The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (3 page)

But John Winterhawke, Jr. didn't really give a damn what the townsfolk or his other neighbors thought about the color of his half-breed skin. All he really cared about other than his longtime friend, was the ranch, Winterhawke, and the fact that if all went well, by summer, it might finally be his. All his. That is, of course, assuming his bastard of an uncle was ready to urn loose of the deed—and that Caleb's Irish mail-order bride was still waiting at the depot and Hawke could manage to deliver her to her crippled-up groom in one piece. If he couldn't handle that simple task, not even his
life
would be worth a plugged nickel after Caleb got hold of him. His sense of urgency renewed, Hawke slapped the reins across the backs of a pair of matched buckskin mares, and hurried the wagon along toward the Laramie Depot.

Fifteen minutes later he strolled through the station and out to the back where the train had deposited its passengers. There he spotted a lone pair of women sitting on a wooden bench, with a large trunk and small traveling bag at their feet. In a hurry to have this "bride" business over with so he could get back to his ranch, Hawke strode up to the women and gruffly said, "Is one of you Miss Katherine Quinlin?"

The lady to the left seemed to shrink into the oversized hood of her cape, and her eyes grew huge as she sputtered, "I—I'm Miss Katherine Q-Quinlin. S-surely yer not... ye wouldn't be my Mr. Weatherspoon, would ye?"

Although he was used to a certain disdain and even a fair amount of scorn from the fine citizens in these parts—especially now that Custer and his troops had been slaughtered some two years ago by his fellow "savages"—it rankled Hawke to think his best friend's bride-to-be looked on him with such obvious horror and revulsion. He even entertained the idea of responding, "Yes, ma'am, I'm Caleb Weatherspoon, the man you'll soon marry," just to enjoy the look on her face, but quickly dismissed the thought. As it was, he would be seeing less and less of Caleb once he wed. No sense adding to the distance that would naturally come between them.

"I'm John Winterhawke, Caleb's friend," he explained in a brusque tone. "He was cow-kicked last week during calving. Got his kneecap busted and can't ride in the wagon for at least a month. He sent me to fetch you." Hawke pointed to the baggage. "Which of these is yours?" He hadn't thought it possible, but the woman shrank further into her cape.

"M-might there be an inn nearby?" she asked nervously. "Rooms to let until Caleb can come for me himself?"

Hawke shrugged indifferently. "There's several hotels in town if you got the money to put yourself up for that long. Caleb's running a little short now with the accident and all. He was hoping you'd be willing to come out to the ranch and stay on until the circuit preacher makes it out that far. Shouldn't be more than a couple of weeks." He exhaled loudly, impatiently. "Are you coming or not?"

On her feet now, Caleb's intended glanced down at the other woman. "Mr. Weatherspoon wrote that he had a neighbor needin' a wife and to bring a friend along with me if I like. I ne'er thought to wire him about Miss O'Carroll here. Does he have room for her too until we get the weddin's over with proper-like?"

Since the other woman had been pointed out to him as part of the package, Hawke finally took a hard look at her. What he could see of her, that is. She also wore a velvet cape with an oversized hood, an indigo wrap that covered most all of her except for her intensely curious blue eyes, pert little nose, and small heart-shaped mouth—all features which told him she was at least ten years younger than Miss Quinlin.

"Is there a problem," Kate asked, "with me bringing her and all?"

Hawke shrugged. "Not for me, there isn't. I don't know what neighbor asked Caleb to get him a wife, but if that's what he wrote in his letter, I guess that's what he wanted. He'll make room for her, I expect." Again he pointed at the baggage. "Both of these yours?"

"Mine and Miss O'Carroll's. Shall we wait for ye and the carriage out front of the depot?"

"No. You'll
follow
me." Hawke lifted the heavy trunk by one handle, then heaved it over his shoulder. His free hand dangling alongside his hip and the sheath containing his finely-honed bowie knife, he shot both women a smirk. "You two should be able to manage the bag just fine."

* * *

Hawke was a man who believed in keeping lists. In his business dealings, he always kept track of advantages and disadvantages along with possible profits or losses on paper. But when it came to his personal life, the list was usually stored in the back of his mind. That's where he kept the considerably lopsided ledger regarding his friend and mentor, Caleb Weatherspoon.

The man had taken him in as a young boy, taught him the tricks of the trapping trade, and even more important, how to survive on his own whether in the wild or among "civilized" citizens. When it became apparent that trapping could no longer earn a man a decent wage, Caleb took up cattle ranching, leaving Hawke to pursue his life's dream—the building of a horse ranch. He'd always figured that he owed his good friend a lot, so much in fact, he was sure he'd never be able to repay him.

Until today.

Hawke took a sideways glance at the women beside him on the bouncing buckboard, and felt the weight of that one-sided list shift toward a more equal balance. Not only did Miss Quinlin view him as somehow less than human, she hadn't stopped complaining about the hard wooden seat or failed tip groan aloud each time the wagon bumped and thumped on its way out of town and onto the long stretch of rolling prairie which lead to the foothills of the Snowy Range Mountains. What had Caleb been thinking of to offer himself to a woman he'd never met? And which of his neighbors had been fool enough to do the same with the younger gal?

Except for an occasional inquiry as to the types of trees they passed along the way, Miss O'Carroll had been silent. Hawke liked that in anyone, female or male, even though something in this female's voice was compelling, almost musical in its effect upon him. It was probably that Irish lilt of hers, he decided, the delicate sprinkling of an accent which tickled his ears in a way the heavy Gaelic brogue spoken by Miss Quinlin could not. The sound was new and pleasant. A morning's diversion.

Judging Miss O'Carroll by those standards alone—quiet, but possessed of a pleasant speaking voice—Hawke decided that she automatically made the better choice between the two mail-order brides. Even so, the young Irishwoman left a lot to be desired as the wife of any rancher in the rugged, unforgiving mountains of Wyoming. Not only did she appear to be too delicate and meek to winter here, but she behaved as if she'd never been in the great outdoors before, much less the wilderness.

She'd been twisting this way and that throughout the entire journey, studying the clumps of sage and vast meadows with open awe. When a small group of antelope bounded across the path just ahead of the wagon a few miles back, she'd let out a squeal as if terrified to have been so close to such odd beasts. Didn't they have elk, deer, or something close to antelope in Ireland? If prey frightened her, what would she do when faced with a predator?—say a wolf, a bear, or a mountain lion? He almost laughed at the thought, something of a rarity for a man who didn't even feel the need to smile, then thought of Caleb and his impulsive decision to advertise for a bride.

Hawke knew why his friend thought he needed a wife—pure loneliness—and why he decided he had to have one of Irish extraction—to remind him of his dear, faithful mother—but it was crazy to bring women such as these up into these hills, sheer, unmitigated lunacy, no matter how long the winters might be or how lonely the nights. Pure idiocy.

After some eight uncomfortable hours riding beside the Irish ladies, Hawke guided the buckskins down a road that ran parallel to the Little Laramie River. Situated just below the tiny town of Centennial, the river's relatively straight banks were crowded with mountain mahogany and cottonwood trees, a colorful background for Caleb's Three Elk Ranch.

After tying the team to the hitching post out in front of the house, Hawke helped the ladies down off the wagon and hoisted the trunk on his shoulder. Then without so much as a "follow me," again he bid the women to handle the traveling bag themselves, and climbed the wooden stairs to his friend's modest frame home. Rapping twice against the whitewashed door, he pushed it open.

"You up and about, and decent, Caleb?" he shouted into the room. After a moment of grunts and groans, his friend answered.

"I am now. Come on in!"

Hawke stepped into the wide-open room that served as kitchen, dining area, and living room, dropped the trunk on the freshly shellacked floor, then turned and gestured for the ladies to follow him inside.

Nurse Quinlin marched through the door with her head held high, but Lacey, who'd been left with the traveling bag, hung back. After what she'd overheard at the depot, she knew her arrival wasn't expected, and maybe, not even welcomed. She figured she was better off standing out on the porch at least until Nurse Quinlin—whom she was to address as "Kate" from here on out—had made the private introduction of her husband-to-be. Their escort, an unfriendly sort who wore a mountaineer-style hat with an inverted brim that hid most of his dark features, had other ideas.

He marched back through the door, took the grip from Lacey's hand, and snapped at her in a gravelly voice which made her feel like she'd done something wrong.

"Get on in here so I can close the door. Caleb doesn't happen to like flies in his soup."

The man's arrogance and gruff way of speaking were beginning to wear thin, but Lacey was much too new to both the country and her circumstances to do anything but obey him. Keeping her silence, she hurried across the threshold and took up a stance next to a huge pair of antlers that were nailed to the wall. Right behind her, this John Winterhawke pulled off his hat, hung it on one of the antlers, and stopped to stare at her. He held her trapped in his gaze for several moments, his deep-set eyes both green and gray at the same time and watchful, almost predator-like in the way he looked down at her from beneath the prominent ridge of his wide, strong brow. His open perusal of her was so intense and direct, Lacey honestly didn't know where or how she found the courage to keep looking up at him.

But she did.

He had
very
long hair for a man, long enough that he'd tied the coffee brown lengths into a kind of tail at the back of his neck, leaving it to hang down between his shoulder blades. Lacey had certainly never seen anything like
that
before, not even during the long journey across the American wilderness by rail! What manner of man was this? she wondered as he abruptly broke away from her and walked over to the stove.

Hawke lifted a pot from the burner and poured himself a cup of coffee. Turning back toward the stone fireplace, he blew across surface of the brew as he addressed his friend. "Is everything in order over there? Got the right woman, and all?"

Caleb, who was stretched out on a long couch positioned in front of the fire, gazed lovingly at his intended. "Couldn't be better, friend. I thank you agin for fetching my darling Miss Quinlin to me."

Kate blushed. Caleb was as rough and Craggy on the outside as a weathered fence post, and he looked to be close to ten years her senior; but there was something about him that stirred her blood and made her feel cherished in a way she'd never known before—not even during the months of illicit trysts she'd had with her first and only true love.

"'Tis I who gives thanks for ye, Mr. Weatherspoon."

Caleb beamed. "See what I mean Hawke? I expect we'll be getting along like two pups in a basket."

Hawke cocked a thumb in the direction of the hat rack. "
Three
pups unless you've already sent for whoever ordered her."

Caleb glanced Lacey's way then, noticing her for the first time, and started with surprise. "And who might you be?"

Kate answered quickly. "'Tis the friend ye said I could bring along with me. The bride for yer neighbor?"

Caleb, a portly man whose girth was a perfect complement for Kate's apple dumpling figure, gulped audibly. "This here's a, a
bride
for... aw, dadgummit. I forgot about that. My memory'd make a better sieve these days."

Hawke, who'd shed his thigh-length leather jacket and dropped it on a kitchen chair, strode over to the couch, coffee in hand. "I'm having a hell of a time figuring out just which neighbor asked you to get him a wife. Willard over at Box-T swore off women after that squaw of his went crazy and cut him up with his own knife, and if I remember correctly, Big Jim at Dirt Creek not only has a wife, but she's swollen up with their eighth child. That just leaves those moth-eaten miners around Centennial, and I can't imagine—"

"She's for you," said Caleb, plain and simple.

Hawke froze in mid-sip. Then in slow, molasses-like movements, the coffee cup slipped off the ends of his fingers and shattered against the shiny floor. The hot brew splattered his boots and leggings, soaking through to his skin, but Hawke didn't even flinch.

"
Me?
" he said, incredulous. "I never ordered me a bride! What in hell's wrong with you, Caleb? Have you lost your feeble mind?"

Caleb stretched himself up as tall as he could, although sitting there with his leg splinted from boot to butt, the gesture didn't add much to his squat stature. "Now don't go getting yourself all riled up," he said, working to calm his friend. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."