The Bride Wore Spurs. Janet Dean

in those blue eyes gazing up at him had nothing to do with reflected moonlight and everything to do with an urge to wallop him. He had no idea why he’d been hard on her, especially with her concern for Martin. “Look, I’m sorry.”

      Her eyes widened, as if she couldn’t believe her ears, then she gave a brisk nod.

      Surely on a night like this they could find a way to get along. He tilted his head, studying the starry expanse. “When I look up at that sky, at the number of stars and planets, I feel part of something big. Part of God’s creation.”

      “I know. I only caught snippets of the sky in Charleston, but here...” Her voice caught, then trailed off. “I love this land.”

      It was one thing they had in common. “Who wouldn’t?”

      Her gaze landed on him, intense, eager. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

      “Then you understand how much the ranch means to me. Why I have to take charge until my father’s on his feet.”

      “You’d be wise to set your heart on something else before you get it trampled.”

      At his words, the accord between them evaporated faster than dew on a hot Texas morning.

      Hannah planted her hands on her hips. “You’d be wise to keep your opinions to yourself, Matt Walker.”

      “I know these cowpokes—”

      “I’ve known most of our cowhands all my life. Why, except for Papa, I’m better suited than anyone to handle the job.”

      “You can mend a fence, move cattle, muck a barn, I’ll give you that, but operating a ranch is more than that.”

      She harrumphed. “You’re exactly like the men in Charleston. They treat women as if we are delicate porcelain or, worse, dim-witted. I can run the ranch as well as anyone.”

      How could he make her see reason? He doffed his hat and ran his fingers along the brim, gathering his thoughts. “You’re not fragile or dim-witted. I don’t doubt that you could learn to manage the financial end. But, truth is, cowpokes don’t cotton to taking orders from a female, especially one as young as you.”

      “They will if they want to be paid.”

      Matt stifled a sigh. How could he make her understand what was at stake? Cowhands saw her as the boss’s daughter, more capable than many perhaps, but still young and inexperienced, hardly prepared to run a spread like the Lazy P.

      “It’s not about money, Hannah. It’s about respect. Something that’s earned, not bought.”

      Alarm traveled her face. She sighed, clasping trembling hands in front of her. “You make a point. I’ll need to earn their respect and earn it fast.”

      Respect wasn’t earned overnight. Nor were these men eager to give it. But to say more would get her dander up. “Let me handle things for now.”

      “You’re no longer needed here.” She pinned him with a fierce, chilling gaze. “I don’t want your interference.”

      If looks could kill, Matt would be a dead man.

      How would Martin have managed if Matt hadn’t—as she called it—interfered? He’d call it lending a hand, being neighborly. How in tarnation did the dainty debutante think she’d manage roundup?

      Not his concern. She’d made that abundantly clear.

      He jammed his Stetson on his head and swung into the saddle. Without a backward glance, he nudged Thunder in the flanks and rode in the direction of the Circle W, the peace of the starry night shattered.

      Hannah Parrish had no concept of the trouble looming on the horizon. Trouble she’d bring on herself, as if she needed more.

      She saw him as an enemy instead of an ally. Any action he took, she’d misconstrue. He’d warned her, it was all he could do. Except for checking on Martin and looking after his needs, Matt would stay clear of the little spitfire.

      How long before her plan to run the Lazy P singlehandedly blew up in her face?

      * * *

      A rooster’s call pierced the muggy morning air drifting through the open window. Hannah stirred then opened her eyes, stretching languidly, relishing the pleasure of waking in her own bed.

      A smile curved her lips. In the dream she’d had, a handsome cowboy, tall, dark, held her in his arms.

      She reared upright. All the events of yesterday slid into her sleep-fogged brain, rousing her faster than a cold dip in a horse tank. Her stomach knotted, as she recalled Matt’s attitude toward women, and Papa’s poor health and sudden determination to make her a lady.

      Lady or not, she had work to do. Last night she’d looked the part of debutante. Today she’d show Matt Walker, her father and the Lazy P cowhands she could run this ranch, if need be, wearing skirts. That ought to earn their respect. And wipe that smug smile off Matt’s face.

      Hannah donned a pair of denims and a shirt, her hands trembling. What if she failed to earn the crew’s respect? What if they wouldn’t listen to her? What would she do then?

      One glance around her room’s familiar belongings slowed her breathing. The quilt her mother had stitched, the rocker beside the open window, curtains rustling in the morning breeze. Peaceful, normal.

      Her stomach clenched. With Papa ill, normal had fled faster than a calf freed after branding.

      At the washstand, she splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then ran a fingertip over the chip on the blue-and-white ironstone bowl, the result of a carelessly tossed hairbrush years before.

      Her possessions might not be perfect but this room was an oasis in a world flipped upside down. “Oh, please, God, don’t let Papa...” Her voice trailed off, the possibility too horrible to speak aloud.

      Surely things weren’t as dire as they appeared. She took a calming breath. She’d see that Papa ate well and got plenty of rest. Whether Matt believed in her ability or not, she’d run the ranch, gladly taking the burden from her father and returning the operation of the Lazy P to its rightful owners.

      She braided her hair, shoved her feet into scuffed boots, grabbed her leather gloves and Stetson, then strode out the door.

      In the kitchen, Rosa removed a pan of biscuits from the oven.

      “How’s Papa this morning?”

      “Sleeping. You up with rooster.”

      “I’m heading out to help with the chores.”

      “I fix big breakfast when you finish.”

      “Thanks.”

      Hannah downed a hot biscuit and coffee, then strode to the stable. A few feet away, the pungent odor of manure and horseflesh teased her nostrils, softened by the sweet smell of hay, a welcome relief from the overpowering scents of potpourri and eau de cologne permeating her aunt’s house.

      She stepped into the dim interior and a ray of sunlight dancing with dust motes lit a path to Star’s stall. As she approached, she spoke the mare’s name.

      With a nickered greeting, Star poked her bronze head over the stall door, bobbing it in recognition.

      Hannah pulled the mare’s nose against her shoulder, rubbing the white irregular shape that earned her name. “Oh, I’ve missed you,” Hannah murmured. “Later today I’ll take you out.”

      Hannah grappled with the feed sack, watching the oats tumble end over end into the feedbox. A sense of peace filled her. Here in the stable, among crusty cowpokes, unpredictable livestock and her steadfast steed, she fit. This life filled her as she’d filled Star’s feedbox, to the brim, to overflowing.

      Across the way, Jake Hardy lugged two buckets of water into the stable. Stooped and wiry, he’d worked on the Lazy P for as long as Hannah could remember. “Hi,