The Bride Wore Spurs. Janet Dean

of his former self, a frail man, his face etched with lines, his skin an unhealthy gray.

      “Hannah, dear, I’ve been waiting all afternoon for my daughter’s kiss.”

      She leaned down, kissed his cheek then stepped back, plopping hands on hips. “You’re too thin. Are you ill? Are you eating properly?”

      “Been ill. Feeling much better now that you’re home. You need to change for dinner. The Walkers will be joining us.”

      Stormy blue eyes flashed Matt’s way then turned back to Martin. “Of course. I’ll wear one of my new dresses and relay all the news from Charleston.”

      “That’s my girl.”

      “I’ll see you later, Papa. Rest, okay?”

      She pressed a kiss to Martin’s forehead then strode to the door, grabbing Matt’s arm and hauling him with her.

      “See you tonight,” Matt said over his shoulder.

      As the door clicked shut, Hannah whirled on him. “What’s going on with my father?” she said in a harsh, hoarse whisper.

      “He told you. He’s been ill.”

      “That doesn’t tell me anything! Ill with what?”

      With a shrug and sealed lips, he met her gaze. He wouldn’t betray Martin’s confidence.

      Her eyes narrowed, latching on to him like a terrier to a bone. “Who’s running this ranch?”

      “I am.”

      “The Lazy P belongs to us. You have your own ranch.”

      “I’m only helping out.”

      “That was nice of you, but he has me now.”

      Matt fought to keep a straight face. “You?”

      “You think I’m nothing more than a debutante.” She poked him in the chest, her dainty forefinger carrying a surprising wallop. “I’m what I’ve always been, Matt Walker. A rancher.”

      “That’s absurd. The sooner you realize you have no business running the ranch, the better.”

      “The sooner you realize what I do is none of your business, the better,” she said, then stormed off.

      A young, inexperienced female boss was about as welcome to cowpokes as a rattler in the bunkhouse. How long before Hannah learned that truth the hard way?

      Chapter Two

      A nuisance stood on the Parrish threshold. Or so Hannah tried to tell herself. Taller than her by several inches, Matt’s dark mesmerizing eyes locked with hers.

      “Evening,” he said as he stepped inside.

      He looked far too appealing, even chivalrous as he swept off his black beaver Stetson, giving access to his features. Pressed flat on the sides from the pressure of the headband, his hair curled around his nape. His full lips and long lashes would make most women envious.

      The deep tan of Matt’s face and arms were in sharp contrast to the white cotton shirt beneath his leather vest. Open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves, the snowy fabric revealed dark curly hair on his forearms.

      Before she could gather her wits and take his hat, he’d hung his Stetson on the hall tree, obviously very much at home. He’d admitted running the ranch. Give the man his head and he’d encroach on every facet of their lives.

      She pasted on a smile, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and glided across the foyer with a ramrod carriage even the persnickety headmistress in Charleston would approve of.

      Inside the dining room, candlelight flickered, shimmering in the high gloss of the tabletop. The silver serving pieces, possessions her mother had brought west, looked out of place in the rustic room’s whitewashed walls and dark beamed ceiling.

      At the table, Matt’s parents sat talking to her father. Papa looked even more frail beside the Walkers.

      Robert Walker’s hair might be streaked with silver, but he possessed the same broad shoulders and dark brown eyes as his son, no doubt the picture of how Matt would look when he aged.

      Were father and son preparing to acquire the Lazy P?

      Ashamed of her suspicion, Hannah cringed. Just because Matt helped on the ranch, like any good neighbor would, didn’t make him underhanded.

      Victoria Walker, tall, big-boned and pretty with soft blue eyes and silvery hair, wrapped Hannah in a hug. A strong woman with a contagious laugh and good heart, Victoria could have a sharp tongue. Or so Hannah had heard. A trait that had surely come in handy raising three ornery sons, one son in particular.

      Wrapped in a clean apron, Rosa waited, ready to serve from a table laden with steaming platters and bowls emitting enticing aromas. “The food looks and smells wonderful, Rosa. Thank you.”

      “I cook your favorites, Hannah.”

      Once they’d taken seats, Papa said grace. Everyone sampled the food—steak, corn pone, mashed potatoes and gravy—and declared every bite delicious. Smiling, Rosa returned to the kitchen.

      “A father couldn’t be more proud of a daughter than I am of you, Hannah.”

      “You’re a wonderful father.”

      Papa cleared his throat. “A picture of your mother, you possess not only her beauty but her spirit.”

      Fleeting flashes of gentle hands, a loving smile, a nine-year-old girl’s memories of her mother. The portrait hanging over the fireplace mantel a reminder that Melanie Parrish had been a lovely woman. “Thank you, Papa.”

      “Martin’s right,” Victoria declared as she buttered a bite of cornbread. “For an instant earlier, I thought I was seeing Melanie. Gave me quite a start, too.”

      “Hannah wasn’t eager to go to Charleston, but I wanted her to visit the city where her mother and I fell in love.” Papa smiled. “High time she got acquainted with her mama’s kin, too.”

      Finishing school wouldn’t help her work a ranch, but Papa had been insistent, as unbending as steel.

      “Growing up surrounded by cowhands and cattle wasn’t fair to you, Daughter. I wanted to give you the social graces your mother would’ve taught you had she lived.”

      Etiquette might mend fences, but not the sort made of barbed wire. Still, Papa had good intentions, always thought of her first. Hannah squeezed his hand.

      “So, Daughter, tell the Walkers about Charleston.”

      “The city’s beautiful. The grand piazzas and private gardens tucked behind ornate wrought-iron gates are charming.”

      Victoria put her hand to her chest, feigning horror. “Surely the gardens aren’t prettier than our fields of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush?”

      “Nothing is prettier than Texas wildflowers.”

      “Spoken like a true Texan,” Victoria said.

      Robert ladled gravy on his potatoes. “South Carolina could never overshadow the great state of Texas.”

      “True, but with my eight cousins and their friends coming and going, I loved Aunt Mary Esther’s garden, the one place I could find solitude.”

      Matt cut into his steak. “Any damage remaining from the earthquake of ’86?”

      “The brick buildings that survived have been stabilized with iron bolts. Otherwise I saw few signs of the quake.”

      Victoria’s brow puckered. “Was your aunt’s house damaged?”

      “Yes, they had to rebuild, as did most people. The city’s done an amazing job of restoration.”

      “After the hectic pace of Charleston,