The Bride Wore Spurs. Janet Dean

      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, Jake.”

      “Well, welcome home, Miz Hannah!” Jake entered Star’s stall and tipped water into the trough. “Star missed you something fierce. Reckon lots of folks like me are glad you’re back, specially your pa.”

      “Thanks, Jake. How’s that back?”

      He grinned, revealing the gap between his front teeth. “’Bout what you’d expect for an old coot throwed too many times from breaking broncos.”

      “Any news from your niece?”

      The light in Jake’s gray eyes dimmed. “No idea where Lorna’s gone off to. I don’t mind telling ya, she’s got me worried. What kind of a woman leaves her child?”

      What else had Papa kept from her? “I’m sorry to hear that.”

      “My sis is taking care of Lorna’s girl, Allie.”

      Lord, help Lorna do what’s right. “I’ll pray for her.”

      A smile crinkled his leathery face. “’Preciate it.”

      If anything happened to Jake’s sister Gertie, Jake would have to take care of Allie. He wouldn’t know what to do with a seven-year-old girl any more than Hannah would.

      Finished with the morning chores, Hannah glanced outside. “Do you know where I can find Tom?”

      “I’ll fetch him.” Jake hobbled toward the bunkhouse, pitched forward from the waist, his legs curved as if permanently astride. Thanks to multiple injuries, Jake looked older than his years, but he was sinewy, his disabilities didn’t slow him down.

      While she waited, Hannah checked the tack room. Oiled leather hung on the wall. The horses looked well cared for. Even with Papa’s poor health, the ranch appeared to be operating efficiently. How much credit was Matt’s? How much was Tom’s?

      She wandered outside and spied the foreman rounding the corner of the corral, ambling toward her, his frame reed thin, a bandana around his neck, spurs jangling. She raised a hand in greeting.

      He touched his hat. “You looking for me, Miss Hannah?”

      “I want to thank you for keeping the ranch running smoothly.”

      “Just doing my job.”

      “Before I left for Charleston, my father and I discussed the need for a well on the south range. When I arrived yesterday, I noticed nothing had been done. I’d like you to get the digging underway first thing tomorrow. I’ll arrange for a windmill.”

      Tom removed his hat and scratched the back of his head. “The boss didn’t mention nothing about another well.”

      “With his illness, the plan must’ve slipped his mind.” She knew ranching. Soon Tom, the entire crew, would see that too, and give her respect. “Progressive ranchers don’t rely on nature to supply water to their herds.”

      Tom shuffled his feet. “I’ll check with the boss.”

      That was the last thing Papa needed. Hannah bristled. “That won’t be necessary.”

      “Ain’t no trouble.” The foreman tipped his hat, polite enough, but the sullen look in his eyes said otherwise.

      As she watched Tom clomp to the house, an unsettling sense of foreboding gripped her, squeezing against her lungs. What would she do if Tom refused to work for her? How could she run the ranch? From the conversation at the table last night, the cows were dropping calves. That meant roundup was only a few weeks away, which was the reason she’d wanted to get the well dug now. Perhaps she’d been hasty in pushing the issue with the foreman.

      Across the way, Matt emerged from the house, swung into the saddle and rode toward the Circle W. No one paid a social call at this hour. She sighed. More likely, he’d helped her father dress and shave. Thoughtful of him and easier on Papa’s pride than turning to her or Rosa for assistance.

      Had Matt heard Tom question her authority with Papa? Perhaps, if she asked him to intervene, he’d set Tom straight. But she wouldn’t ask. She couldn’t build respect with the men if she didn’t handle things herself.

      She strode to the house and met Tom coming out. The smug expression he wore steeled her spine.

      “Ain’t going to be no well dug,” he said.

      Was her father too ill to stick to his plan, to stand up to his foreman? “Do you think you’re running this ranch?”

      “Nope.” He guffawed. “Appears you ain’t either.”

      Hannah stepped around him. Inside she found Papa at his desk, dressed and freshly shaven.

      “Morning, daughter. Have a seat.” He looked at his hands, instead of meeting her gaze. “We need to talk.”

      With an arrowed spine, she sat across from him, her hands knotted in her lap.

      “A company back east is buying up land in the area. No reason they won’t buy our spread. Without the responsibility of the Lazy P, you’ll be free to return to Charleston.”

      Never. But she wouldn’t upset him with a refusal.

      “Papa, can we discuss this later? I just talked to Tom. He claims you don’t want a well dug on the south range.”

      Martin motioned to the books spread in front of him. “That was the plan but we’ve had a tough year. Last year’s low beef prices and high costs have put the ranch in jeopardy.”

      Why hadn’t Papa told her all this? Did he see her as some fragile female unable to face realities?

      “I’ve curtailed expenses. Had to let two hands go.”

      “If I’d known about our financial trouble, I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself in front of Tom.”

      “What Tom thinks doesn’t matter.” The steely determination in his eyes, something she rarely saw, stabbed into her. “What I think does. Denims aren’t fitting for a lady. Change into one of your dresses. If you want to help, help Rosa in the kitchen.”

      With roundup a few weeks away, how could Papa relegate her to the kitchen? If this drought didn’t end soon, they risked overgrazing the land and would need to thin the herd. That meant punching cattle to Fort Worth right after roundup. With only two drovers and Tom, she’d need to lend a hand.

      Besides, what if Rosa resented the interference? Years of managing the house had proved she didn’t need help.

      Roundup wasn’t the huge undertaking it had been when cattle freely roamed the range. Still, how did Papa expect to handle branding the calves without her? Or if rain didn’t come, driving cattle to Fort Worth to sell without her?

      Her breath caught. Was Papa too ill to grasp the work that loomed? “Papa, with few drovers, what’s your plan for handling roundup?”

      “Matt and I were talking about that this morning. He’ll bring a couple of the Circle W hands. We’ll get by.”

      “Why