Texas Frontier Brides (Volumes 1-3 & A Bride for Hannigan)

By Mary L. Briggs

Four Inspirational Historical Western novellas in one collection! This book bundle includes all three titles in the Texas Frontier Brides series, plus bonus novella A Bride for Hannigan.

Caleb’s Rain Lily Bride:

Chance Creek, Texas, 1875. After her husband’s murder, Maggie inherits his job as sheriff. Terrorized by the Sayer brothers, one of them her husband's killer, she struggles to keep the peace. Rescuing Caleb Hatcher from certain death, she finds the job to be more than she can handle by herself. Will her prayers for help be answered when Caleb chooses to face his past and find a future in Chance?

Ethan’s Wild Rose Bride:

Ethan needs a bride–a mail order bride. No fuss, no romance, just a business deal. There’s just one problem: he can’t read or write. Thinking former school teacher, Hallie, is the answer to his problem, he offers to work on her ranch in exchange for lessons. Can they work so closely without romance blooming? Or does God have a different plan in mind for their lives?

Morgan’s Bluebonnet Bride:

The war has been over for more than twenty years, but the need for revenge still haunts Morgan Shepherd. When he takes a job from the man he aims to kill, the rancher's daughter, Josie, is a distraction he hasn't bargained for. Falling in love with her would be a mistake, but his heart seems to have other plans.

A Bride for Hannigan:

Penny’s sister, Kara, left on a train to meet her groom almost three months ago...and no one has heard from her since. Penny knows there is something wrong, and there is nothing left to do but go and find Kara, herself. On her own, she feels lost, but determined to find her sister. Will Shep Hannigan, the handsome wagon delivery man be the one she can turn to for help?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary L. Briggs
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463834732

Mary L. Briggs

Mary L. Briggs is a wife, mother, and registered nurse. She enjoys writing inspirational fiction and is also a free-lance writer. She has had two romance stories and one mini-mystery published in Woman's World Magazine. She enjoys reading, writing, studying American history, cooking, quilting, herb gardening, and crafting. Mary lives in a cordwood home in the Ouachita Mountains with her husband and two daughters. She also enjoys the company of five cats, a German Shepherd/Border Collie dog, and a flock of chickens.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Look at me please, George, Maggie encouraged. His blue eyes were wide and innocent when he stared into her face. And those cute little dimples on his cheeks…what was Hallie Bolton thinking? This child was almost shy. And the ginger-headed boy beside him didn’t look like a menace, either. A part of her longed to take them both in her arms, squeeze them tight, and kiss their sweet faces. You look at me, too, please, Gerald.

"Yes, ma’am,’ both boys responded at once, their eyes meeting hers.

Maggie took a seat behind the desk. She regretted wearing the sheriff star badge, as Hallie Bolton had requested. These were mere children, and while they might need disciplining, there was no need to scare them.

She cleared her throat. I guess you both know why Miss Bolton asked me to speak to you.

Their heads nodded in unison. "Yes ma’am,’ they said again.

Maggie smiled. They were sweet, obedient boys. Miss Bolton was barely past being a child herself. Maybe it was Hallie that Maggie ought to be speaking to about this problem. The woman was young, but she had to learn how to handle her students. Now, is it true that the two of you have been bringing frogs and snakes into the classroom?

Not always, Mrs. Price, George spoke up. We just get blamed for it, don’t we? he looked at Gerald, who nodded in agreement.

Maggie bit her lip. Maybe that wasn’t the correct tactic to take. She cleared her throat and folded her hands together on the desk. Miss Bolton is new to the school. All the children need to be making her feel welcome, not disrupting the class.

We wouldn’t do that, George proclaimed, his eyes rounded and sincere. We like her, don’t we, Gerald?

Maggie sighed and debated on bringing up the subject of the poem Miss Bolton had found written on the chalk board. Something about Miss Bolton being stung by a bee and all the children laughing with glee. She had forgotten the exact words.

Most of the verse had been spelled wrong, and supposedly, these two innocents were terrible spellers. It was a silly poem, probably written in fun. Still, the children must learn to be respectful. Miss Bolton told me that she caught you putting a frog in Lena Jacob’s hair, Gerald. She kept her eyes on his face, waiting for a reaction.

He glanced at George before he answered. It was just a little one. He held up his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate the miniscule proportions of the creature.

So you did do it? At least she was getting somewhere if he admitted it.

The small boy shrugged and nodded his head, shifting his lunch pail to the other hand. I guess so. It just seemed like fun at the time. We didn’t mean to make anybody mad. We like frogs, he added.

I’m sure you do, Maggie said, resisting the smile that tugged at her lips. But frogs belong at the creek. They are not to be put in teacher’s desks, or a little girl’s hair. Is that clear?

They both stared at the shiny lunch tins clutched in their hands and nodded.

A brief glance out the window revealed Beulah Lewis walking on the far side of the street. The very woman she had a message for. Maggie stood. You boys sit here quietly and think about what you’ve done. I’ll be back in just a moment and then we’ll talk about it.

She stepped outside and hailed Mrs. Lewis. Good morning, she greeted as she crossed the street to speak to her. I just wanted to let you know that Gram has your dress ready whenever you want to pick it up.

Thank you, honey, Mrs. Lewis said, patting Maggie on the arm. "I have a few more errands to do and then I’ll be right over to her shop.

Back inside the office, it seemed the boys had finally taken the talk to heart. George’s face was nearly chalk white and Gerald could only stare down at his worn boots. Poor things. She shouldn’t be too hard on them. They were only little boys.

Are you two sorry?

They nodded, but didn’t look up.

All right. You may go on to school. And I don’t want to hear anymore about this nonsense. Do you hear?

They both nodded as they dashed out the door. She watched as they made a fast path to the school house. Well maybe Hallie Bolton was right. A trip to the sheriff’s office might just have made an improvement in their behavior.

She shook her head and laughed as she sat back at the desk. That had been an easy task, compared to some things she had to deal with. Being a stand-in sheriff was no fun, most of the time. The things people complained about and refused to settle themselves created endless problems for her to solve.

She smiled. At least there wasn’t much more to do in the office this morning, and then she could head home. She stacked the small sheets of paper notes that had been left on her desk this last week. She added a note to the one on top. Recommended Jake Smithson to allow Morgan Cannon’s cows to water at pond. That should settle that problem.

The old desk drawer squeaked loudly as she began to pull it open. Really there must be something that could be–

A yelp sounded from her lips as the first frog hit her squarely in the nose, bounding off her face and into her lap. Another landed atop her shoulder as she wasted no time in pushing her chair back and leaving the seat. A dozen or more petite versions of the first, just the size Gerald had described, began to make their escape from the drawer, some landing on her boots, and then jumping across the room. A few made it to the small window sill and sat there, their beady little eyes on her, as if they were waiting for her to step over and open the framed glass for them.

Gingerly grasping the frog on her shoulder, she dropped him into the empty coffee cup on her desk, covering the top with her hand. Spying another frog, near her booted foot, she knelt and snagged him as he tried to bounce from his hiding place. Plunking him into the cup with his brother, or cousin, or whatever relative he might be, she blew out her breath. Those lunch pails must have been full of the jumping creatures. Taking the cup, she threw its contents out the door.

Grabbing the broom, she began what would be a futile clean up. Some of these frogs would be in here for weeks, no doubt. Her sympathy for Miss Hallie Bolton was starting to grow.

***

Whoa, Kit! Caleb Hatcher reined his horse to a stop near the edge of the craggy overhang and swung down. His boots on solid ground, he breathed in the dry warmth of mid-morning. The rain-cooled air was now miles behind. Ahead lay green hills and beautiful forests. The sun had broken through the thin clouds and shone bright and clear in the sky.

It’s beautiful country, Lord, he spoke aloud. He laughed when Kit looked his way. But the horse was used to his ongoing conversations to God, and sometimes to himself. It did a man good to get the words out of his mouth.

He put his hands on his stomach as it gave a protesting growl. Up before sunup, and only a cup of coffee, he had been anxious to move on. See what the day held.

He mopped his forehead with a dark kerchief pulled from his pocket. It was barely ten o’clock and the temperature was already beginning to soar. Untying the canteen from the saddle, he took a long sip of water, still cool from the night’s chilly air.

Just the fact that there was no more flat, scrubby prairie as far as the eye could see boosted his hopes. This would be a fine place to raise cattle, and maybe a few crops. Cotton was one of the best for the area, he had read. Growing cotton hadn’t occurred to him before this venture, but it never hurt to learn something new.

The dampness of his boots testified to the fact that, despite it being late summer, the stream he crossed back a mile or so had plenty of water. And there was still lush grass to be had. Maybe he was almost to a place he could call home.

He gave a whistle and raised his voice, Let’s go, Kit, he urged the horse. No need to poke along at a snail’s speed the rest of the day. If he was really getting closer to what he sought, then there was no time to waste. And in another few miles, he would be ready for a bite to eat.

Another mile and Caleb guided the horse among the scrubby oaks and limestone rocks. It had been just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but he was sure he’d seen a rabbit run through the brush just ahead of him. It could have been a coyote running low, but if he was lucky, it was a rabbit. A good piece of fresh meat would be welcome after a steady diet of bacon and beans. Reining Kit to a stop, he dismounted and pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard.

You wait here, boy, he said, tying a length of rope to Kit’s bridle and looping it to a nearby tree. Kit could be a little skittish when a gun fired close by. Caleb patted the horse’s neck. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

He stepped into the grove of trees, feeling at once the muggy coolness the shade of their branches offered. Following a narrow trail for a while, he stopped to listen for any sound in the scrubby undergrowth. At once, the birds fell silent and he swallowed hard. He was used to hunting, making his way through woods and forests. He knew how to stay quiet. But maybe someone else didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t been the flash of a rabbit or coyote that his eyes had caught.

Something scurried to his left and he quickly turned. In a blink of an eye, a loud boom sounded and searing pain ripped through his side. The rifle slipped from his hands as the landscape began to spin. He reached blindly to steady himself, but his fingers grasped only air. Amanda’s name on his lips, he fell backwards into a spinning maze of agony and darkness.

***

Staring through the pane of the second story window, made grimy by dust from the street below, Maggie could see Job Sayer standing next to a big roan tied in front of Bailey’s Saloon. The large, hairless white scar on the steed’s neck fairly glowed in the morning’s sunshine. A matching horse, minus the scar, tied on the other side of Job, probably belonged to one of his brothers.

To a casual passerby, if there were any on the deserted road, the man would appear to be busy checking the halter. But from this height, it was easy enough to see the slight turn and incline of his head as he observed the street around him. For the moment, he had no one to observe. Nothing could clear the streets of Chance like a visit from the Sayers.

Her lips twisted into a bitter smile as she watched his wary inspection of Main Street. The Sayer’s couldn’t be too careful. There were too many people that wanted them dead. What must it be like to be hated and feared by so many?

She could see the muslin curtain hanging in the window of Royce’s Barber Shop move a bit as the barber showed a glimpse of his face before fading back into the shadows of the building. The man’s hands were unsteady on a good day. It was bad timing for anyone that might be sitting in his chair at this moment. For their sake, she hoped they were getting a haircut and not a shave.

Her eyes shifted to a door that opened a few more stores down. Wally Stoner, mayor of Chance, stepped out of the mercantile. He stood, hands on his hips, making sure that Job saw him. They stared for a few moments, before Job went back to his examination of the surroundings.

Wally might be young, but he was brave and fearless when it came to protecting the town. Many a time, he had wanted to get up a posse and go after the brothers, but too many of the residents were afraid of the consequences. Scared their family might pay a price too hard. The fear took away their desire to do what was right. Her sympathies were with both sides. How could you make yourself put your own children in danger?

She would have gone with Wally in a heartbeat, but the sheriff’s widow would not be considered for a posse, though she served quite well as sheriff-in-the-mean-time. None of the cowards hesitated to bring her a problem whenever one arose. She grimaced and fingered the gold star, now tucked inside the pocket of her shirt.

Her fingers itched and tingled as she gave a glance at the loaded rifle that leaned against the wall. She was a good enough shot. One less Sayer in the world would be a small step toward a safe town. And she wouldn’t let him go easy. A shot to the knee, then maybe another in the hand. He should have to beg.

She blinked and shook her head. Forgive me, Lord. Why did she have such thoughts lately? Lynching and vigilantes would only make the town become what they had fled after the war. Only make her the same as them. Chance was mostly law-abiding, except for the Sayers, and a few stragglers that passed through, now and then. The brothers had to be brought in the right way, by a lawman. When God saw fit to give one to them. And He was taking His own good time about it, she bristled.

I will make sure the right thing is done, Ian, she whispered. It still tore at her heart that he had survived the war, only to be gunned down on Main Street by Hobart Sayer. Fresh blood on his hands from shooting another man at a card game, Hobart had wasted no time in drawing on Ian. And Hobart still walked free, while her husband of seven years rested forever in the cold ground.

Job, younger than Hobart, had killed two men last year. The first was in a fit of jealous rage over a dance with one of the girls in the saloon. The other took place at the livery. In cold blood, he gunned down a boy who hadn’t curried his horse to his liking.

The youngest brother, Allen, had managed his first kill, too. With a horse instead of a gun. Poor old Dutch Thompson was sent on to his heavenly reward that day. His only crime against Allen was that his crippled legs couldn’t get him out of the street fast enough.

Bile rose in her throat as the memory returned. Allen stood there in the dusty street, his brothers behind him. An accident, he had claimed, a whisper of a smile on his lips while he spoke. And they’d all listened and done nothing. She swallowed back a mixture of shame and regret. Ian would have never let him get away with it. But it didn’t matter anymore what Ian would have done. If she had the strength and ability, she would take over the sheriff’s job in more than name only and put the Sayers in prison. Or the grave. Their choice.

The activity below caught her eye, again. The saloon door swung open and a man walked to the sidewalk. Allen. He had been seen in town often, lately. Probably anxious to acquire the same reputation as his older brothers. He was out of luck in the saloon. It was common knowledge that all card games immediately broke up if a Sayer entered the establishment.

A small sigh of relief washed through her as Job nodded toward his sibling and then mounted the horse. Allen walked to his and did the same. They were leaving town.

She picked up Ian’s rifle and headed for the staircase. As always, she would make sure they saw her as they rode away. They needed to keep their coming judgment in the front of their minds.

***

They’re gone now. I think it’s safe to put the rifle down, Reba commented, calmly sewing a seam on the red calico fabric she had positioned under the machine’s needle. I didn’t hear any gun fire, so I don’t suppose they did much damage today.

Maggie unclenched her jaw and set the rifle on the counter of her grandmother’s dress shop, located in the front room of their town house. I don’t know how you can be so calm, act so...so commonplace every time they ride into town.

Reba Barkley pulled the fabric from the machine and snipped the thread with a pair of fancy scissors. What would you like me to do, Granddaughter? Go outside and shout and scream, get everyone else riled up?

Maggie shook her head and walked to the window. I don’t know. I just keep thinking there ought to be something we can do. Besides pray, she added quickly, knowing what Gram’s response would be. Praying was well and good, but didn’t God expect some action from them, at times?

Well there’s nothing wrong with praying. The Lord tells us to bring all our cares and problems to Him. Just because He hasn’t answered this one yet, doesn’t mean He’s not working on it. You’ve got to wait for His time to take care of them, not yours.

Maggie had no answer. Perhaps her grandmother was right. A smile twitched at her lips. The woman usually was. And despite the sorrow in her life, she still seemed to keep a cheerful disposition, though Maggie was sure she had heard her crying late at night, tucked safe behind her bedroom door. And what woman that lost most of her family to the war wouldn’t shed some tears from time to time?

But no need for Gram to see the sadness in her granddaughter’s eyes. Maggie forced a smile back to her lips and turned to face her. You’re right. I’m just impatient. Reaching to the counter, she picked up the rifle again. I’m going out to the ranch and check on things. Maybe I’ll bring back a squirrel or rabbit for supper.

Her grandmother shook her head. A girl as pretty as you should be out hunting for something other than a jack rabbit. Just look at you!

What are you talking about? Maggie grinned. She looked down at her brown trousers and leather boots. Every self-respecting woman in Texas has an outfit just like this one. We Texas women aren’t afraid of a little hard work.

Reba’s eyebrows lifted and she smiled. Last I knew, you were a Georgia woman. Besides, it’s liable to be mighty hard to catch a man when you’re dressed like one.

Yes ma’am, Maggie suppressed a smile and nodded. There was no use arguing with Reba Barkley when she got a burr under her blanket. But Georgia was a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. Going on nine years in Chance made Maggie a Texas woman now, and she had every right to claim the title.

And a husband was the last thing on her mind. Ian’s grave stone proved he had been buried in the Chance Creek Cemetery for almost two years, yet it seemed only a few months. She should be over him, ready to move on. But something inside just wouldn’t let go. Praying about it every night had seemed useless, so she’d given up. No use arguing with the One who knows best. God had made her a widow, and a widow she was going to stay.

Reba pushed away from the machine and stood, shaking out the piece she was working on. Before you go, I’d like you to try on this dress for me.

Maggie resisted rolling her eyes. Grammy needed to find another model for all her creations. I really don’t have time right now, Gram, and–

Of course you do. This pretty thing is for Nancy Rollins. A makeover of one of her old ones. There wasn’t much wear on it and she’s finally coming out of mourning. I know she’d like something cheerful.

It’s about time, Maggie said, following her grandmother to the back room. I don’t know why she mourned that sod for so long.

Why you should be ashamed of yourself, Maggie! Her grandmother scolded. Now get that shirt off so you can try on this one.

Maggie swallowed back a quick retort as she began to undress. I know, Gram. But it’s obvious to everyone that Nancy isn’t quite as, well, ‘clumsy’, as she used to be. When is the last time you saw a bruise on her face or arm? She waited, then added, It was before her husband died, wasn’t it? He was nothing but a drunk and he treated her badly.

Her grandmother sighed and nodded. I know that’s probably true, but it’s still been hard on her, having to take in washing and bake for folks. Not many have the money to spare, but we all try to send a little business her way.

Of course we do, Maggie said, pushing her arm into the sleeve. She stared in the mirror as Gram buttoned the front and tied the bow under the collar. Her face was plain as ever, with brown, over large eyes and a nose just a bit too long. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Practical, but not attractive. She studied her image. It had been a long while since she’d looked in a mirror and seen herself wearing anything other than a man’s shirt and trousers.

A lifetime ago, once the chores were done in the evening, she would don a pretty dress and she and Ian would dine in style, the lamp burning its soft glow across the plank table, and pretty wildflowers or herbs in the little silver vase, a wedding gift from Ian’s mother.

Smoothing the gathered skirt, a tiny twinge of envy shot through her. Nancy Rollins would wear this to the next dance. She would be the prettiest one there, too, with her black hair and violet-blue eyes.

What is it? Grammy asked, meeting her reflection in the mirror.

Maggie quickly smiled and covered her thoughts. Nothing. I was just thinking how pretty she is going to look in the dress. All the men will want to dance with her.

Well, what men there are, Gram nodded and began to pin the hem. It’s hard times for women needing a husband.

"You mean if they want one," Maggie blurted before thinking.

Grammy chuckled and took another pin from the small, soft heart-shaped cushion on the floor beside her. I was talking about Nancy, not you.

Maggie bridled her feelings and swished the skirt. I know that.

You just hold still, child, while I get this finished. And you needn’t count yourself out in the husband getting. You never know what God intends for you.

A hard laugh shot from her throat. Of course I do! Obviously, He intended for me to be a widow. The words were short and hot with anger. She felt the heat rise to her face as she said them.

Reba stood and pulled her shoulders around so they looked eye to eye. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. Do you understand? Ian was a good man and I know the two of you were happy. Don’t think God didn’t have a hand in that part. The Lord gives and the Lord takes. And whatever else, I know that Ian would want you to be happy. He wasn’t the kind of man that would want you to live the rest of your life in grief and bitterness.

Maggie swallowed hard and nodded. She blinked back the tears behind her eyelids. I’m sorry. It’s just–

Reba shook her head. It’s not up to us to question what happens and what doesn’t. All we do is the best we can to keep on following God. She knelt back and began pinning the hem again. He’s the one in charge, not us.

The shelf clock across from them ticked away the time. Maggie let minutes slip by before she spoke again. I didn’t mean to sound bitter, Gram. I know we’ve both been through a lot….lost so much. It was selfish of her to think only of her own feelings. Gram had lost a daughter to fever, and then both sons at Shiloh. Now, she and Gram were all that was left of the family.

Well you never mind, Gram replied through the mouth full of pins. We’ll make it together just fine, but I wouldn’t object to the Lord sending a good man our way.

Maggie smiled. She glanced down at her grandmother’s head. Only a few strands of gray wove through her dark chestnut hair. She was still a fine looking woman. The old gents over at the boarding house all seemed to think so, but Gram was having none of them.

Well, don’t you worry, I’ll be praying the Lord will send you a good man, Gram, she smiled.

Now you just hold your horses on that, girl. You’re still of an age to make a man a fine wife.

Maggie laughed. If I wasn’t already a widow, I’ve reached the age to be considered a spinster.

The older woman continued to measure and pin the fabric for a few moments. She stabbed in the final pin and pushed herself to her feet, walking round and round Maggie, her eyes on the hem. You’ve got too much spirit for the Lord to intend you to live life alone.

Maggie sighed. It was hard to argue with her when her eyes got that twinkle. Best to go along. Whatever you say, Gram.

***

Maggie dressed and headed back to the front room, glad the ordeal was over. Seeing herself in such a pretty dress had jarred awake too many memories. Times that were best forgotten.

Now, before you leave, you get back to the kitchen and grab a couple of those biscuits to carry with you. You always tend to stay out there longer than you say, and you’re liable to get hungry.

Yes, ma’am, Maggie grinned, and waited. Gram always had more to say.

And be careful out there. It’s not a place a woman ought to go alone, Reba said, back at the sewing machine, adjusting another piece of cloth under the needle. No doubt a surprise for another neighbor. The woman constantly thought of others.

Maggie nodded and headed down the short hallway. She stuffed the bread into a cloth sack and turned to go. The flash of light on silver beneath the counter caught her eye. She reached down and retrieved the revolver kept hidden behind the sack of flour. It didn’t hurt to leave town well armed. And it would make Gram feel better.

Chapter 2

Maggie stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. The black horse came trotting inside the shed. The attached corral led to a field out back that kept him happy most of the time. But in winter, especially when the weather was bad, Maggie was sometimes forced to stable him down at Larson’s Livery.

Picking up the red and blue saddle blanket, she adjusted it across his back. Going bareback had its appeal, but it gave her nowhere to carry the rifle, lest she strap it on herself. Too hot and uncomfortable in the summer. And tension in the town and surrounding area made it too much of a risk to go unarmed.

You’re a patient boy, Ace, she patted the horse and tied the sack of biscuits to the back of the saddle. He had always loathed standing still to be curried or saddled. Maybe he was beginning to calm as he got older.

She pulled herself up and felt the first quickening of her heart since leaving the house. Going home, to the ranch, always did that to her. Let’s go! She urged him out of the shed into the bright sunlight and on down Main Street. She pulled the hat lower on her brow and squinted her eyes at the intense light.

With the Sayers departure, citizens had come out of the homes and shops, where they had retreated at first glance of the outlaws. It was amazing how the town could change in just a blink of the eye, everyone burrowing themselves from sight just because two men rode in on horseback.

Maggie waved to Martha Jones, her dark blue calico skirt blowing in the breeze as she swept the porch of her two storey boarding house. The place needed a new coat of white wash, but it was always neat and in order. The row of red shrub roses, planted along the foundation were blooming their last of the season.

Martha, seeing her, dropped the broom and ran down to meet her.

Maggie pulled the horse up short and waited.

You’re not heading out west of here just yet, are you?

Maggie smiled at the concern in the woman’s eyes. Martha was a good neighbor, a good friend. Don’t worry. They’ve been gone over half an hour. And besides, I’ll be getting off the road a mile or so on down.

Martha nodded, her fingers twisting the apron tied round her large waist. Well, I suppose. But you be careful, Maggie.

I will. She smiled and waved at the occupants on the porch as Martha made her way back to her sweeping.

A few elderly residents, mostly old Confederate veterans, too old for war even when they joined and fought, had taken their usual morning places in the rockers lining the porch. Major Jenkins returned her wave.

Have a nice ride. And keep a good look-out for those Sayers! Martha called, stirring up another cloud of dust with her broom.

Maggie nodded. No doubt Martha had kept her house and residents locked up all morning. Like most in town, she had probably stationed herself behind gauzy curtains and watched for the brother’s departure, praying they would pass her humble establishment with no notice.

The thought sent a mixture of gall and shame through her. How long would they live in fear, running like foxes to their dens, at the first sign of danger? Without a true leader, the town would soon die away, leaving only a dusty trace of its beginning behind.

***

The late morning ride was pleasant and she found herself happy to be out of town. There was something about the freedom of being alone for a while that always gave her a sense of peace and joy.

Now get on up there, Ace, Maggie encouraged the horse off the road and over the rise. The sun streamed through the oak branches above their heads as she guided him through shrubs and underbrush. Limbs smacked at her trousers and slapped Ace’s legs. He stomped and snorted, but she coaxed him forward. The spoiled horse preferred the dusty road for walking, but rabbits tended to hide in the shadows of the brush and trees.

It was cooler under the trees, but the early heat of the day made it muggy and close under the foliage. The horse trod through a clump of ferns and sent dust rising into the air. Maggie fanned away the dirt and urged him to pick up his speed. It was hard to breathe in the close atmosphere.

She pulled the over-sized hat from her head and hooked it on the saddle horn. Shaking her head, her hair fell loose from the scrap of leather used to hold it from her face. A shiver ran down her back as the slight breeze flowed through her damp tresses, like threads of icicles across her scalp. It was one way to cool off on a hot day. That or just jump in the creek, she contemplated, as they emerged from the wooded area and she pulled Ace to a stop at the water’s edge.

Even in the dry days of summer, Chance Creek still flowed fast and cold. Smooth, rounded rocks were clearly visible in the bottom, making it easy to walk on with bare feet in the hot summer. She smiled. Not something a lady was supposed to do, but enjoyable, none the less. Fed from underground streams, and runoff from the mountains in the distance, it was a constant source of water for everyone in the area.

Ace neighed and danced around as they paused near the edge. You don’t like the water too much, do you boy? Maggie laughed as she reached and patted his neck. You must have belonged to a rich city man who kept you solely on cobblestone streets. One thing is for sure, you’re not a typical ranch horse.

When Ian had brought the black horse home, she had at first been excited by the purchase, then dismayed when she learned the truth of exactly how he came to own the steed.

"I know, sweetheart, but I just kinda got caught up in it once I was inside the saloon. I was in there looking for Jed, and old Bob Walker talked me into playing a hand at their table. Honest, I never meant to stay in the game."

"And I guess you never meant to win this horse, either," she had countered.

He laughed and shook his head. Well you’ve got to admit he’s a fine piece of horseflesh.

And that he was. Urging the reluctant horse into the water, her breath caught when the icy bits of moistness splashed on her pants and soaked in as they waded deeper into the chilly wetness. Once in the creek, Ace was solid and true, his focus on the bank ahead. His steady gait and attention to the task at hand always made her feel safe.

Topping the opposite bank, she gave the horse a slight kick and they were off at a trot. Ace, happy to be back on a road, wasted no time in moving ahead.

To the west, she could see a faint glimpse of smoke curled against the late morning sky. No doubt the women were busy making the noon meal in the Candlelight community, and banking the fires to re-warm what was left for supper. Mostly beans and cornbread, with maybe a squirrel or fish, Maggie was sure. They were a people still struggling to make it on their own. But they were strong and proud, and they reveled in their accomplishments. Slavery was their past, not their future.

If she had started her journey sooner in the day, she would have stopped by for a visit with Tilly. It seemed forever since the two of them had sat and talked about the old days in Georgia, the war, the people they had lost, the trip to Texas. And how life was going to be better someday.

***

She pulled Ace to a stop as they came in sight of her home. Even now, the view put a lump in her throat and an extra beat in her heart. It had been a sweet spring afternoon when they’d arrived over eight years ago. Redbuds and dogwood trees had been in full bloom. Ian had picked the spot immediately.

Just look, Maggie. Wild persimmon trees for fruit, pecan trees for nuts, flowering trees for beauty in the spring, and oaks for shade in the hot of summer. What more could a man ask for?

She blinked back tears at the memory. But he had been right. It was the perfect piece of ground. Thank you, Ian, she whispered. Then shook her head. Why did she still talk to him in her head? He was gone. Gone forever. Let’s get going, Ace, she nudged him with her knee.

The breeze was gentle and fresh under the live oak that stood next to the little log structure. She slid off the horse and pulled the bridle from him, exchanging it for a rope halter. Go find something to eat, boy, she said, giving him a pat on the rump as he turned toward the tufts of grass under the tree.

She stopped at the door and took a deep breath, calming the rapid beat of her heart. Sweat tingled on the palms of her hands and she rubbed them dry on her trousers, concentrating on the rough texture of the fabric.

She loathed coming here. And she loathed staying away. All of her dreams were locked inside of this cabin. Dreams with no chance of coming true. The plans they had made, their hopes, their future. Everything was dashed away that day on the dusty streets of Chance. Hobart Sayer had stolen her life away, just as he had Ian’s. And she would never forgive him. At least not until he was dead, she thought, ignoring the remorse she should feel for her unwillingness to forgive.

Even now, the state of her rebellion gave her pain. It was wrong to live with this un-forgiveness in her heart. But it wouldn’t budge. She was doomed to carry it with her for whatever was left of her own life. What can I do about it, Lord?

Pulling a key from her pocket, she unlocked the round padlock that secured the door. A twinge of guilt passed through her as the key slid into its slot. She should leave it open for passing strangers that might need shelter for a night, but the thought of outsiders staying there was more than she could bear. It was her house. Their house. Even if she couldn’t live in it. It was a selfish thing to do and she knew it.

She pulled the plank door open and stepped inside. Her eyes blinked at the sudden darkness. Closing them, she breathed in the stale odor of loneliness possessed by all houses left with no one to give life to the interior.

No human had been there recently to warm it with their everyday activities. Cooking, cleaning, the smell of bread baking in the oven, a chicken roasting over the open hearth. No singing or quiet morning conversations. No one going in or out the door to do the chores. The cabin held only silence. Remembrances were all well and good, but the home was empty without love to sustain it.

Slivers of light shone behind the curtains covering the two glass windows. Her boots echoed on the pine floor as she walked the short distance to open them. Pulling them apart, she paused and studied the yellow calico print, fingering the smooth cotton. Ian had picked the pattern. He said it would make the place look cheery and happy. She swallowed back the lump that threatened to form. He had been right. For a while.

Turning, she stared at the particles of dust dancing in the air. The table sported a fine layer of silt, and the empty frame of the old rope bed in the corner was decorated in wispy cobwebs. The old trunk stored beneath was dusty, as well.

Maggie sighed and plopped her hat on the rough plank table. Ian’s hat. She blinked and allowed herself to smile. How many times had she snatched it from that very resting place and scolded him for setting it there? She fought back the sudden threat of tears. Maybe the hat belonged on that table.

Grabbing a bucket from the counter, she headed out to the well. The place could use a good scrubbing and it was a perfect day to do it. And when she was finished, she’d have a nice sit on the porch with a hot cup of coffee and the biscuits Gram had insisted she bring.

Chapter 3

Drinking the last drop of the bitter brew, Maggie stood from the rocker and started inside the cabin. A sound from beyond the yard caught her ear and she spotted a large brown horse sauntering from the hill behind the house. He was saddled, but had no rider. A rope hung from the halter he wore.

A twinge of fear ran through her and she eased inside to the table, shoving the revolver between her belt and trousers as a makeshift holster. She picked up the rifle and checked to make sure it was loaded. Anyone wandering around the place was bound to be looking for that horse. And they could be at her door any moment.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm her heart, Maggie stood just inside the cabin for a while and listened to the sounds around her. Birds sang in the thicket next to the house, a few crows screeched and called to each other as they hopped among the oaks. Off to the east, a roll of thunder boomed. Too bad it wasn’t from the west. They could use a shower.

The horse neighed at the boom in the distance and turned his eyes to her as she came through the door. She stepped off the porch and grabbed the rope hanging from his bridle.

The fiber was dry and rough. It hadn’t been cut, but ripped. That much was obvious. Had the horse been frightened and pulled it apart while making an escape? It looked to be an old piece of twine, and age tended to make the fibers weak.

Too bad you can’t talk, boy, she said patting his nose. She let go of the rope and scanned the surroundings. The horse had walked in from the east. That would be the place to look for his owner. She whistled for Ace, who came at once.

The brown horse followed as she urged Ace toward the wooded area about a quarter mile behind the cabin. The stranger horse seemed content to trail along behind them, like a bored hound dog without a coon to chase.

Maggie slowed Ace as they approached the woods. She dismounted and dropped the reins. He was good to stay close and if she needed him in a hurry, he would be free to come. The other stallion seemed content to stay with her horse.

Pulling the rifle from its holder, she stepped into the cool shade of the trees. Just inside the darkness, she paused and listened. Ian had taught her how to recognize the sounds of the forest, listen to natures hints as to what was going on around her. Continuing on for a few more moments, she stopped again. Everything sounded like an ordinary day in the woods.

Nervous perspiration poured down her shirt. She fanned her face and wiped it with the bandana tied around her neck. Really, Maggie, get a hold on yourself. There was a slight ridge in front of her. Maybe that would be a good place to check. She could stay out of site as she approached the top, in case anyone was on the other side. If she searched over to her right, there would be a trail. She could follow it for a time. Pushing into a swath of scrubby bushes, she headed for her destination.

This was a bad idea, she muttered to herself, swiping at the thin branches as they struck her face. Glad to be through them, she stepped around the last bush. Her toe caught on something and the rifle fell from her hand as she sprawled to the ground, her face striking a mass of dried branches.

She closed her eyes and lay there for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She let the pain soak in. No doubt she would be covered in bruises tomorrow. Her cheeks stung from scratches, and her palms hurt from the small pebbles and sticks that stuck into her hands when she landed. She took a breath and rolled over, her ankles still supported by the fallen tree.

When would she ever learn to watch each step? There were always rotting logs on the forest floor. She had to be more observant. Of all the clumsy. . . she half sat and stared. There was no log.

What she saw was a pair of legs, swathed in dark trousers and wearing a very nice pair of leather boots that sported silver spurs. Forgetting the aches from the fall, she jerked her feet forward and hugged her knees to her chest for a brief moment, breathing slow to calm her nerves. Not trusting herself to stand, she crawled toward the body on the ground.

The legs were attached to a cowboy, a six-shooter in his holster. He was wearing a blue chambray shirt, covered in wet blood on the left side. His hair was dark and needed some scissors taken to it. Long, muscular arms splayed to the sides of his body. The skin beneath the dark bristles on his unshaven face was blanched white as a rabbit‘s tail. He was dead, from the looks of him. No doubt, she had found the owner of the brown horse.

Her heart beat in her throat as she pushed herself to her feet and drew nearer to him. Looking closely, she could see a slight rise and fall of his chest. He’s still alive! The amazement in her voice echoed in the emptiness around her. She pulled the revolver from her belt and quickly checked the area around her, regretting her sudden announcement. What if the shooter was still nearby? She held her breath, listening. But all seemed quiet and calm. The birds continued their chatter and a hawk whistled high in the sky above.

Kneeling beside him, her hands shook as she removed the dark felt hat from his head. His face had bits of blood spattered across his cheek, probably from the large cut above his left eye. Blood still oozed from the long gash. She glanced and spotted a broken branch of a small cedar. His head must have struck the sharp point when he fell.

She stared at his face. He was a handsome fellow, with high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. When he smiled he would be nice to look at, she thought. Shaking the thought from her head, she gingerly touched his forehead. No fever. He must not have been here long.

A slight, but steady stream of blood flowed from his side. She unbuttoned the cotton shirt and examined the wound. Probably from a rifle, she guessed. Pulling the kerchief from around her neck, she mopped the wound the best she could. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, compared to the red pool on the ground beside him.

His eyelids flipped open at her touch. Her breath caught as blue-grey eyes, the color of the sky on a stormy afternoon, held hers. She swallowed hard and blinked. Can you hear me?

He narrowed his eyes, as if he was trying to comprehend her question. Amanda? Wha’ happened? His voice was barely above a whisper.

You’ve been shot, sir. Do you think you can stand?

I have to get him out of here, Lord. Please don’t let him die on me right here. Praying came second nature when things were desperate. It was what Gram warned her about–only trusting God when it seemed she couldn’t handle a situation by herself. She was guilty of it more than she liked to believe. Still, she needed His help. If not for herself, then for this injured man.

I…think so, he whispered.

Still pressing the wound, she whistled for Ace.

Chapter 4

She grit her teeth as she half pushed, half shoved him up beside the horse. There didn’t look to be an ounce of fat on his body. He was all muscle, and heavy as a wagon load of rocks. After the astonishing feat of getting him on the saddle, Maggie pulled herself up behind him and reached around his waist for the reins. Let’s take it slow, boy, she said, patting her boots against Ace’s flank.

Not too slow, though, the stranger slurred and slumped forward.

Maggie held him tighter to her and urged the horse to keep going. Balancing his weight all the way to the cabin was going to be a challenge. There was no hope to get him to town in this condition. She would have to do the best she could.

As her eyes focused on the cabin ahead, he jerked in the saddle and sat up straighter. It’s alright, mister. We’re almost there. I’ll do my best to get this bullet out of you.

Amanda? His voice was scratchy and hard to understand. Is that you, Amanda?

Maggie debated on the answer. Would it calm him if she was this Amanda he kept speaking to? But best not to lie.

No. My name is Maggie. Just rest, we’ll be there in a minute. Just hold tight to the saddle horn.

He nodded and followed her instructions. I need to set up camp, soon. I’m pretty tired.

We’re almost there. You’ll be fine, she encouraged. Would he? Or was he going to bleed to death before they got there? The arm of her shirt was already soaked with red liquid. Getting him up must have reopened the wound.

***

His eyes were glassy but he obeyed her every order. Now step up. That’s right. His foot barely topped the log step.

Maggie breathed a sigh of relief, glad that was the only step up they would have to take.

Inside the cabin she was grateful she had scrubbed the dust away. We’re going over to the table. And I’m going to need you to lay down while I clean out your wound. Easy now.

Maggie rolled a clean cloth and put under his neck for support. Now you don’t move while I go get some water, she told him. Probably unnecessary, as his eyes were closed and he made no response.

He had passed out again. She contemplated what she had to do next. There was just no way to get the shirt off, other than to cut it. Not that it mattered. She would never be able to mend the rip from the bullet properly, and the blood would be hard to get out. After rekindling the fire in the stove and refilling the coffee pot with water, she pulled the trunk from under the bed and opened the top. Scissors were in a side pouch and she removed them, along with a packet of sewing needles and a spool of white thread. Digging further down, she found several of Ian’s shirts, clean and white. They would have to be torn for bandages, saving one that she would somehow get on the stranger, once he woke.

Pouring the warm water into a bowl, she took it to the table and began to clean the wound. She pushed him onto his side and examined his back. It was just as she had hoped; an exit wound. Good, she breathed.

There would be no digging for lead in this cowboy. She had done it too many times before. Being make-shift sheriff and doctor for the town was a burden she resented, at times. Someday, if Chance grew, they would have a real doctor and a genuine lawman to keep order.

The blood from his side was easing again and she cleaned the area across his stomach, her fingers stopping as she felt a rather large scar up higher from his current wound. It was well healed, but left a definite impression in his skin. Sometime in the past, another bullet had entered this man. The indentation was high above the gut. The only reason he had lived, she guessed.

She tore a clean rag and began to wash the crusted blood from his pasty face. The cut on his forehead was long and puffy, beginning to congeal. She pressed lightly around the jagged edges. No need to get it bleeding again. His eyes were still closed and his breathing almost shallow. Surely he hadn’t lost too much blood to recover. She had seen so much more from a wound than what he had spilled. But there was still the question of how much had soaked into the ground before she found him.

Finished with that task, she walked to the cupboard and took out the bottle of whiskey she kept stored for emergencies. Pulling out the cork, she hesitated, almost tempted to take a swig herself at the thought of what she was about to do. If he was anywhere near being conscious, she was about to find out.

Standing beside the table, she took a deep breath and tipped the bottle, allowing the amber liquid

Reviews for Texas Frontier Brides (Volumes 1-3 & A Bride for Hannigan)

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Four short stories about romance and settling in early west