Judith Bowen - His Brother's Bride

Not that she minded. She loved cows. She’d grown up with the gentle doe-eyed Jerseys and they were still her favorite breed, although she hadn’t worked on the farm for quite a few years, since before she’d married Frank. The Carlisle exhibition brought cattle of all breeds, both dairy and beef. It was one of the big stock fairs of the year, and Carlisle blue ribbons were valuable additions to any breeder’s showroom wall. Wicoigon Jerseys already had nearly a dozen.

Everything had changed. Frank was dead now, nearly two years ago. And then last year... when her baby daughter had been born dead—

Abby released her empty glass from nerveless fingers. She still couldn’t bear to think of it. People said things happened for a reason. People said you’d get over it. People said it wasn’t as though you’d gotten to know the child.... That was the stupidest of all the things people said. She’d so hoped she’d have the baby at least-something of Frank, to keep with her always. She’d longed for that baby, as she’d longed for nothing else on earth. And then? An accident of birth, they said. Couldn’t be helped.

And now Abby Steen had no one and nothing.

Frank had been killed in a traffic accident when the rig he was driving smashed into another rig on an interstate in Georgia. Her husband of just over three years had been working extra time to supplement her teaching salary, in the hopes that they’d be able to buy a house of their own, now that they had a family on the way. Abby had been three months pregnant when Frank was killed.

How could such terrible things happen to one person? Her mother had told her that everything happens for a purpose. How could that be true? What horrible purpose was there in two gentle, innocent souls like her husband and her infant daughter dying like that? She’d named the baby, over the objections of her doctor and her parents, who’d said it would only make the pain worse. Mary Francesca, for Frank. How could the pain be any worse?

Sometimes Abby didn’t think she had anything to live for anymore. She had nothing to hope for. But she stopped that thought as soon as it hatched, as she’d done so often, out of habit There were her parents, approaching retirement age. They needed her, in their way. And her older sister, Meg. Abby wasn’t especially close to her family, but she’d had to lean on them in the past few years. She’d always be grateful that they’d been there for her.

Still, the grief had withered her soul until she sometimes thought she was more like a dried-up sixty-year-old spinster than a young woman. Just twenty-eight. Her friend Marguerite had had to cajole her even to agree to come out this evening. She’d have preferred to stay in the motel and watch something on television and go to bed early.

Which was what she should have done, obviously. Now she had to haul herself out of this den of iniquity, as her mother probably would have called it. She’d had her gin, she’d lost her friend, and now it was time to get out of there and get some sleep.

“Ma’am?”

The rich baritone at her left shoulder had her spinning. She reached up to push aside the blond lock that had snapped across her nose as she turned. “Yes?”

She sounded almost angry. Schoolmarmish. She hadn’t meant to. Nor had she been in a classroom for quite a while.

“I’d like to buy you a drink, if I may?” It was the cowboy she’d been sure was examining her from across the dance floor, from his position at the bar. He was big, as she’d thought. Tall and handsome and friendly looking.

Of course, what would she know? She hadn’t dated since Frank’s death. She had very little interest in men, although she dreaded the loneliness that seemed to surround her.

This man had a mustache. A thick, luxuriant brown mustache. Otherwise he was neatly shaved and his hair was freshly bartered. He wore standard-issue Western-type clothing, right down to the string tie and plaid shirt, the brand-new Wranglers and fancy belt buckle. He didn’t wear a hat, which she supposed was a departure from the norm.

“Y-yes. I suppose so.” Abby realized how ungracious she must sound. She’d noticed his name tag—Jesse Winslow, Winslow Herefords, Glory, Alberta-pinned to his shirt pocket. He must have forgotten to remove it when he left the show barn. So he was at least associated with the stock exhibition.

He introduced himself, reaching up to tip his nonexistent hat. She supposed it was a habit. She felt self-conscious suddenly when he pulled out the chair Marguerite had occupied. The waiter had already taken her friend’s empty glass away.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Er, no.” Abby abruptly sat back down in the chair she’d just vacated. Where was Marguerite?

“And you’re—?” The cowboy smiled.

For a moment Abby wondered what he was smiling at, then realized she hadn’t introduced herself.

“Abby Steen.” She reached across the table on impulse and shook his hand. Be normal. Businesslike. His hand was large and warm. Callused. The hand of a working man. “I’m, uh, here with a friend. She’s just, urn, left for a moment—” Abby cast worried eyes in the direction of the ladies’ room. Still no Marguerite. Par for the course.

“Are you here with the stock show?”

“Yes. Wicoigon Jerseys. In South Dakota.”

“Ah. A farmer.” The cowboy smiled again. He had a gorgeous smile, Abby decided despite herself. And he really was a very handsome man. Healthy-looking, virile—she glanced quickly at his hands on the table—and single.

“You could say that. My father’s the farmer, actually. I’m just helping him out this year, showing the stock.”

“Your dad here?”

“No. He had an accident last week and wasn’t able to come. I’m here with a couple of assistants. My niece and nephew.”

“I see.” The cowboy caught the attention of the waiter and ordered another gin for her and a beer for himself. “A family affair,” he finished, with a glance toward her after the waiter left. His eyes were very blue.

“What about you?” Did this qualify as social chitchat?

“I’m here with one helper. My neighbor’s boy. My brother and I raise Herefords up in Alberta. Glory. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the place.”

Abby smiled and shook her head. “Can’t say as I have,” she replied, unconsciously imitating the stranger’s speech patterns.

“We’ve just got a few young bulls in the show this year. Normally my brother comes with me and we drive a couple of stock trucks down, but this fall he decided to stay home.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s an ornery son of a gun. Not much for shows. He prefers the back-home stuff. Cutting hay and pulling calves. Minding the books. Which is just fine by me.” Jesse Winslow smiled again and his eyes crinkled and a pulse bobbled low in Abby’s midriff. She realized with horror that she found him attractive—as a man. This hadn’t happened, this feeling, since she’d first met Frank at a college track meet years ago. Maybe she’d better leave while she was ahead-

“G and T for the lady?” The waiter put down the glasses with a flourish and Abby watched as Jesse paid for the drinks and gave the waiter a sizable tip. Too late, she realized she should have of fered to pay for her own drink. Although he had asked....

“Where’s your friend?” The cowboy raised his beer glass slightly, then took a leisurely draft.

“Oh, heck.” Abby frowned, remembering. “She went to the bathroom and didn’t come back. She probably met someone on the way there and took off.”

Jesse met her annoyed gaze with a look of surprise. “Some friend. She. do that often?”

“That’s Marguerite, I’m afraid.” Abby tried a shaky laugh, as though she was used to people treating her like that. “I’ve known her for years, off and on. Her people farm in southern Minnesota somewhere. Shorthorns. I’ve met her at a lot of the same shows. You know how it is.”