Living a Cowboy Life: Four Historical Romance Novellas

By Doreen Milstead

A Solitary Man Learns About Love In The Old West - A solitary man who thinks himself long past marrying age, and who has difficulty in meeting and interacting with people, joins a cattle drive, learns a lot more about life and people and maybe, just maybe, starts to fall in love PLUS An Older Woman & The Cowboy Who Wants Children - Trapped in a loveless marriage, and after her husband’s suicide, Emma decides to become a mail order bride and after finding a rancher, she boards the train headed for California PLUS Eveline The Poor & Her Rancher James - An English woman fallen on hard times decides to travel to America and her soon to be husband, but along the way there are many hazards including a life-changing train journey PLUS A Long Journey To Love - A Frenchwoman makes a long and arduous journey to a small town in California. When she arrives, her journey is not complete and the trek to her future husband is as dangerous as the much longer one across the ocean and across America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387379347

Book preview

Living a Cowboy Life: Four Historical Romance Novellas

Living a Cowboy Life: Four Historical Romance Novellas

By

Doreen Milstead

Copyright 2017 Susan Hart

A Solitary Man Learns About Love In The Old West

Synopsis: A Solitary Man Learns About Love In The Old West - A solitary man who thinks himself long past marrying age, and who has difficulty in meeting and interacting with people, joins a cattle drive, learns a lot more about life and people and maybe, just maybe, starts to fall in love.

Steam billowed from a thick-rimmed coffee mug; he leaned down and breathed it in slowly. He kicked one leg over the other and pushed off the ground. He loved that old rocking chair, passed down from his Pop when he passed three years prior.

Self admittedly, he’d felt a little lost since that time. His mother had gotten sick with consumption when he was only a boy. He barely remembered her, but his father was very different than that. William Thomas Horner, Josiah’s father, had worked the land for all of his life. Some years were good and others were lacking. But, he never regretted the choices he made. He owned them with conviction.

They had worked shoulder to shoulder since Josiah was a young man. He was expected to pull his weight and he did for the sake of his family. They needed him and he stepped up in his responsibilities. Unfortunately, the long days of hard work and the short nights didn’t leave him any time to court a lady.

Even though he was well past the marrying age, he still had no prospects to speak of. The soft sunlight warmed his face as he rocked at his leisure; his eyelids had gotten heavy. His morning had an early start and he was nothing short of tuckered out.

As he breathed heavy his head sagged to one side, he drifted off to sleep. There was a memory from he was very young that he was really trying to remember. The deeper he fell into slumber the clearer it was becoming. He remembered being about four years old, dressed in his Sunday best. The family was getting ready for the church service when he couldn’t find his belt.

His momma had told him to go get it, to hold his loose britches up or she’d take him outside and switch him. And by the look in her eye, he knew she was serious. He was convinced that his father was as tough as they came, until he saw his sweet mother get mad about something.

After watching her go, he was clear on two things in life. The first was that his father was no match, in anger, to his mother when she was upset. And second he realized that more importantly than being the toughest in the household, he was smart enough to know when to back down. So, that was it. His mom was tough and his father had become much smarter and for whatever reason it worked for them.

He had looked everywhere for his dark leather belt, but to no avail. It was nowhere to be found, with the increasing intensity reaching its peak, he knew that he had to. Before he knew it, he stood behind her as she wiped the counter. He put his hands on his hips with his feet spread apart saying,

Momma!

Her eyes cut upward quickly, recognizing the contempt in his little weak voice. She tapped her forefinger on her bottom lip waiting for what would inevitably come next. He said,

I can’t even find my god damn belt!

Her eyebrows shot up to meet her hairline, immediately furious with is language. She scooped him up by the back of his crisp white shirt and dragged him to the bathroom. Not one word had been said but her face was sunburn red and evoked the same level of heat. He kicked at the floor with the heels of his boots and dug his fingers inside of his collar.

When they got to the bathroom, she let him go and he bounced off the old hard wood floors. She took a block of lard soap from the shelf and held it in front of his face. His brown eyes got as big as saucers, not knowing what to think or what to do. He froze, not even moving to breathe. All he could think in his four year old brain was, don’t poke the bear! Don’t poke the bear! Don’t poke the bear!

His dimples quivered as one single tear rolled down his ruddy cheek. But when his mother, Mary, saw that she couldn’t make him do it. She took a deep breath and held it in before letting it back out yet again. She knew that she had to take a momentary timeout or she’d lose her cool with her son.

Since, she couldn’t speak she walked away. She went to the kitchen and her weight rested on her hands as she leaned over the sink. She could feel that disappointed lump building in her throat. But she wasn’t mad at him, he was only repeating what he’d heard his father say. However, it was an opportunity to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget.

She opened the cabinet door and grabbed the largest bowl that she could find. She walked it back to the bathroom, where he sat with his head in his hands. He looked up and his face was flushed, she said in a deep voice,

Josiah Thomas Horner, you take your little hiney out to the dewberry patch right this minute! And you don’t step one foot back in this house until you have filled it to the brim! I speak the truth, come back with anything less and I will tan your hide son!

He reached for the bowl and turned away. He took off as fast as his little feet would take him. He huffed and he puffed, but he didn’t slow down until he made it to that dewberry patch. He dropped down to his knees, kicking up dust from the hard red clay. He swallowed hard as he slowly tried to maneuver his hand in between the branches of the bushes.

It almost looked like he was afraid of them as he picked the ripe black berry from the vine. His hand was still trembling from before, he hadn’t shaken it yet. It was tougher to swallow his fears down deep when it was his mother dolling out the discipline.

His parents raised him well. As an adult he knew that the life he chose had paid off tenfold. It wasn’t always an easy life being a cowboy in the furthest back woods. There were places he traveled that has still remained untouched, unaltered. Fortunately, he had several useful talents that he could utilize. All of which helped him survive. Anything that helped get him a good meal, was well worth the effort.

He didn’t have the time to make friends, but he did have a few go to guys when he needed stuff. People like that tended to be very resourceful. If he didn’t have it, he usually knew someone that did. Knowing how to cure animal skins processed from the natural habitants always made for a good barter item, just like welding a sharp cutting knives with a deer antler handle, or salted meat.

But winter would be coming around sooner than he would’ve liked. He started gathering light moss, green in color to fill in the cracks and crevices to keep the cold out and the warmth in. he’d spend the best part of his day, doing some much needed weatherproofing on his home. Winters were long and bitterly cold, going into it not being prepared could be a real death wish.

That evening he loaded his bow and arrows over his shoulder. He hunkered down behind a wide mesquite tree to wait for dusk to fall. It would be rut soon and he knew that the bucks would be sniffing around for does.

It was a little early still, but he needed to get an idea of their traveling pathways. With their keen sense of smell, he’d need to be around, in the background, to allow time for them to get used to his human scent.

He reached up and scratched his nose with the hack of his hand, he hadn’t seen anything yet. As he glanced over the orangey pink lines at the bottom just above the rolling plains, he could see a couple jackrabbits playing tag across the open pasture. He pulled his bow up above his masculine shoulder and waited.

He’d rather they were in closer proximity to where he was before taking a shot. He waited patiently until it got closer, and then he reared back and took aim. He squinted one eye and let go. The arrow cut the thick humid air as it whistled in motion, it sliced through his right shoulder. He yelped,

Yes! Gottcha! I’ll eat good tonight, no doubt!

He field dressed the animal, separating the fur from the fascia. Then he separated the innards, taking great care not to splice the thin membrane around each one. It not only made a terrible mess but it also stunk to high heaven and almost always made him want to throw up.

He shoved the skin in his satchel along with the lean meat and made his way back home. It wasn’t a ton of meat but it was plenty that fill his belly full. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he had not one complaint. He was just excited to have food to eat. He made a little fire just off his back porch and let it get screaming hot.

He rung his hands as he thought about the cold weather being just around the corner. He knew that he’d have to do something to keep himself warm and safe through the winter months. When the grill seemed hot enough he put the meat on it, to sizzle it up. It cooked in a matter of moments, the turned white. He pulled it off and gobbled it down. It was the only way of life that he had ever known and he loved it. He would never even consider living in any other way.

With his belly full he kicked back to relax. He could see for miles across the flat plains, with patches of yellow, green, and brown. It was akin to a well-made quilt. It was stretched out nice and taught across the land beneath it. As he rocked in his squeaky rocking chair, he was trying to figure out how to get a wood-burning stove to heat his log cabin.

His eyebrows furled, he could hear some rustling of leaves on a row or two over from him. He sat up straight and tall and said,

Is someone there?

But all that he heard was a high-pitched giggle, it was his little sister Myra Ella Horner. She had sneaked out of the house and she was picking them too and putting them into her apron. There wasn’t much difference in their age, they were inseparable it seemed. She was carelessly pushing them down into her pockets, the deep rich color stained the threads of fabric as the soft skinned bubbles popped under her touch.

He went out to his workplace to forge steel into knives. He little the fire and let it warm up. His craft was also a means to barter with neighbors and friends for other things he might need along the way. Although bartering could be quite risky when there wasn’t any law enforcement to speak of, but when living out in the backwoods it was all that they had.

Not only did they not have any formal type of law enforcement, the bigger issue was that they had no established laws. He lived by his own rules; there was no lack of moral in his character. His parents raised him well. Even beyond the grave, his adulation had not wavered. They would always be his everything and he didn’t know how he could ever love another since his heart was so full already. With each pound of his hammer, the hard metal straightened a little more.

He was an artist on a knife, his work could be called priceless but nobody had the money to pay for it. No one had money, but the closest thing to it was merchandise. He stopped by to say farewell to his longtime friend Max. They had known each other since they were boys, seining crawdads in the stagnant streams that formed from overflow behind the rivers.

Max held his hand up and waived when his saw his