” She tucked an arm around Hannah. “Come. I help you unpack.”

      “I want to see Papa first.”

      “Hannah, I’d like a minute with Martin. Why don’t you take a second to...” He glanced at Rosa for help.

      “Si, wash face, hands.” The housekeeper led the way inside.

      “I’ll only be a few minutes,” Hannah said, pleasant enough, but her pointed stare warned him not overstay his welcome.

      With a nod, Matt rounded the corner and strode down the hall to Martin’s room. He rapped on his door then poked his head in. As he suspected, Martin was stretched out on the bed fully dressed, but from his bleary eyes, he’d been dozing.

      A smile lit his face as he struggled to rise. “She’s home.”

      “Yes, freshening up.” Matt helped Martin stand. Once he was steady on his feet, they walked the short distance to the office. Martin dropped into his chair behind his desk, his back to the window.

      Matt sat in a chair across from him. “You sure you’re up to dinner guests tonight?”

      “I’m fine.”

      Those words belied Martin’s appearance. Yet Matt understood the need to save face, to ignore what was plain to see.

      “My illness is going to flip Hannah’s world upside down. She can’t keep the ranch,” Martin said, his tone weary. “I’ve got to make her understand that her future is in Charleston.”

      Martin spoke the truth. Yet that truth hurt Martin and would hurt his daughter.

      “I let that girl run wild.” A smile lifted the grim line of Martin’s lips. “Can’t wait to see the change in her.”

      Tomboy turned debutante would please Martin. “If you have everything you need, I’ll be on my way.”

      “Thanks for picking Hannah up at the depot.” Martin’s gaze dropped to his hands. “Appreciate it if you and your folks kept silent about my troubles. I aim to give my daughter a happy homecoming.”

      “Of course. You can count on us to—”

      The sound of shoes clicking on the floorboards cut off Matt’s words, then halted outside the open door.

      “Papa!”