Janet Dean - The Bride Wore Spurs

The deep tan of Matt’s face and arms were in sharp contrast to the white cotton shirt beneath his leather vest. Open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves, the snowy fabric revealed dark curly hair on his forearms.

Before she could gather her wits and take his hat, he’d hung his Stetson on the hall tree, obviously very much at home. He’d admitted running the ranch. Give the man his head and he’d encroach on every facet of their lives.

She pasted on a smile, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and glided across the foyer with a ramrod carriage even the persnickety headmistress in Charleston would approve of.

Inside the dining room, candlelight flickered, shimmering in the high gloss of the tabletop. The silver serving pieces, possessions her mother had brought west, looked out of place in the rustic room’s whitewashed walls and dark beamed ceiling.

At the table, Matt’s parents sat talking to her father. Papa looked even more frail beside the Walkers.

Robert Walker’s hair might be streaked with silver, but he possessed the same broad shoulders and dark brown eyes as his son, no doubt the picture of how Matt would look when he aged.

Were father and son preparing to acquire the Lazy P?

Ashamed of her suspicion, Hannah cringed. Just because Matt helped on the ranch, like any good neighbor would, didn’t make him underhanded.

Victoria Walker, tall, big-boned and pretty with soft blue eyes and silvery hair, wrapped Hannah in a hug. A strong woman with a contagious laugh and good heart, Victoria could have a sharp tongue. Or so Hannah had heard. A trait that had surely come in handy raising three ornery sons, one son in particular.

Wrapped in a clean apron, Rosa waited, ready to serve from a table laden with steaming platters and bowls emitting enticing aromas. “The food looks and smells wonderful, Rosa. Thank you.”

“I cook your favorites, Hannah.”

Once they’d taken seats, Papa said grace. Everyone sampled the food—steak, corn pone, mashed potatoes and gravy—and declared every bite delicious. Smiling, Rosa returned to the kitchen.

“A father couldn’t be more proud of a daughter than I am of you, Hannah.”

“You’re a wonderful father.”

Papa cleared his throat. “A picture of your mother, you possess not only her beauty but her spirit.”

Fleeting flashes of gentle hands, a loving smile, a nine-year-old girl’s memories of her mother. The portrait hanging over the fireplace mantel a reminder that Melanie Parrish had been a lovely woman. “Thank you, Papa.”

“Martin’s right,” Victoria declared as she buttered a bite of cornbread. “For an instant earlier, I thought I was seeing Melanie. Gave me quite a start, too.”

“Hannah wasn’t eager to go to Charleston, but I wanted her to visit the city where her mother and I fell in love.” Papa smiled. “High time she got acquainted with her mama’s kin, too.”

Finishing school wouldn’t help her work a ranch, but Papa had been insistent, as unbending as steel.

“Growing up surrounded by cowhands and cattle wasn’t fair to you, Daughter. I wanted to give you the social graces your mother would’ve taught you had she lived.”

Etiquette might mend fences, but not the sort made of barbed wire. Still, Papa had good intentions, always thought of her first. Hannah squeezed his hand.

“So, Daughter, tell the Walkers about Charleston.”

“The city’s beautiful. The grand piazzas and private gardens tucked behind ornate wrought-iron gates are charming.”

Victoria put her hand to her chest, feigning horror. “Surely the gardens aren’t prettier than our fields of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush?”

“Nothing is prettier than Texas wildflowers.”

“Spoken like a true Texan,” Victoria said.

Robert ladled gravy on his potatoes. “South Carolina could never overshadow the great state of Texas.”

“True, but with my eight cousins and their friends coming and going, I loved Aunt Mary Esther’s garden, the one place I could find solitude.”

Matt cut into his steak. “Any damage remaining from the earthquake of ’86?”

“The brick buildings that survived have been stabilized with iron bolts. Otherwise I saw few signs of the quake.”

Victoria’s brow puckered. “Was your aunt’s house damaged?”

“Yes, they had to rebuild, as did most people. The city’s done an amazing job of restoration.”

“After the hectic pace of Charleston, Bliss must seem dull.” Matt’s tone issued a challenge.

“Hardly.” Dull was hours spent practicing stitching, drawing and elocution, but she wouldn’t disappoint Papa by saying as much. “I botched needlework and painting. My poor aunt struggled for something charitable to say about my pitiful efforts.”

“Your cousins would find working on the Lazy P equally difficult,” Victoria said.

Hannah chuckled. “I can’t imagine Anna Lee and Betty Jo riding astride, cutting calves or mending barbed wire.”

“Do you plan to teach those fancy manners to the young ladies in town?” Robert said. “Maybe start a school?”

“No, I’ll work on the ranch as I always have.”

Matt turned dark censorious eyes on her. “The work is hard, even dangerous. Not the place for a lady.”

Hannah clamped her jaw to keep from sharing a piece of her mind with Matt, a piece that would not fit his image of a lady.

“Matt’s right, you’re a lady now.” Papa patted Hannah’s hand. “Nothing would make me happier than to see you marry and settle down with a doctor or lawyer, someone to take care of you, to give you a life of ease.”

“Zack’s a successful lawyer and single,” Matt reminded them, eyes twinkling.

A well-placed heel on his instep would wipe that smirk off his face.

“Zack would make you a fine husband, Daughter.”

“I’ve got two sons needing a wife,” Robert said, shooting Matt a pointed look.

Heat flooded Hannah’s cheeks. “I’m not looking for a husband.” She glared at Matt. “I’ve never been hurt working on the ranch.”

Papa patted her hand. “Wear those dresses you brought back from Charleston. Practice your stitching and painting. Leave the ranch to the men.”

The food in Hannah’s stomach churned. What had gotten into Papa? Before she’d left, he’d given her free rein. Now he insisted she conform to his image of a lady. Wear clothing that would impede her freedom and make ranch work difficult. She wanted to please him. But the thought of spending hours confined in the garments designed for the “weaker gender”—though any honest woman would admit the clothes took great fortitude to wear—chafed against every nerve.

“I’d like to know what all they taught you at that school.”

“I’d be glad to show you, Papa. I brought back paintings, needlework...”

“I heard from Mary Esther that you’re a master at elocution.” Papa’s gaze traveled the table. “Who’d like my daughter to recite a poem?”

Victoria smiled. “That would be delightful.”

“Oh, ah, maybe another night. I’m...tired from the trip.”

“I’d love to hear a poem.” Matt’s grin spread across his face. “Nice and loud.”

Hannah arched a brow. “Why don’t you sing for us, Matt? You’re certainly loud enough in church.”

“The evening is in your honor, Hannah, not mine. Besides, I’d enjoy listening to a master at elocution.”

“I would, too,” Robert said.

Papa slapped his hands together. “That settles it. Before Rosa serves dessert, rise and recite a poem, Hannah.”

All eyes turned on her. One pair filled with amusement. She wanted to run, but Papa wore a proud smile she couldn’t destroy.

She scrambled for a poem, a short poem. The only verse that came to mind was by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in Hannah’s mind the perfect map of love. How could she recite a love sonnet with Matt nearby, no doubt laughing at her?